Today's Tammy's Tips topic, from the remarkable founder of We Love Messes (and I can attest that they really do, bless 'em):
There Are No Wrong Answers. Discuss.
Disagree. I respectfully submit that there's always one wrong answer: no answer at all.
You'd think this was a no-brainer. We know, intellectually, that silence equals assent, that not-to-decide-is-to-decide.
But the fear making a wrong decision plops us right into one of my favorite gutters: are you making your decisions from a place of joy or a place of fear?
Okay, fine question, but it's still in no-brainer territory, so let's take it one step further:
What happens when you're just so plain stinkin' wrung out that there's neither joy nor fear to spur a decision? What happens when you can't even pick up a pencil, let alone make a list of pros and cons?
I propose that the answer starts in your closet, which swiftly becomes a metaphor for Everything Else. As those in the know may know, I'm currently a little manic about capsule wardrobes. (Promise, this becomes relevant in a few paragraphs.) I believe that assembling your personal rag, bone, and hank o' hair every day is an exercise in important and intimate decision-making.
Effective wardrobing, like so many things in life, starts with a cleanup. To make room for good, you must first release your ungood. "I can't tell you," says the elegant proprietor of my favorite consignment store, "how many women take something out of the closet, look at it, say, 'Hmm, I just don't wear this,' or 'Gee, I've never really liked this,' and then put it back in the closet.
"I tell them," she continues, gracefully gesturing with an empty clothes hangar, "that you have to take it out of the closet in order to get anywhere with a wardrobe cleanup. You don't have to give it away. But you have to start by at least taking it out."
My sister has trammeled this territory more artfully than I ever could do, with a number of magnificent "letting go" posts, including, notably, this one.
So once you've let go, what comes next?
An answer comes next, that's what, even an incomplete, ill-conceived, semi-crappy one.
I've spent some time being rudderless. Not just "not sure what comes next," not just twentysomething confused, but entirely without direction, utterly adrift, curled up with my arms over my head out there where the Hakken-kraks howl. I couldn't make any decisions from joy, nor from fear.
And on one spectacularly low day, I had even moved beyond "just going through the motions." Happily, I guess, my nadir occurred in a parking lot. I was in my car. I'd parked my car. I'd been in my car for, um, a couple hours. I couldn't just stay in my car forever.
So I came up with one answer: I got out of the car and put one foot on the ground. Then I decided to put the other foot on the ground. Then I decided to make those feet into a step.
Sometimes one foot is all you can lift. Toward what? Doesn't matter. The motion itself is the answer. It may be the only answer you have for all those big horrible questions.
Ill-conceived answer?
Incomplete answer?
Semi-crappy answer?
Probably, yes, to all. But stasis . . . stasis is the wrong answer.
Resolved: Because stasis is the wrong answer, yes, wrong answers DO exist.
But not about shoes. You should always buy the shoes.
And then take one first step in them.
=====
A wardrobe coda: We are houseguesting this weekend with He'en's grandparents. He'en just appeared at my door in a brand-new-never-before-worn outfit, a gift from her grandmother. She almost minces around the corner, pausing partly for effect and partly for . . . well, just general eight-year-old radiance.
"Whoa!!!! Do you feel stunning? Because you look stunning," I tell her.
She grins and hunches her shoulders with a little delighted wiggle.
"I feel almost embarrassed that I'm this stunning," admits He'en.
My sweet little girl, please hold that thought tightly, tightly. And please feel so bright and beautiful, and, yes, stunning, for all your days to come.
=====
Showing posts with label Keep On Keepin' On. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Keep On Keepin' On. Show all posts
Friday, September 30, 2016
Saturday, December 21, 2013
Be Still, and Listen
The long winter nights this month have invited me to lie quietly in the morning, listening to the dog snore, watching the room gradually lighten . . . and grinding my molars in anticipation of Dragon Girl's first YOWL of the day.
She doesn't hold back, this second child of mine. Dragon Girl is not the super-sleeper that her sister was at this age. She has a lot to get done in this lifetime, and nobody is going to slow her down, including the Mama. Accordingly, she wakes with the dawn, and usually a bit pre-dawn for good measure. If I am lolling about in bed and not getting a head start in the Good Morning race, that first wail generates a huge flack pattern on the Mom Radar. It also jolts my adrenaline production in unpleasant ways.
So here I am, waking up cranky and/or way too early, scheming and dreaming about getting that child to sleep longer, when I ran into these Midday Mussar notes from our rabbi.
Of course, I can't make it to the Midday Mussar meditations, because . . . right . . . kids. But I think I might really need the Midday Mussar meditations, because . . . oh, right . . . kids. So -- blessings on our clergy's technophilia -- I scrape the notes when I get a chance. They are just notes, but that's good, because then my mind can go a-wandering between the notes while I wipe the highchair tray and find the Roku remote yet again.
Reb Jamie has written about grieving, but -- as his comments on duality observe -- the very same mediations are deeply applicable to all the BUSY! NOISY! NEW! LIFE! in this house. The Jewish appreciation of duality is just so spot-on:
Our sages teach that during sleep we go through a (1/60) fractal of death. Thus every morning present[s an] . . . opportunity to practice the rouse ourselves from “mourning to an ecstatic dance…that chavod might sing you out [of bed] and may not be silent [like death].” (Psalm 30) With the words of this daily psalm, a melody, a tear, a cupped hand, or the mental image of a small cave, we can begin each day with a reminder to journey through the land of humility [chinah] to engage all life with chavod, beginning with your own.
-- Rabbi Benjamin "Jamie" Arnold
The "cupped hand" reference contemplates a discussion earlier in the same entry here.
Very little silence finds its way into my world of late. Stillness is not popular, either. And some days I am patently lacking in either humility or engagement. Some days it seems that everything around here is noisy, furry, drooly, squirmy, yelly, demanding, wanting, needing, messy, hungry, and/or some combination thereof, and that I am the one-woman service industry for all of it. Some days, I need to work really hard on being present in this parenting endeavor, and not just mentally checking out while I dice up yet another peanut butter sandwich.
Thus, when the factory whistle blows at 5:45 a.m. in the dead dark, I am trying to view that first baby cry as a new life that is "singing me out of bed." It helps. Sometimes it works. At the very least, it makes me feel guilty about being cranky and try hard to cheerfully greet the baby and do better for the rest of the day (my perfect synergy of humanistic Judaism and guilt-ridden Protestantism).
Tonight, at my amazing adopted shul, Rabbi Jamie is leading a Winter Solstice service. Again, in his words:
The Service will feature simple melodies, rich silences, and subtle teaching to turn our hearts to the expansion of light that is coming, enabling us to align our inner cycles (of darkness and light) with the wondrous symmetry and balance of forces in nature -- sun, moon, earth, and soul.
A perfect way to enter the Winter break -- with Shabbat, and community.
I won't go, of course, because . . . oh, right . . . kids. But I will try to honor the solstice by sleeping, waking, and celebrating on this day and this night. And maybe with a little stillness here and there.
She doesn't hold back, this second child of mine. Dragon Girl is not the super-sleeper that her sister was at this age. She has a lot to get done in this lifetime, and nobody is going to slow her down, including the Mama. Accordingly, she wakes with the dawn, and usually a bit pre-dawn for good measure. If I am lolling about in bed and not getting a head start in the Good Morning race, that first wail generates a huge flack pattern on the Mom Radar. It also jolts my adrenaline production in unpleasant ways.
So here I am, waking up cranky and/or way too early, scheming and dreaming about getting that child to sleep longer, when I ran into these Midday Mussar notes from our rabbi.
Of course, I can't make it to the Midday Mussar meditations, because . . . right . . . kids. But I think I might really need the Midday Mussar meditations, because . . . oh, right . . . kids. So -- blessings on our clergy's technophilia -- I scrape the notes when I get a chance. They are just notes, but that's good, because then my mind can go a-wandering between the notes while I wipe the highchair tray and find the Roku remote yet again.
Reb Jamie has written about grieving, but -- as his comments on duality observe -- the very same mediations are deeply applicable to all the BUSY! NOISY! NEW! LIFE! in this house. The Jewish appreciation of duality is just so spot-on:
Our sages teach that during sleep we go through a (1/60) fractal of death. Thus every morning present[s an] . . . opportunity to practice the rouse ourselves from “mourning to an ecstatic dance…that chavod might sing you out [of bed] and may not be silent [like death].” (Psalm 30) With the words of this daily psalm, a melody, a tear, a cupped hand, or the mental image of a small cave, we can begin each day with a reminder to journey through the land of humility [chinah] to engage all life with chavod, beginning with your own.
-- Rabbi Benjamin "Jamie" Arnold
The "cupped hand" reference contemplates a discussion earlier in the same entry here.
Very little silence finds its way into my world of late. Stillness is not popular, either. And some days I am patently lacking in either humility or engagement. Some days it seems that everything around here is noisy, furry, drooly, squirmy, yelly, demanding, wanting, needing, messy, hungry, and/or some combination thereof, and that I am the one-woman service industry for all of it. Some days, I need to work really hard on being present in this parenting endeavor, and not just mentally checking out while I dice up yet another peanut butter sandwich.
Thus, when the factory whistle blows at 5:45 a.m. in the dead dark, I am trying to view that first baby cry as a new life that is "singing me out of bed." It helps. Sometimes it works. At the very least, it makes me feel guilty about being cranky and try hard to cheerfully greet the baby and do better for the rest of the day (my perfect synergy of humanistic Judaism and guilt-ridden Protestantism).
Tonight, at my amazing adopted shul, Rabbi Jamie is leading a Winter Solstice service. Again, in his words:
The Service will feature simple melodies, rich silences, and subtle teaching to turn our hearts to the expansion of light that is coming, enabling us to align our inner cycles (of darkness and light) with the wondrous symmetry and balance of forces in nature -- sun, moon, earth, and soul.
A perfect way to enter the Winter break -- with Shabbat, and community.
Shabbat Shalom
I won't go, of course, because . . . oh, right . . . kids. But I will try to honor the solstice by sleeping, waking, and celebrating on this day and this night. And maybe with a little stillness here and there.
Wednesday, October 16, 2013
Striving for Sisterhood (Now a Trio)
This Matt Walsh Blog post -- note, the responsive comments outnumber the population of my hometown -- has me lately thinking about the sisterhood of motherhood.
First case in point: I was crouching on the floor at Target, agonizing over whether I should buy Size 9 or Size 10 purple fuzzy snowboots, when a button nose peered down at me, topped by the tiniest pair of Clark Kent glasses I ever have seen.
"I'm reawwwy FAST," the owner of the glasses announced over the edge of the shopping cart wherein he was riding.
"I'll bet you are!" I automatically looked up with a grin.
"I'm faster than the Fox!" the little Clark Kent continued with great pride.
"Are you faster than all the superheroes?" I temporized, with a cautious glance at the Mama pushing the cart. Because you don't want to be thought creepy for having an extended discussion with somebody else's kid. Even if you are looking at fuzzy purple snowboots yourself at the time. And you don't know if superheroes are okay in somebody else's house, and so forth, and so on. But the Mama is grinning at her child as he continues.
"I'm faster than [mumble] and I run really good, and I have sheets with [mumble] on them but now we live with Grandma so I don't have my sheets all the time . . ."
The cart-pushing Mama interjected with, "Um, she doesn't need to know all that, honey -- "
While little Clark, who has taken a huge shine to me, is informing me that " -- I had to leave them at our house and we live with Grandma now because -- "
Whereupon the Mama got pretty "UHM!" with the kid and he subsided into the cart.
"Oh, they'll tell you everything about everything, won't they:? Mine's five, and she will tell you everything," I blathered, trying to set her at ease.
"Well, yes," she said flatly, "but you don't know me or anything about me."
I paused a second from my vantage point at her knees, still smiling up at her. "Well, I know you are a mother, and I am a mother, and that's enough to know."
Later, loading my purple fluffy snowboots into the car, I so wished that I had added, "And you're clearly doing a great job, if your terrific outgoing little kid is any indication!" Because I have a feeling she might have needed to hear it. So I was not, in Target, the sister I should have been. But, cart-pushing Mama, I am thinking of you and your cute little kid, and hoping that it all works out for you.
That said, and I am sure my own sister will agree, "sisterhood" does not always connote "solidarity."
Second case in point: I am driving through the Starbucks and staring absently from my car window into the outdoor seating area. A Mama is outside, enjoying her coffee. She has three (3) boys in tow: probably ages 2, 5, and 7 or thereabouts.
The boys are all dressed in darling little outfits with sweaters against the summer breeze. They are ranged around the table, swinging their feet and smiling while Mom drinks her coffee. Charming. I glance back at the carseat, where my own offspring has stopped howling only because she is now happily pouring milk onto her seatbelt and watching the drops soak in.
Even more tooth-grittingly, the mama is tanned and toned, wearing a poppy-colored ribbed tank top and a breezy peasant skirt -- in white -- with a big floral print. Her long dark hair is effortlessly tamed in a messy French twist. She is wearing big hoop earrings and carrying some sort of painfully simple hobo bag that is painfully perfect with the whole ensemble.
I turn around to dig out my wallet -- reminding myself to just be grateful for the resources to buy this latte even though I will undoubtedly spill a bunch of it on myself and therefore I have no white breezy skirts in my personal future -- when I hear a wail from the Starbucks courtyard.
All three boys have popped off their chairs and are rampaging around the gated seating area. Two of the three are in complete meltdown mode. The smallest one is under the table, minus his sweater and a few other articles of clothing, drumming his heels and shouting, "I HATE my hat! I HATE my hat!" The whole Starbucks yard sounds like the aviary at the zoo. The Mama, clearly a pro, continues to sip her coffee. The mien that I had previously taken for "smug and haughty" now reads more like "zenlike resignation."
I don't want to wish her ill. We are, after all, sisters in the cause. But I collected my Starbucks and drove off feeling just a little bit better about my own day.
Then there is the third case: Ourselves as Others See Us. I was wandering around Old Navy with both kids in tow (why? I really cannot say). We were having a good day. Dragon Girl was squirmy in the stroller, and He'en wanted the coloring table instead of the leggings selection, but I cannot fault either of them for that.
As we chased around looking for some new He'en pants, I caught the eye of a mother with two girls who were maybe 9, either twins or sisters close in age. I smiled at her and we smiled at me:
I grinned at the mother and asked cheerfully, "How old are your girls?"
"Oh, 9 and 10," she smiled. "They are only 15 months apart."
"Wow, that must be fun!" I said, as I bumbled my bags-kids-stroller-pilfered-crayons load into the dressing room behind her.
Thereupon followed the predictable two-kid dressing-room experience: chirpy discussions with He'en, the baby trying to crawl under the door, trying to hold Dragon Girl while buttoning Helen's pants for her, flicking dustbunnies off of everyone because of course we had all landed on the floor, and so forth. It was all basic Mom-stuff, and everybody was cheerful throughout (except maybe Dragon Girl, who rather fiercely wanted to investigate the loading bay and wasn't shy about expressing it).
Still smiling despite the light sweat, I got everybody out of the dressing room and pretty well lined-up for the checkout. I was feeling mighty smug that we had not only gotten pants, but that everyone had a good time at the store.
At the checkout, I got in line again between the nice mom with the two girls. They were loaded with cool neon sweaters and one had a jazzy pair of horn-rimmed glasses. "Looks like you found some great things!" I said.
"Well, we did, but you, now you sure look busy right now!" she smiled.
"Yes, well, it's the busy time," I smiled back, prying something shiny out of Helen's hand with a no, we're not buying that whispered aside, simultaneously shoving DG gently back into the stroller where another concerted escape attempt was in progress, and digging for my wallet with my third hand.
"It gets so much easier. I promise," she assured me. She just oozed warmth and empathetic concern. Like . . . oozing at the level that might have been appropriate if I'd been whacking one of my kids in the dressing room and she wanted to give me one more chance before calling Child Services.
So I gushed and smiled and thanked her, but I drove home checking the rear-view mirror for frown wrinkles. Her heart was totally in the right place. I give her full credit for proper sisterhood behavior. But . . . do I look that whacked? Or maybe I look like a good Mom who just needs Botox?
"If there is a single point," my own sister said as I discussed this post with her, "It's simply that we're all in this together. Every mother everywhere." And, yes, that's all I really had meant to say.
First case in point: I was crouching on the floor at Target, agonizing over whether I should buy Size 9 or Size 10 purple fuzzy snowboots, when a button nose peered down at me, topped by the tiniest pair of Clark Kent glasses I ever have seen.
"I'm reawwwy FAST," the owner of the glasses announced over the edge of the shopping cart wherein he was riding.
"I'll bet you are!" I automatically looked up with a grin.
"I'm faster than the Fox!" the little Clark Kent continued with great pride.
"Are you faster than all the superheroes?" I temporized, with a cautious glance at the Mama pushing the cart. Because you don't want to be thought creepy for having an extended discussion with somebody else's kid. Even if you are looking at fuzzy purple snowboots yourself at the time. And you don't know if superheroes are okay in somebody else's house, and so forth, and so on. But the Mama is grinning at her child as he continues.
"I'm faster than [mumble] and I run really good, and I have sheets with [mumble] on them but now we live with Grandma so I don't have my sheets all the time . . ."
The cart-pushing Mama interjected with, "Um, she doesn't need to know all that, honey -- "
While little Clark, who has taken a huge shine to me, is informing me that " -- I had to leave them at our house and we live with Grandma now because -- "
Whereupon the Mama got pretty "UHM!" with the kid and he subsided into the cart.
"Oh, they'll tell you everything about everything, won't they:? Mine's five, and she will tell you everything," I blathered, trying to set her at ease.
"Well, yes," she said flatly, "but you don't know me or anything about me."
I paused a second from my vantage point at her knees, still smiling up at her. "Well, I know you are a mother, and I am a mother, and that's enough to know."
Later, loading my purple fluffy snowboots into the car, I so wished that I had added, "And you're clearly doing a great job, if your terrific outgoing little kid is any indication!" Because I have a feeling she might have needed to hear it. So I was not, in Target, the sister I should have been. But, cart-pushing Mama, I am thinking of you and your cute little kid, and hoping that it all works out for you.
That said, and I am sure my own sister will agree, "sisterhood" does not always connote "solidarity."
Second case in point: I am driving through the Starbucks and staring absently from my car window into the outdoor seating area. A Mama is outside, enjoying her coffee. She has three (3) boys in tow: probably ages 2, 5, and 7 or thereabouts.
The boys are all dressed in darling little outfits with sweaters against the summer breeze. They are ranged around the table, swinging their feet and smiling while Mom drinks her coffee. Charming. I glance back at the carseat, where my own offspring has stopped howling only because she is now happily pouring milk onto her seatbelt and watching the drops soak in.
Even more tooth-grittingly, the mama is tanned and toned, wearing a poppy-colored ribbed tank top and a breezy peasant skirt -- in white -- with a big floral print. Her long dark hair is effortlessly tamed in a messy French twist. She is wearing big hoop earrings and carrying some sort of painfully simple hobo bag that is painfully perfect with the whole ensemble.
I turn around to dig out my wallet -- reminding myself to just be grateful for the resources to buy this latte even though I will undoubtedly spill a bunch of it on myself and therefore I have no white breezy skirts in my personal future -- when I hear a wail from the Starbucks courtyard.
All three boys have popped off their chairs and are rampaging around the gated seating area. Two of the three are in complete meltdown mode. The smallest one is under the table, minus his sweater and a few other articles of clothing, drumming his heels and shouting, "I HATE my hat! I HATE my hat!" The whole Starbucks yard sounds like the aviary at the zoo. The Mama, clearly a pro, continues to sip her coffee. The mien that I had previously taken for "smug and haughty" now reads more like "zenlike resignation."
I don't want to wish her ill. We are, after all, sisters in the cause. But I collected my Starbucks and drove off feeling just a little bit better about my own day.
Then there is the third case: Ourselves as Others See Us. I was wandering around Old Navy with both kids in tow (why? I really cannot say). We were having a good day. Dragon Girl was squirmy in the stroller, and He'en wanted the coloring table instead of the leggings selection, but I cannot fault either of them for that.
As we chased around looking for some new He'en pants, I caught the eye of a mother with two girls who were maybe 9, either twins or sisters close in age. I smiled at her and we smiled at me:
I grinned at the mother and asked cheerfully, "How old are your girls?"
"Oh, 9 and 10," she smiled. "They are only 15 months apart."
"Wow, that must be fun!" I said, as I bumbled my bags-kids-stroller-pilfered-crayons load into the dressing room behind her.
Thereupon followed the predictable two-kid dressing-room experience: chirpy discussions with He'en, the baby trying to crawl under the door, trying to hold Dragon Girl while buttoning Helen's pants for her, flicking dustbunnies off of everyone because of course we had all landed on the floor, and so forth. It was all basic Mom-stuff, and everybody was cheerful throughout (except maybe Dragon Girl, who rather fiercely wanted to investigate the loading bay and wasn't shy about expressing it).
Still smiling despite the light sweat, I got everybody out of the dressing room and pretty well lined-up for the checkout. I was feeling mighty smug that we had not only gotten pants, but that everyone had a good time at the store.
At the checkout, I got in line again between the nice mom with the two girls. They were loaded with cool neon sweaters and one had a jazzy pair of horn-rimmed glasses. "Looks like you found some great things!" I said.
"Well, we did, but you, now you sure look busy right now!" she smiled.
"Yes, well, it's the busy time," I smiled back, prying something shiny out of Helen's hand with a no, we're not buying that whispered aside, simultaneously shoving DG gently back into the stroller where another concerted escape attempt was in progress, and digging for my wallet with my third hand.
"It gets so much easier. I promise," she assured me. She just oozed warmth and empathetic concern. Like . . . oozing at the level that might have been appropriate if I'd been whacking one of my kids in the dressing room and she wanted to give me one more chance before calling Child Services.
So I gushed and smiled and thanked her, but I drove home checking the rear-view mirror for frown wrinkles. Her heart was totally in the right place. I give her full credit for proper sisterhood behavior. But . . . do I look that whacked? Or maybe I look like a good Mom who just needs Botox?
"If there is a single point," my own sister said as I discussed this post with her, "It's simply that we're all in this together. Every mother everywhere." And, yes, that's all I really had meant to say.
Sunday, September 29, 2013
On Being a Good Sport
Today’s soccer lesson really started last night. “I don’t WAN’ to go ta sawkka tomowwow,” with a little chin-quiver. I thought she had rallied by bedtime, when she tucked her pink blanket under her chin and announced, from under her princess canopy, “Tomowwow I yam goin’ to take da ball AWAY fwom dat tall girl.”
But the morning did not begin well. Exhausted from three days of nonstop fun with her grandparents, she overslept and wasn’t hungry for breakfast. She was cold. She didn’t want a sweater. I found her new Spyder fleece with the glittery spider on it. That was much better. And so forth. And so on. Although I allowed gobs of extra time, we still barely made it to the car.
Then, as we were in the car, waiting for DH to join us, he opened the door and growled, “You’re on your own. We have a broken water pipe. The basement’s flooded.” PLOMPF went the door and away went DH.
“I don’t WAN’ to go ta sawkka,” He’en writhed in her carseat. She probably thought a basement flood sounded a lot more exciting. Truth, I did also by that time. But we had a deal: she had begged and pestered for soccer, so she must attend at least three of the five lessons. I reminded her of the deal – more chin-quivering – and off we went.
She grumped and fussed in the car. She dragged and scuffed into the school gym. She drooped and hid behind me as the other kids found soccer balls and did warmups. But! After securing my ironclad promise to participate during the parent-participation portion of the lesson, she seemed to rally. With good cheer, she marched in the little line of kids around the perimeter of the basketball court (designated today as the soccer field).
At this point I breathe a little inward sigh of relief and pick up my phone as the kids begin their first drill. I hear He’en snottily complaining to the coach about how she can’t find her ball, and some other kid took the red ball, and God-knows-what-else, but I just open my Kindle app and pretend she’s somebody else’s kid.
About four sentences into my Lindsay Buroker e-book, however, I hear a sustained wail and glance up to see He’en flat-out on the floor. She apparently collided with somebody during the Red Light. I pause a moment to see if this is standard He’en-drama or something more meaningful, but the other kids have cleared the floor and now I will look like a real wanker if I just let my kid lie there and/or yell, “woman up!” from the sidelines. Plus another little girl is in tears, apparently being a sympathetic type, and is running to He’en to comfort her, so now we have wailing kids littering the field and the lesson at a standstill.
The other mom scoops up her sympathetic bundle and gets her off the field. So I, with an over-the-shoulder apology to the coach, likewise scoop up a sobbing He’en and carry her out of the gym with hot tears seeping into my neck.
Outside the gym, we try taking deep breaths.
“Are you hurt, honey?”
“My fin-gah,” she gasps between sobs. I covertly peer at her finger and it indeed is very red and angry-looking. Damn. Don’t be broken, finger.
“Ok, let’s walk outside and look at the trees and take some deep breaths of the cool air. We will find a rock to sit on, and I will look at your finger.”
Nods and sobs.
I take her outside and we find the promised rock.
“Now, put your hands out like this. Can you spread your fingers apart? Can you make a fist?”
To great my relief, she does all of that, albeit gingerly.
“Ok, let me touch your finger.”
She allows that too and I carefully manipulate the suspect digit. Thank God, not a broken finger.
“Did you get the wind knocked out of you when you fell?”
She doesn’t know, so I tell her about how it feels to get the wind knocked out of you and then imitate that first breath you take when you can breathe again. She almost giggles at the goofy noise I make. She almost looks sane again.
“So let’s go back in there.”
Flinch. Quiver. “I don’t WANT to play sawkkah. I want to go HOME.”
Well, heck. I don’t want my kid to be a quitter, but the odds of having a good lesson after this are nearly nill. And, yet, she has to learn to power through a bad day. I think and think. Again, I earn the big bucks by deciding where to push and where to concede.
“You don’t have to play, but I want us both to watch. There may be skills that you can learn by watching. You can sit in my lap if you want.”
She consents to that, and we trail back into the gym. “We’re just going to watch for a while,” I mouth to the coach. She, having made a career of dealing with other people’s children, nods in perfect understanding.
We watch a few exercises, and then He’en tugs at my arm and whispers – as I had hoped -- “Okay. I wan’ to play again. But only if you come WIF’ me.” Fine. At least she is on the field.
Happily, we are just in time for the next exercise: Clock Soccer. Parent-volunteers stand in a circle, each with a child or two behind them. The kids run once around the circle and then stop behind their parent. After a couple dry runs, it is attempted with soccer balls.
He’en does not run the first time. She is afraid of falling, she says, and huddles behind me with her face buried in the back of my shirt. On the second drill, she listlessly trots around the circle and then comes back and attaches herself to my pants pocket. I bat her away in time for a third drill (with a soccer ball). Sulking over being pried loose, she refuses to participate. On the fourth drill, I make her stand there with the other parents and I dribble the ball around the circle myself, trying not to knock over any little kids. On the fifth and final drill, He’en takes the ball four steps and then returns to hanging on my pockets. Again, I detach her, making me her most unfavorite person.
The next drill is one-on-one. He’en has been dreading this for two weeks: in her first lesson, a taller, stronger girl scored three goals on her in quick and fierce succession. He’en is still not over the indignity. “I ohn-wee [only] want to play if I can be da Bwankos,” she announces to me. Then she trots up to her coach and asks if she can have one of the orange jerseys. (I sneak back to the sidelines and resume pretending that she is not my kid.)
The coach puts off her request until the end of the team selections. But, at that time, she gently and wisely hands He’en the coveted orange jersey and matches her against a little girl who is similarly sized and has been intermittently refusing to play unless one – and sometimes both – of her parents is on the field with her.
Clutching the jersey but still not entirely appeased, He’en comes off the field to me with her chin again a-quiver.
“You said YOU would pay wif’ [play with] me.”
“And I will, Helen, when they call our numbers.”
Glower. “But you don’ haff . . . you need . . . but you are not a Bwanko.”
“Well, I know I am on your team, honey. I don’t need an orange jersey.”
He’en is in a fierce mood today, however, and this simply is not tenable. Before I can say, “that’s not my kid,” she is back at the coach’s knee, plucking at the coach’s shirt and demanding a jersey for “my mawm.” Unbelievably, the coach has an extra orange jersey in hand and ready. It is four-year-old sized, however. “I usually just tuck it in my pants,” the coach advises me over the kids’ heads. I nod and begin to follow suit. But He’en is having none of it.
“You have to WEAH’ it,” she hisses.
“But I will wear it here on my pants . . .”
“NO! You SAID you would pay and WEAH’ it. You POM-issed.” A little tear rolls down one cheek.
I hold up the jersey and stare at it. It’s still four-year-old sized. I am seriously wishing I’d taken up Helen on her demand to go home ten minutes ago. But I hadn’t, and now I am stuck with my own stupid lesson about good sportsmanship. So I stuff the jersey into my bra on top and into my jeans on the bottom. It covers my front like a lobster bib.
“How about that, Helen?”
She nods with grudging satisfaction as the other moms behind me – those with normal kids, apparently – launch a patter of appreciative commentary along the lines of, “You go girl!”
“I checked so much dignity at the door of that delivery room,” I sigh back to them as He’en and I jog toward the “field.”
He’en is matched three times in one-on-ones against her opponent. The first time, we run onto the field together and He’en gets the ball away from the other girl, who is a beautiful fragile sylph of a creature with long black hair and big dark eyes. Giggling maniacally, He’en kicks a goal . . . into her own team’s net.
“That’s great,” I encourage her, “but you need to try for the other team’s net – that one down there.”
He’en instantly stops on the field and runs to the sidelines as the other little girl intercepts the ball and starts to nudge it downfield with the help of her own mother. The coach whistles our match to a stop and I join Helen on the sidelines. She has a choice few words for me.
“I yam not goin’ to play again. I don’ wan’ you telling me what to do.”
“But, Helen, the game has rules.”
“I kicked da ball into the goal. I got a goal.”
“Well, you did. But it was your own team’s goal. If you want me to play out there with you, we’re going to play by the rules and try for the other goal.”
She doesn’t have the vocabulary for “the hell we are,” but I can see it in her eyes. And, sure enough, the next time they call our number, she refuses to take the field.
“Number fives!” the coach carols.
I pause on the sidelines and look back at Helen.
“Number fives?” the coach looks questioningly at me.
The other little girl and her father take the field.
“Helen, that’s our number; are you coming out?”
“No,” she growls, folding her arms.
“It’s . . . um, it’s just me this time,” I call across to the coach.
Undaunted, the coach carries on. She probably has seen it all. “All right then! Number fives!” and TWEET goes her whistle.
I play a little gentle dribbling with Helen’s opponent and then -- of course -- let her score a goal against me. Delighted, she grins at me and then heads upfield with her father. Helen glares from the sidelines. I surrender the field without making any eye contact with my churlish offspring. Take that, crabpatch.
On the third and final round, Helen is ready and willing to play again. With no help from me, she channels all her frustration into snatching the purple soccer ball from her tiny opponent. She dribbles it down the field and smacks it into the correct goal. The other little girl, defending, bursts into tears. He’en shoots a triumphant glare at me with a smile that I do not like at all.
I turn He’en around by the shoulders and make her say, “good game,” to her sobbing opponent, and I remind her how she felt last week when the tall girl took the ball away three times. I am not sure any of it makes a dent. I feel bad for the other little girl; the orange jersey is starting to itch; I was really over this whole thing twenty minutes ago; and whose freaking idea was it anyway that four-year-olds should be capable of competitive sports?
With my last reserves of patience, I accompany He’en through the last drill. The coach saves “kicks on goal” for the end. Each team lines up in front of its own goal, and the kids take turns sinking that ball into the net. Everybody gets at least one goal if they have to throw it in. I look forward to this moment with great joy, primarily because I know the end of this soccer hour is near.
After several goals, the kids are all smiles again, and the coach calls for her jerseys.
“Better get out there, Helen. She has stickers,” I counsel with blank exhaustion. Maybe there will be one bright glimmer in this dark morning. I peel off my itchy lobster bib with great relief and He’en surrenders it for me. The kids collect their balls and gather around the coach. They exchange high-fives with the other kids in the class.
Just as I am zipping my purse and wondering whether it’s really déclassé to bring a flask to next week’s session, I see Helen angling toward me with an air of great purpose. She comes right in to hugging distance and starts to pluck at my shirt.
“Helen . . . ” I am just about to chide her for picking at me yet again when I look down and realize what she is doing.
“Dere,” she smiles, affixing a neon-pink smiley-face sticker to my shirt collar. “Dat is your sticker. You did a gweat job today, Mom.” She received two stickers and has given me the big one. For herself, she has kept only a small pink star.
I am drained, frustrated, cranky, and deeply moved. I want to say that she did a great job, too, but a) that would be a total lie, and, b) I can’t get the words out anyway because I am weeping a little. So I just hug her and hug her. Oh, this child, this child of my own.
I had no idea it was so hard to be a soccer mom.
But the morning did not begin well. Exhausted from three days of nonstop fun with her grandparents, she overslept and wasn’t hungry for breakfast. She was cold. She didn’t want a sweater. I found her new Spyder fleece with the glittery spider on it. That was much better. And so forth. And so on. Although I allowed gobs of extra time, we still barely made it to the car.
Then, as we were in the car, waiting for DH to join us, he opened the door and growled, “You’re on your own. We have a broken water pipe. The basement’s flooded.” PLOMPF went the door and away went DH.
“I don’t WAN’ to go ta sawkka,” He’en writhed in her carseat. She probably thought a basement flood sounded a lot more exciting. Truth, I did also by that time. But we had a deal: she had begged and pestered for soccer, so she must attend at least three of the five lessons. I reminded her of the deal – more chin-quivering – and off we went.
She grumped and fussed in the car. She dragged and scuffed into the school gym. She drooped and hid behind me as the other kids found soccer balls and did warmups. But! After securing my ironclad promise to participate during the parent-participation portion of the lesson, she seemed to rally. With good cheer, she marched in the little line of kids around the perimeter of the basketball court (designated today as the soccer field).
At this point I breathe a little inward sigh of relief and pick up my phone as the kids begin their first drill. I hear He’en snottily complaining to the coach about how she can’t find her ball, and some other kid took the red ball, and God-knows-what-else, but I just open my Kindle app and pretend she’s somebody else’s kid.
About four sentences into my Lindsay Buroker e-book, however, I hear a sustained wail and glance up to see He’en flat-out on the floor. She apparently collided with somebody during the Red Light. I pause a moment to see if this is standard He’en-drama or something more meaningful, but the other kids have cleared the floor and now I will look like a real wanker if I just let my kid lie there and/or yell, “woman up!” from the sidelines. Plus another little girl is in tears, apparently being a sympathetic type, and is running to He’en to comfort her, so now we have wailing kids littering the field and the lesson at a standstill.
The other mom scoops up her sympathetic bundle and gets her off the field. So I, with an over-the-shoulder apology to the coach, likewise scoop up a sobbing He’en and carry her out of the gym with hot tears seeping into my neck.
Outside the gym, we try taking deep breaths.
“Are you hurt, honey?”
“My fin-gah,” she gasps between sobs. I covertly peer at her finger and it indeed is very red and angry-looking. Damn. Don’t be broken, finger.
“Ok, let’s walk outside and look at the trees and take some deep breaths of the cool air. We will find a rock to sit on, and I will look at your finger.”
Nods and sobs.
I take her outside and we find the promised rock.
“Now, put your hands out like this. Can you spread your fingers apart? Can you make a fist?”
To great my relief, she does all of that, albeit gingerly.
“Ok, let me touch your finger.”
She allows that too and I carefully manipulate the suspect digit. Thank God, not a broken finger.
“Did you get the wind knocked out of you when you fell?”
She doesn’t know, so I tell her about how it feels to get the wind knocked out of you and then imitate that first breath you take when you can breathe again. She almost giggles at the goofy noise I make. She almost looks sane again.
“So let’s go back in there.”
Flinch. Quiver. “I don’t WANT to play sawkkah. I want to go HOME.”
Well, heck. I don’t want my kid to be a quitter, but the odds of having a good lesson after this are nearly nill. And, yet, she has to learn to power through a bad day. I think and think. Again, I earn the big bucks by deciding where to push and where to concede.
“You don’t have to play, but I want us both to watch. There may be skills that you can learn by watching. You can sit in my lap if you want.”
She consents to that, and we trail back into the gym. “We’re just going to watch for a while,” I mouth to the coach. She, having made a career of dealing with other people’s children, nods in perfect understanding.
We watch a few exercises, and then He’en tugs at my arm and whispers – as I had hoped -- “Okay. I wan’ to play again. But only if you come WIF’ me.” Fine. At least she is on the field.
Happily, we are just in time for the next exercise: Clock Soccer. Parent-volunteers stand in a circle, each with a child or two behind them. The kids run once around the circle and then stop behind their parent. After a couple dry runs, it is attempted with soccer balls.
He’en does not run the first time. She is afraid of falling, she says, and huddles behind me with her face buried in the back of my shirt. On the second drill, she listlessly trots around the circle and then comes back and attaches herself to my pants pocket. I bat her away in time for a third drill (with a soccer ball). Sulking over being pried loose, she refuses to participate. On the fourth drill, I make her stand there with the other parents and I dribble the ball around the circle myself, trying not to knock over any little kids. On the fifth and final drill, He’en takes the ball four steps and then returns to hanging on my pockets. Again, I detach her, making me her most unfavorite person.
The next drill is one-on-one. He’en has been dreading this for two weeks: in her first lesson, a taller, stronger girl scored three goals on her in quick and fierce succession. He’en is still not over the indignity. “I ohn-wee [only] want to play if I can be da Bwankos,” she announces to me. Then she trots up to her coach and asks if she can have one of the orange jerseys. (I sneak back to the sidelines and resume pretending that she is not my kid.)
The coach puts off her request until the end of the team selections. But, at that time, she gently and wisely hands He’en the coveted orange jersey and matches her against a little girl who is similarly sized and has been intermittently refusing to play unless one – and sometimes both – of her parents is on the field with her.
Clutching the jersey but still not entirely appeased, He’en comes off the field to me with her chin again a-quiver.
“You said YOU would pay wif’ [play with] me.”
“And I will, Helen, when they call our numbers.”
Glower. “But you don’ haff . . . you need . . . but you are not a Bwanko.”
“Well, I know I am on your team, honey. I don’t need an orange jersey.”
He’en is in a fierce mood today, however, and this simply is not tenable. Before I can say, “that’s not my kid,” she is back at the coach’s knee, plucking at the coach’s shirt and demanding a jersey for “my mawm.” Unbelievably, the coach has an extra orange jersey in hand and ready. It is four-year-old sized, however. “I usually just tuck it in my pants,” the coach advises me over the kids’ heads. I nod and begin to follow suit. But He’en is having none of it.
“You have to WEAH’ it,” she hisses.
“But I will wear it here on my pants . . .”
“NO! You SAID you would pay and WEAH’ it. You POM-issed.” A little tear rolls down one cheek.
I hold up the jersey and stare at it. It’s still four-year-old sized. I am seriously wishing I’d taken up Helen on her demand to go home ten minutes ago. But I hadn’t, and now I am stuck with my own stupid lesson about good sportsmanship. So I stuff the jersey into my bra on top and into my jeans on the bottom. It covers my front like a lobster bib.
“How about that, Helen?”
She nods with grudging satisfaction as the other moms behind me – those with normal kids, apparently – launch a patter of appreciative commentary along the lines of, “You go girl!”
“I checked so much dignity at the door of that delivery room,” I sigh back to them as He’en and I jog toward the “field.”
He’en is matched three times in one-on-ones against her opponent. The first time, we run onto the field together and He’en gets the ball away from the other girl, who is a beautiful fragile sylph of a creature with long black hair and big dark eyes. Giggling maniacally, He’en kicks a goal . . . into her own team’s net.
“That’s great,” I encourage her, “but you need to try for the other team’s net – that one down there.”
He’en instantly stops on the field and runs to the sidelines as the other little girl intercepts the ball and starts to nudge it downfield with the help of her own mother. The coach whistles our match to a stop and I join Helen on the sidelines. She has a choice few words for me.
“I yam not goin’ to play again. I don’ wan’ you telling me what to do.”
“But, Helen, the game has rules.”
“I kicked da ball into the goal. I got a goal.”
“Well, you did. But it was your own team’s goal. If you want me to play out there with you, we’re going to play by the rules and try for the other goal.”
She doesn’t have the vocabulary for “the hell we are,” but I can see it in her eyes. And, sure enough, the next time they call our number, she refuses to take the field.
“Number fives!” the coach carols.
I pause on the sidelines and look back at Helen.
“Number fives?” the coach looks questioningly at me.
The other little girl and her father take the field.
“Helen, that’s our number; are you coming out?”
“No,” she growls, folding her arms.
“It’s . . . um, it’s just me this time,” I call across to the coach.
Undaunted, the coach carries on. She probably has seen it all. “All right then! Number fives!” and TWEET goes her whistle.
I play a little gentle dribbling with Helen’s opponent and then -- of course -- let her score a goal against me. Delighted, she grins at me and then heads upfield with her father. Helen glares from the sidelines. I surrender the field without making any eye contact with my churlish offspring. Take that, crabpatch.
On the third and final round, Helen is ready and willing to play again. With no help from me, she channels all her frustration into snatching the purple soccer ball from her tiny opponent. She dribbles it down the field and smacks it into the correct goal. The other little girl, defending, bursts into tears. He’en shoots a triumphant glare at me with a smile that I do not like at all.
I turn He’en around by the shoulders and make her say, “good game,” to her sobbing opponent, and I remind her how she felt last week when the tall girl took the ball away three times. I am not sure any of it makes a dent. I feel bad for the other little girl; the orange jersey is starting to itch; I was really over this whole thing twenty minutes ago; and whose freaking idea was it anyway that four-year-olds should be capable of competitive sports?
With my last reserves of patience, I accompany He’en through the last drill. The coach saves “kicks on goal” for the end. Each team lines up in front of its own goal, and the kids take turns sinking that ball into the net. Everybody gets at least one goal if they have to throw it in. I look forward to this moment with great joy, primarily because I know the end of this soccer hour is near.
After several goals, the kids are all smiles again, and the coach calls for her jerseys.
“Better get out there, Helen. She has stickers,” I counsel with blank exhaustion. Maybe there will be one bright glimmer in this dark morning. I peel off my itchy lobster bib with great relief and He’en surrenders it for me. The kids collect their balls and gather around the coach. They exchange high-fives with the other kids in the class.
Just as I am zipping my purse and wondering whether it’s really déclassé to bring a flask to next week’s session, I see Helen angling toward me with an air of great purpose. She comes right in to hugging distance and starts to pluck at my shirt.
“Helen . . . ” I am just about to chide her for picking at me yet again when I look down and realize what she is doing.
“Dere,” she smiles, affixing a neon-pink smiley-face sticker to my shirt collar. “Dat is your sticker. You did a gweat job today, Mom.” She received two stickers and has given me the big one. For herself, she has kept only a small pink star.
I am drained, frustrated, cranky, and deeply moved. I want to say that she did a great job, too, but a) that would be a total lie, and, b) I can’t get the words out anyway because I am weeping a little. So I just hug her and hug her. Oh, this child, this child of my own.
I had no idea it was so hard to be a soccer mom.
Monday, May 6, 2013
Every Party Needs a Pooper
Taking He'en to birthday parties now is akin to taking our barely-subclinical hound to the dog park. Socialization is important. You want to be a responsible parent. You start with the best of intentions. But, before you know it, somebody has a punctured ear and you're apologizing all over the place.*
On a recent sunny Sunday, I loaded both kids into the car for the New Best Friend's birthday party. I like the New Best Friend a lot. She is a sweet cheerful little girl. Her parents are gracious and mellow. I really wanted to further this relationship. I was carefully pressed and dressed in my best Mom Jeans. He'en was sporting a freshly washed dress. She had wrapped the present three days in advance. We happily drove though the spring afternoon and arrived at the house awash with glittery anticipation.
All was sweetness and light as He'en disappeared to play with the birthday girl and her preschool friends. I plopped Dragon Girl on the floor of the great room, where she set about charming every mother present by cooing and giggling over a huge purple balloon. Eventually the parents announced "Games!" and a flock of delicious little girls swirled in from the other room. We were off to a great start, I swear.
Then came Hot Potato Dress-Up. The music plays and the kids pass a ball. When the music stops, the person holding the ball has to close his/her eyes and draw a dress-up item from a giant flour sack. The game continues until everyone is wearing something goofy. Sounds great. And it was great. Until the kid next to He'en drew a plastic alligator head.
The next thing I know, He'en had broken from her place in the circle and was literally crawling toward me, wildly sobbing. I was so nonplussed that I think I mouthed the words, "What the ... ?" to another mom over my kid's head as I wordlessly patted Helen's back, trying to figure out if she'd sat on a thumbtack or something.
After riding out some intense gasping and hacking, I finally ferreted out the words, "I wanted the alligator head!" (Try this with a sob between each syllable and no letters "t," "r," or "l," and you will see why it took me so long to decipher.)
I sent her back into the ring with gentle words but scant sympathy.
By this time, the game had moved along. When she finally got her turn to draw an item, I sighed with relief . . . briefly. She dove headfirst into the flour sack like a released gamecock and thumped about in there until the other kids started to shout "Don't look! You aren't supposed to LOOK! Come on, pick!"
She stonily ignored their cries and emerged in her own good time with a very fancy purple-and-silver Hawaiian lei. On any other day, this would have delighted her, but not today. She wore it with white-lipped resignation for the rest of the game. I saw her twice try to negotiate a trade for the alligator head. But she didn't come back to my lap, and as Hot Potato Dress-Up mercifully drew to a close, I had hopes for a full recovery.
Well, the parents were no rookies, so they moved the games right along with bright cheer into a "freeze dancing" round. He'en tried a couple dance moves but then came to bury her head in my lap, clearly still smarting from the dress-up trauma.
I sent her back into the ring again. She was none too pleased with me but willing to be distracted by a third game that we'll call Paper Plate Prizes.
This is a cute little game where numbered paper plates were strewn about the floor. Music plays, and the kids hop from plate to plate. When the music ends, everyone puts one foot on a plate. (The smart parents had provided one plate for each child). A winning number is drawn from a hat, and the person whose foot is on the matching plate gets a small gift. The game continues until everyone has a gift. Good stuff, right? Yes, you would think so.
He'en couldn't even make it onto the dance floor. She melted down so hard -- I never did catch the reason -- that I had to usher her out of the room. Another mom kindly watched Dragon Girl while He'en and I had A Little Talk.
"I'm just TYE-uhd [tired]," He'en sobbed.
"Well, you don't have to play games, that's fine. But you may not cry and make scenes at somebody else's party."
"I want to yie [lie] DOWN," she pleaded.
"Absolutely not. If you're too tired to sit quietly, you are too tired to be at the party and we will leave."
She could tell I was serious. "Don' WANT to yeeve [leave]."
"Then woman up and get back in there with your game face on. One more meltdown and we're leaving. We will say we are sorry, and we will say goodbye, and we will get into our car, and we will go. Is that very clear?"
Our hostess (the birthday girl's mother) came in during the tail end of my little pep talk. God only knows what she thought. I apologized and she said it was fine, really, and led Helen off to get a little face-painting. As I glared from the doorway, He'en was an angel. But as soon as the mother finished painting a cute unicorn on Helen's tearstained cheek, Helen was right back at my side, tugging on my jeans pocket.
"I want to dance," she insisted, pointing to the Paper Plate game that was still in progress.
"Great," I agreed, "go and dance!"
"I want to dance with YOU," she insisted, lower lip quivering again.
"No, there are no other mommies on the dance floor. You need to get out there if you want to participate."
"WAIIILLLLLLL!!!!!"
We had officially crossed the event horizon for this particular party.
So I marched Helen back to the other room again and sat her down with Very Clear instructions to sit Right There while I collect our things.
"Noooo! I wan' to DANCE!" She tried to tear away from me and stagger, tear-blinded, back to the dance floor.
I caught her in a straitjacket hug. "You're in no shape to dance. You're crying too hard."
Then . . . "Oh. I get it. You want to dance so you can get a gift."
She nodded, wordlessly sobbing.
"Helen . . . no. I am very sorry for you. But I am not sending you back out there. You are not going to be the kid who ruins your friend's party by crying the whole time."
I gave additional Very Clear instructions along the lines of Sitting Right There. Then -- trying to act simultaneously grateful and sheepish -- I collected Dragon Girl from the mother who had been holding her. As she graciously smiled and handed over my baby, I recalled that Helen had also had a meltdown at her child's party a scant three months ago. Yeah, dammit, great, now we're that kid.
I am honestly getting pretty angry myself at this moment. But how much is me, and how much is He'en? Even as I force-buckled a hysterical Helen's shoes while trying with the other hand to keep the baby from eating the birthday girl's coloring books, I had to wonder. Am I overly cranky about this? Isn't this just a tired four-year-old being a tired four-year-old? Is it really a reflection on my parenting? Am I mad at my kid because I think she just made me look bad? Gosh, I hope not. I mean, we've all been there, right?
But these are questions for another day. No amount of self-doubt or Momguilt was going to persuade me to allow Helen back into that room. I left her in a complete hysterical puddle, tucked Dragon Girl onto my hip, and went to find our hostess to make apologies.
"Are you sure?" she said, kindly handing me a My Little Pony gift bag brimming with party favors.
"Very sure," I groaned, and thanked our hostess for a lovely afternoon.
Total party time: 40 minutes.
And if you think He'en cheerfully trotted out to the car and obediently climbed into her carseat, I want to come live in your reality. But we made it, and nobody hit anybody else (although some of us certainly thought about it). I crammed down the urge to launch nine versions of the "How Could You?" lecture and contented myself with driving, with only some white knuckles on the steering wheel to belie my truly staggering self-control.
After an impressive amount of sobbing, kicking, and hiccuping, He'en fell silent for a while.
Then:
"Mom?"
. . . "Yes?"
"I diddun' effen get any CAKE."
=====
*Apropos of watching our neighbors' five (5) dogs play together, He'en and I were discussing the different "talents" of dogs. "Some dogs are bred to stand guard," I explained, "and that's their talent. Some dogs are bred to run around and keep cows or sheep in a group. That's their talent."
He'en: (delighted by this idea) "Dogs haff TAL-ents?! Yike faeries?!"
Mom: "That's right! Now, what do you think our dog's talent might be?"
He'en: (long pause)
Mom: (prodding) "What is Kira really good at?"
He'en: "Um . . . fighting?"
'Nuff said.
On a recent sunny Sunday, I loaded both kids into the car for the New Best Friend's birthday party. I like the New Best Friend a lot. She is a sweet cheerful little girl. Her parents are gracious and mellow. I really wanted to further this relationship. I was carefully pressed and dressed in my best Mom Jeans. He'en was sporting a freshly washed dress. She had wrapped the present three days in advance. We happily drove though the spring afternoon and arrived at the house awash with glittery anticipation.
All was sweetness and light as He'en disappeared to play with the birthday girl and her preschool friends. I plopped Dragon Girl on the floor of the great room, where she set about charming every mother present by cooing and giggling over a huge purple balloon. Eventually the parents announced "Games!" and a flock of delicious little girls swirled in from the other room. We were off to a great start, I swear.
Then came Hot Potato Dress-Up. The music plays and the kids pass a ball. When the music stops, the person holding the ball has to close his/her eyes and draw a dress-up item from a giant flour sack. The game continues until everyone is wearing something goofy. Sounds great. And it was great. Until the kid next to He'en drew a plastic alligator head.
The next thing I know, He'en had broken from her place in the circle and was literally crawling toward me, wildly sobbing. I was so nonplussed that I think I mouthed the words, "What the ... ?" to another mom over my kid's head as I wordlessly patted Helen's back, trying to figure out if she'd sat on a thumbtack or something.
After riding out some intense gasping and hacking, I finally ferreted out the words, "I wanted the alligator head!" (Try this with a sob between each syllable and no letters "t," "r," or "l," and you will see why it took me so long to decipher.)
I sent her back into the ring with gentle words but scant sympathy.
By this time, the game had moved along. When she finally got her turn to draw an item, I sighed with relief . . . briefly. She dove headfirst into the flour sack like a released gamecock and thumped about in there until the other kids started to shout "Don't look! You aren't supposed to LOOK! Come on, pick!"
She stonily ignored their cries and emerged in her own good time with a very fancy purple-and-silver Hawaiian lei. On any other day, this would have delighted her, but not today. She wore it with white-lipped resignation for the rest of the game. I saw her twice try to negotiate a trade for the alligator head. But she didn't come back to my lap, and as Hot Potato Dress-Up mercifully drew to a close, I had hopes for a full recovery.
Well, the parents were no rookies, so they moved the games right along with bright cheer into a "freeze dancing" round. He'en tried a couple dance moves but then came to bury her head in my lap, clearly still smarting from the dress-up trauma.
I sent her back into the ring again. She was none too pleased with me but willing to be distracted by a third game that we'll call Paper Plate Prizes.
This is a cute little game where numbered paper plates were strewn about the floor. Music plays, and the kids hop from plate to plate. When the music ends, everyone puts one foot on a plate. (The smart parents had provided one plate for each child). A winning number is drawn from a hat, and the person whose foot is on the matching plate gets a small gift. The game continues until everyone has a gift. Good stuff, right? Yes, you would think so.
He'en couldn't even make it onto the dance floor. She melted down so hard -- I never did catch the reason -- that I had to usher her out of the room. Another mom kindly watched Dragon Girl while He'en and I had A Little Talk.
"I'm just TYE-uhd [tired]," He'en sobbed.
"Well, you don't have to play games, that's fine. But you may not cry and make scenes at somebody else's party."
"I want to yie [lie] DOWN," she pleaded.
"Absolutely not. If you're too tired to sit quietly, you are too tired to be at the party and we will leave."
She could tell I was serious. "Don' WANT to yeeve [leave]."
"Then woman up and get back in there with your game face on. One more meltdown and we're leaving. We will say we are sorry, and we will say goodbye, and we will get into our car, and we will go. Is that very clear?"
Our hostess (the birthday girl's mother) came in during the tail end of my little pep talk. God only knows what she thought. I apologized and she said it was fine, really, and led Helen off to get a little face-painting. As I glared from the doorway, He'en was an angel. But as soon as the mother finished painting a cute unicorn on Helen's tearstained cheek, Helen was right back at my side, tugging on my jeans pocket.
"I want to dance," she insisted, pointing to the Paper Plate game that was still in progress.
"Great," I agreed, "go and dance!"
"I want to dance with YOU," she insisted, lower lip quivering again.
"No, there are no other mommies on the dance floor. You need to get out there if you want to participate."
"WAIIILLLLLLL!!!!!"
We had officially crossed the event horizon for this particular party.
So I marched Helen back to the other room again and sat her down with Very Clear instructions to sit Right There while I collect our things.
"Noooo! I wan' to DANCE!" She tried to tear away from me and stagger, tear-blinded, back to the dance floor.
I caught her in a straitjacket hug. "You're in no shape to dance. You're crying too hard."
Then . . . "Oh. I get it. You want to dance so you can get a gift."
She nodded, wordlessly sobbing.
"Helen . . . no. I am very sorry for you. But I am not sending you back out there. You are not going to be the kid who ruins your friend's party by crying the whole time."
I gave additional Very Clear instructions along the lines of Sitting Right There. Then -- trying to act simultaneously grateful and sheepish -- I collected Dragon Girl from the mother who had been holding her. As she graciously smiled and handed over my baby, I recalled that Helen had also had a meltdown at her child's party a scant three months ago. Yeah, dammit, great, now we're that kid.
I am honestly getting pretty angry myself at this moment. But how much is me, and how much is He'en? Even as I force-buckled a hysterical Helen's shoes while trying with the other hand to keep the baby from eating the birthday girl's coloring books, I had to wonder. Am I overly cranky about this? Isn't this just a tired four-year-old being a tired four-year-old? Is it really a reflection on my parenting? Am I mad at my kid because I think she just made me look bad? Gosh, I hope not. I mean, we've all been there, right?
But these are questions for another day. No amount of self-doubt or Momguilt was going to persuade me to allow Helen back into that room. I left her in a complete hysterical puddle, tucked Dragon Girl onto my hip, and went to find our hostess to make apologies.
"Are you sure?" she said, kindly handing me a My Little Pony gift bag brimming with party favors.
"Very sure," I groaned, and thanked our hostess for a lovely afternoon.
Total party time: 40 minutes.
And if you think He'en cheerfully trotted out to the car and obediently climbed into her carseat, I want to come live in your reality. But we made it, and nobody hit anybody else (although some of us certainly thought about it). I crammed down the urge to launch nine versions of the "How Could You?" lecture and contented myself with driving, with only some white knuckles on the steering wheel to belie my truly staggering self-control.
After an impressive amount of sobbing, kicking, and hiccuping, He'en fell silent for a while.
Then:
"Mom?"
. . . "Yes?"
"I diddun' effen get any CAKE."
=====
*Apropos of watching our neighbors' five (5) dogs play together, He'en and I were discussing the different "talents" of dogs. "Some dogs are bred to stand guard," I explained, "and that's their talent. Some dogs are bred to run around and keep cows or sheep in a group. That's their talent."
He'en: (delighted by this idea) "Dogs haff TAL-ents?! Yike faeries?!"
Mom: "That's right! Now, what do you think our dog's talent might be?"
He'en: (long pause)
Mom: (prodding) "What is Kira really good at?"
He'en: "Um . . . fighting?"
'Nuff said.
Sunday, February 3, 2013
The Four-Minute Shirt
This probably will be a four-minute entry about the four-minute shirt. You know those speed writing exercises they give you in college? Yeah, come to my house for the "two kids under five" exercise. As my NANO-winning sister will attest -- for three years running, people! -- this place ups our game by factors of magnitude.
Anyway, the four-minute shirt. When your little bundle of joy arrives, you cannot conceive of the laundry it will generate. Pound-for-pound, they generate laundry at a minimum 3:1 ratio. For example: baby pees through a onesie, which soaks the bedding and later the changing pad. Here's what you have to swap:
1. The onesie, duh.
1.a. Any pants that accompanied the onesie.
2. Crib pad.
3. Crib sheet.
4. Changing pad.
5. Blanket on top of changing pad,
and, if you are like me and cannot securely hold a baby without getting all scrunged up yourself,
6. Your own shirt.
This last necessitates putting down the baby so you can change with two hands, and there is a risk of starting the whole thing over again.
The four-minute shirt happened thusly: I was going about my day wearing a nice comfy black sweater that puddled nicely over my Mama-belly. I bathed Dragon Girl and the sleeves got sopping. It was too wet to wear, so I changed it out for a black T-shirt.
I didn't like the black T-shirt because it was tight, but I figured I would not wear it long. I was right. As soon as I went down to the kitchen, I moved a dish in the sink and splashed half a baking bowl full of chocolatey water onto my Mama-belly. Then I shook up a warm bottle for Dragon Girl and sprinkled formula all over my sleeve. While still sighing over that, I picked up a hollering Dragon Girl and fed her. Seconds thereafter, I hoisted her onto my shoulder where I heard a liquidy little "glurp" followed by a cascade of the same formula, now at baby-belly-temperature, onto my left shoulder.
Four minutes. Seriously. And people wonder what a Mama does all day.
Anyway, the four-minute shirt. When your little bundle of joy arrives, you cannot conceive of the laundry it will generate. Pound-for-pound, they generate laundry at a minimum 3:1 ratio. For example: baby pees through a onesie, which soaks the bedding and later the changing pad. Here's what you have to swap:
1. The onesie, duh.
1.a. Any pants that accompanied the onesie.
2. Crib pad.
3. Crib sheet.
4. Changing pad.
5. Blanket on top of changing pad,
and, if you are like me and cannot securely hold a baby without getting all scrunged up yourself,
6. Your own shirt.
This last necessitates putting down the baby so you can change with two hands, and there is a risk of starting the whole thing over again.
The four-minute shirt happened thusly: I was going about my day wearing a nice comfy black sweater that puddled nicely over my Mama-belly. I bathed Dragon Girl and the sleeves got sopping. It was too wet to wear, so I changed it out for a black T-shirt.
I didn't like the black T-shirt because it was tight, but I figured I would not wear it long. I was right. As soon as I went down to the kitchen, I moved a dish in the sink and splashed half a baking bowl full of chocolatey water onto my Mama-belly. Then I shook up a warm bottle for Dragon Girl and sprinkled formula all over my sleeve. While still sighing over that, I picked up a hollering Dragon Girl and fed her. Seconds thereafter, I hoisted her onto my shoulder where I heard a liquidy little "glurp" followed by a cascade of the same formula, now at baby-belly-temperature, onto my left shoulder.
Four minutes. Seriously. And people wonder what a Mama does all day.
Monday, January 21, 2013
Whaddaya Want for Breakfast? v.2
Well, here's another thing nobody tells you about parenting: as soon as the child can articulate a desire, you, the parent, will be wrong all the time. I had not anticipated this at all. It's laughable on a good day and crushingly exhausting on a bad day.
Example: I had loaded both kids into the car to go [somewhere that is now a blur]. He'en had acquired a stalk of grass with seeds attached and was busily shredding it, waving it around, generally fiddling with it, and getting grass seeds all over the car.
My new low standards didn't even take notice of this until she began to bounce it around near the baby's face. Then I tried some distracted remediation while reserving most of my brain to arrange purse, car keys, water, snacks, wipes, and God-knows-what for this trip to [somewhere that is now a blur].
Mom: He'en, please don't bounce that near the baby's face. I don't want her to get a grass seed in her eye.
He'en: [instantly outraged] I'm not bouncing it!
Mom: Okay, well, don't wave it, please.
He'en: I'm not doing that eeefer!
Mom: Or poke it at her? Or what? What are you doing?
He'en: I'm showing it to her.
Mom: Oh. Well. Please don't.
After a short pause, in a very quiet voice and tone I cannot really describe as other than smug:
He'en: I aw-weddy did.
I'm trying to remediate some of this, by the way, with a new household collar-tightening program based on 123 Magic Parenting. We all could use a refresher now and then. It's like training a dog. The problem usually is not the dog.
Moving along . . .
It's 7:33 a.m., blissfully late by two-kid standards. I haven't started Helen's breakfast even though I know that my computer's wakeup chime is like a four-alarm fire to the kids. I don't know how they can hear it through two closed doors, but they can.
Breakfast. Breakfast. Argh, yet another breakfast. I used to wonder how my mother developed such a distaste for cooking. She was an adventurous cook in the early 1970s and a member of the local Gourmet Club.
Well, there's one more "you were right, Mom!" Fast forward 30 years and I am totally sympathetic. Ten years ago, I used spend all weekend in the kitchen procuring five-course Indian meals and haunting the local Asian markets to seek out the correct ingredients for authentic Chinese. Nowadays, if DH comes home to a plain roast chicken, some boiled potatoes (mashing is too much hassle) and anything green, I am beaming with pride like I just beat Deep Blue.
Breakfast. Argh.
The breakfast formula is "protein / starch / fruit." With those three categories in hand, I usually get something on the table of which I am not ashamed. But I totally understand the urge to ask the kids, "What do you want for breakfast?" Even though I am not running a restaurant, I am so tired of being wrong about breakfast. Wrong egg: tears well up. "I wann-ed a dip-dip egg!" Wrong carb: tears well up: "I wann-ed waisins in dere." She doesn't ask for these things. I am just supposed to know. And when my clarivoyance fails, a meltdown follows, and I don't have a whole lot of tolerance for meltdowns when I am still on the wrong side of that first cup of coffee.
Now I hear Dragon Girl, so I am going to stagger to a halt with this entry. She, at least, is easy. What she wants for breakfast is a) milk, and b) cuddles. And she loves the same thing every single day. Bless her!
Example: I had loaded both kids into the car to go [somewhere that is now a blur]. He'en had acquired a stalk of grass with seeds attached and was busily shredding it, waving it around, generally fiddling with it, and getting grass seeds all over the car.
My new low standards didn't even take notice of this until she began to bounce it around near the baby's face. Then I tried some distracted remediation while reserving most of my brain to arrange purse, car keys, water, snacks, wipes, and God-knows-what for this trip to [somewhere that is now a blur].
Mom: He'en, please don't bounce that near the baby's face. I don't want her to get a grass seed in her eye.
He'en: [instantly outraged] I'm not bouncing it!
Mom: Okay, well, don't wave it, please.
He'en: I'm not doing that eeefer!
Mom: Or poke it at her? Or what? What are you doing?
He'en: I'm showing it to her.
Mom: Oh. Well. Please don't.
After a short pause, in a very quiet voice and tone I cannot really describe as other than smug:
He'en: I aw-weddy did.
I'm trying to remediate some of this, by the way, with a new household collar-tightening program based on 123 Magic Parenting. We all could use a refresher now and then. It's like training a dog. The problem usually is not the dog.
Moving along . . .
It's 7:33 a.m., blissfully late by two-kid standards. I haven't started Helen's breakfast even though I know that my computer's wakeup chime is like a four-alarm fire to the kids. I don't know how they can hear it through two closed doors, but they can.
Breakfast. Breakfast. Argh, yet another breakfast. I used to wonder how my mother developed such a distaste for cooking. She was an adventurous cook in the early 1970s and a member of the local Gourmet Club.
Well, there's one more "you were right, Mom!" Fast forward 30 years and I am totally sympathetic. Ten years ago, I used spend all weekend in the kitchen procuring five-course Indian meals and haunting the local Asian markets to seek out the correct ingredients for authentic Chinese. Nowadays, if DH comes home to a plain roast chicken, some boiled potatoes (mashing is too much hassle) and anything green, I am beaming with pride like I just beat Deep Blue.
Breakfast. Argh.
The breakfast formula is "protein / starch / fruit." With those three categories in hand, I usually get something on the table of which I am not ashamed. But I totally understand the urge to ask the kids, "What do you want for breakfast?" Even though I am not running a restaurant, I am so tired of being wrong about breakfast. Wrong egg: tears well up. "I wann-ed a dip-dip egg!" Wrong carb: tears well up: "I wann-ed waisins in dere." She doesn't ask for these things. I am just supposed to know. And when my clarivoyance fails, a meltdown follows, and I don't have a whole lot of tolerance for meltdowns when I am still on the wrong side of that first cup of coffee.
Now I hear Dragon Girl, so I am going to stagger to a halt with this entry. She, at least, is easy. What she wants for breakfast is a) milk, and b) cuddles. And she loves the same thing every single day. Bless her!
Friday, November 16, 2012
Sweet Peace, Bitter Guilt . . . Oh, the Heck with the Guilt
I was just thinking that I haven't used the "momguilt" label enough lately. It's a lovely late-fall afternoon. Snow is melting off the trees. Turkey soup is underway on the stove. Challah dough is obediently rising, and in a few minutes I will collect He'en for the braiding. I will go shovel the porch in just a moment. Probably.
Dragon Girl is napping in her bassinet after a happy day of snuggles and play with her beloved auntie. He'en is in her room with a new My Little Pony, enjoying her time of snuggles and play with her beloved auntie.
And I, am I holding either one of them? Playing with either one of them? Oh, no. I am sitting in the kitchen nibbling cheese and crackers, perusing other momblogs.
On the one hand, I want to defend myself and say "Well, I had all night with Dragon Girl, and a cozy morning snuggle, and we'll reconvene this evening for the night shift."
As to the older child, I want to defend myself and say, "I took He'en to the thrift store, and we sewed together on her Halloween costume, and we made challah dough together and we will soon perform the happy daily ritual of braiding it."
Those things sound good. But they do not a full day constitute.
***
20 calendar days later:
Pfft, what was that? I am so over the guilt. Those things do damned well a full day constitute. About six seconds after I sat down to write the above post (completing only what you see), Dragon Girl woke up and demanded milk; He'en emerged from her room and demanded everything; the dog arose from her cushion and demanded pets, treats, and in/out/out/in activity, and everybody generally required a bit ol' slice of Mama Pie.
Accordingly, I post the above and this coda as a reminder to Mamas everywhere, and myself, too: carpe the heck out of those precious me-moments. You never know when they will appear, and they are fleet fickle little suckers.
Now here is He'en, announcing that she has goosebumps and crawling into my lap as I type. I must go debump my kid.
***
Three minutes later:
Goosebumps soothed, He'en announces calmly, "I'd yike honey on my Cweam of Wheat. Oh. And yast night I peed in my bed an' my jams."
Oh indeed.
Now, what I was I saying about seizing those little moments?
Dragon Girl is napping in her bassinet after a happy day of snuggles and play with her beloved auntie. He'en is in her room with a new My Little Pony, enjoying her time of snuggles and play with her beloved auntie.
And I, am I holding either one of them? Playing with either one of them? Oh, no. I am sitting in the kitchen nibbling cheese and crackers, perusing other momblogs.
On the one hand, I want to defend myself and say "Well, I had all night with Dragon Girl, and a cozy morning snuggle, and we'll reconvene this evening for the night shift."
As to the older child, I want to defend myself and say, "I took He'en to the thrift store, and we sewed together on her Halloween costume, and we made challah dough together and we will soon perform the happy daily ritual of braiding it."
Those things sound good. But they do not a full day constitute.
***
20 calendar days later:
Pfft, what was that? I am so over the guilt. Those things do damned well a full day constitute. About six seconds after I sat down to write the above post (completing only what you see), Dragon Girl woke up and demanded milk; He'en emerged from her room and demanded everything; the dog arose from her cushion and demanded pets, treats, and in/out/out/in activity, and everybody generally required a bit ol' slice of Mama Pie.
Accordingly, I post the above and this coda as a reminder to Mamas everywhere, and myself, too: carpe the heck out of those precious me-moments. You never know when they will appear, and they are fleet fickle little suckers.
Now here is He'en, announcing that she has goosebumps and crawling into my lap as I type. I must go debump my kid.
***
Three minutes later:
Goosebumps soothed, He'en announces calmly, "I'd yike honey on my Cweam of Wheat. Oh. And yast night I peed in my bed an' my jams."
Oh indeed.
Now, what I was I saying about seizing those little moments?
Sunday, September 23, 2012
Sleep Junkie
"Anything else I should know?" asks another angelic nurse as she arrives for shift change.
"No . . . oh, yes, I am due for Percoset in another two hours."
"Okay," she chirps, marking the chart, "I'll be back in two hours! If you need it sooner, we can do that a half-hour sooner, so just let me know."
Off goes the nurse, and into the resultant void comes a husbandly grumble: "I'm not sure I am too thrilled about you asking for painkillers."*
"Well," I sighed, "with the last C-section, I was all trying-to-be-brave and I was absolutely miserable. And since nobody handed me a medal for that, I am taking all my painkillers on schedule this time."**
"That's drug-seeking behavior," declared DH, unmoved.***
But he ain't seen-ed nothing yet. Two months down the road, I am in full-on sleep deprivation mode. Dragon Girl is still taking three (3) night feedings, at three (3) hour intervals. Occasionally we get lucky and stretch to four hours. That is a banner night. We remain, however, nowhere near the blissful five hours that He'en enjoyed like clockwork the moment she got home from the hospital: the ones that had me smugly thinking, "I don't know what everyone's complaining about. This newborn thing isn't so hard." (Isn't it great how the universe rubs your nose in snotty comments like that?)
Enter the sleep addiction. I crave sleep. I seek sleep. I stash sleep. I've fallen asleep on the exam table at the doctor's office. I was actually excited to get a filling because I could lie horizontally in the kid-free dentist's chair for an hour.
I sneak a catnap wherever I can. In classic addict style, I'll even fib about it, "Nope, wasn't sleeping," when DH finds me prone on the couch with the preschooler in a Barbie movie coma and the baby firmly tucked into my armpit.
Likewise classically, I am ruthless in my treatment of those who may interfere with my next fix. Poor He'en has only heard half the words of "If I Ran the Circus" because I skip from couplet to couplet on the fly at bedtime. Even the baby has suffered, since I gave up pumping breastmilk at night to eke out another hour of sleep in the small darks.
In 30 years, at the request of their therapists, I will let my kids read this entry. Until then, they are stuck with a sleep junkie mama.
=====
* DH is charming this way. He isn't too thrilled about my drinking coffee (caffiene), and he has extracted from me a promise never to give the kids soda (chemicals). Once, in a strange city, I saw him reduced to steering-wheel-pounding fury by my search for a Starbucks: "An entire nation of people! My God, all of them addicted to this stuff!?" I think he did accept a sip of latte when we got there, however.
** Second best advice I ever got: take all the drugs they give you after a C-section. (The first best advice was, "He is gonna propose and you are gonna say yes. You can always change your mind later.")
*** My sister's response to this story was to ask, with deeply gratifying exasperation, "Did you tell him you were twenty-four hours out of abdominal surgery? Of course you are engaging in drug-seeking behavior! You'd be crazy not to. Man, I would have taken those painkillers and then crawled out of that bed and smacked him one. Next time let's take out his appendix and he can lie there with you and we'll see who's asking for drugs! Pffhht!" (Sister Mine is pleasantly sparky.)
"No . . . oh, yes, I am due for Percoset in another two hours."
"Okay," she chirps, marking the chart, "I'll be back in two hours! If you need it sooner, we can do that a half-hour sooner, so just let me know."
Off goes the nurse, and into the resultant void comes a husbandly grumble: "I'm not sure I am too thrilled about you asking for painkillers."*
"Well," I sighed, "with the last C-section, I was all trying-to-be-brave and I was absolutely miserable. And since nobody handed me a medal for that, I am taking all my painkillers on schedule this time."**
"That's drug-seeking behavior," declared DH, unmoved.***
But he ain't seen-ed nothing yet. Two months down the road, I am in full-on sleep deprivation mode. Dragon Girl is still taking three (3) night feedings, at three (3) hour intervals. Occasionally we get lucky and stretch to four hours. That is a banner night. We remain, however, nowhere near the blissful five hours that He'en enjoyed like clockwork the moment she got home from the hospital: the ones that had me smugly thinking, "I don't know what everyone's complaining about. This newborn thing isn't so hard." (Isn't it great how the universe rubs your nose in snotty comments like that?)
Enter the sleep addiction. I crave sleep. I seek sleep. I stash sleep. I've fallen asleep on the exam table at the doctor's office. I was actually excited to get a filling because I could lie horizontally in the kid-free dentist's chair for an hour.
I sneak a catnap wherever I can. In classic addict style, I'll even fib about it, "Nope, wasn't sleeping," when DH finds me prone on the couch with the preschooler in a Barbie movie coma and the baby firmly tucked into my armpit.
Likewise classically, I am ruthless in my treatment of those who may interfere with my next fix. Poor He'en has only heard half the words of "If I Ran the Circus" because I skip from couplet to couplet on the fly at bedtime. Even the baby has suffered, since I gave up pumping breastmilk at night to eke out another hour of sleep in the small darks.
In 30 years, at the request of their therapists, I will let my kids read this entry. Until then, they are stuck with a sleep junkie mama.
=====
* DH is charming this way. He isn't too thrilled about my drinking coffee (caffiene), and he has extracted from me a promise never to give the kids soda (chemicals). Once, in a strange city, I saw him reduced to steering-wheel-pounding fury by my search for a Starbucks: "An entire nation of people! My God, all of them addicted to this stuff!?" I think he did accept a sip of latte when we got there, however.
** Second best advice I ever got: take all the drugs they give you after a C-section. (The first best advice was, "He is gonna propose and you are gonna say yes. You can always change your mind later.")
*** My sister's response to this story was to ask, with deeply gratifying exasperation, "Did you tell him you were twenty-four hours out of abdominal surgery? Of course you are engaging in drug-seeking behavior! You'd be crazy not to. Man, I would have taken those painkillers and then crawled out of that bed and smacked him one. Next time let's take out his appendix and he can lie there with you and we'll see who's asking for drugs! Pffhht!" (Sister Mine is pleasantly sparky.)
Friday, August 31, 2012
The Power of "Gleep"
Early this evening, I bathed poor scrungy Dragon Girl*. There isn't much of her. It takes about six minutes, once everything is set up. (I don't know why baby-bathing was an hour-plus project with infant He'en. I guess I am reassured this time that a postage-stamp-sized washcloth is unlikely to harm a critter that's built to pass through a birth canal.)
After her bath, I brushed her auburn hair with the little plastic brush that the hospital sent home. With each feathery stroke, I sang a tuneless "brush, brush, brush."
And darned if she didn't smile at me, not once, but three (3) times! Plus, she expressed her appreciation with a little "gleep."
This is a huge deal, because I mostly handle night shifts while Sister Mine handles day shifts. I am not sure how such a tiny scrap of humanity can keep two competent adult females in a state of near-total collapse, but she does, so that's the division of labor.
On the night shift, Dragon Girl often is less than delightful -- although in fairness, I probably am less than delightful myself -- and our conversation is limited to:
DG: "MILK! MILK! MILK!"
Me: "Blurg..."
or, sometimes:
Me: "...mumble...diaper time."
DG: "ARRRGGGHHHHHHHH ARRRGGGHHHHHHHH ARRRGGGHHHHHHHH!"
It's not what you'd call a great date.
But, oh, tonight, one precious "gleep," and a promise of more to come. Those are the moments that keep a new mama together. Thanks, Dragon Girl.
=====
*The baby is so nicknamed because she was born in the Year of the Dragon. Marvelous Tess at Tree Top Thai says that children born in the year of the dragon demonstrate vim, vigor, and lots of go, because, she says, they have hands . . . and feet . . . and wings. With this one, I believe it. I had to pause this entry's development about six times to dance the child around the kitchen. Bless you, Pandora. She particularly likes Depeche Mode.
After her bath, I brushed her auburn hair with the little plastic brush that the hospital sent home. With each feathery stroke, I sang a tuneless "brush, brush, brush."
And darned if she didn't smile at me, not once, but three (3) times! Plus, she expressed her appreciation with a little "gleep."
This is a huge deal, because I mostly handle night shifts while Sister Mine handles day shifts. I am not sure how such a tiny scrap of humanity can keep two competent adult females in a state of near-total collapse, but she does, so that's the division of labor.
On the night shift, Dragon Girl often is less than delightful -- although in fairness, I probably am less than delightful myself -- and our conversation is limited to:
DG: "MILK! MILK! MILK!"
Me: "Blurg..."
or, sometimes:
Me: "...mumble...diaper time."
DG: "ARRRGGGHHHHHHHH ARRRGGGHHHHHHHH ARRRGGGHHHHHHHH!"
It's not what you'd call a great date.
But, oh, tonight, one precious "gleep," and a promise of more to come. Those are the moments that keep a new mama together. Thanks, Dragon Girl.
=====
*The baby is so nicknamed because she was born in the Year of the Dragon. Marvelous Tess at Tree Top Thai says that children born in the year of the dragon demonstrate vim, vigor, and lots of go, because, she says, they have hands . . . and feet . . . and wings. With this one, I believe it. I had to pause this entry's development about six times to dance the child around the kitchen. Bless you, Pandora. She particularly likes Depeche Mode.
Thursday, August 30, 2012
A Long Night's Journey Into Day
This will happen:
One night, you will tenderly feed your offspring in the usual way, at the usual time. You will then blunder to bed (couch/cushion/futon/nest of your choice) and tumble into your usual non-REM sleep of black and utter exhaustion.
[N.B. - of late, I've been waking every two hours for feedings with one eye dry and itchy. This means I've been sleeping with an eye half-open. Yes, that tired. Grossy-gross.]
But this will happen:
When you wake, it will be light outside. Birds will sing. Traffic will rumble. You will look at your clock. A blast of adrenaline will momentarily paralyze you, utterly, utterly. Oh, God, it's morning. You are the world's worst mother. You have slept through all the night feedings. Your offspring has starved, pitifully crying, abandoned, alone, in the cold dark hours.
You will then levitate yourself into furious action and rush to your offspring's side (leaping stairs four at a time if you have stairs in the house). Whereupon you will find said offspring . . .
. . . probably with a pretty squishy diaper . . .
. . . peacefully sleeping . . .
. . . not missing you one little bit.
Behold, a new era has begun.
This hasn't happened yet in this house, either. But it will happen. Hang tough, mamas everywhere.
One night, you will tenderly feed your offspring in the usual way, at the usual time. You will then blunder to bed (couch/cushion/futon/nest of your choice) and tumble into your usual non-REM sleep of black and utter exhaustion.
[N.B. - of late, I've been waking every two hours for feedings with one eye dry and itchy. This means I've been sleeping with an eye half-open. Yes, that tired. Grossy-gross.]
But this will happen:
When you wake, it will be light outside. Birds will sing. Traffic will rumble. You will look at your clock. A blast of adrenaline will momentarily paralyze you, utterly, utterly. Oh, God, it's morning. You are the world's worst mother. You have slept through all the night feedings. Your offspring has starved, pitifully crying, abandoned, alone, in the cold dark hours.
You will then levitate yourself into furious action and rush to your offspring's side (leaping stairs four at a time if you have stairs in the house). Whereupon you will find said offspring . . .
. . . probably with a pretty squishy diaper . . .
. . . peacefully sleeping . . .
. . . not missing you one little bit.
Behold, a new era has begun.
This hasn't happened yet in this house, either. But it will happen. Hang tough, mamas everywhere.
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