"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%. 

The Little Things...

The appreciation of an uninterrupted virus, the capacity to "drag myself" to the gym, deciding I don't feel like going grocery shopping and just surviving on plain couscous for one more day...certain things start to seem insignificant or irrelevant when you have unlimited time to spend  thinking about them or doing them. When I had my first kid, my ability to engage in the little, personal things became less and less frequent. When Capt. Insano was born, attending to certain needs was no longer an option. Even in the shower I'm only good for 5 minutes unless I wait until 9 in the evening and quite frankly the night is my only time to breathe and do, without being hampered by other's needs. I've got a laundry list of stuff I want to do for myself and only a few, treasured hours to do them. Showering barely makes that list. If you have kids I assume you'll know exactly what it means to forsake the little things in an effort to be a "good parent". If you don't, here's a list of some of the most important little things I've foresaken in my life in an effort to be a "good parent". 

1. Eating and digesting an entire meal by myself. I can't remember the last time I sat down with a plate of food that didn't have little hands coming at it from all angles.  That tomato wasn't appealing all cut up on their dish, but for some reason mine looks irresistibly delicious. I'm considering stabbing at their digits with my heavy, adult sized fork, prison style, to send a clear message that mommy's food is mommy's food...but that would be wrong, right?This goes for drinks, too. My water is MY water. My decaf ice coffee is MY decaf ice coffee. Placing it on a table is not code for them to come and help themselves. Back off, grabby pants. Also, it frustrates the hell out of me when I ask the dynamic duo if they want a bowl of whatever it is I'm preparing to indulge in and they refuse it, but proceed with a two fisted aerial assault on whatever it is they just turned down; chips, grapes, crackers...Maybe next time I'll put my food down my pants or spit in it first. Chow down, cherubs.

2. The time consuming practice of femininity.Shaving my legs, applying mascara, plucking my eyebrows and chin whiskers, blow-drying my hair, trimming the shrubbery shrouding my special lady island and any other general maintenance  that helps me look and feel like a human being and not like something you see in a blurry photo on a paranormal website. I used to file this kind of activity under "D" for Drudgery. Now I just wish I could get more than 10 minutes in the shower to make sure I've scrubbed everything properly. I've resigned myself to the fact that I'll probably resemble a Yeti for the next couple of years.

3. Sexual healing. Being able to enjoy sex. This is a huge one. I've been given the ole' lock the door advice and while that seems well and good, there's the part of my brain that's been taken hostage by my children that keeps telling me its not allowable. "What if they're sick and they need you?" It asks. "What if there's an emergency and you can't hear them dying or choking or screaming, because you're too busy fulfilling you're own selfish, primal needs?" It questions condescendingly. And then my climax is interrupted by what I think is the sound of children crying but is actually the sound of mine and my husband's intimacy creaking to a standstill. I'm close to jamming a knitting needle through my nostril cavities to lobotomize the invaded portion of my brain. Funny story (I...guess?). There was one time we did lock the door and when we were done doing the dirty, we opened it back up only to find our precious daughter standing at our feet, shell shocked, teary eyed and loudly sucking on her binky. We were thankful we were fully clothed and realized that a locked door doesn't mean shit to a child in the throes of teething pain. Also lying in our bed of sin with her was incredibly, mentally uncomfortable. (See also: Hearing noisy toys go off while attempting to turn each other on, because nothing makes me hotter than hearing Sir Topham Hat's disembodied voice telling me I'm "a very useful engine.")

4.Quiet time in my office. I'm just going to say it: I miss taking a dump by myself; whether its being able to catch up on my reading, sending out texts telling people I'm texting them on the toilet or just marveling in the stench and size of what I've created, I prefer to do it alone. And by alone, I mean without hearing constant knocking or talking outside the door which aside from being awkward is really distracting. Also, I pray that the next time I have diarrhea, I won't have to deal with it in front of two little people who, thankfully are respectful enough not to comment on the noise and smell as they read, play in the sink and exterminate a little bit more of my dignity and modesty. On a slightly different note in the same vein, my son's bathroom activity seems to revolve around mine as of late, so there will never be a time I won't feel rushed, because my son is screaming "Mommy, are you almost done, I have to go real bad!"

5. Brushing my teeth and other hygiene.  We've all been there. Hustling to get the bag packed with all the unnecessaries that we're positive will be necessary. Herding the children into a corner and forcing clothing over their wriggling bodies. Changing that last minute crap diaper that I couldn't smell until I almost had the door closed. Realizing as I'm halfway to the playground that I didn't brush my teeth, change my tampon or apply deodorant that morning, meaning interaction with other people may have to be done from several feet away. I was going to include these with item 2, but there's a big difference between looking appalling and smelling appalling, and I've been a member in both clubs.

6. Fuck you and the swear jar you rode in on. Last but not least, I miss being able to swear. Really swear. Filth used to be an art form in our house. It was a competition to see who could fit more vulgarity into a single, coherent conversation. Now it's just one more thing my children feel they can reprimand me for. When we're in public my son tells me I need to put money in the swear jar. What fucking swear jar? I never authorized a swear jar. Honestly, any money I put in the swear jar is going right to DD's anyway, so the next time I swear, instead of telling me I need to put money in this imaginary swear jar that will never come to fruition if I can help it, I should be instructed to go get a coffee. "Oops, Mommy called that guy a shit face ass munch. Guess I'll have to swing around the Drive Thru and pay my penance."

In closing, let me say that I love my kids. Some days I just need a reminder because parenthood isn't aways ideal, I'm not perfect and neither are they.

"You're not dying, you just can't think of anything good to do today."

I'm 35 years old. I have low cholesterol and blood pressure and during my short time on the planet I've had two stress echocardiograms. That's more than some people, twice my age will ever have.  My first one was in 2000, my last was in 2012 and both doctor's results and opinions were the same. For those of you under the age of 50, that don't know what a stress echocaridiogram is I'll tell you. It's an examine that is usually performed on people much older than 35, with cardiac related issues; i.e. high blood pressure, high cholesteral, diabetes and a history of heart disease in their immediate families, among other things. It's also a test begrudgingly performed on an anxious, hyperchondriac, whose doctor is sick of seeing her for ER follow-ups.  I was fitted with electrodes that registered my heart rate, given an ultrasound, instructed to walk on a treadmill until I thought my lungs would burst, given another ultrasound and asked what I was doing there for a stress echocardiogram. "You're perfectly healthy. Whatever is going on here with your pain, there's no chance it's cardiac related. So, you don't have to be anxious about it anymore, okay?" The cardiologist sighed, looking at my chart, then into my incredulous gaze and once more at my chart, before shaking his head and leaving.
        My mind has had a kung-fu grip on my mortality since my age could be given in single digits; which was when I attended my great-grandfather's funeral. It was the first point in my life, that I clearly remember seeing death and registering it as something that I absolutely didn't want happening to me.  It was shortly thereafter that I had my first panic attack. For those of you who have never had a massive panic attack, I can descibe it to you in five simple words; "OH MY GOD, I'M DYING!"   When I have them, I can't breath and can barely talk. My mind races trying to figure out what the fuck is going on inside my body. I experience pain in my chest, my arms and back; it's unnerving and every time, I'm convinced it's the end. I've been to the ER more times than I can count. I'm sure my records are very entertaining reading material for any doctor unfortunate enough to have to me as a patient.  Without going deep into my medical history and thereby making a very long story short, the ER visits have become fewer and farther between, but the problem will never really be resolved, because I am the problem. No doctor of physical medicine will be able to cure me, no matter how many tests, drugs or reassurring results they offer.  This has nothing to do with my hyperchondria, though a smidgen of that goes a long way with with someone who's neurotic. This is a profoundly rooted fear of dying. It's natural to dread the vast nothingness of death to a certain degree, but my panic has reached an unnatural level. I've always found life to be amazing, even when the individual parts surrounding mine don't seem all that amazing. I can't imagine the day when I won't be able to appreciate all the intangible, little pieces that make up the living, breathing wall of what I am. I can deal with not knowing what's awaits me post mortem, what I can't fathom is the end of revelling in all the things I do know. How my children's breath smells when they first wake up. All the noises my husband makes, both good and downright fucking disgusting.  The way it feels to stub my toe on the same goddamn dumbell almost every morning when I get out of bed. Even the sound of the motorcycles going by my window at midnight on a weekday, which I can't stand. I'd take all of those things for eternity over nothing...or whatever else may come after I've ceased to exist. I've buried myself a hundred times and it's frustrating as hell to claw your way out of the grave only to throw yourself back in a few days later. It makes enjoying all those amazing things about my life a very difficult thing and I'm kind of getting tired of being so afraid of something I have less than NO control over. Death is a certainty and that's about the only certainty within that certainty. How, when and why are the TBD factors. I blame a lot of my extreme health sensitivity on the media. We are inundated with symptoms, tips and warnings on a nearly constant basis; the major downside of  24/7 access to internet and television programming. Turn on the news now. I guarentee there will be some story about  overlooked signs of heart attack in women or how drinking a cup of coffee in the morning has been shown to maybe, possibly be fractionally responsible for breast cancer, in women under the age of 40. I have so much information about my body and what I should and shouldn't put into it that I'm all twisted up.
        My grandparents weren't concerned with shit like this. They were concerned with playing the cards and enjoying the game to the best of their abilities. They lived well into their eighties and that was without the medical advances which seem to be growing by the day. My father didn't see a doctor until he was in his fifties and that was because my mother made him. Up until that point he was feeling fine and perfectly happy to go on until he stopped breathing. With or without the aid of doctors, I am going to die. Maybe tonight. Maybe tomorrow. Maybe 70 years from now, I don't know. That's the point, I guess. I'll never know, no matter how many tests I have or pills I take or heartbeats I count, I will never know. No one can promise me that I'm going to live forever, but if I keep worrying about it, I'm not going to really live, at all.



  

The Great Bon Bon Debate

When you ask a stay at home mother or father what they do during the day, there's a 98% chance that you're going to get a snide comment involving soap operas and Bon Bons hurled at you. While nothing could be further from the truth, I also think there are some days that nothing could be closer to the truth. Before you stone me with your Bon Bons of bias, hear me out. While I recognize that the list of shit required of us on a daily basis is lengthy and tedious, I also admit that I am not above ignoring said list when the mood suits me, which is not an option when you're working a nine to five. It was in the high 70's this entire week and I am not ashamed to say that I left a dirty toilet, a pile of dishes and a mound of laundry in lieu of enjoying the sunshine with my kids, again not an option when you're commuting to the office everyday.  My friend Kate would say each choice has its challenges and she would be right. She is an amazing woman, who works full time days and conducts international conference calls after she's served out her nightly mommy duties...so there's that.  I'd say her challenges outweigh mine and I'm saying that in all sincerity. Everyone has days they just don't want to do it anymore regardless of their place of employment.  And again, I'm not belittling the challenges and responsibilities involved in the path I've chosen. I work damn hard whether I'm preparing a meal, struggling to get a squirming toddler into her diaper or sitting on the floor playing "Memory".  I don't get to use the bathroom by myself and I usually don't get to enjoy a meal while sitting, let alone actually savor the food I'm eating. I'm not allowed to be sick and should a virus decide to rebel, I don't have a place to send my kids so I can recuperate. Most days, no matter how many times I vacuum or sweep nothing looks clean and enduring two children in the throes of temper tantrums can be more than overwhelming, but on the plus side I'm not rushed or confined to a certain schedule aside from my son's school and extracurriculars, which are few. I don't have deadlines. I can do my "job" in my pajama's or I can put on make-up and do my hair, my choice. Most importantly, I get to be constantly involved in my children's activities, which can be a blessing and a curse depending on the day.  It didn't always feel like this. I would tell people my husband would "never understand just what I do during the day." I'm pretty sure I used the infamous Bon Bon and soap opera line many times. It took a lot of exposure and practice to make staying at home an enjoyable privilege. Yes, I'm still tired most days both at the beginning and the end, and I don't always love my life but I've stopped  condemning it. It is not the unexplored level of hell in which I once convinced myself  I existed.  I've gotten to know my kids very well and we've all begun working as a mostly cohesive unit. Again, I can't speak for all of us staysies.  Every kid is different and so is every parent.  As I sit here,admiring the tan lines from my watch and sandals...hard earned tan lines, gained through a week of heavy outdoor activity with my two kids who never slow down...I can't help but think of how awesome my job is and how lucky I am to have such manageable work, not to mention a great "office". Of course we are treading on Spring/Summer, which always makes the job that much easier AND likable.  I'm pretty sure I'll be ready to quit once the cabin fever of Winter is upon us again.