Monday Madness, 27 August 2012

Today is one for the books.  I may be the only sober woman in the history of the world to sleep through her alarm on her First Grader's first day of class.  In fact, the only reason I woke up when I did is because a pajama-clad five-year-old stood in my bedroom door and called out, "Mommy, I thought you said we were getting up early today!"

Yes, son, I sure did.  The plan was not to have 15 minutes in which to dress, make a lunch, pack a backpack, and eat breakfast.  For those of you who hate suspense, I will end your angst by telling you that we did arrive--fed and dressed--to class only two minutes late, just in time for G to grab a quick hug and find his place in line before the kids went inside.

This was obviously not how I pictured the first day of sending my child to school.  Let me tell you how it happened.

It all started two years ago when my mom died.  I'm not being dramatic here; Mom's death, and the following death of my mother-in-law, created pockets of time during which I become mentally and physically overwhelmed with grief.  The last week or so has been tough as we begin to anticipate the fall trial for my MIL, but Saturday and Sunday were brutal.  By "brutal" I mean lots of crying, wakeful nights, sad dreams when I sleep, anger at being abandoned by my moms, and a dread of anyone asking "How are you?"

So last night I went to bed early, knowing the alarm would go off sooner than I wanted it to.  This would give the kids and me plenty of time to make a healthy breakfast, dress with care, and arrive at school a respectable ten minutes early.  Maybe I could even snap a couple adorable pictures of G in his backpack.  The plan was all well and good, but my early bedtime didn't prevent hours of lying awake in the dark with gnawing heartache.  Trying to fight, I listened to comforting music, prayed, listened to chapters of Psalms, fluffed my pillows, and kept my eyes squeezed closed.

At 5 a.m., feeling sleepy at last, I checked the volume on my iPod to make sure it was good and loud so I'd hear the alarm at 6:45.  This has always worked.  Until today of course.

The good news is, I didn't have any time to feel sorry for myself as I launched out of bed at 7:30 and threw clothes at the boys.  (As it turns out, I didn't have time to check my hair in the mirror, either.  Hopefully the first grade teacher didn't pay too much attention to me.)  I wasn't sure whether to laugh or cry hysterically while slamming together G's sandwich and repeatedly asking a small naked child to forget about matching socks and put on a shirt and pants, but there wasn't really time to have an emotional breakdown.  There also wasn't time to make oatmeal, which was the only breakfast we had in the cupboards.

Throwing the dice that traffic would be smooth and the McDonald's drive-thru would be speedy, I announced to the kids that we were having a special breakfast treat on this first day of school, and the three of us ran out the door: One adult wearing bed hair and no make-up, one boy wearing one small white sock and one long red sock, and one very grown-up boy beaming with a full backpack and a semi-matching outfit.

Mickey D's was not the quickest it could have been, but it could have been worse.  The boys were thrilled with their $1 sausage muffins, at least!  I did have a moment of panic when the on-ramp was backed up, but it cleared up sooner rather than later, and as I said earlier we made it to school more-or-less on time.

What I would now like to do more than anything else is call my mom on the phone and tell her about G's first day of school.  But at this point, all I really feel like saying is, "Gee, thanks Mom for not being here and making me so sad that I can't even enjoy a normal thing like driving my kid to school on his first day.  Thanks a lot."

I realize it's not Mom's fault for not being here, but since she's not around to defend herself or feel stung, I'm not worrying too much about it.  And eventually the anger will pass, as will this wonky day.  G can take as much time as he wants on the drive home to tell me all about class, and we can always have oatmeal for breakfast tomorrow.

***UPDATE***
I checked my iPod this afternoon and discovered that my alarm had never been set.  I distinctly remember walking over to it last night in order to set it, but in my haze I apparently got distracted.  At least I know the volume button isn't to blame!

Untangling My Brain, 21 August 2012

Today I woke up with a lot on my mind.  Maybe writing about it will help me sift through the stuff swirling around in my brain.  Oo, I know--I'll make a list.  Lists are awesome.

• I want to get away with Jay.  Far away, like for maybe two weeks.  Using the excuse of our 10th wedding anniversary, I'm trying to figure out if we can swing it.  Jay keeps telling me that what other people do or think doesn't matter, but I keep having this little voice in the back of my mind saying, "It's only the 10th.  People don't go on big vacations unless it's their 25th or 30th."  Being afraid of what other people think is one of the things I do best, so I'm working through that.
• When--and I'll say when and not if--Jay and I get away, how can we fit in all the things we want to do in the amount of time and money we have?  That's where creativity comes in.
• Yesterday I went to a new craft store that opened in my city.  The store's pretty awesome, but I had a very unexpected reaction as I browsed the aisles: I wanted to cry!  Didn't see that coming.  Maybe because I wish I were a craftier person?  Maybe because it reminded me of projects we did as kids...with my mom?  Sigh.
• While at the craft store, I started thinking about Christmas.  Kinda hard not to when hundreds of square feet are dedicated to holiday decor and merchandise.  Who in my family will be together this year?  Will we be at my house?  Will I want to put up stockings for everyone, or only the people who are present?
• My mom's parents are moving out of their house of 50 years this fall, and I'm having a hard time imagining life without my grandparents in that house.  The thick, soft carpet; the mirrored hall; the aroma of Old Spice and coffee; the brick fireplace; the floral bathroom wall paper and stained-glass dining room window.  Until the past few years, my family had every Christmas day there.  Hard to imagine Christmas without Grandma and Grandpa's house.
• Of course, we'll still be able to visit them...in their assisted-living apartment.  What will that be like?  It's a place I associate with my quiet, sweetly-wrinkled great-grandma, and I remember Christmases there, too. Every year growing up, the day after Christmas was a large family gathering with extended family in the community's club house.  It smelled like bleach and hard carpet (well, it did).  Will my grandparents' new place smell like bleach and carpet, or will it have the familiar scent of Old Spice and coffee?  I'm guessing Old Spice will win out, and that is comforting.

Now it's time to get the kids breakfast, and I haven't finished my list.  Other topics of note are a murder trial, an estate sale of my mom's things, the one-year anniversary of my mil's death, G starting first grade, being alone with Z during the mornings, a fall garden crop.

Thankfully, all this stuff does take a back burner when held up against my current desire for pancakes, which is rapidly overtaking all other thoughts in my brain.  Let me remind myself: I am taking life one day at a time.  Glad I acknowledged today's thoughts, but I'm not going to make them all today's concerns.

Hmmmm, buttermilk or sweet?  Butter and syrup...

The Battle of Bermuda -or- Four Hours Later -or- Two Mistakes I Made Today, 10 August 2012

Today found me in a determined frame of mind to get my little garden plot ready for the fall/winter crop.

Since June, I've ignored the weeds playing happily alongside the squash and cucumbers, but I draw the line at letting weeds compete with the new seedlings that need to get started.  One thing or another has kept me from getting to the garden this week, so I finally decided that today had to be the day.  Looking at the forecast, I quaked in my boots a bit at the predicted temp of 102 F, but I made plans to get out there at 6:30 in the morning and attack it before the sun got the better of me.  (Rachel doesn't like weeds and she doesn't like hot weather.  The two combined make a formidable foe!)

Well, after a restless night of sleep, the 6:30 alarm was put back to sleep until 7:45, at which point I had to get ready and leave for a morning appointment.  I got back home at 9:30--the outside temperature was already 80 degrees F--but refused to put off the task until another day.  I donned a tank top, shorts, and a hat, and grabbed the shovel.

There was my first mistake.  Between donning the tank top and grabbing the shovel, I should have applied sunscreen.  Little did I know...


I've talked about my nemesis Bermuda grass in a previous post.  Basically, my garden plot is a dug-out section of the lawn: an island of dirt surrounded on four sides by a sea of the Bermuda scourge.  It's a type of grass that spreads by seeds, roots, and trailing stems.  (Yeah.)  Over the course of the last six months, nature took its course and the grass infected the garden.

My goal for today was to cleanse the grass out, work a fresh batch of compost in, and plant several rows of new vegetable seeds.  Two hours of work maybe?  Done by noon, the heat wouldn't be too bad.  Doable.

Four Hours, a Palm Blister, Lobster-red Shoulders, and a Borderline Heatstroke later, I'd finally gotten the grass out and the compost in.  Panting and shaking, I dragged the garden tools off the lawn and basically crawled into a cold shower, where I stayed a good long time.

Jay was very sweet, bringing me cold drinks and rubbing aloe vera gel on my blazing shoulders.  By this evening I had recovered most of the way, in time to savor the meal Jay bought me of a delicious, calorie-crammed burger with fries and iced tea on the side.

Unfortunately, the iced tea was mistake number two.  I'm a caffeine lightweight, but didn't even consider that when downing the large glass of tea at 6 p.m.  Now it's 1 a.m. and I'm as awake as ever.  The complication is, I have to be out of my house again at 7 a.m. tomorrow--er, today--for another (unrelated) outdoor project I'm doing.

Naturally, the forecast high for the day is a grand 106 degrees F.  I'm already failing at getting enough sleep, but I'm determined not to fail in other areas.  Shade.  Sunscreen.  Being done and indoors by 1 p.m.  And not pulling one single weed.

Say, is it hot in here or is it just me?  Oh, it's my shoulders.  Aloe, here I come!

TV Trauma, 06 August 2012

Tonight I cried at the end of a TV episode.

Here are a few things I should explain:

1. I don't like to cry.
2. Since April of 2010 (when my mom died), I rarely cry.
3. I hate watching sad stuff on TV.
4. So I don't.
5. I do enjoy the intrigue of watching certain lightweight crime shows, solving a murder a minute.  (Three cheers for closure in an hour!)
6. I'm not sure why those don't usually feel sad to me; I think it has to do with the episode story lines not emotionally focusing on the victim, but rather on the ongoing characters.
7. I get attached to ongoing characters.
8. Sometimes, show writers opt for drama (go figure) and make sad stuff happen to the ongoing characters.
9. At which time I angrily stomp my feet and end the evening in a tiff.
10. Except for when my favorite show with my favorite characters sneaks sad stuff in.
11. Then I cry.

The particular show I watched tonight has had two episodes that brought tears streaming down my face.  Oh, there have been plenty of tiff-producing moments throughout the seasons, but these two episodes stand out.

The first episode that got me bawling shook me up pretty good.  I cried for 10 minutes straight--having not even cried at my own mother's memorial service--and thought, "What is wrong with me???  These are made-up people in a made-up show...It's not even real!!"  In fact, I was so troubled by my over-reaction that I discussed it with my therapist at my next appointment.

"Isn't it ridiculous?" I scoffed on her couch.

"Well," she said slowly, "the show was made up, but those were your tears."

That hit the nail on the head.  Something real inside me connected emotionally to the something made-up on television, and something real released the tears shut-up inside me.  That happened again with tonight's episode.  A made-up person died, his made-up friends cried on-screen, the pretend casket was sent off on a pretend airplane; but real pain in my real heart let real saltwater flow down my cheeks.

I can't unravel all the tangled emotional nerve endings that fire up inside me.  But it is comforting to know that I can cry; that feelings inside me are active and can be released, even if it takes a group of Hollywood actors and writers to do it.

Of course, I'm still angry at them.  They'd better make up for it in the next episode!

Balance Schmalance, 01 August 2012

Today's theme is "off-balance."  If I'd been watching gymnastics this week I could probably insert some kind of joke about losing balance, but that's not the kind of balance I mean.  I mean that I have felt a decrease of emotional equilibrium today.  (Try saying that five times fast.)


It started with making a list of back-to-school supplies for G, who will start first grade in two weeks.  Millions upon millions of parents have done this many, many times, but today was the first time for me.  Even while growing up, the first time I did my own "back to school" shopping was when I was getting ready to leave for college, and that included things like nail clippers and microwaves.  Before that, I was homeschooled by an extremely organized mom, and the cabinets were always stocked with paper and markers and binders, while loaded backpacks were hardly necessary on a day-to-day basis.


Last year, G's schooling was done mostly at home; the only things he needed to take with him to his twice-a-week class was a backpack with a small lunch box.  But he'll be in class four days a week this year (there is still a homeschooling component to the program) and his teacher posted a list of things I've never bought for a child before: small whiteboard, ruler, thermal lunch bag, 3-ring binders, and so-on.


Looking at the list from his teacher, I thought about just how many life changes this school year will involve.  First of all--and again, I know this is routine for scores of parents by the time their child is two years old--I've never had to pack a daily lunch for my kid before.  I've never left him at a class by himself for four hours before.  Z and I haven't had so much one-on-one time since I left the hospital with him at birth!  And the planner in me wonders: What'll it be like?  Will we all enjoy it?  What challenges will this create?  Will G thrive?  How will Z's personality develop as he spends time away from the shadow of his brother?  How will my personality develop as I only have one child at home during the day?


Wait a second.  One child at home during the day.  !!!!!!  I think I need to pause and do a little jig.


Then again, will I feel guilty that I don't have as many "kid" tasks during the day?  What will I do with my rearranged time?  Will I be resentful that another woman is teaching G during the day, or feel guilty about it, or want to kiss her feet, or somewhere in between?


All I know is, last year was hard.  With a violent death and three weddings and a baby and two crazy kids and other major stuff, our first year of homeschooling was NOT ideal.  Not that any year is, necessarily.  The point is, even with all of the logistical and emotional changes this next year will involve, I think school this year will be easier than the last.


Notice I say "school this year" will be easier; I am not counting on other external circumstances being easier.  Life is too unexpected to plan that.  But I can plan on whiteboards, rulers, and lunch bags, even if the need for them makes my feelings a little topsy-turvy.  At least topsy-turvy is a part of parenthood that's expected!

Nineteen Hundred Thirty-Something, 20 July 2012

        Peering out from beneath the tilted brim of her close-fitting hat, a slender young woman scanned the castle ballroom as she entered through its large doorway.  Heavy chandeliers cast a warm glow over the room, and the shadows of dancers flickered over arched ceilings and towering Gothic columns.  Catching the newcomer's eye, a dapper gent in a snappy pinstripe vest and black patent shoes crossed the room toward her.  Her scarlet lips parted in a friendly smile, and with a little bow, the gentleman took her arm and they sailed across the gleaming dance floor together, swinging in step to the tooting of jaunty trumpets and the swaying song of saxophones.

        Later that evening, after dance and laughter, the young woman said goodnight and ascended to the castle's fourth floor with a cup of hot tea.  She stepped softly over lush Persian carpets lining the hallways, walking past quiet rows of dark wooden doors.  With a click of her metal key, she unlocked her door and entered the small room.  Before drawing a mineral salts bath, she leaned out her window one last time and looked down at the softly-lit, plant-covered terrace below.   She could still hear music floating through the ballroom's open doors, and sighing happily, she latched the window and swished the flowered curtains closed.

        When at last ready for sleep, she eased into a small bed layered with white linens.  The bed's springs creaked underneath her, but were still as she leaned back into a pile of pillows.  She dropped off into a peaceful sleep.

        In the middle of the night, she awoke with a jolt.   The music below had stopped and all was quiet, but she was sure she had heard her children knocking on the door.  The knocking must have been a dream—or perhaps a door closing down the hall—because her kids were seventy-five miles away.  Jay slept quietly in the small bed next to her, and she snuggled back down under the white linens.  A glance at the time on her iPod showed she still had hours to sleep until breakfast, so she closed her eyes again and let the memory of the evening's dance steps sway her back to sleep.

And that, my friends, is a true description of the first evening of our hubby-wife getaway!  Okay, so I left out a few details—like the fact that Jay was the gent in the pin stripes—and I skipped over a portion of the evening—when Jay and I sat on the plant-covered terrace and played Scrabble on a table-sized board—but everything I described is factual.

Plant-covered terrace: The view from our 4th-story bathroom window!

Yes, we stayed in an historic hotel (the architect called it a “little castle”) for two nights this week.  It was built in 1930, and they have kept the décor true to the period, even down to the original steam radiators in the rooms and fresh flower arrangements on every breakfast table.  On Wednesday night, the two of us dressed up to match the era (I with tilted hat, scarlet lipstick, and frock; Jay with vest, patent black shoes, and fedora) and joined a Lindy Hop dance class.  The big band music was broadcast via mp3 (I didn't say above that it wasn't), but it was still a hoot.  We really did feel as though we had stepped back in time!  I also stepped on some toes during the course of the Lindy class, but I think I was forgiven because of my darling hat.  Or maybe because of the scarlet lipstick.

The hat's the thing

The hotel provided a packet of mineral salts to go with the tub

Because historic hotels tend to be in places without much parking, we parked our car a few miles away and used public transportation to reach the hotel.  So for two days we spent time walking around the old town, discovering restaurants and brick churches; we sat on antique chairs with computer or book in hand; we wandered through the lush gardens tucked around the hotel; and generally drank in the aura of classy history.  (Not to be confused with unclassy history, multiple examples of which I will not cite here.)

Views from the Breakfast Room windows

 

As you can see from how I've rambled on about it, we had a truly lovely time!  Our seventy-five-mile-away children had a fantastic time with their papa, too.  In fact, they didn't want to leave him when it was time to come home tonight, and I was tempted for a moment to turn around back to castleland and leave them there longer.  But tomorrow is Z's birthday, and we wouldn't want to miss that—shaded terrace notwithstanding—so we came home and brought the kids with us after all.


Tonight, perhaps instead of dreaming that the boys are knocking on the door, I'll dream that I'm a brilliant dancer, laughing my way through a castle ballroom.  And when I wake up tomorrow morning, it will be real-life birthday time, which has a fairytale quality all its own.

The Camping Experiment, 13 July 2012

Right now I'm sitting on my couch, surrounded on three sides by a 3-foot radius of folded laundry.  My washing machine is quiet for pretty much the first time in two and a half days and there's still one load left to fold.  The total number of loads washed--full loads, mind you--was 15.  Yes, 15.

This morning my sister Clare asked me incredulously, "How do you have that many clothes??" and I explained that sleeping bags and pillows and towels contributed toward the brunt of it.

But that's getting ahead of my story.

The four of us went camping for the first time this week.  As kids, Jay backpacked with his family and I did trailer camping with mine, but we had not yet attempted a camping trip with our own kids.  It was an experiment and I think it was largely successful!  The kids got good and filthy, I had a ball being in nature, Jay found time to relax with his computer in tow (yes, he hiked with his computer strapped across his shoulder; not my idea of fun, but it's his, so okay!), and we all loved not being in a hurry for anything.

My view from a picnic blanket

Before we left, I consulted a couple friends about tips they might have.  One of them suggested finding a four-star hotel.  The other one brought an index card filled with nuggets of simple ideas she'd gleaned from years of camping with her family.  I decided to stash the hotel idea for another time and eagerly went over the index card.

Some things I had already figured on, like bringing simple food and using paper plates, but here are other tips from her that I really loved:

1. Pack cooking gear in boxes [I had been thinking of stuffing plastic grocery bags].
2. Have one box for cooking supplies and one box for food, so you know where everything is.
3. Bring an empty oatmeal container for holding utensils [and lighter and can opener].
4. Bring two floor mats: one for outside the tent and one for inside, for boys who forget to take off their shoes before entering and for the shoes at night.  [This cut down on tons of dirt and sand in the tent!  The mats spent two hours in the washing machine today.]
5. Make lunch right after breakfast to cut down on prep and clean-up time.  [I seem to recall my mom doing this on our trips of yore.]

I'm sure you veteran campers could contribute many other wonderful tips, but this was just enough to get me through the stress of planning.

Food supplies box in progress

I'm not yet sure that we are going to be a camping family, but I'd say the positives of this trip outweighed the negatives.  Because they're kinda-sorta funny, I will just briefly mention what I'd say were the three main negatives of the experience:

1. The kids complained about walking during our 30-minute hike.  Really guys?  You walk/run a good five miles a week!  And there aren't even trees to climb on those walks!
2. For my entire life--yes, diapers onward--I've had to pee in the middle of the night.  Next time we camp, I might bring back the concept of a chamber pot.
3. Sweet Jay was superman and stuck with his low/no-carb diet during the trip.  I'm sure he lost weight and I'm sure I gained some (Oreos and marshmallows anyone?), but one of us was generally a lot more chipper than the other.  (Fig Newton?)

To close this post on the sweet side, I'll share my favorite camping story about Z.

Our campsite had a water spigot in the ground, perfect for a quick wash or water bottle fill.  Before one of our meals, I asked Z to come over and wash his hands, which he obligingly did.  After I turned the water off, he looked down at the dirt it had drained over and said with curiosity, "Is this mud??"  He poked it firmly with his clean finger.  "Oh!  It is mud!  I love mud!" and both hands promptly squished into the gooey earth.

That's a happy camper for ya'!