Monkeys are fun to look at, when you’re outside the cage. But ohhhh... step inside and it becomes a whole different story.
I had to take my two year old to the doctor today. Wait, let me start over. I had to take my two year old to the doctor today after I woke up on 4 ½ hours of sleep intermingled with bouts of crying, completed the morning rush to get the big kid to school, brought the little one back home for breakfast, made several phone calls and text messages to gather information, cleaned the kitchen, did two loads of laundry, put on my world champion wrestler hat just to get one toddler and four boxes to the post office, drove back to school to retrieve the big kid as it was a half day of school, drove home once again to give the baby a nap, ran around aware of just how long that nap would last - washing my hair, packing bags for our 40 minute trek to the doctor, stopping briefly for nourishment and then with freshly diapered toddler, hopped in the car, dreading the 40 minutes of bickering, crying and question-asking that would surely keep me from hearing a single line of any song on the radio.
So, when I say I took my two year old to the doctor today, what I mean is, at the end of an already long day. I understand that my pediatrician’s office is busy, and I understand they can’t just bump other people from their appointments for those children like mine, who are suddenly and unexpectedly in need of care, but you’d think that if they can’t set aside an hour in the morning for those who call in needing appointments after being up all night with a sick child, that they’d at least offer free Margueritas to the mothers of two year olds who are coming in for appointments at 5:00 in the evening.
I will admit that since it was nearly “closing time”, I didn’t expect a crowd or a long wait once we arrived. I was sorely mistaken. The thirty minute wait that ensued seemed more like thirty days by the time we actually laid eyes on the doctor. In fact, I think he had grown a small beard by the time it was our turn.
While we waited - I mean, bounced, jumped, spun, hopped, galloped and climbed, my daughter exerted more energy in thirty minutes than I’ve exerted in the last thirty years.
She didn’t stay in one place for two seconds. She’d throw her whole upper body over a chair and pull with all her might just to climb up on the chair, and then, satisfied that she’d conquered it, she’d slide right back down. She’d go to the next chair and start the whole process over again. Just when I’d think she was going to continue down the row of chairs, she’d see something else and dart off. She’d touch the bead roller coaster toy long enough to leave a fingerprint, but not actually change the position of a bead, run to the thermal image frame and press to make her handprint, run up to someone and stare at them until they acknowledged her, ask for a snack, sit down and eat two bites and then say “done!”, climb another chair, then much to my dismay, actually play with the other bead toy in the sick waiting area, go over to an infant carrier and touch a little baby’s head or hands, stand on her tippy toes to see into the fish aquarium, find another chair to climb, spin the puzzle blocks on the wall super fast, run the length of the room, pause to watch people mysteriously disappear through the doctors’ office doors, try to take a toy away from a baby, climb another chair and try to reach a rack of coat hangers, ask for a magazine, then turn one page and toss it aside, jump up, spin in circles, dizzily climb another chair, and thoroughly exhaust her mother!
In between all this, my seven year old, who otherwise sat dazed at the sheer unending movement of his sister, not just once but twice, announced that he had to use the restroom, which is outside the waiting room, you know, in that black vacuum of space where you will most definitely miss your name being called the minute you step away, because life is just that unkind.
And yet, you can’t fault a kid for having a basic human need, which by the way, you spent five months in potty training Hell, just trying to get him to recognize that need before it was too late. However, the second time, and 25 more minutes into the little monkey’s frenzy, he got a lot less compassion and was told he’d have to hold it.
Once we were finally ushered into a doctor’s office, rather than being completely exhausted like her mother, the little one’s curiosity just had a whole new place to bloom. There were books to pick up and throw back to the pile, crinkly paper to tear, medical instruments with which to conduct experiments, and chairs on wheels - what fun!
When the doctor arrived, I braced myself for one final round of screaming since I knew he would soon be poking a light into her ears. And yet, miraculously, or I tend to think more, manipulatively, it never came. The little monkey just sat down on Mommy’s lap, smiled sweetly at the doctor as though he’d given her a bunch of bananas, and never so much as winced when he examined her. Oh sure, he confirmed my suspicions that she had an ear infection, which had prompted the overnight crying, but he failed to diagnose the more serious issue. Then again, he was at the disadvantage. He only saw one side of the split personality. And, since you can’t do a blood test for manipulative tendencies, our unsuspecting doctor sent us away with a prescription for Amoxil, no doubt confident that he had solved all my troubles.
Wednesday, December 2, 2009
Tuesday, December 1, 2009
Heaven help us, there's no off switch!
Have you ever tried to talk to a seven year old? Or maybe I should rephrase that. Have you ever listened to a seven year old? It’s a bit like a cross between an insane asylum and an action film.
If my son is, in some way restrained, such as in the car’s booster seat, or stuck in a waiting area with me, it’s like someone pushed a button and then ripped out the off switch. Except for those brief hours when he is sleeping, and I do mean brief as he’s always been the one who could go to bed late and rise early, I don’t think he has paused to take a breath in at least 6 years.
And yet, it’s not even the talking at such length that gets tiresome. I would love to have a conversation with him. But as it is, within the first eight minutes, I get the panicked feeling that squawking boxes have been strapped to my ears, playing the dialogue from Alice in Wonderland on one side and Gulliver’s Travels on the other, both of which I believe must have been written by someone on an acid trip.
I’m sure it all makes perfect sense to him. However, keeping in mind that I am usually trying to responsibly operate a very heavy moving vehicle, fill out some sort of paperwork by which I will later be judged competent, or concentrate on the amount of money I’m being charged for some service, it’s rather like trying to translate an alien language while performing mathematic or physics experiments.
I could not begin to tell you the information he has supposedly fed to me over the past 6 or so years since he began to talk, but I’m quite sure one of last week’s conversations went something like this:
“So the penguin wanted to ride on the bus, and Mrs. Riker read that part and Jordan laughed and the cyclops shot down the ship with a laser beam. The soldiers got up and marched to the landfill where the tomatoes were growing, and the lightning bolt knocked the giraffe into outer space. Then the Jedi got the light sabers and it was lunch time so we had to go down the tunnel to the penguin’s hideout, only these aliens were there and the Transformers were stomping on the snakes. But Indiana Jones couldn’t help because he’s afraid of snakes, so Wolverine put out his claws and Force pushed the Joker right out of Gotham City. Then we all sat down and had tea with the cheshire cat....” Or at least, that’s what I heard.
I’m quite certain that the part about translating a language that is not yet in existence, is in the VERY fine print of this mothering contract we supposedly signed, but nobody can ever quite produce as proof.
And yet, as much as the nonsensical chatter makes you feel a bit like putting on a straight jacket yourself and just begging for a padded room, there are moments when you’d actually prefer it to the alternative.
For you see, when my son is not restrained, it’s a whole different kind of panic that takes over. The sudden need to strap on a helmet and shin guards, and spin the toddler around in bubble wrap a few times, consumes my every thought as I simply try to move out of the way!
The mere theatrics of these conversations, I mean - monologues, are enough to have me using a cookie sheet as a shield while I secretly scan the silverware drawer for the largest spoon with which to start digging a bomb shelter.
This child is like Jackie Chan, a football running back, and a medieval swordsman riding atop a volcanic eruption. There are arms flailing and legs kicking. His head shakes around like a bobble head hanging by one coil of the spring, and his body flops to the ground with the force of a gorilla having a seizure. But then, he’s back up again, turning in circles like some sort of human funnel cloud, swinging his arms like Babe Ruth in his famous called homer, and marching around the dining room table like a pack of battery operated soldiers on rocket fuel. Without warning, he will spread his arms and fall backward as though he expects a mattress to magically materialize, but instead makes an indentation in the wood floor that we will have to explain to some future prospective buyers of this house.
It is in these moments that I wonder how much energy must be charging through his arms and legs when he is restrained. It’s no wonder that it all comes pouring out his mouth, in some sort of second grade meets Steven Spielberg and George Lucas on espressos and Halloween candy, think tank.
If I ever am fully able to piece together just what he’s talking about, I firmly believe there should be a Nobel peace prize involved, or at the very least a merit badge for endurance or successful survival in a dangerous environment.
In the meantime, I’m going to start saving up for a teenage cell phone plan with a LOT of minutes, and praying for his future wife.
If my son is, in some way restrained, such as in the car’s booster seat, or stuck in a waiting area with me, it’s like someone pushed a button and then ripped out the off switch. Except for those brief hours when he is sleeping, and I do mean brief as he’s always been the one who could go to bed late and rise early, I don’t think he has paused to take a breath in at least 6 years.
And yet, it’s not even the talking at such length that gets tiresome. I would love to have a conversation with him. But as it is, within the first eight minutes, I get the panicked feeling that squawking boxes have been strapped to my ears, playing the dialogue from Alice in Wonderland on one side and Gulliver’s Travels on the other, both of which I believe must have been written by someone on an acid trip.
I’m sure it all makes perfect sense to him. However, keeping in mind that I am usually trying to responsibly operate a very heavy moving vehicle, fill out some sort of paperwork by which I will later be judged competent, or concentrate on the amount of money I’m being charged for some service, it’s rather like trying to translate an alien language while performing mathematic or physics experiments.
I could not begin to tell you the information he has supposedly fed to me over the past 6 or so years since he began to talk, but I’m quite sure one of last week’s conversations went something like this:
“So the penguin wanted to ride on the bus, and Mrs. Riker read that part and Jordan laughed and the cyclops shot down the ship with a laser beam. The soldiers got up and marched to the landfill where the tomatoes were growing, and the lightning bolt knocked the giraffe into outer space. Then the Jedi got the light sabers and it was lunch time so we had to go down the tunnel to the penguin’s hideout, only these aliens were there and the Transformers were stomping on the snakes. But Indiana Jones couldn’t help because he’s afraid of snakes, so Wolverine put out his claws and Force pushed the Joker right out of Gotham City. Then we all sat down and had tea with the cheshire cat....” Or at least, that’s what I heard.
I’m quite certain that the part about translating a language that is not yet in existence, is in the VERY fine print of this mothering contract we supposedly signed, but nobody can ever quite produce as proof.
And yet, as much as the nonsensical chatter makes you feel a bit like putting on a straight jacket yourself and just begging for a padded room, there are moments when you’d actually prefer it to the alternative.
For you see, when my son is not restrained, it’s a whole different kind of panic that takes over. The sudden need to strap on a helmet and shin guards, and spin the toddler around in bubble wrap a few times, consumes my every thought as I simply try to move out of the way!
The mere theatrics of these conversations, I mean - monologues, are enough to have me using a cookie sheet as a shield while I secretly scan the silverware drawer for the largest spoon with which to start digging a bomb shelter.
This child is like Jackie Chan, a football running back, and a medieval swordsman riding atop a volcanic eruption. There are arms flailing and legs kicking. His head shakes around like a bobble head hanging by one coil of the spring, and his body flops to the ground with the force of a gorilla having a seizure. But then, he’s back up again, turning in circles like some sort of human funnel cloud, swinging his arms like Babe Ruth in his famous called homer, and marching around the dining room table like a pack of battery operated soldiers on rocket fuel. Without warning, he will spread his arms and fall backward as though he expects a mattress to magically materialize, but instead makes an indentation in the wood floor that we will have to explain to some future prospective buyers of this house.
It is in these moments that I wonder how much energy must be charging through his arms and legs when he is restrained. It’s no wonder that it all comes pouring out his mouth, in some sort of second grade meets Steven Spielberg and George Lucas on espressos and Halloween candy, think tank.
If I ever am fully able to piece together just what he’s talking about, I firmly believe there should be a Nobel peace prize involved, or at the very least a merit badge for endurance or successful survival in a dangerous environment.
In the meantime, I’m going to start saving up for a teenage cell phone plan with a LOT of minutes, and praying for his future wife.
Sunday, November 22, 2009
Hello and goodbye
When we bring our babies home from the hospital or lay them in that bassinet for the first time after a home birth, we are suddenly very aware of something that never occurred to us before. Fear. Or more specifically, fear of losing this little person who, in the instant it took to draw his or her first breath, forever caught our own breath in our throats. The all encompassing love and protectiveness that instantly emerges, is somewhat of a mystery, as though those qualities were birthed right along with the child. What other time in your life had you ever known you would have the strength to stand up to any size foe, if it meant saving your child?
And so we take such care. We make sure the blanket isn’t swaddled around his little nose. We lay her on her back to sleep and tiptoe into her room every hour to make sure she’s still breathing. And before we know it, they’re too big to be swaddled. So, we set about latching cabinets, covering electrical outlets, pushing on the baby gate with all our might to make absolutely sure it won’t budge.
Months turn to years and precautions take on new meaning. You’re reminding your preschooler to stay close to you in the store, that we don’t jump off the couch, and that they must wear their seatbelt before the car will begin to move.
Still, on they grow and the warnings and worries become more intense. You find yourself having those dreaded talks about strangers and safe-touch. You layer him in knee and elbow pads and a helmet to protect that smart little brain of his. You blow up floaties til you’re blue in the face, so she’ll survive her first attempts at swimming and go on to become the Olympic swimmer you dream she’ll be someday. You tell them over and over and over again what to do in an emergency, from how to dial 9-1-1 or push the Onstar button to what not to run back for if the house is on fire.
When they were still in our bellies, life seemed so simple. Eat healthy, get some rest, decorate the nursery and enjoy all the cute little gifts. We never expected that expecting would lead to such anguish the moment that beautiful baby was placed in our arms.
We document every single moment of significance, first smile, first time eating bananas, first steps, first words, first day of kindergarten, the day the training wheels came off, the first dance recital. And in between, we cherish every giggle, silly face, hilarious comment, endearing hug.
Sure, we worry. We plan and maneuver and purchase and warn and prepare, all in an attempt to protect them, all the while conscious of what we are really protecting: our own hearts.
For it is our biggest fear, the one nobody wants to talk about, no one dare voice. For you know that if you ever lost this child, you could not go on. You could not breathe. The you that you are, would cease to exist.
And yet, the sneaky thing about motherhood is, in the midst of all this protecting - them and ourselves, we don’t even realize that we are already losing them. Little by little, with every milestone that we document, with every birthday party we plan, every school supply list we fulfill, they are leaving us.
Sure, we knew going into this that they would grow up. We say that we want them to become good citizens, responsible adults.
And yet, we deceive ourselves. For to send them off, to wish them well, to be proud of them, is a trade we aren’t really ready to make.
For in a sense, we are accepting a death, to make way for a new life. Look at him, tossled hair, Oreo cookie crumbs on his mouth, action figures spread out around him. Look at her, tiara on her head, stuffed animals nestled around her on the floor, tiny cups filled with pretend tea. Hear his laughter, her sweet “I love you, Mommy.”
Who among us is ready to say goodbye to them? For if you think about it, someday, they will be gone. Oh sure, they will grow up to be amazing people, and you’ll probably be good friends. But, those little voices, those silly laughs, the cute drawings and too-small hugs will be gone. The little people that they are right this very minute, the ones that you love so much it hurts, will be gone. And all you’ll have is memories.
It’s not fair, this mothering thing. There are so many things we think we know going in, only to find out we had no idea what we were thinking. For when that baby was placed in our arms, even if we sort of knew he or she was not ours to keep forever, we had no idea how much we would love them, at every single phase, and how hard it would be to keep saying goodbye. For with every new accomplishment, every updated photo on the wall, we have to say goodbye again and again - to the person they were, just three months ago, just last week, just yesterday.
So, it seems, that from the moment we say hello, we are also saying goodbye. I don’t know about you, but I’m not sure I would have signed up for this if I’d known how much grief would be intermingled with the joy. But then, none of us would be here if all the terms were laid out in large print.
All I know is that for now, I’m going to turn up the volume on the baby monitor, charge up the camcorder, and buy a bigger memory card for the digital camera. Oh, and step away from this computer.
But don’t worry, I’ll be back...maybe when they’re sleeping, or maybe right after I watch them sleep for a while....
And so we take such care. We make sure the blanket isn’t swaddled around his little nose. We lay her on her back to sleep and tiptoe into her room every hour to make sure she’s still breathing. And before we know it, they’re too big to be swaddled. So, we set about latching cabinets, covering electrical outlets, pushing on the baby gate with all our might to make absolutely sure it won’t budge.
Months turn to years and precautions take on new meaning. You’re reminding your preschooler to stay close to you in the store, that we don’t jump off the couch, and that they must wear their seatbelt before the car will begin to move.
Still, on they grow and the warnings and worries become more intense. You find yourself having those dreaded talks about strangers and safe-touch. You layer him in knee and elbow pads and a helmet to protect that smart little brain of his. You blow up floaties til you’re blue in the face, so she’ll survive her first attempts at swimming and go on to become the Olympic swimmer you dream she’ll be someday. You tell them over and over and over again what to do in an emergency, from how to dial 9-1-1 or push the Onstar button to what not to run back for if the house is on fire.
When they were still in our bellies, life seemed so simple. Eat healthy, get some rest, decorate the nursery and enjoy all the cute little gifts. We never expected that expecting would lead to such anguish the moment that beautiful baby was placed in our arms.
We document every single moment of significance, first smile, first time eating bananas, first steps, first words, first day of kindergarten, the day the training wheels came off, the first dance recital. And in between, we cherish every giggle, silly face, hilarious comment, endearing hug.
Sure, we worry. We plan and maneuver and purchase and warn and prepare, all in an attempt to protect them, all the while conscious of what we are really protecting: our own hearts.
For it is our biggest fear, the one nobody wants to talk about, no one dare voice. For you know that if you ever lost this child, you could not go on. You could not breathe. The you that you are, would cease to exist.
And yet, the sneaky thing about motherhood is, in the midst of all this protecting - them and ourselves, we don’t even realize that we are already losing them. Little by little, with every milestone that we document, with every birthday party we plan, every school supply list we fulfill, they are leaving us.
Sure, we knew going into this that they would grow up. We say that we want them to become good citizens, responsible adults.
And yet, we deceive ourselves. For to send them off, to wish them well, to be proud of them, is a trade we aren’t really ready to make.
For in a sense, we are accepting a death, to make way for a new life. Look at him, tossled hair, Oreo cookie crumbs on his mouth, action figures spread out around him. Look at her, tiara on her head, stuffed animals nestled around her on the floor, tiny cups filled with pretend tea. Hear his laughter, her sweet “I love you, Mommy.”
Who among us is ready to say goodbye to them? For if you think about it, someday, they will be gone. Oh sure, they will grow up to be amazing people, and you’ll probably be good friends. But, those little voices, those silly laughs, the cute drawings and too-small hugs will be gone. The little people that they are right this very minute, the ones that you love so much it hurts, will be gone. And all you’ll have is memories.
It’s not fair, this mothering thing. There are so many things we think we know going in, only to find out we had no idea what we were thinking. For when that baby was placed in our arms, even if we sort of knew he or she was not ours to keep forever, we had no idea how much we would love them, at every single phase, and how hard it would be to keep saying goodbye. For with every new accomplishment, every updated photo on the wall, we have to say goodbye again and again - to the person they were, just three months ago, just last week, just yesterday.
So, it seems, that from the moment we say hello, we are also saying goodbye. I don’t know about you, but I’m not sure I would have signed up for this if I’d known how much grief would be intermingled with the joy. But then, none of us would be here if all the terms were laid out in large print.
All I know is that for now, I’m going to turn up the volume on the baby monitor, charge up the camcorder, and buy a bigger memory card for the digital camera. Oh, and step away from this computer.
But don’t worry, I’ll be back...maybe when they’re sleeping, or maybe right after I watch them sleep for a while....
Saturday, November 21, 2009
I'm not afraid of you, 40
Okay, so not too long ago, it finally happened. I’d been a bit dazed and confused for a while, but I think I’m ready to talk about it. Well, maybe I better lie down first....
Alright, it’s like this: When I was busy having 52 separate conversations with children and mopping up spills and stocking up stuff for Christmas, it snuck up on me, the big 4-0.
I woke up one day and I was in my 30's, still feeling youthful and like I had a lifetime to accomplish all my dreams. And then, the clock struck midnight and just like that, life as I knew it was over.
Suddenly, I seemed sooooo much older than my husband, who won’t catch up to me for about a year. Calculations of how old I’d be when my children graduate high school began to dance in my head. Percentages such as how much of my life was most likely past, popped up in my morning’s first thoughts. I began to survey our debt, our retirement savings, the 5 year plans I never made, the length of time it takes to accomplish certain goals and all sorts of formulas for achieving the life I’ve always wanted started to swirl around my head like dizzying stars to a concussion. Calculations, percentages, formulas; for a girl who was never good at math, 40 had sure done a number on me!
But then, once my heart settled into a normal rate, I realized something. My 30's sucked. Oh sure, my children were born, I found a great house, I had some good times, but in between those brief moments of pleasure were four surgeries, two rounds of physical therapy, numerous deaths, a miscarriage, a company closure, financial nightmares, two car accidents, marital difficulties, Cancer, and I’m sure other things which I have just resorted to repressing due to overload. It’s no wonder all of this led to the Adrenal Gland Fatigue I now have to overcome as I enter into the next decade.
So, though I may be starting out tired, it is my sincere hope that this decade will be kinder. Though my children will no doubt try every ounce of strength and energy that I have, my budget will not instantly have wiggle room, and I’ll be stuck with the label “Cancer Patient” until I’m on the eve of the next decade up from here, I’m choosing to believe that this will be the time in my life when I finally get it all together.
These will be the years when I stop finding little scraps of paper or computer files journaling my feelings, only to find that I’m still feeling the same way 10 years later! These will be the years when I do something about it, instead of just talking. This will be the time when I see long-held dreams come into reality, the time in my life when I can be proud of the lessons of determination that I will model for my children. These will be the years when I get into shape, physically and mentally. I will somehow prevail over this financial beast that has been gnawing at my heels for way too long. I will fight back. I will rise up and give my 30's a good hard kick in the teeth.
I’m not sure where I will find all this gumption, but I’m certain that it’s out there, or within me, to be found. So, I will press on, and maybe with all of you marching beside me, I’ll feel stronger than I ever have. Then, when it’s your turn to face the 40 monster, or 50 or 60 - or shoot, maybe you’re still just worried about 30 (I remember that one!), I’ll be ready to take your hand and pull you through that door of the unknown, and by then, I’ll be able to show you around a bit.
So, 40, I’m not afraid of you! If I can survive the 30's I had, I could probably survive in the wilderness with nothing but a thimble and a scouring pad. But, I might need to lie here for a while first....
Alright, it’s like this: When I was busy having 52 separate conversations with children and mopping up spills and stocking up stuff for Christmas, it snuck up on me, the big 4-0.
I woke up one day and I was in my 30's, still feeling youthful and like I had a lifetime to accomplish all my dreams. And then, the clock struck midnight and just like that, life as I knew it was over.
Suddenly, I seemed sooooo much older than my husband, who won’t catch up to me for about a year. Calculations of how old I’d be when my children graduate high school began to dance in my head. Percentages such as how much of my life was most likely past, popped up in my morning’s first thoughts. I began to survey our debt, our retirement savings, the 5 year plans I never made, the length of time it takes to accomplish certain goals and all sorts of formulas for achieving the life I’ve always wanted started to swirl around my head like dizzying stars to a concussion. Calculations, percentages, formulas; for a girl who was never good at math, 40 had sure done a number on me!
But then, once my heart settled into a normal rate, I realized something. My 30's sucked. Oh sure, my children were born, I found a great house, I had some good times, but in between those brief moments of pleasure were four surgeries, two rounds of physical therapy, numerous deaths, a miscarriage, a company closure, financial nightmares, two car accidents, marital difficulties, Cancer, and I’m sure other things which I have just resorted to repressing due to overload. It’s no wonder all of this led to the Adrenal Gland Fatigue I now have to overcome as I enter into the next decade.
So, though I may be starting out tired, it is my sincere hope that this decade will be kinder. Though my children will no doubt try every ounce of strength and energy that I have, my budget will not instantly have wiggle room, and I’ll be stuck with the label “Cancer Patient” until I’m on the eve of the next decade up from here, I’m choosing to believe that this will be the time in my life when I finally get it all together.
These will be the years when I stop finding little scraps of paper or computer files journaling my feelings, only to find that I’m still feeling the same way 10 years later! These will be the years when I do something about it, instead of just talking. This will be the time when I see long-held dreams come into reality, the time in my life when I can be proud of the lessons of determination that I will model for my children. These will be the years when I get into shape, physically and mentally. I will somehow prevail over this financial beast that has been gnawing at my heels for way too long. I will fight back. I will rise up and give my 30's a good hard kick in the teeth.
I’m not sure where I will find all this gumption, but I’m certain that it’s out there, or within me, to be found. So, I will press on, and maybe with all of you marching beside me, I’ll feel stronger than I ever have. Then, when it’s your turn to face the 40 monster, or 50 or 60 - or shoot, maybe you’re still just worried about 30 (I remember that one!), I’ll be ready to take your hand and pull you through that door of the unknown, and by then, I’ll be able to show you around a bit.
So, 40, I’m not afraid of you! If I can survive the 30's I had, I could probably survive in the wilderness with nothing but a thimble and a scouring pad. But, I might need to lie here for a while first....
Friday, September 18, 2009
Running out of time to savor
Do you hear it? Or is it just me who hears the constant ticking. Supposedly, only God knows the number of my days, but sometimes I’m convinced there is a clock in my head that is pounding out each second in a deafening countdown.
It’s a mean little clock too. It never, ever sets itself back an hour, even when I’m at my breaking point.
No, time rolls on, and that clock is keeping count of everything from moments missed to events rushing toward me at full force and every second in between.
It seems I’m always aware of time, or the lack of it. I know just how few hours of sleep I will get if I go to bed “right now”, how many minutes ago I should have gotten up, how few minutes I have to actually apply makeup and curl my hair before being invaded by chatter about Legos and computer games. I know exactly what time I need to wake the big kid and how many minutes later he will actually roll out of bed, and I’m already dreading the number of times I will have to urge him to get dressed, eat his breakfast, get his school bags. I have a separate timer running in the back of my head which tells me what time I took my prescription medication, and therefore, what time I will be able to eat breakfast, if I haven’t passed out from the morning rush by then. Once the big kid is up, the clock instantly starts over in a countdown to the last possible minute I can get the toddler up, throw a sippy cup in her hand and still make it to school before the last bell.
It’s an endless rush to beat the little neon clock on the car dashboard - to school, to the babysitter, to work, back to school, back to the babysitter, back home to cook dinner before the kids start to melt down.
The clock tells me how many times I’ve called those same kids to the dinner table and how little time will now be left to eat before the clock starts over for homework and bedtime routines. And about halfway into all of this, I’m keenly aware of how many minutes til Daddy gets home and restores some tiny part of my sanity, or at the very least, runs interference, so my brain cells jump off at a slower pace.
The clock is always there. It tells me if I can finish a load in the dishwasher or washing machine before having to leave the house. It gauges which YouTube video to fire up for my various needs. For instance, I know that “C is for Cookie” can easily sustain a quick run to the bathroom, but if I want to go downstairs and switch my now very wrinkled laundry from the washer to the dryer, the full version of “What’s the Name of That Song?” will be required. And Heaven forbid I have to make an important phone call. That takes X number of minutes to gather a buffet of snacks, two different cups to choose from and load an entire medley by The Wiggles.
I know how many minutes the hair color has been fusing into my head, how long my toddler has been mysteriously quiet, how many hours it has been since I refreshed the cat’s food and water, how many minutes it’s been since my big kid took a breath between sentences, how long til the microwave beeps, and how long til the variety of toys playing music in the background all shut off.
Somehow though, this clock in my head, doesn’t just count in minutes. Amazingly, it simultaneously counts by days, weeks, months, years.
For, even while I am aware of the microwave whirring, dishwasher chugging, washing machine agitating, children talking, toys squawking, and YouTube singing, I am somehow also keenly aware of how many days it has been since I gave a child a bath, washed my own hair, paid the bills, refilled my prescription, checked my email, mailed off packages, or got my paycheck.
And even more amazing is that this clock has the ability to turn days to months as well! I know how many months it’s been since I heard from a long distance relative, transferred a credit card balance, or gave the house a thorough cleaning.
And what’s worse is I know how many years it has been since I bought my car, saw my doctor, or had a date with my husband.
Time is always running out, or running away from something. And yet, it works in reverse as well. Though I know how many days, weeks, months or years have passed, I also know what events are about to crash in on me.
I know exactly the amount of time until the next dentist appointment, birthday party to plan, shower gift to buy, school field trip to set aside money for, annual events my kids will expect to attend, Christmas pageant to buy clothes for, and loan to pay off.
Even through all of this though, the clock ticking in my head has not yet shown it’s meanest streak. No, that comes in the wee hours of the morning, when the house is finally quiet and I know I “should” be going to bed. That’s when the vicious attacks come, the reminders of just how much time you’ve already lost, while tending to the time you had to spend.
When I tiptoe in to take stuffed animals out of my toddler’s bed, and I see how big she now looks in her crib, when I hear my big kid shuffling around for his overnight bathroom trip and I realize how long ago it’s been since he was potty training, when I finally crawl into bed beside my husband and realize we’ve been married for nearly two decades, it hits me. So much time is fleeting. And it isn’t making a point of being obvious about it. It’s sneaky.
While I’m tending to all those appointments and homework and loads of laundry and bills to pay, the clock is still ticking. And though I hear it ticking away the minutes quite often, I seldom hear it ticking away the years.
Maybe I shouldn’t be sitting here blogging right now, and maybe you shouldn’t be sitting there reading. After all, your clock is ticking too. (Just be sure to come back tomorrow)
It’s a mean little clock too. It never, ever sets itself back an hour, even when I’m at my breaking point.
No, time rolls on, and that clock is keeping count of everything from moments missed to events rushing toward me at full force and every second in between.
It seems I’m always aware of time, or the lack of it. I know just how few hours of sleep I will get if I go to bed “right now”, how many minutes ago I should have gotten up, how few minutes I have to actually apply makeup and curl my hair before being invaded by chatter about Legos and computer games. I know exactly what time I need to wake the big kid and how many minutes later he will actually roll out of bed, and I’m already dreading the number of times I will have to urge him to get dressed, eat his breakfast, get his school bags. I have a separate timer running in the back of my head which tells me what time I took my prescription medication, and therefore, what time I will be able to eat breakfast, if I haven’t passed out from the morning rush by then. Once the big kid is up, the clock instantly starts over in a countdown to the last possible minute I can get the toddler up, throw a sippy cup in her hand and still make it to school before the last bell.
It’s an endless rush to beat the little neon clock on the car dashboard - to school, to the babysitter, to work, back to school, back to the babysitter, back home to cook dinner before the kids start to melt down.
The clock tells me how many times I’ve called those same kids to the dinner table and how little time will now be left to eat before the clock starts over for homework and bedtime routines. And about halfway into all of this, I’m keenly aware of how many minutes til Daddy gets home and restores some tiny part of my sanity, or at the very least, runs interference, so my brain cells jump off at a slower pace.
The clock is always there. It tells me if I can finish a load in the dishwasher or washing machine before having to leave the house. It gauges which YouTube video to fire up for my various needs. For instance, I know that “C is for Cookie” can easily sustain a quick run to the bathroom, but if I want to go downstairs and switch my now very wrinkled laundry from the washer to the dryer, the full version of “What’s the Name of That Song?” will be required. And Heaven forbid I have to make an important phone call. That takes X number of minutes to gather a buffet of snacks, two different cups to choose from and load an entire medley by The Wiggles.
I know how many minutes the hair color has been fusing into my head, how long my toddler has been mysteriously quiet, how many hours it has been since I refreshed the cat’s food and water, how many minutes it’s been since my big kid took a breath between sentences, how long til the microwave beeps, and how long til the variety of toys playing music in the background all shut off.
Somehow though, this clock in my head, doesn’t just count in minutes. Amazingly, it simultaneously counts by days, weeks, months, years.
For, even while I am aware of the microwave whirring, dishwasher chugging, washing machine agitating, children talking, toys squawking, and YouTube singing, I am somehow also keenly aware of how many days it has been since I gave a child a bath, washed my own hair, paid the bills, refilled my prescription, checked my email, mailed off packages, or got my paycheck.
And even more amazing is that this clock has the ability to turn days to months as well! I know how many months it’s been since I heard from a long distance relative, transferred a credit card balance, or gave the house a thorough cleaning.
And what’s worse is I know how many years it has been since I bought my car, saw my doctor, or had a date with my husband.
Time is always running out, or running away from something. And yet, it works in reverse as well. Though I know how many days, weeks, months or years have passed, I also know what events are about to crash in on me.
I know exactly the amount of time until the next dentist appointment, birthday party to plan, shower gift to buy, school field trip to set aside money for, annual events my kids will expect to attend, Christmas pageant to buy clothes for, and loan to pay off.
Even through all of this though, the clock ticking in my head has not yet shown it’s meanest streak. No, that comes in the wee hours of the morning, when the house is finally quiet and I know I “should” be going to bed. That’s when the vicious attacks come, the reminders of just how much time you’ve already lost, while tending to the time you had to spend.
When I tiptoe in to take stuffed animals out of my toddler’s bed, and I see how big she now looks in her crib, when I hear my big kid shuffling around for his overnight bathroom trip and I realize how long ago it’s been since he was potty training, when I finally crawl into bed beside my husband and realize we’ve been married for nearly two decades, it hits me. So much time is fleeting. And it isn’t making a point of being obvious about it. It’s sneaky.
While I’m tending to all those appointments and homework and loads of laundry and bills to pay, the clock is still ticking. And though I hear it ticking away the minutes quite often, I seldom hear it ticking away the years.
Maybe I shouldn’t be sitting here blogging right now, and maybe you shouldn’t be sitting there reading. After all, your clock is ticking too. (Just be sure to come back tomorrow)
Sunday, August 16, 2009
Getting kids to smile for pictures
We've all got them, 52 pictures of eyes blinking, weird grimaces, children crying, half smiles. They are the very reason mothers today thank God for digital cameras. Delete. Delete. Delete.
Still, you want the doggone happy picture already!
So, try this:
Instead of begging your children to say "Cheeeeeese" or squeaking and shaking a myriad of toys, ask a question!
If you say to your toddler, "Did you get to see Aunt Sally today?" or "Was that cookie really yummy?", the smile of recognition will be immediate.
For older children, say something like, "Remember that time Daddy tried to swat the fly and he fell into the pool?"
Happy memories bring smiles. Just make sure you have the shutter button pushed halfway down before you ask the question. You need to be ready to snap the photo when their little eyes light up.
Still, you want the doggone happy picture already!
So, try this:
Instead of begging your children to say "Cheeeeeese" or squeaking and shaking a myriad of toys, ask a question!
If you say to your toddler, "Did you get to see Aunt Sally today?" or "Was that cookie really yummy?", the smile of recognition will be immediate.
For older children, say something like, "Remember that time Daddy tried to swat the fly and he fell into the pool?"
Happy memories bring smiles. Just make sure you have the shutter button pushed halfway down before you ask the question. You need to be ready to snap the photo when their little eyes light up.
Friday, August 14, 2009
Thursday, August 6, 2009
Infected by the full moon virus
I don’t need to study astronomy to know that there must be a full moon right now. I can tell because, growing up, my family always said a full moon brought out all the “crazy” people, and today, it was I who got a crazy notion in my head.
Somehow a blip occurred in my brain that allowed me to believe I might actually be able to leave the house, unaccompanied by children, for a full 90 minutes.
I was invited to a group dinner, even blessed to be offered a free meal by a very kind new friend who knows we are struggling financially, and I was looking forward to getting to know this group better. Now just how exactly the blip in my brain convinced me that the mere invitation, generosity and eagerness were all I needed to make this rub of the lamp a reality, I can’t really say.
Oh, but what a powerful little blip it must have been! For, it erased all former certainty of the shackles around my ankles and replaced it with delusions of freedom.
Imagine, a tiny glitch in the circuitry that could completely wipe clean the mile-long list of work days, wedding anniversaries, birthdays, bridal and baby showers, friends’ holiday parties, doctor, dentist, lawyer, estate planner, financial advisor, and auto repair appointments for which I have never had a babysitter! Oh the wonder of such a malfunction that could pry off the choke hold of anger, bitterness, resentment, self-pity, and sadness with which years and years of unreliable people have gripped my spirit! How amazing a surge that could pry off the fingers, heal the bruises, and actually give me the courage to ask for babysitting assistance again. Why, it’s simply remarkable!
Watch out though, lest you fall victim as I did. For this is no ordinary little computer blip. It masquerades as an innocent helper, when in reality it is a vicious virus, pulling you in and then wreaking havoc once it gains your trust.
For there are no babysitters. It’s all an illusion, created to make you think that people are anything other than selfish, uncaring, and conveniently forgetful. For there will be files upon files infected with all kinds of mumbo jumbo about how they aren’t able to stray from their normal routine, and unresponsive commands when you state all your reasons for needing to get away, and yet, strangely enough, the entire system will shut down when there is any mention of how many places to which you drug their little rugrats to get them off their hands before someone got hurt.
The good news is this virus can be easily uninstalled. All you have to do is take a good, hard look at your family and friends, start counting just how many there are and put that number in a ratio with how many are actually ever available to watch your children, watch the absurdity of the numbers for a few seconds, then wait a few minutes for the old system of bitterness to reboot, and voila, you’re back up and running - ragged, that is.
For you will never, ever get a break, not for 9 minutes, let alone 90. Well, maybe you will. Maybe you have generous, selfless, sympathetic people in your life who regularly check your hardware for bugs and put you into “rest” mode at the first sign of trouble.
But over here, where I sit tonight, there is light streaming through the window. Hold on, let me check.... yep, just as I thought... there’s a full moon outside.
Somehow a blip occurred in my brain that allowed me to believe I might actually be able to leave the house, unaccompanied by children, for a full 90 minutes.
I was invited to a group dinner, even blessed to be offered a free meal by a very kind new friend who knows we are struggling financially, and I was looking forward to getting to know this group better. Now just how exactly the blip in my brain convinced me that the mere invitation, generosity and eagerness were all I needed to make this rub of the lamp a reality, I can’t really say.
Oh, but what a powerful little blip it must have been! For, it erased all former certainty of the shackles around my ankles and replaced it with delusions of freedom.
Imagine, a tiny glitch in the circuitry that could completely wipe clean the mile-long list of work days, wedding anniversaries, birthdays, bridal and baby showers, friends’ holiday parties, doctor, dentist, lawyer, estate planner, financial advisor, and auto repair appointments for which I have never had a babysitter! Oh the wonder of such a malfunction that could pry off the choke hold of anger, bitterness, resentment, self-pity, and sadness with which years and years of unreliable people have gripped my spirit! How amazing a surge that could pry off the fingers, heal the bruises, and actually give me the courage to ask for babysitting assistance again. Why, it’s simply remarkable!
Watch out though, lest you fall victim as I did. For this is no ordinary little computer blip. It masquerades as an innocent helper, when in reality it is a vicious virus, pulling you in and then wreaking havoc once it gains your trust.
For there are no babysitters. It’s all an illusion, created to make you think that people are anything other than selfish, uncaring, and conveniently forgetful. For there will be files upon files infected with all kinds of mumbo jumbo about how they aren’t able to stray from their normal routine, and unresponsive commands when you state all your reasons for needing to get away, and yet, strangely enough, the entire system will shut down when there is any mention of how many places to which you drug their little rugrats to get them off their hands before someone got hurt.
The good news is this virus can be easily uninstalled. All you have to do is take a good, hard look at your family and friends, start counting just how many there are and put that number in a ratio with how many are actually ever available to watch your children, watch the absurdity of the numbers for a few seconds, then wait a few minutes for the old system of bitterness to reboot, and voila, you’re back up and running - ragged, that is.
For you will never, ever get a break, not for 9 minutes, let alone 90. Well, maybe you will. Maybe you have generous, selfless, sympathetic people in your life who regularly check your hardware for bugs and put you into “rest” mode at the first sign of trouble.
But over here, where I sit tonight, there is light streaming through the window. Hold on, let me check.... yep, just as I thought... there’s a full moon outside.
Tuesday, August 4, 2009
A Mommy's job is endless
Sometimes, it just feels endless. It’s just one long day, with a tiny bit of sleep in between. I don’t think it’s ever enough sleep to qualify as a whole night’s sleep. So, I wake up and all I see before me is endlessness.
I see my toddler calling my name as though it is a sentence, “Mommy Mommy Mommy Mommy Mom-meeee.” I see myself answering her, to the exclusion of every other adult thought that needs to take place to keep this ship running. I see myself trying to think about something for more than four seconds in a row, and either not being able to think above the mind-numbing shrillness that has now become the calling of my name, or the suddenly too-quiet moment that jolts my brain into realizing something isn’t “normal” and I must go in search of her standing on a table or some other such danger.
I see my older child slipping further and further away into the fog that obscures him while the spotlight is shone brightly on the little one. I hear the turmoil in his life as he switches from trying to tell me every little detail of something that is interesting to him, to getting frustrated with me, to doting on his little sister with such sweetness or trying to protect her, to being the one who assails her. I hear it with those in-tune mother senses, and yet I watch powerlessly as he fades into the fog.
There are two drastically different sets of needs vying for my attention, and though my soul longs to fulfill all of them, all my ears can hear is the beating of my own heart, fiercely pounding out the rhythm of restlessness that reminds me how many of my own needs are not being met.
I am a puppet, but I do not dance. I am yanked to and fro in some sort of gangly display of limbs flailing as words spew out in no particular order and without the benefit of a well thought out script.
There are endless messes to clean up - cracker crumbs, cookie crumbs, bread crumbs, unidentifiable crumbs. There are globs that have splattered and those that have congealed and hardened into some sort of permanent fixture. There are potty sprinkles and water drips and worse - explosive diapers, projectile vomiting, blood stains and cat puke.
There are telephones ringing, bills I can’t pay, bank accounts to juggle, forms to fill out, inquiries to make. There are papers to shred, endless boxes and jugs and jars to recycle, light bulbs to replace, a dishwasher to load or unload - or heck, just try to determine if it’s clean or dirty. There is laundry to spray with stain remover, laundry to wash, laundry to fold and put away, clothing to buy, clothing to purge, clothing to mend. There are batteries to replace, 14 different size screwdrivers to hunt down, toys to curse for the ridiculous way I must nearly injure myself to access the battery compartment.
There are play dates to make, lunches and a bewildering array of bags to pack, routes to plan, and a whole host of “ace in my sleeve” games I must conjure up as “while we wait” sanity savers.
There are things to vacuum, scrub, dust, and scrape at with curiosity. There are lists to make, important papers to keep track of, and 876 phone numbers and email addresses I must store in my brain.
There is research - so much research, on everything from financial aid to how tall can trees grow to the pains in my own chest. There are computers to reboot, mice to shake and smack, and programmers to plot revenge upon.
There is milk to buy - AGAIN, diapers to buy - AGAIN, and longer jeans to buy to accommodate a growth spurt - AGAIN.
There are invitations to make, thank you cards to write, rooms to reorganize, forgotten toys to sneak out, 48 different tools to gather just to open 3 new toys.
There are moments to capture on video, memories and milestones to document, 3 owners manuals and 23 pages of website instructions to read to figure out how to then share those priceless gems.
There are baths to give, splashes to sop up, toys to air out, knots to detangle, fingernails to clip, hair to cut.
There are forgotten vitamins to take, doctors to avoid, weight to lose, and a pan of brownies whispering “resistance is futile”.
There is an infinite sea of reading, writing, calculating, budgeting, consuming, restocking, sorting, bagging up, bringing home and hauling away; an unending wave of checking, double-checking, turning off, unplugging, putting up higher, hiding away, and locking. All this is amidst the never-ending current of planning, asking, begging, coercing, manipulating, bartering, distracting and outsmarting.
And yet, when, in the endlessness of “Mommy Mommy Mommy Mom-meeee” and listening and refereeing and safety patrolling and training up in the way they should go, does anything else get done?
After all, I haven’t even eaten a warm meal or used the bathroom in 8 years and I’m not even sure I could pick my husband out of a line up.
Endlessness. Overwhelming, Stressful, Exhausting Endlessness.
Yet somehow, in the midst of it all, a mother is still so aware how fleeting the “little-ness” is. If only we could freeze in time those little arms and legs that snuggle us, those silly “mwaaahs” as they attempt to blow kisses while smacking themselves in the nose, the excitement in their little voices as they ask for a “gockie” (cookie), the way they hold the tv remote to their ears and say “Heh-wo”, the most priceless little giggles. If there were only some way to keep all of it and yet fast forward to a day when they’re more independent at the same time, we might just feel whole - like we could actually enjoy them and yet breathe at the same time.
But for now, I’ll just hold my breath and try to brace myself for the next yank on my puppet strings. I’m sure if I turn blue, nobody will notice anyway.
I see my toddler calling my name as though it is a sentence, “Mommy Mommy Mommy Mommy Mom-meeee.” I see myself answering her, to the exclusion of every other adult thought that needs to take place to keep this ship running. I see myself trying to think about something for more than four seconds in a row, and either not being able to think above the mind-numbing shrillness that has now become the calling of my name, or the suddenly too-quiet moment that jolts my brain into realizing something isn’t “normal” and I must go in search of her standing on a table or some other such danger.
I see my older child slipping further and further away into the fog that obscures him while the spotlight is shone brightly on the little one. I hear the turmoil in his life as he switches from trying to tell me every little detail of something that is interesting to him, to getting frustrated with me, to doting on his little sister with such sweetness or trying to protect her, to being the one who assails her. I hear it with those in-tune mother senses, and yet I watch powerlessly as he fades into the fog.
There are two drastically different sets of needs vying for my attention, and though my soul longs to fulfill all of them, all my ears can hear is the beating of my own heart, fiercely pounding out the rhythm of restlessness that reminds me how many of my own needs are not being met.
I am a puppet, but I do not dance. I am yanked to and fro in some sort of gangly display of limbs flailing as words spew out in no particular order and without the benefit of a well thought out script.
There are endless messes to clean up - cracker crumbs, cookie crumbs, bread crumbs, unidentifiable crumbs. There are globs that have splattered and those that have congealed and hardened into some sort of permanent fixture. There are potty sprinkles and water drips and worse - explosive diapers, projectile vomiting, blood stains and cat puke.
There are telephones ringing, bills I can’t pay, bank accounts to juggle, forms to fill out, inquiries to make. There are papers to shred, endless boxes and jugs and jars to recycle, light bulbs to replace, a dishwasher to load or unload - or heck, just try to determine if it’s clean or dirty. There is laundry to spray with stain remover, laundry to wash, laundry to fold and put away, clothing to buy, clothing to purge, clothing to mend. There are batteries to replace, 14 different size screwdrivers to hunt down, toys to curse for the ridiculous way I must nearly injure myself to access the battery compartment.
There are play dates to make, lunches and a bewildering array of bags to pack, routes to plan, and a whole host of “ace in my sleeve” games I must conjure up as “while we wait” sanity savers.
There are things to vacuum, scrub, dust, and scrape at with curiosity. There are lists to make, important papers to keep track of, and 876 phone numbers and email addresses I must store in my brain.
There is research - so much research, on everything from financial aid to how tall can trees grow to the pains in my own chest. There are computers to reboot, mice to shake and smack, and programmers to plot revenge upon.
There is milk to buy - AGAIN, diapers to buy - AGAIN, and longer jeans to buy to accommodate a growth spurt - AGAIN.
There are invitations to make, thank you cards to write, rooms to reorganize, forgotten toys to sneak out, 48 different tools to gather just to open 3 new toys.
There are moments to capture on video, memories and milestones to document, 3 owners manuals and 23 pages of website instructions to read to figure out how to then share those priceless gems.
There are baths to give, splashes to sop up, toys to air out, knots to detangle, fingernails to clip, hair to cut.
There are forgotten vitamins to take, doctors to avoid, weight to lose, and a pan of brownies whispering “resistance is futile”.
There is an infinite sea of reading, writing, calculating, budgeting, consuming, restocking, sorting, bagging up, bringing home and hauling away; an unending wave of checking, double-checking, turning off, unplugging, putting up higher, hiding away, and locking. All this is amidst the never-ending current of planning, asking, begging, coercing, manipulating, bartering, distracting and outsmarting.
And yet, when, in the endlessness of “Mommy Mommy Mommy Mom-meeee” and listening and refereeing and safety patrolling and training up in the way they should go, does anything else get done?
After all, I haven’t even eaten a warm meal or used the bathroom in 8 years and I’m not even sure I could pick my husband out of a line up.
Endlessness. Overwhelming, Stressful, Exhausting Endlessness.
Yet somehow, in the midst of it all, a mother is still so aware how fleeting the “little-ness” is. If only we could freeze in time those little arms and legs that snuggle us, those silly “mwaaahs” as they attempt to blow kisses while smacking themselves in the nose, the excitement in their little voices as they ask for a “gockie” (cookie), the way they hold the tv remote to their ears and say “Heh-wo”, the most priceless little giggles. If there were only some way to keep all of it and yet fast forward to a day when they’re more independent at the same time, we might just feel whole - like we could actually enjoy them and yet breathe at the same time.
But for now, I’ll just hold my breath and try to brace myself for the next yank on my puppet strings. I’m sure if I turn blue, nobody will notice anyway.
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