I have a confession to make.
I am not a fan of Elmo. I was secretly relieved when Elizabeth and Alexis skipped over the whole being in love with Elmo thing. I could put up with Blue's Clues, watch hours of Phineas and Ferb, and play Miss Clavelle all day long (though really, Elizabeth, a nun? You had a great imagination...). I was so glad that they did not get bitten by the whole Sesame Street bug.
Then came Charlie. One day, the girls were bored and we were looking up videos on you tube because why the hell would I actually want to PLAY with my children. I decided to go and look up this kinda cute video I had come across once: a parody of LMFAO's "I'm Sexy and I Know It" called "I'm Elmo and I know It". This was back before Charlie became obsessed, when the idea of a fuzzy red monster was cute in an arm's length sort of way. You know, like when someone shows you a baby Tasmanian devil...adorable but definitely not something you want to get involved with long term.
Charlie took one hit off of the crack pipe called Elmo and was hooked. Had he been a real drug she would be pawning her stuff and trading sippy cups of milk for her fix. It was that instantaneous. Now every time I try to ignore my children and go on the computer, she is all "Elmo? Elmo?". No, child, how the fuck am I supposed to ignore you if you are sitting on my lap smacking my arm every five seconds during the video that is playing? Don't you know Mommy has important things to do on the computer? Like Facebook?
I don't know what it is about Elmo that irritates me so. He is my favorite color, after all, and at first glance is pretty cute. Maybe it is his annoying laugh. Maybe it is his inability to refer to himself in the first person. Maybe it is the whole Tickle Me Elmo thing, where he looks like he is either epileptic or making inappropriate body movements.
All I know is...Elmo has made it so that I can put Charlie's ear drops in without sporting bruises worthy of a cage fighting match. For that alone, I am eternally grateful to the little fuzzy bastard.
Monday, July 23, 2012
Friday, July 13, 2012
Tosh
I guess recently there is a huge uproar about comments that the host of Tosh.0 made towards a female in the audience when she challenged him on rape jokes he was making. He responded by inviting people to rape her back.
My job exists, in part, because of people who are raped, who are sexually abused, who are victimized. Survivors are some of the hardest cases for therapists to work with sometimes. Yet, on a daily basis, I am left helping people pick up the pieces from a rape. From being molested. From maybe having had one too many drinks and being taken advantage of.
Very few of these people have had their perpetrators come to justice. Very few reported it. An astounding number still have to interact with the person who victimized them...sometimes daily.
Sexual assault is a boundary crossing to the max, amongst other things. It is a symbol of the misogyny in our culture. What man regularly has to "be aware" of being in a parking lot at night because someone might jump them? What man has ever had to leave a room, cross a street, call a friend, because a stranger was creeping them out?
Rape is not funny. Extorting someone to commit this violent act is not funny. Doing so to silence someone who dares to challenge you...isn't that part of what rape is? Keeping people, mainly women, in their place? Power and control? Objectifying?
Pretending rape jokes are humor is no different than pretending that drinking a case of beer daily is normal consumption. Both reek of denial. Both take a huge cost...unseen at first, but eventually devastating in what havoc it wreaks.
I admit that I thought Tosh.0 was funny. Not so much any more. I can't support someone without basic decency. I am sure the next outcry will be about how he really is a nice guy. And so is that rapist sitting in the audience who is taking your jokes about it as normalizing rape.
My job exists, in part, because of people who are raped, who are sexually abused, who are victimized. Survivors are some of the hardest cases for therapists to work with sometimes. Yet, on a daily basis, I am left helping people pick up the pieces from a rape. From being molested. From maybe having had one too many drinks and being taken advantage of.
Very few of these people have had their perpetrators come to justice. Very few reported it. An astounding number still have to interact with the person who victimized them...sometimes daily.
Sexual assault is a boundary crossing to the max, amongst other things. It is a symbol of the misogyny in our culture. What man regularly has to "be aware" of being in a parking lot at night because someone might jump them? What man has ever had to leave a room, cross a street, call a friend, because a stranger was creeping them out?
Rape is not funny. Extorting someone to commit this violent act is not funny. Doing so to silence someone who dares to challenge you...isn't that part of what rape is? Keeping people, mainly women, in their place? Power and control? Objectifying?
Pretending rape jokes are humor is no different than pretending that drinking a case of beer daily is normal consumption. Both reek of denial. Both take a huge cost...unseen at first, but eventually devastating in what havoc it wreaks.
I admit that I thought Tosh.0 was funny. Not so much any more. I can't support someone without basic decency. I am sure the next outcry will be about how he really is a nice guy. And so is that rapist sitting in the audience who is taking your jokes about it as normalizing rape.
Monday, July 2, 2012
7/2/2008
I realized that I have never ever written out the entirety of my son's birth story (or any of the kids', for that matter). Seeing how today is the day he was born, I thought I would do so.
His story actually starts on June 30th, the day we were supposed to find out the sex at the "big" ultrasound. It was a really shitty day, weather wise...pouring down rain, and kinda cold. I had to go into Fairview Hospital for the ultrasound because Dr. Gingo makes me get Level II ultrasounds because he always disagrees with me on my due dates (and for the record, I am always right...) Charles and I dropped Alexis off at the daycare, then headed out.
We get to the hospital, and get ourselves checked in. I had to drink the 12 gallons of water that they make you drink and of course had to pee. We get called back to the room, and they ask if we can have a student observe. Sure; why not? That student sure got a lesson that day, poor girl...
They put the gel on my belly and start. Here, Charles said that he immediately knew something was wrong. There was no flickering heartbeat on the screen. I was just smiling at seeing my baby. The technician starts to take measurements. The head is around 15 weeks. I say, "No, I am about 20 weeks." I start to get worried. Is there something wrong with my baby? They measure the arms. 17 weeks, 3 days. OK, a little better...maybe I am wrong on my dates. They they try to get the baby to move so they can get better measurements. Pushing, poking and prodding on my stomach does nothing. The baby is just lying there. They make me go pee because my bladder is about to explode. Nothing.
The doctor comes in. At this time, I am mildly alarmed because I knew from experience that the doc does not come in till the end. Dr. Moodley (the specialist I had to see) looks and frowns at the screen. Then he turns on the fetal heart rate monitor. Silence.
He turns to me and says, "I am afraid that there is no heartbeat. The baby is very small and has died. I am very sorry."
I ask if I will have to deliver. He says yes. It seems like torture to me.
Someone called Dr. Gingo's office. We are told to go immediately there. I am sobbing at this point. I had texted everyone who was waiting eagerly to hear the news. I leave the hospital and get in the car. I call my mom. I make Charles call Matt to tell Elizabeth.
We get to Dr. Gingo's. They set up an induction for the next day. At the time, again, it seemed like torture. What I did not realize at the time, and what I will forever be eternally grateful to Dr. Gingo for, is that waiting that one day put me at 20 weeks exactly. I got a death certificate for my son becuase of that one day. Otherwise, his birth could have been considered a miscarriage and it would have been a royal pain to get him cremated.
I called Elizabeth. Besides from when I had to tell her that her beloved Papa, my father, had died, that was the hardest thing I ever had to do. She had been so excited, and had just bought him a t-shirt. In fact, that shirt is currently on the Build-a Bear that my sister had bought for us. Gabe's death also prompted her to text me for the very first time, and earned him the nickname of "The Gabe".
That night, I got online and started to research. Part of me is wondering what my son will look like. If you ever want to torture yourself, look up "macerated fetus". On second thought, don't. There are some things people should not have to see. I stumble across the statute that explains the whole death certificate thing. I finally go to bed, and I completely lose it. I just remember begging my husband to not let me lose my mind. I was convinced that I was going to, because at that moment I was out of my mind with grief.
I slept some. The next morning comes. I don't want to get out of bed. I do; we drop Alexis off at the in-laws and go to the hospital. When we get to the maternity ward, the first thing I hear is an infant crying. I almost lose it as I check in. The nurses at the hospital were fantastic. As soon as they realized who I was, I was immediately whisked into a room. There were two doors to this room. I requested to have them both shut. I did not want to hear those babies when I would never hear my own.
Dr. Gingo popped in and explained that the on call doctor would be monitoring me that day. I was given another ultrasound. The doctor explained to me very gently that this was just to "make sure". I looked right at her and said, "There better not be a heartbeat, cause there is surely something horribly wrong then cause there definitely was not one yesterday." There is none, and she confirms that the baby is really small. They start me on the meds, some kind of vaginal suppository to start labor. The ones that I had always been told to avoid because of the risk of still birth. Guess it did not matter at this point. I was told that I could get an epidural whenever I wanted. I almost asked for it right there, but I wanted to be able to move if I wanted for as long as I could. Then we waited.
I went into the hospital at 8 AM on July 1, and did not deliver until 2:45 AM on July 2. I got the epidural at some point. I had started to have some mild discomfort in my back, and asked for pain meds. I expected to be given Motrin; they offered the epidural instead. I sat and read my book, a marital therapy one by John Gottman. I was still in school for my master's at that point. We looked at the funeral information that had been discretely provided to us. We called the first place listed and made arrangements for the cremation. I got several more shots for my epidural, and then finally a pump. The epidural made my blood pressure bottom out (got as low as 50/24 at one point). My sister brought Charles lunch. I got Jello and ginger ale. Dinner came and went; my mom brought Charles dinner at some point too. I slept a bit. During this sleep, I saw my dad with my son and was comforted somewhat. I told Charles about this; he visibly relaxed too.
At about 2:30 AM, I shifted slightly and felt something between my legs. I had started to bleed a little bit, so I thought nothing of it. I sat up at 2:45 and delivered my son. It was literally that quick. At the time, I did not know that; I just knew that something had come out. Charles got the nurse, who got the doc. She picked the baby up. He was born in the caul, and I delivered everything at once. I was lucky...I did not have to have a D&C after. They allowed me to hold him briefly, then took him away and cleaned him up. They brought him to me again, on a tiny pillow. He was wrapped in a blue crocheted blanket and had a tiny cap on. I can fit three fingers inside that cap, that is how small he was. I remember his tiny little finger nails, and that the way that his chest meets his arms is exactly the way that Alexis's was as a baby. He had big cheeks and looked just like Charles. One of my regrets of that day is that I did not take pictures of him. I was not aware of organizations such as Now I Lay Me Down to Sleep then. I had the camera; I just did not get it out. We just have a really crappy one the hospital gave us. It does not do him justice. He did not look as bad as I feared. In fact, he was perfect.
His story actually starts on June 30th, the day we were supposed to find out the sex at the "big" ultrasound. It was a really shitty day, weather wise...pouring down rain, and kinda cold. I had to go into Fairview Hospital for the ultrasound because Dr. Gingo makes me get Level II ultrasounds because he always disagrees with me on my due dates (and for the record, I am always right...) Charles and I dropped Alexis off at the daycare, then headed out.
We get to the hospital, and get ourselves checked in. I had to drink the 12 gallons of water that they make you drink and of course had to pee. We get called back to the room, and they ask if we can have a student observe. Sure; why not? That student sure got a lesson that day, poor girl...
They put the gel on my belly and start. Here, Charles said that he immediately knew something was wrong. There was no flickering heartbeat on the screen. I was just smiling at seeing my baby. The technician starts to take measurements. The head is around 15 weeks. I say, "No, I am about 20 weeks." I start to get worried. Is there something wrong with my baby? They measure the arms. 17 weeks, 3 days. OK, a little better...maybe I am wrong on my dates. They they try to get the baby to move so they can get better measurements. Pushing, poking and prodding on my stomach does nothing. The baby is just lying there. They make me go pee because my bladder is about to explode. Nothing.
The doctor comes in. At this time, I am mildly alarmed because I knew from experience that the doc does not come in till the end. Dr. Moodley (the specialist I had to see) looks and frowns at the screen. Then he turns on the fetal heart rate monitor. Silence.
He turns to me and says, "I am afraid that there is no heartbeat. The baby is very small and has died. I am very sorry."
I ask if I will have to deliver. He says yes. It seems like torture to me.
Someone called Dr. Gingo's office. We are told to go immediately there. I am sobbing at this point. I had texted everyone who was waiting eagerly to hear the news. I leave the hospital and get in the car. I call my mom. I make Charles call Matt to tell Elizabeth.
We get to Dr. Gingo's. They set up an induction for the next day. At the time, again, it seemed like torture. What I did not realize at the time, and what I will forever be eternally grateful to Dr. Gingo for, is that waiting that one day put me at 20 weeks exactly. I got a death certificate for my son becuase of that one day. Otherwise, his birth could have been considered a miscarriage and it would have been a royal pain to get him cremated.
I called Elizabeth. Besides from when I had to tell her that her beloved Papa, my father, had died, that was the hardest thing I ever had to do. She had been so excited, and had just bought him a t-shirt. In fact, that shirt is currently on the Build-a Bear that my sister had bought for us. Gabe's death also prompted her to text me for the very first time, and earned him the nickname of "The Gabe".
That night, I got online and started to research. Part of me is wondering what my son will look like. If you ever want to torture yourself, look up "macerated fetus". On second thought, don't. There are some things people should not have to see. I stumble across the statute that explains the whole death certificate thing. I finally go to bed, and I completely lose it. I just remember begging my husband to not let me lose my mind. I was convinced that I was going to, because at that moment I was out of my mind with grief.
I slept some. The next morning comes. I don't want to get out of bed. I do; we drop Alexis off at the in-laws and go to the hospital. When we get to the maternity ward, the first thing I hear is an infant crying. I almost lose it as I check in. The nurses at the hospital were fantastic. As soon as they realized who I was, I was immediately whisked into a room. There were two doors to this room. I requested to have them both shut. I did not want to hear those babies when I would never hear my own.
Dr. Gingo popped in and explained that the on call doctor would be monitoring me that day. I was given another ultrasound. The doctor explained to me very gently that this was just to "make sure". I looked right at her and said, "There better not be a heartbeat, cause there is surely something horribly wrong then cause there definitely was not one yesterday." There is none, and she confirms that the baby is really small. They start me on the meds, some kind of vaginal suppository to start labor. The ones that I had always been told to avoid because of the risk of still birth. Guess it did not matter at this point. I was told that I could get an epidural whenever I wanted. I almost asked for it right there, but I wanted to be able to move if I wanted for as long as I could. Then we waited.
I went into the hospital at 8 AM on July 1, and did not deliver until 2:45 AM on July 2. I got the epidural at some point. I had started to have some mild discomfort in my back, and asked for pain meds. I expected to be given Motrin; they offered the epidural instead. I sat and read my book, a marital therapy one by John Gottman. I was still in school for my master's at that point. We looked at the funeral information that had been discretely provided to us. We called the first place listed and made arrangements for the cremation. I got several more shots for my epidural, and then finally a pump. The epidural made my blood pressure bottom out (got as low as 50/24 at one point). My sister brought Charles lunch. I got Jello and ginger ale. Dinner came and went; my mom brought Charles dinner at some point too. I slept a bit. During this sleep, I saw my dad with my son and was comforted somewhat. I told Charles about this; he visibly relaxed too.
At about 2:30 AM, I shifted slightly and felt something between my legs. I had started to bleed a little bit, so I thought nothing of it. I sat up at 2:45 and delivered my son. It was literally that quick. At the time, I did not know that; I just knew that something had come out. Charles got the nurse, who got the doc. She picked the baby up. He was born in the caul, and I delivered everything at once. I was lucky...I did not have to have a D&C after. They allowed me to hold him briefly, then took him away and cleaned him up. They brought him to me again, on a tiny pillow. He was wrapped in a blue crocheted blanket and had a tiny cap on. I can fit three fingers inside that cap, that is how small he was. I remember his tiny little finger nails, and that the way that his chest meets his arms is exactly the way that Alexis's was as a baby. He had big cheeks and looked just like Charles. One of my regrets of that day is that I did not take pictures of him. I was not aware of organizations such as Now I Lay Me Down to Sleep then. I had the camera; I just did not get it out. We just have a really crappy one the hospital gave us. It does not do him justice. He did not look as bad as I feared. In fact, he was perfect.
Saturday, June 23, 2012
Parenting
So since I am a therapist and all, one of the basic premises of my personality (besides being a glutton for punishment) is that I want to make people feel better about themselves. Keeping that in mind, here is my contribution for the day towards that cause. After reading these gems, you are sure to feel better about your parenting and mental stability in general.
Charlie is playing with a bunch of bowls of water and some cups and spoons. This usually keeps her entertained for almost a full hour. I happened to look over at her and she is standing on top of the picnic table where she is playing. I tell her to sit down and she sits...on top of the table. Advantage, Charlie...next time I will need to be more specific.
When Elizabeth was about five or so,we had a Jack Russell Terrier named J.D. Charles REFUSED to get this dog fixed. REFUSED. J.D. was lying on the ground one day, and his balls were sticking out from under his butt. Elizabeth, of course, notices them and turns to me and says, "What are those things under J.D.? Those...balls?" I lost it and laughed and probably peed myself a little. I figure that probably tacked on a minimum of 6 months of therapy...
These weren't my children, but just to show you that my stellar skills extend to other children as well (you know, in case you were ever contemplating leaving your children in my care...)...I worked at a daycare for years on and off. My last stint was in a 3 year old preschool classroom, co-teaching with my sister. We were talking about traveling or some shit, and what the kids would pack. We got all of the typical stuff...clothes, nightgown, blankie, etc. (Though one kid did throw out "ointment", which of course I cracked up about...what three year old says "ointment?") We were almost done when this one very sweet little girl pipes up with her contribution. Now before I tell you what it was, keep in mind that her father always complained about how old he was to all of us. Her contribution? "My daddy packs little blue pills when he goes out of town." The poor children did not know why their teacher thought that was so funny. I told them all to ask their parents, cause I am so good at deflecting like that.
Both Elizabeth and Alexis could use fuck as a noun, adjective, and a verb by the age of three. Charlie is probably well on her way there too.
Charlie comes walking into the kitchen in nothing but her diaper and a shit load of Mardi Gras beads. Charles turns to me and goes, "Well, I guess she earned those beads, didn't she?"
Alexis is driving along in the car with me when Rhianna's S & M comes on. She goes, "Oh, Mommy, turn this up! This is my song!"
Charlie is playing with a bunch of bowls of water and some cups and spoons. This usually keeps her entertained for almost a full hour. I happened to look over at her and she is standing on top of the picnic table where she is playing. I tell her to sit down and she sits...on top of the table. Advantage, Charlie...next time I will need to be more specific.
When Elizabeth was about five or so,we had a Jack Russell Terrier named J.D. Charles REFUSED to get this dog fixed. REFUSED. J.D. was lying on the ground one day, and his balls were sticking out from under his butt. Elizabeth, of course, notices them and turns to me and says, "What are those things under J.D.? Those...balls?" I lost it and laughed and probably peed myself a little. I figure that probably tacked on a minimum of 6 months of therapy...
These weren't my children, but just to show you that my stellar skills extend to other children as well (you know, in case you were ever contemplating leaving your children in my care...)...I worked at a daycare for years on and off. My last stint was in a 3 year old preschool classroom, co-teaching with my sister. We were talking about traveling or some shit, and what the kids would pack. We got all of the typical stuff...clothes, nightgown, blankie, etc. (Though one kid did throw out "ointment", which of course I cracked up about...what three year old says "ointment?") We were almost done when this one very sweet little girl pipes up with her contribution. Now before I tell you what it was, keep in mind that her father always complained about how old he was to all of us. Her contribution? "My daddy packs little blue pills when he goes out of town." The poor children did not know why their teacher thought that was so funny. I told them all to ask their parents, cause I am so good at deflecting like that.
Both Elizabeth and Alexis could use fuck as a noun, adjective, and a verb by the age of three. Charlie is probably well on her way there too.
Charlie comes walking into the kitchen in nothing but her diaper and a shit load of Mardi Gras beads. Charles turns to me and goes, "Well, I guess she earned those beads, didn't she?"
Alexis is driving along in the car with me when Rhianna's S & M comes on. She goes, "Oh, Mommy, turn this up! This is my song!"
Wednesday, June 20, 2012
Toddlers
Toddlers can be such assholes.
This was my status on Facebook today. And it is the honest to God truth. I have said it before, but living with Charlie is like living with a person who has rapidly cycling bipolar disorder with psychotic features and who is quite possibly withdrawing from a substance. In this case, that substance would be the crackers and marshmallows that I have the nerve to not allow her to subsist on. (And hell yeah I just ended my sentence with a preposition. That is what living with a toddler will do to you. Their assholery will make you do things like have poor grammar. And make up words like assholery.)
I could not even begin to imagine the emotions that that child must experience, not just day to day but minute to minute. She will go from throwing herself down on the floor in a murderous rage when I won't allow her to climb inside the stove to running up to me with those big baby blues and asking sweetly, "Outside? Play?". She is very good at knowing exactly which buttons of Charles's to push and will do things like look him directly in the eye while turning a cup of milk over to pour it all over the floor. She has perfected this unholy screech that makes angels cry and shatters crystal. She can arch her back in the midst of her temper tantrum and put the back bend of an Olympic gymnast to shame.
But then there are moments like tonight, when she calls plaintively for me from her crib. "Mama! Mama!" I go up there wearily, bracing myself for the onslaught of passionate, unbridled emotions that she can sling my way. She is standing up in her crib, holding Doggie in one hand and her blanket in the other. She wants me to pick her up and hold her. She snuggles into the center of my chest like she did as an infant, tucking her butt under her legs and just melting into me. And I think, "What did I do to deserve the love of such a passionate, dynamic creature? Why does she need me so when she is so capable of doing and being whatever she wants? How did I get so lucky?" All is forgiven and I can laugh at her toddler antics.
Yes, toddlers can be such assholes.
This was my status on Facebook today. And it is the honest to God truth. I have said it before, but living with Charlie is like living with a person who has rapidly cycling bipolar disorder with psychotic features and who is quite possibly withdrawing from a substance. In this case, that substance would be the crackers and marshmallows that I have the nerve to not allow her to subsist on. (And hell yeah I just ended my sentence with a preposition. That is what living with a toddler will do to you. Their assholery will make you do things like have poor grammar. And make up words like assholery.)
I could not even begin to imagine the emotions that that child must experience, not just day to day but minute to minute. She will go from throwing herself down on the floor in a murderous rage when I won't allow her to climb inside the stove to running up to me with those big baby blues and asking sweetly, "Outside? Play?". She is very good at knowing exactly which buttons of Charles's to push and will do things like look him directly in the eye while turning a cup of milk over to pour it all over the floor. She has perfected this unholy screech that makes angels cry and shatters crystal. She can arch her back in the midst of her temper tantrum and put the back bend of an Olympic gymnast to shame.
But then there are moments like tonight, when she calls plaintively for me from her crib. "Mama! Mama!" I go up there wearily, bracing myself for the onslaught of passionate, unbridled emotions that she can sling my way. She is standing up in her crib, holding Doggie in one hand and her blanket in the other. She wants me to pick her up and hold her. She snuggles into the center of my chest like she did as an infant, tucking her butt under her legs and just melting into me. And I think, "What did I do to deserve the love of such a passionate, dynamic creature? Why does she need me so when she is so capable of doing and being whatever she wants? How did I get so lucky?" All is forgiven and I can laugh at her toddler antics.
Yes, toddlers can be such assholes.
Saturday, June 2, 2012
Rainbows
So because I really like to
put my Zoloft to the test, I decided today that I was going to join the
community garage sale. That was today from 9-4. At 11 AM. I put my stuff out and got rid of a lot of baby
shit...and made enough to go buy Alexis her bike. She wanted one for
her birthday, but I am not so mean as to make her wait until the end of
September (though certain other of my children may dispute this
point...).
I felt a twinge or two as I was shameless giving away crap that I don't ever have a use for ever again. It is quite public knowledge that I hate being pregnant. I am happy about the size of our family. The twinge was not about that.
Rather, it was more about giving the damn Bumbo seat, the red toddler bed, the Jumperoo, etc. away before ALL of my children had a chance to use them. I had overheard Alexis telling her friend on the porch today as they colored, "I DO TOO have a brother! He is in heaven! I don't see him, though..." Talk about being shot through the heart.
I went about my day. I ran out to do the grocery shopping, and of course as soon as I get out of the grocery store, it LETS LOOSE. I turn and look at the west...sun is shining as brightly as can be. I am torn. It is pretty much a tie between what I hate more...water, or being pregnant. (This only applies to water that is on my body. I drink tap water like I am getting paid to do so.) Do I stay facing the east, in the rain, and look for the rainbow, or do I get my groceries, the crabby baby I have with me, and my tired ass, in the car and headed in the opposite direction?
Practicality won out. Plus I was cold. I got in the car and headed home, convinced that I was not going to see the rainbow. Disappointment was felt by all involved (which pretty much was only me).
You see, rainbows have had a special significance for me since my son's death. When I was in labor with him, I saw my father. Big deal, right? Yeah, except for he is dead. He was holding a baby, wrapped in the God-awful receiving blankets that hospitals use, and singing this God-awful song he used to sing to all of the grandchildren:
Teera, Leera, Loora,
Teera, Leera, Lie,
Teera, Leera, Loora,
Hush, now, don't you cry.
That was the first time since I had learned that I was going to have to deliver a dead baby that I felt comforted.
Fast forward about a month. We were on vacation, and it started to storm again. In the sky, there was a gorgeous double rainbow. It was almost as though my dad and Gabe were saying, "Be at peace; we are here."
Since then, it has always seemed that whenever things were tough, or I was thinking about Gabe a lot for whatever reason (well, more than usual I should say...) a rainbow will come out.
It did not fail me today, either. Looking in my rear view mirror, I saw the biggest, most beautiful rainbow against the dark slate gray storm clouds. I almost drove the car off the road; I literally could not take my eyes off of it. It was THAT brilliant and beautiful and big.
Thanks, son.
I felt a twinge or two as I was shameless giving away crap that I don't ever have a use for ever again. It is quite public knowledge that I hate being pregnant. I am happy about the size of our family. The twinge was not about that.
Rather, it was more about giving the damn Bumbo seat, the red toddler bed, the Jumperoo, etc. away before ALL of my children had a chance to use them. I had overheard Alexis telling her friend on the porch today as they colored, "I DO TOO have a brother! He is in heaven! I don't see him, though..." Talk about being shot through the heart.
I went about my day. I ran out to do the grocery shopping, and of course as soon as I get out of the grocery store, it LETS LOOSE. I turn and look at the west...sun is shining as brightly as can be. I am torn. It is pretty much a tie between what I hate more...water, or being pregnant. (This only applies to water that is on my body. I drink tap water like I am getting paid to do so.) Do I stay facing the east, in the rain, and look for the rainbow, or do I get my groceries, the crabby baby I have with me, and my tired ass, in the car and headed in the opposite direction?
Practicality won out. Plus I was cold. I got in the car and headed home, convinced that I was not going to see the rainbow. Disappointment was felt by all involved (which pretty much was only me).
You see, rainbows have had a special significance for me since my son's death. When I was in labor with him, I saw my father. Big deal, right? Yeah, except for he is dead. He was holding a baby, wrapped in the God-awful receiving blankets that hospitals use, and singing this God-awful song he used to sing to all of the grandchildren:
Teera, Leera, Loora,
Teera, Leera, Lie,
Teera, Leera, Loora,
Hush, now, don't you cry.
That was the first time since I had learned that I was going to have to deliver a dead baby that I felt comforted.
Fast forward about a month. We were on vacation, and it started to storm again. In the sky, there was a gorgeous double rainbow. It was almost as though my dad and Gabe were saying, "Be at peace; we are here."
Since then, it has always seemed that whenever things were tough, or I was thinking about Gabe a lot for whatever reason (well, more than usual I should say...) a rainbow will come out.
It did not fail me today, either. Looking in my rear view mirror, I saw the biggest, most beautiful rainbow against the dark slate gray storm clouds. I almost drove the car off the road; I literally could not take my eyes off of it. It was THAT brilliant and beautiful and big.
Thanks, son.
Wednesday, May 30, 2012
Unhinged
Some days I feel as though I have my very own special psychiatric ward here in my home, filled with bipolar patients who rapidly cycle through their moods. Between having a toddler, a teenager, and a 5 year old (I am firmly convinced that children at that age have little mini hormonal cycles just like a woman...), there is enough lability of mood to make the makers of Depakote go nuts. Between Charlie's dramatic temper tantrums about being prevented from running out in traffic, Alexis's conviction that she is the ONLY ONE IN HER ENTIRE GRADE who had to wear long sleeves, and Elizabeth's just general teen-ness, I am about to go completely unhinged myself.
And yet...I would not trade it for the world. My children are both my sanity and my madness. I come home from work on days like today, when I am surrounded by desperation and pain and hopelessness, and I see why I do what I do. It is because there is hope in Charlie's "muwah's" (kisses) that she gives me when I get home from work. There is still innocent joy in Alexis begging me to play on the trampoline with her. There is promise in my conversations I have with Elizabeth. There is sheer delight in the way that they all play together. The simple pleasure that I get in making dinner for my family, in watching them grow and learn and become women. In seeing the development of their personalities, their growth as human beings.
I am humbled by watching them become just generally fantastic people. Bright, creative, funny, caring. It makes all of the insanity worth it.
And yet...I would not trade it for the world. My children are both my sanity and my madness. I come home from work on days like today, when I am surrounded by desperation and pain and hopelessness, and I see why I do what I do. It is because there is hope in Charlie's "muwah's" (kisses) that she gives me when I get home from work. There is still innocent joy in Alexis begging me to play on the trampoline with her. There is promise in my conversations I have with Elizabeth. There is sheer delight in the way that they all play together. The simple pleasure that I get in making dinner for my family, in watching them grow and learn and become women. In seeing the development of their personalities, their growth as human beings.
I am humbled by watching them become just generally fantastic people. Bright, creative, funny, caring. It makes all of the insanity worth it.
Wednesday, May 16, 2012
Conversations IX
My brother in law, after eating a sundae that consisted of a peanut butter sauce filled chocolate mini cake, hot fudge, peanut butter sauce, a Reese's cup, and peanut butter and fudge swirled peanut butter cup ice cream (with some whipped cream and two cherries on it):
"I have not put anything this unhealthy in my body for a long time, and right now by body is saying to me, 'You asshole'."
Elizabeth's father texted her a picture of her sister with their cat and the message that the cat had died. I asked her if they were going to get a new cat. Her response?
"No, Mom. You can't just get a new cat to replace the old one. It is just not the same. They have their own personalities. It is like asking someone if they were going to have a new baby to replace the old one when it died. That's just wrong."
I did ask her if she realized that she just compared a cat to a baby and she just shrugged. I may need to rethink this whole baby-sitting thing here...
Talking to Charles's cousin about her new baby:
Cousin: Yeah, she has a lot of hair on her head. And some on her back too.
Cousin's husband: Yeah, she is going to be like her daddy and just have a blanket.
Me, to Charles: Maybe that is what I need to do! I need to grow some back hair! I wonder how I could make that happen so I am not always cold...
Few minutes later, talking about covering yourself up while in bed because if you don't the serial killer who lives under your bed will GET YOU AT NIGHT!!!
Charles: Eh, I always have to have my arms out. I can't stand to have my hand covered, even if they are cold.
Cousin's husband, to me: See? If you figure out the back hair thing, he can just bury his hands in there to keep them warm! LIKE A BLANKET!!!
(Obviously it takes a special kind of person to marry into this family....)
"I have not put anything this unhealthy in my body for a long time, and right now by body is saying to me, 'You asshole'."
Elizabeth's father texted her a picture of her sister with their cat and the message that the cat had died. I asked her if they were going to get a new cat. Her response?
"No, Mom. You can't just get a new cat to replace the old one. It is just not the same. They have their own personalities. It is like asking someone if they were going to have a new baby to replace the old one when it died. That's just wrong."
I did ask her if she realized that she just compared a cat to a baby and she just shrugged. I may need to rethink this whole baby-sitting thing here...
Talking to Charles's cousin about her new baby:
Cousin: Yeah, she has a lot of hair on her head. And some on her back too.
Cousin's husband: Yeah, she is going to be like her daddy and just have a blanket.
Me, to Charles: Maybe that is what I need to do! I need to grow some back hair! I wonder how I could make that happen so I am not always cold...
Few minutes later, talking about covering yourself up while in bed because if you don't the serial killer who lives under your bed will GET YOU AT NIGHT!!!
Charles: Eh, I always have to have my arms out. I can't stand to have my hand covered, even if they are cold.
Cousin's husband, to me: See? If you figure out the back hair thing, he can just bury his hands in there to keep them warm! LIKE A BLANKET!!!
(Obviously it takes a special kind of person to marry into this family....)
Thursday, May 3, 2012
Random III
Charlie came home from daycare with a rather large goose egg down the middle of her forehead. She was running and tripped and bashed her head into a table. I guess she made that table her bitch. She OWNS that table now. Honestly, I am just glad that she was not climbing on that table and dancing on it. She is my child, though to look at her appearance one would have to strongly question her maternity.
She also has another fucking ear infection and her tubes are clogged again. What is the average cost of raising a child up to now? All I gots to say is, she better go to a cheap ass college or get a full ride scholarship because she is totally using up all of that money on her medical bills now. Cause you know, once she hits that average I am so cutting her off and making her get a job...
Alexis has learned the art of stalling. Specifically, dragging out bedtime routine so she does not have to go to bed. I decided to go all Love and Logic on her ass and stop nagging because really, it is way too much effort. I told her that she would have to start making up the time the next day, meaning that she would have to go to bed earlier, and that by my calculations she needed to go to bed now. Parent of the year I am not, but it got my point across.
Elizabeth just told me that there was a slug on her shoe (which was really my shoe she was wearing...) and that she had wiped it off. Not only did she wipe it off, but she disinfected the shoe. Then she told me that she had a slug in her hair as well. I did not ask questions. Sometimes it is just better that way. Though I do wonder if she disinfected her hair as well...
She also has another fucking ear infection and her tubes are clogged again. What is the average cost of raising a child up to now? All I gots to say is, she better go to a cheap ass college or get a full ride scholarship because she is totally using up all of that money on her medical bills now. Cause you know, once she hits that average I am so cutting her off and making her get a job...
Alexis has learned the art of stalling. Specifically, dragging out bedtime routine so she does not have to go to bed. I decided to go all Love and Logic on her ass and stop nagging because really, it is way too much effort. I told her that she would have to start making up the time the next day, meaning that she would have to go to bed earlier, and that by my calculations she needed to go to bed now. Parent of the year I am not, but it got my point across.
Elizabeth just told me that there was a slug on her shoe (which was really my shoe she was wearing...) and that she had wiped it off. Not only did she wipe it off, but she disinfected the shoe. Then she told me that she had a slug in her hair as well. I did not ask questions. Sometimes it is just better that way. Though I do wonder if she disinfected her hair as well...
Sunday, April 22, 2012
Deception
Charlie looks very angelic for a demon child.
Seriously. She has these big blue eyes, this creamy soft skin, this mischievous little grin...my little ginger baby is adorable if I do say so myself. But good God almighty, that child is hell on wheels. Or rather, hell on tiny size 4 sneakers.
I went to the Children's Museum with my sister-in-law this weekend. After watching Charlie climb up (and almost fall down) a set of stairs, pick up several chairs (and throw one in a fit of rage when it wasn't doing exactly what she wanted it to...), arch her back and throw herself around when I dared to stop her from falling off of a bench, and attempt to climb up the side of the car that they had for kids to pretend to drive, she turned to me and said, "I see now why you call her Char-Rambo."
Exactly.
Charlie is a tank. She knows what she wants and she goes for it with a passion that only a toddler can muster. She sits and concentrates and figures things out and by God, if it does not do what she thinks it should do, her head starts spinning and green vomit comes out her mouth. Kidding! (Well, maybe just a little bit...)
When do we lose that single-minded determination to figure things out? When does the child learn to temper the emotions to more socially acceptable responses, like binge drinking and cage fighting? I wish I knew the exact moment, because I want to tell Charlie to never lose that passion. Learn to control it, to direct it in a positive direction...but to never stop feeling the sting of that chair not doing what the fuck you want it to when you have tried so hard to figure it out.
Seriously. She has these big blue eyes, this creamy soft skin, this mischievous little grin...my little ginger baby is adorable if I do say so myself. But good God almighty, that child is hell on wheels. Or rather, hell on tiny size 4 sneakers.
I went to the Children's Museum with my sister-in-law this weekend. After watching Charlie climb up (and almost fall down) a set of stairs, pick up several chairs (and throw one in a fit of rage when it wasn't doing exactly what she wanted it to...), arch her back and throw herself around when I dared to stop her from falling off of a bench, and attempt to climb up the side of the car that they had for kids to pretend to drive, she turned to me and said, "I see now why you call her Char-Rambo."
Exactly.
Charlie is a tank. She knows what she wants and she goes for it with a passion that only a toddler can muster. She sits and concentrates and figures things out and by God, if it does not do what she thinks it should do, her head starts spinning and green vomit comes out her mouth. Kidding! (Well, maybe just a little bit...)
When do we lose that single-minded determination to figure things out? When does the child learn to temper the emotions to more socially acceptable responses, like binge drinking and cage fighting? I wish I knew the exact moment, because I want to tell Charlie to never lose that passion. Learn to control it, to direct it in a positive direction...but to never stop feeling the sting of that chair not doing what the fuck you want it to when you have tried so hard to figure it out.
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