Feeling Flushed

Stay at home moms, dads, grandmas, grandpas, nannies, and child caretakers of any kind, 

How do you do it?  

I have been home, or rather, away from the camp/commune life, for like, five hot minutes (two weeks), and am slowly rapidly turning into a monster.  The frustration creeps in not even one hour into my day and continues careening along the path toward tyrannical madness until – mercifully for all of us – my head hits the pillow at night.  I feel so wound up inside that, if tugged, I might very well unspool the full amount of my pent-up crabbiness all over the floor, and probably wouldn’t have the energy to either explain it away or pick any of it back up.  Not only have I become a miserable body and mind to inhabit on my own, but I have been particularly miserable to live with, should you even dare to try to connect with me or suggest that we, I don’t know, talk about it. 

The last two weeks have been a whirling, spinning toilet bowl full of – you guessed it – misery. 

In the next turn of mental upheaval, I am faced with the reality that I am incredibly fortunate to be able to do what I do, to stay home with Milo.  I know, I know, I know that many parents are not able to be home with their little men and women, and I do, in my saner moments, comprehend that my daily experiences are enviable.  But, to be honest with you, it makes me feel a little bit like one of those six year-olds at the dinner table who won’t eat the asparagus-stuffed Gefilte fish you made them for dinner: 

Oh, there are starving kids somewhere? 

SO SEND IT TO THEM.  

I realize that this is a terrible, horrible analogy, but it’s the best I can come up with in my state, so please be gentle. 

In each day, there is most often the Good: Milo learning to point to the Dalmatian in his Curious George book when I ask him to show me where the doggy is; running into my arms with the full momentum of a tiny rhinoceros; giggles and giggles and more life-giving giggles at sweet, timely intervals.  But there is normally also the Bad:  irate cries when I take away the caps covering the screws that secure the toilet to the floor (a favorite of Milo’s, that on a positive, keeps me cleaning the toilets); kicking my legs/arms/everything everywhere during a diaper change while we are out visiting a friend’s house; throwing peas and spaghetti and milk cups on the floor and then somehow – in a miraculous cloud of impossibility - finding a large, heavy, pointed object to throw down on my head while I’m cleaning up the first three (a half-truth, yes, but then why does it always feel so pointy?). 

But really, he's the craziest cutest angry person. 

I am absolutely, positively sure that there are moms and dads out there who would almost literally kill to be able to partake of these daily rituals.  I know that you work intensely hard, and that you still feel the terrible pressure to be everywhere and everything to everyone, especially your kid(s), and I don't mean to belittle your case, even in the smallest degree.  But friends, in my world (because that's what i'm talking about here), there is also the Ugly.  There are diaper changes with the aforementioned flailing, kicking and throwing things, but also with fecal matter smearing all over your carpet, while you are suddenly battling the intense urge to pin your toddler to the ground and lock him in the cat crate while you take an extraordinarily long walk to the nearest bar and have a really, really, exceptionally strong drink, even if you've never had a drop of alcohol in your whole life.  There are days in which, unless your list is composed of:

“feed child

clean up after child [a little]

change diaper

try [and fail] to get child to sleep

feed child

change [appallingly rank] diaper

cry on the floor

bribe child to get through the yogurt aisle

feed child [donut holes] so he won’t fall asleep on the car ride home

fail to feed child dinner (because he’s eaten twelve donut holes already)

wrangle child into pajamas

put wild animal to bed, twice

eat a pound of chocolate

step on approximately five thousand small toys

go to bed way too late”,

you won’t be able to check anything off.  Laundry?  Nope.  Dishes.  No way.  Exercise?  Bahahaha.  

Wait - did you really think you could do that?

I realize that I am writing this in a state of moderate frenzy, so forgive me when I ask to take it all back in a week and tell you how much I love my life (because I do), but in a world that tells you that your value is bound to how productive you are, and because I have foolishly bought into that mantra, there are days when I want anything but this job.  Anything.  Commercial dishwashing all day?  Yes.  Hospital laundry?  If I don’t need to talk to anyone, sure.  Stuff envelopes in an office??? Ohmygosh, yes.  Some days I would give almost anything to feel productive.  

But for now, in the midst of these good/bad/ugly days, I plan to simply keep changing my list to look like the above, so that I can actually check some things off, thankyouverymuch, and to do my best – my very not-good-enough best – to keep up with my son, and to smother him with an excess of love and hugs so that he would never guess that his mom is justthisclose to completely losing her marbles. 

Risk Management 101: Aim to Fail

My middle school years were difficult, as I allude to frequently here  on the blog – probably frequently enough that you are ready for me to gosh, stop talking about it already.  As I watch Milo, at a bit over one year old, spend his mornings grinding puzzle pieces and Cheerios of questionable age into the wool carpet, I can only hope and pray that his experience will be different, and prepare for the worst by investing in both a Sam's membership (for the bulk-wrapped Kleenex boxes) and a punch card for mom therapy sessions, also known as Time Alone.  They make punch cards for that, right?

If you can’t tell, I am preparing for the worst: that he will take after me.

Which he might.  

Who really knows these things?

However, something magical happened one day in 1997, during the spring of my eighth grade school year.  It took place in a badly lit, undersized gymnasium, which if I remember correctly, had dark wood paneling all the way to the ceiling, and which alternately housed school lunch tables and rousing games of wallyball (which apparently, to my gawking amazement, is a real thing).  In an effort to lure me from my isolated, ever-shrinking shell of social anxiety, my parents had encouraged me to attend some open gym volleyball sessions, hosted by the coach of what would later be my high school varsity team, Chris.  I didn't know it then, but that day would be another link in a chain of significant transformation in my life.  And it happened like this (Disclaimer: probably not verbatim. Aka, definitely not verbatim.):

Chris: "Until I say to stop, run back and forth across the gym with your arms at your side.  Pretend that you only have shoulders, and that anything distal exists in the flexible state of orange jello: wiggly and formless and completely out of control."

Now, don't get me wrong - wiggly and formless and completely out of control is my natural state of being, but at that time, asking this behavior of me constituted the emotional risk of breakdancing my way to the front of a prison firing squad.  My anxiety level was at DEFCON 1.

However, of all the things I was at the time – including my excessive knack for apprehension – a submissive spirit topped the list, and so off I went, reluctantly but promptly skittering across the gym.

I ran around that room like a tightly wound doll, but quickly transformed into the human equivalent of a young basset hound, with my arms and hands wagging around like floppy ears and droopy jowls and my body sweat dripping to the floor like drool from a dog’s mouth.  I recall having to remind myself to relaxrelaxrelax, consciously making an effort to let my body parts behave as if I were unconscious.  I was focusing so hard on flailing that I'm amazed I didn't accidentally slam into a preteen or trip on my shoelaces.  

I can only imagine how ridiculous we looked, the wiggly crew of us, but in that small exercise, as was true of my previous venture into synchronized swimming, my life was beginning to change.  It didn't happen overnight, and I didn't transform into an entirely new person.  That said, I did become what I know was a better, more healthy version of the girl that hid underneath that bashful, anxious exterior.  

Physical risk is powerful.  Taking risks can stimulate change or reinforce stagnancy.  Risk can be a path to social and emotional growth, or it can be a manner of escape.  I would guess that more often than not, you and I would choose to take a physical challenge over an emotional one if we were given the chance.  See, we know that the outcomes of physical risk are predictable.   When bungee jumping, the risk is normally death or critical injury due to a high velocity smash into the ground.  Two of the many risks of climbing Everest are HAPE or HACE.  The risk of swimming across the Pacific is SHARK (not an acronym, just scary as all getout).  On the other hand, if you are confronting a deep personal fear, for example, the risk is... a little more complicated, a little more elusive, and can feel surprisingly more dangerous than something tangible or visible.

What is so special to me about this awkward memory is the fact that such small physical risks like this one reset my course toward a path of more healthy interaction with emotional and social risks for years to come.  I made friends and enjoyed school, and developed a sense of self, and faith, and even found a cool guy who was willing to flail through life with me.

WHAAAT? 

Miracles happen everyday, folks.

I attended a few Zumba classes this spring, which was significantly more fun and fabulous than I ever imagined.  With that said, I'll admit that it's still not easy for me to walk into a room of strangers, and let all of this flap around like a squirrel in flight.  While Zumba-ing, I inhabit a lateral swath of maple gymnasium floor with my arms and legs whipping back and forth in a room full of other bodies, fellow men and women flailing away to a latin beat. This experience has felt pretty much the same as that evening of open gym so many years ago, only that much more of me jiggles now.  I felt happy.  I giggled through much of each workout, occasionally interrupting my laughter with bouts of intense focus on the instructor's footwork and stopping for frequent water breaks and gasps for air.

In both of these stories, I have felt like a total oddball, which is scary for me, like I’m standing within a crowd wearing only blaze orange underwear.  But because in each of these cases I was surrounded by what was, in each moment, a sea of oddballs, I felt safe.  Now, I know that we aren’t always able to jump out of our comfort zones in the company of others, but if you are, it can be a great way to prime your engine for taking some individual risk in the future.  I’m an advocate for that, because if peer pressure is really a thing, well, we might as well be doing some good with it, right?

Parent Sidebar: As I write this, I am recalling how often enough I hear parents comment on how they need to be more conservative about what risks they take, as they have little ones to care for and can’t risk breaking their leg or missing time at work.  Hear me:  I understand.  I would never want to put my life at risk for the sake of momentary enjoyment or selfish ambition.  But with that said, if I don’t risk anything at any time for any reason, will Milo risk anything ever?  Will he take a risk when it’s worth it?  If I don’t, and he doesn’t, who wins in that scenario?  I’ll tell you:  No one.  In fact, in that scenario, everyone loses.  We may have remained safe by not assuming the risks, but we’ve completely missed out on the resulting growth.

Among other injuries due to grabbing adventure by the horns, my dad tore his MCL and meniscus skiing when I was in elementary school.  Missing work and suffering through PT, recovering, and some quality time with the doc:  not cool for dad.  A father who busts himself skiing a killer line because he isn’t afraid to tackle something hard?  So cool.  And more than cool, it was, for a young me, a picture of courage, which was something I desperately needed to identify and embrace.

Risks are risks because they are at some level inherently unsafe, but know that I am not advising anyone to head out for a run this afternoon in Death Valley or something of an obvious, dangerous nature.  If you want to train to run in Death Valley, fine.  Unfortunately, I have a sinking feeling you'll be training alone, 

because that sounds terrible.

So in conclusion, let's take some risks.  Let's get out of our comfort zones.  I know that  I need to, and perhaps, just perhaps, it's not just me.  The next time you get invited to trapeze class, or to hike the Long Trail or have to change the Jeep tire alone on the side of a deserted logging road in a skirt and sandals, remember that your sweat and nerves are only the beginning of something much greater.  The physical struggle will make you question your resolve, your strength and your fundamentals, but if you persevere, you’ll find out that you are made for so much more than you ever imagined.  

Under Construction

I recall waking up on the morning of C and I’s wedding.  It was a dreamy, blue-skied, warm day in early September, and I had this thought:

It’s Sunday.

There was no euphoria.  No blissful haze.  No romance-induced fog.  No “jitters”.  There was only a sleepy, strangely normal, terra-firma confirmation of reality, of recognition: It’s Sunday.  And I have to pee. 

Don’t get me wrong.  I love my husband more than a fat kid loves cake (is it even ok to still use that phrase?).  I loved him then, fully and completely, though in a smaller way, similar to how you can occupy a studio apartment fully, and then somehow a two bedroom cabin, then a 2,000 square foot house, and then wonder how in the world you managed to get from A to B.  I loved him.  I was fully invested, only with different square footage.   And I hope that just like the Winchester Mystery House, we continue to be under construction until the day we die (in a blaze of glory, of course, together, base jumping, somewhere completely fabulous).

Stairway to nowhere, anyone?

With all of that said, I woke up that morning under no delusion that there was a glass slipper somewhere, and a prince waiting to wedge my hot, swollen toes into it, which would actually look really gross.  Yes, there would be a handsome guy waiting for me later that afternoon (and for every appointment/date/carpool/opportunity to leave the house following), but dangit, it was just another Sunday.  I had to pee.  Am I making this clear enough?  It was a day like so many others, and it was certainly starting the same way.  I will say that it felt strange and different that I would in fact, be getting married that afternoon: strange and different and surprisingly anticlimactic.  It's likely that someone out there has put their head in their hands and deemed me completely heartless, but I don't feel bothered.

And here we are.  I’m due with the baby we’ve been calling Swimmy on this coming Sunday (I’ve apparently cultivated a thing for scheduling life events on the Sabbath), and with absolutely no expectation of actually birthing a child during that predicted 24-hour period, I am still confronted by the idea that – hold the phone – this writhing, aquatic, and so far cooperative being will soon be spit out into the world and onto the map of our lives, pink and screaming and primed to deliver some exceptionally nasty poop.  I am pretty sure that it will be simply another day, as extraordinary as the events will likely feel.  And if I were a betting woman, I would wager that at some point I will find myself thinking, “How in the world did this just happen?”

This is life though, isn’t it?  I can’t begin to number the conversations with friends or family or perfect strangers that have included that sort of phrase.  How did I get here?  When did this all happen?  We don’t suddenly wake up with 3 kids and a dog, a corner office, a career as a newscaster, or government food stamps in our wallet, but sometimes it feels that way.  As much as C and I have tried to prepare for a child in practical ways, you know – with a crib, blankets, therapy sessions on tape – I’m realizing that we cannot

                                                                 really 

                                                                         be 

                                                                            prepared.  

      

source

No more than a person could ready him or herself for an alien invasion or for finding zero peanut butter at the grocery store could we ready ourselves for the person that is about to land his rocket ship in the middle of our living room.  

In light of all of this, the mantra that I have been continuing to tell myself is:

Don’t sweat it.  

Don’t lose your mind over the things you can’t even wrap it around, and quit thinking you can hold back the Pacific Ocean with a couple of sandbags.  It’s huge.  It’s coming.  It's unstoppable.

So bowl me over, little guy.  Land your rocket ship in my living room and poop on our carpet.  Make me wonder how in the world we got here.  And grow our love-house an extra room, while you’re at it.  

And When He Arrives, He'd Better Bring Queso

I'm back, I'm pregnant, and I'm hungry.

It's been almost seven months since I clicked out a single word here, which has probably been either a tropical island of coconut-scented bliss for you or an ocean of nothingness, which is mostly what it's been for me.  It isn't that these many months have been empty, only that the feeling of floundry nothingness is how I've felt toward the Blog bookmark on my Safari toolbar.

Not floundering, but floundry, like the fish: clammy and undesirable.  Don't touch it. 

In fact, quite a bit has happened.

C and I tap danced through another fabulous summer of camp,

made an amazing escape to the desert of southwest America,

got ourselves pregnant,

Wait, wait, wait.  

(no source link folks, but this beaut' belongs to the interweb -  I only wish it were mine)

That's better.

took a dinner cruise,

and I rode a camel named Luke.

It was a full season.  And now, with snow and sub-zero temps alternating punches, we venture into the icy boxing ring of winter, bobbing and weaving, whilst I awkwardly balance a belly that is gradually causing me to not only look like the letter p, but to also, well, have to.

Some people have children because it makes them happy.  Ideally, all people have kids because it gives them joy, which despite my general snarkiness, I genuinely believe to be a significantly different thing.  What I mean by the first statement is that some people have childhood dreams and aspirations of parenthood, of someday bringing life into the world: a tiny swaddled person wafting of that sweet smell of babydom (not the liquid poop, the other one).  Having kids can satisfy these feelings, hence happiness.

Most of you already know this, but I wasn't that kid. We weren't that couple.  I didn't grow up dreaming of motherhood, and in fact, the idea kind of made me squeamish, and at least half-terrified (still does).  It's not that I dislike infants or children or families or am some kind of angry grinch, but I've just never felt that... maternal.  Along with that, C and I as a couple had become pretty set in the idea that we'd invest in the human race in other ways.  For example, I love getting to work with college students and post-grads.  It gives me joy.  It's my jam.  So I think it surprised us both a bit when we came to the decision that, despite the fact that our emotional makeup toward the idea felt quite like a dry, lifeless paper cup, we would set ourselves to embark on this one-way trip to the Other Side.

It's been a strange process, mentally switching gears from being genuinely really satisfied as a twosome, to being genuinely really satisfied as a twosome, only we're about to become three.  We are trying to create room for the emotions that we can't yet understand for this person that is making himself increasingly known with every roll and roundhouse.  It feels a shade like treason to my former self to admit it, but I've truly enjoyed being pregnant.  So far things haven't been bad:  not too much back pain, no excessive gas ( I think - you tell me), or insane cravings.  It helps that we're 90 miles from the nearest crab rangoon, which, if you felt like bringing me sometime, would be totally ok, and might earn you a middle name or fairy godmother status via our son.  It's been a fascinating process,  to mentally know, then physically feel that life is getting ready to burst (don't remind me) forth from life.  Crazy, really.

So as I adjust to our Olympic vaulter catapulting himself off of my bladder, I think I'm also adjusting to the idea that in a few short months, there will be something other than the cat flailing around on the living room floor.  All in all, I suppose I'm actually looking forward to it.

Kiwi the Cat is not, unless he will be accompanied by snacks.  Which really, would be ok with me, too.