There is a reason why I'm no good at downtime. I think too much. We're in the early stages of home buying, which has caused me to deeply question the whole idea of home buying. I heard someone declare ecstatically the other day, "We're in Dublin schools, but with Columbus taxes!" and I died a little in my soul. I think the deal of growing up with nothing is both that it causes you not to be terribly concerned about having nothing, but also to question the whole process of going from nothing to something. I remember my mom working terrible jobs and delivering eight paper routes every morning just to own a beat up Pinto station wagon and rent a run down two bedroom apartment. Why bother? We have three young kids. We should have a house, a stable life, buy into a predictably good school system. Or, you know, move to Paris. Which ever.
When I called Larry to tell him about the Paris plan (which follows quickly on the heels of the Naples, Florida plan), he sounded both terrified and annoyed. "Why Paris now?" he asked. "Just kidding," I said. But I'm not. The only bad part about Paris is I don't speak French. And also that I have no real desire to live in Paris, having never been further outside the US than the Canada side of Niagara Falls. But my oldest daughter wants to go to Paris, has declared an obsession with all things Parisian (or faux-Parisian, as in the "France" section of Disney). Someone has to have the passion, and the twelve year old wins the day.
We'll never be rich. I have way too many degrees, and Larry too few. So, if we can't be rich, why are we playing at all? Better to back out of the whole deal, to my mind. Why buy a house anyway?
"Security," is Larry's answer. "Stability." But I've never had security, so I have no idea what he's talking about. I don't buy it.
I had a weird dream earlier today. I've reached the point in life (too early, I think, in my mid thirties) when all the people who stood before me in line are gone. My parents, my grandparents. The dream I had was me chasing my grandpa through the church he and my grandma attended in Mason City, Iowa. He was walking fast for an old guy, but my grandfather was always powerful. We got to a point in the church (not the real church, the dream church) where my grandfather was standing below me and I had to either jump or go down a slide. But the slide had a line of children, a line so long it seemed endless, so I jumped. And, as with any dream jump, you either wake before you hit the ground, or somehow air transforms and you float gently down. As I did. Then I turned around and saw my middle daughter standing on the platform I had just abandoned, looking down at me, waiting for me to tell her which way to go.
"How did she get down before?" I asked my grandpa.
"She jumped," he answered. But I knew if she jumped the dream rules would stop applying and she would come crashing into me, heavy and damaging. And, following unfair dream rules, just as I decided there was no other choice, she would have to jump, and I would just have to cushion the fall, I woke up.
I woke up with a fierce desire to write for the first time since my mom got sick with lung cancer in summer of 2010. Not write about the dream, but to finish the novel I had started writing right before my mom got sick. Suddenly the problem that had stymied me before was entirely solvable. I just (isn't it always the case), had to kill one the characters quicker. My mom just died. I throw that in in case anyone doubts that my mom just died is the whole point here. This reminds me of something Erin McGraw had once said to me about another story: "Oh, the death absolutely CANNOT be the point of this story. It just can't."
I'm supposed to be a writer. I'm not, of course. And, writing being one of the few professions you cannot claim without actively pursuing, I'm left with the question of the day: Paris or Naples?
Sunday, July 8, 2012
Wednesday, November 9, 2011
I Have a Difficult Child
Nearly every time I talk to other mothers about the difficulties (tortures?) of motherhood, someone says, "But your girls are great! You're doing a great job!" Either they are trying to make me feel better, or they actually believe that I am, in fact, doing a great job. "Some days." I always answer. "I don't exactly advertise the bad times." Bad moments like last night, when I was in bed, plotting (gleefully, a little bit, I'll admit it), how I was going to break it to my youngest FIRST THING IN THE MORNING that I was giving her up for adoption because I just could not take her anymore. More on this later.
I have two daughters who are almost exact polar opposites. My oldest came out of the womb with a conciliatory smile on her little fat face. When she was an infant she only cried when she had thrush or just to get my attention if I had forgotten to feed her for too many hours straight. When she was just a year old, I used to take her to the grocery store in the middle of the day, when the elderly people were likely to be there, so she could walk around, holding their hands, talking to them as they shopped. When she was three she made up a batch of "business cards" that were supposed to say, "I'm Delaney and I would like to be your friend. Would you like to have a sleep over at my house?" (they really said squiggle squiggle. Squiggle squiggle.) which she would carry around in her purse and hand out to people in parking lots.
And then there is my current youngest soon to be middle child. Who came out of the womb with the figurative two middle fingers flying. She could care less if the world likes her. In fact, she seems mind boggled by the fact that her sister would continuously waste her time on something so annoying as friends. Shudder. I don't have many memories of my youngest daughter's babyhood. I'm always surprised when other mothers say that, but now I know it's secret code for "I don't want to remember." I remember big moments. Like when we spent $15,000 having her tested at the children's hospital because, as I remember saying, "SOMETHING has to be wrong with her." Not so much. Their big diagnosis was that she knew far more words than she was capable of saying. THAT EXPLAINS IT. I would be seriously pissed, too, if I knew words I couldn't say. Except then she did say them, and yet, well, she remained difficult. (I can't so much qualify difficult without this turning into a book length blog post except to say it was something like this: when she was four I signed her up for soccer camp for three hours a day for a week. That first day I dropped her off I cried on the way home, I was so grateful, grateful, grateful, to be without her for three hours. An hour later the camp called and told me to come get her. She had hit another child (who just so happened to be recovering from brain surgery) in the head with a water bottle. Why the hell would you send your brain surgery kid to SOCCER CAMP? I asked? This, as I will get to later, is part of my second daughter's problem. AKA me).
Next up, I started to do research on the effects of steroids on children. She had been given steroids off and on since her babyhood for severe allergies and skin conditions. My GOD, it was the steroids. What I had on my hands was a toddler with 'roid rage. NO WONDER SHE WAS SO PISSED ALL THE TIME! We were lucky she hadn't killed anyone. Problem solved. Except she's been off the steroids (except for a few extreme cases) for four years. And, yet.
So I did what any mother would do, and I signed her up for a child psychologist. And we spent six months making cookies, playing, and learning to eat goldfish crackers one by one (the doctor was convinced that the choroid plexus cysts my daughter had in her brain in the womb and at birth had likely slowed her development, causing a need for a re-learning of the basic physical tasks of babyhood. In other words, my daughter was pissed because, well, honestly, I still don't really understand the connections between goldfish crackers and rage, but they're real, friends). After six months of therapy I was poorer, my daughter wasn't any "better," and I suddenly realized that only a fucking idiot would eat goldfish crackers one by one, and all the fights and "practice" we'd done at home wasn't going to change that very basic fact. Goldfish crackers are MEANT to be eaten by the fist full, and that therapist was fired.
I decided my daughter was going to be who she was going to be and what was REALLY needed was for ME to go to therapy. Because, if nothing else, this was an entire hour all to myself. And it did help. My therapist reminded me repeatedly that children under five are often best treated simply through treatment of their mothers (yes, it pisses me off, too. I love how dads just have to SHOW UP and they are fucking heroes. Not in my house. There are no heroes in my house.). Therapy really did make things better. For me. I was no longer in despair (yay, antidepressants), and I came to realize that if I had to. If I REALLY REALLY had to, I could live with my daughter the way she was and not kill either one of us. And there I left it for two years. Yes, she often makes me miserable. But if it makes her happy, I shall pierce myself on the sword of miserable, and there we go. Motherhood.
But I know I let her get away with murder. Because I didn't love her enough when she was a baby. Because it's really fucking hard to love someone who won't stop screaming. Turns out that, despite my desire and penchant for toughness, I'm actually a sucker. When her older sister says, "I'll just clean the whole room by myself" I usually give in. The older one is working for a cell phone, plus, I know from my own experience, if I have a choice between cleaning while listening to the screaming wails of my youngest OR letting her play on the computer while I clean, well, I'll just clean by myself thank you very much (that's right-- this is it, the moment when I recognize and tell you that I'm probably, OK definitely, her biggest problem). I will brush her hair, stand in the bathroom while she showers, allow her NOT to brush her hair occasionally, let her get out of chores, homework, basic human cleanliness because IF IT MAKES HER HAPPY BRING ON THE FUCKING SWORD OF MISERABLENESS.
Except. Of course there's an except. When I took her to her most recent check up and mentioned (in very vague terms) that she's still very unreasonable and seems to struggle maintaining friendships (or, in plain words, even really giving a rat's ass), the doctor had a conversation with my daughter. And in that conversation my daughter told the doctor that "Sometimes I want to die. I don't understand, and I don't want to get yelled at, so sometimes I would just rather die." And of course I cried. Because of what she said but also because, OF COURSE SHE'S NOT HAPPY you fucking moron. Throw yourself on the sword just for general amusement. Because of course she's not happy. So, we scheduled for a new therapist, and we wait, hoping this one will have a better plan than one fish two fish.
Which leads me to last night, which of course I now feel horribly guilty about (I've somehow convinced myself over the years that mothers even have to feel guilty about how they feel EVEN IF NO ONE ELSE KNOWS). I was in bed, just asleep. Pregnancy has brought with it atrocious leg cramps that are only cured through sleep. And my youngest had to take a shower. The screamingest, most painful, loud, screechingest shower in shower history (for the world. For her it was normal), and she woke me up. And as I lay there listening to her scream and her dad threaten and her scream and her dad threaten I got angrier and angrier. A few weeks ago I said to my sister, apropos of little else, "you think I don't pray to GOD every day that this baby isn't another one?" (which I don't. OK, I do. But not every day). Last night as I listened to my current youngest scream (about nothing. Sometimes she just likes to scream. There was no soap in her eyes, nor was there a giant spider attacking her. She just doesn't like to wash her hair) and got angrier and angrier, the thought popped into my head: "you are ruining my life." And then I got even ANGRIER and I thought, "that's it. I've had enough. I'M GIVING HER UP FOR ADOPTION. And first thing in the morning I am going to TELL HER I'm giving her up for adoption. TAKE THAT, KID." And then I started to cry because, A. I love her, and I don't really want to give her up for adoption. B. I'm not sure who would take her. She's, let's just say, burned some bridges. The only way I calmed myself down was to do deep breathing and pull a Scarlett O'Hara and vow to think about it in the morning.
And, of course, by morning I had realized you probably shouldn't tell nine and a half, almost ten year olds that they are so bad you are giving them up for adoption. But what I did tell her was this: You cannot act like that. You need to be more reasonable. Being reasonable is not going to be any more difficult, nor is it going to make your life any less fun. And she was reasonable this morning. Mostly, I think, from exhaustion. She had a late night of screaming. I have no illusions any more. We see the new psychiatrist Saturday. I'll bring the goldfish crackers.
And I acknowledge that this blog post is not over. That, in fact, this blog post would only cover it all if it were a book. Or a few weeks under constant surveillance by psychiatric staff who just kept telling me to talk through the pain. And if I were to go on I'd point to this: my older daughter ain't no angel. Let yesterday be evidence, when she spent the three dollars I gave her to pay her library fine on baked goods. "Accidentally." I often worry that her desire to be loved will lead her to very, very bad places. And in those moments I feel relieved because, as many worries as I have about my current youngest, fear that she will be led into anything she doesn't want to do isn't one of them. And I would probably talk about how we're having another one. Not just another human-- another girl. Many years of fears and refusals, and somehow I got to a place where I thought it might, just might, be OK. And maybe it will be. But somehow I doubt it.
I have two daughters who are almost exact polar opposites. My oldest came out of the womb with a conciliatory smile on her little fat face. When she was an infant she only cried when she had thrush or just to get my attention if I had forgotten to feed her for too many hours straight. When she was just a year old, I used to take her to the grocery store in the middle of the day, when the elderly people were likely to be there, so she could walk around, holding their hands, talking to them as they shopped. When she was three she made up a batch of "business cards" that were supposed to say, "I'm Delaney and I would like to be your friend. Would you like to have a sleep over at my house?" (they really said squiggle squiggle. Squiggle squiggle.) which she would carry around in her purse and hand out to people in parking lots.
And then there is my current youngest soon to be middle child. Who came out of the womb with the figurative two middle fingers flying. She could care less if the world likes her. In fact, she seems mind boggled by the fact that her sister would continuously waste her time on something so annoying as friends. Shudder. I don't have many memories of my youngest daughter's babyhood. I'm always surprised when other mothers say that, but now I know it's secret code for "I don't want to remember." I remember big moments. Like when we spent $15,000 having her tested at the children's hospital because, as I remember saying, "SOMETHING has to be wrong with her." Not so much. Their big diagnosis was that she knew far more words than she was capable of saying. THAT EXPLAINS IT. I would be seriously pissed, too, if I knew words I couldn't say. Except then she did say them, and yet, well, she remained difficult. (I can't so much qualify difficult without this turning into a book length blog post except to say it was something like this: when she was four I signed her up for soccer camp for three hours a day for a week. That first day I dropped her off I cried on the way home, I was so grateful, grateful, grateful, to be without her for three hours. An hour later the camp called and told me to come get her. She had hit another child (who just so happened to be recovering from brain surgery) in the head with a water bottle. Why the hell would you send your brain surgery kid to SOCCER CAMP? I asked? This, as I will get to later, is part of my second daughter's problem. AKA me).
Next up, I started to do research on the effects of steroids on children. She had been given steroids off and on since her babyhood for severe allergies and skin conditions. My GOD, it was the steroids. What I had on my hands was a toddler with 'roid rage. NO WONDER SHE WAS SO PISSED ALL THE TIME! We were lucky she hadn't killed anyone. Problem solved. Except she's been off the steroids (except for a few extreme cases) for four years. And, yet.
So I did what any mother would do, and I signed her up for a child psychologist. And we spent six months making cookies, playing, and learning to eat goldfish crackers one by one (the doctor was convinced that the choroid plexus cysts my daughter had in her brain in the womb and at birth had likely slowed her development, causing a need for a re-learning of the basic physical tasks of babyhood. In other words, my daughter was pissed because, well, honestly, I still don't really understand the connections between goldfish crackers and rage, but they're real, friends). After six months of therapy I was poorer, my daughter wasn't any "better," and I suddenly realized that only a fucking idiot would eat goldfish crackers one by one, and all the fights and "practice" we'd done at home wasn't going to change that very basic fact. Goldfish crackers are MEANT to be eaten by the fist full, and that therapist was fired.
I decided my daughter was going to be who she was going to be and what was REALLY needed was for ME to go to therapy. Because, if nothing else, this was an entire hour all to myself. And it did help. My therapist reminded me repeatedly that children under five are often best treated simply through treatment of their mothers (yes, it pisses me off, too. I love how dads just have to SHOW UP and they are fucking heroes. Not in my house. There are no heroes in my house.). Therapy really did make things better. For me. I was no longer in despair (yay, antidepressants), and I came to realize that if I had to. If I REALLY REALLY had to, I could live with my daughter the way she was and not kill either one of us. And there I left it for two years. Yes, she often makes me miserable. But if it makes her happy, I shall pierce myself on the sword of miserable, and there we go. Motherhood.
But I know I let her get away with murder. Because I didn't love her enough when she was a baby. Because it's really fucking hard to love someone who won't stop screaming. Turns out that, despite my desire and penchant for toughness, I'm actually a sucker. When her older sister says, "I'll just clean the whole room by myself" I usually give in. The older one is working for a cell phone, plus, I know from my own experience, if I have a choice between cleaning while listening to the screaming wails of my youngest OR letting her play on the computer while I clean, well, I'll just clean by myself thank you very much (that's right-- this is it, the moment when I recognize and tell you that I'm probably, OK definitely, her biggest problem). I will brush her hair, stand in the bathroom while she showers, allow her NOT to brush her hair occasionally, let her get out of chores, homework, basic human cleanliness because IF IT MAKES HER HAPPY BRING ON THE FUCKING SWORD OF MISERABLENESS.
Except. Of course there's an except. When I took her to her most recent check up and mentioned (in very vague terms) that she's still very unreasonable and seems to struggle maintaining friendships (or, in plain words, even really giving a rat's ass), the doctor had a conversation with my daughter. And in that conversation my daughter told the doctor that "Sometimes I want to die. I don't understand, and I don't want to get yelled at, so sometimes I would just rather die." And of course I cried. Because of what she said but also because, OF COURSE SHE'S NOT HAPPY you fucking moron. Throw yourself on the sword just for general amusement. Because of course she's not happy. So, we scheduled for a new therapist, and we wait, hoping this one will have a better plan than one fish two fish.
Which leads me to last night, which of course I now feel horribly guilty about (I've somehow convinced myself over the years that mothers even have to feel guilty about how they feel EVEN IF NO ONE ELSE KNOWS). I was in bed, just asleep. Pregnancy has brought with it atrocious leg cramps that are only cured through sleep. And my youngest had to take a shower. The screamingest, most painful, loud, screechingest shower in shower history (for the world. For her it was normal), and she woke me up. And as I lay there listening to her scream and her dad threaten and her scream and her dad threaten I got angrier and angrier. A few weeks ago I said to my sister, apropos of little else, "you think I don't pray to GOD every day that this baby isn't another one?" (which I don't. OK, I do. But not every day). Last night as I listened to my current youngest scream (about nothing. Sometimes she just likes to scream. There was no soap in her eyes, nor was there a giant spider attacking her. She just doesn't like to wash her hair) and got angrier and angrier, the thought popped into my head: "you are ruining my life." And then I got even ANGRIER and I thought, "that's it. I've had enough. I'M GIVING HER UP FOR ADOPTION. And first thing in the morning I am going to TELL HER I'm giving her up for adoption. TAKE THAT, KID." And then I started to cry because, A. I love her, and I don't really want to give her up for adoption. B. I'm not sure who would take her. She's, let's just say, burned some bridges. The only way I calmed myself down was to do deep breathing and pull a Scarlett O'Hara and vow to think about it in the morning.
And, of course, by morning I had realized you probably shouldn't tell nine and a half, almost ten year olds that they are so bad you are giving them up for adoption. But what I did tell her was this: You cannot act like that. You need to be more reasonable. Being reasonable is not going to be any more difficult, nor is it going to make your life any less fun. And she was reasonable this morning. Mostly, I think, from exhaustion. She had a late night of screaming. I have no illusions any more. We see the new psychiatrist Saturday. I'll bring the goldfish crackers.
And I acknowledge that this blog post is not over. That, in fact, this blog post would only cover it all if it were a book. Or a few weeks under constant surveillance by psychiatric staff who just kept telling me to talk through the pain. And if I were to go on I'd point to this: my older daughter ain't no angel. Let yesterday be evidence, when she spent the three dollars I gave her to pay her library fine on baked goods. "Accidentally." I often worry that her desire to be loved will lead her to very, very bad places. And in those moments I feel relieved because, as many worries as I have about my current youngest, fear that she will be led into anything she doesn't want to do isn't one of them. And I would probably talk about how we're having another one. Not just another human-- another girl. Many years of fears and refusals, and somehow I got to a place where I thought it might, just might, be OK. And maybe it will be. But somehow I doubt it.
Thursday, October 20, 2011
Everything You Need to Know About this Cold
I have entered into the darkness of the worst cold in the history of the world. And, graciously, heroically, I have agreed to send dispatches back until my communication apparatuses fail. I can tell you this: if you are pregnant and cannot take your usual seven Tylenol Cold and Flu tablets, 3 Mucinex, and a quart of Nyquil, Vicks might make you feel slightly better. It's best application, however, is as a talisman, warding off all other people. "Hey, Mar-- what's that smell? Oh, God, are you SICK?"
Unfortunately, with this cold there is a high risk of betrayal by those around you. For instance, the child I have raised and loved for nine years, eight months and fourteen days cruelly turned back onto me the words I used last week to offer her solace during her slight-clearly-totally-different-from-this-cold-cold. "Geez, Mama, it's just a cold. You'll get over it." For her sake, I hope I do.
This cold is powerful. So powerful it will take away the senses of humor of those around you. For instance, if you go to bed at seven and thus wake up at 3am and decide to kill time by moaning and occasionally crying out, "The light! It's so beautiful! I'm coming, Grandma!" your partner may pull the blanket over his head and mumble, "Seriously? What time is it?"
Time doesn't mean much to me anymore. I just know it's close. I'm sneezing again now. Sneezing a lot. Before I go, I want you to know I loved a few of you very much. The rest of you I just tolerated.
Unfortunately, with this cold there is a high risk of betrayal by those around you. For instance, the child I have raised and loved for nine years, eight months and fourteen days cruelly turned back onto me the words I used last week to offer her solace during her slight-clearly-totally-different-from-this-cold-cold. "Geez, Mama, it's just a cold. You'll get over it." For her sake, I hope I do.
This cold is powerful. So powerful it will take away the senses of humor of those around you. For instance, if you go to bed at seven and thus wake up at 3am and decide to kill time by moaning and occasionally crying out, "The light! It's so beautiful! I'm coming, Grandma!" your partner may pull the blanket over his head and mumble, "Seriously? What time is it?"
Time doesn't mean much to me anymore. I just know it's close. I'm sneezing again now. Sneezing a lot. Before I go, I want you to know I loved a few of you very much. The rest of you I just tolerated.
Tuesday, October 18, 2011
Marriage and Other Scaries
I'm not married. This may come as a shock to some of my friends who assumed I was because the subject just never came up. I'm even guilty of hearing people say that I'm married and not correcting them. Sometimes I even let people call me Mrs. Foster (or worse, Mrs. Ramsey), and I don't say anything. It's just easier. For them, I hope.
Don't get me wrong, I'm totally engaged. Have been for ten years. We got engaged when I was two months pregnant, which probably helped with my reluctance to make it official. People shouldn't get married because they're pregnant. Nor should they get engaged for that reason, but I really liked the ring. (Eventually I threw it at him so many times it got lost. Let that be a lesson to you).
I'm not anti-marriage. I think it's fine. I sometimes wish I had some noble reason to not be married, like those who profess they won't marry until everyone who wants to marry legally can. I'd like to jump on that bandwagon, because it's certainly nobler than my reasons, but it feels too fake since it's only a last minute jump.
The truth is probably that I knew he needed to be tested, I just didn't know the tests would take this long. I had a baby daughter when we met. Would he love her like his own? No, I mean like his own. That test takes time. I can remember getting hysterical because his mother threatened to spank his brother's biological child and making the accusation that his mother would never spank MY CHILD because she didn't consider her family. Closer to the truth is probably that my child never did much to deserve spanking, and if she did, his mother probably wasn't around to see it, or she was too busy spanking one of her other dozens of grandchildren.
What if I get pregnant? Will you stay? Well, what if the baby's sick? What if she NEVER STOPS CRYING, and nine years later things haven't much improved? Hmmmm? OK, you win that round. But what if I get depressed. No, I don't mean sad, I mean the clinical kind, where I'm convinced every grimace you make is really a judgment of my clothes, parenting, cooking, cleaning, living, breathing? What if I decide to stay in school for EIGHT YEARS?! Ha ha! No? OK, well what if I force you to leave your hometown and your children from your first marriage to follow me to a writing program that I proclaim my dream. OK, you win that round, too. But, on the other hand, what if you lose your job? What if YOU suffer from clinical depression? What if your family gets on my nerves, your kids piss me off, and I occasionally follow you around like a stalker, insisting I must always know where you are. OK, well you've passed that section, but the test ain't over. This, it turns out, is a very, very long test. It's like the GRE and the LSAT all in one. No retakes. Bring ID and several sharpened pencils.
Sometimes, mostly when my kids got old enough to ask why we're not married, I make half hearted wedding planning attempts. But the truth is, I don't like parties. I don't like being the center of attention. I look like an idiot in white, I can't dance at all, and I can't stand wearing dresses. What's the point? I never dreamed of getting married when I was a girl, at least not that I can remember. I dreamed of having daughters, and I think it's just awesome that he decided to stick around and help me do it.
Sometimes I think we could get married if we snuck into it. Like, hey, what's going on this Friday? Nothing? Well, shit, we should get married! But then my heart starts palpitating and my eyes go dry and I know the test's not over. It's closer, sure, but it's not over.
Recently he came upon me while I was doing dishes and suggested, just suggested, mind you, that his father had mentioned, just mentioned, please, that because my mom is sick it might be better to do it sooner rather than later. "I am NOT going to talk about this." That is all. Of course I want my mom there. But, as a friend recently pointed out, that's not really a good reason to get married. But when I asked that friend what WAS a good reason to get married, the conversation turned to other things. I read somewhere that people should only get married because they can't imagine any other choice, but my friend, recently and happily married, didn't seem terribly convinced by that, either. I know people do it. I mean, people get married all the time. I'm sure they must think long and hard about it. But why? I mean, why do it over NOT doing it? Sure, I could think of reasons to do it. Lots of them. But most really have nothing to do with marriage the institution and have much more to do with family the institution, which we seemingly have managed just fine for ten years without marriage, so, wait, why do it again?
I could point out the many many people I know who plan excitedly (loudly, constantly) for a year or more for a wedding leading to a marriage that seems to me utterly destined for failure. I could point out that my first thought after "let's get married!" is generally, "but, fuck, divorce is expensive." I watched my parents' long, drawn out, painful (particularly painful for people who truly had little to argue over) divorce which ended with the utter indignity of the judge giving my mother the five children and my dad the vacuum cleaner. Without a judge, I imagine, if the two of us ever decided to just throw in the towel, we'd have to work out such important details ourselves. For the record, I'm getting the vacuum cleaner.
Don't get me wrong, I'm totally engaged. Have been for ten years. We got engaged when I was two months pregnant, which probably helped with my reluctance to make it official. People shouldn't get married because they're pregnant. Nor should they get engaged for that reason, but I really liked the ring. (Eventually I threw it at him so many times it got lost. Let that be a lesson to you).
I'm not anti-marriage. I think it's fine. I sometimes wish I had some noble reason to not be married, like those who profess they won't marry until everyone who wants to marry legally can. I'd like to jump on that bandwagon, because it's certainly nobler than my reasons, but it feels too fake since it's only a last minute jump.
The truth is probably that I knew he needed to be tested, I just didn't know the tests would take this long. I had a baby daughter when we met. Would he love her like his own? No, I mean like his own. That test takes time. I can remember getting hysterical because his mother threatened to spank his brother's biological child and making the accusation that his mother would never spank MY CHILD because she didn't consider her family. Closer to the truth is probably that my child never did much to deserve spanking, and if she did, his mother probably wasn't around to see it, or she was too busy spanking one of her other dozens of grandchildren.
What if I get pregnant? Will you stay? Well, what if the baby's sick? What if she NEVER STOPS CRYING, and nine years later things haven't much improved? Hmmmm? OK, you win that round. But what if I get depressed. No, I don't mean sad, I mean the clinical kind, where I'm convinced every grimace you make is really a judgment of my clothes, parenting, cooking, cleaning, living, breathing? What if I decide to stay in school for EIGHT YEARS?! Ha ha! No? OK, well what if I force you to leave your hometown and your children from your first marriage to follow me to a writing program that I proclaim my dream. OK, you win that round, too. But, on the other hand, what if you lose your job? What if YOU suffer from clinical depression? What if your family gets on my nerves, your kids piss me off, and I occasionally follow you around like a stalker, insisting I must always know where you are. OK, well you've passed that section, but the test ain't over. This, it turns out, is a very, very long test. It's like the GRE and the LSAT all in one. No retakes. Bring ID and several sharpened pencils.
Sometimes, mostly when my kids got old enough to ask why we're not married, I make half hearted wedding planning attempts. But the truth is, I don't like parties. I don't like being the center of attention. I look like an idiot in white, I can't dance at all, and I can't stand wearing dresses. What's the point? I never dreamed of getting married when I was a girl, at least not that I can remember. I dreamed of having daughters, and I think it's just awesome that he decided to stick around and help me do it.
Sometimes I think we could get married if we snuck into it. Like, hey, what's going on this Friday? Nothing? Well, shit, we should get married! But then my heart starts palpitating and my eyes go dry and I know the test's not over. It's closer, sure, but it's not over.
Recently he came upon me while I was doing dishes and suggested, just suggested, mind you, that his father had mentioned, just mentioned, please, that because my mom is sick it might be better to do it sooner rather than later. "I am NOT going to talk about this." That is all. Of course I want my mom there. But, as a friend recently pointed out, that's not really a good reason to get married. But when I asked that friend what WAS a good reason to get married, the conversation turned to other things. I read somewhere that people should only get married because they can't imagine any other choice, but my friend, recently and happily married, didn't seem terribly convinced by that, either. I know people do it. I mean, people get married all the time. I'm sure they must think long and hard about it. But why? I mean, why do it over NOT doing it? Sure, I could think of reasons to do it. Lots of them. But most really have nothing to do with marriage the institution and have much more to do with family the institution, which we seemingly have managed just fine for ten years without marriage, so, wait, why do it again?
I could point out the many many people I know who plan excitedly (loudly, constantly) for a year or more for a wedding leading to a marriage that seems to me utterly destined for failure. I could point out that my first thought after "let's get married!" is generally, "but, fuck, divorce is expensive." I watched my parents' long, drawn out, painful (particularly painful for people who truly had little to argue over) divorce which ended with the utter indignity of the judge giving my mother the five children and my dad the vacuum cleaner. Without a judge, I imagine, if the two of us ever decided to just throw in the towel, we'd have to work out such important details ourselves. For the record, I'm getting the vacuum cleaner.
Thursday, July 14, 2011
Differences
It's been a long time since I've posted on this blog. I took a break while I was finishing my thesis for the MFA program at OSU. I know you can't "run out" of words to write, but I was having a little too much fun writing this blog and sometimes neglecting the much less fun work of editing stories, some of which refused to do what they were told.
Since I'm pretty sure all of my followers are also my Facebook friends, it will come as no surprise that I am pregnant. It's weird being pregnant after many years of, well, not being so. What's weirdest is that it's not so bad. When I was in my early 20s (before therapy and antidepressants), it was pretty bad. I was still living in a lot of fear, fear of the type that I believed every pain meant death was imminent and, as convinced as I was that I was going to be a different kind of parent than mine had been, I was equally convinced by the "cycle of abuse" literature that assured me that, no matter what, abused kids grow up to be abusive parents nomatterwhatnomatterwhat.
Although I've heard a lot can happen during those crucial teenage years, so far so good. Not to say it hasn't been a struggle. Those aforementioned anti depressants and therapy came in real handy when I discovered that "the cycle" (I hope you can imagine the voice I'm using when I say this) CAN be broken, but old habits of thought and self abuse die hard.
When I was in my early twenties, on top of believing every last pain meant imminent death, I also couldn't stand to be touched. I didn't think this applied to babies until I had them. Sometimes it was ok-- I could sit with them. But, for the most part, having a tiny baby on my lap felt like suffocation. Like if I didn't get up at once I wouldn't be able to breathe again. I somehow found a way through this. Don't tell anyone, but I don't fear being touched anymore. In fact, sometimes I ask my kids for a hug and they refuse, because they're too cool for me now, and that's the best part about babies. They're not too cool for their mamas.
So how is being pregnant different now? Well, for one, I haven't thrown up once. What the hell, self? I ask said self. But I'm also not worried about it. I'm tired, but when I'm tired I take a nap. And then I wake up and move on with my life. In my 20s this nap taking led to deep despair. Clearly, people who take naps are bipolar, will soon be addicted to prescription pills, and the only next step is lying in the basement, terrorizing your children, screaming hourly for 3/4 of a glass of milk. In summation, I feel pretty good. I feel a little nervous about certain things (like where's the baby going to fit on the motorcycle I don't have? Will he or she be lonely because he or she is so much younger? Will he or she suffer from the illnesses and allergies my youngest daughter does? Will he or she be sickly?), I'm more just curious. What will this baby be? Whatever it is, we'll deal with it. We're experts in damn near every kind of childhood illness I had never heard of before babies at this point, and, most importantly, I know how to remove plastic hearts from noses, rocks from ears, what to do with facial wounds, and the warning signs of concussion. I feel pretty all set.
Of course, being pregnant in your thirties is different than in your early 20s. For instance, I find that when I cross my legs for more than five minutes I can't walk right without holding my hip. Our first ultrasound picture is pinned up on the fridge next to my daily insulin regime. I go to bed at 9. OK, I did that before I got pregnant. I'm just old.
Since I'm pretty sure all of my followers are also my Facebook friends, it will come as no surprise that I am pregnant. It's weird being pregnant after many years of, well, not being so. What's weirdest is that it's not so bad. When I was in my early 20s (before therapy and antidepressants), it was pretty bad. I was still living in a lot of fear, fear of the type that I believed every pain meant death was imminent and, as convinced as I was that I was going to be a different kind of parent than mine had been, I was equally convinced by the "cycle of abuse" literature that assured me that, no matter what, abused kids grow up to be abusive parents nomatterwhatnomatterwhat.
Although I've heard a lot can happen during those crucial teenage years, so far so good. Not to say it hasn't been a struggle. Those aforementioned anti depressants and therapy came in real handy when I discovered that "the cycle" (I hope you can imagine the voice I'm using when I say this) CAN be broken, but old habits of thought and self abuse die hard.
When I was in my early twenties, on top of believing every last pain meant imminent death, I also couldn't stand to be touched. I didn't think this applied to babies until I had them. Sometimes it was ok-- I could sit with them. But, for the most part, having a tiny baby on my lap felt like suffocation. Like if I didn't get up at once I wouldn't be able to breathe again. I somehow found a way through this. Don't tell anyone, but I don't fear being touched anymore. In fact, sometimes I ask my kids for a hug and they refuse, because they're too cool for me now, and that's the best part about babies. They're not too cool for their mamas.
So how is being pregnant different now? Well, for one, I haven't thrown up once. What the hell, self? I ask said self. But I'm also not worried about it. I'm tired, but when I'm tired I take a nap. And then I wake up and move on with my life. In my 20s this nap taking led to deep despair. Clearly, people who take naps are bipolar, will soon be addicted to prescription pills, and the only next step is lying in the basement, terrorizing your children, screaming hourly for 3/4 of a glass of milk. In summation, I feel pretty good. I feel a little nervous about certain things (like where's the baby going to fit on the motorcycle I don't have? Will he or she be lonely because he or she is so much younger? Will he or she suffer from the illnesses and allergies my youngest daughter does? Will he or she be sickly?), I'm more just curious. What will this baby be? Whatever it is, we'll deal with it. We're experts in damn near every kind of childhood illness I had never heard of before babies at this point, and, most importantly, I know how to remove plastic hearts from noses, rocks from ears, what to do with facial wounds, and the warning signs of concussion. I feel pretty all set.
Of course, being pregnant in your thirties is different than in your early 20s. For instance, I find that when I cross my legs for more than five minutes I can't walk right without holding my hip. Our first ultrasound picture is pinned up on the fridge next to my daily insulin regime. I go to bed at 9. OK, I did that before I got pregnant. I'm just old.
Sunday, April 17, 2011
Another Set of Expert Reviews
It takes me a long time to build up the nerve to write these reviews, because I'm terrified somehow one of these authors is going to stumble upon this and hate me. But then I'll just find a gun, teach myself to load it, and shoot myself, so it'll be all good.
Hiroshima in the Morning (Reiko Rizzuto): somehow I was under the impression that this was a book about a woman who leaves her family in order to follow her creative yearnings. It's really not. I finished it, but barely. The story itself is very patchy, while the writing is sometimey. And, in case you're wondering, she never leaves her family during the book. Boo. Leave your family, woman.
Townie (Dubus, III): I got two thirds of the way through before I realized that I only have one life. Splashes of interesting scenes separated by many pages of "then I lifted more weights, then I kicked this dude's ass. Then I felt bad. Then I lifted more weights, then I kicked this dude's ass, then I felt real, real bad."
A Mercy (Morrison): I love her so much I finished it. But if it was any other writer, I wouldn't have had the patience for the 45 pages it took to even begin to understand what was going on (the whole book is only 124 pages). Not worth it. It's like a Tylenol PM dream-- the writing is wonderful, but there's just not much there in terms of story. I still love you, Toni.
Behind the Palace Doors (Farquhar): False advertising. This was not a fun look behind the scenes of royalty. It was cliffs notes for royal history. Finishable only if you have no money to buy a different ebook.
History of a Suicide (Bialosky): I so should have loved this book. Trying to understand tragedy through literature-- that's totally my thing! It turns out I only like it when I do it. Unfinishable, but I feel really bad about it. Not bad enough to finish it, but still.
The Source of All Things (Ross): OH MY GOD OH MY GOD READ IT RIGHT NOW. So good. She needs to write many many more books so I'm not forced to read outdoorsy magazines to spend time with her again. (Weird note-- when I first looked at this title I had no memory of reading this book whatsoever, even though it was only a few weeks ago. Yeah, weird, right?)
The Emperor of All Maladies (Mukherjee): Got to page 90 of 680. It got great reviews, so maybe it's just me, but I couldn't do it. By page 25 I just didn't care about cancer any more.
The Lost City of Z (Grann): A book about a man's obsession with other men's obsessions with a man's obsession? Sign me up! This book surprised me-- the topic itself (Fawcett's disappearance in S. America) wasn't terribly interesting to me, but the obsession was. The narrative itself has a lot of problems (it's clear this was written by a journalist, I'll just say that). When you get to the end, call me, because I want to laugh at you. And then you can laugh at me. Then I'll laugh at you again.
That's all I've got. Go ahead, argue with me. I dare you. But also tell me if you've read something amazing lately. It seems I have no taste when I pick on my own. I need guidance. Right now I'm reading Tina Fey's Bossypants, and I have to say I'm digging it. Turns out she's pretty funny. Who knew?
Speaking of which (totally not), did you see the article in the NYT that a scientist found connections between the African click language and all other languages, thereby solidifying the evidence for the theory that all language comes from one source and that the evolution of language is a story of short cuts and making things easier? I FUCKING TOLD YOU (someone who I don't know once argued this point with me. Wherever you are, stranger, SUCK IT. I win.).
Hiroshima in the Morning (Reiko Rizzuto): somehow I was under the impression that this was a book about a woman who leaves her family in order to follow her creative yearnings. It's really not. I finished it, but barely. The story itself is very patchy, while the writing is sometimey. And, in case you're wondering, she never leaves her family during the book. Boo. Leave your family, woman.
Townie (Dubus, III): I got two thirds of the way through before I realized that I only have one life. Splashes of interesting scenes separated by many pages of "then I lifted more weights, then I kicked this dude's ass. Then I felt bad. Then I lifted more weights, then I kicked this dude's ass, then I felt real, real bad."
A Mercy (Morrison): I love her so much I finished it. But if it was any other writer, I wouldn't have had the patience for the 45 pages it took to even begin to understand what was going on (the whole book is only 124 pages). Not worth it. It's like a Tylenol PM dream-- the writing is wonderful, but there's just not much there in terms of story. I still love you, Toni.
Behind the Palace Doors (Farquhar): False advertising. This was not a fun look behind the scenes of royalty. It was cliffs notes for royal history. Finishable only if you have no money to buy a different ebook.
History of a Suicide (Bialosky): I so should have loved this book. Trying to understand tragedy through literature-- that's totally my thing! It turns out I only like it when I do it. Unfinishable, but I feel really bad about it. Not bad enough to finish it, but still.
The Source of All Things (Ross): OH MY GOD OH MY GOD READ IT RIGHT NOW. So good. She needs to write many many more books so I'm not forced to read outdoorsy magazines to spend time with her again. (Weird note-- when I first looked at this title I had no memory of reading this book whatsoever, even though it was only a few weeks ago. Yeah, weird, right?)
The Emperor of All Maladies (Mukherjee): Got to page 90 of 680. It got great reviews, so maybe it's just me, but I couldn't do it. By page 25 I just didn't care about cancer any more.
The Lost City of Z (Grann): A book about a man's obsession with other men's obsessions with a man's obsession? Sign me up! This book surprised me-- the topic itself (Fawcett's disappearance in S. America) wasn't terribly interesting to me, but the obsession was. The narrative itself has a lot of problems (it's clear this was written by a journalist, I'll just say that). When you get to the end, call me, because I want to laugh at you. And then you can laugh at me. Then I'll laugh at you again.
That's all I've got. Go ahead, argue with me. I dare you. But also tell me if you've read something amazing lately. It seems I have no taste when I pick on my own. I need guidance. Right now I'm reading Tina Fey's Bossypants, and I have to say I'm digging it. Turns out she's pretty funny. Who knew?
Speaking of which (totally not), did you see the article in the NYT that a scientist found connections between the African click language and all other languages, thereby solidifying the evidence for the theory that all language comes from one source and that the evolution of language is a story of short cuts and making things easier? I FUCKING TOLD YOU (someone who I don't know once argued this point with me. Wherever you are, stranger, SUCK IT. I win.).
Thursday, March 24, 2011
Yet Another Rant About Columbus Public Schools
Today's rant is brought to you by a news report about parents in Florida who are protesting (with signs and everything) the safety precautions (washing hands and faces twice a day) put into place at the school because one of the kids has a severe allergy to peanuts. These parents should all catch a horrible, incurable disease, preferably of the venereal variety.
There is nothing that makes me angrier than fighting with my daughter's school about her allergies. I've heard such pearls of wisdom as "I totally understand. My daughter is allergic to milk." No, you don't "totally understand." Your daughters farts don't compare to the nights my daughter spent in the hospital, including one where they couldn't let her go home because the air is our neighborhood was too toxic because of the flowering of the nut trees planted everywhere on our block. Or the image of her little four year old face when she turned to me crying, her eyes swollen shut, her cheeks the size of baseballs because someone touched a nut, then touched her. "I told Caidyn that she needs to start taking responsibility for her own illness." First, of all, it's not an illness. It's a disability. Secondly, she's a SECOND GRADER. If you, her teacher, and the other parents are too fucking stupid to avoid tree nuts and peanuts, how do you expect her to?
And trust me, she's taken responsibility. She's the first one to ask "Does that have peanuts or tree nuts in it?" She took responsibility the night she ended up in Children's Hospital, unable to breath, and because the doctors assumed it was an asthma attack, and not anyphylactic shock, she passed out on the table and left me screaming for help. She's taken responsibility when she couldn't walk because her legs got infected (three times) because her skin broke open from her allergies.
People who believe there's such a thing as a "mild" nut allergy are just plain wrong. When Caidyn was four, this happened:
"It happened to Catrina Vonder Meulen 18 months ago, when she lost her 13-year-old daughter, Emily, to a peanut allergy while on a shopping expedition. 'The day that Emily passed away, we were at a mall in Cincinnati, buying her a graduation dress for a friend,” Vonder Meulen told TODAY’s Hoda Kotb on Thursday. “We stopped in the food court, stopped at a national chain restaurant, buying a sandwich that she had eaten probably 50 times before. There was nothing at the time that alerted us.”
There is nothing that makes me angrier than fighting with my daughter's school about her allergies. I've heard such pearls of wisdom as "I totally understand. My daughter is allergic to milk." No, you don't "totally understand." Your daughters farts don't compare to the nights my daughter spent in the hospital, including one where they couldn't let her go home because the air is our neighborhood was too toxic because of the flowering of the nut trees planted everywhere on our block. Or the image of her little four year old face when she turned to me crying, her eyes swollen shut, her cheeks the size of baseballs because someone touched a nut, then touched her. "I told Caidyn that she needs to start taking responsibility for her own illness." First, of all, it's not an illness. It's a disability. Secondly, she's a SECOND GRADER. If you, her teacher, and the other parents are too fucking stupid to avoid tree nuts and peanuts, how do you expect her to?
And trust me, she's taken responsibility. She's the first one to ask "Does that have peanuts or tree nuts in it?" She took responsibility the night she ended up in Children's Hospital, unable to breath, and because the doctors assumed it was an asthma attack, and not anyphylactic shock, she passed out on the table and left me screaming for help. She's taken responsibility when she couldn't walk because her legs got infected (three times) because her skin broke open from her allergies.
People who believe there's such a thing as a "mild" nut allergy are just plain wrong. When Caidyn was four, this happened:
"It happened to Catrina Vonder Meulen 18 months ago, when she lost her 13-year-old daughter, Emily, to a peanut allergy while on a shopping expedition. 'The day that Emily passed away, we were at a mall in Cincinnati, buying her a graduation dress for a friend,” Vonder Meulen told TODAY’s Hoda Kotb on Thursday. “We stopped in the food court, stopped at a national chain restaurant, buying a sandwich that she had eaten probably 50 times before. There was nothing at the time that alerted us.”
Vonder Meulen and her husband, Paul, who have two other children, had known since Emily was a toddler that she had an allergy to peanuts, and Emily was constantly vigilant about staying away from them.
But, her mother said, no one in the family had ever imagined that it could be fatal."
They didn't have her epi-pen, because every attack she'd ever had was "mild." Every time the school takes my child's life in their hands (allowing parents to bring cookies, cakes, candy bars without bothering to check the ingredients) I remember Catrina Vonder Meulen. No one knows when an allergy attack will be deadly. No one knows what can happen. Why is it too much to ask for the school and other parents to make SMALL changes in order to accommodate a (DEADLY) disability that affects 3 out of every 100 students? And, most importantly, why do they have to be such douche bags about it?
Subscribe to:
Comments (Atom)