[Disclaimer: The opinions posted herein do not at all reflect the views of the usual author of this blog.*^] (Stoned as in hit with rocks, not stoned as in lit.)
My wife asked me what I would blog about if I had a blog. Here's my answer.
Real men don't blog. Only girly men blog.
Unless they are writing about sports and they actually know what they are talking about. And not girly sports. Not soccer. That's not a real sport. Who is that overhyped Beckham ass? Some Brit here to play soccer who's famous for dressing like a rich girl. Real American sports. Football or baseball. College basketball. Not NBA basketball because the NBA has been screwed up since they went to a twenty-four second shot clock.
Or, maybe politics. As long as they are Republican and they are funny and they know about real sports. But, bloggers are probably all liberals. Probably writing crap about global warming and national health care and blah, blah, blah, waaaah, waaaaah. Girly liberal men writing about how they want to take my money and give it to someone who has no health insurance. Boo hoo.
Know why I don't blog? Because I WORK. At a job where I have no access to the internet (gasp! the horror). I don't have time to sit around all day crying about my life on a blog or sharing all the adorable things my kids do so that some other mom will write me back and say how cute they are. I'd like to know how to make money writing a blog because right now, considering the time my wife spends writing posts, she is working well below liberal democrat minimum wage standards. She has a law degree. If she put this much time into writing legal shit, I could work part time and I STILL wouldn't write a blog.
Want to do something good for the world? Don't tell me how to 'redistribute' my money. Adopt a child. I did. See how generous I am? Or, better yet, quit your crying and get a real job. Ohhhh, I know, you're a writer, writing deep and emotional thoughts. Move to Sweden. You can wear all black and grow a goatee and sit around in a government-sponsored cafe all day drinking European coffee and getting paid to do nothing but look all trendy and Euro and writer-like. That's how they get tourism in Sweden. They pay artsy girly men to sit around in cafes and pretend to write. Oh yeah, that's what you do already. Move to Sweden anyway.
One other possible exception to the real men don't blog rule. If you are single and you blog to look sensitive and emotionally damaged so that you can meet desperate overly-needy blogging girls. If so, genius brother, pure genius. If you're doing this and you're married, move to Sweden you perv.
To anyone stalking my house: I have a gun.
To my emotional, overly-needy mommyblogger wife: Stop posting pictures of our house. I don't want any namby-pamby, sensitive, liberal, blogging Swedish perves showing up here.
*For the one monumentally offended person who is still reading, put down the stone. That's right, put it down, you will only break your computer screen. This post was written by me (anymommy) as a part of Write Like the Opposite Sex Friday at Citizen of the Month. (Caution you will be leaving the family section of the blogosphere.) It is based on many actual conversations with my husband. Hate him, not me.
^My husband is not really this much of an ass. I find many things to love about him. He might be this conservative. Okay, he probably is this conservative, but mostly when it comes to money, not on social issues. He believes in universal health care for children. He also wants you to know that while he supports anything that makes us less dependent on foreign oil, he considers global warming a myth perpetrated by Al Gore to gain power and take over the world. (I said not this much, I didn't say he wasn't an ass at all.)
Friday, May 30, 2008
Wednesday, May 28, 2008
Wedding Bells
My baby sister is getting married on June 14. It's exciting. She's in love, he's wonderful, happily ever after, blah, blah, blah.... Now, let's bring it back to me, please. How does this affect me? (Besides the trip across the country trapped in a plastic tube with three small Tasmanian devils.)
Um, shopping. FOR MY BABIES. For outfits that I would never, ever in a million diapers waste money on normally because they will undoubtedly be ruined within a millisecond of donning. Outfits my husband would forbid me to buy under ordinary circumstances (and if you're wondering if I am forbidden to do things often, with my mouth? No. We usually agree on stupidly wasteful extravagances like fancy clothes for Tasmanian devils. Petting and coveting is allowed. Purchasing, discouraged.)
In this case, I have the trump card.
Sweetheart, it's my baby sister. It's her wedding. If we play this right, and they are cute enough, she might produce cousins someday. We have to represent. We have to dress them up like the little dolls that they are not and drug them so that they sit politely in pews throughout the wedding ceremony.
Aha, ha, ha. No.
My sister has already been disabused of the notion that my three toddlers would be anything close to approaching angelic quiet accessories at her nuptials. The conversation went something like this.
Me: I think it would be better if they skipped the ceremony. I was thinking of hiring a nanny for the whole day.
Her: I know it might be hard for them to sit and be quiet, but I really want them in the pictures.
Me: If by hard, you mean categorically impossible. Yes. If by quiet, you mean having this as the soundtrack for your wedding vows, "Momma?! Why you up there? MOMMA? What you do? What you do Aunt Dee? WHAT YOU DO? I pretty. My new dress pretty. Mine hair pretty. Momma pretty. YOU PRETTY MOMMA? I NO WANT JACKET. Where is cake?" Then, yes. If by pictures you mean trying, endless ordeal where no one smiles, everyone cries and your stunning, designer wedding gown is ruined before you reach your reception. Sure.
Her: I'll ask about a nanny service.
Me: Wise.
They are going to attend the rehearsal dinner in these adorable outfits. I have so far exceeded my budget for said outfits that they will be barefoot because I cannot afford shoes.
I KNOW. Aren't they just decadent butter cream frosting edible?? Ess is wearing MiniBoden. Gee sports a combination look from BabyGap and Gymboree. Cue is dressed in Old Navy Couture. The line for modeling contracts forms here.
Um, shopping. FOR MY BABIES. For outfits that I would never, ever in a million diapers waste money on normally because they will undoubtedly be ruined within a millisecond of donning. Outfits my husband would forbid me to buy under ordinary circumstances (and if you're wondering if I am forbidden to do things often, with my mouth? No. We usually agree on stupidly wasteful extravagances like fancy clothes for Tasmanian devils. Petting and coveting is allowed. Purchasing, discouraged.)
In this case, I have the trump card.
Sweetheart, it's my baby sister. It's her wedding. If we play this right, and they are cute enough, she might produce cousins someday. We have to represent. We have to dress them up like the little dolls that they are not and drug them so that they sit politely in pews throughout the wedding ceremony.
Aha, ha, ha. No.
My sister has already been disabused of the notion that my three toddlers would be anything close to approaching angelic quiet accessories at her nuptials. The conversation went something like this.
Me: I think it would be better if they skipped the ceremony. I was thinking of hiring a nanny for the whole day.
Her: I know it might be hard for them to sit and be quiet, but I really want them in the pictures.
Me: If by hard, you mean categorically impossible. Yes. If by quiet, you mean having this as the soundtrack for your wedding vows, "Momma?! Why you up there? MOMMA? What you do? What you do Aunt Dee? WHAT YOU DO? I pretty. My new dress pretty. Mine hair pretty. Momma pretty. YOU PRETTY MOMMA? I NO WANT JACKET. Where is cake?" Then, yes. If by pictures you mean trying, endless ordeal where no one smiles, everyone cries and your stunning, designer wedding gown is ruined before you reach your reception. Sure.
Her: I'll ask about a nanny service.
Me: Wise.
They are going to attend the rehearsal dinner in these adorable outfits. I have so far exceeded my budget for said outfits that they will be barefoot because I cannot afford shoes.
I KNOW. Aren't they just decadent butter cream frosting edible?? Ess is wearing MiniBoden. Gee sports a combination look from BabyGap and Gymboree. Cue is dressed in Old Navy Couture. The line for modeling contracts forms here.
Monday, May 26, 2008
Broken Promises
It's odd that I finally posted about our adoptions. It's like I sensed the wind beginning to change. Sometimes you are sailing along, all content, enjoying a sunny, easy patch after being tossed around. A weird breeze blows through your sails. A hard, cold rain starts to fall. It leaves you feeling sad and ruffled, with your fur all wet and disheveled.
I got an email this weekend that I don't have the slightest idea how to answer.
We committed to adopt two children. We brought home two children. For a short time, my little ones had a five year old brother. Our adoption of our oldest son disrupted. That's a technical term that means he went to a second placement. He wasn't doing very well in our home and I was failing miserably at meeting his needs as a mother. A lot of time, grief, energy and resources went into finding the family that is his true forever family. I know they are right for him, in a way that we were not.
A full year later, I no longer wake up in the cold hours of the early morning and turn all that happened over and over in my mind. I had begun to lay the guilt and grief aside and sleep better. The email came from Amelie,* the mother of this little boy's biological sister. She writes me in French. My understanding is rudimentary at best, but her frustration and sadness come through clearly. She wants pictures of him. His parents don't return her emails. She feels it's very important to keep them in touch. So do I. So did I?
*not her real name
But, he's not my son. I am not his mother. He's their son and they seem to think that a complete break with the past is the best, at least for now. They may be right. We had no idea what was right for him, how to make things right for him.
I don't have any answers. Only regrets. In my wide-eyed naivete, before I understood what attachment disorder or oppositional disorder or trauma behavior or survival behavior looked like, I made promises. I promised to be his mother. I promised to keep in touch with his sister's family in France. I promised to send pictures and notes to the orphanage in Haiti for his birth father. We promised in good faith, with all the optimistic love and hope that was ours when we decided to adopt this beautiful, charming, angry little boy.
The incredible couple that are his parents didn't promise Amelie anything. They promised us that they understood his behavioral difficulties and could handle them. They promised that, unlike me, attachment disorder behaviors and aggression didn't scare them. They promised that they had done this kind of parenting before.
Here's something that I didn't understand at twenty that I am beginning to understand now. I can't control what anyone else does. I can only control what I do. I can't force anyone to keep my promises, no matter how much I wish that they were still mine to keep. I can swallow my guilt and my fear and my desire to stick my head in the sand and pretend that it has nothing to do with me any more and write her back. I guess the beginning is easy.
Dear Amelie, Je suis désolé.
I got an email this weekend that I don't have the slightest idea how to answer.
We committed to adopt two children. We brought home two children. For a short time, my little ones had a five year old brother. Our adoption of our oldest son disrupted. That's a technical term that means he went to a second placement. He wasn't doing very well in our home and I was failing miserably at meeting his needs as a mother. A lot of time, grief, energy and resources went into finding the family that is his true forever family. I know they are right for him, in a way that we were not.
A full year later, I no longer wake up in the cold hours of the early morning and turn all that happened over and over in my mind. I had begun to lay the guilt and grief aside and sleep better. The email came from Amelie,* the mother of this little boy's biological sister. She writes me in French. My understanding is rudimentary at best, but her frustration and sadness come through clearly. She wants pictures of him. His parents don't return her emails. She feels it's very important to keep them in touch. So do I. So did I?
*not her real name
But, he's not my son. I am not his mother. He's their son and they seem to think that a complete break with the past is the best, at least for now. They may be right. We had no idea what was right for him, how to make things right for him.
I don't have any answers. Only regrets. In my wide-eyed naivete, before I understood what attachment disorder or oppositional disorder or trauma behavior or survival behavior looked like, I made promises. I promised to be his mother. I promised to keep in touch with his sister's family in France. I promised to send pictures and notes to the orphanage in Haiti for his birth father. We promised in good faith, with all the optimistic love and hope that was ours when we decided to adopt this beautiful, charming, angry little boy.
The incredible couple that are his parents didn't promise Amelie anything. They promised us that they understood his behavioral difficulties and could handle them. They promised that, unlike me, attachment disorder behaviors and aggression didn't scare them. They promised that they had done this kind of parenting before.
Here's something that I didn't understand at twenty that I am beginning to understand now. I can't control what anyone else does. I can only control what I do. I can't force anyone to keep my promises, no matter how much I wish that they were still mine to keep. I can swallow my guilt and my fear and my desire to stick my head in the sand and pretend that it has nothing to do with me any more and write her back. I guess the beginning is easy.
Dear Amelie, Je suis désolé.
Sunday, May 25, 2008
Saturday, May 24, 2008
Let's Talk About Transracial International Adoption
When I started this blog, I knew nothing about mommy bloggers or the blogosphere or twitter or Blogher. I thought blogging was something that you did so that grandmas could be more involved in your kids' lives. I had a vague notion that sometimes it got bigger than that. Sometimes, communities formed around certain topics or experiences. In the way back of my mind, I did hope that I might bump into other mothers with families like mine. Adoptive families. Multiracial families.
Somewhere in my technologically-challenged stuck-in-1985 brain, I imagined that some other mother up way too late at night might Google words like adoption, Haiti or transracial parenting and stumble across me. We would chat and bond and become friends and exchange hair tips. I have started many posts on these subjects and then deleted. Too personal, too raw, too scary, too me.
The way Google works, though, apparently, is that you actually have to type the words into the computer and publish them. Because even the GREAT and POWERFUL wizards behind the GOOGLE curtain, while well on their way to taking over the universe, have yet to find a way to delve into our brains and write for us. I am sure that they are working on that.
I have been startled and tickled by how blogging connects me to other woman - and a few men - across the country and the world. I am addicted to reading stories and finding writers that I enjoy. I love chatting with no restrictions based on time or distance. It's like the plot of a science fiction novel and a morning chat over coffee all wrapped up in a nice package and I don't even have to take off my pajamas.
I am astonished to be making friends and I want to share other things, adoption things, so that I have a chance of connecting with others. But, starting puzzles me. Do I backtrack and tell our adoption story? Do I jump right in where we are? When I write these posts I choke on what I'm not saying. I choke on everything that's happened in the last three years. I am afraid of judgment. I'm even a little afraid of understanding. It's so much easier to write silly, funny stories about toddlers and triple strollers.
If I'm writing to reach out, to find others with similar experiences, then I have to say the magic words.
We are an adoptive, multiracial family. We are white parents raising a black child. In 2005, we committed to adopt two children from Haiti, our daughter Ess, who was ten days old, and a four year old boy. I was seven months pregnant when we accepted their referrals. He and Ess came home to us the week of my son Gee's first birthday. That gorgeous boy was, for a time, our oldest son.
Attachment and bonding with him did not go well (first understatement of the century). He was angry (second understatement of the century). He exhibited trauma and survival behaviors. With two babies and him, we were in way over our heads (third and final). (...) Our adoption of him disrupted last summer and he transitioned successfully to a second family. It is the most painful thing that has ever happened to me (no understatement).
There we go. Rip off the tape fast, like a band aid. I've said it all. Adoption. Disruption. Trauma. Attachment. Abracadabra. Allacazam. (Nervous, hysterical laughter.) I'll work on filling in the (...) part of the story. At least now, I can post without my inner censor ringing bells at me.
Chew on those words for a while Google wizards. While you're listening, can I have a brain? And a diamond necklace? And a new car? No thank you on the flying monkeys. I have three already. There's no place like home, there's no place like home, there's. Oh right, I am home.
Somewhere in my technologically-challenged stuck-in-1985 brain, I imagined that some other mother up way too late at night might Google words like adoption, Haiti or transracial parenting and stumble across me. We would chat and bond and become friends and exchange hair tips. I have started many posts on these subjects and then deleted. Too personal, too raw, too scary, too me.
The way Google works, though, apparently, is that you actually have to type the words into the computer and publish them. Because even the GREAT and POWERFUL wizards behind the GOOGLE curtain, while well on their way to taking over the universe, have yet to find a way to delve into our brains and write for us. I am sure that they are working on that.
I have been startled and tickled by how blogging connects me to other woman - and a few men - across the country and the world. I am addicted to reading stories and finding writers that I enjoy. I love chatting with no restrictions based on time or distance. It's like the plot of a science fiction novel and a morning chat over coffee all wrapped up in a nice package and I don't even have to take off my pajamas.
I am astonished to be making friends and I want to share other things, adoption things, so that I have a chance of connecting with others. But, starting puzzles me. Do I backtrack and tell our adoption story? Do I jump right in where we are? When I write these posts I choke on what I'm not saying. I choke on everything that's happened in the last three years. I am afraid of judgment. I'm even a little afraid of understanding. It's so much easier to write silly, funny stories about toddlers and triple strollers.
If I'm writing to reach out, to find others with similar experiences, then I have to say the magic words.
We are an adoptive, multiracial family. We are white parents raising a black child. In 2005, we committed to adopt two children from Haiti, our daughter Ess, who was ten days old, and a four year old boy. I was seven months pregnant when we accepted their referrals. He and Ess came home to us the week of my son Gee's first birthday. That gorgeous boy was, for a time, our oldest son.
Attachment and bonding with him did not go well (first understatement of the century). He was angry (second understatement of the century). He exhibited trauma and survival behaviors. With two babies and him, we were in way over our heads (third and final). (...) Our adoption of him disrupted last summer and he transitioned successfully to a second family. It is the most painful thing that has ever happened to me (no understatement).
There we go. Rip off the tape fast, like a band aid. I've said it all. Adoption. Disruption. Trauma. Attachment. Abracadabra. Allacazam. (Nervous, hysterical laughter.) I'll work on filling in the (...) part of the story. At least now, I can post without my inner censor ringing bells at me.
Chew on those words for a while Google wizards. While you're listening, can I have a brain? And a diamond necklace? And a new car? No thank you on the flying monkeys. I have three already. There's no place like home, there's no place like home, there's. Oh right, I am home.
Friday, May 23, 2008
Judging Mommy
Judgy people have irritated me today, but first I have to get this out of my system.
FINALLYMERANDMCDREAMYGOTITRIGHT. THANKYOU!
I love a fairy tale ending. I couldn't be happier about my Thursday night TV experience. Except for the candle question. Where did she get all those candles? What, she just ran to Walmart and was all, 6000 bag candles please and the guy in the blue vest loaded the cases in her hatchback? I dispute that one person could get that many bag candles to burn at one time without a television crew to help them. The first candles would burn through their bags and start a meadow fire long before the last candles were lit. Even with this obvious plot flaw, sigh, beautiful. I'd sworn to give Grey's up if they failed to get together and I can now watch another year.
On to mean, parent-judgers. A friend of mine's 18-month-old has a mohawk. It's intentional, Dad has a mohawk too. A total stranger approached her in a store and asked how she could do that to her baby. AND THEN, this woman said that my friend was 'asking for her son to grow up and be one of those people.' Sounds ominous, doesn't it? Those people. Mohawk people? Because everyone knows about those mohawk people. Terrible, the way they're always up to no good, flashing those mohawks around. (I do really like the word, mohawk.)
Her story caused me to have a post-mother-judging-stress-disorder relapse related to an incident that occurred at a certain Mexican restaurant last year. I know you've all heard it before, but I'm going to tell it again because it haunts me.
In a desperate bid to get out of the house last winter (I'm talking February 2007 here, oh yes, I've held a grudge on this one), we took our two eighteen-month-old children to a local Mexican place for dinner. Ess had been home with us for only about four months and she was throwing vicious, outrageous temper tantrums regularly during meals, especially if anything sweet had the audacity to, you know, come to a natural end by being eaten. We agreed in advance that it was my turn to leave the restaurant with her if any part of the meal offended her by ending.
Desserts' end offended her deeply and she let us and everyone else in a three mile radius know about it. As arranged, I picked her up, carried her out to the minivan and buckled her in her car seat. For the record, it wasn't a fun trip through the restaurant. Conspicuous, pregnant white mom hauling screaming black child, even more noticeable than your average, oh so fun, restaurant toddler scene. Away from the offensive eaten dessert, she quieted. As I wiped her nose and talked to her, I noticed that she stank. I also realized I had left HSSH with a baby, two booster seats and a huge diaper bag to carry.
This is the part where I do something dumb. Recall, pregnant, tired, caring for two babies already, one of whom has known me for only four months. It hadn't been an easy four months. I locked the car and ran back in for the diaper bag. Half way across the restaurant dining room, a woman (notice I was nice here, I didn't say she-bitch from hell) stood up and yelled at me. She threatened to call the police if I didn't return to my car immediately. Loudly. Making sure everyone in the restaurant knew what a good citizen she was being.
Now before you go all 'serves you right' on me, I'm not defending the decision to run in for the bag. It was poor. I do not condone leaving children in cars - I mean unless you leave the window down and they have a bowl of water. Kidding. But on a scale of forgetting a good night kiss to abandoning baby in dumpster, I think this was on the lower end of the worst mothering of all time o'meter.
Her interest in my daughter's safety, I don't object to. What inspires my deep and abiding hatred about this incident is that this woman's main motivation was not my daughter, it was humiliating me, the mother. From her self-righteous pedestal of judgement, she felt, I'm sure, in the right to call me out in front of a room full of strangers. But, here's the thing. I WAS going back to my car immediately.
There was no need to threaten to call the police to get me back to my car. She could have ensured that the situation was safe for my daughter just as effectively by quietly watching me and making sure I went directly back to the car. If I had sat down and ordered a margarita, she could have just called the police. See how that resolves so nicely, without any soul crushing public beat down of an already tired, frazzled and on the edge mother?
Every time something brings this back up in my mind I get angry all over again. Not just for me but for every mother who has had a difficult situation made immeasurably worse by some know it all boob who probably doesn't have children because if she did have children, surely she would have just an iota of sympathy for how hard it can be and how easy it is to make a bad decision in the heat of the moment. She is seeing a snapshot of parenting under pressure and making the sweeping public judgement: TERRIBLE MOTHER. Mother worthy of police interference. How cruel.
I am a pretty confident person and that night bothers me over a year later. I want to travel back in time and tell that restaurant full of people about how hard I was working on bonding with my daughter, how I only buy organic milk and I stress about every decision I make for my precious kids. I want to tell them that I was tired. I want to tell that woman something too - that there are mothers out there struggling with serious problems like depression and her nastiness could easily have been directed at someone less able to deal with it.
What if she had dealt with the situation differently? What if she had been kind? What if, if she had really felt that strongly about the level of risk, she had walked outside and stood by the car until I returned? Isn't there enough guilt built into parenting without inflicting it on each other? Those parenting books we're all reading? The ones about using empathy to make your point instead of showing anger and frustration or employing threats and sarcasm? We can use them on each other too.
FINALLYMERANDMCDREAMYGOTITRIGHT. THANKYOU!
I love a fairy tale ending. I couldn't be happier about my Thursday night TV experience. Except for the candle question. Where did she get all those candles? What, she just ran to Walmart and was all, 6000 bag candles please and the guy in the blue vest loaded the cases in her hatchback? I dispute that one person could get that many bag candles to burn at one time without a television crew to help them. The first candles would burn through their bags and start a meadow fire long before the last candles were lit. Even with this obvious plot flaw, sigh, beautiful. I'd sworn to give Grey's up if they failed to get together and I can now watch another year.
On to mean, parent-judgers. A friend of mine's 18-month-old has a mohawk. It's intentional, Dad has a mohawk too. A total stranger approached her in a store and asked how she could do that to her baby. AND THEN, this woman said that my friend was 'asking for her son to grow up and be one of those people.' Sounds ominous, doesn't it? Those people. Mohawk people? Because everyone knows about those mohawk people. Terrible, the way they're always up to no good, flashing those mohawks around. (I do really like the word, mohawk.)
Her story caused me to have a post-mother-judging-stress-disorder relapse related to an incident that occurred at a certain Mexican restaurant last year. I know you've all heard it before, but I'm going to tell it again because it haunts me.
In a desperate bid to get out of the house last winter (I'm talking February 2007 here, oh yes, I've held a grudge on this one), we took our two eighteen-month-old children to a local Mexican place for dinner. Ess had been home with us for only about four months and she was throwing vicious, outrageous temper tantrums regularly during meals, especially if anything sweet had the audacity to, you know, come to a natural end by being eaten. We agreed in advance that it was my turn to leave the restaurant with her if any part of the meal offended her by ending.
Desserts' end offended her deeply and she let us and everyone else in a three mile radius know about it. As arranged, I picked her up, carried her out to the minivan and buckled her in her car seat. For the record, it wasn't a fun trip through the restaurant. Conspicuous, pregnant white mom hauling screaming black child, even more noticeable than your average, oh so fun, restaurant toddler scene. Away from the offensive eaten dessert, she quieted. As I wiped her nose and talked to her, I noticed that she stank. I also realized I had left HSSH with a baby, two booster seats and a huge diaper bag to carry.
This is the part where I do something dumb. Recall, pregnant, tired, caring for two babies already, one of whom has known me for only four months. It hadn't been an easy four months. I locked the car and ran back in for the diaper bag. Half way across the restaurant dining room, a woman (notice I was nice here, I didn't say she-bitch from hell) stood up and yelled at me. She threatened to call the police if I didn't return to my car immediately. Loudly. Making sure everyone in the restaurant knew what a good citizen she was being.
Now before you go all 'serves you right' on me, I'm not defending the decision to run in for the bag. It was poor. I do not condone leaving children in cars - I mean unless you leave the window down and they have a bowl of water. Kidding. But on a scale of forgetting a good night kiss to abandoning baby in dumpster, I think this was on the lower end of the worst mothering of all time o'meter.
Her interest in my daughter's safety, I don't object to. What inspires my deep and abiding hatred about this incident is that this woman's main motivation was not my daughter, it was humiliating me, the mother. From her self-righteous pedestal of judgement, she felt, I'm sure, in the right to call me out in front of a room full of strangers. But, here's the thing. I WAS going back to my car immediately.
There was no need to threaten to call the police to get me back to my car. She could have ensured that the situation was safe for my daughter just as effectively by quietly watching me and making sure I went directly back to the car. If I had sat down and ordered a margarita, she could have just called the police. See how that resolves so nicely, without any soul crushing public beat down of an already tired, frazzled and on the edge mother?
Every time something brings this back up in my mind I get angry all over again. Not just for me but for every mother who has had a difficult situation made immeasurably worse by some know it all boob who probably doesn't have children because if she did have children, surely she would have just an iota of sympathy for how hard it can be and how easy it is to make a bad decision in the heat of the moment. She is seeing a snapshot of parenting under pressure and making the sweeping public judgement: TERRIBLE MOTHER. Mother worthy of police interference. How cruel.
I am a pretty confident person and that night bothers me over a year later. I want to travel back in time and tell that restaurant full of people about how hard I was working on bonding with my daughter, how I only buy organic milk and I stress about every decision I make for my precious kids. I want to tell them that I was tired. I want to tell that woman something too - that there are mothers out there struggling with serious problems like depression and her nastiness could easily have been directed at someone less able to deal with it.
What if she had dealt with the situation differently? What if she had been kind? What if, if she had really felt that strongly about the level of risk, she had walked outside and stood by the car until I returned? Isn't there enough guilt built into parenting without inflicting it on each other? Those parenting books we're all reading? The ones about using empathy to make your point instead of showing anger and frustration or employing threats and sarcasm? We can use them on each other too.
Thursday, May 22, 2008
This One's for Citizen Neil
A mediocre mommy blogger ... in a tight tank top.
I told you all the 'hot' bloggers are at allmediocre. It's a website for the rest of us started by this clever blogger.
Read the funniest post about commenting, maybe ever, over at citizen of the month.
Feeling lost? See what all the buzz is about here (which is mocking Alltop, but only in a gentle, jealous kind of way).
Mwah, see you around the blogosphere, m'kay?
Tuesday, May 20, 2008
Questions to Ponder
Why does every toy in the toy room have to be on the floor?
Why does every doll on the floor in the federally declared disaster area we call a toy room need to be undressed? It makes me a little sad every night, all those naked dolls lying around in crooked poses on the floor.
Why do I spend my time in the evenings cleaning the toy room and dressing all the dolls? Why do I have an obsessive compulsive need for the seven different types of blocks to be sorted and put back into their correct containers? Why do I do all the puzzles and hunt down all the missing pieces from under the couch? [Wait. I can answer this one. Because it takes Ess and Gee almost thirty minutes to completely destroy all of my hard work the next day. Thirty blissful completely occupied toddler minutes. (Okay, yes, and because I am an insane neat freak.)]
Why, in our house with two entire floors covered in hardwood, does every single CODE RED poop overflow situation occur on the carpet? Does HP think perhaps, incorrectly, that I need practice cleaning carpets? I've had dogs. I don't need practice.
Why do I keep forgetting to ask HSSH about the two inches of stale, stinky, disgusting water that won't drain from the bottom of the dishwasher? It's been two days. It must be resolved because the dishwasher is now full of dirty dishes. Maybe he will read this? Sweetheart? There's two inches of disgusting water that won't drain from the bottom of the dishwasher!
Is that an indication of the need for some kind of therapy? Trying to communicate with your husband via your blog?
Why, whenever I tell someone that I have a nanny on Mondays all summer, do I feel guilty and then qualify that blissful statement with, "I mean I love staying home with the kids and all..." ? A friend called me on this today. She said I don't have to justify the nanny to her, nor should it make me feel like I don't love my kids enough because I need a break from watching them destroy the toy room and undress dolls. Right. I have a nanny on Mondays all summer. Hurray!!!!
Why do I ever, ever buy expensive toys? No matter how many bells and whistles a toy has, it never occupies them for more than twenty minutes. But, this:
They did this for AN HOUR AND A HALF yesterday. I kid you not. I answered all my emails and looked at some catalogs. Those water squirters cost 97 cents. I filled them with water and suggested that they clean the fence. They preferred to clean the tree, but seriously, I would let them chop down the tree with their teeth if it kept them busy for ninety minutes in a row.*
I stole this gem of an idea for occupying toddlers from my very favorite neighbor and friend. Anyone else have ideas this brilliant, simple and inexpensive for keeping toddlers busy? Please (please, please) share!
*No trees were hurt in this squirty bottle activity.
I just like this one....
Why does every doll on the floor in the federally declared disaster area we call a toy room need to be undressed? It makes me a little sad every night, all those naked dolls lying around in crooked poses on the floor.
Why do I spend my time in the evenings cleaning the toy room and dressing all the dolls? Why do I have an obsessive compulsive need for the seven different types of blocks to be sorted and put back into their correct containers? Why do I do all the puzzles and hunt down all the missing pieces from under the couch? [Wait. I can answer this one. Because it takes Ess and Gee almost thirty minutes to completely destroy all of my hard work the next day. Thirty blissful completely occupied toddler minutes. (Okay, yes, and because I am an insane neat freak.)]
Why, in our house with two entire floors covered in hardwood, does every single CODE RED poop overflow situation occur on the carpet? Does HP think perhaps, incorrectly, that I need practice cleaning carpets? I've had dogs. I don't need practice.
Why do I keep forgetting to ask HSSH about the two inches of stale, stinky, disgusting water that won't drain from the bottom of the dishwasher? It's been two days. It must be resolved because the dishwasher is now full of dirty dishes. Maybe he will read this? Sweetheart? There's two inches of disgusting water that won't drain from the bottom of the dishwasher!
Is that an indication of the need for some kind of therapy? Trying to communicate with your husband via your blog?
Why, whenever I tell someone that I have a nanny on Mondays all summer, do I feel guilty and then qualify that blissful statement with, "I mean I love staying home with the kids and all..." ? A friend called me on this today. She said I don't have to justify the nanny to her, nor should it make me feel like I don't love my kids enough because I need a break from watching them destroy the toy room and undress dolls. Right. I have a nanny on Mondays all summer. Hurray!!!!
Why do I ever, ever buy expensive toys? No matter how many bells and whistles a toy has, it never occupies them for more than twenty minutes. But, this:
They did this for AN HOUR AND A HALF yesterday. I kid you not. I answered all my emails and looked at some catalogs. Those water squirters cost 97 cents. I filled them with water and suggested that they clean the fence. They preferred to clean the tree, but seriously, I would let them chop down the tree with their teeth if it kept them busy for ninety minutes in a row.*
I stole this gem of an idea for occupying toddlers from my very favorite neighbor and friend. Anyone else have ideas this brilliant, simple and inexpensive for keeping toddlers busy? Please (please, please) share!
*No trees were hurt in this squirty bottle activity.
I just like this one....
Monday, May 19, 2008
The Results Are In
The results of the great cereal/sex study are below. But first, I have to give credit where due! A huge thank you to the lovely Beth at I Should Be Folding Laundry. She did my incredible blog makeover, changing me overnight from boring black to fabulous. You can see more of her designs at BeDesign. As if that wasn't enough, she also sent her readers over to boost my research numbers. You are all awesome - thanks!
A few of you asked about why mom's diet would impact the sex of a baby at all. We all know that it's dad's little swimmers that determine the gender question. Well, make sure you are sitting down because this is good. Apparently, while dad's sperm has the X/Y code thing going for them, the father's contribution does not dictate the outcome. That's right, you heard me. The EGG can pick the sperm of her choice from among the likely candidates. Think Bachlorette coming to a fallopian tube near you. The lady gets the final say.
Here's my lay (giggle) interpretation of some biology - hopefully no one reading this is a real scientist. The egg has a membrane that can reject potential sperm suitors in favor of others. I really like this part. Girl embryos are a little hardier than boys. Girls are a little more likely to survive in slightly less than ideal conditions. Boy embryos are a little higher maintenance and do better in cushy quarters. If for example, there are less available resources, like lower blood sugar (due to skipping your healthy special K breakfast), eggs favor girl sperm slightly.
Um, what was that about the weaker sex?
Here's the salient point: In just slightly less than ideal conditions, the egg can reject her Y carrying sperm visitors and opt for the tougher, more resilient girls.
Is anyone else picturing this or am I just weird? The lovely Eggwina exits her ovary all dressed up and looking for a decent sperm. Y sperm sidles up to Eggwina at the Ovary Bar downtown, Fallopian Tube.
Y sperm: Hey, you're looking gloriously ripe for fertilization this evening, want to make a beautiful boy together?
Eggwina: You look like a nice Y, but conditions are a little harsh these days, what with all the coffee and no decent breakfast. I think my chances are better with an X.
Y sperm: Sweetheart, I'm tough. Check out this genetic material. I can take a little low blood sugar.
Eggwina: Yeah, big man, I'm sure you are. But, I need code with a little resiliency and staying power. I need a sperm that can take the heat. I need girl sperm.
Last one, I promise.
Okay, okay. The original study found that 56% of woman in the 'high energy intake' category had boys. Cereal bumped that up even more. 59% of woman eating cereal daily had boys. We blew them away, my friends. Even with a margin of error for some iffy variables like questionable counting on my part, twins (not sure whether to count once or twice) and unclear breakfast choices, we have proven that cereal equals more boys. I counted ninety-two kids total. Out of fifty-one children conceived under the influence of cereal - 76% boys!!!! Forty-one conceived not under the influence of cereal - 63% girls!!!! Wow.
A few of you asked about why mom's diet would impact the sex of a baby at all. We all know that it's dad's little swimmers that determine the gender question. Well, make sure you are sitting down because this is good. Apparently, while dad's sperm has the X/Y code thing going for them, the father's contribution does not dictate the outcome. That's right, you heard me. The EGG can pick the sperm of her choice from among the likely candidates. Think Bachlorette coming to a fallopian tube near you. The lady gets the final say.
Here's my lay (giggle) interpretation of some biology - hopefully no one reading this is a real scientist. The egg has a membrane that can reject potential sperm suitors in favor of others. I really like this part. Girl embryos are a little hardier than boys. Girls are a little more likely to survive in slightly less than ideal conditions. Boy embryos are a little higher maintenance and do better in cushy quarters. If for example, there are less available resources, like lower blood sugar (due to skipping your healthy special K breakfast), eggs favor girl sperm slightly.
Um, what was that about the weaker sex?
Here's the salient point: In just slightly less than ideal conditions, the egg can reject her Y carrying sperm visitors and opt for the tougher, more resilient girls.
Is anyone else picturing this or am I just weird? The lovely Eggwina exits her ovary all dressed up and looking for a decent sperm. Y sperm sidles up to Eggwina at the Ovary Bar downtown, Fallopian Tube.
Y sperm: Hey, you're looking gloriously ripe for fertilization this evening, want to make a beautiful boy together?
Eggwina: You look like a nice Y, but conditions are a little harsh these days, what with all the coffee and no decent breakfast. I think my chances are better with an X.
Y sperm: Sweetheart, I'm tough. Check out this genetic material. I can take a little low blood sugar.
Eggwina: Yeah, big man, I'm sure you are. But, I need code with a little resiliency and staying power. I need a sperm that can take the heat. I need girl sperm.
Some visuals:
Last one, I promise.Okay, okay. The original study found that 56% of woman in the 'high energy intake' category had boys. Cereal bumped that up even more. 59% of woman eating cereal daily had boys. We blew them away, my friends. Even with a margin of error for some iffy variables like questionable counting on my part, twins (not sure whether to count once or twice) and unclear breakfast choices, we have proven that cereal equals more boys. I counted ninety-two kids total. Out of fifty-one children conceived under the influence of cereal - 76% boys!!!! Forty-one conceived not under the influence of cereal - 63% girls!!!! Wow.
Saturday, May 17, 2008
Thoughts and an Experiment
A random collection of thoughts for today. If that bores you, skip to the EXPERIMENT at the bottom!
Spring has Sprung. Finally. Summer, even, with a high of ninety degrees today. At first, Cue took offense to this horrid, too-shiny-in-his-eyes thing we call the SUN. After a while, he got into the spirit of things with a little summer siesta.
Still Missing, One Slightly Undersized Brain. This afternoon I gave Ess and Gee a bath. I wanted to cut the elastics out of Ess' hair so that I could wash it and discovered that I had left my little scissors downstairs. So, I left them getting undressed in the bathroom (dangerous on so many levels) and sprinted downstairs to grab the scissors off of the mantel. I returned in seconds to find them still happily removing their socks. When I went to cut the elastics, I was holding the TV remote?! Where did I leave my brain again? Oh yeah, Costco.
Beautiful Hair. While on the subject of Ess' hair, it is an adventure, but I improve every time I do a style. I have read a lot about how important hair is in Haitian (and African-American) culture. It is very important to me that I learn to do her hair and that she feels that I understand how to care for it. I also want her to LOVE her hair and know how beautiful it is. That's why I cried when I read her 'interview' from toddler school with Teacher Glinda. The last question was 'something special about me is?' Her answer? 'I have beautiful hair.' Now, if only she will feel that way when she is sixteen.
And now, here it is, the promised extremely official, very scientific experiment.
Boy Sperm Like Breakfast. Our fine local paper (my small, diaper-filled kingdom for the Washington Post or NY Times) reported on a study that has been on my mind. Research indicates that women who eat breakfast, and more specifically breakfast cereal, statistically have more boys. And conversely, women who don't eat breakfast cereal are statistically more likely to have girls (there still being, last I checked, only those two options).
I found the article fascinating because I could easily apply it to me. (As opposed to things that are less fascinating in that they have nothing to do with me. Kidding, sheesh). I eat cereal for breakfast like it's a religious edict. Every single morning. Cereal (either honey nut cheerios or honey bunches of oats). Milk. Day begins. And, I have borne....two boys. Viola! My mother? She thinks cereal floating in milk is cruel and unusual punishment banned by the Geneva convention. I have two sisters. Study confirmed.
What? You find this anecdotal? You want more evidence? Cool, because I was thinking it would be fun to run my own little scientific research project right here. How about it? I need volunteers. Tell me, about your cereal/sex experience. (That's cereal as in food eaten in the morning, not serial as in a lot of times in a row, although the latter would be more fun, perhaps). Boys or girls, breakfast cereal or no? Anyone abhor breakfast cereal and have five boys? Adore breakfast and have girls? If you have a mix (of children, not cereals), did your breakfast eating habits change at all between them?
Once you have reported your results to me, I shall do math (yes, that is frightening, but I will run my math by my clever husband and see if it is correct) and ascertain if our numbers confirm or rebut their 56% boys for cereal eaters hypothesis. The more data, the better, so ask your friends about their breakfast habits prior to conception. Or better yet, if they live in a cool place, get them to come and post it themselves so I can have their dot.
Wait, what's that? Not scientific, too many variables...no control group... you're breaking up, sorry.
Spring has Sprung. Finally. Summer, even, with a high of ninety degrees today. At first, Cue took offense to this horrid, too-shiny-in-his-eyes thing we call the SUN. After a while, he got into the spirit of things with a little summer siesta.
Still Missing, One Slightly Undersized Brain. This afternoon I gave Ess and Gee a bath. I wanted to cut the elastics out of Ess' hair so that I could wash it and discovered that I had left my little scissors downstairs. So, I left them getting undressed in the bathroom (dangerous on so many levels) and sprinted downstairs to grab the scissors off of the mantel. I returned in seconds to find them still happily removing their socks. When I went to cut the elastics, I was holding the TV remote?! Where did I leave my brain again? Oh yeah, Costco.
Beautiful Hair. While on the subject of Ess' hair, it is an adventure, but I improve every time I do a style. I have read a lot about how important hair is in Haitian (and African-American) culture. It is very important to me that I learn to do her hair and that she feels that I understand how to care for it. I also want her to LOVE her hair and know how beautiful it is. That's why I cried when I read her 'interview' from toddler school with Teacher Glinda. The last question was 'something special about me is?' Her answer? 'I have beautiful hair.' Now, if only she will feel that way when she is sixteen.
And now, here it is, the promised extremely official, very scientific experiment.
Boy Sperm Like Breakfast. Our fine local paper (my small, diaper-filled kingdom for the Washington Post or NY Times) reported on a study that has been on my mind. Research indicates that women who eat breakfast, and more specifically breakfast cereal, statistically have more boys. And conversely, women who don't eat breakfast cereal are statistically more likely to have girls (there still being, last I checked, only those two options).
I found the article fascinating because I could easily apply it to me. (As opposed to things that are less fascinating in that they have nothing to do with me. Kidding, sheesh). I eat cereal for breakfast like it's a religious edict. Every single morning. Cereal (either honey nut cheerios or honey bunches of oats). Milk. Day begins. And, I have borne....two boys. Viola! My mother? She thinks cereal floating in milk is cruel and unusual punishment banned by the Geneva convention. I have two sisters. Study confirmed.
What? You find this anecdotal? You want more evidence? Cool, because I was thinking it would be fun to run my own little scientific research project right here. How about it? I need volunteers. Tell me, about your cereal/sex experience. (That's cereal as in food eaten in the morning, not serial as in a lot of times in a row, although the latter would be more fun, perhaps). Boys or girls, breakfast cereal or no? Anyone abhor breakfast cereal and have five boys? Adore breakfast and have girls? If you have a mix (of children, not cereals), did your breakfast eating habits change at all between them?
Once you have reported your results to me, I shall do math (yes, that is frightening, but I will run my math by my clever husband and see if it is correct) and ascertain if our numbers confirm or rebut their 56% boys for cereal eaters hypothesis. The more data, the better, so ask your friends about their breakfast habits prior to conception. Or better yet, if they live in a cool place, get them to come and post it themselves so I can have their dot.
Wait, what's that? Not scientific, too many variables...no control group... you're breaking up, sorry.
Thursday, May 15, 2008
Daddy's Boy
I recently discovered that we have an indeterminate number of invisible cows and kittens living in an upstairs closet. My first thought? I have found the source of the foul and mysterious odor. (First one to name that movie gets five points. Here's the current tally. Aunt Dee - 5 points. Rest of the universe - 0 points). Second thought, what a relief. For a while now, I suspected either that our house was haunted or that Gee might be mildly schizophrenic.
Neither option appealed to me. A little secret about me? I have an overactive imagination. In one sense, it's great. I adore fantasy. I make up stories in my head. I think I'm creative. But, for me, it has a dark side. Every horror movie that I have ever watched or even heard about roots in my psyche and tortures me when I am alone at night. I'm afraid of the dark. I'm afraid of basements and hauntings and closets and sometimes mirrors. I sleep poorly when HSSH isn't at home. Poorly and with lots of lights on.
I can not go to sleep if there are any clothes lying around or hung over doors because I once saw this horror trailer for Jeepers Creepers by accident. (Because it played as a preview at a perfectly nice girly movie. AHHHH that pisses me off. Only nice girly previews should be allowed to play at nice girly movies.) If you haven't seen it, this horrific scarecrow comes to life and eats people. It's horrid. That two minute trailer plagues me. Also, I stay up later than HSSH usually and when I go upstairs to go to bed, I must turn on the light and make sure that it is still him in the bed. I know, I worry about myself sometimes, too.
My point is not that I am weird, which is a given, but that creepiness like dogs barking at corners for no reason or children talking to no one makes my skin crawl. Gee has been mumbling over his shoulder for weeks now. Occasionally, I would catch a phrase like 'you wait here' or 'no, no, stay back (a serious, disciplinary nod), stay back, okay?' A few times when I dared to ask who he was talking to, he rolled his eyes and shook his head, in awe of my ignorance. A few mornings ago, when I walked into their room to get Ess and Gee up for the day, Gee informed me seriously that 'they' were hungry. I suppressed a shiver. They? The voices in his head? TV people?
'Where are...they, Gee Gee?' I dared to ask
'In the closet.' (Sorry I asked. Ewwww. People under the stairs. I am perilously close to never sleeping again.)
'I feed them, okay?'
'Um, okay?' He opened the closet door and threw something imaginary inside.
'There, there you go. There you go.' (At least he wasn't the fodder.)
'Who are you feeding, Gee?'
He gave me another serious nod. 'The cows.' Relief flooded me. Cows are all right. Farm animals are generally not evil. As long as they aren't mad, alien-looking cows with sharp teeth, I'm good.
'There are cows in the closet?'
'And kittens.' Kittens are closet dwellers that I can get behind. May all of our psyches be filled with kittens.
No ghosts, not mental illness, just invisible, hungry cows and kittens. They follow him around and occasionally get a little pushy and need to be reminded to stay back. A boy needs his space. I am very relieved and also, really tickled. Proud, even.
Gee was made in his father's image. He is HSSH through and through. His face, his red hair, his determination (stubbornness?), his refusal to speak when he is upset. He's his Daddy's boy. The minute our families and friends saw pictures of him at birth, the minute anyone saw him, they universally agreed - no question who his father is. Everyone called him mini-Dad for months.
You can see why. I love that he looks so much like his Dad. I mean, I love his Dad and nineteen years and three kids later, obviously find him fairly attractive, so a little miniature copy is adorable. But, when Cue was born, all fuzzy with my dark hair and a bit more blend of Dad and Mom in his face, I felt a little guilty about how much I loved that. When someone says Cue looks so much more like me, I can't help but smile and give his adorable little cheeks a kiss. I felt, not closer to Cue, but that maybe our similarities were a special thing between he and I, something that Gee only had with his father. (I'll need years to process what that means for Ess and how to talk about it with her.)
Gee's cows and kittens were a revelation. My entire childhood, I had imaginary friends. Every book I ever read, every movie that caught my fancy, became a story in my head with me as the central character. I could spend hours in the back yard by myself, except that I wasn't by myself, I was surrounded by the characters of Narnia, or Middle Earth, or Ann of Green Gables, whatever captured my mind that week. I not only talked to them, I went on grand adventures with them. I'm sure the neighbors thought I was insane. Watching Gee (once I'd ruled out insanity and possession, my imagination still runs wild at times), watching him make up stories in his head, watching him create elaborate fantasies in his reality, brought tears to my eyes because it is so like me. He may look just like his Dad, but he has my imagination. I couldn't imagine a gift I'd rather give him. Possibly without the weird closet phobias.
[Running update, in case you are bored enough to care: 24 days until I must run three miles without embarrassing myself or my team. I ran again this morning. The stitch started at minute five. I forced myself to run the full ten minutes, but I ran away from home for the entire time because we live on a big, annoying hill and I couldn't make myself turn uphill towards home. So, after running ten minutes down hill, I had to walk uphill home. It did make it seem like I ran farther than I actually did. On a brighter note, summer arrived today in full force. It was positively bee-abuzzing, sunscreen smearing, pleasant out there. I must find my flip flops.]
Neither option appealed to me. A little secret about me? I have an overactive imagination. In one sense, it's great. I adore fantasy. I make up stories in my head. I think I'm creative. But, for me, it has a dark side. Every horror movie that I have ever watched or even heard about roots in my psyche and tortures me when I am alone at night. I'm afraid of the dark. I'm afraid of basements and hauntings and closets and sometimes mirrors. I sleep poorly when HSSH isn't at home. Poorly and with lots of lights on.
I can not go to sleep if there are any clothes lying around or hung over doors because I once saw this horror trailer for Jeepers Creepers by accident. (Because it played as a preview at a perfectly nice girly movie. AHHHH that pisses me off. Only nice girly previews should be allowed to play at nice girly movies.) If you haven't seen it, this horrific scarecrow comes to life and eats people. It's horrid. That two minute trailer plagues me. Also, I stay up later than HSSH usually and when I go upstairs to go to bed, I must turn on the light and make sure that it is still him in the bed. I know, I worry about myself sometimes, too.
My point is not that I am weird, which is a given, but that creepiness like dogs barking at corners for no reason or children talking to no one makes my skin crawl. Gee has been mumbling over his shoulder for weeks now. Occasionally, I would catch a phrase like 'you wait here' or 'no, no, stay back (a serious, disciplinary nod), stay back, okay?' A few times when I dared to ask who he was talking to, he rolled his eyes and shook his head, in awe of my ignorance. A few mornings ago, when I walked into their room to get Ess and Gee up for the day, Gee informed me seriously that 'they' were hungry. I suppressed a shiver. They? The voices in his head? TV people?
'Where are...they, Gee Gee?' I dared to ask
'In the closet.' (Sorry I asked. Ewwww. People under the stairs. I am perilously close to never sleeping again.)
'I feed them, okay?'
'Um, okay?' He opened the closet door and threw something imaginary inside.
'There, there you go. There you go.' (At least he wasn't the fodder.)
'Who are you feeding, Gee?'
He gave me another serious nod. 'The cows.' Relief flooded me. Cows are all right. Farm animals are generally not evil. As long as they aren't mad, alien-looking cows with sharp teeth, I'm good.
'There are cows in the closet?'
'And kittens.' Kittens are closet dwellers that I can get behind. May all of our psyches be filled with kittens.
No ghosts, not mental illness, just invisible, hungry cows and kittens. They follow him around and occasionally get a little pushy and need to be reminded to stay back. A boy needs his space. I am very relieved and also, really tickled. Proud, even.
Gee was made in his father's image. He is HSSH through and through. His face, his red hair, his determination (stubbornness?), his refusal to speak when he is upset. He's his Daddy's boy. The minute our families and friends saw pictures of him at birth, the minute anyone saw him, they universally agreed - no question who his father is. Everyone called him mini-Dad for months.
You can see why. I love that he looks so much like his Dad. I mean, I love his Dad and nineteen years and three kids later, obviously find him fairly attractive, so a little miniature copy is adorable. But, when Cue was born, all fuzzy with my dark hair and a bit more blend of Dad and Mom in his face, I felt a little guilty about how much I loved that. When someone says Cue looks so much more like me, I can't help but smile and give his adorable little cheeks a kiss. I felt, not closer to Cue, but that maybe our similarities were a special thing between he and I, something that Gee only had with his father. (I'll need years to process what that means for Ess and how to talk about it with her.)
Gee's cows and kittens were a revelation. My entire childhood, I had imaginary friends. Every book I ever read, every movie that caught my fancy, became a story in my head with me as the central character. I could spend hours in the back yard by myself, except that I wasn't by myself, I was surrounded by the characters of Narnia, or Middle Earth, or Ann of Green Gables, whatever captured my mind that week. I not only talked to them, I went on grand adventures with them. I'm sure the neighbors thought I was insane. Watching Gee (once I'd ruled out insanity and possession, my imagination still runs wild at times), watching him make up stories in his head, watching him create elaborate fantasies in his reality, brought tears to my eyes because it is so like me. He may look just like his Dad, but he has my imagination. I couldn't imagine a gift I'd rather give him. Possibly without the weird closet phobias.
[Running update, in case you are bored enough to care: 24 days until I must run three miles without embarrassing myself or my team. I ran again this morning. The stitch started at minute five. I forced myself to run the full ten minutes, but I ran away from home for the entire time because we live on a big, annoying hill and I couldn't make myself turn uphill towards home. So, after running ten minutes down hill, I had to walk uphill home. It did make it seem like I ran farther than I actually did. On a brighter note, summer arrived today in full force. It was positively bee-abuzzing, sunscreen smearing, pleasant out there. I must find my flip flops.]
Tuesday, May 13, 2008
One of Those Days
Yesterday was one of those days. You know. It starts when the baby screams at 4:00 a.m. and you bring him into your bed and nurse him until your arm is asleep and your nipple is sore, but he is up-for-the-duration up. You haul your tired, sorry self out of bed and sit on the floor with him reading the paper until the rest of the crew stirs. Somehow, even though you've been up for three hours, the morning gets away from you and, at 7:45, when your husband leaves for work, you find that you are still in your pajamas with unbrushed teeth.
He kisses you and reminds you that the sitter is coming this afternoon. He will meet you at your favorite restaurant tonight for dessert after your parent seminar. You nod, but you're not really listening because your dark hearted two-year-olds NO WANT OATMEAL, they want waffles. Their need for waffles is so all consuming that the very sight of the bowls of oatmeal that you have already prepared causes them to have convulsions of displeasure on the kitchen floor. You consider having your own convulsion of displeasure, but you are too tired and you would have to bend over. You muddle through the morning to lunch. The weather is cold and wet and you are stuck in the basement playroom with miss crabapple and mr. crabbypants and baby crabalot.
He kisses you and reminds you that the sitter is coming this afternoon. He will meet you at your favorite restaurant tonight for dessert after your parent seminar. You nod, but you're not really listening because your dark hearted two-year-olds NO WANT OATMEAL, they want waffles. Their need for waffles is so all consuming that the very sight of the bowls of oatmeal that you have already prepared causes them to have convulsions of displeasure on the kitchen floor. You consider having your own convulsion of displeasure, but you are too tired and you would have to bend over. You muddle through the morning to lunch. The weather is cold and wet and you are stuck in the basement playroom with miss crabapple and mr. crabbypants and baby crabalot.
At lunch, there is nastiness when you refuse a request for more crackers before consumption of at least one grape. Sippy cups fly. Much desired brownies are withheld and the two-year-olds go to naps sobbing. You feel grumpy and unappreciated because the only thing that cheers them is the mention that the beloved Kay will be there when they get up. The only thing that cheers you is remembering that you will not be there when they get up.
It's been a long time since you had an afternoon to run errands all alone. You spend nap time organizing your lists. Paper store for supplies to make invitations, grocery store, post office. Last, Costco, to get a sushi tray for the parent seminar and formula for the baby. You attempt to make yourself look human before Kay arrives and then you split like a woman who's been trapped in a basement with three crabby kids all morning. The paper store is quiet and pretty and you're feeling a little better.
You grab margarita mix at the grocery store and sit in the car putting together a package for your awesome friend. You've owed her this package forever. It contains the baby carrier that she lent you three years ago when you were moving home from Asia with a six-month-old all by yourself. That you've never returned because you are a disaster. Never mind that her baby is now two. Also, margarita mix because she can't get it where she lives and she rocks. You stuff it all into the box, rearranging and squishing until it fits. You enter the slowest post office in the United States (possibly the world), but you are child free so you don't care that it takes thirty minutes to mail the package. You get back to the car and reverse and notice the pretty card sitting on the passenger seat. The pretty card that was supposed to go in the package to your awesome friend. Grrrrr. (Sorry S - love you!)
Now, it's getting late. The parent seminar is at 6:00. You drive to Costco. You have two things you must get - sushi tray and formula. You shop. They have cute toddler shorts. You get more grapes because you like torturing your toddlers. You remember you need peanut butter. You have to hurry, it's already 5:30. At check out, you marvel at your inability to leave Costco without spending at least $150.00. Is it a universal rule of some sort - thou shalt not spend less than a small fortune on gargantuan quantities of peanut butter and granola bars. If some poor soul actually ran in and just picked up a couple of things for like $30, would red alarms sound while they fell through a trap door in the floor? Meanwhile, at the car you realize you have forgotten the formula. How is that possible? No fear, you have horse-feed-sized tubs of peanut butter. You will be well nourished when you have to nurse your baby all day the next day.
The parent seminar is on birth order and you don't want to go, but you promised to take the sushi tray. The speaker is sweet, you enjoy talking to the other parents, but the material was quite possibly last updated in 1945. It's boring. You are starving. You scarf sushi. There are chocolate frosting-filled cupcakes. The cupcakes are awesome and the talk is still boring. You eat three. Back at the car, tired (you've been up since 4:00) and a little sick (you are regretting that last cupcake), all you want to do is go home and send Kay home early and go to bed. That's when you remember that you are supposed to meet your husband to celebrate your ninth wedding anniversary. By eating dessert together. Ugh. Luckily, your husband is always up for pizza and beer, but still, where exactly have you misplaced your brain? Costco perhaps? Peanut butter aisle?
Bed. Thank HP. It's over. The day ends without serious incident. With closed eyes, you strive for perspective. Terrible things are happening in China and Myanmar. Cupcake stomach aches and finding storage for two more huge jars of Jiffy (oh, yes, we already had two jars in the cupboard) and the great waffle v. oatmeal debacle are trifles. In fact, it reflects scary abundance to have such problems. You will try to remember this tomorrow, along with your brain.
The scene today....all sweetness and light. Like their black hearts don't exist. I know better.
Now, it's getting late. The parent seminar is at 6:00. You drive to Costco. You have two things you must get - sushi tray and formula. You shop. They have cute toddler shorts. You get more grapes because you like torturing your toddlers. You remember you need peanut butter. You have to hurry, it's already 5:30. At check out, you marvel at your inability to leave Costco without spending at least $150.00. Is it a universal rule of some sort - thou shalt not spend less than a small fortune on gargantuan quantities of peanut butter and granola bars. If some poor soul actually ran in and just picked up a couple of things for like $30, would red alarms sound while they fell through a trap door in the floor? Meanwhile, at the car you realize you have forgotten the formula. How is that possible? No fear, you have horse-feed-sized tubs of peanut butter. You will be well nourished when you have to nurse your baby all day the next day.
The parent seminar is on birth order and you don't want to go, but you promised to take the sushi tray. The speaker is sweet, you enjoy talking to the other parents, but the material was quite possibly last updated in 1945. It's boring. You are starving. You scarf sushi. There are chocolate frosting-filled cupcakes. The cupcakes are awesome and the talk is still boring. You eat three. Back at the car, tired (you've been up since 4:00) and a little sick (you are regretting that last cupcake), all you want to do is go home and send Kay home early and go to bed. That's when you remember that you are supposed to meet your husband to celebrate your ninth wedding anniversary. By eating dessert together. Ugh. Luckily, your husband is always up for pizza and beer, but still, where exactly have you misplaced your brain? Costco perhaps? Peanut butter aisle?
Bed. Thank HP. It's over. The day ends without serious incident. With closed eyes, you strive for perspective. Terrible things are happening in China and Myanmar. Cupcake stomach aches and finding storage for two more huge jars of Jiffy (oh, yes, we already had two jars in the cupboard) and the great waffle v. oatmeal debacle are trifles. In fact, it reflects scary abundance to have such problems. You will try to remember this tomorrow, along with your brain.
The scene today....all sweetness and light. Like their black hearts don't exist. I know better.
They had waffles. And brownies. (No cupcakes for me.)
Sunday, May 11, 2008
Confessions of a Reluctant Toilet Trainer
My toddlers wear diapers. They are almost three. Although I don't wear diapers (mostly), I feel insecure about this fact because I guess, according to some, they are kind of old for diapers and I am kind of responsible for making a change in the status quo. They are the last diaper wearers in their toddler class. When other moms ask me how it's going, I quake inside. And then, I totally lie.
Yeah, they just aren't that interested (they find nothing more interesting than the potty).
They aren't staying dry for long stretches (untrue).
I'm waiting for the warm weather, I heard it's easier in the summer (just an excuse, I have no idea what to do in the summer any more than the winter).
Want to know a secret? Lean close. I haven't even tried. The thought of letting them run around my house peeing and pooping willy nilly causes my butt cheeks to clench in horror. In case you haven't met me or read the post on paint, I'm very type A, bordering on AA. Mess bothers me. Poop on my floors bothers me. Changing diapers does not bother me. I love diapers. They catch the junk, keep it relatively contained and provide a convenient disposal mechanism. I do feel stressed about our constant contribution to the local landfill (larger than necessary) and our monetary contribution to our local Costco (yikes!), but not stressed enough.
Yeah, they just aren't that interested (they find nothing more interesting than the potty).
They aren't staying dry for long stretches (untrue).
I'm waiting for the warm weather, I heard it's easier in the summer (just an excuse, I have no idea what to do in the summer any more than the winter).
Want to know a secret? Lean close. I haven't even tried. The thought of letting them run around my house peeing and pooping willy nilly causes my butt cheeks to clench in horror. In case you haven't met me or read the post on paint, I'm very type A, bordering on AA. Mess bothers me. Poop on my floors bothers me. Changing diapers does not bother me. I love diapers. They catch the junk, keep it relatively contained and provide a convenient disposal mechanism. I do feel stressed about our constant contribution to the local landfill (larger than necessary) and our monetary contribution to our local Costco (yikes!), but not stressed enough.
People seem a little judgy on this issue (ahem, not talking about you mom, unless you are judging me and then, ahem MOM!). I get regaled a lot with success stories and false-feeling sympathy. I don't get it, honestly. No one has to change the diapers but me and I'm pro-diaper. I support pampers - ah, I mean Costco knock-off pampers - with campaign contributions.
The other day, a mom told me with great excitement that she had just trained her son using the three day method. I hadn't heard of it because I avoid all information about toilet training via the very mature method of sticking my fingers in my ears and saying 'lalalalalalalalala' really loudly. Her little boy is many months, bordering on years, younger than Ess and Gee. For a few guilt induced minutes, she had me interested. It's time, I thought. I'm a smart lady, I can do this.
Then, she said she asked him if he had to go every five minutes for a week. Interest waned significantly. Next, she said proudly that he now gets up three times a night because he has to pee in the potty. Interest came to a screeching train wreck-like halt. Having only recently attained 80% sleep through the night success with Cue and returned to the land of the at-least six-hours-of-sleep-a-night living, um, no, thank you. They can wear diapers until they are ten, pass the Costco coupons.
I hope I don't sound like I am anti early toilet training, or like I am judging anyone who accomplishes this miracle milestone quickly and before, let's say, riding a bicycle. Far from it. I am jealous. Green. I wish someone like that would come to my house and hold my hand because the truth is that I am afraid. Of many many things, not just a little poop on the floor.
For instance, once I tell them that they need to put it in the toilet, I assume I need to give them free access to said toilet. Which means extending their current domain to many more rooms of my house, including rooms containing vessels in which they could drown. It means encouraging them to take their pants off and I have worked so very hard at convincing them that pants are necessary parts of our ensemble at all times. It means commitment to the cause. It means patience and loving explanations in the face of accidents, no yelling, no griping, no crying (by me). It means finding the strength not to enter into power struggles over poo poo with my daughter of the iron will.
I actually bought an Elmo toilet a few months ago. Their unending fascination with it annoyed me and I hid it in a closet.
Everyone I talk to and every book and every article I read agree that they (the toddlers) need to be ready. I could almost guarantee you that they are. I AM NOT READY. Whew! I feel better. I have a dream that they will just saunter up to me one day before they turn seven (four?) and tell me that they've got the toilet thing locked, thanks, no need for diapers, mom, you out of touch, silly, diaper-pushing, poo poo head. It could happen. Tell me it could happen?
Saturday, May 10, 2008
Thoughts While Running
I just went running. I know. I can't believe it either. I had to go because I convinced two friends to do a triathlon with me on June 7 and I'm supposed to run for the team. Three miles. While that's not an insurmountable distance in a month (right?), I need to have run more recently than, oh I don't know, 2002 before then. I had some thoughts this morning. I share:
Me: You know, an excruciating pain in your side. Like when you run after you eat.
S: You shouldn't be running yet.
Me: I know, I get it when I walk is the thing.
S: Oh, well that just means we put a small perforation in your abdominal muscles during the surgery. It will heal.
Hmmmmmm. I've always thought that was an interesting use of the word 'just.'
It is now 9:00 a.m. on a Saturday and I have gone on a run and cleaned a bathroom. I need Starbucks.
- I hate running.
- Why is it still cold here? When will our two months of summer ever begin? Why does the Inland Pacific Northwest insist on being so annoyingly crisp and perky and chipper?
- I am wasting alone time. Two kids are sleeping and HSSH has the baby and I am running, which I hate, in the cold, which I hate.
- Why are there sprinklers on already? These people are crazy, grass-watering fiends. The grass doesn't need water, folks, it needs sun, for photosynthesis.
- I have a stitch. The same stitch that I have been getting since I had my rotten appendix removed through my belly button last year. I raised this stitch with the surgeon in my post-operative check up, resulting in this enlightening conversation:
Me: You know, an excruciating pain in your side. Like when you run after you eat.
S: You shouldn't be running yet.
Me: I know, I get it when I walk is the thing.
S: Oh, well that just means we put a small perforation in your abdominal muscles during the surgery. It will heal.
Hmmmmmm. I've always thought that was an interesting use of the word 'just.'
- I had to put my hair up. Irritating because I just went to this fabulous new salon on Wednesday and my hair looked, for me, stunning. I was trying hard not to have to wash it again, ever. Or at least until after tonight when I am going out with a girlfriend as a Mother's Day treat. Ponytail plus running means shower, which means I have to do my hair sans stylist and big round brush and jet engine like blow dryer. Sigh.
These were my thoughts during my ten minutes of running this morning. Yes, that's right, ten minutes. It was my first day. I have a month. Anyone have a comment on that?! Because, I'm scared and I'm not sure if I want it. And, that's saying something. Normally, I am insanely interested in who you are that come to visit me here and I would love to hear from you. Unless you are a marathon runner, or you don't think I can achieve three miles in a month. In that case, carry on snickering to yourself quietly and comment some other time.
At least, so I schemed, the shower would extend my alone time. I went straight there after breakfast, turned on the steaming hot water, stepped in and discovered my daughter's poop covered outfit from three days ago. I vaguely recalled a code red overflow situation that involved stripping her naked and wiping her down in the shower. (Yes, the shower went unused for three days. We do have another shower, but I haven't been in it due to operation hair preservation.) I had to rinse out the clothes because, you know, yuck. And then, I had to clean the shower, because ditto. And then, I had to actually clean myself (you see the theme). I went ahead and wiped down the rest of the bathroom surfaces and cleaned the toilet. Might as well.It is now 9:00 a.m. on a Saturday and I have gone on a run and cleaned a bathroom. I need Starbucks.
Thursday, May 8, 2008
A Love Poem
Yesterday was our ninth anniversary. Nine years of marriage. We met at the age of sixteen. That means we've known each other for nineteen years. More years of our lives than not. Our first date was to the Spring Fling dance at our high school. He asked me from the second floor science class window, yelled down to where I sat waiting to leave for a performance on the choir bus. Yeah, we weren't cool then either.
We went from awkward kids (But, oh we thought we understood it all then. I will try to remember that feeling when my children tell me at sixteen that it's THEIR life and I don't know ANYTHING about it.) to adults (in theory) together and then we fell in love for real. And, now we've built a life for real - a family.
"What is REAL?" asked the Rabbit one day.
. . .
"Real isn't how you are made," said the Skin Horse. "It's a thing that happens to you. When a child loves you for a long, long time, not just to play with but REALLY loves you, then you become Real. It doesn't happen all at once. You become. It takes a long time. Generally, by the time you are Real, most of your hair has been loved off, and your eyes drop out and you get loose in the joints and very shabby. But these things don't matter at all, because once you are Real you can't be ugly, except to people who don't understand." -- The Velveteen Rabbit by Margery Williams
There weren't any pretty gift boxes or love poems yesterday. I went to bed early with a cold and he went out for a beer with a friend. Curled up on the couch a few nights before, in those blissful few hours after all is quiet, but before we are too tired to talk to each other, he mentioned our anniversary. We just signed that contract to put in the retaining wall in the back yard. Happy anniversary?
That's how it is. It doesn't bother me. We have a big family. We have big needs. Tokens of our love don't seem necessary. They would be lost in the shuffle anyway. We have the tokens that we need sleeping upstairs in their cribs. We have the love poems too, if we look for them. In the meter and cadence of our days.
I do wonder, though. Why do we love someone? How did I get so lucky as to have the very real love of my life in my life. Karma, kismet, luck, geography? All I know is that he gives me these moments when I choke on the love and understanding and compassion that I too often take for granted.
Like, the crazy evening a year into our marriage when he came home with a trade magazine clutched in his hand. I lay on our bed fetally wrapped around the constant knot in my stomach. I hated my job. I hated the insane hours and the mind-numbing stress. I hadn't slept well for a year. I cried every Sunday like a pathetic thirteen year old at the thought of walking back into the wood panelled halls and silent, key-coded elevators on Monday morning. But, I couldn't quit. I hadn't the courage to leave it behind because I had never really failed at anything. He sat beside me and pointed to an ad in the magazine. It said, 'want to live in paradise?' And, a few months later, we did live in paradise. A tropical island on the other side of the world. That move wasn't for him.
Fast forward to over a year later, still living the island life. Still two kids (us) and one incredibly needy half-wild 'boonie' dog. Dressed in our standard board shorts and tees, the soft evening wind blowing our hair, we loaded our banana yellow kayak and launched into the lagoon. The dog, just a puppy, named Thai, huddled in comical misery under HSSH's legs. Thai considered this outing nothing short of suicide. We paddled out to the reef line and drifted, listening to the crash of the surf just feet from our tiny boat, protected on the mirror-still surface of the lagoon, talking about everything and nothing. I had been thinking about quitting my job for months. I liked this position better, but confrontations and adversity were the nature of the profession, and I still took it personally. A resignation letter sat, saved on my hard drive, undelivered as the weeks dragged past.
He shifted (causing the shivering dog to emit a howl of protest - egads, you idiots, there is WATER beneath this rocking banana of terror - and scramble for my side of the boat) and reached into the dive tank hold to pull out a bottle of champagne. The rock of the boat was too much for Thai and, with a look of supreme disgust, he leapt over the side and began thrashing madly towards sand and sanity. And then, realized that the floating banana was the only available dock for two miles. And then, managed to turn around and swim back for the kayak, never ceasing his streaming howls of both desperation and profanity. HSSH took pity on him and jumped to the rescue, with my protest of 'don't drop the champagne' following after. Priorities. When both soaking wet, supremely offended pooch and mercifully undamaged bottle of bubbly had been shoved back over the side of the kayak, and HSSH and I had found a way to stop laughing at the most-pissed-off-dog-in-the-universe-ever, I asked. So what are we celebrating? He smiled and popped the cork, took a long drink and held out the bottle to me, a sweet challenge, with a little bite to it. Your resignation. Three weeks later, I had a new job that I adored.
Fast forward five years. In our kitchen last week, he made coffee. Ess and Gee curled around his legs asking questions without waiting for answers in their annoying and endearing toddler manner. What you do Daddy? You make coffee? You want coffee? You like coffee? I help. Daddy? What you do, Daddy... (repeat, until your mind melts out of your left ear). He looked down into their earnest faces and said, Could you stay two and a half forever. Nothing renews our love so much for me as watching the way he loves our children.
Nine years. We've changed. We've gained. In small ways, a house, security, obligations, responsibilities. Three incredible little people that we couldn't live without. We've lost too. The little things that trickle away, freedom, flexibility, stretches of time for floating on lagoons. Two children. We have petty fights. We say cruel things. We forget to be gentle with each other in the daily rush. We are starting to look a little worn now. We have spots that are rubbed shiny. Our fur is matted in some places. That's what happens when it's real.
We went from awkward kids (But, oh we thought we understood it all then. I will try to remember that feeling when my children tell me at sixteen that it's THEIR life and I don't know ANYTHING about it.) to adults (in theory) together and then we fell in love for real. And, now we've built a life for real - a family.
"What is REAL?" asked the Rabbit one day.
. . .
"Real isn't how you are made," said the Skin Horse. "It's a thing that happens to you. When a child loves you for a long, long time, not just to play with but REALLY loves you, then you become Real. It doesn't happen all at once. You become. It takes a long time. Generally, by the time you are Real, most of your hair has been loved off, and your eyes drop out and you get loose in the joints and very shabby. But these things don't matter at all, because once you are Real you can't be ugly, except to people who don't understand." -- The Velveteen Rabbit by Margery Williams
There weren't any pretty gift boxes or love poems yesterday. I went to bed early with a cold and he went out for a beer with a friend. Curled up on the couch a few nights before, in those blissful few hours after all is quiet, but before we are too tired to talk to each other, he mentioned our anniversary. We just signed that contract to put in the retaining wall in the back yard. Happy anniversary?
That's how it is. It doesn't bother me. We have a big family. We have big needs. Tokens of our love don't seem necessary. They would be lost in the shuffle anyway. We have the tokens that we need sleeping upstairs in their cribs. We have the love poems too, if we look for them. In the meter and cadence of our days.
I do wonder, though. Why do we love someone? How did I get so lucky as to have the very real love of my life in my life. Karma, kismet, luck, geography? All I know is that he gives me these moments when I choke on the love and understanding and compassion that I too often take for granted.
Like, the crazy evening a year into our marriage when he came home with a trade magazine clutched in his hand. I lay on our bed fetally wrapped around the constant knot in my stomach. I hated my job. I hated the insane hours and the mind-numbing stress. I hadn't slept well for a year. I cried every Sunday like a pathetic thirteen year old at the thought of walking back into the wood panelled halls and silent, key-coded elevators on Monday morning. But, I couldn't quit. I hadn't the courage to leave it behind because I had never really failed at anything. He sat beside me and pointed to an ad in the magazine. It said, 'want to live in paradise?' And, a few months later, we did live in paradise. A tropical island on the other side of the world. That move wasn't for him.
Fast forward to over a year later, still living the island life. Still two kids (us) and one incredibly needy half-wild 'boonie' dog. Dressed in our standard board shorts and tees, the soft evening wind blowing our hair, we loaded our banana yellow kayak and launched into the lagoon. The dog, just a puppy, named Thai, huddled in comical misery under HSSH's legs. Thai considered this outing nothing short of suicide. We paddled out to the reef line and drifted, listening to the crash of the surf just feet from our tiny boat, protected on the mirror-still surface of the lagoon, talking about everything and nothing. I had been thinking about quitting my job for months. I liked this position better, but confrontations and adversity were the nature of the profession, and I still took it personally. A resignation letter sat, saved on my hard drive, undelivered as the weeks dragged past.He shifted (causing the shivering dog to emit a howl of protest - egads, you idiots, there is WATER beneath this rocking banana of terror - and scramble for my side of the boat) and reached into the dive tank hold to pull out a bottle of champagne. The rock of the boat was too much for Thai and, with a look of supreme disgust, he leapt over the side and began thrashing madly towards sand and sanity. And then, realized that the floating banana was the only available dock for two miles. And then, managed to turn around and swim back for the kayak, never ceasing his streaming howls of both desperation and profanity. HSSH took pity on him and jumped to the rescue, with my protest of 'don't drop the champagne' following after. Priorities. When both soaking wet, supremely offended pooch and mercifully undamaged bottle of bubbly had been shoved back over the side of the kayak, and HSSH and I had found a way to stop laughing at the most-pissed-off-dog-in-the-universe-ever, I asked. So what are we celebrating? He smiled and popped the cork, took a long drink and held out the bottle to me, a sweet challenge, with a little bite to it. Your resignation. Three weeks later, I had a new job that I adored.
Fast forward five years. In our kitchen last week, he made coffee. Ess and Gee curled around his legs asking questions without waiting for answers in their annoying and endearing toddler manner. What you do Daddy? You make coffee? You want coffee? You like coffee? I help. Daddy? What you do, Daddy... (repeat, until your mind melts out of your left ear). He looked down into their earnest faces and said, Could you stay two and a half forever. Nothing renews our love so much for me as watching the way he loves our children.
Nine years. We've changed. We've gained. In small ways, a house, security, obligations, responsibilities. Three incredible little people that we couldn't live without. We've lost too. The little things that trickle away, freedom, flexibility, stretches of time for floating on lagoons. Two children. We have petty fights. We say cruel things. We forget to be gentle with each other in the daily rush. We are starting to look a little worn now. We have spots that are rubbed shiny. Our fur is matted in some places. That's what happens when it's real.
Wednesday, May 7, 2008
Spring Bloomies
Not the budding, busting out all over kind of blooms. Rather, my little dahh-lings. We walked our city's annual Bloomsday Road Race on Sunday. All five of us - that makes them officially bloomies (although technically it's Gee's second time, since the last time I participated, I was eighteen weeks pregnant). Bloomsday is one of the biggest 12K races in the country. HP smiled on the event - it was our first bright, sunny, honestly hot spring day of the year. Overall, for a five hour excursion with all three children, four hours of which they had to sit in the stroller, it was astonishingly fun. Zero (count them) zero temper tantrums (from the children, one or two from mom, but no timeouts were necessary).
We entered in the stroller division. The night before, HSSH had to fold (more, disassemble, I'd say) the triple wide and fit it into the mini van. (A moment of silent appreciation for the minivan. It will hold three kids, five hours worth of snacks, one mac truck stroller and a piggy we stole from the shed.) Wait, five points if you can name that song and dead artist. (JG, you are disqualified by virtue of your frightening ability to memorize the lyrics of every song that you have ever heard.)
We were less than enthusiastic about the stroller division because it involves a lot of people pushing strollers. The potential for bottlenecks, wheel locks and other stroller related catastrophes was high. But, you know, HSSH was all, 'family time' and 'annual tradition,' etcetera. Sheesh. I agreed to the outing with much eye rolling because I feared the whole day would be one long comment on our reproductive prowess and resulting need for gargantuan triple stroller. I happily admit that I was wrong. We were an inconspicuous drop in a roiling sea of strollers.
Gee prepares his mental game for the big race.
Cue stretches his
calves before the start.
Our elite athletes share a light moment.
We entered in the stroller division. The night before, HSSH had to fold (more, disassemble, I'd say) the triple wide and fit it into the mini van. (A moment of silent appreciation for the minivan. It will hold three kids, five hours worth of snacks, one mac truck stroller and a piggy we stole from the shed.) Wait, five points if you can name that song and dead artist. (JG, you are disqualified by virtue of your frightening ability to memorize the lyrics of every song that you have ever heard.)We were less than enthusiastic about the stroller division because it involves a lot of people pushing strollers. The potential for bottlenecks, wheel locks and other stroller related catastrophes was high. But, you know, HSSH was all, 'family time' and 'annual tradition,' etcetera. Sheesh. I agreed to the outing with much eye rolling because I feared the whole day would be one long comment on our reproductive prowess and resulting need for gargantuan triple stroller. I happily admit that I was wrong. We were an inconspicuous drop in a roiling sea of strollers.
Gee prepares his mental game for the big race.Cue stretches his
calves before the start.
Our elite athletes share a light moment.
Over 43,000 people completed the course. The day is organized and orchestrated within an inch of its life. The stroller division has the latest start time for the obvious reason that any one who is free from pushing a stroller would also be monumentally irritated to be stuck behind 5000 of them. The race started at 8:30 am, but our cavalcade of strollers didn't cross the start line until 10:30 a.m., shortly after the amazing Kenyan man who won the thing in 38 minutes had finished packing, taken a shower and headed to the airport. We didn't head downtown until after nine and we had to park quite a way from our designated line up location. As a result, we were bringing up the rear so to speak.
Here are the 42,977 people who started the race in front of us. (That tiny purple banner is the start line.)
Here are the 23 or so people that, due to some error on their part, or hideous equipment malfunction, started behind us.
We finished at the four hour mark on the race clock. By that time, the kids had been in the stroller for about 3 1/2 hours and they had gone through the snacks like a hoard of locusts stuck in a triple wide stroller. I, on the other hand, hadn't eaten since 8:00 a.m. That was when I realized that we had parked our car three miles up hill from the finish line. I had my first tantrum then and my second tantrum when HSSH refused to stop at Arby's before continuing our all day march of death back to minivan. We compromised with take out and the kids happily spent another 45 minutes in the stroller sipping milkshakes. I limped behind and stuffed fries in my mouth. I couldn't really complain because HSSH pushed that freaking stroller all day, but I did anyway. Despite my low sugar melt down at the end, the whole day was E for excellent. Fine family fun.
Tuesday, May 6, 2008
A Touchy Subject
A very close friend called the other day. The kind of friend where your heart leaps with happiness when you see the caller ID. She is in her thirties, trying to get pregnant and just got some terrible news about her chances of conceiving. She is devastated. I listened. I cried with her. I heard terms that felt familiar from less immediate sources, but took on a new looming significance. High FSH. Low egg viability. We talked about treatments and possibilities.
After a while, she asked me gingerly, probing a newly sore spot in her heart, 'Did you always want to adopt?'
'Yes,' I answered honestly, 'I really did.'
After a pause, 'Is it the same?'
I fumbled, I had so much to say, but the phone was an unwilling receptacle. So, here, I try again.
Is it the same? A question with so many layers. I sensed some of what she sought. Will adoption be what I want? Will it take away the pain of infertility? Will I love as much? Will something always be missing? As a fertile adoptive mom, I just don't know. I can't begin to say. I think the more apt questions are how will adoption be different and how will it be the same. Because, it is different, and yet, the same.
Will she miss something if she adopts a baby? Of course. She will miss pregnancy and pregnancy is amazing and soul-altering and humbling and fulfilling. Each time, I bonded with the life inside of me from the moment I knew it existed. We grew and changed together. Over nine months, you become a mother, not in general, but to this baby that is nurtured in your body. She will also miss the experience of giving birth. Giving birth to a child defies every description. It is shattering and immediate and empowering and nourishing. It is being completely and utterly immersed in that moment.
She might miss other intimacies of infancy, breastfeeding perhaps. Even the first few months of your baby's life are sometimes not yours in adoption or are yours only in pictures. Then again, there are no guarantees for any mother. Some biological moms miss out on the childbirth they wanted or breastfeeding or early bonding, for many, many reasons. Some adoptive moms get to be there for their baby's first breath, some lactate easily and get the chance to breastfeed. Each mother's story is different. Each child's story is different.
No one who wants them should be denied these experiences. My heart aches for her loss - the loss of the ability to grow or birth or nourish a child. It is something to grieve for as long as necessary.
Is adoption less? No. Not less, different. The bonding happens outside of you. It's not internalized, like a pregnancy, a secret between you and the baby in your womb. It is more vulnerable, less private. As you get to know each other, you and your child are exposed to the world and that feels a little raw. For my daughter and I, that took time. Human emotions are not always instant. When a child comes to you through adoption, even after waiting and planning for what seems like forever, it feels sudden. The need for time to bond, for real love (as opposed to the dream you have loved from the beginning) to grow, seems awkward with the little person already a part of your life. The secrets whisper between your heart and the heart of a woman out there somewhere in the world who can not, for some reason, poverty, youth, illness, fathom the joy of this child.
Adopting and birthing children reminds me of the essay Welcome to Holland by Emily Perl Kingsley. She compares having a baby with Downs Syndrome to leaving on a long anticipated trip to Italy and finding yourself unexpectedly in Holland. If you focus on what Italy would be like, she points out, you will never see the beauty of Holland. Stealing her beautiful analogy, I would say that adoption is like planning a trip to Italy on the QEII, but at embarkation, you find that the ship is full and your tickets are for a luxury yacht. Everyone else is boarding the famous cruise ship. It looms at the dock, all consuming, overshadowing all the smaller boats.
You are all going the same place, but your journey is different than most. Your windows have different views, your crew is different, you meet different people, make different friends, find unexpected joys. Some experiences you might miss out on - no denying that the QEII is fabulous. Some things are better. They miss out too, on that huge ocean liner. Yachts can travel slower, can enter smaller ports. The people who choose to travel this alternative way are more aware, more deliberate about their trip. Remember, too, no matter how rough the crossing, at the end of the voyage, every one is in Italy together.
Will one journey assuage the loss of the other? I don't think so. Loss is loss. But, spending your time focused on what you are missing would be tragic, because then you would miss your own trip.
Is it the same? It's the road less travelled. It can be rougher and rockier and longer. That bonding time is a part of the journey. You are still sailing right up to that incredible moment, whenever it occurs, when you look at your child and think only mine. Once you are there, though, from that moment when you arrive as a mother to a child, yes, my friend, it is the same. All of my children are fiercely mine. Inseparably woven into my heart. Each time, the pattern changes. Each time, the threads are different.
If I haven't exhausted my tired comparison quota for the day then I will say this: That is what makes our tapestry so beautiful.
After a while, she asked me gingerly, probing a newly sore spot in her heart, 'Did you always want to adopt?'
'Yes,' I answered honestly, 'I really did.'
After a pause, 'Is it the same?'
I fumbled, I had so much to say, but the phone was an unwilling receptacle. So, here, I try again.
Is it the same? A question with so many layers. I sensed some of what she sought. Will adoption be what I want? Will it take away the pain of infertility? Will I love as much? Will something always be missing? As a fertile adoptive mom, I just don't know. I can't begin to say. I think the more apt questions are how will adoption be different and how will it be the same. Because, it is different, and yet, the same.
Will she miss something if she adopts a baby? Of course. She will miss pregnancy and pregnancy is amazing and soul-altering and humbling and fulfilling. Each time, I bonded with the life inside of me from the moment I knew it existed. We grew and changed together. Over nine months, you become a mother, not in general, but to this baby that is nurtured in your body. She will also miss the experience of giving birth. Giving birth to a child defies every description. It is shattering and immediate and empowering and nourishing. It is being completely and utterly immersed in that moment.
She might miss other intimacies of infancy, breastfeeding perhaps. Even the first few months of your baby's life are sometimes not yours in adoption or are yours only in pictures. Then again, there are no guarantees for any mother. Some biological moms miss out on the childbirth they wanted or breastfeeding or early bonding, for many, many reasons. Some adoptive moms get to be there for their baby's first breath, some lactate easily and get the chance to breastfeed. Each mother's story is different. Each child's story is different.
No one who wants them should be denied these experiences. My heart aches for her loss - the loss of the ability to grow or birth or nourish a child. It is something to grieve for as long as necessary.
Is adoption less? No. Not less, different. The bonding happens outside of you. It's not internalized, like a pregnancy, a secret between you and the baby in your womb. It is more vulnerable, less private. As you get to know each other, you and your child are exposed to the world and that feels a little raw. For my daughter and I, that took time. Human emotions are not always instant. When a child comes to you through adoption, even after waiting and planning for what seems like forever, it feels sudden. The need for time to bond, for real love (as opposed to the dream you have loved from the beginning) to grow, seems awkward with the little person already a part of your life. The secrets whisper between your heart and the heart of a woman out there somewhere in the world who can not, for some reason, poverty, youth, illness, fathom the joy of this child.
Adopting and birthing children reminds me of the essay Welcome to Holland by Emily Perl Kingsley. She compares having a baby with Downs Syndrome to leaving on a long anticipated trip to Italy and finding yourself unexpectedly in Holland. If you focus on what Italy would be like, she points out, you will never see the beauty of Holland. Stealing her beautiful analogy, I would say that adoption is like planning a trip to Italy on the QEII, but at embarkation, you find that the ship is full and your tickets are for a luxury yacht. Everyone else is boarding the famous cruise ship. It looms at the dock, all consuming, overshadowing all the smaller boats.
You are all going the same place, but your journey is different than most. Your windows have different views, your crew is different, you meet different people, make different friends, find unexpected joys. Some experiences you might miss out on - no denying that the QEII is fabulous. Some things are better. They miss out too, on that huge ocean liner. Yachts can travel slower, can enter smaller ports. The people who choose to travel this alternative way are more aware, more deliberate about their trip. Remember, too, no matter how rough the crossing, at the end of the voyage, every one is in Italy together.
Will one journey assuage the loss of the other? I don't think so. Loss is loss. But, spending your time focused on what you are missing would be tragic, because then you would miss your own trip.
Is it the same? It's the road less travelled. It can be rougher and rockier and longer. That bonding time is a part of the journey. You are still sailing right up to that incredible moment, whenever it occurs, when you look at your child and think only mine. Once you are there, though, from that moment when you arrive as a mother to a child, yes, my friend, it is the same. All of my children are fiercely mine. Inseparably woven into my heart. Each time, the pattern changes. Each time, the threads are different.
If I haven't exhausted my tired comparison quota for the day then I will say this: That is what makes our tapestry so beautiful.
Sunday, May 4, 2008
Seconds (and Thirds), Please
I'm very new in blogworld, still kind of feeling my way around. But, there's a virtual shower this weekend being held for three founding mothers of the blogging with kids set. Since their blogs are really fun and friends keep asking me whose blogs I spend all my nap time reading, I thought I'd join in. You get the links to their blogs and I get to give advice on having a second child (cause I'm the expert after being a mom to three for all of nine months). Win, win! And (bonus) I have a chance to win a cool prize. I won't win a cool prize because I never win anything, but I have a chance, which will amuse me until the actual prizewinners are announced.
Problem being, I'm not all that into advice because it's for sucks a lot of the time. But, in contemplating my mommyness to two and then three wee ones, I did realize that I've had quite an attitude shift since that first year when I only had Gee, back when I was able to maintain the illusion that I could keep things marginally together and relatively clean.
So, I put together a little list. It's a list of things that you might find yourself saying after your second child. Not so much advice, as kind of an advance warning or 'heads up.' Things that I have said that have maybe shocked some of the moms to just one child that I know. I am in no way implying that any of these incredible moms will stoop to my level, but, if they do hear something come out of their mouths in the next few months and cringe, it's okay. They can take comfort in the fact that I've said worse:
10) Can you please go and watch Clifford, I don't want to talk to you right now.
9) Go in your diaper, I'm feeding the baby.
8) Want to watch another movie??
7) Who opened the front door? ROLL CALL!!!
6) Where are your pants?
5) If you continue to whine like that my eardrums will explode and I won't be able to be your servant anymore.
4) If you are going to make each other cry, please go in the other room.
3) Costco dino nuggets!! Again!!
2) Please take that pillow off of your baby brother's head.
1) I'll give you a cookie if you don't tell Daddy we stopped at Starbucks today.
And the winner is: What is in your mouth? (a cracker) Where did you get it? (points to the floor... of the YMCA).
I know these ladies (HBM, Chicky, and Mrs. Chicken) will handle their seconds with far more grace than I.
Problem being, I'm not all that into advice because it's for sucks a lot of the time. But, in contemplating my mommyness to two and then three wee ones, I did realize that I've had quite an attitude shift since that first year when I only had Gee, back when I was able to maintain the illusion that I could keep things marginally together and relatively clean.
So, I put together a little list. It's a list of things that you might find yourself saying after your second child. Not so much advice, as kind of an advance warning or 'heads up.' Things that I have said that have maybe shocked some of the moms to just one child that I know. I am in no way implying that any of these incredible moms will stoop to my level, but, if they do hear something come out of their mouths in the next few months and cringe, it's okay. They can take comfort in the fact that I've said worse:
10) Can you please go and watch Clifford, I don't want to talk to you right now.
9) Go in your diaper, I'm feeding the baby.
8) Want to watch another movie??
7) Who opened the front door? ROLL CALL!!!
6) Where are your pants?
5) If you continue to whine like that my eardrums will explode and I won't be able to be your servant anymore.
4) If you are going to make each other cry, please go in the other room.
3) Costco dino nuggets!! Again!!
2) Please take that pillow off of your baby brother's head.
1) I'll give you a cookie if you don't tell Daddy we stopped at Starbucks today.
And the winner is: What is in your mouth? (a cracker) Where did you get it? (points to the floor... of the YMCA).
I know these ladies (HBM, Chicky, and Mrs. Chicken) will handle their seconds with far more grace than I.
Friday, May 2, 2008
Terminology
Spring walk season has begun. We have left the house every day for two weeks! Despite the anomaly of snow on the last day of April, it appears that we will thaw and I have survived another winter. Since our neighborhood is the epicenter of walking for the entire city, we are again in contact with humanity in general and I am grateful for that. But, it does mean that more people are seeing me out and about with the triple wide. Which means more comments for my comment-hating soul to judge harshly. I already have a new least favorite.
First, let's review the previous prizewinners:
"Are there really three in there?" (Nope, still just pushing the biggest stroller in the universe for kicks.)
"That's quite a load." (What tipped you off, was it that you could hear me panting for breath before you could see me?)
"Are they all yours?" (Shocking, I know.)
And, my all time favorite, actually heard twice in the same day. "That's quite a gaggle of children you have there." (A gaggle! Of children!)
The term d'art of this season seems to be 'rig.' As in, that's quite a rig. Nice rig. Fancy rig. I thought I had scraped the bottom of the eat crow, humility barrell when I not only accepted a used mini-van from my parents, but did so with gratitude and promptly filled it with car seats. Now I find that I have sunk lower. Strangers are comparing my stroller to a mac truck. Really, can I blame them? Judge for yourselves.
.JPG)
The rig. Fully loaded. Yes, thank you, it's for my gaggle of children. Heap of children, even. Flock? School? What is a large grouping of children called? A scream of children? A noise of children? A smell of children? A giggle of children? A love of children (awwwwwhhh!!)? Jump in and give me your vote (another friendly competition). Here's a pile of my children for inspiration.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
crop.jpg)
