So I was attempting to leave anywhere near the time I said I would to take my children to visit my in-aws today when Dizzy happened. Dizzy being my mischievous, stubborn, crazy second child. We had gone not one exit down the highway by our home when I hear-
CRASH!
Clatter
"MY MOOOOOVIE!!!"
Ugh. I pull over to ascertain what tragedy has befallen my youngest in the 5 minutes since we left home and she has dropped the portable movie player, the movie has clattered out (under my seat, of course) and she is bereft. I'm in a little dirt turn out off the first exit, top half of my body in the car stretching over blankets, feet, children's paraphernalia, etc. and my sarong-clad lower half is dangling out as I swear and get her situated. I never even hear them approach.
"uh...ma'am?"
I nearly jump out of my skin. As I right myself out of the car, there are two motorcycle cops with lights on behind my vehicle and one of them has now approached me.
"Iiiiis everything okay?" he draws it out as though I'm armed with more than just shitty attitude and a potty mouth.
"Yep," I counter, half light-hearted, half crazy-mommy impatient, "just travelling with small children."
He and his partner laugh heartily at this one. "oookay. Just wanted to make sure you weren't in any kind of trouble."
"Nope, not yet," I sigh, "wanna 3 year old?"
He LITERALLY takes a step back while his partner laughs at me.
"NO!" he snorts "I've got a sixteen year old."
"Shit," I say, mentally cursing myself for my continued profanity, "good luck."
They're really laughing now.
"Yeah," he laughs climbing back on his bike, "you too."
I climb back in, actually thankful for the heart-jumping nervousness I get around cops because it has at least stopped my seething. Like the last few days, this morning with my daughter has been hell. When I was about to leave and only 5 minutes later than I had planned, Elizabeth willingly did "one last potty" and I was thrilled that, for once that didn't cause a meltdown. The joy didn't last long. I realized, as I was asking William to get in the car, that she had been in there WAY too long.
"Uh...Diz?" I call, "Whatcha doing in there?"
"Nothing."
THIS, any parent will tell you, is NOT the answer you want. I open the door to water pooling on the counter, dripping down the cabinets and pooling on the floor. Elizabeth is soaked as though she has showered with clothes on.
"WHAT THE..."
"I was thirsty..." she starts.
"YOU were? Or the whole bathroom was, Diz?! JESUS CHRIST, we're trying to leave here and you just...AAAAAAGGGGHHH!". I'm carrying her out of the bathroom toward my room so I can mop up the mess and have her far enough from me that I won't be tempted to flush her down the toilet.
What is it about youngest children? I've bee talking to a lot of fellow moms lately and, regardless of the number and gender of children we have, we all agree the youngest child is there to make you feel like a total idiot. They will be the one to make you doubt that you have ANY business trying this parenting thing.
They make the messes and do the gross things that come straight out of books and movies. You know the ones - entire rolls of toilet paper strewn around your bathroom, every shade of eye shadow you own painted on themselves and your bathroom, taking the lid off of your tiny, multi-colored, round cupcake sprinkles and letting them dance across your hardwood floor, shredding your mail to decorate the living room in confetti, using your powdered sugar as snow, swimming in mud puddles, picking up discarded Popsicle sticks and straws at the park and putting them IN THEIR MOUTH (eeeeek!), and my personal favorite from today after we finally made it to Mom Mom and Pop Pop's and went to the park, asking "what's this" as she squishes her finger into fresh bird or squirrel droppings. Are you f@#!ing kidding me? I was thankful my mother in law had her anti-bacterial wipes on her as mine were back at her house.
Seriously, she make s me feel incompetent. Oh, and the other kicker today... As I'm hurriedly and angrily carrying her out to the car after the water fiasco, she wails right in front of the neighbor,
"DON'T HIT MEEEEEEEEE!"
We don't spank our kiddos. But now our neighbors think we do.
Friday, August 31, 2012
Thursday, August 2, 2012
Messy Car + Messy House = Happy Me?
I was looking at my car and house the other day and trying not to let my frustration build to the point where I'm impossible to live with. (Yes, I know I'm difficult to live with... but I'm hoping not to graduate to "impossible." I'm assuming even my patient hubby has his limits). "I feel like I'm NEVER going to catch up," I said to no one in particular. (I don't know if it's old age or motherhood, but I'm certainly talking to myself more these days). And then I thought about it... what am I trying to catch up to? Why am I so stressed out about this?
I think it's a matter of expectations. Something my therapist said I needed to seriously revise because my expectations for myself are WAY too high and, in turn, I put impossibly high expectations on the people around me (my aforementioned patient hubby getting the worst of it).
You see, I used to have that car and that house that was always ready for "guests." My car never had wrappers or extra clothing or school/work items or shoes or sand or anything extra in it. My house always had made beds and done dishes and gleaming counter-tops and uncluttered counters. And now that I "don't work" (jesus, that phrase gets under my skin), I've been at a loss to figure out why I CANNOT, for the life of me, keep my car and house clean. But today, I figured it out.
As I let our new lab Ellie (she of the over-active snot production) into the back of my Escape which already had a fine layer of Husky hair (courtesy of Yukon), I had a brief moment of worrying about her snotting up the back of my car and then thought, "yeah, but it's better to have this fun crazy dog than a clean car." And then it hit me... my stress level and happiness is up to ME. It's a matter of re-framing the mess and altering the expectations. Instead of worrying about the sand in my entry way, the breakfast dishes in my sink still at lunch time, the petrified goldfish in my back seat, the extra hoodies and kids' shoes on the floor of my car... I need to view them as evidence of a life well lived. After all, when I had a clean house, it's because no one LIVED in it. Mike and I worked, William was in day care and the dogs played outside. When I had a clean car, it's because it carried only me. And while I had a good life then, it's nothing compared to what I have now. I wouldn't trade the cleanliness for the crazy, loud, messy, loving, fulfilling, growing life that is life with children. Again, I need to see the changes... the mess, the noise, the clutter as evidence of a life well lived.
The sand is a celebration of spending more time with my kids at the park and less time sweeping and telling them "mommy can't play with you right now." The dishes are because it was more important that they get the entire hour and a half of parent-child swim time at the local community pool than it was for me to have an empty sink. The petrified goldfish are because I didn't want to cut our trip to the coast and aquarium short just so I could work around the breakfast-lunch-nap schedule. The extra hoodies mean if we stay out playing way too late and it gets cold, my kiddos can throw them on instead of having to run home. Life well lived.
That doesn't mean I'm going to let my car turn into "the pit of despair" or my house a cluttered, unsanitary mess. That doesn't mean I won't continue to use nap time and late night as time to mop or vacuum or run laundry. It's just not in me to let it go too far. But I think I have to let go a little. For my sanity's sake. For my kids' sake. For my hubby's sake. If I keep stomping around, swearing about messes and telling the kids to "please find something to do I HAVE to clean up"... life's best moments will pass me by. There will be no evidence of a life well lived. No sand to stick to my feet and make me smile at the memory of Elizabeth coated HEAD-TO-TOE in mud at the park or William buried up to his neck in sand. No wrappers to remind me of the impromptu driving adventure to some new park that resulted in having to "grab a quick lunch" on the go.
My Tante (aunt), at my Oma's (grandmother's) funeral had one bittersweet memory in her list of memories of Oma. She said as a small child she often wished her mother would spend more time with her instead of cleaning so much. Her memory was that of Oma caring more about a clean house than spending time with her kids. And in the middle of all the sadness, the mourning, the family gathering... that moment stood out for me. That moment I stopped and thought, "I don't ever want William and Elizabeth to say that about me." I want them to remember when we used 5 sheets to make our entire playroom into a "tent city." I want them to remember mom diving into their kiddie pool with them to have "family splash time." I want them to remember taking a nature walk at the Delta Ponds on the way home from therapy instead of taking naps. I want them to remember building sand castles as the park, baseball games at the local field, backyard splash days, marathon Lego or Play-doh sessions and summer nights staying up late having a cookie on the couch.
New expectations, new frame of mind. I have my whole life to have a spotless house and car. I only have a finite time to make the best memories with my kiddos. Bring on the petrified goldfish and food wrappers. Never mind the unmade beds and messy playroom. I won't call it a mess anymore. I'll just call them souvenirs.
I think it's a matter of expectations. Something my therapist said I needed to seriously revise because my expectations for myself are WAY too high and, in turn, I put impossibly high expectations on the people around me (my aforementioned patient hubby getting the worst of it).
You see, I used to have that car and that house that was always ready for "guests." My car never had wrappers or extra clothing or school/work items or shoes or sand or anything extra in it. My house always had made beds and done dishes and gleaming counter-tops and uncluttered counters. And now that I "don't work" (jesus, that phrase gets under my skin), I've been at a loss to figure out why I CANNOT, for the life of me, keep my car and house clean. But today, I figured it out.
As I let our new lab Ellie (she of the over-active snot production) into the back of my Escape which already had a fine layer of Husky hair (courtesy of Yukon), I had a brief moment of worrying about her snotting up the back of my car and then thought, "yeah, but it's better to have this fun crazy dog than a clean car." And then it hit me... my stress level and happiness is up to ME. It's a matter of re-framing the mess and altering the expectations. Instead of worrying about the sand in my entry way, the breakfast dishes in my sink still at lunch time, the petrified goldfish in my back seat, the extra hoodies and kids' shoes on the floor of my car... I need to view them as evidence of a life well lived. After all, when I had a clean house, it's because no one LIVED in it. Mike and I worked, William was in day care and the dogs played outside. When I had a clean car, it's because it carried only me. And while I had a good life then, it's nothing compared to what I have now. I wouldn't trade the cleanliness for the crazy, loud, messy, loving, fulfilling, growing life that is life with children. Again, I need to see the changes... the mess, the noise, the clutter as evidence of a life well lived.
The sand is a celebration of spending more time with my kids at the park and less time sweeping and telling them "mommy can't play with you right now." The dishes are because it was more important that they get the entire hour and a half of parent-child swim time at the local community pool than it was for me to have an empty sink. The petrified goldfish are because I didn't want to cut our trip to the coast and aquarium short just so I could work around the breakfast-lunch-nap schedule. The extra hoodies mean if we stay out playing way too late and it gets cold, my kiddos can throw them on instead of having to run home. Life well lived.
That doesn't mean I'm going to let my car turn into "the pit of despair" or my house a cluttered, unsanitary mess. That doesn't mean I won't continue to use nap time and late night as time to mop or vacuum or run laundry. It's just not in me to let it go too far. But I think I have to let go a little. For my sanity's sake. For my kids' sake. For my hubby's sake. If I keep stomping around, swearing about messes and telling the kids to "please find something to do I HAVE to clean up"... life's best moments will pass me by. There will be no evidence of a life well lived. No sand to stick to my feet and make me smile at the memory of Elizabeth coated HEAD-TO-TOE in mud at the park or William buried up to his neck in sand. No wrappers to remind me of the impromptu driving adventure to some new park that resulted in having to "grab a quick lunch" on the go.
My Tante (aunt), at my Oma's (grandmother's) funeral had one bittersweet memory in her list of memories of Oma. She said as a small child she often wished her mother would spend more time with her instead of cleaning so much. Her memory was that of Oma caring more about a clean house than spending time with her kids. And in the middle of all the sadness, the mourning, the family gathering... that moment stood out for me. That moment I stopped and thought, "I don't ever want William and Elizabeth to say that about me." I want them to remember when we used 5 sheets to make our entire playroom into a "tent city." I want them to remember mom diving into their kiddie pool with them to have "family splash time." I want them to remember taking a nature walk at the Delta Ponds on the way home from therapy instead of taking naps. I want them to remember building sand castles as the park, baseball games at the local field, backyard splash days, marathon Lego or Play-doh sessions and summer nights staying up late having a cookie on the couch.
New expectations, new frame of mind. I have my whole life to have a spotless house and car. I only have a finite time to make the best memories with my kiddos. Bring on the petrified goldfish and food wrappers. Never mind the unmade beds and messy playroom. I won't call it a mess anymore. I'll just call them souvenirs.
Tuesday, July 24, 2012
Vision, Seeing and Rose-Colored Glasses
"Once she was born I was never not afraid." - Joan Didion in Blue Lights
There are moments in life when you begin to "see" the world differently. It has nothing to do with your actual vision. It's because you've happened upon a moment so profound, the world now looks different... and you can never go back. Having children is one of those.
If you have not had a child, I cannot explain it to you. And you cannot fathom it. It's not a criticism, not a badge of superiority or inferiority. It's just a fact. I have friends and relatives in this world who have lost a spouse, lost a child, lived through brutal prison camps, served in horrific wars, have "special needs kids" and who are facing certain death in the hands of a terminal illness. I CANNOT comprehend their worldview, nor will I try. Just as someone without children cannot comprehend that of a parent's.
Don't compare the time you and your boyfriend were both sick to the time I had to take care of two sick children when I, myself, had the flu. It's not the same. Do not compare the fear you had during a pet's illness to the time I helped "lock" my son in some horrible contraption for a chest x-ray as a small baby to determine if he had pneumonia. It's not the same. I know... I've had a sick pet. Don't compare paper training your puppy to potty training my toddler. Don't compare the sleep you lost on a big project to the months of sleep lost to a new infant. Don't compare the love for your kitty to the time I first held my son. I was BLOWN AWAY by what I felt. So many times those first few months I just held him and cried because it was so overpowering, I was scared by the enormity of it and thankful at the same time.
My mother once said, when trying to describe the depths to which she loved my sister, brother and I, "you think you love your parents the same... but you don't. You cannot possibly love us like we love you. I can't explain it, but if you become a mother someday, you'll understand." I was so offended then. That was then. Now I know... she was right.
I've been "seeing" these moments a lot more recently. I'm not sure why. The moments, I mean, when I realize how much my view of the world has changed. Sometimes it's something so mundane, so simple, I feel silly writing it down. The other night, for example, as my husband and I watched the new Spider-Man movie I laughed to myself when the scene came where he wanted to ask out a girl. I laughed because I realized that type of scene used to bring me back to my past. It used to make me remember a nervous boy asking me out or remember my own terror when I asked my first boyfriend out. But now... now I got nervous for the future. I suddenly imagined little William bigger, with knots in his stomach and sweaty palms asking out some girl. And I found myself praying for this future girl to be kind to him. I suddenly pictured little Elizabeth bigger, hoping she would be kind to some boy whether her answer was "no" or "yes", hoping she would understand how powerful her words could be.
When I just read that line by Joan Didion that I began this blog with, I laughed. I laughed not because it was funny, but in relief that I wasn't a total nut. I understood as only a parent can, that shift in worldview. That new fear that never existed before William and Elizabeth came along. Fear is now my constant companion because, as she says later on the page, "The source of the fear was obvious: it was the harm that could come..." And it's not just fear of big things - illness, death, injury, heartbreak, loss, etc. You fear the damage your words can do. You fear, in fact you're often convinced, that you're failing at every step. You fear pushing them too hard and not pushing them enough. You fear babying them and making them grow up too fast. Nothing is without that fear. Just now as I spent a beautiful moment reading next to my son in his bed because he was feeling afraid tonight, I felt the fear. I looked at the book he was reading, aimed more for 8-10 year olds and thought, "Wait, should I be proud of his advanced reading? Or did I cheat him and make him older than he is?" And then I laughed at myself and remembered the words of the family therapist we just saw, "Mariska, we will all mess up and fail. Please forgive yourself and move forward... he already has."
I don't mean this blog to be just about the fear though. In fact, I don't mean it to be a negative. Because too much beauty comes with the fear. Too much to be thankful for. With the fear also becomes a whole new way to "see" the world... you get to see it as a child "again", but it won't be totally the same as the first time. It seems doubly beautiful right now because you get the pleasure of a child's view again, but with the opportunity to teach and learn and APPRECIATE the way you just didn't as a kid.
A 5 minute walk to the mailbox becomes an hour-long excursion because there were too many ladybugs and butterflies to watch, catch and observe. The dry grass at the park isn't an allergy-pit, it's an opportunity to chase and catch grasshoppers. Planting a garden isn't a chore anymore... it's part science experiment, part hope-and-prayer, part anticipation and part accomplishment as you see what seeds make it and what don't. A one-hour nature walk becomes a half-day adventure complete with a picnic lunch because it just takes that long to point out tadpoles, dragonflies, ducks, baby geese, goose feathers, hawks circling overhead and all the other curiosities I used to just drive by. A 4x10 inflatable pool becomes a ship in a hurricane, a beach with waves, an Olympic swim race and the site of our stand against the Empire and we're the Rebels (Star Wars folks... if you have to ask, well...). A pile of sheets become an impenetrable fortress, a tent city and a camp-out. A car trip becomes a "rock-out" session. Fall leaves are more beautiful because your children want to save them in their "collection." The moon is magical because your children say, "look! it's following us" while you drive. The warm sunshine is even more delicious because your little boy lies on a towel next to you and says, "it makes me love to be sleepy with you, mom." Getting a kite aloft almost makes you cry because the look of joy on their face when they get to hold the string. Reading a story is magical because you have another imagination to collaborate with as you picture the heroes, the landscape and the next turn in the plot. Dressing up with your daughter doesn't feel silly, because her squeals of delight as you play Witch to her Snow White or Mother Gothel to her Rapunzel make you want to hug her tight and stop time. Potty time isn't wasted time for them, it's just an opportunity for you to hunker down in the bathroom with them and read a story or two.
My world has changed now. In a way I could have never anticipated. In a way, I suppose now, will never stop. No matter what they do, what they choose, what happens to them... my sight has changed. I have to say mostly for the better. Yep, I think I'll keep these rose-colored glasses for a while.
There are moments in life when you begin to "see" the world differently. It has nothing to do with your actual vision. It's because you've happened upon a moment so profound, the world now looks different... and you can never go back. Having children is one of those.
If you have not had a child, I cannot explain it to you. And you cannot fathom it. It's not a criticism, not a badge of superiority or inferiority. It's just a fact. I have friends and relatives in this world who have lost a spouse, lost a child, lived through brutal prison camps, served in horrific wars, have "special needs kids" and who are facing certain death in the hands of a terminal illness. I CANNOT comprehend their worldview, nor will I try. Just as someone without children cannot comprehend that of a parent's.
Don't compare the time you and your boyfriend were both sick to the time I had to take care of two sick children when I, myself, had the flu. It's not the same. Do not compare the fear you had during a pet's illness to the time I helped "lock" my son in some horrible contraption for a chest x-ray as a small baby to determine if he had pneumonia. It's not the same. I know... I've had a sick pet. Don't compare paper training your puppy to potty training my toddler. Don't compare the sleep you lost on a big project to the months of sleep lost to a new infant. Don't compare the love for your kitty to the time I first held my son. I was BLOWN AWAY by what I felt. So many times those first few months I just held him and cried because it was so overpowering, I was scared by the enormity of it and thankful at the same time.
My mother once said, when trying to describe the depths to which she loved my sister, brother and I, "you think you love your parents the same... but you don't. You cannot possibly love us like we love you. I can't explain it, but if you become a mother someday, you'll understand." I was so offended then. That was then. Now I know... she was right.
I've been "seeing" these moments a lot more recently. I'm not sure why. The moments, I mean, when I realize how much my view of the world has changed. Sometimes it's something so mundane, so simple, I feel silly writing it down. The other night, for example, as my husband and I watched the new Spider-Man movie I laughed to myself when the scene came where he wanted to ask out a girl. I laughed because I realized that type of scene used to bring me back to my past. It used to make me remember a nervous boy asking me out or remember my own terror when I asked my first boyfriend out. But now... now I got nervous for the future. I suddenly imagined little William bigger, with knots in his stomach and sweaty palms asking out some girl. And I found myself praying for this future girl to be kind to him. I suddenly pictured little Elizabeth bigger, hoping she would be kind to some boy whether her answer was "no" or "yes", hoping she would understand how powerful her words could be.
When I just read that line by Joan Didion that I began this blog with, I laughed. I laughed not because it was funny, but in relief that I wasn't a total nut. I understood as only a parent can, that shift in worldview. That new fear that never existed before William and Elizabeth came along. Fear is now my constant companion because, as she says later on the page, "The source of the fear was obvious: it was the harm that could come..." And it's not just fear of big things - illness, death, injury, heartbreak, loss, etc. You fear the damage your words can do. You fear, in fact you're often convinced, that you're failing at every step. You fear pushing them too hard and not pushing them enough. You fear babying them and making them grow up too fast. Nothing is without that fear. Just now as I spent a beautiful moment reading next to my son in his bed because he was feeling afraid tonight, I felt the fear. I looked at the book he was reading, aimed more for 8-10 year olds and thought, "Wait, should I be proud of his advanced reading? Or did I cheat him and make him older than he is?" And then I laughed at myself and remembered the words of the family therapist we just saw, "Mariska, we will all mess up and fail. Please forgive yourself and move forward... he already has."
I don't mean this blog to be just about the fear though. In fact, I don't mean it to be a negative. Because too much beauty comes with the fear. Too much to be thankful for. With the fear also becomes a whole new way to "see" the world... you get to see it as a child "again", but it won't be totally the same as the first time. It seems doubly beautiful right now because you get the pleasure of a child's view again, but with the opportunity to teach and learn and APPRECIATE the way you just didn't as a kid.
A 5 minute walk to the mailbox becomes an hour-long excursion because there were too many ladybugs and butterflies to watch, catch and observe. The dry grass at the park isn't an allergy-pit, it's an opportunity to chase and catch grasshoppers. Planting a garden isn't a chore anymore... it's part science experiment, part hope-and-prayer, part anticipation and part accomplishment as you see what seeds make it and what don't. A one-hour nature walk becomes a half-day adventure complete with a picnic lunch because it just takes that long to point out tadpoles, dragonflies, ducks, baby geese, goose feathers, hawks circling overhead and all the other curiosities I used to just drive by. A 4x10 inflatable pool becomes a ship in a hurricane, a beach with waves, an Olympic swim race and the site of our stand against the Empire and we're the Rebels (Star Wars folks... if you have to ask, well...). A pile of sheets become an impenetrable fortress, a tent city and a camp-out. A car trip becomes a "rock-out" session. Fall leaves are more beautiful because your children want to save them in their "collection." The moon is magical because your children say, "look! it's following us" while you drive. The warm sunshine is even more delicious because your little boy lies on a towel next to you and says, "it makes me love to be sleepy with you, mom." Getting a kite aloft almost makes you cry because the look of joy on their face when they get to hold the string. Reading a story is magical because you have another imagination to collaborate with as you picture the heroes, the landscape and the next turn in the plot. Dressing up with your daughter doesn't feel silly, because her squeals of delight as you play Witch to her Snow White or Mother Gothel to her Rapunzel make you want to hug her tight and stop time. Potty time isn't wasted time for them, it's just an opportunity for you to hunker down in the bathroom with them and read a story or two.
My world has changed now. In a way I could have never anticipated. In a way, I suppose now, will never stop. No matter what they do, what they choose, what happens to them... my sight has changed. I have to say mostly for the better. Yep, I think I'll keep these rose-colored glasses for a while.
Saturday, July 7, 2012
Of Dogs, Children and Expectations
I have two dogs... one, the older male is nervous, cautious, jumpy and easily chastened. The other, the younger female, is a mess. She's a total spaz, crazy, oozes mucus from her nose incessantly, and despite her beauty, rambles along clumsy, nutty, silly, snotting up our house and our clothes and, like a storm, rips through life oblivious to the destruction she's left behind.
They say our dogs begin to resemble their owners, or is it the other way around? Well, in this house... they resemble my children. Completely. I realized that the other day as I watched Elizabeth. She is Ellie, our young female lab. She's a mess. At everything. When she cries mucus, tears and saliva pour out of her at an alarming rate. She always wants me to hold her, but I have to change my shirt afterward. Seriously. I'm soaked. When she eats, I now put a bib on her AND a huge dish towel over the rest of her in an attempt to somehow keep from filling my washing machine in the number of outfits she can dirty in a day. Our local park has a water feature and unlike the other little girls playing tidy little games like "cooking" or building a castle, she treats it like her own personal mud-bath at the spa. I pack extra clothes and it takes DAYS to remove the mud from her hair and ears. Days.
So many people congratulated me when they learned we were having a girl. They assume, as a woman, I wanted a little doll to dress up. I think they envisioned a sweet, little, darling... sugar and spice and you know the rest. I got all spice, baby, and she's nuts. I knew I was in for trouble with a girl. I was not your average little girl. But I'll admit, I'm NOTHING compared to this little freak. Everything I did, she does. But amplified. By 100.
When I eat, Mike compares me to Cookie Monster. I'm messy. She's like Cookie Monster too, but bred with the Incredible Hulk. In fact, she informed me she'd like to be Hulk for Halloween. So she can "smash". Oooooof course. I have a tendency to be easily distracted and clumsy. She's like a newborn foal attempting to walk in stilettos. Walls jump out at her at an alarming rate. The floor often seems to snag her ankles. I had (well, still have) a huge imagination. My mom had to scream my name a million times because I was off in my own world. My world was always much better than the real world and I hated to snap into reality. I now find myself shouting, as my mother once did, "what am I talking to... a brick wall?!!" I call and call and call and finally with a tap to her head and an "E-LIZ-A-BETH!!!!!" she snaps back and looks at me innocently and says, "what mom... I was just...". Everything with her is "I was just".
"Elizabeth, get out of there! It's not a pool, it's disgusting." I shout about a bowl type feature full of revolting, muddy water at the playground.
Missing my anger and command, she says calmly as though explaining to the simple-minded, "Oh no, mommy... I was just soaking my feet".
"Elizabeth, " I shout as she grabs dixie cups, tooth brushes, old floss and anything within reach in the bathroom, "STOP touching everything! I just want you to wash your hands."
"I just want to SEE," she says. Trouble is, she always looks with her hands. And feet. And mouth.
She spits chocolate milk out at the table and cracks up. She stuffs her fingers up her nose, farts on her father, chews up her food and then opens up her mouth to her brother, licks the sliding glass doors (oh yeah, the ones that the dogs snot all over), crushes food in her fingers and smears it on the table and announces loudly, "I farted!" or "I have to POOP!". She chatters, sings and thrashes around in her bed until she falls asleep. She prefers to be barefoot. She prefers to be nude. She's NOT a lady. She's my daughter. She's me... but better. Worse? Whatever.
She, like our lab, is a crazy, messy, ball of destruction. I couldn't be more proud. :D
They say our dogs begin to resemble their owners, or is it the other way around? Well, in this house... they resemble my children. Completely. I realized that the other day as I watched Elizabeth. She is Ellie, our young female lab. She's a mess. At everything. When she cries mucus, tears and saliva pour out of her at an alarming rate. She always wants me to hold her, but I have to change my shirt afterward. Seriously. I'm soaked. When she eats, I now put a bib on her AND a huge dish towel over the rest of her in an attempt to somehow keep from filling my washing machine in the number of outfits she can dirty in a day. Our local park has a water feature and unlike the other little girls playing tidy little games like "cooking" or building a castle, she treats it like her own personal mud-bath at the spa. I pack extra clothes and it takes DAYS to remove the mud from her hair and ears. Days.
So many people congratulated me when they learned we were having a girl. They assume, as a woman, I wanted a little doll to dress up. I think they envisioned a sweet, little, darling... sugar and spice and you know the rest. I got all spice, baby, and she's nuts. I knew I was in for trouble with a girl. I was not your average little girl. But I'll admit, I'm NOTHING compared to this little freak. Everything I did, she does. But amplified. By 100.
When I eat, Mike compares me to Cookie Monster. I'm messy. She's like Cookie Monster too, but bred with the Incredible Hulk. In fact, she informed me she'd like to be Hulk for Halloween. So she can "smash". Oooooof course. I have a tendency to be easily distracted and clumsy. She's like a newborn foal attempting to walk in stilettos. Walls jump out at her at an alarming rate. The floor often seems to snag her ankles. I had (well, still have) a huge imagination. My mom had to scream my name a million times because I was off in my own world. My world was always much better than the real world and I hated to snap into reality. I now find myself shouting, as my mother once did, "what am I talking to... a brick wall?!!" I call and call and call and finally with a tap to her head and an "E-LIZ-A-BETH!!!!!" she snaps back and looks at me innocently and says, "what mom... I was just...". Everything with her is "I was just".
"Elizabeth, get out of there! It's not a pool, it's disgusting." I shout about a bowl type feature full of revolting, muddy water at the playground.
Missing my anger and command, she says calmly as though explaining to the simple-minded, "Oh no, mommy... I was just soaking my feet".
"Elizabeth, " I shout as she grabs dixie cups, tooth brushes, old floss and anything within reach in the bathroom, "STOP touching everything! I just want you to wash your hands."
"I just want to SEE," she says. Trouble is, she always looks with her hands. And feet. And mouth.
She spits chocolate milk out at the table and cracks up. She stuffs her fingers up her nose, farts on her father, chews up her food and then opens up her mouth to her brother, licks the sliding glass doors (oh yeah, the ones that the dogs snot all over), crushes food in her fingers and smears it on the table and announces loudly, "I farted!" or "I have to POOP!". She chatters, sings and thrashes around in her bed until she falls asleep. She prefers to be barefoot. She prefers to be nude. She's NOT a lady. She's my daughter. She's me... but better. Worse? Whatever.
She, like our lab, is a crazy, messy, ball of destruction. I couldn't be more proud. :D
Friday, June 15, 2012
It Ain't Easy Being Green... or Blue
Warning: This entry WILL contain swearing.
My son is going to go to therapy this Wednesday. He's 5, soon to be 6, and going to therapy. It hurts. As a parent, you can try not to blame yourself, but you always will. He began spiraling into a crazy sort of anxiety ball a few months ago, but it REALLY began to be obvious recently and my first thought was... shit, my fault. Be it genetics or how I'm raising him... my fault.
Don't wag your finger at me or lecture me on my melodrama. Don't remind me it's not all about me. Logically, I KNOW all this. Believe me, I know. But you see, I suffer from anxiety and depression and it's hard to stop the negativity sometimes. It's hard to stop the spiral.
So in the past couple weeks, as I saw him spiral and saw him fight it, only to break down more when he couldn't, it hurt me more than anything in this world. I KNOW he wants to climb out of it. I KNOW he feels crazy. And I don't know how to help him. And that hurts most of all. I want to hold him, comfort him, fix him, support him, help him find the answers, find the sunshine. I don't want to encourage him to wallow, but I don't want to say that thing that people used to say to me that makes an anxious person just feel MORE bat shit crazy - "snap out of it!" I need to be his wings, not his anchor. Because I miss my son.
I miss the crazy, funny, light-hearted, not-afraid-to-be-an-original, totally uninhibited dude I once knew. But now, as his tee ball coach noted, he can "carry the weight of the world on his shoulders" sometimes. Now he's lost weight. He not only strives for perfection, he beats himself up for not achieving it. He worries about EVERYTHING and complains about EVERYTHING. He's obsessed with his body - what he puts in it, how it feels, how jumpy his stomach is, how often he goes to the bathroom, etc. In the worst of his meltdowns he screamed, in tears, "I HATE MY BODY AND MY MIND. I CANNOT MAKE THEM DO WHAT I WANT! I DON'T KNOW WHY I'M SAD, I CAN'T STOP THINKING THIS WAY!" And I wanted to be the strong, calm mom... but I cried. I cried because I understood every single thing he mentioned.
I tell him not to strive for perfection, but to enjoy the journey. I tell him we'll enjoy the adventure every day and not worry about the destination. I tell him the "sickness in his belly" that is starting to cripple him can be beaten with mind over matter. I tell him it doesn't matter if he ties his shoes perfectly. I tell him he won't be able to do everything the first time he tries. I tell him to take care of his body instead of berating it. Instead of hating it. But I think he can see I'm full of shit. I think he can see that I've yet to enjoy the journey myself. I think he sees my own perfectionism driving me nuts. I think he can see that I'm a bundle of anxiety. I talk too much in crowds to hide my nerves. I laugh too loud. I walk on egg shells one minute and lay out my "if-you-don't-like-me-for-who-I-am-then-fuck-you" attitude the next. I'm a scared little girl trying with all my might not to raise a scared little boy.
It's tough though. As my mom noted when when she just visited and we discussed William, I've always been different. I've always WANTED to be different, but without standing out. I've marched to the beat of my own drum, let my freak-flag fly... whatever tired turn of phrase you prefer. I had no interest in being like everyone else, but at the same time I DID NOT want to be noticed for it. I wanted to be liked and not left out, without having to conform to do it. And we talked about how... was that "difference" what made me feel depressed? Or was my depression what made me seem so different?
And now I'm unsure of how to encourage William. Do I want him to be an original? Do I want him to be totally himself without worrying about what everyone thinks? Of course. But I see in him that same desire I had in me... to please, to be liked, to be included and I think... do I encourage him to fit in then? Or to continue to march along as he wishes... not being afraid to paint his nails, not worried that his interests and vocabulary make him fit in better with adults than kids his own age, not afraid to celebrate with a silly dance in public when he tags someone out in tee ball, not caring what people think when he says his favorite colors include red, blue and PINK (in solidarity with his little sister)?
It's funny... I look back on this entry and think... there I go again. I'm not enjoying the journey. I'm trying to control the turns in the road, instead of finding the adventure. I'm telling my son not to worry in one breath and spilling ALL my worries in the next.
Hmmmm. I wonder if they have joint mother-child therapy? You know... kinda like mommy-and-me-swim. Only without the silly songs and a slightly scarier deep end.
My son is going to go to therapy this Wednesday. He's 5, soon to be 6, and going to therapy. It hurts. As a parent, you can try not to blame yourself, but you always will. He began spiraling into a crazy sort of anxiety ball a few months ago, but it REALLY began to be obvious recently and my first thought was... shit, my fault. Be it genetics or how I'm raising him... my fault.
Don't wag your finger at me or lecture me on my melodrama. Don't remind me it's not all about me. Logically, I KNOW all this. Believe me, I know. But you see, I suffer from anxiety and depression and it's hard to stop the negativity sometimes. It's hard to stop the spiral.
So in the past couple weeks, as I saw him spiral and saw him fight it, only to break down more when he couldn't, it hurt me more than anything in this world. I KNOW he wants to climb out of it. I KNOW he feels crazy. And I don't know how to help him. And that hurts most of all. I want to hold him, comfort him, fix him, support him, help him find the answers, find the sunshine. I don't want to encourage him to wallow, but I don't want to say that thing that people used to say to me that makes an anxious person just feel MORE bat shit crazy - "snap out of it!" I need to be his wings, not his anchor. Because I miss my son.
I miss the crazy, funny, light-hearted, not-afraid-to-be-an-original, totally uninhibited dude I once knew. But now, as his tee ball coach noted, he can "carry the weight of the world on his shoulders" sometimes. Now he's lost weight. He not only strives for perfection, he beats himself up for not achieving it. He worries about EVERYTHING and complains about EVERYTHING. He's obsessed with his body - what he puts in it, how it feels, how jumpy his stomach is, how often he goes to the bathroom, etc. In the worst of his meltdowns he screamed, in tears, "I HATE MY BODY AND MY MIND. I CANNOT MAKE THEM DO WHAT I WANT! I DON'T KNOW WHY I'M SAD, I CAN'T STOP THINKING THIS WAY!" And I wanted to be the strong, calm mom... but I cried. I cried because I understood every single thing he mentioned.
I tell him not to strive for perfection, but to enjoy the journey. I tell him we'll enjoy the adventure every day and not worry about the destination. I tell him the "sickness in his belly" that is starting to cripple him can be beaten with mind over matter. I tell him it doesn't matter if he ties his shoes perfectly. I tell him he won't be able to do everything the first time he tries. I tell him to take care of his body instead of berating it. Instead of hating it. But I think he can see I'm full of shit. I think he can see that I've yet to enjoy the journey myself. I think he sees my own perfectionism driving me nuts. I think he can see that I'm a bundle of anxiety. I talk too much in crowds to hide my nerves. I laugh too loud. I walk on egg shells one minute and lay out my "if-you-don't-like-me-for-who-I-am-then-fuck-you" attitude the next. I'm a scared little girl trying with all my might not to raise a scared little boy.
It's tough though. As my mom noted when when she just visited and we discussed William, I've always been different. I've always WANTED to be different, but without standing out. I've marched to the beat of my own drum, let my freak-flag fly... whatever tired turn of phrase you prefer. I had no interest in being like everyone else, but at the same time I DID NOT want to be noticed for it. I wanted to be liked and not left out, without having to conform to do it. And we talked about how... was that "difference" what made me feel depressed? Or was my depression what made me seem so different?
And now I'm unsure of how to encourage William. Do I want him to be an original? Do I want him to be totally himself without worrying about what everyone thinks? Of course. But I see in him that same desire I had in me... to please, to be liked, to be included and I think... do I encourage him to fit in then? Or to continue to march along as he wishes... not being afraid to paint his nails, not worried that his interests and vocabulary make him fit in better with adults than kids his own age, not afraid to celebrate with a silly dance in public when he tags someone out in tee ball, not caring what people think when he says his favorite colors include red, blue and PINK (in solidarity with his little sister)?
It's funny... I look back on this entry and think... there I go again. I'm not enjoying the journey. I'm trying to control the turns in the road, instead of finding the adventure. I'm telling my son not to worry in one breath and spilling ALL my worries in the next.
Hmmmm. I wonder if they have joint mother-child therapy? You know... kinda like mommy-and-me-swim. Only without the silly songs and a slightly scarier deep end.
Tuesday, April 24, 2012
Hands
I looked down yesterday while making my son's bed and saw something beautiful... my mother's hands. I have my mother's hands. Not the hands she's struggling with right now that are succumbing to arthritis (although I suspect that is soon to follow)... but the hands I remember as a child. They're not perfect, not smooth, not hand-model hands... but they're the hands I remember. Strong. Fingers thin from hard work. Short nails. Tough. Tough like my mom.
These are the hands that tied a million bows in our hair for gymnastics, drill team, cheer leading and school. These hands made my bed in the morning until they taught me to do it. These are the hands that braided my hair into "Heidi braids" in the morning, made dinner at night, packed lunches at midnight and drove for miles because she was a single mom, living on barely any sleep and driving us 30-35 minutes to school so we could go to school in the same town she worked. These hands didn't care about if they were moisturized or manicured or smooth... they dug in the sand with us to find shells, pitched baseballs, helped bait hooks and reel in fish, did our cheer routines with us, played board games with us, sewed costumes, and clapped almost as loud as that awesome voice of hers that was audible in ANY crowd. These hands cleaned up after us when we were sick, picked me up after a horrific roller skating fall when I was 8 (and a rollerblading one when I was 20... but that's another story) and that held me up when girls bullied me, boyfriends broke up with me and that helped me pack for the 900 mile trip to Oregon, from which I never returned and FOR which she's never forgiven me (love you mom).
Some women may freak out when told they look like their mothers. Not me. I think my mom is beautiful, inside and out. She may be loud, crazy, moody and seriously tough... but she's also passionate, dedicated, self-sacrificing and so, so much fun. So when I saw my obviously aging hands, starting to go tough from the park play dates, baseball, sewing, Play-Doh, dishes, knitting, etc. I was fascinated and proud. Save for the skin color, they are my mom's. And as my kids pointed out that you can see the veins in my hands, I wasn't sad, I was proud. They are like the rest of me... my face, my figure, my joints. They show what I've done. What I'm still doing.
A young girl I once worked with asked me once if I was considering plastic surgery since I was in my 30's and if I was sad to be "having kids so old" because I was a horrifying (and decrepit apparently in her view) 32 when I had my son and 35 with my daughter. I try not to judge as I know we all take different paths in life, but it was hard to hide the disgust on my face. Even if you want plastic surgery, it's a bit insulting to ask me if I'm considering it. I told her "no way". I will age as I age. I will take every wrinkle, spot, bend and creak as it comes. I'll be like my mom and work out like a nut and suddenly become totally ripped in my 40's and 50's. I'll do crazy military-obstacle-course runs like her. I'll still attempt to do high kicks in the living room because my daughter is doing them.
My Opa once said, when I asked why he liked to paint pictures of old people, "Their faces tell stories. Young faces have no stories yet."
I hope my kids remember my hands and think they tell a beautiful story. I hope I use them to dig in the mud, build Star Wars ships out of Lego's, soothe hurts, wash off dirt, cook lots of meals, pitch baseballs, braid hair and sew costumes until 2:00 am. I hope my story is of a mom who's as fun and loving as she is nuts. And I hope that, on a bad day, when I think I'm not good at this job, I can look down at my hands and feel better because they are beautiful. They're my mom's.
These are the hands that tied a million bows in our hair for gymnastics, drill team, cheer leading and school. These hands made my bed in the morning until they taught me to do it. These are the hands that braided my hair into "Heidi braids" in the morning, made dinner at night, packed lunches at midnight and drove for miles because she was a single mom, living on barely any sleep and driving us 30-35 minutes to school so we could go to school in the same town she worked. These hands didn't care about if they were moisturized or manicured or smooth... they dug in the sand with us to find shells, pitched baseballs, helped bait hooks and reel in fish, did our cheer routines with us, played board games with us, sewed costumes, and clapped almost as loud as that awesome voice of hers that was audible in ANY crowd. These hands cleaned up after us when we were sick, picked me up after a horrific roller skating fall when I was 8 (and a rollerblading one when I was 20... but that's another story) and that held me up when girls bullied me, boyfriends broke up with me and that helped me pack for the 900 mile trip to Oregon, from which I never returned and FOR which she's never forgiven me (love you mom).
Some women may freak out when told they look like their mothers. Not me. I think my mom is beautiful, inside and out. She may be loud, crazy, moody and seriously tough... but she's also passionate, dedicated, self-sacrificing and so, so much fun. So when I saw my obviously aging hands, starting to go tough from the park play dates, baseball, sewing, Play-Doh, dishes, knitting, etc. I was fascinated and proud. Save for the skin color, they are my mom's. And as my kids pointed out that you can see the veins in my hands, I wasn't sad, I was proud. They are like the rest of me... my face, my figure, my joints. They show what I've done. What I'm still doing.
A young girl I once worked with asked me once if I was considering plastic surgery since I was in my 30's and if I was sad to be "having kids so old" because I was a horrifying (and decrepit apparently in her view) 32 when I had my son and 35 with my daughter. I try not to judge as I know we all take different paths in life, but it was hard to hide the disgust on my face. Even if you want plastic surgery, it's a bit insulting to ask me if I'm considering it. I told her "no way". I will age as I age. I will take every wrinkle, spot, bend and creak as it comes. I'll be like my mom and work out like a nut and suddenly become totally ripped in my 40's and 50's. I'll do crazy military-obstacle-course runs like her. I'll still attempt to do high kicks in the living room because my daughter is doing them.
My Opa once said, when I asked why he liked to paint pictures of old people, "Their faces tell stories. Young faces have no stories yet."
I hope my kids remember my hands and think they tell a beautiful story. I hope I use them to dig in the mud, build Star Wars ships out of Lego's, soothe hurts, wash off dirt, cook lots of meals, pitch baseballs, braid hair and sew costumes until 2:00 am. I hope my story is of a mom who's as fun and loving as she is nuts. And I hope that, on a bad day, when I think I'm not good at this job, I can look down at my hands and feel better because they are beautiful. They're my mom's.
Wednesday, April 18, 2012
Come Undone
I lost it tonight. Again. Time number...oh shit, I've lost count anyway. Why, you ask? Because apparently, I'm incapable of handling the smallest bumps in motherhood. Tonight's bump was Elizabeth announcing at 8:30 (that's bedtime) that she had to poop and taking until 9:00 to NOT poop. And I lost my shit. What is wrong with me? I joke about being crazy, I joke about being imbalanced, I joke that motherhood is driving me to padded walls...maybe it's not a joke. Maybe I'm just not equipped. How on earth am I going to raise calm, reasonable, sane, tenacious, productive, assertive kids when mom is a screaming, flying off the handle, crying easily, prone to depression, fighting the urge to drink, crazy person?
Here's the thing. I have it good. Really, really good. I'm married to my best friend, I live in a beautiful home in a gorgeous city and have two very healthy children. We have the money for me to stay home, we have terrific supportive friends, and I truly have nothing to complain about.
Have there been bumps in the road? Yes. But I look around and see people who have climbed mountains. MOUNTAINS. Not those inspirational stories in the media... I know real people who I can see and touch. Yes, my parents were divorced... it was before I can remember, they were always not just civil to each other but actually DEFENDED each other and I got two kick-ass step parents out of the deal. I have three friends who lived through horribly abusive parents and thrived, are incredibly successful and they're great parents. Yes, I'm prone to depression, have struggled with panic attacks and had to once sign a form that said I agree to be committed if I try to harm myself again. I know someone who has struggled with with bi-polar disorder, tried suicide, lost her mom and doesn't fold the way I do when my son wakes up whining. Yes, I was bullied horribly as a kid, but I know someone who turned that same experience into a successful writing career. Yes, I was abused by a boyfriend in high school, but I know someone who has survived rape and has her shit together more than I do. Yes, stay at home motherhood is rough (and I will slap the next person who asks me what it's like not to "work" anymore), but I have friends and family with special needs kids and they are the masters of thinking positive.
So what's my deal? Why is it my daughter's inability to stay in her seat at lunch LITERALLY makes my chest hurt? Why is it when we're running late to school I start swearing like a long shoreman from San Pedro? (shoutout to my home town) Why is it I start of each day trying to "start new" with some yoga or running or a positive attitude and within 5 minutes of waking them up, my kids make me come undone? Every single day, I come undone.
Do I go back to therapy? Find medication? Start running miles and miles and miles? Seriously, what the hell? Why can I not handle this life? I wrote once, when my Opa died, that I write when I'm lost, when I don't know what else to do. So here I am... writing again. Maybe the answers are in between the lines.
Here's the thing. I have it good. Really, really good. I'm married to my best friend, I live in a beautiful home in a gorgeous city and have two very healthy children. We have the money for me to stay home, we have terrific supportive friends, and I truly have nothing to complain about.
Have there been bumps in the road? Yes. But I look around and see people who have climbed mountains. MOUNTAINS. Not those inspirational stories in the media... I know real people who I can see and touch. Yes, my parents were divorced... it was before I can remember, they were always not just civil to each other but actually DEFENDED each other and I got two kick-ass step parents out of the deal. I have three friends who lived through horribly abusive parents and thrived, are incredibly successful and they're great parents. Yes, I'm prone to depression, have struggled with panic attacks and had to once sign a form that said I agree to be committed if I try to harm myself again. I know someone who has struggled with with bi-polar disorder, tried suicide, lost her mom and doesn't fold the way I do when my son wakes up whining. Yes, I was bullied horribly as a kid, but I know someone who turned that same experience into a successful writing career. Yes, I was abused by a boyfriend in high school, but I know someone who has survived rape and has her shit together more than I do. Yes, stay at home motherhood is rough (and I will slap the next person who asks me what it's like not to "work" anymore), but I have friends and family with special needs kids and they are the masters of thinking positive.
So what's my deal? Why is it my daughter's inability to stay in her seat at lunch LITERALLY makes my chest hurt? Why is it when we're running late to school I start swearing like a long shoreman from San Pedro? (shoutout to my home town) Why is it I start of each day trying to "start new" with some yoga or running or a positive attitude and within 5 minutes of waking them up, my kids make me come undone? Every single day, I come undone.
Do I go back to therapy? Find medication? Start running miles and miles and miles? Seriously, what the hell? Why can I not handle this life? I wrote once, when my Opa died, that I write when I'm lost, when I don't know what else to do. So here I am... writing again. Maybe the answers are in between the lines.
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