It Hurts to Grow Up

 I was at the end of my second, seven day work week and the kids were transitioning stoically into their third week of school, when my 9-year-old son discovered he'd outgrown his favorite pair of jeans. They were black, fitted and frayed to perfection with a tear in the knee that was just the right size. We've all had that pair of jeans; molded over time into the most comfortable friend for which a butt could hope. 

Chris and I were in the kitchen when he came down the stairs dressed in nothing but his underwear. His jeans were laying limply across his forearms, as though they were a sacred relic he was offering up to the Gods. He was trying to stifle a sob as he informed me, "You can probably throw these away, now. They're too small." I saw his face curdle in the most heart-shattering way and a sound escaped my throat that was part chuckle, part moan. I hummed "Taps" as I lowered them into the trash and made a promise to buy him a new pair just like his favorite. "Whatever." He muttered shakily as he exited, ignoring my husband's unsolicited advice to cut the crap. "It's just a pair of jeans, for Christs sake!" But they weren't just a pair of jeans. Not to Evan and not to me, either.

This is Evan's last year in elementary school. He's a big fish in a small pond there. More importantly, he's in this safe little bubble where his innocence isn't seen as naivety. Next year, as he has been warned repeatedly, "things get real". More homework, more responsibility, more teachers and a slew of new kids who don't know how quirky and amazing he is and may not appreciate it as much as his current classmates. That, alone, is enough to overwhelm even the most stable of children. Add to all the school pressure the fact that his body is growing more rapidly than his brain; the evidence tangled uncomfortably in his gangly legs when he wants to snuggle with me on the couch or in the desperate leaps into our arms that are rejected because of his weight. The phrase, "I think you're getting too big for this, buddy," is a constant reminder of how his childhood is diminishing a little more with each passing day; becoming a little tighter and losing the comfort of it's familiar shape.Everything he knows is subtly changing and he's realizing that this change will not be slowed. Not by all the tears in the world. And there will be more tears, because unfortunately for Evan, he is just like his mother; unabashedly emotional. 

I went up to his room where he was laying on his stomach across the floor. He'd found a new pair of pants. Black, elastic-waisted pants he had deemed to be too long. He had his LEGOs strewn in front of him and though he kept picking up different pieces I don't think he was really looking at them. I asked him if he needed a hug, not because he seemed like he needed one, but because I really needed one. He climbed into my lap unhesitatingly and though the fit was awkward we embraced it with sad acceptance. The outgrown jeans were so much more than outgrown jeans. They were a metaphor for him slowly letting go of his childhood.


He's my baby. He's getting bigger and stronger. His hormones are already raging and they're only going to become more influential in his decision making. He has to break free and fly out of my arms no matter how tightly both of us are holding onto each other. That time will come...more quickly than I'm willing to admit...and when it does, it's going to hurt in such a wonderful way. Because I'll know I did my job and because he will always be my baby.

"Everybody knows

It hurts to grow up
But everybody does
It's so weird to be back here
Let me tell you what
The years go on and
We're still fighting it

And you're so much like me
I'm sorry."

-Ben Folds "Still Fighting It"

Then there was that day that finally I admitted I was wrong...

I am rarely wrong. In fact, I'm the picture of damn near perfection. My husband shouts this at me every time we fight, so I know it's true. There are moments, however, when even those of us mostly infallible folks must cop to the odious crime of culpability.  Blame is thorny and accepting it just plain stings. So when I had to go to my four year old this morning with my tail between my legs and admit the drawn out fight we'd endured was my f...my fau...my fault, it was like being forced to army crawl through a tunnel of rose bushes.

She wanted to wear her pajamas to the grocery store. They didn't match. The material was thin and it was chilly out...and quite frankly, I just wanted her to get dressed. I was patient and reasonable. She defied. I deflected with humor. She defied. I insisted and issued ultimatums. She stripped her clothes off, crawled onto her bed, curled into the fetal position and defied. She's a fierce opponent. The Rocky Balboa of defiance. It became clear to me at that point, that she really wanted to wear her pajamas to the grocery store. Sooo...why couldn't I just let her wear her pajama's to the grocery store? What was the big deal? My ego. That was the big deal. Even as I heard myself swearing that she was coming with me whether or not she had clothes on her body, even as I felt myself picking up her tiny, naked body and pretending to walk to the car, the exhausted voice of reason which sits lodged somewhere behind an almost entirely dormant section of my brain screamed, "What are you doing? Let her put on her damn pajamas! It's okay to lose this battle!" The voice was right. It's usually right, yet for some reason I always choose to ignore instead of heed. It had to be my way, which in this instance was becoming "no way". I was turning the battle into a war and the combat had gone on for so long I almost couldn't bear to admit defeat. So much carnage over something so inconsequential and one half hour later, we were still at an impasse.

It hit me as I laid her back down on her bed, howling so loud I was sure she'd be heard through the double-pane windows, blocks away. I was also having a temper tantrum. I was angry because I wanted her to do what I wanted her to do and she wasn't complying. This little "control contest" was nothing more than me answering a tantrum with a tantrum. As I left her bedroom to collect myself; maybe remove the impediments of irrational thought clogging my synaptic flow, I asked myself some very important questions. Would wearing her pajamas to the store cause her physical or psychological harm? Would it cause anyone around her physical or psychological harm? Did I want to invest any more time in a fight I'd already lost or did I want to get my grocery shopping done and get on with my day? Answering the questions was easy. Facing accountability was not so easy. I've been told that as a parent I need to follow through with my decisions good, bad or indifferent. I'm not supposed to admit I'm wrong to my children, because it will show weakness. No matter how stupid the argument, once I deal the cards, I have to play the hand. No folding. As I sat staring at her bedroom door, listening to her sob, I looked back on all the struggles I'd had with my kids. I started to realize, for me anyway,that the fights were less about control and more about being afraid to admit I might have made a mistake. That would give my children the upper hand; a license to question my authority. And my children should never question my authority. Right? It's a dual-edged sword, isn't it? We want our kids to exercise common sense, to learn independence, to do what feels natural for them even when it means going against the grain (without putting themselves in danger, of course), but not if it means going against the rules. Even if the rules are the dumbest rules ever. And honestly, some of mine serve no purpose but to make my thank-less job a little easier. Or harder, depending on the time and day. If only I could have remembered to ask myself those questions before I engaged in our little, mental tug-of-war. Will it cause her harm? Will it cause anyone else harm? The course of action would have been clear and that would have made my morning so much easier. Unfortunately, some times we're too blinded by the fog to find the shore.

In the end it was me who waved the white flag, as it should have  been. She put her pajamas back on, found her sneakers and sniffled up the stairs behind me. It felt hollow; the victory and the defeat. I was forgetting something. The most important part of the truce. I picked her up and held her. "I was wrong, Quinny. I was wrong and I'm sorry. I should have just let you wear your pajamas." "Okay." "I made...a mistake. Sometimes mommy's make mistakes." "Okay." And that was that, because my daughter fights hard, but she forgives harder. It's one of her best qualities. It wasn't nearly as scary as I thought; letting go of being right and admitting fault. There is nothing wrong or weak in admitting your child may actually be right or at the very least, not entirely wrong. They need to hear those words some times. They need to know that making a mistake or a bad judgement call, even as an adult isn't bad and that it does happen. A lot. That a mistake is a learning tool and a way to grow, and that it goes both ways.

Ten reasons why your mother may be crying. Plus one more reason.

11. She slept through the alarm clock because she didn't sleep last night, you're the reason why and you're not listening.
10. She's trying to have her morning "Me Time", the only thing she gets to do by herself all day. The roll of toilet paper is devoid of toilet paper, she didn't sleep last night, you're the reason why and you're not listening.
9. It's five minutes of eight. She's trying to force a toothbrush across your teeth when you have clearly stated that you will NOT be brushing your teeth. Your brother's not getting dressed. She's not been able to get dressed. She's just asked your brother for the twelfth time to stop playing with LEGOs and get dressed. Did she mention it's five minutes of eight, she hasn't slept, you're the reason why and you're not listening?
8. The car window is stuck an eighth of the way down...AGAIN. Rain is the predicted forecast. You're fighting with your brother about who gets in the car first. He's officially late for school which means she needs to get out of the car to sign him in. Plus, she has to remove you from the car and getting you into the car was hard enough to begin with. She's still in her pajamas because she never had a chance to do more than put on her bra and gargle some mouthwash...thank God for small miracles. Also, she hasn't slept, you're the reason why and you're still not listening.
7. You want to get in the carriage. You want to get out of the carriage. You want a piece of cheese. You need to use the bathroom even though you were told to use it at home before you left because the bathroom here is a bacteria farm, and you're next in line at the deli. You want the cupcake flavored Gold Fish. You REALLY WANT the cupcake flavored Gold Fish. WHY CAN'T YOU HAVE THE CUPCAKE FLAVORED GOLD FISH? She hasn't slept, you are the reason why and WHY THE FUCK AREN'T YOU LISTENING TO HER?
6. She hasn't had her first coffee yet and it's almost lunchtime. The groceries still need to be put away. You want lunch. Grilled cheese. No. Mac and Cheese. No fruit snacks. You'll just get the fruit snacks out of the snack drawer even though she's told you "No" all eight thousand times you've asked. You don't want to bother her again because she hasn't slept, you're the reason why and you are listening, because she said you could have a piece of fruit and technically there is real fruit flavoring in said snacks.
5. You ate the fruit snacks. You ate the goddamn fruit snacks! And now you won't touch the grilled cheese because you said you wanted mac and cheese, and anyway your lunch shelf is full. And she hasn't slept. And you said MAC AND CHEESE so, she is the one who's not listening.
4. She didn't get to do yoga today because she was busy with a tantrum you had regarding the snack refusal caused by your failure to eat lunch, and now it's time to pick up your brother, but you don't want to go because you're  hungry and you want to watch Doc McStuffins and your shoes are too uncomfortable and you don't want to wear that sweatshirt. Your mom still has to tape a plastic bag over the stuck window, she can hear the thunder rumbling, she hasn't slept, you're the reason why and if you don't start fucking listening she's going to take that pillow you're clutching against your chest and clutch it against your face!
3. It's not fair that your brother has to go to karate. Why can't he just skip it this once, for the twentieth time? He wants to play with his friends, even though it's down pouring and you are firmly attached to your mother's torso, because you're cold, because you refused to put on your sweatshirt because you were hot and it was ugly. Well that's it. She always works, dad always works, your brother never gets to see his friends, even though they are together ALL day! He's out. And...you're out because suddenly, annoying your brother and his friends seems like fun. You're both hitting the playground if you can just wriggle out of your mom's grip. Nuts to her. She's mean when she hasn't slept and you're the reason why. And if you don't start listening and get in the fucking car you can both spend the night in the typhoon on the playground, because nuts to you, she's out!
2. You don't want tacos for dinner. They are gross and you hate them. Your brother wants grilled cheese for dinner. So do you. Just like the one you shunned at lunch. No wait. You want mac and cheese. But he wants grilled cheese. Tacos are gross. You'll throw up if she makes you eat one. Can you pillow joust down the hallway? Can you have a juice box? No, chocolate milk. Can she make you chocolate milk? Can you have a snack? Where did your brother get the chips from? What do you mean papa gave him chips? You want chips! It's not fair if he gets chips but you don't get chips. Is dinner almost ready? Is it mac and cheese? What are you having again? Tacos? You hate tacos. They are gross and they'll make you throw up! You asked for chocolate milk. Can you have chocolate milk? Please? It's getting late and dinner's not made yet and you and your brother still need showers and she hasn't slept and you're the reason why and WHAT THE FUCK DOES SHE HAVE TO DO TO MAKE YOU STOP TALKING FOR FIVE MINUTES AND START LISTENING?
1. It's five minutes of eight. You're not tired. You. Are. Not. Tired. The room is too dark. The nightlight is too bright. You need another bottle of water, it will help you calm down. The pajamas are too hot. The mattress isn't comfortable. Will she lie down with you for a few minutes? Now she needs to lie down with your brother who needs another book because he only has one. And if he gets another one you get another one. You suddenly have to pee, even though you didn't have to pee 5 minutes ago when she told you to try and pee before bed. It's 8:45 p.m. You're tired and crying. Your brother's tired and crying. She is tired, crying and repeating the phrase, "Please just GO! TO! SLEEP!" over and over and over.... Everyone is tired and crying, and no one's sleeping. She certainly hasn't slept, you were definitely the reason why and who gives a fuck if you listen anymore tonight? She's done talking. Don't come out of your room. Just don't. The consequences are dire because she's officially broken and she knows she's got to wake up too soon and do it all over again tomorrow morning. 

The Mother's Curse

I don’t like my daughter. Until recently, I have only admitted this in the company of people that know me well enough to know that they don’t have to seek help from the Department of Child Welfare.  My secret warrants only a silent nod from these chosen few, because they are soldiers in the same battle, who have been witnesses to the same atrocities. They offer me smiles of camaraderie, share stories of the torture they’re enduring at the hands of a demon that they chose to painfully bring into the world, as we drink our way through our PTSD: Parenting Traumatic children Stress Disorder.

I love my children, but I’d be lying if I didn’t acknowledge that my son is probably my favorite at the moment because his behavior is much more palatable. He’s at the top of the food chain right now, he knows it and he’s acting accordingly in order to remain in our good graces and continue reaping the benefits.  Quinn, on the other hand has become far too punk rock for my liking. She’s the embodiment of anarchy and someday, a long time from now when she’s out of the house and fighting somebody else’s system I’m sure I will fully appreciate her spunk. In this stage of her development, however, I feel like a hostage negotiator and the life I’m trying to save is Quinn’s. I don’t think she understands just how close to the edge she’s come. I don’t think she cares. If she’s going over the cliff, she’s plummeting in full fight mode and though she is currently my nemesis, I respect that. The kid’s got balls. And they are HUGE!

The past few weeks have been the worst I’ve had as a parent and that includes Quinn’s infant years which were filled with both colic and MONTHS of sleepless nights. When she was a baby, she couldn’t articulate the way she can now. I didn’t know what she wanted and though the trial and error seemed frustrating at the time, I find myself fantasizing about having that little, wailing mound of flesh back in the baby Bjorn, completely, unquestioningly…under my control. Control is the prize, you see. She wants it, I have it…barely. I’m clinging on by the tips of my fingernails. She’s older. She’s smarter. She can communicate…if you can call it that. Our fights are arduous and they are over the most minuscule shit. I have invested more time and energy into getting my daughter to wear, eat and do things that she has clearly indicated she doesn’t want to do, than I ever did in anything of real importance, like, say my education or career.  In fact, if trying to reason with a toddler was my career…and it kind of is…I’d be at the top of my field. To be honest, the amount of rage I feel regarding these trivialities is more residual than anything. I wake up hopeful every morning; whispering a mantra of serenity so I can get through the day without having to be the banshee I hate so much. And I fail every morning, which is something I irrationally blame my daughter for most days. It’s not her fault. I can tell myself that a million times, but the part of me that doesn’t want to accept responsibility for my low success rate is totally deaf to reason…much like my daughter. The constant failure at the one thing I’ve dedicated my life to, my kids; the constant hiccups we’ve experienced; it all builds up throughout the week and suddenly it’s Friday, and the banana that she's peeled for breakfast but suddenly doesn’t want any more becomes a grenade launched at what little remains of my endurance. My patience, thin as a spider’s web snaps and World War Why goes into full launch sequence. I’m screaming like a lunatic about the cost of food. I’m pushing the banana at her, making decrees that she will starve before she wastes any more while she angrily slaps at my hand, jettisoning the remaining banana at the floor, simultaneously wailing and flailing. And just like that, the tone is set for the day. Failure before we’ve even stepped out of the gate, all because of a need to maintain this delusion that I have the control. 

My Quinn is a beautiful, unique, infuriatingly independent little monster. I think the thing that sucks the most about her age is that I can’t allow myself to enjoy her, because I’m so busy trying to modify the thing I love most about her; her passion. She is not afraid to question why I want her to do things, the way I want her to do them. She’s three and a half and she’s already advocating for herself in a way that I still can’t as an adult, which makes me so proud of her that I could burst. By the same token, it’s that same quality about her that can send me into spells of a rage I never thought possible as a parent. Do you know there are some nights, when she’s finally sleeping, that I climb into her bed next to her, hold her and fight the urge to sob.  I love her so much and I feel like I’m incapable of showing her just how wonderful she is when I spend so much of our time together lately, not liking her at all. 

Sometimes when I’m in full-on Hulk Mama Mode, I can’t help but notice my parents smirking. I was an awful child. I kicked walls, rejected rules, lied, took things that didn’t belong to me, said hurtful, nasty things…I was, undeniably, a bottomless pit of defiance. Their curse worked and their smirks represent the unspoken joy at surviving the years of torment only to be able to spectate as a smaller, more potent version of myself puts me through the same kind of hell. My only salvation is knowing that my mom came out unscathed only to find she had a friend as well as a daughter. I can only hope the same reward awaits me and Quinn.

DiLisio's: 999,997 /Germs: 3

I have to come clean about something. I allow my kids to eat without sanitizing their hands. Some times after they've touched playground equipment, shopping carts, public hand railings, elevator buttons and some times,don't gag, after they've taken a whiz. I also allow them to eat food after it falls on the floor. Some times, well traveled floors. I know. I'm an unhygienic nightmare. I can also count on one unsanitary hand the number of times my kids have been ill since they were infants and still have dirty fingers left over. Now I accept that I may just be gambling and winning. Maybe my kids are so inundated with germs that the little plague inducers are killing each other off in the ultimate battle to see who's going to infect them first. I like to think that their immune systems are as fortified as Croatia, made indestructible by constant exposure. I'm not saying they never wash their hands or throw out floor food. They have baths every night. They scrub after they poop and on the rare occasion that they pet farm animals, I will use sanitizer. If a goldfish is encrusted with dirt and hair I don't dust it off and put it back in their baggie.I'm not totally disgusting. What I am saying is: If you ever see me loading my kids up with sanitizer or throwing out a perfectly good fruit snack simply because its kissed super market tile, it's totally for show; so you won't think I'm some sort of germ infested, plague producer who lets her kids feed on filth, which is exactly what I am. My grandfather, God rest his soul, had a saying. "You have to eat a peck of dirt before you die." I'm pretty sure when he said that he wasn't envisioning my children gulping down mouthfuls of the tub water they've been marinating in but hey, we're all still here to talk about it. And healthy.

"Across the Universe": A perfect moment with my son and daughter.

I waste a copious amount of time complaining about both of you guys, so why should today be any different, right? This afternoon, while tucking freshly laundered sheets around the mattress of my bed and muttering about how things would never get done if I didn't do them, something happened. A moment I would've otherwise missed. Ev, you had asked me earlier what songs I'd sung to get you to sleep as an infant. Instead of reciting the list, I found the CD I'd made for you (when you'd gotten to the point of sleeping without the aid of constant rocking) and put it on in your room. I took the mattresses off of the box springs and told both of you to go nuts...and you did. Then I proceeded to my room to begrudgingly make my bed, telling you when it was made and I was ready for yours, jumping time was over.

"Words keep pouring out like endless rain into a paper cup; they slither while they pass, they slip away across the universe."

I heard those words pouring out of your tiny stereo speakers and I was taken back to that first year with you, Ev. Holding you in the dark while you whimpered about things you hadn't the capacity to explain to me and singing under my breath while I rocked and prayed you would fall asleep soon. And I started to cry, not just because I'm suffering through my monthly hormonal upheaval, but because I never took the time to relish it while it was happening. People gave me the whole "You'll look back one day..." diatribe and I was skeptical that I would apply it to any instance in your infancy, but there I was, looking back. And I cried because I wish I'd sung more to you, Quinn and because your infancy seems like one angry, sleepless blur to me. I'm not going to lie, your first few months are not ones I look back on fondly, but the singing, that's something I regret we've never shared and I hope to rectify that soon. There were nights when I wandered the apartment, cradling you for the umpteenth time and wondering how sane I was to think I could handle another child, but here you are; stubborn, independent, outrageously funny, SLEEPING THROUGH THE NIGHT (thank the lord) and I realize that you are a prime example of "the best is yet to come."

"Pools of sorrow waves of joy are drifting through my open mind; Possessing and caressing me."

I stopped making my bed and sat on the edge, looking past my door frame into yours and watched you both as you bounced off of those mattresses, giggling like loons and screaming for me to come watch as you flipped yourselves around in ways that made me cringe. Ev, I saw you help your sister complete that somersault that had been eluding her; patiently instructing her on where to place her head and how to push off with her legs. Quinn, hearing you yell, "Enan, watch me!" as you did it once more, by yourself, was pure joy. It was a perfect moment; no one screaming, no one angry, no one disobeying or fighting for control. So, I went in and knelt on the floor in the only space not occupied by a mattress, and watched you both without interfering, overcome by a feeling of contentment. Even though your father and I have made some horrendous decisions over the years, you two represent sparks of absolute genius.  

I know some days I make you both feel like you can't do a single thing right. In fact, we share a lot of moments throughout our days that I would consider far less than perfect. Days when I seem to take away all the things you love. Days when I do more yelling than laughing. Days when the word "No" seems to be on a constant loop. Days when I spend more time giving you my opinion than asking you for yours. I know I've missed out on creating some wonderful moments because I'm usually more compelled to complain than to accept and I'm sorry for that. When I look at you both I see all the things I like about myself, as well as all the things I'd like to change. But you should know, behind the veil of frustration is a woman who wouldn't want to change either of you for all the money in the world. Some days it seems that you are both proof that at least twice in my life, I've done something right; today, in that moment, especially.

"Jai Guru Deva, om. Nothing's gonna change my world, nothing's gonna change my world. Nothing's gonna change my world, nothing's gonna change my world."

 

The Incidental Finding

As you may have read in one or more of my previous posts, I am a hypochondriac. I am a hyper, hypochondriac. That means not only am I very familiar with the quickest routes to all the ER's in my area, but I am also very adept at navigating through WebMD. My most recent venture to the ER was for reflux; more precisely, the feeling that acid was gouging through my digestive track and indiscriminately eviscerating everything vital.  I figured I'd be loaded up with protonix and sent on my way with nothing more than a $200 bill and foolish regret.  I wasn't terribly surprised when I was rolled into CT. I was shocked when I was informed I'd be admitted for the night. When I asked the hospitalist why, I was handed a piece of paper and told to read.  There was a lot of medical jargon that my brain couldn't process but as a hyper, hypochondriac, my eyes were immediately drawn to the words "large brown tumor","Lytic Lesion" and "possible malignancy". These are words a hyper hypochondriac like myself know well.  I had two immediate reactions. The first was, "Holy shit, there may be something wrong with me!" (I'm not crazy) and "Holy shit! There may be something wrong with me?" (Seriously, there may be something wrong with me?).  So they brought me to a room, gave me an Ambien and told me to take all that information I'd swallowed; all those horrible, bitter tasting words and "throw them away".  We would cross that bridge, IF we came to it. Reassuring...if you're not a hyper hypochondriac...which I am.  Chemically induced slumber overtook me and I'm not saying I'd take them again, but I can see how Ambien could be addictive.  Beautiful, unencumbered sleep where, though dreams are not allowed, neither are nightmares. Next morning, I had my MRI and sure enough, they found a sizable lytic lesion embedded in the Illiac Crest of my pelvic bone. Instead of biopsying it locally, I was advised to consult an orthopedic oncologist in Boston.  Tomorrow I go to Dana Farber to meet  a new doctor who will study my pelvic bone in all its lytic glory...and I'm scared shitless. For the weeks leading up to my appointment I've been pretty optimistic. I'd go so far as to say I've been downright unfazed, which for a hypochondriac is a feat in and of itself. I've convinced myself that everything is going to be fine. That this doctor will give me a smile, a hearty handshake and a diagnosis that will include the word "benign". Tonight, even as I type this, I feel as though I've jinxed myself. Like, by telling myself everything will be okay, I've sealed my fate. Though I've never had any consistent pain in my pelvic bone, I now find I'm overly sensitive to any discomfort in that area.  I swear I can feel this thing just pulsing and growing; this threatening, unwelcome incidental finding, messing with me from a place I can't reach. Last night, I had heartbreaking visions of having to tell my children the most awful news. I thought, what if I don't get to see them grow up? What if my husband has to raise them alone? What if they forget all about me and how much I loved them after I'm gone? My husband held me close and let me cry before telling me what he always tells me when I'm contemplating death; that I'm a hypochondriac, that everything is going to be fine and that I spend too much time worrying about things that may never come to fruition.  A co-worker of mine, who happens to be a radiologist, took a look at the images for me and told me he was 99% sure this was a non-issue. He felt confident saying things look favorable for me living a long, healthy life. 99% and all I can focus on is that 1% he can't give me. I've hugged my son, daughter and husband a lot over the last couple of days. I've uttered the phrase "I love you" more times in the past 48 hours than I can count. I've tried really hard to be patient, nurturing and calm, because I can't afford to have them remember me as a cranky, angry woman they're glad to be rid of, should I be handed over to that 1%. That 1% has given me a lot of perspective on what it means to appreciate even the most miserable parts of your life...because at least you still get to experience them. When I come home tomorrow with, what I'm sure will be a clean bill of health, I'll forget all about embracing the mundane and finding the good in our bad times. The marker on the table, the spilled juice cup, the arguments over bed time will once again send me to the brink of insanity with my children. Chris and I will fall back into our routine of nagging each other and tallying up who does more on a daily basis: who changed more diapers, who got less sleep, who did more dishes. I don't know what would be less unfortunate. I want to be in that 99%, but I don't want to forget to live in the 1%.