The age old expression "Kids say the darnedest things" has the tendency to be an understatement in my family. Before Pres was diagnosed with Asperger's Syndrome a little under a year ago, one of the most telling symptoms was his seeming complete lack of a social filter. He says what he's thinking at any given moment, regardless of the situation. And he only has one volume: LOUD.
At seven years old, most children his age have at least some reservations about blurting things out in public. I've seen it in his in his peers and cousins and often wondered why Pres was so unable to hold his tongue. But my son, God bless him, is the one who shouts to his father across the crowded swimming pool, "DAD! That guy next to you only has ONE ARM! Where is his other arm, Dad?! He's throwing a ball with that kid and catching it with his ONE HAND! What happened to him?! Gross!"
He's also the kid who turns to the booth behind us at our favorite Mexican restaurant and asks incredulously, "WHY are those two people so FAT?! They really shouldn't eat so much!"
As a parent, it's not easy to recover from these situations. I embarrass very easily, which is why I am rarely the first to speak in social situations. I was the meekest, quietest wallflower of a child growing up and not much has changed with age. Presley's faux pas drag so harshly against my grain that most days I'm convinced there's no way we share the same DNA. The disgusted glares from anyone within earshot only exacerbate my speechlessness and rather than taking the time to explain that he has a form of Autism, I bury my red face in my hands and shuffle away as quickly as possible, mumbling apologies as I go.
This week is Spring Break, so a friend and I took our collective brood of little boys to the Great Plains Mall to burn off some energy at their indoor playground. It was very crowded because apparently everyone else had the same rainy-day idea, and the large circular enclosure was packed with 20 to 30 families. Widely diverse families.
I will preface the following series of events by saying that I take great pride in my family's "Celebrate Differences" philosophy. We live in a predominantly white neighborhood and Pres therefore attends a predominantly white school, but my husband and I find opportunities as often as possible to teach our children about diversity in all forms. Color, size, culture, language, disabilities, etc. We try. Really.
After two hours of the boys running, jumping, tackling, and sweating buckets, it was time to pack up and leave the play area. I rallied Pres over and he promptly grabbed his Gatorade from our belongings. He took a swig, wiped his mouth, smacked his lips and proclaimed, loud enough for ALL to hear, "Ahhh! I'm as thirsty as an African-American!"
My heart fell to my stomach.
What. Did. He. Just. Say? What does that even mean?! Surely I heard him wrong.
Cautiously, in a tiny, dry whisper, "...what?"
"I am! I'm as thirsty as an African-American!"
At this point, people are looking. My friend's eyes are wide and she's covering her mouth, turning away to hide her laughter. I wanted to spontaneously combust and die on the spot. He said it so confidently! As if he knew exactly what he was talking about. Then I remembered our recent discussions about the starving children in Africa, and how so many people throughout the world have no clean water to drink. I figured this must be what he was talking about, a misplaced memory in his complicated little mind. So I explained to him, "Honey, you're referring to Africans. In Africa, where they're thirsty because of lack of water. Not African-Americans, who live here in the US."
He looked right at me and shook his head. "NO, I'm not. I mean I'm thirsty like BROWN people!"
It's going to be a long time before I show my face at the mall again.
Saturday, March 17, 2012
Friday, January 27, 2012
Shower Wars
At my MOPS (Mothers of Pre-Schoolers) meeting this week, we did a hilarious exercise during which the entire group of about 75 women stood in a circle and took turns admitting some of the crazy things we resort to as stay-home-moms. When nothing really surprised me, I realized then that I'd completed the transition from career woman to housewife. I heard everything from perpetually living out of laundry baskets in order to avoid folding and putting laundry away, to serving Bomb Pops for breakfast and popcorn for dinner, to parking the kids in front of the TV with sweets one afternoon to go get frisky with the husband upstairs. Hey-oh! But the prevailing theme in all of our admissions was a gross lack of personal hygiene. Days without showering, weeks without shaving, covering greasy roots with baby powder, wearing to bed the same clothes you woke up in that morning (and then wore all day), not realizing until 3:00 pm that your teeth haven't yet been brushed. Yes, my friends. The Domestic Arts is a very dirty business.
I can fully respect and relate to these veritable woes.
That being said, I'm a Type-A personality and one of my "things" is bodily cleanliness. It may not happen by breakfast, or sometimes even by lunch on a bad day, but come hell or high water (and sometimes both), I'm getting a full scrub and polish -- complete with lip gloss and mascara -- before much else of importance gets done. Call it vanity or what you will, but I'm incapable of feeling good unless I look my best. I will forgo food, caffeine, sleep, possibly even AIR if I must choose between any of these things and my blessed shower.
This morning was no different. And so I offer you a glimpse into the reasoning (read: madness) behind the Frumpy Housewife Syndrome and how it's so easy to fall into, and so hard to escape.
I spent a good twenty minutes this morning rocking and patting my 19-month-old to sleep for his morning nap. He normally sleeps from 10:30-12:00, and I use that time to shower and primp, do my college homework, and complete any chores that would otherwise require me to leave him unsupervised if he were awake. This is a sacred and coveted hour and a half of quiet, childless, self-indulgent ZEN. (Did you catch that, husbandfolk? Showering, doing homework, and washing laundry in peace are self-indulgent for this gal.) Were I less rigid and more go-with-the-flow, it might not be such a catastrophe when this routine gets interrupted. Especially with how often I'm forced to improvise, you'd think I'd be somewhat used to it by now. But alas, I'm a control freak, remember?
After transferring the sleeping toddler to his crib, I tiptoed to the bathroom, eased the door closed and started the water. I hurried out of my clothes, making a mental checklist of all the things I needed to accomplish in my precious ninety minutes. I stepped my left foot into the tub, and then I heard it. The shrieking, sobbing wail. Not your average discontented baby cry, but the I'm being simultaneously attacked by giant bumblebees and angry clowns cry. Without pause for thought, I whipped a towel around myself and bolted to his room. There he stood, arms outstretched, dramatically yelping, "Up! UP! UUUUPPPPP! Mama! Mamaaa!"
CRAP.
At that point, I had two choices. I could stand there and try to pat him back to sleep, or I could relinquish my 'Hour of Power', make do with my day-old hair and just let him get up. You know where this is going...
Almost thirty minutes and one numb arm later, I finally managed to pat his stubborn little bottom back into sleepy oblivion. Holding my breath on the stealthy trek from his crib back to the bathroom, I did a facepalm when I realized that the shower had been running the entire time. Perfect. The hot water was already waning when I finally got in, so I mumbled several unladylike things under my breath and frantically soaped and scrubbed. Four minutes in, I was just beginning to rinse the conditioner. And wouldn't you know it, that little bugger started screaming again. MUCH louder this time (if that's even possible).
No! This is not my life! I want a refund!
Of course there was no quick solution to be found. I was smart enough to turn the water off this time, quickly squeegied as much of the conditioner out of my hair as I could, and did a once over with the towel. I'm sure most of you know how difficult and frustrating it is trying to pull dry clothes over a wet body. In my irritation and haste, I'm surprised I didn't tear my pants seam from seam as I hopped around in that ridiculous yank-yank-shimmy-dance. My sopping, snaky hair immediately soaked my shirt and yesterday's mascara ran freakishly down to my chin. I was the misbegotten lovechild of Gene Simmons and Medusa.
Mostly dressed, still dripping, and all kinds of crazy-eyed, I bolted through the bedroom door just as his hysterics were peaking. I don't know if the sight of me helped or made things worse, because he positively lost his marbles then. I'm thinking that one traumatic event may have actually ruined nap time for the rest of his life.
I was so angry and thwarted afterward, I took a vow of silence for two hours because I was afraid of what might escape. I also forced myself to hug and kiss all over that rotten, adorable little shower spoiler. In my rational mind, I know it won't matter in ten years. It's just very difficult to remain rational in the moment. (Who said anything about control freaks being rational, anyway?)
And the point of all this is, what's the point? When you're always fighting a losing battle for a moment to bathe yourself like a normal human being, it's less wearisome sometimes to just not fight it. To throw your hair in a ponytail and simply avoid the mirror as much as possible. And if you didn't know, Rule of Motherhood #972 is this: on the day you feel so worn by the battle, so zapped of energy to face even one more day of warring for five minutes to shave your legs... on THAT day, when you give up and skip the shower, skip the homework, skip the dishes and instead sit in anticipation on the edge of the couch, waiting for the imminent cry... on that day, the baby sleeps peacefully.
So the next time you see a haggard mama at the grocery store in her sweatpants with little ones in tow, give her a knowing, encouraging smile instead of a judgmental scoff. You can bet she's doing the best she can.
I can fully respect and relate to these veritable woes.
That being said, I'm a Type-A personality and one of my "things" is bodily cleanliness. It may not happen by breakfast, or sometimes even by lunch on a bad day, but come hell or high water (and sometimes both), I'm getting a full scrub and polish -- complete with lip gloss and mascara -- before much else of importance gets done. Call it vanity or what you will, but I'm incapable of feeling good unless I look my best. I will forgo food, caffeine, sleep, possibly even AIR if I must choose between any of these things and my blessed shower.
This morning was no different. And so I offer you a glimpse into the reasoning (read: madness) behind the Frumpy Housewife Syndrome and how it's so easy to fall into, and so hard to escape.
I spent a good twenty minutes this morning rocking and patting my 19-month-old to sleep for his morning nap. He normally sleeps from 10:30-12:00, and I use that time to shower and primp, do my college homework, and complete any chores that would otherwise require me to leave him unsupervised if he were awake. This is a sacred and coveted hour and a half of quiet, childless, self-indulgent ZEN. (Did you catch that, husbandfolk? Showering, doing homework, and washing laundry in peace are self-indulgent for this gal.) Were I less rigid and more go-with-the-flow, it might not be such a catastrophe when this routine gets interrupted. Especially with how often I'm forced to improvise, you'd think I'd be somewhat used to it by now. But alas, I'm a control freak, remember?
After transferring the sleeping toddler to his crib, I tiptoed to the bathroom, eased the door closed and started the water. I hurried out of my clothes, making a mental checklist of all the things I needed to accomplish in my precious ninety minutes. I stepped my left foot into the tub, and then I heard it. The shrieking, sobbing wail. Not your average discontented baby cry, but the I'm being simultaneously attacked by giant bumblebees and angry clowns cry. Without pause for thought, I whipped a towel around myself and bolted to his room. There he stood, arms outstretched, dramatically yelping, "Up! UP! UUUUPPPPP! Mama! Mamaaa!"
CRAP.
At that point, I had two choices. I could stand there and try to pat him back to sleep, or I could relinquish my 'Hour of Power', make do with my day-old hair and just let him get up. You know where this is going...
Almost thirty minutes and one numb arm later, I finally managed to pat his stubborn little bottom back into sleepy oblivion. Holding my breath on the stealthy trek from his crib back to the bathroom, I did a facepalm when I realized that the shower had been running the entire time. Perfect. The hot water was already waning when I finally got in, so I mumbled several unladylike things under my breath and frantically soaped and scrubbed. Four minutes in, I was just beginning to rinse the conditioner. And wouldn't you know it, that little bugger started screaming again. MUCH louder this time (if that's even possible).
No! This is not my life! I want a refund!
Of course there was no quick solution to be found. I was smart enough to turn the water off this time, quickly squeegied as much of the conditioner out of my hair as I could, and did a once over with the towel. I'm sure most of you know how difficult and frustrating it is trying to pull dry clothes over a wet body. In my irritation and haste, I'm surprised I didn't tear my pants seam from seam as I hopped around in that ridiculous yank-yank-shimmy-dance. My sopping, snaky hair immediately soaked my shirt and yesterday's mascara ran freakishly down to my chin. I was the misbegotten lovechild of Gene Simmons and Medusa.
Mostly dressed, still dripping, and all kinds of crazy-eyed, I bolted through the bedroom door just as his hysterics were peaking. I don't know if the sight of me helped or made things worse, because he positively lost his marbles then. I'm thinking that one traumatic event may have actually ruined nap time for the rest of his life.
I was so angry and thwarted afterward, I took a vow of silence for two hours because I was afraid of what might escape. I also forced myself to hug and kiss all over that rotten, adorable little shower spoiler. In my rational mind, I know it won't matter in ten years. It's just very difficult to remain rational in the moment. (Who said anything about control freaks being rational, anyway?)
And the point of all this is, what's the point? When you're always fighting a losing battle for a moment to bathe yourself like a normal human being, it's less wearisome sometimes to just not fight it. To throw your hair in a ponytail and simply avoid the mirror as much as possible. And if you didn't know, Rule of Motherhood #972 is this: on the day you feel so worn by the battle, so zapped of energy to face even one more day of warring for five minutes to shave your legs... on THAT day, when you give up and skip the shower, skip the homework, skip the dishes and instead sit in anticipation on the edge of the couch, waiting for the imminent cry... on that day, the baby sleeps peacefully.
So the next time you see a haggard mama at the grocery store in her sweatpants with little ones in tow, give her a knowing, encouraging smile instead of a judgmental scoff. You can bet she's doing the best she can.
Thursday, December 8, 2011
Poo Done It?
When my seven-year-old son does something he's not supposed to, I usually don't have to worry about him covering up the evidence, leaving me to find out about it later. Rather, and much to my amusement, he tends to give himself away at the first opportunity.
"Mom, I accidentally yanked a toy that I wanted out of my baby brother's hands and now he's crying."
"Mommy, somehow my milk spilled on the floor when I was pretending to shoot it from mouth like a human water fountain."
"Mama, that new bottle of shampoo got all used up while I was in the shower. Oh, and the tiles are all really shiny and smell nice now."
It's always so hard to keep my Mom Face on when I'm compelled to giggle at his hilariously strange defense mechanisms. It's like he tries to point out the problem before I find out on my own, because the one who draws attention to it couldn't possibly be the culprit. Right?
This conversation actually took place tonight.
P: Mom? Did you poo today?
Me: Umm... What?!
P: Did you poo today?
Me: I didn't, actually. But why in the world are you asking?
P: Well, I just went poo a second ago. And when I stood up, there was some brown stuff smeared on the toilet seat. I didn't do it! I'm just letting you know that it's there. And it's gross. That's gross, Mom.
Me: *blink* Son. You're the only one in this house that's gone today. Not to mention that the toilet was clean right before you sat on it! Who else could've possibly been the offender?
He then opened his mouth to respond, but instead just stood there looking at me, trying desperately to find a flaw in my logic. Anything to clear his name. I could see the little wheels turning for full minute, while I sat back and concealed my smile.
He narrowed his eyes and jutted out his lower lip. "I still say it was you."
"Mom, I accidentally yanked a toy that I wanted out of my baby brother's hands and now he's crying."
"Mommy, somehow my milk spilled on the floor when I was pretending to shoot it from mouth like a human water fountain."
"Mama, that new bottle of shampoo got all used up while I was in the shower. Oh, and the tiles are all really shiny and smell nice now."
It's always so hard to keep my Mom Face on when I'm compelled to giggle at his hilariously strange defense mechanisms. It's like he tries to point out the problem before I find out on my own, because the one who draws attention to it couldn't possibly be the culprit. Right?
This conversation actually took place tonight.
P: Mom? Did you poo today?
Me: Umm... What?!
P: Did you poo today?
Me: I didn't, actually. But why in the world are you asking?
P: Well, I just went poo a second ago. And when I stood up, there was some brown stuff smeared on the toilet seat. I didn't do it! I'm just letting you know that it's there. And it's gross. That's gross, Mom.
Me: *blink* Son. You're the only one in this house that's gone today. Not to mention that the toilet was clean right before you sat on it! Who else could've possibly been the offender?
He then opened his mouth to respond, but instead just stood there looking at me, trying desperately to find a flaw in my logic. Anything to clear his name. I could see the little wheels turning for full minute, while I sat back and concealed my smile.
He narrowed his eyes and jutted out his lower lip. "I still say it was you."
Friday, October 7, 2011
Perspective
Alright. I've been in a funk. My husband might tell you that's an epic understatement, but he's not here and this isn't his blog and I have first say here, darn it. But I'll admit, I have a brooding personality, and when things don't go my way, I pout. Lately, a lot of things haven't gone my way.
I'm cranky that I can't keep up with the laundry. Loads make it through the wash and dry cycles, but then sit - and wrinkle - at the "folding station" in our home office. Sometimes they don't even make it that far, and on any given morning I can be found frantically digging through baskets of wadded clean clothing in search of something, anything, that won't make my first-grader look like a latchkey kid when he walks out the door. Doesn't matter if it smells like Tide when it looks like I just pulled it out from a year under my mattress.
Furthermore, I'm frustrated that I have lost all sense of personal space and privacy since leaving the corporate world to stay home with my two boys. I used to take coffee breaks when I wanted. Take a casual stroll on my lunch hour. Meet friends for lunch dates, run errands that didn't involve carrying sippy cups, snack baggies, and an armful of toys to keep little ones entertained just long enough to make it through a check-out line. Now I'm gulping my coffee frantically at 6:45 am because I know that when the baby wakes up at 7:00, a coffee mug becomes a mere target for grabby, curious fingers. The youngest is a clingy little lover, fifteen months old and so infatuated with every cell in my being that for me to take a five-minute shower is both a tragedy and a personal attack on his sensibilities, met with fits of tears and heaving and looks that implore, How COULD you? Every task that requires the use of both my hands has now been relegated to the one hour during which he naps; dishes, making the beds, laundry (ugh), blogging (so you see why it is so infrequent), homework...
Ah, homework. Did I mention I'm in school full time? I do what's necessary for the family and take all of my college courses online. While this may sound convenient, being able to study/test/submit assignments from home (and it is for many purposes), it becomes difficult, if not impossible, to separate academics from home life. I'm a student that requires silence in order to retain anything I read. Having children is anything BUT silent, so study time is put off until everyone's asleep at night. This is also about the same time I need to prop my own eyelids open with toothpicks just to stay conscious, so I'll read a paragraph of Computer Programming, get to the end and realize I have absolutely no recollection of what I JUST finished reading. So I'll start again, the lines of text growing blurrier with each pass, and if I weren't so tired I'd probably feel despair by my fourth unsuccessful attempt to comprehend that one paragraph. It's just not a good system and is a constant source of stress. I honestly don't know how they haven't booted me out of school yet, and I curse myself daily for not doing the smart thing and attending college right out of high school.
I'm also annoyed at how impossibly far we have to make the dollar stretch, especially living in such an affluent part of the country. Everyone's jet-setting and private-schooling and golfing and cocktail-party-throwing and redecorating, and I feel soverysmall as I'm scouring Wal-Mart for sales on store brand frozen meat. Going from two incomes and one child to one income and two children is a bit of a shell-shock. Every indulgence in life is immediately swallowed by remorse and worry about how the money could be better spent, or saved. It's just hard to keep your head high, and even harder not to feel envy or resentment. Mostly, it's hard not to have self-pity. This isn't the life I asked for. Is it?
This morning, I was deep in the mire. I'm still only half-recovered from a head cold that I don't have time for, and the baby was whiny, and I looked around the house, strewn with toys and stupid, stupid baskets of unfolded laundry. And I had to get OUT. I put the baby in the stroller, hid my dark circles behind a pair of large sunglasses, and set out.
It was windy today. Eighty-five degrees in October, and tremendous gusts were creating swirling showers of bright leaves. I'd forgotten how noisy Fall is with its rustling changes. I decided to walk the few blocks down to the historic part of town to mull over life's difficulties at the local bakery. On the way, I forced myself to think of one thing to be thankful for at each crosswalk. At the time, this was no small feat. The baby thought it was hilarious to fling his sippy cup from the stroller every twenty feet and scream for me to fetch it. I, on the other hand, found this to be the farthest thing from hilarious on what was possibly my grumpiest day of the year. As I bent over for the umpteenth time to swipe his cup from the sidewalk, I noticed how dirty my shoes were. Or rather, how loved they were. My favorite shoes. Laceless Converse low-tops, tried and true.
And then it came to me. Grace.
It's 85 degrees in October. Bright blue skies, flurried with rainbowed leaves. I just left the house -- our beautiful house, that we own -- with a little guy in tow who loves so very much with his little baby heart that he doesn't know how to exist without me. I'm walking down my favorite street, in my favorite shoes, en route to the bakery where I'll sip coffee and share a chocolate croissant with my little one. I'll pay the $4.35 with money that my husband earns so that I don't have to work, and can instead not only stay home to raise our sons, but pursue my education, no matter how frustrating it can be. I'll snap photos on my smartphone to remember this precious, momentous occasion. I'll text with a fast and dear friend, the same friend with whom I sat on the patio just last night and shared a bottle of wine as the sun sank -- Oh! -- while the men bathed our babies. And tonight I'll rest easy in my pillowtop bed, next to a man whose snoring has never sounded sweeter to my tired ears.
It's funny how the overlooked, taken-for-granted things can be so truly important, and the seemingly big ordeals can be so trivial after all.
Just a matter of perspective.
I'm cranky that I can't keep up with the laundry. Loads make it through the wash and dry cycles, but then sit - and wrinkle - at the "folding station" in our home office. Sometimes they don't even make it that far, and on any given morning I can be found frantically digging through baskets of wadded clean clothing in search of something, anything, that won't make my first-grader look like a latchkey kid when he walks out the door. Doesn't matter if it smells like Tide when it looks like I just pulled it out from a year under my mattress.
Furthermore, I'm frustrated that I have lost all sense of personal space and privacy since leaving the corporate world to stay home with my two boys. I used to take coffee breaks when I wanted. Take a casual stroll on my lunch hour. Meet friends for lunch dates, run errands that didn't involve carrying sippy cups, snack baggies, and an armful of toys to keep little ones entertained just long enough to make it through a check-out line. Now I'm gulping my coffee frantically at 6:45 am because I know that when the baby wakes up at 7:00, a coffee mug becomes a mere target for grabby, curious fingers. The youngest is a clingy little lover, fifteen months old and so infatuated with every cell in my being that for me to take a five-minute shower is both a tragedy and a personal attack on his sensibilities, met with fits of tears and heaving and looks that implore, How COULD you? Every task that requires the use of both my hands has now been relegated to the one hour during which he naps; dishes, making the beds, laundry (ugh), blogging (so you see why it is so infrequent), homework...
Ah, homework. Did I mention I'm in school full time? I do what's necessary for the family and take all of my college courses online. While this may sound convenient, being able to study/test/submit assignments from home (and it is for many purposes), it becomes difficult, if not impossible, to separate academics from home life. I'm a student that requires silence in order to retain anything I read. Having children is anything BUT silent, so study time is put off until everyone's asleep at night. This is also about the same time I need to prop my own eyelids open with toothpicks just to stay conscious, so I'll read a paragraph of Computer Programming, get to the end and realize I have absolutely no recollection of what I JUST finished reading. So I'll start again, the lines of text growing blurrier with each pass, and if I weren't so tired I'd probably feel despair by my fourth unsuccessful attempt to comprehend that one paragraph. It's just not a good system and is a constant source of stress. I honestly don't know how they haven't booted me out of school yet, and I curse myself daily for not doing the smart thing and attending college right out of high school.
I'm also annoyed at how impossibly far we have to make the dollar stretch, especially living in such an affluent part of the country. Everyone's jet-setting and private-schooling and golfing and cocktail-party-throwing and redecorating, and I feel soverysmall as I'm scouring Wal-Mart for sales on store brand frozen meat. Going from two incomes and one child to one income and two children is a bit of a shell-shock. Every indulgence in life is immediately swallowed by remorse and worry about how the money could be better spent, or saved. It's just hard to keep your head high, and even harder not to feel envy or resentment. Mostly, it's hard not to have self-pity. This isn't the life I asked for. Is it?
This morning, I was deep in the mire. I'm still only half-recovered from a head cold that I don't have time for, and the baby was whiny, and I looked around the house, strewn with toys and stupid, stupid baskets of unfolded laundry. And I had to get OUT. I put the baby in the stroller, hid my dark circles behind a pair of large sunglasses, and set out.
It was windy today. Eighty-five degrees in October, and tremendous gusts were creating swirling showers of bright leaves. I'd forgotten how noisy Fall is with its rustling changes. I decided to walk the few blocks down to the historic part of town to mull over life's difficulties at the local bakery. On the way, I forced myself to think of one thing to be thankful for at each crosswalk. At the time, this was no small feat. The baby thought it was hilarious to fling his sippy cup from the stroller every twenty feet and scream for me to fetch it. I, on the other hand, found this to be the farthest thing from hilarious on what was possibly my grumpiest day of the year. As I bent over for the umpteenth time to swipe his cup from the sidewalk, I noticed how dirty my shoes were. Or rather, how loved they were. My favorite shoes. Laceless Converse low-tops, tried and true.
And then it came to me. Grace.
It's 85 degrees in October. Bright blue skies, flurried with rainbowed leaves. I just left the house -- our beautiful house, that we own -- with a little guy in tow who loves so very much with his little baby heart that he doesn't know how to exist without me. I'm walking down my favorite street, in my favorite shoes, en route to the bakery where I'll sip coffee and share a chocolate croissant with my little one. I'll pay the $4.35 with money that my husband earns so that I don't have to work, and can instead not only stay home to raise our sons, but pursue my education, no matter how frustrating it can be. I'll snap photos on my smartphone to remember this precious, momentous occasion. I'll text with a fast and dear friend, the same friend with whom I sat on the patio just last night and shared a bottle of wine as the sun sank -- Oh! -- while the men bathed our babies. And tonight I'll rest easy in my pillowtop bed, next to a man whose snoring has never sounded sweeter to my tired ears.
It's funny how the overlooked, taken-for-granted things can be so truly important, and the seemingly big ordeals can be so trivial after all.
Just a matter of perspective.
Friday, August 19, 2011
Embolism
Let me preface. I am a stay-at-home mom with two very active, perpetually crazy BOYS. The oldest will be seven next month, and the youngest is 14 months.
Two weeks ago, I awoke as usual. Caffeinated, as usual. Made the kids' breakfast, swept the floors, made the beds. A couple hours later, I realized that my left leg had been asleep -- tingling with throbbing aches -- since I'd gotten out of bed. Weird. I'd been walking on it all morning, so I couldn't figure out what the issue was. Having never experienced a pinched sciatic nerve in my life, I called my husband at work and explained my symptoms and asked if he had any idea what it could be. He was instantly alarmed.
"Babe, that could be really serious. I want you to call the doctor ASAP. People who live sedentary lifestyles and sit down all day are much more prone to get embolisms in their legs, and that could be life threatening."
I'll let that sink in for a moment...
Now, for those of you who immediately (and rightfully) wondered; yes, we are somehow still married. And he's very lucky this conversation took place over the phone. ;-)
Two weeks ago, I awoke as usual. Caffeinated, as usual. Made the kids' breakfast, swept the floors, made the beds. A couple hours later, I realized that my left leg had been asleep -- tingling with throbbing aches -- since I'd gotten out of bed. Weird. I'd been walking on it all morning, so I couldn't figure out what the issue was. Having never experienced a pinched sciatic nerve in my life, I called my husband at work and explained my symptoms and asked if he had any idea what it could be. He was instantly alarmed.
"Babe, that could be really serious. I want you to call the doctor ASAP. People who live sedentary lifestyles and sit down all day are much more prone to get embolisms in their legs, and that could be life threatening."
I'll let that sink in for a moment...
Now, for those of you who immediately (and rightfully) wondered; yes, we are somehow still married. And he's very lucky this conversation took place over the phone. ;-)
Monday, April 4, 2011
The "C" Word
My precocious Kindergartener asked me one morning as we climbed into the car for school, "Hey, Mom? What's that one bad word?" I looked back at him from the driver's seat, eyeing him cautiously.
He looked back with his little eyebrows raised. "Well?"
We have a fairly strict language policy in our house. Words like stupid and freaking are off limits, and I'm confident that he's never heard me utter a single curse in his entire six years. With this reasoning in mind, I wasn't overly concerned at his curiosity on this particular morning.
Still, I chose my words carefully. Hoping that redirection might allow me to deflect the subject entirely, I replied, "I'm not sure, honey. What's on the schedule today at school? Do you have P.E. or Music?"
He scoffed. "Moooooom-uh. Just TELL me. You know which word. It starts with a C."
I quickly turned back around and put the key in the ignition, fighting back a giggle. I knew from experience that his level of curiosity would raise in triple proportion to the emotion behind my response . My diversion tactics were not lost on him, not even for a moment. Smart little bugger. And I would certainly have a bone to pick with my husband, who will admit he is much more loose-lipped than I in the way of curse words. Great, I mused. He's taught our son the word Crap, and I am left to clean up the mess.
I had to think fast. Pulling out of the garage, I assessed that I had exactly two and a half blocks to either buy myself some time, or dissolve the issue. Only one idea came to mind: Play dumb.
"I'm sorry, buddy, but I really don't know which word you're referring to. You'll have to ask your dad tonight. Somehow, I'm sure he knows."
It was perfect. Not only did I wiggle my way out of an answer, but my husband would feel like a total shmuck as we sat down to dinner that evening and I opened with, "So, honey. Our son has something to ask you." Two birds, one stone.*
And that is where things went terribly wrong.
"I already asked Dad yesterday! He told me I had to ask YOU, because you're the smarter one and you always have the answers. C'mon, Mom. You know the bad word. It starts with a C, and it's something only girls have."
In that moment, my heart dropped. Not into my stomach. Not onto the floor. It dropped straight through the earth, came out the other side (presumably somewhere in China), and kept right on going into oblivion. Something only girls have?! Oh, God! How could my sweet, innocent little boy have been subjected to this vile word? And what could I say to him?
My pulse was racing. Sweat was prickling at my temples. The school was nearly in view, and I knew that if I didn't have a suitable answer for him, he'd ask his teacher. Probably in the only volume he knows how to use at six years old (LOUD), and probably in front of the entire class. A wave of nausea overtook me as I imagined the phone call I'd get from the principal shortly after dropping him off. My son's walk of shame to the front office would surely be the catalyst for a string of offenses to come. Soon he'd be beating kids up in the hallways, smoking in the boys room, skipping school. My firstborn son would be a delinquent. A gangbanger. An Irish mafia member. He'd be in prison for petty crimes by the time he's 17. So this is it, I thought. This is the beginning of the end.
As we entered the circular drive at the front of the school, my knuckles white on the steering wheel, I searched desperately for the right parting words: Please don't mention the "C" word to your teacher today? That would only result in a long round of the Why Game, which we obviously had no time for with the morning bell only two minutes away, and he would still end up asking her anyway. I glanced in the rear view mirror to see his little brow furrowed with the strain of trying to remember the terrible word, trapped somewhere in his recent memory. I was resigned. Defeated. I pulled up to the curb and took one last lingering look back at my son, the future inmate.
"I love you, bub. I hope you have a wonderful day at school."
"I love you, too, Mommy. OH!! I remembered the word!"
The blood drained from my lips, and I squeaked through clenched teeth, "Oh?"
"Yep! COOTIES!"
* Yes, we are normal parents and play those twisted games, just like the rest of you.
He looked back with his little eyebrows raised. "Well?"
We have a fairly strict language policy in our house. Words like stupid and freaking are off limits, and I'm confident that he's never heard me utter a single curse in his entire six years. With this reasoning in mind, I wasn't overly concerned at his curiosity on this particular morning.
Still, I chose my words carefully. Hoping that redirection might allow me to deflect the subject entirely, I replied, "I'm not sure, honey. What's on the schedule today at school? Do you have P.E. or Music?"
He scoffed. "Moooooom-uh. Just TELL me. You know which word. It starts with a C."
I quickly turned back around and put the key in the ignition, fighting back a giggle. I knew from experience that his level of curiosity would raise in triple proportion to the emotion behind my response . My diversion tactics were not lost on him, not even for a moment. Smart little bugger. And I would certainly have a bone to pick with my husband, who will admit he is much more loose-lipped than I in the way of curse words. Great, I mused. He's taught our son the word Crap, and I am left to clean up the mess.
I had to think fast. Pulling out of the garage, I assessed that I had exactly two and a half blocks to either buy myself some time, or dissolve the issue. Only one idea came to mind: Play dumb.
"I'm sorry, buddy, but I really don't know which word you're referring to. You'll have to ask your dad tonight. Somehow, I'm sure he knows."
It was perfect. Not only did I wiggle my way out of an answer, but my husband would feel like a total shmuck as we sat down to dinner that evening and I opened with, "So, honey. Our son has something to ask you." Two birds, one stone.*
And that is where things went terribly wrong.
"I already asked Dad yesterday! He told me I had to ask YOU, because you're the smarter one and you always have the answers. C'mon, Mom. You know the bad word. It starts with a C, and it's something only girls have."
In that moment, my heart dropped. Not into my stomach. Not onto the floor. It dropped straight through the earth, came out the other side (presumably somewhere in China), and kept right on going into oblivion. Something only girls have?! Oh, God! How could my sweet, innocent little boy have been subjected to this vile word? And what could I say to him?
My pulse was racing. Sweat was prickling at my temples. The school was nearly in view, and I knew that if I didn't have a suitable answer for him, he'd ask his teacher. Probably in the only volume he knows how to use at six years old (LOUD), and probably in front of the entire class. A wave of nausea overtook me as I imagined the phone call I'd get from the principal shortly after dropping him off. My son's walk of shame to the front office would surely be the catalyst for a string of offenses to come. Soon he'd be beating kids up in the hallways, smoking in the boys room, skipping school. My firstborn son would be a delinquent. A gangbanger. An Irish mafia member. He'd be in prison for petty crimes by the time he's 17. So this is it, I thought. This is the beginning of the end.
As we entered the circular drive at the front of the school, my knuckles white on the steering wheel, I searched desperately for the right parting words: Please don't mention the "C" word to your teacher today? That would only result in a long round of the Why Game, which we obviously had no time for with the morning bell only two minutes away, and he would still end up asking her anyway. I glanced in the rear view mirror to see his little brow furrowed with the strain of trying to remember the terrible word, trapped somewhere in his recent memory. I was resigned. Defeated. I pulled up to the curb and took one last lingering look back at my son, the future inmate.
"I love you, bub. I hope you have a wonderful day at school."
"I love you, too, Mommy. OH!! I remembered the word!"
The blood drained from my lips, and I squeaked through clenched teeth, "Oh?"
"Yep! COOTIES!"
* Yes, we are normal parents and play those twisted games, just like the rest of you.
Monday, March 14, 2011
I'll Tell You What's the Matter with Kansas
Spring Break started today, and we woke up to snow. I take issue with this mostly because two days ago, it was 70 degrees. Husband barbecued, house was open to the smell of lawnmower fumes, squirrel chatter, and the various other delirium-inducing marvels that make you frolic around the house like an idiot after being boarded up against the freeze all winter. OMG, SUNSHINE! You came back to me! Please don't ever go astray again!
But you had to pull the ol' switcheroo, didn't you, Kansas? More specifically, you had to tease me with your long-absent warmth and happiness, only to drop your despicable white refuse again on the very day that my Kindergartener begins his week off from school.
Translation: The noise in my home has reached the precise level at which my left eye starts twitching, all "inside" activities have been exhausted, and if I don't think of something soon, I'll be spending the evening wiping little footprints off the ceiling.
Well played, Kansas. You are now on my List.
But you had to pull the ol' switcheroo, didn't you, Kansas? More specifically, you had to tease me with your long-absent warmth and happiness, only to drop your despicable white refuse again on the very day that my Kindergartener begins his week off from school.
Translation: The noise in my home has reached the precise level at which my left eye starts twitching, all "inside" activities have been exhausted, and if I don't think of something soon, I'll be spending the evening wiping little footprints off the ceiling.
Well played, Kansas. You are now on my List.
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