Let's get this out of the way: Feh. Work. Worky work work. Cold. Fever! Very high fever! The croup. Another cold. Teething. Holy Mother of God, MOLARS.
Now you're caught up with me. What's new with you? You look great. Seriously. That's a really good color on you. Have you lost weight? I love what you're doing with your hair!!!
And now we hug and you forgive me for being such a loser. Everyone wins!
Actually, let me self-flagellate a little more: I'm on summer break! The first of two (I don't have all summer off, but have a two-and-a-half-week break in June and another three weeks off in August). And MOTH is finally done with his part-time gig on evenings and weekends, so work stopped being an excuse a week ago. And I had Big Plans to post every day to appease the blogging goddesses (this means you), but, well, see above. And next week we're driving to Jackson Hole, Wyoming for a family wedding. (I know! Two 12-hour trips in a car with a 15-month old within a five-day period? Who's jealous? You are.) And then in-laws in town, and then work starts up, and, and, and...I know I've asked this before, but HOW DO YOU PEOPLE DO THIS? Seriously, how do you find time to blog and knit and cook and paint and do non-essential life stuff? We don't have a TV (although I do keep up on Glee and Modern Family on the interweb...Mama likes her stories, dontcha know), I only wash my hair once a week...where is the time I am wasting? Because at some point, I want to do all those things (well, except paint...I'd love to paint, but unless you follow that with "by numbers," it's not likely to be a worthwhile pursuit for me) and when I stop breastfeeding I need to find some time to work out, and God I STILL haven't figured out how to work my videocamera...
Hm. I seem to be a bit of a runaway train today. Let's go with that, because otherwise I'm gonna get all het up about how I haven't posted in three weeks and now any post I write must rise to some David Sedaris level of brilliance, and that way lies less posting, and more insane muttering around the house. Therefore, in no particular order...
Things I Was Going To Tell You, Baby-Related:
1) Tankbaby is walking. I know that this is not news to anyone outside of this family (excepting possibly people I work with, because we are early childhood geeks and developmental milestones are the equivalent of, like, new iPhone unveilings to Mac nerds), but I have to say I find it entirely awesome. Like, I am literally in awe of these previously useless--if delicious--steamed pork bun baby feet that now propel chubby legs all over the house in a tiny drunken stagger. There is not a single ounce of grace in this movement, what with the stampy steps and the slightly flailing arms, but it is functional and hilarious to watch. He has progressed from tentative steps to being able to squat, pick up something, and stand back up without holding on to anything. Our pre-bedtime hour is now spent watching him toddle from place to place, moving objects from here to there according to some odd toddler feng shui. Last Friday he moved every single pair of his pants from the drawer to the living room. MOTH kept coming around the corner with a pile of discarded pants and a sigh.
2) We can just call this the category of So You Think You Can Childproof (there's a show you won't see on NBC, although wouldn't you like to see, like, Tori Spelling try to figure out how to install cabinet locks?). The walking? Is awesome. The added mobility, height, and access? Not so much. MOTH told me that earlier today he had to repeatedly pull Tankbaby away from the silverware drawer--where the KNIVES are--because Tankbaby had somehow gotten the child lock off the drawer, and...hidden it. Wah-wah.
3) Only tangentially related to the baby, but it cracked me up: on Father's Day, MOTH was cleaning the baby up after breakfast and made up a Tom Waits-esque growly spoken word song thing called "Banana-Headed Boy," which included the lyrics, Banana-headed boy/Can't find hats that fit/And has a heck of a time getting on elevators.
Things I Was Going To Tell You, Non-Baby Related:
1) Work has kinda sucked. My student teacher remained lovely, but also very passive and quiet, which means that for nine weeks I spent all day at work feeling like I was the chatty one desperately trying to keep up conversation on an ill-advised blind date. It was tiring. And there's been lots of kid drama, as kids I work with go in and out of foster care. I kept coming close to writing about it, because it is interesting, but it's also depressing as hell. Like, a two-year-old I used to work with had been reunited with bio mom, but is now back with her old foster family, because mom was leaving her and her 15-month-old sister alone in the apartment at night. Locked in their rooms. Where the neighbors could hear them crying, "Mama, let me out!" See? Depressing. And infuriating. And nauseating. And it mostly makes me want to come home and hug my own baby. Well, and sit in a watchtower with a hypodermic rifle and shoot sterilization drugs into crowds of people. (Hello, crazy Googlers! Please seek professional help!)
2) My dad's visit, while lovely, made me quite sad for a few days following, and not just because he lied about that dwarf thing. We've lived here for seven years, and I spent the first four miserable to be so far from my sick mom. And then I finally got to a place of relative peace, and now I have this baby, and he sees his grandpa three or four times a year. Which I know isn't unusual, but I also know people whose parents babysit on random Thursday nights, and who are around for trips to the pumpkin patch, and who know their grandkids' bedtime routines, and...it makes me sad. We live here now, we have roots, and I no longer fantasize about moving back, but...it makes me sad. For all of us.
Argh. There's more, but the boy has been awake for a bit now, and is tiring of playing with Mama's breast pump. (What?) So, rather than end on those depressing notes, I will tell you of MOTH's latest idea: hot dogs with holes drilled in the middle, so that, when sliced into coins, they are "like Cheerios," and thus less likely for kids to choke on them, because of the breathing hole and all. Now if you'll excuse me, we're off to patent that shit.
P.S. I am, as mentioned, a late-adopter, so I know you've all already seen this. But it still makes me giggle. "I'm her mom!" "No...she's not!"
Thursday, June 24, 2010
Monday, June 7, 2010
Apologies All Around...
What, you say, apologies for not writing in over a week? Old news.
Apologies for being so behind on reading and commenting on all of your superior, more prolific blogs? Feh. Been there.
But, an apology for inadvertently contributing to the spread of a ridiculous story via the internet, in a blog read by fives of people? Well, sign me up!
Yeah. Big freaking sigh. My poor dad. He was so befuddled when I told him. It was, after all, his cousin who told him the story, and now he maintains that no-one is trustworthy, especially Iowans. My sister also found out (after repeating the story several times) that this myth was on Snopes.com, and is now recommending that we also question Dad's whole "false alarm shooting in the church story."
So, in sincere contrition, I offer you an almost equally ridiculous story, one that involves Actual People I Know Personally, sources apparently more reliable than my lying father.
Until Tankbaby was born, MOTH and I went each summer to Burning Man. What, I never mentioned that? Yes, yes, we're big hippies. Anyway, one year, some friends of ours from Chicago drove out to join us. At the end of the week, we were all dusty, filthy, and grinning. One couple, Jill and Eric, got their entire bodies painted (Jill in a stunning blue-green, Eric in red), as you do when you're out in the desert with a buncha weirdos. So, picture if you will this dirty, dusty SUV, with four people, all unwashed, one wearing a fisherman's hat with cat ears attached, one painted entirely red, one entirely blue. On the drive home, somewhere in the Midwest, they pull up next to another car at a stoplight. They look over, and there's a guy dressed as Ronald effing McDonald driving the car.
He looks at them. They look at him.
Ronald rolls down his window. Eric does the same.
Ronald says, "Hey, man. What's McHappening?"
Almost as good, yes?
Apologies for being so behind on reading and commenting on all of your superior, more prolific blogs? Feh. Been there.
But, an apology for inadvertently contributing to the spread of a ridiculous story via the internet, in a blog read by fives of people? Well, sign me up!
Yeah. Big freaking sigh. My poor dad. He was so befuddled when I told him. It was, after all, his cousin who told him the story, and now he maintains that no-one is trustworthy, especially Iowans. My sister also found out (after repeating the story several times) that this myth was on Snopes.com, and is now recommending that we also question Dad's whole "false alarm shooting in the church story."
So, in sincere contrition, I offer you an almost equally ridiculous story, one that involves Actual People I Know Personally, sources apparently more reliable than my lying father.
Until Tankbaby was born, MOTH and I went each summer to Burning Man. What, I never mentioned that? Yes, yes, we're big hippies. Anyway, one year, some friends of ours from Chicago drove out to join us. At the end of the week, we were all dusty, filthy, and grinning. One couple, Jill and Eric, got their entire bodies painted (Jill in a stunning blue-green, Eric in red), as you do when you're out in the desert with a buncha weirdos. So, picture if you will this dirty, dusty SUV, with four people, all unwashed, one wearing a fisherman's hat with cat ears attached, one painted entirely red, one entirely blue. On the drive home, somewhere in the Midwest, they pull up next to another car at a stoplight. They look over, and there's a guy dressed as Ronald effing McDonald driving the car.
He looks at them. They look at him.
Ronald rolls down his window. Eric does the same.
Ronald says, "Hey, man. What's McHappening?"
Almost as good, yes?
Thursday, May 27, 2010
Apple, Meet the Tree--UPDATED
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.)
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.)
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.
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