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%. 

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.

God bless us...every one.

I know it's Christmas, not only because my inbox is cluttered with online fliers touting  "BIG HOLIDAY SAVINGS," for everything on my "child's wish list," but because I'm asked several times a day if I've finished my shopping yet and/or how much of my son's "wish list" is going to be under our tree Christmas morning.  To wit, my gnawing acid indigestion has become yet another sign that the holiday season is upon us.  The answers are; not even remotely, there will be much disappointment and pass the Tums.  Ev turned 4 in July and as such, his awareness of Christmas, as it is defined by a child, is only just beginning to blossom. Last years trifling note to Santa was replaced by an entire catalog of circles that I've only briefly perused.
      Our holiday resources are on the meager end this year and shopping for gifts has been a low priority. Budgetary restrictions have had a lot of influence over my re-examination of the season of giving.  I've read many articles over the past couple of days regarding the subject of giving and how, financial times being what they are, many parents felt they would be unable to give their children a "good Christmas" this year.  I've spent the past month, wracked with guilt over not being able to provide that "good Christmas"; looking at my paltry bag of toys and wondering what my son will think when he wakes up and sees so much empty space under the tree that, just last year, would've been filled with more brightly dressed packages then he could wrap his head around.  Then I watched the news and heard about children who may wake up to nothing, because donations have been lacking at Toys for Tots and other charitable foundations.  I saw an unemployed mother and father of 4 living in a friend's vacant house, with a seriously ill teenager and wondering how they were going to afford her medical bills, let alone provide any sort of Christmas cheer for their children.  I read Facebook posts from friends and family members overseas, who would be spending the holiday in an army barracks and my whole idea of  having a "good Christmas" devolved or evolved depending on your view.  My first thought was to pick one gift from the bag, for each child and take the rest to Toys for Tots, but my mother was quick to point out that expectations for Ev have already been set. He'd written a list, checked it twice and been promised as much generosity as Santa could bestow. So I decided I would take whatever money I was going to use to "finish up" shopping and put it toward one of my favorite charities, Horizon's for Homeless Children. I also realized something very important. Chris and I need to begin setting the standard for what Evan's definition of Christmas should be and I'm not entirely sure that definition needs to include one half of a Toys'R'Us "Holiday Book".  Now, maybe if we were in a different place this year I wouldn't be writing this. I'd be happily wrapping all the circled gifts of Ev's choosing and wondering which one was going to be his absolute favorite. But I'm not and in a way, I'm appreciative of this forced new perspective. It's easy to get caught up in the material aspect of the season and even easier not to, mostly because I don't have a choice, but also because without the noise of commercialism I've been able to remember the most important gifts. Ev and Quinn both have their health, they have a loving family and we'll all be together. I don't want Evan or Quinn to think of Christmas as just one more day to inventory what they have and what they've yet to receive. I want them to understand how much they already have, before they even begin to unwrap a box. And, I want them to experience how much can be received purely from giving.
      All Bob Crachett wanted was the day off from work, a fine, fat goose and his son's health. He got all 3 and even though his wishes weren't gift wrapped, his family seemed to have a very "good Christmas."

Merry Christmas to all and a Happy New Year!

Video Killed the Academic Star

Remember, like, 5 years ago, when experts where touting the power of Baby Einstein. Baby Einstein was the key to unlocking your child's limitless potential. It would help them read and comprehend and get into Harvard before 18...basically turn them into little prodigies.  Remember how parents clamored for all the ridiculous, ridiculously expensive Baby Einstein videos, not to mention all the other crap and swore up and down that it was really making their children smarter. Well guess what, smarmy, "my kid read Nietzsche yesterday, thanks to Baby Einstein" parents. Sorry to ruin the ivy league dreams, but those videos were actually giving your children A.D.D.  That's right. "leading experts" have confirmed there is NO SAFE AMOUNT OF TELEVISION/VIDEO VIEWING for children under the age of 3. That means my children will be on Ritalin before age 10.  I'm guessing these experts never had children. I'm assuming that because these experts never had children, they've never had to prepare a meal with an extra 18 to 30lbs attached to each leg, whining and complaining and making demands...or do laundry, dishes, vacuuming or go to the bathroom under those same conditions.  Of course, I could be wrong. "the experts" may have had children. Children who never watched a second of television. Children who are now discovering new elements, or heading world renowned surgical teams, or proposing new fossil fuel theories. We'll never know. 

I need television. Sometimes, yes, it's my babysitter. And, sometimes I will admit, it's a technological saviour.  I don't stop doing, from the moment my feet hit the floor to the moment their heads hit their pillows and I am able to maintain my sanity thanks to the modern marvel that is broadcast television.  I can't give you a rundown of how many hours a day my cherubs sit, quietly, indulging in what I feel is educational programming. An hour or two in the morning, maybe one in the afternoon...since they don't fucking sleep and I need some way for their bodies to stop and rest for more than 5 minutes...and after dinner until bedtime, maybe another hour or two.  I've definitely exceeded what's considered the healthy maximum, for Ev. Quinn is completely screwed.  That girl is going to be some teacher's foaming, screeching,disciplinary nightmare. I'm not sure her television viewing will be the sole cause of that outcome, but it definitely can't help...if I agree with the experts. Which I don't. 

I watched television as a kid. Hours of television. Sometimes starting at 5 in the morning. Anyone else remember Saturday morning cartoons as a staple of childhood?  Granted, I'm not the Proust of my generation, nor am I sitting around a think tank, solving exhaustively complicated mathematical equations, but I've never had trouble focusing when I needed to and I've never been diagnosed with A.D.D.  The article I read stated, in so many words (because I don't feel like looking up the direct quote), that rapid development occurs mainly in infants and toddlers and that viewing a program for even 5 minutes can be overstimulating.  That a child's brain then becomes wired for constant, rapid stimulation and can no longer slow down and process things...in so many words.  Are they right? My daughter, as I've stated many times before, is a whirling dervish of curiosity. She is also easily amused by my key chain. She can sit on the floor with my key chain for a half hour; clinking it, dropping it, moving the keys from one side of the clip to the other.  I wouldn't say she actively watches television on a consistent basis, but sometimes she does. Sometimes, it's just background while she fiddles with her colorful and stimulating toys. Either way ,it hasn't seemed to affect her and somehow, even when she really starts to appreciate t.v. for what it is, I think she'll be okay. 

Maybe A.D.D. is the product of outside sources; television, sugar...etc.  Maybe A.D.D. is genetic, occuring in some regardless of abstinence from over-stimulation.  I don't fricking know. I know that tonight, when I got home from work, after I put Quinn to sleep, I propped my son in front of the boob tube and put my feet up for the first time since I'd woken up this morning...and I'm okay with whatever results from that in the future. I could go on, but I've got some shows On-Demand that I really need to catch up on. Viva la televisione! 

Jury of your peers

You know me, I'm not one to judge, but good lord do women know how to cut each other down for no apparent reason, or is it just me? I've made more than my fair share of personal assessments so I know when people say, "I'm not one to judge," or my favorite, "You know I love Marci, but...", we are noting or have noted any "wrong doings" to share with someone else, who has probably never been one to judge.

 Finding other's weakness' is like shooting fish in a barrel. Fashion, diet, hygiene,childcare...everybody has something they're not the best at, as well as somebody to point that shortcoming out to them. I've been known to deliver criticism directly, but for the most part, my "suggestions" surface after the beacon of imperfection has left...because I am a pussy and I fear confrontation. Critiques come in the form of gentle ribbing i.e. "You should tell your kid to shake hands with the rest of the playground, so all of the kids will be sanitized." I've served the "compliment sandwich", "You're so attentive to germs. With that much sanitizer your kids will never build up antibodies. You are the cleanest person I've ever met!" I've used it's more passive cousin, the self-effacing simile: "You know I'm about as hygienic as a farm hog, so what do I know but, isn't that a taaaad too much sanitizer?" I tend to be a gray area type of condescending bitch, but there are those who put it right out there in black and white. You know them? The ones we denounce for their lack of  self-censorship? "Jesus H! What do you, go through, like,a bottle a day? That kid must have NO freakin' immune system!" Sometimes I tell myself I'm being helpful; offering advice for which no one has asked. Other times, I convince myself it's out of love; that's where the, "You know I love so and so," comes into play. But in the end it translates into the same thing, "I think I'm better than you and this is why." We all do it, everyday, whether we call it what it is or keep it under the guise of caring/concern. Those of us that deny it are the ones that are the most guilty. 

I was talking to my friend, Shanna last week about parenting and being a mom in particular. For every mother issuing a punishment, reacting to an injury or dealing with defiance, there are 3 more standing in judgement of her every decision. I know this because, like I said, nine times out of ten, I'm one of those 3. And, it goes deeper than sanitizer, no pun intended. Society has heaped so much scrutiny onto our shoulders, from how we handle our kids, to how we handle our homes, to how we handle ourselves; don't you think it's time we, as sisters in the battlefield that is child-rearing, let up on each other?

When we choose to stay at home and raise our kids, we're seen as martyrs who lack goals. When we choose to go to work each morning and leave our children in the capable hands of a daycare provider or nanny, we're seen as selfish and lacking a nurturing instinct. Whoa, there are women who don't want to be the primary nurturer? (I've yet to hear a man get reamed out for not choosing that role.) And still, some of us have no choice either way and are forced in one direction or another. Women have to WANT  to wear every hat and wear them well, lest we be condemned by the jury of our peers, who think they could do it better. Talk about damned if you do, damned if you don't. Both Shanna and I really thought about what it meant to be pigeonholed by other people's assumptions and by our own gender. It sucks. It sucks that we barely know each other and feel like we can make complete character assessments based on...what? What a mom decided to wear that day? Their weight? Their children's weight? Their discipline techniques? Their lack of discipline techniques? What we heard from the nanny?

When I think back on the all the parenting assassinations I've made, regarding people I hardly knew, it's astounding. I mean, I'm not one to judge, but if you ask me, I'm a douche bag. I'm also jealous, insecure, bored with my own life and overcompensating for what I feel are my personal shortcomings as a mother and a woman. I'm not saying I'm going to completely stop judging people, because that would be an out and out lie. Criticism is like nicotine; you don't go cold turkey. What I am saying is, I'm going to start being a lot more empathetic to the fact that we don't exist in a box. Every mom...every person, lives according to what works for them, not for me. Let's stop scrutinizing each other and get back to scrutinizing men. It's their fault...everything is their fault ; )

(End Note: We haven't, actually stopped scrutinizing men, they've just stopped caring.)

Keeping up with the Duggars

I get it, Michelle Duggar. I get why you're addicted to having babies and I don't think it has as much to do with what Jesus is commanding, as it does with what your clock is commanding. My daughter recently turned one year. She's a beast. She's a walking, garbling, feasting ball of fire and she's no longer an infant, which has my hormones in an uproar. I've spent countless hours awake with her, anticipating the infant to toddler changeover. I've heard tell that at zero hour, the converted toddler automatically goes into 12 hour sleep mode, eats whatever you put in front of it and becomes more easily amused by itself, though Q.0 has yet to deliver those kind of sophisticated results.

 I was in the process of swapping 6-9 month outfits for 12-18 when this immense hollowness just, sort of, carved itself into the pit of my stomach. The thought hit me that Quinn was, very possibly, my last baby and that realization turned bagging up her things into this surreal grieving process, that I wasn't prepared to experience. Despite my need for more than 4 hours of sleep a night, my excitement that my breasts were once again my own and the knowledge that Evan would be going to school soon, giving me back some of my life, I convinced both myself and Chris that I could, indeed,deal with the rigors of pre and post pregnancy, one more time. Chris called me a "crazy bitch" and assured me that if I didn't sign off on the vasectomy, he'd wind up in an alley in Chinatown, allowing an unlicensed veterinarian to "neuter" him. 

He's right. The fact of the matter is I don't really believe I want another child.  What I want, is to know that I could have another one and at almost 35, it will only become less likely...unless I want to get pregnant again in the next couple of years; which I do not. It's unnerving to see and feel myself getting older, but it's even more unnerving to know that my "babies" are getting older and that soon I won't even have babies. I'll have kindergartners, then middle school-ers, then teenagers, then young adults, then...I'm killing time waiting to die. My children's development and my own fertility have suddenly become the ultimate measurements of time. I hear the phrases, "It goes by so quickly," and "I wish I could keep him/her a baby forever," uttered all the time by parents and grandparents alike.  I assure you the need for a halting of time has nothing to do with age of the child.

After I tried to convince Chris we should spend another year being awake almost 24 hours a day, I gave some thought to what I could really, emotionally afford and the cost of miscalculating my expectations. How much more patience and tolerance can I spare before I become the "minivan in the lake" mom?  How many more years of bodily sacrifice do I want to endure? (I'm just starting to get the "house" back in order.) How much longer can my husband and I exist as nothing more than two bodies, bumping around the same space but never, actually coming into contact? (We're just starting to get that "house" back in order, as well.) When you can see the light at the end of the tunnel, why put the car in reverse? There is a small part of me that wants to have another baby for a legitimate reason; I love children. But, my sister-in-law Amy said it best, "Know your limitations." If I thought I could handle it, I'm sure I'd have a Duggar dozen, but I have the common sense to accept that two children can sometimes be two children too many. Also, I have the sanity to understand that whether or not I aid in the continuation of the species I'm going to continue to age; only, unlike Michelle Duggar, my uterus won't have to be dragged behind me on a Radioflyer.

Peeing in my Cheerios and other non-productive sentiments.

I reserve the right to be upset. I demand the freedom to not be appreciative, every second of the day. I don't require a reminder of my blessings on days that I feel cursed. What I'm saying is, I'm okay with holding on to a little disappointment when things aren't going well and to be honest, I find value in the occasional pity party. As I was leaving for work this morning, I was greeted by a neighbor. "How ya doing?" She asked, watching her leashed rat sniff around my parents yard. "Great, except I'm on my way to work, so I could be better." Pretend frowny face, fake laugh. "Well, you're lucky to have a job to go to, so that's something to think about." She replied as her "dog" finally dumped on my parents lawn...which is two feet away from her lawn.  But, the 2 ton shit and the 3lb, yipping nightmare that produced it are fodor for another day.  That statement was the impetus for this pointless barking session, so blame Val for having more of my rancor shoved down your throats. I wasn't really upset about the prospect of going to work, but that's not the point. It was the idea that other's unemployment should automatically negate any frustration I might have about having to work a holiday weekend. I could've retorted with the news that my husband would,soon, be among the unemployed, but my guess is she wouldn't have really cared and if she did engage me, she would've found a silver lining to that, as well. I'd be lying, if I said life was going the way I wanted at this very moment and I've been feeling a little underwhelmed. There are a lot of well intentioned people, whose glasses are constantly teeming, even at their emptiest. I can admire that...from a distance. I'm not a 24/7 Negative Nancy. I know when to count my blessings. I am aware that I have it a lot better than alot of people and that things could, undoubtedly be worse. There are some moments when knowing that we haven't hit the bottom doesn't make us feel any closer to the top and having our feelings devalued, just seasons the misery with guilt. "What right do I have to be upset when everyone's healthy and I'm not on the street?" I have every right and I'm going to start exercising it. Everyone's personal struggle is different and everyone's perception of pain,both emotional and physical is skewed. In those moments, just having a shoulder or a simple, "Sorry you're feeling that way, but it will get better," can make all the difference. Having a day or two, here and there to wallow in self-degradation, can supply valuable insight into how to begin climbing out of the funk. It also gives appreciation to the days that go really well or the news that truly is outstanding. I don't think there's anything wrong with realistic expections or telling oneself that things aren't so bad that they can't get worse. It's not instigating a fall, it's avoiding a deep, canyon plummet and it's not for everybody, I get that. I can be the "bring-down kid" sometimes. So I'll make a deal. I promise not to tell you how I'm actually doing/feeling, if you promise you'll stop comparing my hiccup to a cancer patient, a tornado stripped suburb or a tsunami victim. I understand those are far more dire straits.

Only 1% of the people that ask how I'm doing, actually care about how I'm doing, anyway. I guess if I want to avoid getting a ticket from the gratitude police, my best bet is to answer "Great," force my frown upside down and walk away BEFORE I puke into it.

Poop by any other name...

I am a vulgar woman. My language is beyond repugnant. If a truck driver swallowed a longshoreman, then had a conversation with Andrew Dice Clay and you overheard it, that would be a good example of my everyday vernacular. To be fair, I always follow up my lewd commentary with a "Pardon my french." My bawdry blunders occur so often, that my son has actually started telling people to pardon my french, as well. I caught my son swatting at bugs on the playground, yelling "Get lost, ASSHOLE FLIES!" This, of course, encouraged the whole group to start chanting "ASSHOLE FLIES, GET LOST, ASSHOLES!" There are no words to describe just how funny a battalion of angry toddlers, screaming "asshole", can be and yet, I had to be responsible. I felt like a hypocrite. I can't be in the car with or without my kids for 5 minutes without using, among other much more colorful slang, the words "Shit" or "Asshole". There's no question of where he's getting his crass vocabulary. I spoke with one of the other moms immediately following the incident and she said, "It's always funny when it's not your kid." To be honest, my kid is a riot, especially when spitting out a properly placed curse word. Unfortunately, other people don't have the same tolerance for profanity that my husband and I share. Since consistency is key in raising kids,that means every instance must be acknowledged by the same consequence. Here's my thing; I know it's not good for my son to scream expletives at the playground and I understand why, but when did poop, pee, doodle, booger and...wait for it...stinky get added to the "Do Not Utter" list? I hear the word, "Pottymouth" kicked around a lot, spending the majority of my life on the playground. I've got to tell you, poop is fun to say and last time I checked, using it doesn't hurt anyone. I do correct my child when he uses it, though VERY reluctantly. I always believed words were just words. They only carry as much weight as we allow them to, right? Some words are weightier than others and even though I probably have the world's worst "pottymouth", there are some words even I am offended by; you know the racially motivated, big bombs that I can't even say in my head without feeling ashamed. I can assure you poop, pee, doodle, booger, butt and any other words in that vein did not make that cut. So what is the issue with these words? They're disgusting-true, but other than that, who cares? In fact, the more I feed into this whole, poop=punishment mentality, the more Evan seems compelled to say those words. So, how do I let my son continue to use words that don't bother me, but seem to upset the sensibilities of so many others? Words. Words,words, words.

Never has a word caused more problems for my son,
than that whose meaning lies
within the bowels of defecation.

Rich Kid, Poor Kid...or my kid.

I had a playdate at my house a couple of days ago. This, in and of itself, is not really blog-worthy. What, you may ask, merits this as news? Only the obnoxiusly raging anxiety, that almost caused me to cancel at the last second. Almost all of my Melrose/Wakefield playground peers are nannies. I have, literally, only come in contact with a miniscule handful of stay-at-home moms in this area. Sufficed to say, my kid is the "Duckie" Dale in a crowd of Blane McDonoughs and it's really puttin' the spotlight on my ability (or inability) to "keep up with the Joneses". Anyhoo, there's the back story, onto the crippling anxiety. So, I have this playdate that's scheduled at the last minute, with this friend of mine who's a nanny. I've had many playdates at her ward's house and when I say house, I mean manor. I think my apartment could fit into their master bedroom...and that's another part of my anxiety. I'm a renter; a fact that I find to be a rather large obstacle in my kid's current, choosen clique. But again, I digress. There I am, running around like a mad woman in an attempt not just to clean, but to give my 6 room, 3 bedroom apartment the appearance of a palacial estate and for what? My friend, who's been to my apartment and could care less? Then I realize what I'm really agonizing over. I'm nervous that the three and a half year old boy we've gotten to know rather well, is going to take one look around this, "shoebox", his friend lives in and judge us or treat us differently. Imagine the humiliation surrounding that sort of fear. I mean, we do what we can to make sure our children have the best life and the most opportunities possible, open to them, but is it possible that our best will never be good enough? I can honestly understand how some families can go into hock, trying to keep up with people that will never care about what they may or may not have. It's a personal thing. It's a pride thing. Why can't I give to my kids the life that they see all around them? And let me be clear about this, I am in NO way implying that those who have more are MAKING me feel inadequate. I am simply stating and acknowledging that the inadequacy is there for me. Rich or poor, I think every parent I know struggles with this same self-scrutiny. But, when we're in Ev's friend's mansion, playing with his 500 wooden trains and I get asked a million times if he can "just have..." during the ride home, it breaks my heart. It breaks my heart because there's no way or reason to explain to him, that we just can't afford to give him the same things. I'd like to say that even if I could cater to his every desire, I wouldn't. Truth is, if money was no object, knowing what it feels like to have to continually say "No", I don't think I would chose to say "No". Call it spoiling if you need to, but I'd bet it's a great feeling to be able to say "Yes", whenever the mood strikes. Everytime I'm in this little boy's house or any of their houses for that matter, watching the kids play together like the best of friends I think, "I'm so glad they're too young to understand, what it means to have and have not." There will be a time when this will be very evident. When that time comes, I can only hope my son is strong enough to realize self-worth is free and more valuable than anything I could...or couldn't...purchase for him.

The "Bitch" is back...but she's not unpacking.

As my husband can and will tell you...and anyone within ear shot,with a pulse,I am a miserable bitch. And it's not just this morning, yesterday or last week, it's 24/7. To be more precise, I've been a negative,impatient,uber-bitch for 7 months=210 days=5040 hours. That's so much bitch. I'm happy to report that we are still married, though only in the sense that we don't want to be divorced. I have many valid excuses for the unwelcome return of "despicable me", not the least of which is sleep deprivation. It doesn't make it any easier for my husband or four-year-old to deal with the constant berating, but it makes me feel better to know that I am not completely nasty by nature. Sleeping less than 5 hours a night makes you feel many things beyond mere fatigue. I'm riding on a vicious wave of UN's; UNhealthy, UNmotivated, UNappreciative, UNdone. Mostly, my infansomnia combined with the UN's has made me realize I'm rather lost as of late, in this "suit" of motherhood, if you will. For the naysayers...love the kids, love the man, love the opportunity to nurture...blah,blah,blah. I'm not UNhappy with motherhood, I'm just finding it hard to breathe within it's bonds. Getting to know myself as a mother was an intense struggle and one which has made my maternal instinct become vampiric. I, hesitantly,invited it in and it's slowly sucking every other part of who I am from my soul. Syphon all the kid related topics from my mind and you're left with residual white noise. Like my synaptic transmitters are literally, immobilized by motherhood. I can hear and see myself becoming a very bitter, excessively negative person, who is not easy to be around. I am incapable of having a conversation without it turning ugly and I'm pretty sure I've found the source. Indeed,sleep can account for 1/4, but deep down I'm starving for ambition. I'm thirsty for purpose. I understand,taking care of my family is a great and noble purpose. And when I see my children accomplishing new things, I feel a deep sense of pride in them. My question is, when do I get to accomplish something new and feel that sense of pride in me? More accurately,something that's solely for the betterment and benefit of Marci?
My mom is an amazing lady. She is Stoneham. I can't go 5 feet into my hometown without someone asking, "Are you Sharon's daughter?" I'm always amazed with how many people recognize her and our family even outside of Stoneham. My admiration for my mother and all that she's built in her career, as well as within her family is immense. I always wonder what my children will think of me when they are my age, viewing me from the same place I view my parents now. What will I have to show them? I hope they'll think I did the best job I could as a mother, but what kind of example am I giving them as a woman? I'm taking back me. I know the other half is in there somewhere and my speculation is that she's asleep...like coma sleep. God knows she needs it! Rekindling my drive will probably be as difficult as losing it was, but I intend to scratch through this thick layer of matriarchal malcontent and bleed out the desire to challenge myself. I need to find it, not just for me, but for my children, who deserve more than passive resentment and especially for my husband, who loves me so much, but likes me about as much as I do, right now. Yes, the bitch is back, but I'm hoping to hand her some walking papers, soon!