Filed under: It's all about my needs
Day two: Not at work. Finally. Also gave up caffeine but not on purpose. I might die from this headache.
I had all these plans for “when I am not working”. Sewing projects. I have a thawed turkey in the fridge waiting to be roasted. I need to clean bathrooms. And what did I do today? You’re looking at it. Filled with Twitter and Facebook and obsessively checking email because somebody, somewhere might want to write to me. Fail.
Tomorrow will be different. Yes it will! Amelia is going to school for the day so I will have the whole house to myself for seven whole hours. I have a list of things I should be doing. And a list of things I want to do. And then there’s the reality: netflix and ceiling fan shopping and maybe a nap.
This post brought to you by Tylenol PM.
Goodnight.
Ella was in a bubbly bath tonight, making a bubble beard when I hear her call out:
“Mom. Mom! Know what?” Sidenote: She rarely calls me “mama” anymore. That hurts a little.
What?
“Santa Claus isn’t a real person.”
Who told you that?
“Nobody. He’s just a guy in a suit. There are lots and lots of them”
Huh. Who brings the toys then?
“Wellllll…I think maybe the persons who made them. Like maybe elves.”
I see. You might be right.
“Yeah but there’s no Santa Claus. There can’t be that many guys with a beard.”
When did my kid grow up? And why are we having this conversation at the ripe, old age of 5? Amelia stood next to me the whole time and didn’t say anything. She is probably forming her own hypothesis about it all. Or maybe she’s considering her next tactical manuever regarding the acquisition and consumption of her almost empty candy pumpkin. She might not be thinking about Santa at all.
We don’t do much concerning Santa anyway. One gift is all he brings. The rest are from me or whomever else is on the tag. But still. Next will we talk about how babies are made (both girls know how they are born courtesy of Discovery Health)? Or will be discuss the relative merits of Disney versus Dreamworks? I am not ready for the world of big kids. Not at all.
I went to Matty’s funeral today. I had twitched my breakfast away by 9am so I was starving which made me kind of nauseous the whole time but I think that was to be expected. The funeral was very generic. It was organized and given by people who, I think, never really knew him. The pastor seemed like he was trying to convert every butt in the seat. He probably knew that he was preaching to the theatre heathens and thought he should do his best. I think it was simply that he didn’t know Matt so he needed to fill the time. I suspect his family never really knew him either. If they did, they would have had one of us speak a little about him and our memories of him
In a big way, I’m glad that I was mildly annoyed with the whole situation. That, and the whole large crowd of strangers issue. I wanted to hide. Actually, I wanted to not be there but I felt it in bad form to stay away. No, my annoyance took away from my own reflection on Stephen’s funeral and Will’s funeral too. It kept me from being all wrapped up in my own dark place and made me remember that this day was about Matt. And not about Stephen or Will or me. Especially not about me. I was determined not to be a wreck. I would not look at anyone.
But times like that…funerals, weddings, family functions, reunions….that I really miss being part of a couple. I could have leaned a little on my husband. Been comforted by his presence. His familiar hand. And even if he wasn’t there, couldn’t be there, at least knowing that I could re-hash the memory for him over crock pot chili or at a commercial after the children were in bed would make the whole thing that much more bearable.
This? Is doing nothing for my hermit tendencies. Even eharmony has given up on me. They’ve sent me 200+ presumably single fellas in the metro area and there might be one to consider. My standards have been raised. I was totally spoiled.
There is no such thing as Mr. Right Now when you are pushing thirty-five with two littles.
Filed under: Retail Therapy
So I’m laying in bed last night. With a preschooler’s feet in the small of my back. (Ella has been sleeping upstairs, in her sister’s bed, lately so Amelia has planted herself in my bed. Nice.) And I realized that I was going to make an attempt at a post every day in November. So, maybe I can make it every other day? Only even days?
I have a confession. I’ve been making out with Netflix. And itunes. And drooling over Nook. Apparently, my brain thinks that I have more time than I actually do.
Okay, maybe not making out. But it sure feels like the walk of shame when I realize that I spent a good chunk of my night rating all the movies I’ve ever seen in an attempt to find that one movie that I’ve been missing all my life.
I’m a slut. A slut for entertainment gadgets. Oooo, shiny object.
I don’t actually have the sense of entitlement that God gave an eighth grader. It just seems that way. I get like this when I work all the time. I feel like I should get something for all those hours. Instead of depositing the check into the account that pays the bills that keeps us fed and housed and clothed. I would like something to show for it. I need the instant gratification.
Lord knows I’m not getting that anywhere else. I may as well buy a minute of distraction.
Because there’s definitely something missing. And if I stick my tongue down itunes’ throat, I might find it.
Or not.
So there’s this thing, a blogging thing, if I deciphered the acronym right, that encourages bloggers in the month of November to post once a day every day. I think I’ll try it. It’s a lofty goal I think. Especially considering that it’s the second day of the month and well, I missed a day already. Hold me to it, interwebz. I’ll give it a shot.
My dear friend, Matty Kamprath passed away Saturday morning. The last week or so has filled Facebook with stories of his assorted capers and pictures of him all irreverent like. To quote one of his fellow actors and best friends: “The earth is considerably less funny today because we have lost him.”
It’s kind of unreal. I mean, I have experienced death in its most visceral forms. I have seen it and touched it and smelled it. I was there at that moment. Twice. And yet, the shock of knowing that I will never see my friend again is new. It’s like I don’t know what to do. How to behave. How to properly mourn and remember.
I consider myself blessed because I knew him, for sure. He had lots and lots of friends. And even more fans. He probably never knew (do we ever really know?) how many. But I get to say that I knew him. That I got one of his quirky little smiles and a pet name from him. I loved discussing politics and history with him. I loved talking theatre and all the “kids these days…” stories.
I consider myself blessed. And I have been smiling a little to myself because Stephen knew him too. And Stephen knew how I felt about him. And Matty made Stephen laugh every time we saw him. And I am thinking about the two of them together: dick jokes and beer and ponderosa pine trees. Guys. Being guys together. I don’t know if it’s true. I’d like to believe it and I will believe it because I don’t know any different.
On a different, lighter, note: I had a kidney ultrasound today. I had a UTI and some residual pain won’t go away. They were looking for stones (there were none) and found an inflamed kidney, probably from an infection. So I got orders to drink water until I float and finish my antibiotics and check in two weeks for a repeat. I’m glad it’s not stones but I hope this clears up.
I sooooo don’t have time for this. I have a funeral to go to. And that pesky middle school show at the children’s theatre. Oh, and then there’s that full-time mommy gig. I really don’t know where I would fit in a problem with a major organ. (Heh, heh…organ…)
Filed under: Memory Lane
Through the power (and curse) of Twitter, tonight’s bout of insomnia is brought to you by @MckMama whose son is gravely ill tonight. Whose son is one year old as of tomorrow.
She is posting updates…little victories, big concerns….but he’s a very sick little boy.
I am hanging on her every word just like I’m in the room…helpless…confused…hopeful…trying to justify and reason…
There is also a man, tonight, who is losing his battle with brain cancer. He is surrounded by friends at the end of a very long journey. He is a fantastic character actor, a football fan, a lover of old movies and all things Christmas and one of the most politically INcorrect people I have ever met. I love him to pieces.
I will have to xanax myself to sleep tonight. I can feel it.
Hospitals at night are kind of nice. The suits go home. The night nurses are either very young or have been a night nurse forever and love it. There is never an in-between. I can feel the cold tile under my stocking feet. Because bare feet in a hospital? Gross. The halls dim but never darken. The phone only occasionally rings. The halls don’t smell like gravy at night. All we have left to do is sleep.
And hope for a better tomorrow.
In the morning, I would get up at first rounds. I would put on a bra (if not entirely dressed) and my contacts. I tried to make sure I was in the room during rounds but, frankly, all the white coats gave me a sweaty ass and the inability to form a sentence.
Honestly, I don’t know how I did it. I get asked, and told, that all the time. My only answer is “you just do”. But how? How did I make it through all those nights? How did I not just walk away? How did I not just flip the fuck out?
So, to Matty and Stellan, peace. Peace to you tonight. Sleep through the bed checks and whispering and coffee smells. Tomorrow will be a beautiful day.
Filed under: Memory Lane
My ipod and I are having a renewed love affair.
Last week, while navigating the nation’s airports, I watched five episodes of Burn Notice (seriously, my new throb…yogurt and all…) and listened to a dozen podcasts from A Prairie Home Companion and This American Life. How did I ever tour without this amazing little device?
It’s like all the best mix tapes all in one place. How many hours did I spend dubbing 80’s rock ballads? Songs that defined who we were and who we wanted to become?
I’m old enough (solidly in my mid-thirties thankyouverymuch) that giant chunks of my life are defined by a certain group of songs. I can blink…and be right there.
Tonight, it’s Nickel Creek. It’s 2000. And I’m creating stagehand training materials for my first season at the University road house.
Last night, it was Fleetwood Mac. And I’m in my purple Dodge Dakota. And I’m going over to sleep at my new boyfriend’s apartment and my heart does a flip flop. It’s 2001 all over again. (I married that boyfriend, for the record.)
Shania Twain. And I’m in my tiny midtown apartment getting ready for a fag hag night on the town.
Kenny Chesney, Chumbawamba, Ben Folds Five, Peter Gabriel…I’m driving truck on tour.
Toad the Wet Sprocket and I’m in the electrics cave in Maine, trying to pretend that I knew what I was doing. (I didn’t. Not really.)
Jewel, Enya, Counting Crows. I’m in my last year of college. And collecting all the V-cards I can possibly find.
Pearl Jam? Nirvana? Red Hot Chili Peppers? That was high school. And I discovered Birkenstocks. And coffee. And angst poetry. I should look for some of that. It’s probably worse than I remember.
My first slow dance with a boy (who I recently discovered on Facebook) was to “Love Bites.” Or was it “Every Rose Has Its Thorn”? Both remind me of him. You know, the eighth grade version of him.
It makes me wonder what music will define me this time? I mean, do I have to really know who I am? Or have I mentally returned to the days of sweaty rock ballads, V-cards and miles of highway?
If this blog were a child, someone should have called CPS by now.
Sorry about that.
In my defense… (sidenote: What do you say to a stagehand in a suit? “Will the defendant please rise.”)
In my defense, I had an opera to do. And a computer with a battery that won’t charge. And we all had the Hamthrax. Or at least I think we did. In hindsight, the girls and I had all the symptoms. Which spares us from the rest of the booger eaters out there. The girls were each out of school for a week. I took my Mucinex (sent straight from heaven) and went to work. The opera stops for no pandemic.
What else? I went to Philadelphia for 3 days, also sans computer. I am still fearful of airport security and I think they would have made me turn on my computer and the battery issue rears its head again.
I am trying this new thing. I’m going to bed at a reasonable time. Ebay is no longer interesting. I have disconnected myself from all message boards. Facebook is kind of like brushing my teeth. Twice a day, every day. But going to bed “early” after working for real all day means that my house and my blog and my pile of laundry have all suffered. There just aren’t enough hours. I’ll get it figured out. One day.
Will’s seventh birthday was last week. Hard to believe that I could be the mom of a seven year old. My friend’s youngest daughter is one day younger than Will so I get to see him grow up through her eyes. If that makes any sense. That little girl will always have a special place in my heart. And she will probably never know why.
I am in the constant quest for balance. I’m in the swing of working a little too much. Parenting too little. Not sewing at all. My house is trashed. Real meals are few (Lucky Charms for supper anyone?). A stack of mail a foot high.
But I’m okay. We’re okay. And I’ll be around. You know, unless the Hamthrax strikes. Again.
So….here we are. Two years later. (Last year’s post told the whole story.)
Two years…
I am in an empty house tonight. The littles are with my aunt (God bless her up and down) because I will be working crazy people hours for the next four days.
Empty houses are quiet. My mind? Is not.
Two years ago, right about now, my sister was taking me back to the hospital after a big bowl of broccoli and cheddar soup at Panera. I didn’t want to go back. I wanted to sleep at home.
I hear it gets better after the two year mark. I am a wreck at the moment. I have the remnants of the creepy cruddy snot disease. I am physically tired beyond belief. I am trying to mentally prepare for difficult few days of work. My children are not here and, well, they too are okay with that. Which makes me…not.
This isn’t fair.
I have spent the last few nights going over the years we were together. I know. Not helpful. But I am so very, very grateful that we exchanged very few angry words. And that we always kissed goodnight and good morning. But I’m trying to figure out the purpose.
I was a really good wife. He was an excellent husband. Together, we were great parents. I just don’t understand…why it had to end. There doesn’t seem to be any significance.
There are no words. I know that. And when the words come out of somebody’s mouth…
“We just never know God’s plan, do we?” I’d like to request a new plan. I’ve put it in writing several times and it would seem that I am getting ignored.
“God only gives us what we can handle.” I’m just going to go ahead a call ‘bullshit’ on that one. Seriously.
“You made some beautiful children.” Yes. And I could have stood about two more. But I didn’t get the chance.
“You’re young. You never know what will happen.” Although I am equally intrigued and squigged out by the thought of another meaningful relationship. But get some business and mind it.
“I don’t know how you do it. I would just fall apart and not be of use to anyone.” Know what? You just do what has to be done. Meals need to be made, children must be tended and loved, and quite honestly, if I don’t do it…it doesn’t get done. So I don’t know how I do it either but falling apart is not an option.
How many times have I said, out loud and to myself, “I can’t do this”? And then I do. Over and over and over. And I’m tired. And now I’m rambling.
I miss him so much that it hurts. And then I get angry. And jealous of all the good marriages. And upset when people talk mean or spiteful to their spouses. Or about them. I am not cut out to be a 24/7 parent. Nobody is.
I keep going back to the WHY? What purpose? What good can come from this?
How does this story end?
Because two years ago, I thought the hard part was over. The sickness. The interventions. The fright. The smells. The sounds. Waking up, clutching the phone and wearing shoes. I thought that when the heart monitor was clicked off and the oxygen pump stopped that the worst was behind me.
I was wrong.
Really, really wrong.
And there are no words.
“I made a book of girls today, Mama!”
I haven’t seen much of Ella this week. Actually, I haven’t seen much of either girl. Opera season is in full swing. But I’ll get to that another day.
“I made it today and Mrs. J stapled it the best she could.”
Okay, baby, show it to me.
“Mmm, there are flowers on this page. And swings and a twisty slide here. And here is Zoe. And this is a page that isn’t colored on. And this page has my friends on it: Addie and Taylor Rose and Brooke. That’s it.”
Can boys like flowers too?
“No…swings and girls and flowers are only for my friends (fwiends) who are girls. No. Boys.”
I think it is safe to say that Ella is learning about gender identification. She’s known, in an academic sense I suppose, that she is a girl and her sister is a girl and mommy is a girl but that her cousin is a boy. She knows about the parts that make us girls and boys.
Ella has always been free to choose her toys. She asked for a “twash twuck” for Christmas when she was 2 and got it. And played with it. She builds with the Legos and mega blocks. She’s not so much into playing with the baby dolls as her sister and pretty much ignores the dollhouse.
This is the time of year (in the upper midwest, anyway) when I get to clean all the summer things out the girls’ dressers and put in the bigger, warmer clothes. It’s one of my favorite mom things to do. Ella wears things that I’ve never seen on her before (new or not new…doesn’t matter…equally exciting to both of us), Amelia wears what Ella used to wear and a thing or two (or six) to call her own and I get to be all nostalgic. I am packing away Amelia’s 3T summer tshirts and skirties and dresses and pajamas. She will not fit into them next summer, I can be sure. Some of those things were purchased for Ella several years ago. And, I’m sure, they will be passed on to another little girl. But never to be worn by one of my children. Sad. A little.
It is bittersweet to be leaving the years behind. On one hand, it’s easier to be a mom now than it was last fall. I don’t change diapers anymore. Ella showers, dresses and grooms herself independently. She also buckles her own seatbelt. She walks to and from the schoolbus. Amelia is okay spending whole days without me. She even sometimes sleeps in her own bed. But on the other hand, this is it. It’s not likely that I will ever get to nurse another baby or smell a newborn or help with those first steps. I won’t get to make baby food or sew tiny things.
So, here’s to girls. Here’s to growing up. Here’s to the change of seasons. And here’s to flowers and swings and twisty slides. Here’s to being five and three years old. Here’s to curly hair and long eyelashes and brown mary janes with pink flowers. And Barbies and babies and ballet. Here’s to my dryer lint always being pink.
And here’s to a mama and her babies…another autumn…together.
The midnight train has come early tonight. And is already gone.
I wanted to be in bed before the train came. I love listening to the clack, clackity, clack as I drift off. The windows are open. I will make pumpkin bars in the morning to take in celebration of my baby sister’s birthday. I had a brain blast today that told me to paint my dining room pumpkin orange.
It is fall. Officially. The weather, the clothes, the food, the colors. It is dark, by one minute, more than day.
I have been overly aware of this season ever since I was in college. I went to a tiny, private school in the middle of the prairie. The lawns were mostly lush; the trees mature and lovely and haunting no matter the time of year. The red bricked buildings creaked under a century of liberal arts education and the half dozen dorms still abide the laws of curfew and decency. Autumn on campus was, and probably still is, magical.
The meat of the school year has begun. The band sounds pretty good. Play rehearsals and set building commences. Choirs are in harmony. Parties are louder as people are more familiar. Windows stay open for days and days.
I can blink and I’m there. I made a choice one fall. I was 20 years old and I changed the ending in that big old choose your own adventure book of life. I dropped the secondary education part to my major(s). I had decided, over the summer, that I could indeed make a living at theatre. And that English degree? Was just a bonus. Because, really, what is anyone to do with an English Composition major other than grad school? I decided after a week of education classes that I was not cut out to teach anyone’s children. Or, rather, I didn’t want to deal with the red-tape of the American public (almost wrote “pubic” there…whooops) education system.
Thus, my course was changed.
I am, of course, thinking of that fall. That was the autumn that my heart was broken for the very first time. That was also the time that I began writing angst poetry in earnest. And binge drinking. And working more than I sat in class. Spending more time at the theatre and less time in bed. I learned the term “walk of shame.” Being angry was easier than being sad.
I remember the crunching of leaves in the park with the duck pond. And the cold plastic swings.
Fourteen autumns ago.
Eight autumns ago, I was madly and wildly in love. For the second time in my life. Delirious. Hungry. Aching. Arching. Planning. Wanting. Dreaming.
At seven, I was enormous. And dreaming of who our son would look like. And wondering what it would be like to bring him into the world. Folding and re-folding tiny blue sleepers, soft cotton diapers and bitty socks.
Six? I was sitting on the grass. New sod. Cement slab. Tears. Aching. Clawing at the ground where my son’s body was forever sleeping in his OshKosh overalls and the fly fishing diaper I had made him. Heartbroken. For the second time. But far, far worse than the first.
Five. My baby girl. Plump. Greedy for milk and cuddles. Mama’s girl. Daddy’s joy. I decided the moment that we brought her to Jesus, washed in the blood of the Lamb, that there was no way that I would miss a day. I made the decision to quit my job and be with her all day, every day. Mornings with the cool breeze, Price is Right on mute, sleeping baby on my chest. Perfect.
Just four years ago, my baby turned into a toddler. Full of words and wonder. Glancing up from whatever it is that she is learning and absorbing, she looks just like her daddy. And I begin to ache for another life. I want to create another tiny person. A reflection of us. A noisy joy.
When the weather turned cool three years ago, we left the house every day. Tiny babe in the sling, tiny toddler with big words and big thoughts, off to do big things. Library, playdates, lunch at daddy’s work. Music classes. Diapers for two. And then just one.
Two autumns ago, I saw it come from the fifth story window of a hospital room. In a city, a state, that I didn’t know well. My guts still healing; my scars still pink. Nervous. Sweaty. Aching. Wanting to run. Gasping for breath. Wanting to sleep. To dream. To wake up from this nightmare unfolding. This can’t be happening. This can’t be real. This can’t be my reality. Our reality. Breaths. Moments.
He was cold. I was hot. Always hot. Dry. He was cold. In sweats because it hid his cath bag on his leg better than scrub pants. And he was cold. A heart that was working so hard to keep up. To keep the healthy cells healthy. And also to nourish the cells growing out of control. The growing that nobody, nowhere, nohow could control. Or slow down. So he was cold. And I was hot. And there wasn’t anything left to say. And my heart was broken. For the third time. And I was handed a white gold band in a baggie and haven’t taken it off. It is calloused to my finger. My pointer finger. I see it every time I reach, touch, dial, hold, console, write and taste. And my heart is broken. And broken. And broken. How many times now?
The last time the leaves turned red and my babies buttoned up their fleece jackets, the tears stopped coming. I could sit in this old chair with the notebook on my lap and the cursor taunting me into submission and tap, tap, tap until the wee hours and not a drop. And then the breeze came in. And the candle flickered. And itunes dj or Pandora (or maybe it was an angel) picked just the right song.
And the tears came back. With my babies breathing softly in the far room. I ask and pray for one more moment. But you and I both know it will never be enough. So I stop asking. And I stop praying. And I resign myself to this life.
And I wonder. Back to 14 autumns ago. Would I be able to stop myself from walking into that office in the red bricked building?
Would the story have changed?
Would I be here, wishing for the midnight train?
Waiting for dawn?
Wanting a new ending?
Hoping for a beginning?
