By the time I found out I was expecting a child, I was already an old pro. Or so I thought...
I’d had ten nieces and nephews on whom to practice all my kid skills. I could change a diaper, wipe cotton candy from a face and fingers, buckle a car seat, and play hours upon hours of silly games. I’d been given countless compliments and told what a great mother I’d be someday. So, when I found out I was soon to be a mother, I thought I had this in the bag.
I had the basics covered, so my thoughts moved on to what I would teach my future valedictorian. Of course, we’d start with learning to walk, forming a few words. Then there were letters and numbers and shapes. We’d tackle reading and writing and basic addition. Surely I had enough wisdom to impart in those first five years that my child would be a stellar kindergarten student someday.
Little did I know that the wisdom I thought I had would be spent in the first sixteen months, and the things I never realized I’d have to know, are still going strong seven years later.
The first deflation of my ego came when I realized that buckling a car seat is much different than installing a car seat. All those straps and buckles and “extra” parts for certain models of vehicles, along with a manual written in 14 languages and a conversion to the latch system, was enough for me to look at my husband and say, “Have a good time, Honey.” Two kids later, I have never once installed a car seat.
From there I quickly realized that when it was my own child, cotton candy was just not something I would even consider buying. Somehow stickiness that requires a full blown bath is not the same as a quick, wet-washcloth wipe down. And those hours of silly games - somebody rescue me! I never, and I mean never, would have started some of those games, had I realized my little thriving-on-repetition child would still be asking me to indulge four years later! And I most certainly would have reconsidered the whole, having children several years apart and having to start all over again madness. What seemed like such innocent fun and gained such a heartwarming squeal of a reward in the beginning, can seem like some sort of twisted, self-torture, by the time they are both in elementary school.
And then there is elementary school. Good ol’ kindergarten, to which we’ve been aspiring for five years. Who knew that preparing your child was such a two-edged sword. Who knew that a sponge, continually exposed to water, would just bulge and threaten to overflow with the slightest squeeze.
All those letters and numbers and shapes that were introduced so timidly, with such little expectations to a small toddler, were consumed like Cheerios and animal cookies. My son could identify the red ball or the matching pair of giraffes in the Noah’s Ark, and well, the entire alphabet, before we expired the first 24 months. When he reached two, he was correcting people’s “childish” vocabulary with words like bison and teal and dogwood. By the time he reached kindergarten, I was exhausted of knowledge and was concerned not only for the teachers’ welfare but for the potential boredom that my son may soon associate with formal schooling.
And yet for all my unfounded academic worries, I learned, to my bewilderment, that there are other skills you must teach a child that never once crossed my mind. There are skills I possess, for which I quickly gained a whole new appreciation and sense of gratefulness to whomever endured my own childhood instruction. For these are the qualities I mistakenly thought were just inborn, somehow intrinsically known to those of us who are of the “higher intelligence” human species.
But apparently, there are just some areas where animal instinct seems to trump our glorified intelligence.
For instance, when I carefully laid out the alphabet blocks to instill a sense of order, or turned that puzzle piece to impart a sense of perception and absoluteness, it never would have occurred to me that despite this child’s ability to grasp these challenging new concepts, there would be others that would escape him like a ship into the fog.
Had anyone ever told me I would find myself giving such ludicrous instructions, I would surely have deemed them crazy and wondered about their own qualifications to raise a child.
And yet, despite the fact that my son could count to one thousand, fly through a set of DVD menus like they were Candy Land squares, and spout off conversation like a 45 year old, I, indeed, had to succumb to the cold-hard fact that my child was challenged in other ways.
Apparently, no matter how many What to Expect and How to Prepare for a Private School When Your Child is Yet an Infant books you read, there is no way to prepare for the confounding of your own brain when you hear yourself say:
“Keep your head up or you will walk into that wall.”
“If you have to cover your own ears, you could just stop screaming.”
“If the other nine fingers are already bandaged, you might not want to touch that again.”
“Because YOU just asked me to, that’s why!”
There are just some things that you never get used to as a mother. Balancing ego with complete and utter embarrassment is just such delicate ground.
It’s that incredulous look from the other mom at the park, to whom you just bragged about junior’s ability to translate from Latin, when your kid is now eating sand or plopping off the slide backwards, that keeps you from ever really becoming too prideful.
But then, maybe it’s good for our own self-esteem too. For the next time she boasts her little one’s adeptness at dialing 9-1-1, you can be sure she’s leaving out the part where the firemen broke through her living room window in an unnecessary attempt to save her life while she simply lay on the floor to retrieve the crayon that rolled under the hutch.
The one good part that comes from eradicating all delusions with your first child, is that by the time you have your second child, you have learned to keep your mouth shut. Because, after all, you never know when they are going to open theirs.
Thursday, February 11, 2010
Sunday, February 7, 2010
Dreaming of Me
I’m sure I used to have loads of time on my hands before I had children, but I can not fathom what I did with all of it.
Oh sure, there are vague memories of making scrapbooks of my nieces and nephews, working on my novel (no, it still isn’t finished), and watching some now long-canceled, favorite tv shows, but really, how much time could that have taken up?
I’m sure I visited with friends, but what on earth did we talk about before we all had kids?
It is bewildering to me that such a large portion of my life was somehow sucked into an invisible vacuum. After all, I waited ten years to have a child, so we’re not talking just a few weeks after the honeymoon here. Oh, did I say honeymoon? I meant, those few days we took off work, but that’s another sob story entirely...
I wish I could simply go to the file cabinet, and pull out all the receipts of life, that would tell me in their faded black and white, and occasional pink-striped imprint, where I was and how I spent my time. But that file doesn’t exist.
That time is simply gone. Vanished from Earth. Erased from memory.
Oh how I wish I could stick my hand into a coat pocket and magically pull out all the time I had stored there, like some forgotten ten dollar bill. Better yet, it would be wonderful to learn that I’d deposited all that time into an account somewhere, and it had been multiplying ever since.
Now that I do have kids, there doesn’t seem to be a free minute anywhere. Not to write (until they’re sleeping, like now), not to even remember my nieces and nephews names, not to watch even a five minute sound bite of television let alone an entire favorite show, and certainly not to scrapbook. And even if I could visit with a friend, I’d be interrupted ninety-two times and by the day’s end, all I would remember is thirty-seven different trails of conversations that were never finished.
But then there are other times, when a sudden windfall of extra time is a startling, scary prospect. For as much as I complain that I can’t get everything done, there are those brief, rare moments when I look around and everything is as caught up as I care to make it at the moment, and the kids are occupied elsewhere and I think, what do I do now?
Those five words - what do I do now - which of course, if challenged, I’d swear I would never utter, hit me in the face like a sudden gust of wind. It is the wind of change, sweeping through quickly, just to serve as a reminder to my complacent world, that it is always just over the mountain top, around the corner, waiting in the shadows.
For surely, times will change, just as they have since, well, the beginning of time. There will come a day when the children are grown, when they are the ones complaining, “There are never enough hours in the day!” and I will be left to figure out what to do with all my time.
Once in a while, I am faced with that decision, and I am shocked to find that I have no answer. In those moments when I am eating a chocolate, chocolate chip cookie and I think, What will I do when this cookie is gone? Eat another one? And then another? Or, exercise? Surely not! And yet to find that without my children commanding my every movement, I am somewhat lost, adrift, is rather frightening.
When did I lose myself? When did I cease to be able to fill an hour with something I am passionate about? When did I forget what I used to be passionate about?
What is this mystery that is motherhood? How do we go from intelligent, fun-loving, social people to an entire-package-of-cookies eating, uninspired, undefined outline of a person, no longer even knowing how to fill in that blank?
Because for far too long we have filled in that blank with, I am Jessie’s mom, Sam’s mom, Brandon’s mom. Somewhere along the way we ceased to define ourselves as anything other than what our children’s playmates call us.
And yet if we could peer back into that vacuum, the one that contains the shadows of our former selves, what would we say about ourselves? I am... what? A painter. A musician. A writer. Or perhaps it would be a history-buff, bookworm, bird-watcher. Maybe you’d find yourself saying, I’m a student, a church choir member, a community activist. A crossword puzzle enthusiast, a doll collector, a blue ribbon bake-off winner.
Who did you use to be? Who would you be now if you could snatch up time like handfuls of pennies and wish them into something more?
Are your children at school? Napping? Playing with friends? Put down that cookie and look around. Look past the stacks of bills and laundry, the mine field of toys that litters the floor. Look out the window into the vastness of the sky. Watch the trees. Look for the breeze. For it is surely coming.
See your reflection in the glass. Peer into your own eyes and search. Who are you? If you could direct that wind, where would it take you? And then ask yourself this. Why are you waiting for the tickling of the leaves, the brush of cool air on your cheek, the blast of wind in your face?
Your hair blowing at your back doesn’t make you less of a mom. It gives your children the gift of the reins, to see life’s possibilities from heights of the undaunted. By filling in your own outline, they will see the vast array of colors and shades with which they can paint their own image. And when they feel the first feathery touches of air at their brows, they will raise their eyes with excitement as they welcome the next adventure.
If it all seems too challenging, too overwhelming, too grand a hope, don’t worry. You can take a chocolate, chocolate chip cookie along for the ride. But just one.
Friday, February 5, 2010
Men only think they have children
I realized something this week. Men have a home. But women have children. Oh, there may be children in the man’s home, he may come home to children, but he does not really have children. And no, I’m not talking about the physical birthing process. That’s obvious. I mean, he does not know what it’s like to have children - all the time.
If a man works full time, his primary focus is bringing home a paycheck. And that’s great. We depend on that provision. But even if he comes home and the children rush to greet him with hugs and kisses, it is a reunion, not a continuation.
And even if we may go so far as to say he is some kind of prince among the many average toads, and he throws off the burdens of work to sit down and play with his children; his fairytale is still a far croak away from the reality of having children.
He may read books, wrestle, tickle and tuck into bed. He may gather briefcase or laptop or brown paper sack in hand the next morning fortified by the knowledge that he is going off to once again, bring provision to his family. He may even think of their happy faces to propel him through his day.
But he still doesn’t know what it’s like to have children.
If his shower was warm and lingering, the news of the day gleaned while eating breakfast, and his commute rife with stimulating talk radio or tapping along to his favorite songs, he does not know what it’s like to have children.
If he completed business calls, marked his calendar with a doctor’s appointment, and confirmed via text an outing planned for the weekend, he does not know what it’s like to have children.
If he used the restroom, stopped at the mirror to study a suspicious spot on his skin, raked through his hair for good measure, whistled in the elevator on the way to lunch, and gave no thought yet to dinner, he does not know what it’s like to have children.
Men mean well. They can even earn the title of Wonderful Father. But any thought of bragging over that trophy, better be well out of earshot of the woman who has never once separated from those children she bore to give him that title.
For whether a woman stays home to raise her children, or works outside the home, or does some combination of the two, the distinct difference between her and her man, is that she always has children.
Whether she needs a few extra minutes in the bathroom or she places them in the reliable hands of a babysitter, she never separates from her children.
They are part of her, a bond formed in the womb, now presenting itself in the mysterious way she can know when they need help. Sometimes that help is an urgent need, sometimes it’s an issue to be prayed over for a period of time. But most of the time - daily, hourly, minute by minute, it is mentally or physically tending to their needs - every second.
She can not pack a lunch without knowing that today is the spelling test. She can not change a diaper without already thinking ahead to potty training. She can not heave the wet laundry into the dryer without a running list of sizes that she needs to stock up on, flowing through her mind as easily as the names of the children who are so quickly growing.
If she wipes crumbs from the floor, plans for a chore chart spring to mind. Finds a quarter under the couch, she contemplates what to do about the Tooth Fairy. Clicks the computer mouse, is reminded of her intent to research Parent Controls for internet safety. Changes the crib sheet and automatically thinks of how her own life will be impacted when the transition is made to toddler bed.
And then there are the emotional triggers. The wobbly chair from which her baby had his first fall. The remnants of glitter from the sweet card they made for her. The door through which her daughter walked with such a forlorn expression. The bed that she knows she needs to kneel by to pray for all of them.
Every single moment of her day is intertwined with thoughts of or for her children. It’s beautiful. It’s precious. It’s exhausting.
To abandon a stop for much needed milk or diapers or feminine needs is far easier than the lifting and guiding and corralling and rebuckling of small children. The abnormal growth on her face or painful tear in her tendon is surely not worth the logistics involved in taking a child along for her doctor’s appointment, or even the shameful pleading or guilt trips she must endure to find a babysitter. The repetitions in her mind that suicide nor murder are viable options are no match for the desperation she has to talk to another woman, preferably one without kids. And the strain under which she dusts the Wonderful Father trophy while a child hangs from her leg and she recalls the agony of labor, pretty much seals her contempt for all things sexual.
She didn’t know what it would be like to have children. Not what it would really be like. But she has them now.
And though through it all she has been so altered that she could never go back to life without them lest her heart be irreversibly broken, forgive her if she stifles a laugh the next time she hears her husband answer someone, “Yes, I have children.”
If a man works full time, his primary focus is bringing home a paycheck. And that’s great. We depend on that provision. But even if he comes home and the children rush to greet him with hugs and kisses, it is a reunion, not a continuation.
And even if we may go so far as to say he is some kind of prince among the many average toads, and he throws off the burdens of work to sit down and play with his children; his fairytale is still a far croak away from the reality of having children.
He may read books, wrestle, tickle and tuck into bed. He may gather briefcase or laptop or brown paper sack in hand the next morning fortified by the knowledge that he is going off to once again, bring provision to his family. He may even think of their happy faces to propel him through his day.
But he still doesn’t know what it’s like to have children.
If his shower was warm and lingering, the news of the day gleaned while eating breakfast, and his commute rife with stimulating talk radio or tapping along to his favorite songs, he does not know what it’s like to have children.
If he completed business calls, marked his calendar with a doctor’s appointment, and confirmed via text an outing planned for the weekend, he does not know what it’s like to have children.
If he used the restroom, stopped at the mirror to study a suspicious spot on his skin, raked through his hair for good measure, whistled in the elevator on the way to lunch, and gave no thought yet to dinner, he does not know what it’s like to have children.
Men mean well. They can even earn the title of Wonderful Father. But any thought of bragging over that trophy, better be well out of earshot of the woman who has never once separated from those children she bore to give him that title.
For whether a woman stays home to raise her children, or works outside the home, or does some combination of the two, the distinct difference between her and her man, is that she always has children.
Whether she needs a few extra minutes in the bathroom or she places them in the reliable hands of a babysitter, she never separates from her children.
They are part of her, a bond formed in the womb, now presenting itself in the mysterious way she can know when they need help. Sometimes that help is an urgent need, sometimes it’s an issue to be prayed over for a period of time. But most of the time - daily, hourly, minute by minute, it is mentally or physically tending to their needs - every second.
She can not pack a lunch without knowing that today is the spelling test. She can not change a diaper without already thinking ahead to potty training. She can not heave the wet laundry into the dryer without a running list of sizes that she needs to stock up on, flowing through her mind as easily as the names of the children who are so quickly growing.
If she wipes crumbs from the floor, plans for a chore chart spring to mind. Finds a quarter under the couch, she contemplates what to do about the Tooth Fairy. Clicks the computer mouse, is reminded of her intent to research Parent Controls for internet safety. Changes the crib sheet and automatically thinks of how her own life will be impacted when the transition is made to toddler bed.
And then there are the emotional triggers. The wobbly chair from which her baby had his first fall. The remnants of glitter from the sweet card they made for her. The door through which her daughter walked with such a forlorn expression. The bed that she knows she needs to kneel by to pray for all of them.
Every single moment of her day is intertwined with thoughts of or for her children. It’s beautiful. It’s precious. It’s exhausting.
To abandon a stop for much needed milk or diapers or feminine needs is far easier than the lifting and guiding and corralling and rebuckling of small children. The abnormal growth on her face or painful tear in her tendon is surely not worth the logistics involved in taking a child along for her doctor’s appointment, or even the shameful pleading or guilt trips she must endure to find a babysitter. The repetitions in her mind that suicide nor murder are viable options are no match for the desperation she has to talk to another woman, preferably one without kids. And the strain under which she dusts the Wonderful Father trophy while a child hangs from her leg and she recalls the agony of labor, pretty much seals her contempt for all things sexual.
She didn’t know what it would be like to have children. Not what it would really be like. But she has them now.
And though through it all she has been so altered that she could never go back to life without them lest her heart be irreversibly broken, forgive her if she stifles a laugh the next time she hears her husband answer someone, “Yes, I have children.”
Thursday, February 4, 2010
Invisible
There is a leaf on my kitchen floor, no doubt drug in by someone’s shoes. It’s lying in the path that my husband treks daily, and yet it’s been there for three days. I eye this little leaf as I work on the computer, fix dinner, haul bags to and from the car, but I do not pick it up. Maybe I should. For leaving it there is a constant reminder to my blood pressure of all that it represents.
I am that little leaf. There, but unnoticed. Broken, but not picked up and tenderly cared for. Cursed, but not thrown away. Just there. Waiting.
My little girl noticed the leaf one day, proclaimed it yucky, but walked away. Funny how life is like that. When someone has hurt us, it is rarely that person who will notice, but someone else entirely. And even if it’s somewhat of a relief to be reassured that we are not invisible, it doesn’t fix the hurt. We are still broken, waiting for the one who hurt us, to realize it, to pick us up with tenderness and fix it, or at the very least, to cut the ropes that bind us, so that we can be free - of the waiting.
I don’t know at what point I fell from the tree. I used to be green and nourished and alive. But little by little, death came. Perhaps figuratively, or maybe it began with the literal, when my husband and I first realized that life would not be a perfect bubble of perpetual Spring.
Loved ones would die. Unfortunately, too many in too short a time. We’d be stricken with illness, watch helplessly as friends and loved ones endured trials, see the hopes and dreams of a pregnancy end too soon, suffer staggering financial blows, have to make impossible decisions. Age beyond our years.
We used to cling to the same branch, even flourished enough to produce two little offshoots. But somehow, in the turning away from the sun, so that it would instead shine on the tiny buds striving to thrive, I began to shrivel, become weaker. Eventually fall away.
And now I lay helplessly far from the tree, looking up with a longing that they will notice the empty spot beside them.
How I long to be swept up with the wind and replanted. Revitalized. Loved.
But it is that same wind, that same fierceness that assaults us, that has him clinging to the branch, blindly - just trying to survive. He can not hear my voice over the wind, and he can not open his eyes against its force long enough to see how far I’ve fallen.
He is trying with all his might to hold on, to believe that there is more to life than death. But I already feel the dryness in my bones.
Though his holding on prolongs our appearance of life, of liveliness, there is part of me that wishes he would just let go. At least then, we’d be together again. A broken, huddled mass, parts of us crushed forever to dust, but maybe, just maybe somewhere in that grinding into earth, we could bind together again. Perhaps we would not only notice each other, but fortify each other against the rain, the wind, the sun. And maybe, when there was nothing left but that very foundation we started with, we could become strong again, intertwine the roots that had grown apart, and begin to rise up anew.
But for now, I’m waiting. Just like the little leaf on my kitchen floor. I may be being stubborn, but I refuse to pick it up. It may be crushed or caressed, but at least it will be seen.
I am that little leaf. There, but unnoticed. Broken, but not picked up and tenderly cared for. Cursed, but not thrown away. Just there. Waiting.
My little girl noticed the leaf one day, proclaimed it yucky, but walked away. Funny how life is like that. When someone has hurt us, it is rarely that person who will notice, but someone else entirely. And even if it’s somewhat of a relief to be reassured that we are not invisible, it doesn’t fix the hurt. We are still broken, waiting for the one who hurt us, to realize it, to pick us up with tenderness and fix it, or at the very least, to cut the ropes that bind us, so that we can be free - of the waiting.
I don’t know at what point I fell from the tree. I used to be green and nourished and alive. But little by little, death came. Perhaps figuratively, or maybe it began with the literal, when my husband and I first realized that life would not be a perfect bubble of perpetual Spring.
Loved ones would die. Unfortunately, too many in too short a time. We’d be stricken with illness, watch helplessly as friends and loved ones endured trials, see the hopes and dreams of a pregnancy end too soon, suffer staggering financial blows, have to make impossible decisions. Age beyond our years.
We used to cling to the same branch, even flourished enough to produce two little offshoots. But somehow, in the turning away from the sun, so that it would instead shine on the tiny buds striving to thrive, I began to shrivel, become weaker. Eventually fall away.
And now I lay helplessly far from the tree, looking up with a longing that they will notice the empty spot beside them.
How I long to be swept up with the wind and replanted. Revitalized. Loved.
But it is that same wind, that same fierceness that assaults us, that has him clinging to the branch, blindly - just trying to survive. He can not hear my voice over the wind, and he can not open his eyes against its force long enough to see how far I’ve fallen.
He is trying with all his might to hold on, to believe that there is more to life than death. But I already feel the dryness in my bones.
Though his holding on prolongs our appearance of life, of liveliness, there is part of me that wishes he would just let go. At least then, we’d be together again. A broken, huddled mass, parts of us crushed forever to dust, but maybe, just maybe somewhere in that grinding into earth, we could bind together again. Perhaps we would not only notice each other, but fortify each other against the rain, the wind, the sun. And maybe, when there was nothing left but that very foundation we started with, we could become strong again, intertwine the roots that had grown apart, and begin to rise up anew.
But for now, I’m waiting. Just like the little leaf on my kitchen floor. I may be being stubborn, but I refuse to pick it up. It may be crushed or caressed, but at least it will be seen.
Tuesday, February 2, 2010
Clutching a lip gloss and a dream
In eighteen minutes, nap time will be over. Round two.
The second leg of the journey which has only been bolstered by a handful of M&M’s and the 102 minutes of mental unwinding it took for you to relax enough to enjoy these last 18 minutes.
But 18 will quickly become17, then 16, then 15....
So there is no relaxing. There is panic. And pressure. By the time your ears stopped ringing the sound of “Mommy, mommy!” and you realized you really were “alone”, it was already time to jump back in, at whirlwind speed, to try to accomplish everything you set out to do before the hours leading up to nap time left you dazed and unable to remember your own name, let alone your to-do list.
Might as well grab another handful of M&M’s, throw a few mini-Snickers in for good measure, and try to make yourself believe it won’t go to your hips if you just put a little hop in your step while you get the baby up and change her diaper.
Oh, you’ll survive until bedtime. Barely.
But you already know what comes after bedtime. Morning time. And then, you’d give anything for the days of your youth when you used to roll over and click the alarm clock off fourteen times. The incessant bahnnt bahnnt bahnnt of the clock was nothing compared to the deafening volume at which, “Mommmeeeee” comes blaring through the baby monitor. And there’s no shutting that off.
It’s in those first moments of the day that you come face to face with your true self. Your thoughts may range from suicidal to Super Mommy, usually falling somewhere in between. It’s then that you want to kick whichever relative, teacher, coach or drill sergeant who instilled in you a sense of responsibility and duty.
You know, just like you did before your chores, final exam, warm-ups or workouts that there is nothing ahead for you except a long, arduous experience that will leave you cursing somebody, or everybody.
There is nothing quite like the feeling of knowing you will be worked hard, yet never appreciated. That your sense of responsibility and pride in it is supposed to be its own reward.
Funny, in the midst of wiping yogurt from the little one’s hair, retrieving the motion-splattered spoon for the fourth time, and asking, as you close the garage door, why on earth your older one would walk out the door without their school backpack after having just been lectured about it yesterday morning, that sense of pride never seems to be what I’m feeling.
It’s more a feeling of staring at a bottomless canyon and swinging the pendulum between believing that at some point, the mist will rise from it and leave a breathtaking view, or throwing yourself off the edge.
Motherhood has a way of becoming “all there is.” You get up in the morning because you’re a mom. You make a somewhat healthy breakfast, keep a somewhat clean house, and feign a somewhat interested look because you’re a mom.
But deep down, okay, maybe not so deep, there is longing. Longing to sleep til noon, put on some lip gloss, run on the beach or sit quietly in your pjs reading a novel, or maybe even put on that little black dress before your hubby gets home. Anything to be unhurried, inspired, feel beautiful.
All I know is that for now, my 18 minutes is up, and 18 years still looms out before me. But I’m keeping a lip gloss in my pocket, just in case...
The second leg of the journey which has only been bolstered by a handful of M&M’s and the 102 minutes of mental unwinding it took for you to relax enough to enjoy these last 18 minutes.
But 18 will quickly become17, then 16, then 15....
So there is no relaxing. There is panic. And pressure. By the time your ears stopped ringing the sound of “Mommy, mommy!” and you realized you really were “alone”, it was already time to jump back in, at whirlwind speed, to try to accomplish everything you set out to do before the hours leading up to nap time left you dazed and unable to remember your own name, let alone your to-do list.
Might as well grab another handful of M&M’s, throw a few mini-Snickers in for good measure, and try to make yourself believe it won’t go to your hips if you just put a little hop in your step while you get the baby up and change her diaper.
Oh, you’ll survive until bedtime. Barely.
But you already know what comes after bedtime. Morning time. And then, you’d give anything for the days of your youth when you used to roll over and click the alarm clock off fourteen times. The incessant bahnnt bahnnt bahnnt of the clock was nothing compared to the deafening volume at which, “Mommmeeeee” comes blaring through the baby monitor. And there’s no shutting that off.
It’s in those first moments of the day that you come face to face with your true self. Your thoughts may range from suicidal to Super Mommy, usually falling somewhere in between. It’s then that you want to kick whichever relative, teacher, coach or drill sergeant who instilled in you a sense of responsibility and duty.
You know, just like you did before your chores, final exam, warm-ups or workouts that there is nothing ahead for you except a long, arduous experience that will leave you cursing somebody, or everybody.
There is nothing quite like the feeling of knowing you will be worked hard, yet never appreciated. That your sense of responsibility and pride in it is supposed to be its own reward.
Funny, in the midst of wiping yogurt from the little one’s hair, retrieving the motion-splattered spoon for the fourth time, and asking, as you close the garage door, why on earth your older one would walk out the door without their school backpack after having just been lectured about it yesterday morning, that sense of pride never seems to be what I’m feeling.
It’s more a feeling of staring at a bottomless canyon and swinging the pendulum between believing that at some point, the mist will rise from it and leave a breathtaking view, or throwing yourself off the edge.
Motherhood has a way of becoming “all there is.” You get up in the morning because you’re a mom. You make a somewhat healthy breakfast, keep a somewhat clean house, and feign a somewhat interested look because you’re a mom.
But deep down, okay, maybe not so deep, there is longing. Longing to sleep til noon, put on some lip gloss, run on the beach or sit quietly in your pjs reading a novel, or maybe even put on that little black dress before your hubby gets home. Anything to be unhurried, inspired, feel beautiful.
All I know is that for now, my 18 minutes is up, and 18 years still looms out before me. But I’m keeping a lip gloss in my pocket, just in case...
Sunday, January 31, 2010
Why?
Why?
It’s such a big, complicated question for such a small word.
As adults, we have a lot of “whys”. Why did I say that - I’m so embarrassed. Why did the lady at the PTA meeting look at me that way? Why does the teacher want to see me? Why can’t I get my checkbook to balance? Why is my car making that eerie noise? Why did I eat the whole thing? Why can’t I ever seem to get a moment alone with my husband?
And yet, if those were the only “whys” on our minds, we could learn to live with it. We’d adjust.
But they aren’t.
There are much worse “whys” that invade our thoughts. They were so good together once - why can’t they work things out? Why can’t the bank give us a little more time? Why didn’t I see the signs? Why didn’t I see the doctor about that sooner? Why did such a horrible thing have to happen to her? Why did he have to die so young?
Those are the “whys” that rip at our hearts, either jerking a big chunk out in one fell, painful swoop, or slowly shaving away vital parts until we eventually find ourselves in shreds.
I’ve had too many of those kinds of “whys” in my life already. I’m sure you have too.
So you’d think we’d welcome the innocent, curious “whys” from our children. But instead, those “whys” tug at us, yank at us, snip at us, claw at us, and slice at our nerves to the point where we are so unraveled we scream, “WHY did I have children in the first place?????”
If you have a toddler, the “whys” are probably being hurled at you faster than baseballs from a pitching machine.
“You can’t have a cookie before dinner.” - “WHY?”
“You can’t chase the cat with the baby doll stroller.” - “WHY?”
“Don’t put your hands in your hair while you’re eating.” - “WHY?”
And then there are the “whys” that really make you feel like they have strapped you to the sit and spin toy, round and round and round...
“Where my Daddy?”
“He’s at work.”
“Why?”
“Because he has to go to work to make money.”
“Why?”
“So we can have clothes and food and toys.”
“Why?”
“Because”
“Where my Daddy car?”
“He took it to work.”
“Why?”
“Because he had to drive his car to work.”
“Why?”
“Because he did.”
“Where my Mommy car?”
“We’re getting into Mommy’s car right now.”
“Why?”
“Because you have to go to the babysitter’s house.”
“Why?
DREAD sets in
“Because Mommy has to go to work.”
“Why?”
“I just do.”
“Where my Daddy?”
“He’s at work.”
“Why?”
Are you KIDDING me????
And still, even though those are the “whys” that take up most of my day, there’s another kind of “why” that will make you look for an ice pick to stab into your own brain.
You know, it’s those moments when you realize you can not win against this child. You’re in a store, and you hear a noise from the next aisle. “What happened, Mommy?”, “I don’t know, sounds like somebody dropped something.” “Why?” “I guess it was an accident. They didn’t mean to drop it.” “We drop it?” “No, we didn’t drop it. They dropped it.” “Why?” It’s at that moment, you stare at your child, dumbfounded. Is this some sort of philosophy question? Hmmnnn...did God direct our path today in such a way that we would NOT be the ones on that aisle at that very moment? If we had been on that aisle, would we have dropped it? Did we really drop it, but then, like a science fiction character, morph into the shelves and leave the other people there bewildered?
Or, is this a trick? Do you really want me to go into all the reasons we didn’t drop the item. Let’s see, because for one, we weren’t the ones holding that item. We weren’t standing on that aisle. We weren’t on that aisle because we’d already moved to another aisle. We had already moved to another aisle because we arrived at the store five minutes earlier than they did. We arrived five minutes earlier because we made it through the last stop light before they did. We made it through the last stop light because Mommy went through yellow. Mommy went through yellow because I didn’t see it turning yellow. I didn’t see it turning yellow because you were calling my name from the back seat for the fortieth time. You were calling my name for the fortieth time because you dropped your sippy cup yet again, after I’d told you to hold it tightly the first 39 times. You dropped it the first 39 times because you thought it was funny. You thought it was funny because apparently the bulging vein in Mommy’s forehead is hilarious. On and on it could go.
And then your child gets older, and the “whys” become less curious, less of a way to engage conversation, and more of an expression of frustration with you.
“Your friend can not spend the night this weekend.”
“Whhhyyyy?”
“You can’t wear that to school.”
“Whhhyyyy?”
“You most certainly may not go on a date with a boy who looks like THAT.”
“Whhhyyyyyyyyyyyy?”
It enough to make you question why you get up in the morning.
And then it hits you. Morning.
Your sister is going in for that medical test in the morning.
Your best friends are signing the divorce papers in the morning.
The bank is foreclosing in the morning.
They will bury him in the morning.
And the “whys” your children ask, or even whine, don’t seem like such a nuisance anymore. They are so young. They are innocent. Their frustrations with the world are so minor, will change all too quickly into the “whys” that break their hearts.
You may not always have the patience to respond to their “whys”, but you can cherish the knowledge, that at least for now, you can still answer their questions.
It’s such a big, complicated question for such a small word.
As adults, we have a lot of “whys”. Why did I say that - I’m so embarrassed. Why did the lady at the PTA meeting look at me that way? Why does the teacher want to see me? Why can’t I get my checkbook to balance? Why is my car making that eerie noise? Why did I eat the whole thing? Why can’t I ever seem to get a moment alone with my husband?
And yet, if those were the only “whys” on our minds, we could learn to live with it. We’d adjust.
But they aren’t.
There are much worse “whys” that invade our thoughts. They were so good together once - why can’t they work things out? Why can’t the bank give us a little more time? Why didn’t I see the signs? Why didn’t I see the doctor about that sooner? Why did such a horrible thing have to happen to her? Why did he have to die so young?
Those are the “whys” that rip at our hearts, either jerking a big chunk out in one fell, painful swoop, or slowly shaving away vital parts until we eventually find ourselves in shreds.
I’ve had too many of those kinds of “whys” in my life already. I’m sure you have too.
So you’d think we’d welcome the innocent, curious “whys” from our children. But instead, those “whys” tug at us, yank at us, snip at us, claw at us, and slice at our nerves to the point where we are so unraveled we scream, “WHY did I have children in the first place?????”
If you have a toddler, the “whys” are probably being hurled at you faster than baseballs from a pitching machine.
“You can’t have a cookie before dinner.” - “WHY?”
“You can’t chase the cat with the baby doll stroller.” - “WHY?”
“Don’t put your hands in your hair while you’re eating.” - “WHY?”
And then there are the “whys” that really make you feel like they have strapped you to the sit and spin toy, round and round and round...
“Where my Daddy?”
“He’s at work.”
“Why?”
“Because he has to go to work to make money.”
“Why?”
“So we can have clothes and food and toys.”
“Why?”
“Because”
“Where my Daddy car?”
“He took it to work.”
“Why?”
“Because he had to drive his car to work.”
“Why?”
“Because he did.”
“Where my Mommy car?”
“We’re getting into Mommy’s car right now.”
“Why?”
“Because you have to go to the babysitter’s house.”
“Why?
DREAD sets in
“Because Mommy has to go to work.”
“Why?”
“I just do.”
“Where my Daddy?”
“He’s at work.”
“Why?”
Are you KIDDING me????
And still, even though those are the “whys” that take up most of my day, there’s another kind of “why” that will make you look for an ice pick to stab into your own brain.
You know, it’s those moments when you realize you can not win against this child. You’re in a store, and you hear a noise from the next aisle. “What happened, Mommy?”, “I don’t know, sounds like somebody dropped something.” “Why?” “I guess it was an accident. They didn’t mean to drop it.” “We drop it?” “No, we didn’t drop it. They dropped it.” “Why?” It’s at that moment, you stare at your child, dumbfounded. Is this some sort of philosophy question? Hmmnnn...did God direct our path today in such a way that we would NOT be the ones on that aisle at that very moment? If we had been on that aisle, would we have dropped it? Did we really drop it, but then, like a science fiction character, morph into the shelves and leave the other people there bewildered?
Or, is this a trick? Do you really want me to go into all the reasons we didn’t drop the item. Let’s see, because for one, we weren’t the ones holding that item. We weren’t standing on that aisle. We weren’t on that aisle because we’d already moved to another aisle. We had already moved to another aisle because we arrived at the store five minutes earlier than they did. We arrived five minutes earlier because we made it through the last stop light before they did. We made it through the last stop light because Mommy went through yellow. Mommy went through yellow because I didn’t see it turning yellow. I didn’t see it turning yellow because you were calling my name from the back seat for the fortieth time. You were calling my name for the fortieth time because you dropped your sippy cup yet again, after I’d told you to hold it tightly the first 39 times. You dropped it the first 39 times because you thought it was funny. You thought it was funny because apparently the bulging vein in Mommy’s forehead is hilarious. On and on it could go.
And then your child gets older, and the “whys” become less curious, less of a way to engage conversation, and more of an expression of frustration with you.
“Your friend can not spend the night this weekend.”
“Whhhyyyy?”
“You can’t wear that to school.”
“Whhhyyyy?”
“You most certainly may not go on a date with a boy who looks like THAT.”
“Whhhyyyyyyyyyyyy?”
It enough to make you question why you get up in the morning.
And then it hits you. Morning.
Your sister is going in for that medical test in the morning.
Your best friends are signing the divorce papers in the morning.
The bank is foreclosing in the morning.
They will bury him in the morning.
And the “whys” your children ask, or even whine, don’t seem like such a nuisance anymore. They are so young. They are innocent. Their frustrations with the world are so minor, will change all too quickly into the “whys” that break their hearts.
You may not always have the patience to respond to their “whys”, but you can cherish the knowledge, that at least for now, you can still answer their questions.
Wednesday, December 2, 2009
Excuse me, Ma'am, but is that your monkey?
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.
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.
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.
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