Stories That My Dad has Told in the First 24 Hours of His Visit:
1) Last week, at the church where he works as a maintenance man, two guys from the neighboring sketchy apartment complex came over and went and sat in the church. The office ladies asked my dad to go check on them, just to make sure things were kosher. Dad did, and in doing so, left his walkie-talkie behind. The office ladies (one of whom is named Stella, so of course, the telling of this story had to leave room for occasional Brando-esque shouts of "STELLA!") then thought that they heard gunshots. So they called Dad on the walkie, and when they couldn't reach him, they freaked right the hell out and CALLED 911. To report A SHOOTING. AT THE CHURCH. When my dad came out of the church, he was greeted with seventeen squad cars and body-armored cops shouting at him to put his hands in the air and get on the ground. You guys, they cuffed my dad! The poor clucky office hens tried to reassure the cops that it had been a false alarm, but apparently once the "shooter-in-a-church" bell has rung, you can't unring it. Once they saw all four employees who were there that day, they uncuffed them, but there was still full-on searching of the premises, closing of several local major roads, lockdown of the neighboring high school...and, did I mention, they put my dad in freaking handcuffs! I believe I've mentioned my family's obsession with old school Law & Order, so you'll have to imagine our delight at the idea that Dad was preparing to drop a dime on someone in order to take a plea and do the nickel at Riker's.
2) A while back, Dad was called for jury duty, for a case involving a guy who shot someone in front of several witnesses. Dad's jury selection questioning session went as follows:
Defense Attorney: Sir, do you own a handgun?
Dad: No, I do not.
Defense Attorney: May I ask you why?
Dad: I don't intend to kill anybody.
Defense Attorney: Challenge, your Honor!
3) UPDATED: This story is, as it turns out, a hoax. A big fat lie. Clearly, I and my entire ilk are not to be trusted. On the other hand, I guess it's OK to laugh out loud about it, since it's entirely fictional.
OK, this story? Is really kinda sad and definitely politically incorrect on several levels, but I dare you not to laugh at the sheer absurdity of it. So, Dad was out in Iowa visiting family, and Cousin So-and-so was talking about Other Cousin, who has an adult son who is developmentally delayed. This son, let's call him...Darryl, is apparently independent enough to live on his own, and one day he called his mother with some news. "Ma, I caught a troll." "What?" "I caught a troll, Ma, you gotta come home." So Ma-Other-Cousin rushes over, as naturally one would when you hear such news. When she gets there, she hears banging on the closet door and goes over to let out...a little person. A dwarf.
This poor guy was going door to door, working as a census-taker, and when he got to Darryl's house, well...Darryl...um...thought he was a troll. And, decided that the next logical thing to do was to "catch" him, and lock him in a closet. And call his mom. Like you do.
So Ma-Other-Cousin lets this guy out, profuse apologies, and apparently he hasn't pressed charges, because a) Darryl obviously can't be prosecuted as being "of sound mind," and b) he probably isn't in a hurry to be known as the guy who got locked in a closet for resembling a mythical creature. And of course, this was probably quite scary for him, and embarrassing for the mother, and indicates something about Darryl's ability to live independently, but...
"I caught a troll, Ma."
I mean, you can't make this shit up. (UPDATE: Yes, you can. And then someone like me will fall for it.)
Thursday, May 27, 2010
Wednesday, May 19, 2010
Not Pictured: Gun Rack, Tiny Flaccid Penis
I was stuck behind a truck today in traffic. This truck was plastered with many bumper stickers, the messages of which were so...remarkable that I called my own voicemail at work and read them off, just so that I could later relay them to you:
Ass, Gas, or Grass...No-one Rides for Free
With Beer, Deer, and Pickup Trucks, Who Needs Women?
Tickle This, Elmo! (accompanied by a truly foul little drawing)
www.offmyass.com
Brakes are for Pussies
I gave the driver my number. I sure hope he calls.
Ass, Gas, or Grass...No-one Rides for Free
With Beer, Deer, and Pickup Trucks, Who Needs Women?
Tickle This, Elmo! (accompanied by a truly foul little drawing)
www.offmyass.com
Brakes are for Pussies
I gave the driver my number. I sure hope he calls.
Sunday, May 16, 2010
The Bad Place
I realize I've been rather maternally focused lately around here, and for those of you who are not parents and have no interest in becoming parents, I apologize for the monochromaticity. And, yes, I believe I did just make that word up, but I like it. I have an English degree, which I'm pretty sure is a license to fabricate words. I also think that the verb form of "adhesive" should be "adhese." You adhese that sticker, the back of which is coated with adhesive. If it was coated with adhersive, then you'd adhere it.
Where was I? Right. Motherhood.
I have a wonderful, dear friend who just had a baby about three weeks ago. She called me yesterday, in A Bad Place. Those of you who have had newborns in your life might know about this Place. It's dark, it's scary, it's full of despair, and it lurks around what you expect to be a time of sunlight and soft-focus, gauzy clothes and the smell of Johnson's baby shampoo. I told her all the stuff that I knew that she knew (much of which she'd actually told me a year ago, when I called her from that same Bad Place): that sleep deprivation and hormones really mess with your mind, that I had faith in her that she could do this, that having these awful feelings didn't mean anything bad about her as a mother or about her baby or their relationship. I told her that I found great comfort in my midwife pointing out--at my appointment to deal with the mastitis, when I was weeping in despair about how was I supposed to rest and apply hot compresses when I had this constantly crying creature that didn't seem to like me much but insisted on being held by me every single second of the day--that the problem is "we're no longer in the long hut." She went on to describe how, biologically speaking, we're still designed to live in communities where you could sleep while your sister-in-law nursed your babe with her own, or your mother would tend to your other kids while you cleaned the new baby, etc. This was really comforting to me, this notion that of course it felt wrong and awful, because this isn't how we're meant to do it.
And yet, we do it. I used to tell myself, on the really bad days (or, let's be honest, in the really bad hours), that somehow people do this. People with other kids do this. People with twins do this. Single moms do this. Now, there was always the danger that this could then spiral into me feeling even worse, because I just had my one little baby and was still feeling like I was about to fall into the abyss (that's me, always looking on the bright side!), but for the most part, I tried to focus on the notion that this is survivable, so therefore I will survive it.
I told my friend all of this yesterday, as she sat alone in her apartment and I wended my way through a street fair with Tankbaby strapped to me, pressing my cell up to my ear so that I could hear my friend over the capoeira music and the street violinist and the ladies hawking tutu kits. And I thought about how, a year ago, I couldn't envision this day. If you'd asked me to imagine myself a year in the future, I would have still pictured myself with lank hair and post-baby belly and a screaming newborn, just one year more exhausted. Possibly something in the background would have been on fire.
It really can suck, those first weeks, and I wish people talked about it more. Of course, I supposed we'd run the risk of our species dying out, but still. I wish more people talked about those scary weeks after the elation has worn off but before your ability to function on three hours of sleep has kicked in, when you look at the sweet face of your child and think, what have I done? When you really need your wits about you, but they're dulled from lack of sleep and shock. When you could use some serious back-up from your partner, but he's sleep-deprived too and therefore doesn't have his own full tank upon which to draw to shore you up (as I put it to my friend yesterday, "He's getting just enough more sleep than you for you to hate him, but not enough for him to be actually useful to you as a resource").
So I'm trying to change that, and I'm asking you to help. I'm not going to ask anyone to share the worst moment, because I don't think I can write my own out yet, but if you'd be willing to share (either here in the comments or on your own blog) one of those awful, horrible, no-good, very bad new parent moments, I'd love to read it and share it with my friend. If you don't have one of those moments because a) you're not a parent, or b) you are some sort of alien being who adapted seamlessly to parenthood, you can either share a story that happened to someone you know (wink, wink), or you can tell me why you do or do not like the color orange. See, something for everyone!
I'll go first. I may have mentioned one or 57,209 times, that Tankbaby has never been a good sleeper. One night, when I was desperate to go to bed and he was squalling his head off, I was sitting with him in the rocker and began to rock, harder and harder. Now, this was a baby who liked his motion, and for a while we'd had success with him sleeping in the swing, set to its fastest speed, so a good brisk rock was sometimes part of the ever-changing magic formula to get him to go to sleep. But on this night, the rocking was not soothing to either of us. I held my crying baby tighter and tighter and pushed with my feet, smacking the back of the chair into the wall over and over again until I burst out, crying right into his little face, "What the hell do you want from me?" At which point, MOTH got up from the couch, stood in front of me, and calmly but firmly said, "Give him to me. Right now." I did, and folded over myself in the chair, sobbing. I just remember feeling so hopeless, so anguished, so guilty. I knew better than this--I have a degree in early childhood development, for chrissakes--and yet I had come to this. The Bad Place.
And remember, I said that this wasn't my worst moment.
And now, the obligatory happy ending: I took a break. I learned to ask for help. MOTH learned to offer it a little earlier than when I was On The Edge Of Madness. We survived. That night, and more like it. And I spent today in the sunshine with my boy, watching as he examined every flower, as he waved hello to man, woman, child, and dog alike, and I bit my fingers to keep them from grabbing his delicious hammy thighs as he walked. And that night, and those others like it, are just a part of our story now. I can't honestly say I hardly remember them, nor that I can laugh at them...no, not yet. But I can see them for what they are: awful moments in an otherwise blessed life. And yes, I know that's cheesy. I do not care.
Now, if you'll excuse me, I've gotta go gnaw on some babythighs. Possibly dipped in a cilantro-butter sauce. Nom nom nom.
Where was I? Right. Motherhood.
I have a wonderful, dear friend who just had a baby about three weeks ago. She called me yesterday, in A Bad Place. Those of you who have had newborns in your life might know about this Place. It's dark, it's scary, it's full of despair, and it lurks around what you expect to be a time of sunlight and soft-focus, gauzy clothes and the smell of Johnson's baby shampoo. I told her all the stuff that I knew that she knew (much of which she'd actually told me a year ago, when I called her from that same Bad Place): that sleep deprivation and hormones really mess with your mind, that I had faith in her that she could do this, that having these awful feelings didn't mean anything bad about her as a mother or about her baby or their relationship. I told her that I found great comfort in my midwife pointing out--at my appointment to deal with the mastitis, when I was weeping in despair about how was I supposed to rest and apply hot compresses when I had this constantly crying creature that didn't seem to like me much but insisted on being held by me every single second of the day--that the problem is "we're no longer in the long hut." She went on to describe how, biologically speaking, we're still designed to live in communities where you could sleep while your sister-in-law nursed your babe with her own, or your mother would tend to your other kids while you cleaned the new baby, etc. This was really comforting to me, this notion that of course it felt wrong and awful, because this isn't how we're meant to do it.
And yet, we do it. I used to tell myself, on the really bad days (or, let's be honest, in the really bad hours), that somehow people do this. People with other kids do this. People with twins do this. Single moms do this. Now, there was always the danger that this could then spiral into me feeling even worse, because I just had my one little baby and was still feeling like I was about to fall into the abyss (that's me, always looking on the bright side!), but for the most part, I tried to focus on the notion that this is survivable, so therefore I will survive it.
I told my friend all of this yesterday, as she sat alone in her apartment and I wended my way through a street fair with Tankbaby strapped to me, pressing my cell up to my ear so that I could hear my friend over the capoeira music and the street violinist and the ladies hawking tutu kits. And I thought about how, a year ago, I couldn't envision this day. If you'd asked me to imagine myself a year in the future, I would have still pictured myself with lank hair and post-baby belly and a screaming newborn, just one year more exhausted. Possibly something in the background would have been on fire.
It really can suck, those first weeks, and I wish people talked about it more. Of course, I supposed we'd run the risk of our species dying out, but still. I wish more people talked about those scary weeks after the elation has worn off but before your ability to function on three hours of sleep has kicked in, when you look at the sweet face of your child and think, what have I done? When you really need your wits about you, but they're dulled from lack of sleep and shock. When you could use some serious back-up from your partner, but he's sleep-deprived too and therefore doesn't have his own full tank upon which to draw to shore you up (as I put it to my friend yesterday, "He's getting just enough more sleep than you for you to hate him, but not enough for him to be actually useful to you as a resource").
So I'm trying to change that, and I'm asking you to help. I'm not going to ask anyone to share the worst moment, because I don't think I can write my own out yet, but if you'd be willing to share (either here in the comments or on your own blog) one of those awful, horrible, no-good, very bad new parent moments, I'd love to read it and share it with my friend. If you don't have one of those moments because a) you're not a parent, or b) you are some sort of alien being who adapted seamlessly to parenthood, you can either share a story that happened to someone you know (wink, wink), or you can tell me why you do or do not like the color orange. See, something for everyone!
I'll go first. I may have mentioned one or 57,209 times, that Tankbaby has never been a good sleeper. One night, when I was desperate to go to bed and he was squalling his head off, I was sitting with him in the rocker and began to rock, harder and harder. Now, this was a baby who liked his motion, and for a while we'd had success with him sleeping in the swing, set to its fastest speed, so a good brisk rock was sometimes part of the ever-changing magic formula to get him to go to sleep. But on this night, the rocking was not soothing to either of us. I held my crying baby tighter and tighter and pushed with my feet, smacking the back of the chair into the wall over and over again until I burst out, crying right into his little face, "What the hell do you want from me?" At which point, MOTH got up from the couch, stood in front of me, and calmly but firmly said, "Give him to me. Right now." I did, and folded over myself in the chair, sobbing. I just remember feeling so hopeless, so anguished, so guilty. I knew better than this--I have a degree in early childhood development, for chrissakes--and yet I had come to this. The Bad Place.
And remember, I said that this wasn't my worst moment.
And now, the obligatory happy ending: I took a break. I learned to ask for help. MOTH learned to offer it a little earlier than when I was On The Edge Of Madness. We survived. That night, and more like it. And I spent today in the sunshine with my boy, watching as he examined every flower, as he waved hello to man, woman, child, and dog alike, and I bit my fingers to keep them from grabbing his delicious hammy thighs as he walked. And that night, and those others like it, are just a part of our story now. I can't honestly say I hardly remember them, nor that I can laugh at them...no, not yet. But I can see them for what they are: awful moments in an otherwise blessed life. And yes, I know that's cheesy. I do not care.
Now, if you'll excuse me, I've gotta go gnaw on some babythighs. Possibly dipped in a cilantro-butter sauce. Nom nom nom.
Thursday, May 13, 2010
Lend Me Some Sugar--I AM Your Neighbor!
Oh, you guys.
Please bear with me...this work schedule plus parenting class plus teething/cold-crummy naps is just killing me over here, and I'm woefully behind in reading, commenting, and writing. Does it help if I tell you that I feel disproportionately guilty about it and often have fits of pique where I'm all, "Goddammit! If I can't handle the responsibility of a blog, then maybe I don't deserve to have one!"? And then I throw things.
Anyway, I didn't mean to (um, again) post this big ol' dramatic Dead Mom post and then disappear. And I wanted to thank you all for your--for lack of a better term--positive vibes and thoughtful responses to my Mother's Day post. MOTH mentioned that it made him sad to read it, which, of course, wasn't my intention, and I actually had quite a nice day with minimal wallowing. But, as I noted in the comments in response to Fie, I'm trying to sort out my ambivalence about it all. Also, maybe Anne Lamott will Google herself and find that post and be impressed and then we'll be BFF writing friends. You think?
I have eight million things I could write about, and I want to think about none of them. My head is full of friends in unfortunate situations, of oil spills and floods and fucking Tea Partiers who have a shot at political office, of this horribly sad drama around a family I work with where the kids just got pulled into foster care, of the fact that three of our big bosses at work are taking early retirement in quick succession because of the changes being wrought upon us, of union meetings and vet bills and did I mention the baby with the cold and the up-all-night thing? Yeah, I'm a regular Typhoid Mary Sunshine over here, and I just haven't wanted to go there. (You know, more than I did just now in a weirdly passive-aggressive run-on sentence.)
So instead, I'm listing a few things that make me happy no matter what. In no particular order, and just now off the top of my head:
1) A bike ride in the sunshine. I went out again last weekend, and that 30 minutes totally recharged my soul and smoothed out all my rough edges.
2) The sound "Hey Ya" by Outkast. I can't help it...no matter where I am or what I'm doing, you play this song and I will shake it like a Polaroid picture. I will sing along in my white girl way about my baddest behavior. And it will always, always cheer me up.
3) Talking to my dad. He's hilarious and he's wise and he's coming in two weeks! Whee!!!
4) The way Tankbaby laughs when I read Sandra Boynton's "Blue Hat, Green Hat." For the uninitiated, basically each page shows three animals wearing some item of clothing correctly, and a turkey wearing it incorrectly. The text is minimal: "Blue hat, green hat, yellow hat...oops." It tickles me to no end that Tankbaby gets that there's something funny about the "oops" part, even though he likely doesn't get what's funny about a turkey with a hat on his foot (to which the correct answer is, "hell, what isn't funny about a turkey with a hat on his foot?"). He waits for it and then he laughs this Ernie-esque chuckle that just slays me.
5) Calvin and Hobbes. Unequivocal brilliance in each and every strip.
6) Rereading a book I've read a dozen times already. When I'm stressed or depressed, I don't want some new book with its potential for unpleasant reminders or less-than-perfect dialogue. I want a book I've read over and over again, that I know chunks of by heart, that won't surprise or disappoint me. Give me my Fannie Flagg and a warm spot on the couch and I'm good.
7) Mike & Ike candy. I can't have it in the house because I literally never get sick of it. When I was in college (and had the metabolism to match), my parents would sometimes give me the 5-lb bag from Sam's Club at Christmas. It was always gone before Valentine's Day. But diabetes-causing-gluttony aside, the fruity chewy goodness of Mike & Ikes will always cheer me up, even as I'm mentally prepping myself for eventual insulin shots.
OK, now your turn. What random things cheer you up?
Please bear with me...this work schedule plus parenting class plus teething/cold-crummy naps is just killing me over here, and I'm woefully behind in reading, commenting, and writing. Does it help if I tell you that I feel disproportionately guilty about it and often have fits of pique where I'm all, "Goddammit! If I can't handle the responsibility of a blog, then maybe I don't deserve to have one!"? And then I throw things.
Anyway, I didn't mean to (um, again) post this big ol' dramatic Dead Mom post and then disappear. And I wanted to thank you all for your--for lack of a better term--positive vibes and thoughtful responses to my Mother's Day post. MOTH mentioned that it made him sad to read it, which, of course, wasn't my intention, and I actually had quite a nice day with minimal wallowing. But, as I noted in the comments in response to Fie, I'm trying to sort out my ambivalence about it all. Also, maybe Anne Lamott will Google herself and find that post and be impressed and then we'll be BFF writing friends. You think?
I have eight million things I could write about, and I want to think about none of them. My head is full of friends in unfortunate situations, of oil spills and floods and fucking Tea Partiers who have a shot at political office, of this horribly sad drama around a family I work with where the kids just got pulled into foster care, of the fact that three of our big bosses at work are taking early retirement in quick succession because of the changes being wrought upon us, of union meetings and vet bills and did I mention the baby with the cold and the up-all-night thing? Yeah, I'm a regular Typhoid Mary Sunshine over here, and I just haven't wanted to go there. (You know, more than I did just now in a weirdly passive-aggressive run-on sentence.)
So instead, I'm listing a few things that make me happy no matter what. In no particular order, and just now off the top of my head:
1) A bike ride in the sunshine. I went out again last weekend, and that 30 minutes totally recharged my soul and smoothed out all my rough edges.
2) The sound "Hey Ya" by Outkast. I can't help it...no matter where I am or what I'm doing, you play this song and I will shake it like a Polaroid picture. I will sing along in my white girl way about my baddest behavior. And it will always, always cheer me up.
3) Talking to my dad. He's hilarious and he's wise and he's coming in two weeks! Whee!!!
4) The way Tankbaby laughs when I read Sandra Boynton's "Blue Hat, Green Hat." For the uninitiated, basically each page shows three animals wearing some item of clothing correctly, and a turkey wearing it incorrectly. The text is minimal: "Blue hat, green hat, yellow hat...oops." It tickles me to no end that Tankbaby gets that there's something funny about the "oops" part, even though he likely doesn't get what's funny about a turkey with a hat on his foot (to which the correct answer is, "hell, what isn't funny about a turkey with a hat on his foot?"). He waits for it and then he laughs this Ernie-esque chuckle that just slays me.
5) Calvin and Hobbes. Unequivocal brilliance in each and every strip.
6) Rereading a book I've read a dozen times already. When I'm stressed or depressed, I don't want some new book with its potential for unpleasant reminders or less-than-perfect dialogue. I want a book I've read over and over again, that I know chunks of by heart, that won't surprise or disappoint me. Give me my Fannie Flagg and a warm spot on the couch and I'm good.
7) Mike & Ike candy. I can't have it in the house because I literally never get sick of it. When I was in college (and had the metabolism to match), my parents would sometimes give me the 5-lb bag from Sam's Club at Christmas. It was always gone before Valentine's Day. But diabetes-causing-gluttony aside, the fruity chewy goodness of Mike & Ikes will always cheer me up, even as I'm mentally prepping myself for eventual insulin shots.
OK, now your turn. What random things cheer you up?
Sunday, May 9, 2010
Do Not Read Until 12:01 AM
If you have a baby, have had a baby, or ever plan on having a baby, you should read Anne Lamott's Operating Instructions. It's brilliant and funny and scary and heartbreaking and I read it three times in the last year and a half alone, first to learn, then to reassure, then to remember, as I went from pregnant to new mom to not-so-new mom.
Lamott's piece on (in?) Salon.com this weekend is entitled, "Why I Hate Mother's Day." And although the people-pleaser in me was all squeamish at the idea that some people might be offended, I agree with her. Not necessarily about hating the day, but I am, at best, ambivalent about it these days. I found myself nodding and murmuring, yes, exactly, as my heart broke a bit when I read, "I hate the way the holiday makes all non-mothers, and the daughters of dead mothers, and the mothers of dead or severely damaged children, feel the deepest kind of grief and failure."
I am, I'm fully aware, blessed beyond reason to have my healthy, happy boy, and for him, I want to celebrate being a mom. And I'm touched by the two cards at my plate this morning at breakfast (one from MOTH, one from Tankbaby, plus a crayon-pocked piece of paper that MOTH describes as an example of Tankbaby's "pointillism period"), and if MOTH takes the baby to the store later so that I can have an hour or two to do "whatever I want, because it's [your] day," well, who am I to complain?
This is only my second Mother’s Day, and I’m still adjusting to that being a part of my identity: I am a mom. Even writing that seems odd to me, still. When I think of “mom,” I think not of myself, but of my own mother. For the first 30-odd years of my life, Mother’s Day was about her. So I suppose it shouldn’t be surprising that this day evokes grief first, as the daughter who lost her mom, instead of the joy of being a mom. I fully expect that to change over time, but right now, I still cringe during the radio ads and snarl unnecessarily at the on-line florist coupons that bombard my e-mail and avoid the card aisle all together. It’s not as sharply painful as the first Mother’s Day without her (which, of course, happened to fall exactly one month after her death, because the universe is like that sometimes), but it’s still inexorably linked in my mind. It takes several minutes, or an outside voice, to remind me that this day can now be about something else. And for my sister, who doesn’t yet have any kids, this holiday is still one-dimensional, and it’s about loss. That will change for her, too, someday, as it continues to change for me. But I think we both know that it may never be totally without grief, without resentment, without jealousy.
Lamott's piece on (in?) Salon.com this weekend is entitled, "Why I Hate Mother's Day." And although the people-pleaser in me was all squeamish at the idea that some people might be offended, I agree with her. Not necessarily about hating the day, but I am, at best, ambivalent about it these days. I found myself nodding and murmuring, yes, exactly, as my heart broke a bit when I read, "I hate the way the holiday makes all non-mothers, and the daughters of dead mothers, and the mothers of dead or severely damaged children, feel the deepest kind of grief and failure."
I am, I'm fully aware, blessed beyond reason to have my healthy, happy boy, and for him, I want to celebrate being a mom. And I'm touched by the two cards at my plate this morning at breakfast (one from MOTH, one from Tankbaby, plus a crayon-pocked piece of paper that MOTH describes as an example of Tankbaby's "pointillism period"), and if MOTH takes the baby to the store later so that I can have an hour or two to do "whatever I want, because it's [your] day," well, who am I to complain?
This is only my second Mother’s Day, and I’m still adjusting to that being a part of my identity: I am a mom. Even writing that seems odd to me, still. When I think of “mom,” I think not of myself, but of my own mother. For the first 30-odd years of my life, Mother’s Day was about her. So I suppose it shouldn’t be surprising that this day evokes grief first, as the daughter who lost her mom, instead of the joy of being a mom. I fully expect that to change over time, but right now, I still cringe during the radio ads and snarl unnecessarily at the on-line florist coupons that bombard my e-mail and avoid the card aisle all together. It’s not as sharply painful as the first Mother’s Day without her (which, of course, happened to fall exactly one month after her death, because the universe is like that sometimes), but it’s still inexorably linked in my mind. It takes several minutes, or an outside voice, to remind me that this day can now be about something else. And for my sister, who doesn’t yet have any kids, this holiday is still one-dimensional, and it’s about loss. That will change for her, too, someday, as it continues to change for me. But I think we both know that it may never be totally without grief, without resentment, without jealousy.
And, as Lamott points out, it’s not just those of us without moms who are gut-punched by this holiday. As a preschool teacher, I think I’m contractually obligated to have the kids make some sort of sunny, cheerful Mother’s Day art project of some sort, preferably something that points out how quickly time flies and is guaranteed to evoke a few tears. And I did, in fact, have several little yellow and red handprints going home this week. But the words “Mother’s Day” were intentionally left out. Because in one of my groups, I have two kids with moms in jail, one kid whose schizophrenic, drug-affected biological mom gave birth to him on a psych ward, two kids whose moms have just up and left the family, one kid who was just last week put into foster care…you get the idea. These kids can take their handprints and cheesy poems home to whoever they like, but I’m not going to ask them to celebrate a holiday that is puzzling to your average four-year-old and devastating to the four-year-olds I work with. And we all know adults who fit into this category, as well. I would not trade my dead mom for some live moms I know. As Lamott says, “…many mothers were as equipped to raise children as wire monkey mothers. I say that without judgment: It is, sadly, true. An unhealthy mother's love is withering.”
And then I think of my friends who want kids but don’t yet have them. Like the rest of us, it’s not that it’s not painful on an ordinary day, but to have a day—and a day that is preceded by so much media hype, replete with blanket clichés and inexplicable linen sales—specifically designed to focus attention on the very thing we lack (be it a mother or our own motherhood)…well, it seems tedious at best, cruel at worst.
I guess I feel about Mother’s Day the way a perpetually single or recently divorced or widowed person feels about Valentine’s Day. And yet, it’s much more socially acceptable to curse Cupid and his boxes of chocolate. Anyone who hates Mother’s Day must be an unlovable commie, right? Well, maybe I am. And I suppose I make it worse by saying that, unlike Lamott, I don’t want my kid to boycott the holiday. I’m looking forward to those burnt toast breakfasts in bed and yellow handprints. I guess I’m hoping one day not to hate the holiday, or at least to hate it only on the (totally valid) principles that Lamott lays out, instead of hating it for what it does to me personally. I hope that one day I can hate it for being a holiday of exclusivity, instead of just because I’m feeling excluded.
Until then, I will continue to say and receive the words “Happy Mother’s Day” without rancor, but with a slight lump in my throat. It doesn’t mean I don’t want to hear them, it just means that they don’t make a card for what I’m feeling today.
Wednesday, May 5, 2010
Evening
I walk up to my door, actively turning my mind away from my day, from stories about miscarriages and foster care nightmares and undone paperwork and nefarious committees. Through the front window, I see MOTH pick him up, set him on his feet so he can take two, three, four, now five steps toward me before collapsing on his knees. His face is full of joy and also a lot of “holy shit, I’m locomoting independently!” with raised eyebrows and nubbly teeth showing in his big drooly grin. I come in, collapsing on my own knees to collect him in my arms. I get the nap/eat/poop report from my comrade in arms, all the while unloading bags, putting away pumped milk, and reassuring my son that yes, I see him signing “milk” frenetically and that we’ll go lie down together soon. We wave bye to Daddy and go do a diaper check. He obliges me by playing with his toys and letting me clean him up, forgoing the recent mournful cries and alligator death rolls that have plagued our diaper changes of late. I scoop him up again and we go into the bedroom, where I tuck him under the quilt and lie next to him, undoing one side of my nursing tank before I spoon myself around him. He latches on eagerly, humming a bit, and we spend the next several minutes with me willing him to fall asleep and him closing his eyes to fool me, before pulling off and lifting his head up to look around. It’s dark in the room, but I can see every eyelash as he leans close to me with his lax, open mouth searching for my face to give me his version of a kiss. I whisper, “Yes, baby, kiss. Now naptime. Night-night,” and rearrange our bodies into our snuggle. He nurses for a few minutes, then holds up one hand to sign “milk” some more, pulling off to look at me intently. “Yes, baby, milk. Have some milk. Naptime.” His left hand is cupped under my breast, flexing as if to help pump the milk directly into his mouth. His right hand, no longer signing, is now tucked between my breasts as if searching for change between couch cushions. He wants to twist, to use his bare foot to explore the rods of his crib, so I gather him once again into a snuggly pile and will my breathing to slow down, to relax my body so that his can mimic mine. It works. After a few minutes, the sucking stops, and I marvel that I can no longer feel his mouth and wouldn’t know if he was latched on unless I was looking. I think back to year ago, when it felt pinchy and foreign and I couldn’t relax and was constantly hunched over my inadequate nursing pillow. And now, I am warm and comfy and could fall asleep myself if I didn’t have things to do, and I can’t even feel him. I can’t tell where my body ends and his begins. His breathing slows, his jaw relaxes, and the hands that were so fervently grasping fall slack. I disentangle myself and look down at him, grateful he’s sleeping, painfully aware that the clock starts now for everything I’d like to accomplish without a small human attached to me, and yet unwilling to walk away just yet. I’m trying to file this away, to savor these sense memories of his soft hair, his ridiculous robustness in a tiny flannel button-down and khakis, his hot little hands and the way he tilts his face up when he sleeps, creating a determined chin that is otherwise lost in baby cheeks and rolls. A man stopped us in the parking lot yesterday, saying, “You’re so lucky. I’d give anything to have those days back.” I made my standard joke about him probably getting eight straight hours of sleep these days, and he smiled gently and agreed, but the wistfulness was still there. As it is in me now, as I slide the crib rail up and close the door, knowing that one of these days will be the last time I do this, and that day will come sooner and faster than I can even imagine.
Sunday, May 2, 2010
Rich Tones! Conturing Highlights!
The baby is napping. I am finally, finally doing something about the legions of gray hairs that I'd like to be confident enough to wear with grace, but instead dye into auburn submission. I can't remember the last time I did this, but it was at least five inches ago, apparently. I am too poor and cheap to go to a salon (you're talking to a gal who only gets her hair trimmed every 4-6 months), so I do it at home. If you've done this yourself, you know that this involves ammonia fumes, swearing, ruined shirts and little splats of color on your bathroom vanity, discovered long after it's become a permanent stain (and by the way, Miss Clairol, calling them "expert colorist gloves" does, in fact, give me a little burst of confidence. By gum, I can do this! When I put on these gloves, I'm transformed into an expert colorist! Maybe I'll add highlights and a little trim while I'm here! After all, I'm now an expert!). So now I have this nice window of babyless wait time while the toxic chemicals leach into my scalp, and I figured I should grab the opportunity to write before I am driven, as the commercials would have me believe, into an ecstatic shower experience after which my hair magically dries into silky, natural perfection.
I'm not sure why I feel the need to begin every post lately with an apology and an explanation for not posting more, followed by another apology for not reading/commenting more. MOTH keeps reminding me that this is for me, but I feel an obligation as a (tiny, insignificant) part of the blogging community to participate more often. And, as y'all know, nothing is more inspiring for witty, poignant writing than ENORMOUS PHANTOM PRESSURE. But there it is: I am sorry, and I do continually hope to get better. As for the explanation, I think I mentioned that I'm working full-time and MOTH part-time, and I just started another round of the parenting class that I teach, so we have approximately 20 waking hours a week that all three of us are in the same place. Add this to the fact that Tankbaby has recently become enamored of my laptop--well, that's not exactly recent, he's always been interested in it, but we're now moving into high-school-first-love-but-Mom-you-don't-understand-we-NEED-to-be-together territory--and I have had to forgo my writing-while-nursing time.
Also? I have student teacher shadowing me this quarter, and, while she's perfectly nice, it's unnerving to have someone ALWAYS THERE, watching your every move. All day, every thing I do must be explained, analyzed, and dissected. Not in a bad way, mind you, and she's not, like, bludgeoning me with questions, it's just that she's learning, and I feel obligated to try to make this experience as rich as possible. Also, she's really quiet and I find myself jabbering into the void because surely that will make her want to talk more, right? Sigh. There's a part of this that is challenging, but necessary, which is to try to do my job well and efficiently while still taking the time to train another person and give her opportunities to take on responsibilities. Then there's a part that is challenging, but unnecessary, unless you're me. And insane. And that's the part where you torture yourself wondering if that joke was lame, if you have something stuck in your teeth, if she's judging you for wearing the same jeans three days in a row. Imagine that feeling of standing up in front of the class for a book report or whatever, but it's ALL DAY. Every day, FOR NINE WEEKS. It's the intense scrutiny that gets exhausting, even though I'm sure this cute, perky, 26-year-old has better things to think about than the batty new(ish) mom who talks too fast and drives too slow and really does wear the same jeans three days in a row. I'm sure she doesn't notice two-thirds of what I do, but a) I can't help but be aware of it, and b) OMIGOD, THAT MEANS SHE IS NOTICING ONE-THIRD OF WHAT I DO I AM A LOOOOOSERRRRR.
Ahem. Anyway, the point is that I'm feeling rather under-the-microscope all day lately, and am therefore often coming home wanting to not talk (or write) to anyone about myself. I'm happy to listen, but I'm a little sick of my own brain right now.
And finally, my little corner of the world is being bombarded with sadness lately. We here in the Falling house are doing alright, but in the last two weeks:
Aaaaand, I gotta go. It's been 15 more minutes than the box advised, and I'm fairly sure I can hear my hair shafts crying out in pain. Beautiful, reddish-brown, natural-looking, expert-colorist pain. Time for that soft-focus steamy shower, during which I'm sure I'll think of something better and more cohesive to write about next time. Maybe I'll wear my expert blogging gloves.
I'm not sure why I feel the need to begin every post lately with an apology and an explanation for not posting more, followed by another apology for not reading/commenting more. MOTH keeps reminding me that this is for me, but I feel an obligation as a (tiny, insignificant) part of the blogging community to participate more often. And, as y'all know, nothing is more inspiring for witty, poignant writing than ENORMOUS PHANTOM PRESSURE. But there it is: I am sorry, and I do continually hope to get better. As for the explanation, I think I mentioned that I'm working full-time and MOTH part-time, and I just started another round of the parenting class that I teach, so we have approximately 20 waking hours a week that all three of us are in the same place. Add this to the fact that Tankbaby has recently become enamored of my laptop--well, that's not exactly recent, he's always been interested in it, but we're now moving into high-school-first-love-but-Mom-you-don't-understand-we-NEED-to-be-together territory--and I have had to forgo my writing-while-nursing time.
Also? I have student teacher shadowing me this quarter, and, while she's perfectly nice, it's unnerving to have someone ALWAYS THERE, watching your every move. All day, every thing I do must be explained, analyzed, and dissected. Not in a bad way, mind you, and she's not, like, bludgeoning me with questions, it's just that she's learning, and I feel obligated to try to make this experience as rich as possible. Also, she's really quiet and I find myself jabbering into the void because surely that will make her want to talk more, right? Sigh. There's a part of this that is challenging, but necessary, which is to try to do my job well and efficiently while still taking the time to train another person and give her opportunities to take on responsibilities. Then there's a part that is challenging, but unnecessary, unless you're me. And insane. And that's the part where you torture yourself wondering if that joke was lame, if you have something stuck in your teeth, if she's judging you for wearing the same jeans three days in a row. Imagine that feeling of standing up in front of the class for a book report or whatever, but it's ALL DAY. Every day, FOR NINE WEEKS. It's the intense scrutiny that gets exhausting, even though I'm sure this cute, perky, 26-year-old has better things to think about than the batty new(ish) mom who talks too fast and drives too slow and really does wear the same jeans three days in a row. I'm sure she doesn't notice two-thirds of what I do, but a) I can't help but be aware of it, and b) OMIGOD, THAT MEANS SHE IS NOTICING ONE-THIRD OF WHAT I DO I AM A LOOOOOSERRRRR.
Ahem. Anyway, the point is that I'm feeling rather under-the-microscope all day lately, and am therefore often coming home wanting to not talk (or write) to anyone about myself. I'm happy to listen, but I'm a little sick of my own brain right now.
And finally, my little corner of the world is being bombarded with sadness lately. We here in the Falling house are doing alright, but in the last two weeks:
- A friend's husband is facing disfiguring surgery in another attempt to halt the cancer (don't chew tobacco, kids. Really, really, just don't.)
- Another friend is beyond ready to have kids, and her partner keeps flipping back and forth, so she's caught trying to decide whether to stick it out with this (really quite wonderful) person and hoping that he stabilizes, or go off on her own and try to meet someone quickly or resign herself to single motherhood.
- A very very dear friend just told me that she and her husband might be getting a divorce. I'm beyond shocked and sad and I don't know how to help and I'm scared because it's so close to home. Like, I've had friends split up before, but there was always something intrinsically wrong (at least to us outsiders) that was there from the beginning. This would be the first couple that we know who is...well, like us.
- A family that I've been working with for a year just had their kids pulled by DHS. The kids are now in foster care and I'm just praying that they stay in our area so that I can keep working with them. It's a family that's been in crisis as long as I've known them, and I can't say I'm terribly shocked that it's finally come to this, but the whole situation is so sad and awful. This is just a part of the job sometimes, and I know that, but I get punched in the gut every time anyway. I'm worried about the kids, and I'm sad for the parents, and I am disgusted by the system that fails us all.
Aaaaand, I gotta go. It's been 15 more minutes than the box advised, and I'm fairly sure I can hear my hair shafts crying out in pain. Beautiful, reddish-brown, natural-looking, expert-colorist pain. Time for that soft-focus steamy shower, during which I'm sure I'll think of something better and more cohesive to write about next time. Maybe I'll wear my expert blogging gloves.
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