It’s one of those days. You know, the days when you could easily blame the children, but if you tell the truth, it’s not really them.
Sometimes, it’s the Other One. These are the days that are worse because if it were the children, you could chalk it up to kids just being kids. But, when it’s the other adult, all you can do is sit in shock and bewilderment, wondering where on earth he gets the gall to act like this.
Of course, it starts out as shock and bewilderment, but then it turns to anger, and then seething anger. Pretty soon you’ve got a list of wrongs dating back six years and you can’t wait to sling it in his face. How dare he put you through this now, after all he’s already put you through!
But as quickly as the anger comes, there is fear there too. Is this the end of the road? And then there is sadness - for what would be lost, for what could easily be fixed if he’d only listen to you, and for him - because you still love him and you don’t like to see him hurting so much that he can’t keep himself from hurting you.
Still, as much as anything else, you get mad at yourself. Why do we women fight so hard to be heard, to be treated as equals, but then find ourselves so dependent on these men?
It’s our hearts. We want to ride the high of his affection and we think we can weather the lows when he’s down. But sometimes, life kicks you, and it kicks him, and then it kicks him again and harder and harder, until he’s so far down that you can’t reach him anymore. He needs somebody to blame and you’re the closest target. So then that heart, that soft heart that led you straight into his loving arms to begin with, is now broken, desperately wondering if he will ever be pulled up from the muck and the mire and return to the prince you once knew. And you hate yourself for waiting it out. But you love him enough to wait.
These darn female hearts of ours. They take a beating until they are barely beating on their own, and yet they keep us bound. For those that we’ve loved are forever entangled in our hearts somehow, and no matter how messy it gets, we’re in it for the long haul.
But we’d give up chocolate and a good book and red wine if the long haul would take a serious shortcut.
Thursday, June 3, 2010
Thursday, May 6, 2010
Just hand over the drugs and nobody will get hurt
No matter how prepared I think I am, somehow our day always falls apart when somebody has to go to the pediatrician.
The Big Kid has been struggling with a cough that just wouldn’t go away. Honestly, I hadn’t even noticed all that much until my husband said something. Oh sure, I knew he’d been coughing, but the way my days all blend together, I just sort of lost track of time while the lyrics of “hack, hack, cough, cough” played on in the background. So, lest I be labeled a lousy mother, I called the pediatrician.
They could get him in at 4:10, which meant I’d have to ask my boss if I could leave a half hour early. That didn’t sound too bad until I arrived fifteen minutes late. Great, now I get to be a total loser, coming in late and leaving early. But as it were, the poor child could not stop coughing long enough to get ready for school. Around fifteen minutes before the bell was scheduled to ring, I gave up any hope of him being on time for school, or me being on time for work.
Instead, after the usual breaking up rivalry and screaming that somebody was going to get it and racing around to deliver 16 bags to the car, I took him along as I dropped off the Little Kid at the babysitter’s house because it didn’t make sense to backtrack since school and work are so close together. So, naively thinking I could still get it somewhat together at that point, I asked the babysitter to have Little Kid ready to go promptly at 3:00 in the afternoon, earlier than usual. Then, I raced back to the car to get Big Kid to school.
Had I known he would have a substitute teacher who was on the verge of a nervous breakdown, I may have reconsidered taking him to school at all. As it were, I didn’t want to lose out on my own paycheck as I can’t even afford milk right now, but after seeing this guy, I may have been willing to drink water for a week - or two. I never thought I’d find myself enabling a child to get out of class, but after seeing this sub for five minutes, I wanted to write the entire class a pass to go to the nurse’s office. This poor old man was part doddering professor and part military police. He was teetering between biting their heads off for the tiniest flinch and scrambling to figure out what to do when they asked him about something that wasn’t on the lesson plan. He’d tell them they could have more time to work on an assignment, and then two minutes later tell them they couldn’t because by golly, the lesson plan was laid out in 15 minute increments and they were already off schedule!
Then, here we are, walking in late, completely throwing a wrench in the man’s obviously well-oiled machine. I stood in the back of the classroom for a while, then even approached him and he still didn’t acknowledge me. He had this dodgy sort of look like he thought if he just avoided my eyes, he wouldn’t get hurt. I think he needed to go to the nurse’s office, but as it was, I forced him to look at me, so I could make him aware that my kid, unlike the three girls who had just returned from the nurse’s office, really was sick, so to please excuse him to the nurse if he complained or couldn’t stop coughing. I left there, wishing my son well and completely confident that the man had no idea which child was mine. I did, however, stop at the nurse’s office and tell her that if the correct child, somehow did magically appear in her office, to please just keep him there, away from that crazy old man.
When I finally arrived at work fifteen minutes late, I was already tired. It occurred to me, however, that I had failed to make someone at school aware that Big Kid was going to need to leave early for his appointment. So, I called and asked if he could be sent to the office when it was time for me to pick him up. Apparently, it’s too hard to stick a post-it note to your forehead, or the clock, and just follow through, so instead, I was told I’d have to call back five minutes before I was actually on my way. I already knew what would happen. I would call and get the answering machine. At 2:20, I called. Turns out, I’m a genius.
So, after repeated calls, now wanting to bang the phone against somebody’s head, I got through to a real person, who had to be reminded what grade my son is in, but in the end, did say they’d have him sent to the office to wait for me.
At 2:30, I made sure I left promptly to reverse the whole line of pit stops, so that I could gather both kids for the thirty to forty minute drive to the pediatrician and make it there on time, because we all know that “if you are going to be more than fifteen minutes late for your appointment, you will need to reschedule”, and there was no way on earth I was repeating this day.
We actually made it there, and through the waiting room maze in record time, as there was light traffic and a cancellation. When I got the kids back in the car, I started thinking how the consignment shop right down the street probably owed me money by now, and that might pay for the copay and prescription, if not a gallon of milk to boot. So, I braced myself for the Big Kid attitude that would surely come when I told him we were making a stop. Under normal circumstances, I wouldn’t blame him, but since I’d had a rough day already and just spent 30 minutes driving out to the doctor’s office, never once hearing even the slightest cough, I figured I could let go of my guilt and get my money.
We weren’t inside the consignment shop five minutes before I heard those words every mother dreads, “I have to go to the bathroom.” And of course, there is no public restroom at the consignment shop. More attitude ensued when I told him there were no bathrooms within walking distance and we would have to get in the car to take him somewhere, but as much as I did not want to have to do the whole buckle/unbuckle of Little Kid again, I couldn’t really be angry seeing as how I’d given the boy a hundred ounces of water to drink for his now silent cough.
After we completed our bathroom stop, we were finally back on the highway. But, by now, we were well on our way to 6:00 p.m. and we were all getting quite hungry and irritable with each other. I had to decide where to get his prescription filled, as due to a certain strong ingredient, the doctor’s office was unable to fax the order over and have it waiting for me upon arrival. Instead, I had to deliver it in person and wait around, with two tired, hungry children. Remembering that the grocery store closest to our home has the absolute worst pharmacy service I’ve ever seen, ignoring both the elderly and the pain-stricken children having a meltdown in front of their counter, I opted for a different grocery store chain, a little further down the street. It was the best of both worlds. We could drop off the prescription, shop for some groceries, then be on our way home to finally eat.
Note to self: anything that appears to be the best of both worlds, is really just my world about to spin off its axis.
When the pharmacy technician told me that they could not fill the order there, I felt the first tremor. Apparently, due to the one strong ingredient, they did not keep it stocked there.
Now I had two tired, hungry children and a very cranky Mama who would have to do the whole buckle/unbuckle thing for a fifth time tonight, because we’d have to make yet another stop to drop off the prescription - somewhere! Not knowing what else to do, we went ahead and got our groceries.
By the time we were finished, even the shopping cart itself was looking quite appetizing, but we headed on down the road to Walgreens just the same.
On the way in, I started the lecture, “We are not stopping to look at toys, candy, video games or anything else. We are walking directly to the pharmacy counter, we are dropping off this prescription, and we are walking directly back to the car. I do not want to hear fussing of any kind, so please keep your hands to yourself.”
So, when we successfully navigated the store by walking down the very boring, hosiery aisle, you can imagine, I’m sure, the look on my face when the pharmacist there told me that they, also, could not fill my prescription. Oh, they had it in stock - that was the first thing I asked. I even still had the wherewithal to ask if it was fruit-flavored for kids. They informed me that it was their last bottle, and that it was indeed, grape.
Wait a minute, back up. Did I just hear that this was their last bottle, that I was honestly standing ten feet from their last bottle, now with two very tired and hungry children and an extremely cranky Mama and now cold groceries in my trunk as well, and they were seriously telling me that I could not have it? In the morning, somebody was going to find the store alarm ringing and a very big hole where the brick went through the window. I was getting this prescription - one way or another.
I managed to stay calm long enough for them to explain that the doctor’s office had left some number off the form. Blasted nurse practitioners! I knew I shouldn’t have trusted that sweet demeanor and winning smile. Now I had cold groceries getting warm, cranky children and a diaper that was going to leak who knows what all over me any minute - all because of some stupid little number. But oh my goodness, if we don’t have the number, somebody in the insurance company is going to have a meltdown and we can’t have that, can we?
I have to hand it to the Walgreens pharmacist. He was a young man, probably not accustomed to dealing with a woman on the verge of becoming a vandal just so she could go home and eat, but he handled it with great courage. I pulled the doctor’s business card from my wallet, told him to call the exchange and just fix it. I did not care what it took - just fix it. I was going to leave his store, take my bedraggled children and my luke-warm groceries home, change a diaper, and eat the first thing I could get my hands on and when I returned I expected to have a grape-flavored narcotic, bottled up, labeled, and ready to numb my child into 12 hours of sleep. And while he was at it, he might want to bottle up something for me too, because I was going to need it.
Five minutes later, I was pulling into my driveway. When I saw the lights that indicated my husband was home, rather than working late as I’d anticipated, and I began to wonder if I could have dropped these children off to him hours ago, or at the very least, sent him out for this ridiculous goose chase of a prescription, my unhappy camper status was instantly upgraded to outraged, don’t-want-to-cross-her-in-the-woods camper. Somebody was going to pay for this day, and right then, it was looking like him.
When he became irritated that I barked at him to feed the children, he didn’t realize how narrowly he escaped harm when I found out that he in fact, had just arrived home too.
But I had no patience left to explain all that. So, I barked, and let the chips fall where they may.
It’s only been a few days ago and I don’t even remember who put the Little Kid to bed. I only remember that by 9:30, I had the yummy grape medicine in my hand, and soon after, into my child. Not long after that, I dropped into bed and when I looked back over my long day, I realized that except for first thing in the morning, I’d never heard the Big Kid cough once.
The Big Kid has been struggling with a cough that just wouldn’t go away. Honestly, I hadn’t even noticed all that much until my husband said something. Oh sure, I knew he’d been coughing, but the way my days all blend together, I just sort of lost track of time while the lyrics of “hack, hack, cough, cough” played on in the background. So, lest I be labeled a lousy mother, I called the pediatrician.
They could get him in at 4:10, which meant I’d have to ask my boss if I could leave a half hour early. That didn’t sound too bad until I arrived fifteen minutes late. Great, now I get to be a total loser, coming in late and leaving early. But as it were, the poor child could not stop coughing long enough to get ready for school. Around fifteen minutes before the bell was scheduled to ring, I gave up any hope of him being on time for school, or me being on time for work.
Instead, after the usual breaking up rivalry and screaming that somebody was going to get it and racing around to deliver 16 bags to the car, I took him along as I dropped off the Little Kid at the babysitter’s house because it didn’t make sense to backtrack since school and work are so close together. So, naively thinking I could still get it somewhat together at that point, I asked the babysitter to have Little Kid ready to go promptly at 3:00 in the afternoon, earlier than usual. Then, I raced back to the car to get Big Kid to school.
Had I known he would have a substitute teacher who was on the verge of a nervous breakdown, I may have reconsidered taking him to school at all. As it were, I didn’t want to lose out on my own paycheck as I can’t even afford milk right now, but after seeing this guy, I may have been willing to drink water for a week - or two. I never thought I’d find myself enabling a child to get out of class, but after seeing this sub for five minutes, I wanted to write the entire class a pass to go to the nurse’s office. This poor old man was part doddering professor and part military police. He was teetering between biting their heads off for the tiniest flinch and scrambling to figure out what to do when they asked him about something that wasn’t on the lesson plan. He’d tell them they could have more time to work on an assignment, and then two minutes later tell them they couldn’t because by golly, the lesson plan was laid out in 15 minute increments and they were already off schedule!
Then, here we are, walking in late, completely throwing a wrench in the man’s obviously well-oiled machine. I stood in the back of the classroom for a while, then even approached him and he still didn’t acknowledge me. He had this dodgy sort of look like he thought if he just avoided my eyes, he wouldn’t get hurt. I think he needed to go to the nurse’s office, but as it was, I forced him to look at me, so I could make him aware that my kid, unlike the three girls who had just returned from the nurse’s office, really was sick, so to please excuse him to the nurse if he complained or couldn’t stop coughing. I left there, wishing my son well and completely confident that the man had no idea which child was mine. I did, however, stop at the nurse’s office and tell her that if the correct child, somehow did magically appear in her office, to please just keep him there, away from that crazy old man.
When I finally arrived at work fifteen minutes late, I was already tired. It occurred to me, however, that I had failed to make someone at school aware that Big Kid was going to need to leave early for his appointment. So, I called and asked if he could be sent to the office when it was time for me to pick him up. Apparently, it’s too hard to stick a post-it note to your forehead, or the clock, and just follow through, so instead, I was told I’d have to call back five minutes before I was actually on my way. I already knew what would happen. I would call and get the answering machine. At 2:20, I called. Turns out, I’m a genius.
So, after repeated calls, now wanting to bang the phone against somebody’s head, I got through to a real person, who had to be reminded what grade my son is in, but in the end, did say they’d have him sent to the office to wait for me.
At 2:30, I made sure I left promptly to reverse the whole line of pit stops, so that I could gather both kids for the thirty to forty minute drive to the pediatrician and make it there on time, because we all know that “if you are going to be more than fifteen minutes late for your appointment, you will need to reschedule”, and there was no way on earth I was repeating this day.
We actually made it there, and through the waiting room maze in record time, as there was light traffic and a cancellation. When I got the kids back in the car, I started thinking how the consignment shop right down the street probably owed me money by now, and that might pay for the copay and prescription, if not a gallon of milk to boot. So, I braced myself for the Big Kid attitude that would surely come when I told him we were making a stop. Under normal circumstances, I wouldn’t blame him, but since I’d had a rough day already and just spent 30 minutes driving out to the doctor’s office, never once hearing even the slightest cough, I figured I could let go of my guilt and get my money.
We weren’t inside the consignment shop five minutes before I heard those words every mother dreads, “I have to go to the bathroom.” And of course, there is no public restroom at the consignment shop. More attitude ensued when I told him there were no bathrooms within walking distance and we would have to get in the car to take him somewhere, but as much as I did not want to have to do the whole buckle/unbuckle of Little Kid again, I couldn’t really be angry seeing as how I’d given the boy a hundred ounces of water to drink for his now silent cough.
After we completed our bathroom stop, we were finally back on the highway. But, by now, we were well on our way to 6:00 p.m. and we were all getting quite hungry and irritable with each other. I had to decide where to get his prescription filled, as due to a certain strong ingredient, the doctor’s office was unable to fax the order over and have it waiting for me upon arrival. Instead, I had to deliver it in person and wait around, with two tired, hungry children. Remembering that the grocery store closest to our home has the absolute worst pharmacy service I’ve ever seen, ignoring both the elderly and the pain-stricken children having a meltdown in front of their counter, I opted for a different grocery store chain, a little further down the street. It was the best of both worlds. We could drop off the prescription, shop for some groceries, then be on our way home to finally eat.
Note to self: anything that appears to be the best of both worlds, is really just my world about to spin off its axis.
When the pharmacy technician told me that they could not fill the order there, I felt the first tremor. Apparently, due to the one strong ingredient, they did not keep it stocked there.
Now I had two tired, hungry children and a very cranky Mama who would have to do the whole buckle/unbuckle thing for a fifth time tonight, because we’d have to make yet another stop to drop off the prescription - somewhere! Not knowing what else to do, we went ahead and got our groceries.
By the time we were finished, even the shopping cart itself was looking quite appetizing, but we headed on down the road to Walgreens just the same.
On the way in, I started the lecture, “We are not stopping to look at toys, candy, video games or anything else. We are walking directly to the pharmacy counter, we are dropping off this prescription, and we are walking directly back to the car. I do not want to hear fussing of any kind, so please keep your hands to yourself.”
So, when we successfully navigated the store by walking down the very boring, hosiery aisle, you can imagine, I’m sure, the look on my face when the pharmacist there told me that they, also, could not fill my prescription. Oh, they had it in stock - that was the first thing I asked. I even still had the wherewithal to ask if it was fruit-flavored for kids. They informed me that it was their last bottle, and that it was indeed, grape.
Wait a minute, back up. Did I just hear that this was their last bottle, that I was honestly standing ten feet from their last bottle, now with two very tired and hungry children and an extremely cranky Mama and now cold groceries in my trunk as well, and they were seriously telling me that I could not have it? In the morning, somebody was going to find the store alarm ringing and a very big hole where the brick went through the window. I was getting this prescription - one way or another.
I managed to stay calm long enough for them to explain that the doctor’s office had left some number off the form. Blasted nurse practitioners! I knew I shouldn’t have trusted that sweet demeanor and winning smile. Now I had cold groceries getting warm, cranky children and a diaper that was going to leak who knows what all over me any minute - all because of some stupid little number. But oh my goodness, if we don’t have the number, somebody in the insurance company is going to have a meltdown and we can’t have that, can we?
I have to hand it to the Walgreens pharmacist. He was a young man, probably not accustomed to dealing with a woman on the verge of becoming a vandal just so she could go home and eat, but he handled it with great courage. I pulled the doctor’s business card from my wallet, told him to call the exchange and just fix it. I did not care what it took - just fix it. I was going to leave his store, take my bedraggled children and my luke-warm groceries home, change a diaper, and eat the first thing I could get my hands on and when I returned I expected to have a grape-flavored narcotic, bottled up, labeled, and ready to numb my child into 12 hours of sleep. And while he was at it, he might want to bottle up something for me too, because I was going to need it.
Five minutes later, I was pulling into my driveway. When I saw the lights that indicated my husband was home, rather than working late as I’d anticipated, and I began to wonder if I could have dropped these children off to him hours ago, or at the very least, sent him out for this ridiculous goose chase of a prescription, my unhappy camper status was instantly upgraded to outraged, don’t-want-to-cross-her-in-the-woods camper. Somebody was going to pay for this day, and right then, it was looking like him.
When he became irritated that I barked at him to feed the children, he didn’t realize how narrowly he escaped harm when I found out that he in fact, had just arrived home too.
But I had no patience left to explain all that. So, I barked, and let the chips fall where they may.
It’s only been a few days ago and I don’t even remember who put the Little Kid to bed. I only remember that by 9:30, I had the yummy grape medicine in my hand, and soon after, into my child. Not long after that, I dropped into bed and when I looked back over my long day, I realized that except for first thing in the morning, I’d never heard the Big Kid cough once.
Monday, May 3, 2010
Shameless men and one shocked Mommy
I am a happily married woman. Well, maybe not always happily, but definitely always married. I do not look at the other fish in the sea, I do not flirt and I’m old and wise enough now to know that the grass is not greener on the other side.
No matter what phases we go through or spats we have, I love my husband. I’m not looking to trade him in or set him aside while I dabble in stupidity with somebody else. When I got married, I went into this with the attitude that it is for a lifetime.
Now, in today’s world, I know I may be in the minority, but I still wish that the men out there would at least have the decency to respect my marriage until I’ve given them some sign that I don’t.
It never ceases to amaze me how desperate some men are to find a woman. It should be an encouragement to us that we really are fine the way we are, that is, if it weren’t so doggone creepy. We spend so much time worrying about our weight, our hair, our adult acne, the jagged scar down the center of our face, the hair growing out of our chin, whether or not our adult diaper is showing through our pants - and yet, some guys don’t even seem to notice any of that stuff.
Or, the fact that we’re pregnant with one child and holding the hand of another.
Seriously.
Seriously?
I was once shopping for party supplies with my then preschool age son, when a store employee approached us and began to flirt with me, shamelessly.
I made every polite effort to make him aware of the child I had with me, the child I had in me, and the husband I had at home.
But this guy was not easily deterred. When I mentioned the husband, he became even more shameless and told me I could call on him if my husband wasn’t satisfying. Excuse me, my four year old child is standing beside me! Shameful. Plain and simple. Shameful.
That’s when the protective Mommy mode kicks in and this guy no longer has a snowflake’s chance in July to get away from me fast enough. I was not going to have this person, no longer deserving the honor of being called a “man”, stand there and model this behavior for my little boy.
No matter how far we’ve fallen from our marriage vows in today’s society, I still can’t believe the audacity of some people.
But as much as that guy was desperate in a creepy sort of way, there’s another one whose desperation would surely make the top ten list, but is much more laughable.
When I go in for my Cancer follow ups, I have to go to a department called Nuclear Medicine. They do all sorts of things there, but namely conveyor you under a high-tech camera for 45 minutes while they search for tumors or other signs that your body is turning against you.
Well, the last time I went in, I had to be verified in their computer system first. I was escorted to a desk by a very well-dressed, professional looking man. Now, let me remind you, I’d been without my regular medication for nearly a month, which means I’m pretty much fatigued, in a mental fog, hormonal and ready to beg, borrow or steal to get that tiny little pill back into my system. But, I can’t do that until the giant camera says I’m all clear. So, for the time being, I have to trudge through life like a sloth on Valium.
And yet, even in that puffy-faced, exhausted, glassy-eyed state, apparently, I’m attractive. To think of all the money I could have saved on cosmetics if I’d known this before I had Cancer!
This man, who you’d never think to be anything but completely professional by his appearance, turned out to be another shameless flirt. As he verified my existence in the computer, he noted with dissatisfaction that I am married. In my slowed brain activity state, it took me a minute or two to realize he was flirting. My first thought was something was wrong with our insurance and so help me if it screwed up my getting that beloved little pill back into my system, heads were going to roll!
But as it turned out, no one was in danger, and to his dismay, not even my marriage.
Not only was I not interested, it was all I could do not to burst out laughing.
I mean, come on. You want a woman in your life so badly that you’ll not only take one who looks like a bloated fish, but who could also potentially have a giant tumor eating away at her insides?
I guess that’s one way to avoid a long-term commitment.
I think when these things happen, I am, at first, dumbfounded that these guys, who you know at some point were gangly, awkward teenagers scared to death of rejection, now approach me with such gall. But then, it’s just plain bewildering to have been married two decades and spend your whole day tending to messy, whiny, naughty or otherwise needy children and then to suddenly be faced with how to respond to another man’s interest. Shoot, you’re usually so exhausted, you don’t even know how to respond to your husband’s interest!
If you think about it long enough though, it is kind of funny. As much as we feel like we’ve got a giant sign around our neck that reads, MOMMY, and that’s all we see ourselves as, there is always somebody out there who didn’t get the memo, or I guess, in this case, the birth announcement.
I guess I should be thankful. As a busy mom, this is just what I needed! I’m going to have so much time on my hands from now on, now that I know I don’t have to worry anymore. As soon as I finish off this package of Girl Scout cookies, I’m going to pull on my “fat” pants and toss out my mascara.
And if my husband takes issue with that, I’ll just send him out to look for pregnant women and Cancer patients.
Oh wait, he’s already had both of those and he’s still here. Wow. I’m the luckiest girl in the world.
Thursday, April 29, 2010
Mirror mirror
Mirror mirror on the wall, who’s the best mommy of them all?
Why is it that when you stand before that all-telling Mommy Mirror, you never see your own, true reflection?
It’s as though there are a hundred other women shoving you out of the way, eager to mark up the glass with their own fingerprints, until you can’t see yourself at all.
First in line is that mom who bounces into school at 8:00 a.m. with flawless hair and makeup, looking like she, and those little designer-backpack-toting duplicates of herself just stepped out of a photo shoot. She dutifully counts heads, as well as lunch bags, mittens, and science projects, while you’re still yawning and wondering if you left one of your own kids at home in the bathroom.
Her best friend is over-achiever mom. This woman’s children spout scripture like it’s a second language, speak a second language like it’s their first, and have a thorough knowledge of sign language ... just in case. She’s doesn’t have time to talk to you. She’s got places to be, 19 to be exact. There’s soccer, ballet, choir rehearsal, gymnastics, karate, Bible study, historical reenactment, softball, drama practice, archery, track meet, spelling bee finals, fund-raiser merchandise pick up, cheerleading try-outs, homeroom party committee, library drop off, Mommy & Me, Yoga and PTA. And she has to bake 132 cupcakes before tomorrow morning - from scratch.
High-tech mom is just as bad. She’s everywhere - at school, in the McDonald’s play area, sitting in the stands at Little League practice - because there’s nowhere all her gadgets can’t go. She can chat on her Bluetooth, sway her hips along with her iPod, update her Facebook status and whip an email off to her CEO without ever missing a moment of her children’s lives. Every time you see her, you desperately try to remember if you even took pictures of your kid’s last birthday.
Then there’s homeschool mom. She’s the calm, collected one whose genius IQ children are creeping quietly around the yard with metal detectors and archaeology tools while you smile sheepishly, flushing mud pies out of your kids’ mouths with the garden hose for the fifth time.
If that weren’t enough pressure, you’ve also got to contend with happy-homemaker, next-door neighbor mom, whose aromas of home-cooked meals waft into your open window at precisely 6:00 p.m. every day, while you’re still standing in front of the open fridge, trying to decide between hot dogs and pizza rolls.
And who could ever live up to bath-every-night, brush-three-times-a-day, early-bedtime mom? Her squeaky clean, sparkling, well-rested children never have a virus, cavity, or mid-day meltdown. Not to mention her smiley, smitten husband who gets to watch Prime time tv in peace, still has time to hang the Do Not Disturb sign and get eight hours of sleep before the kid-alarm goes off in the morning.
With all these women and more vying for a spot in front of your mirror, it’s very easy to get lost in the crowd. To lose sight of yourself.
But let me tell you a little secret. Shhh... don’t let anyone else know.
Stand on your tippy-toes.
That’s right, you heard me.
Right there, in the middle of the crowd, just rise up.
Now, look! Down there in the front, going against the crowd, are your children. They’re not looking at all those other moms; they are looking for you. For they remember something that you’ve forgotten.
They are your mirror.
It doesn’t matter that you’re not like all those other moms. You are their mom. And the only thing you’ll see reflected in them is love.
You love them. They know it. And that’s more than enough.
Why is it that when you stand before that all-telling Mommy Mirror, you never see your own, true reflection?
It’s as though there are a hundred other women shoving you out of the way, eager to mark up the glass with their own fingerprints, until you can’t see yourself at all.
First in line is that mom who bounces into school at 8:00 a.m. with flawless hair and makeup, looking like she, and those little designer-backpack-toting duplicates of herself just stepped out of a photo shoot. She dutifully counts heads, as well as lunch bags, mittens, and science projects, while you’re still yawning and wondering if you left one of your own kids at home in the bathroom.
Her best friend is over-achiever mom. This woman’s children spout scripture like it’s a second language, speak a second language like it’s their first, and have a thorough knowledge of sign language ... just in case. She’s doesn’t have time to talk to you. She’s got places to be, 19 to be exact. There’s soccer, ballet, choir rehearsal, gymnastics, karate, Bible study, historical reenactment, softball, drama practice, archery, track meet, spelling bee finals, fund-raiser merchandise pick up, cheerleading try-outs, homeroom party committee, library drop off, Mommy & Me, Yoga and PTA. And she has to bake 132 cupcakes before tomorrow morning - from scratch.
High-tech mom is just as bad. She’s everywhere - at school, in the McDonald’s play area, sitting in the stands at Little League practice - because there’s nowhere all her gadgets can’t go. She can chat on her Bluetooth, sway her hips along with her iPod, update her Facebook status and whip an email off to her CEO without ever missing a moment of her children’s lives. Every time you see her, you desperately try to remember if you even took pictures of your kid’s last birthday.
Then there’s homeschool mom. She’s the calm, collected one whose genius IQ children are creeping quietly around the yard with metal detectors and archaeology tools while you smile sheepishly, flushing mud pies out of your kids’ mouths with the garden hose for the fifth time.
If that weren’t enough pressure, you’ve also got to contend with happy-homemaker, next-door neighbor mom, whose aromas of home-cooked meals waft into your open window at precisely 6:00 p.m. every day, while you’re still standing in front of the open fridge, trying to decide between hot dogs and pizza rolls.
And who could ever live up to bath-every-night, brush-three-times-a-day, early-bedtime mom? Her squeaky clean, sparkling, well-rested children never have a virus, cavity, or mid-day meltdown. Not to mention her smiley, smitten husband who gets to watch Prime time tv in peace, still has time to hang the Do Not Disturb sign and get eight hours of sleep before the kid-alarm goes off in the morning.
With all these women and more vying for a spot in front of your mirror, it’s very easy to get lost in the crowd. To lose sight of yourself.
But let me tell you a little secret. Shhh... don’t let anyone else know.
Stand on your tippy-toes.
That’s right, you heard me.
Right there, in the middle of the crowd, just rise up.
Now, look! Down there in the front, going against the crowd, are your children. They’re not looking at all those other moms; they are looking for you. For they remember something that you’ve forgotten.
They are your mirror.
It doesn’t matter that you’re not like all those other moms. You are their mom. And the only thing you’ll see reflected in them is love.
You love them. They know it. And that’s more than enough.
Monday, April 26, 2010
The mouse trap
The night before last, I got three hours of sleep. The Little Kid’s vomiting started at midnight and I didn’t drop into bed until 4:00 a.m.
Round and round I went - drying her tears, calming her fears, changing jammies and sheets, cleaning the carpet, wiping down the mat I had now limited her to sitting on, changing jammies again, calming her fears again, drying tears again, rinsing more clothing, cleaning her up again, drying tears again, wiping down the mat again, rinsing more clothing, then back to change jammies again. It just seemed to go on forever - 1 sheet, 1 mattress pad, 5 pairs of jammie pants, 3 jammie shirts, 2 pairs of socks, 3 blankets, 2 diapers, 2 washcloths, and a truckload of disinfecting wipes, paper towels, carpet cleaner, stain remover and laundry detergent.
When I finally collapsed into bed it was like a boulder hitting the ocean floor.
The day and a half since then have not been much better, since I have not fully recovered from the sleep deprivation, but then, as moms, do we ever?
While I’ve known for a while that sleep deprivation is a continual state of being, I’m starting to see another pattern emerge. It’s the Mommy Maze.
You know the one; it’s just like that little box the mice run around in. You think you’re getting somewhere, but then you hit a dead end, so you double back the way you came and you end up running the whole stupid track all over again. Once in a while, you take a different path, thinking you’ll surely get further along this time, but then, BAM, you hit another wall and before you know it, you’re back at the starting line again.
My days are like this so often that I can almost feel the eyes of some group of unseen spectators.
Just as I went round and round cleaning up after my poor, sick little one, I spend the rest of my waking hours feeling like I’m not getting anywhere.
No sooner than I sit down at the computer, I hear, “I need help, please”, so I jump up. Not just once, but every two minutes, or every time I start to put a coherent thought together, whichever comes first.
If I try to rinse bowls and load the dishwasher, I will inevitably have to dry my hands fifteen times because there will be something that requires my urgent attention every 6.8 seconds.
If I finally get a chance to put lotion on my aching, dry hands, there will surely be a poopy diaper that will require me to wash my hands and thus, wash away said lotion.
If I pick up a trail of toys at 12:30 to get ready for naptime, by the time I return with the blanket and pacifier at 12:35, there will now be a pile of books on the floor instead.
By the time I can sit down to my own dinner, Big Kid is already handing me his dirty dishes and Little Kid is asking to be cleaned up and freed from the high chair.
And if it’s not the kids, it’s the Other One. You know who I’m talking about. The one who is supposed to help you get out of this maze alive, but instead just barrels ahead, kicking more roadblocks into your path.
The wrinkle-free laundry that was wadded up and thrown into the basket. The laundry that was never supposed to go into the dryer in the first place. The laundry that was so considerately hung up to dry, but never shaken or smoothed out, so you now have to decide between ironing or just washing again.
And then there are the “clean” dishes. You know, the ones you pull from the high-end model dishwasher he must be fantasizing that you own.
Or it’s the shoes leaving black streaks across the kitchen floor before the mop has even had time to dry.
Path after path after path, they all hit a dead end. I retrace my steps, I try again, I double back. At first I hit my head on accident. By the end of the day, I am bashing it in a conscious effort to free myself from this torture, one way or another.
But once in a while, I get to feeling bold, so I stand up and peek over a wall. I am astonished to see other women who seem to be able to navigate this maze with such ease. They are racing along running businesses, completing their master’s degree, marketing inventions, winning awards. They are reaching for the stars, while I lay sprawled out watching stars dance around my throbbing head.
I just don’t get it. I don’t understand if this success is just a lucky combination of genes, some trial and error concoction of ingredients they drank, or the good fortune of bashing their head against a secret passageway.
All I know is I’m not getting anywhere and I’ve got a giant headache.
Round and round I went - drying her tears, calming her fears, changing jammies and sheets, cleaning the carpet, wiping down the mat I had now limited her to sitting on, changing jammies again, calming her fears again, drying tears again, rinsing more clothing, cleaning her up again, drying tears again, wiping down the mat again, rinsing more clothing, then back to change jammies again. It just seemed to go on forever - 1 sheet, 1 mattress pad, 5 pairs of jammie pants, 3 jammie shirts, 2 pairs of socks, 3 blankets, 2 diapers, 2 washcloths, and a truckload of disinfecting wipes, paper towels, carpet cleaner, stain remover and laundry detergent.
When I finally collapsed into bed it was like a boulder hitting the ocean floor.
The day and a half since then have not been much better, since I have not fully recovered from the sleep deprivation, but then, as moms, do we ever?
While I’ve known for a while that sleep deprivation is a continual state of being, I’m starting to see another pattern emerge. It’s the Mommy Maze.
You know the one; it’s just like that little box the mice run around in. You think you’re getting somewhere, but then you hit a dead end, so you double back the way you came and you end up running the whole stupid track all over again. Once in a while, you take a different path, thinking you’ll surely get further along this time, but then, BAM, you hit another wall and before you know it, you’re back at the starting line again.
My days are like this so often that I can almost feel the eyes of some group of unseen spectators.
Just as I went round and round cleaning up after my poor, sick little one, I spend the rest of my waking hours feeling like I’m not getting anywhere.
No sooner than I sit down at the computer, I hear, “I need help, please”, so I jump up. Not just once, but every two minutes, or every time I start to put a coherent thought together, whichever comes first.
If I try to rinse bowls and load the dishwasher, I will inevitably have to dry my hands fifteen times because there will be something that requires my urgent attention every 6.8 seconds.
If I finally get a chance to put lotion on my aching, dry hands, there will surely be a poopy diaper that will require me to wash my hands and thus, wash away said lotion.
If I pick up a trail of toys at 12:30 to get ready for naptime, by the time I return with the blanket and pacifier at 12:35, there will now be a pile of books on the floor instead.
By the time I can sit down to my own dinner, Big Kid is already handing me his dirty dishes and Little Kid is asking to be cleaned up and freed from the high chair.
And if it’s not the kids, it’s the Other One. You know who I’m talking about. The one who is supposed to help you get out of this maze alive, but instead just barrels ahead, kicking more roadblocks into your path.
The wrinkle-free laundry that was wadded up and thrown into the basket. The laundry that was never supposed to go into the dryer in the first place. The laundry that was so considerately hung up to dry, but never shaken or smoothed out, so you now have to decide between ironing or just washing again.
And then there are the “clean” dishes. You know, the ones you pull from the high-end model dishwasher he must be fantasizing that you own.
Or it’s the shoes leaving black streaks across the kitchen floor before the mop has even had time to dry.
Path after path after path, they all hit a dead end. I retrace my steps, I try again, I double back. At first I hit my head on accident. By the end of the day, I am bashing it in a conscious effort to free myself from this torture, one way or another.
But once in a while, I get to feeling bold, so I stand up and peek over a wall. I am astonished to see other women who seem to be able to navigate this maze with such ease. They are racing along running businesses, completing their master’s degree, marketing inventions, winning awards. They are reaching for the stars, while I lay sprawled out watching stars dance around my throbbing head.
I just don’t get it. I don’t understand if this success is just a lucky combination of genes, some trial and error concoction of ingredients they drank, or the good fortune of bashing their head against a secret passageway.
All I know is I’m not getting anywhere and I’ve got a giant headache.
Friday, April 23, 2010
A dollar only goes so far
Right now, there are fifteen things on our have-to-have list, and I have only one dollar in my wallet.
The credit cards are maxed out, and payday isn’t for another week.
And even then, I have to pay the mortgage and the car payment.
I get so tired of waiting for a miracle. I get so tired of looking into my children’s adoring faces and knowing that I am “mom”, the one who is supposed to keep everything running smoothly, the one who is supposed to have all the answers, and the one who is supposed to be able to automatically dispense whatever it is they need.
But sometimes I can’t, and it makes me angry - not at them, but at our circumstances. And I get crabby. Of course, they don’t understand, and then I just get sad.
If only motherhood came with a $100,000 sign on bonus.
Then, we wouldn’t have to make the hard choices.
Do we look into that excited little face and tell him that he can’t go to the birthday party because we can’t afford a present, or do we buy the present and skimp on groceries instead?
Do we skip a fun day at the festival or the zoo because even if there is free admission, there will be pony rides, activities and refreshments that aren’t in the budget?
Will Santa have to bring a little less this year because we’ll soon have to replace coats and snow boots, or worse yet, the furnace?
There just seems to be a never ending line of decisions to make that are all tied to money. If my children were just spoiled and suddenly money became tight, I wouldn’t think twice about cutting back and making them do with a little less. But when you have sweet children who have never thrown a tantrum in a store and rarely ask for anything over a dollar, it’s extremely hard to figure out how to give them a normal, happy childhood with fun experiences and fairy tales to believe in while they’re young - when the money just isn’t there.
And aside from just trying to preserve the innocence and fun of childhood, there are the bigger issues, the ones you talk about late at night, or when they’re out of ear shot.
How are we going to pay for the life insurance, car repair, new washing machine? How far can we stretch the tax refund? Will one of us have to take on an extra job?
And then there are the emotional issues, the ones that a Mommy has rooted so deeply in her heart that she can’t bear to think about them. Will we have to move? Change schools? Babysitters? Cancel plans and break promises? How can I bear to look into my children’s eyes and tell them that everything they are familiar with, everything that gives them security and friendship and a sense of belonging could change?
How is a mother, who loves all her children equally, supposed to make a choice between them? If I choose to change schools and cancel plans, it hurts Big Kid, and tears my heart out. If I choose to take an extra job to keep Big Kid’s life humming along smoothly, I lose these precious toddler years with Little Kid that I can never get back, and that tears my heart out. It seems no matter what choice we make, somebody loses, or everybody loses in some way.
But if I just bury my head in the sand, eventually there will be a foreclosure sign staked next to it.
Still, the choices are too hard. A mom should never have to choose between time with her children, making her children feel loved and connected, giving them memories with her or taking a job to pay for their basic needs. How do you choose between food in their bellies or love and security in their hearts.
And every moment that I don’t decide is another moment of their childhoods spent in worry, stolen from me forever. It’s a vicious cycle in my head.
Maybe you’ve got the same heaviness in your heart right now. Maybe there are impossible decisions to make and not enough time to make them. Maybe they’re being made for you and you’re angry.
Or maybe you’re like me, just closing your eyes, trying to drown out everything but your children’s laughter, and praying for a miracle.
Saturday, April 17, 2010
Taking naps and prisoners
I put the little kid down for a nap, though she has yet to fall asleep, twenty minutes later. In fact, quite the opposite. She’s been singing, talking, and listening to two different dueling music boxes, not to mention screeching some gibberish at the top of her lungs, all of which is piped through to me via the baby monitor.
So much for my quiet writing atmosphere.
So, I sit here looking around the room. Without even moving from my chair, I see four books, a baby doll stroller, an empty cardboard toy box, a game with scattered bean bags, four puzzles, a long-outgrown push toy, a mini frisbee, an upside down baby doll plate, an upside down baby doll potty, a baby doll bowl, a baby doll visor and bow, two containers filled with put and take toys, fifty or so toy magnets, a basket of crayons, stacks of half-colored papers, a half-eaten bowl of Goldfish crackers, a toy remote control, a toy shopping cart, a pretend kitchen with baby diapers on the stove burners, a toy boombox that needs batteries, a baby doll high chair, a pretend dishwasher, a face-down baby doll, and about four items that actually belong to an adult.
And now the baby monitor is screaming, “Mama! Mama!” - only thirty minutes into the attempted nap.
It’s no wonder that I feel so uninspired. Everywhere I turn there is a reminder that I am one thing, and one thing only, a mom.
Just a little bit ago, I watched my neighbor back out of her driveway. She appeared to be leaving without kids. It was all I could do not to run after her, latch onto her bumper and let her drag me halfway down the block before she realized I was there and let me get in beside her.
Now I see that the same neighbor’s husband is outside, doing yard work. The children must not be at home. I marvel at this for a few minutes. How does one accomplish such a feat, I wonder? My children are always home!
In fact, I just bit the bullet and opened the forbidden nap time door to see what all the “Mama!” yelling was about. It seems the little kid wanted me to help her pull her sock onto her hand, a task she could not perform on her own due to the other hand already housing the other sock.
Seriously? This is what my life has boiled down to? Pleading with someone who is not even a tenth of my age to lay down and close her eyes, so that I can go back and live vicariously through the neighbors out my kitchen window?
Oh sure, I could do laundry, pick up the afore-mentioned littering of toys or sort through the basket of junk mail, but how is that any more exciting?
I need something. But what? Excitement? I’m not sure that’s it. Excitement wanes quickly. To talk to an old friend? That’d be nice, but probably a bit one-sided since I have nothing to talk about. To spend time with Big Kid and appease the left-out feelings of late? Sure, but right now he wouldn’t take too kindly to me interrupting his computer game. To talk to hubby? Yeah right, like he’s going to wake from his sofa coma after working extra hours all week. To do one of the countless projects I’ve been putting off since the birth of Little Kid? Most definitely, but seeing as how nap time is short and my attention span for projects is long, I’d only end up frustrated that I couldn’t finish. So what then?
It makes me realize why so many of us turn to food. More calories - that must be it!
And yet my bulging belly and lonely exercise equipment tell me food isn’t the answer either.
So, what is it then?
What is it we moms are looking for?
Purpose. Fulfillment. Validation as a unique person.
Now I think I’m on to something. And yet, how do you accomplish something profound in the span of the two hour - or less the way it’s going today - nap time?
And what happens - gasp- when they stop taking naps altogether?
Even as I write this, and know full well Little Kid is on her way to two and a half, then three, I am in denial. She will take naps until she is thirty-two.
If she doesn’t, I may start taking them.
I may start today, seeing as how it’s now been sixty minutes and she is not only still singing through the baby monitor, but making the most obnoxious commotion turning her music box to full volume.
There will obviously be no nap today, which means by 6:30 when she truly is worn out, the naughty behavior will begin. After two hours of dealing with discipline issues, I will be worn out as well, which in turn means no profound writing at bedtime either.
I will remain frustrated the entire day, possibly carrying over in to tomorrow, since I will feel that I’ve had no break at all.
And speaking of no break at all, here comes the big kid, in search of a snack, but first barging in to tell me the full details of something unfolding on his computer game, completely unaware, it seems, of the keyboard at my fingertips, or that I may be trying to concentrate on something. But as quickly as he blew in and interrupted my thoughts, he is gone again, back to the solace of the basement and Drowsy-Daddy. Everybody but me is far, far away from the chaos on the other end of the baby monitor.
I think back and I try to peer into the past, before I had kids. I try to see myself young and full of ideas, dreams, possibilities. I try to figure out what in the world I was thinking motherhood would be like. Ah yes, I can picture it now. I see my young self coming into focus. And then it hits me. I know what I will do with my two hour nap time. I will build a time machine so that I can go back to that younger me and smack myself upside the head.
Saturday, April 10, 2010
A broken record still spins
“You sound like a broken record.”
If you’re in the over 30 crowd, you probably know what that means without even hesitating to think about it, so bear with me a moment while I clear this up for the younger generations.
Before there were iPods, there were CDs.
Before CDs, there were cassette tapes.
Before cassette tapes, there were 8 track tapes.
Before there were 8 track tapes, there were records.
If you’ve ever seen the Toy Story 2 movie, it’s that thingamajig that Woody and Jessie are running around and around in circles on in the Woody’s Roundup merchandise scene.
Well, we older folks used to watch those records spin round and round, waiting for the needle to hit the right groove and the tunes begin to fill the air. But ever once in a while, that needle would get stuck and the same lyric would repeat over and over again until you manually lifted the needle arm and repositioned it. It was kind of like the “antique” version of your computer not buffering a video online, and you keep trying to refresh the page or restart the video.
Until now, I’d always thought people used that phrase, “You sound like a broken record” when another adult was nagging them or telling them the same information over and over again.
But now that I have kids, I’m realizing that the person who first coined that phrase, must have had a two year old in the house.
I know because my entire day pretty much goes like this:
Where my Daddy?
At work
Where Big Kid?
At school
Where’s the cat?
On the bed
Where my Daddy?
At work
Where Big Kid?
At school!
Where’s the cat?
On the bed!
Where my Daddy?
At work!!!
Oh.
Baby Tessa (at the babysitter’s house) eat toast and banana
She does?
Yes, Baby Tessa eat toast and banana
That’s good
Baby Tessa eat toast and banana
That’s a good breakfast
Baby Tessa eat toast and banana
That’s great. That sounds yummy
Baby Tessa eat toast and banana
That’s wonderful, Honey. Mama’s head is going to explode now.
Plode?
Yes, explode
Mama’s head, 'plode now?
Yes.
Mama’s head, 'plode now again?
There isn’t a migraine pill on this planet that is big enough...
Oh, but my favorite moments are when the record gets stuck, but instead of somebody repositioning the needle, they just rip the record off the player altogether and put a new one on, spinning your brain off into confused rotations that never quite catch up.
That goes something like this:
Me eat chicken for dinner?
Yes
Me eat chicken for dinner?
Yes, Mama is going to cook the chicken
Me eat chicken for dinner?
Yes, I’m going to make the chicken in just a minute
Me eat chi-. No! I not wear my red jammie pants for night night!
Yes Sweetheart, the chicken will be ready in a few jammie pants...wait a minute... WHAT?
Oh sure, you moms of infants and one year olds, just sit there and chuckle. Go ahead and think to yourself, why don't you just ignore it. Trust me, your time is coming.
There is something about turning two that enables the voice to reach a whole new decibel level. And they are not afraid to use it. So go ahead, try to ignore it. Yeah, good luck with that. It will only get louder, and Louder, and LOUDER.
You will be expected to comment. Not just once. Every single time. When you are in the bathroom. When you are on the phone. When you are walking the big kid into school, talking to the teacher. When you are cooking, driving, balancing the checkbook, emailing your boss, reading a legal document or doing your taxes. If you are clipping your toenails, unwrapping a tampon, vomiting or gargling mouthwash - doesn’t matter. When the needle is stuck, you either have to sing along to the same thing over and over and over again or whack that thing off its axis.
Since it’s neither legally nor morally acceptable to let your mind wander down that path, you comment. Every single time. Every single time. Every single time...
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