Women Be Crazy

Yesterday, I was watching Blues Clues. Sort of by myself. I really can’t explain. It was the episode where Steve leaves to go to college and announces that his brother Joe is going to take his place at the house. At the end of the episode, Steve starts saying goodbye to everyone. It was like the final scene in Oz in The Wizard of Oz. “Bye side-table drawer. Bye thinking chair. Bye Mr. Salt. Bye Mr. Pepper. Goodbye Blue,” Joe says, wistfully with a strong hint of melancholy. Then he turns to the screen, “Goodbye friends.”

I start bawling. “Goodbye Steve! You cute little green-shirted man child! Waahhhhhhh!”

It’s definitely the time of the month when I am prone to weeping, if you know what I mean.

Caleb is growing up, and while my crying still visibly upsets the other three, Caleb is very awkward about it. He kind of pats my shoulder and stares at me, with a mixture of wonder and fear, and tells me, “You’re being very weird.”

“I liked Steve,” I blubber. You’d think I was watching Steel Magnolias. The truth is, I never warmed up to Joe. He’s an interloper.

“I’m going to turn this off now,” says Caleb. “You’re too big to be watching this anyway.”

“What do you mean, big? Are you calling me fat?”

Caleb’s eyes grow wide. I assure him I’m just messing with him. But seriously, I say, what did you mean by big?

Caleb goes to his room. I continue folding laundry while watching kids’ television shows. The Wonder Pets is always good for a mood booster. Don’t get me started on that Ming-Ming, though. What a self-absorbed ducking that girl is.

Caleb cautiously ventures down later. I decide to have a heart-to-heart with him.

“Sorry I was crying,” I say. “I was just being silly.”

“It’s okay. You cry a lot. I’m getting used to it.”

“I don’t cry too much.” Caleb listed three recent occasions where I shed a tear or 60,000.

“You cry more than me,” he said, “and I’m a kid!”

“I’ll try to cry less.”

“It’s okay. I understand why you cry.”

"Why?”

"Because you’re a woman. Women cry more than men. That’s why I don’t cry a lot.”

“Why do you think women cry more than men?”

"Because,” whispers Caleb, “you’re emotional. And crazy. Women are crazy.”

I was going to protest, but he’s right. Women are emotional and crazy. Some (ahem) more than others. And my boys are going to have to get used to it. God help us when Ella gets to be a teenager. Talk about crazy.

An interesting interview with the guy who played Steve. 

The Post Where John is Exonerated

The career that has chosen me, motherhood, and the career I am simultaneously striving toward and pulling away from, writing, are both lonely professions.

Motherhood might be the loneliest of professions. Especially stay-at-home motherhood, lauded by my working friends as the most sacrificial of endeavors. Some wish they could stay home with their kids, too. Others admit they don’t think they are cut out for the job. When "real" professionals ask me what I do, they always respond with: you have the most important job in the world! It’s as if they know they have to assuage my atrophied mind.

I’d rather they didn’t say that. I would never gush at my kids’ pediatrician, say, and insist that he has “the most important job in the world.” I don’t know what “the most important job in the world” is. I’m sure motherhood is up there, but scientists developing vaccines, those who keep our sewers running, and the people who make diet Dr. Pepper are pretty darn important, too. The false-sounding sentiments about the importance of motherhood by lawyers and accountants and brokers and teachers, ironically, make me feel small.

After all, an important job is not always done well. And motherhood is certainly no exception.

I’m not doing it that well, lately, as evidenced by the mess in my house, late homework notes from teachers, the tangles in my little girl’s hair, and the fact that my little boy is running around saying, “Well, crap!” every time he doesn’t get his way. (I laughed the first couple of times. Now, I feel sadly resigned to his potty mouth.)

I feel overwhelmed, busy, and oftentimes, alone. Moms are busy. We are too busy to talk to other moms, and when we do, we talk about our kids. It’s a lonely life.

Monday, my husband left for Albany until Wednesday with a promise to call on Valentine’s Day. Valentine’s Day, with its over-commercialized hype and friends on Facebook proclaiming their husbands as the greatest ever while singles feel left out and stay-at-home moms remember Valentine’s Days of yore, when they were younger and prettier and had a night out to look forward to. Yesterday, Ella, who had a hoard of candy stashed somewhere, ate that hoard and moaned about a stomachache all day. She finally threw up on my dad and stepmom’s chair last night while I was trying to watch a Cary Grant film. It was not the best of days.

“Can you believe,” said John via telephone, “that I proposed to you fifteen years ago?”

“What? No. Thirteen years ago. You proposed thirteen years ago.”

“Really? Huh. I thought it was fifteen.”

At that point, I was feeling pretty grouchy.

“Where are my flowers?” I demanded. This is especially romantic, to demand flowers over the phone on Valentine’s Day when you know very well your husband has not ordered you flowers. It’s great for morale.

“Flowers? What flowers? I’m taking you to Philadelphia this weekend,” he said. (This is true. We are taking a much needed getaway to the city of brotherly love.)

I sniffled.

After the kids were tucked away, I folded laundry while watching old episodes of House, selected a new book to begin, and wandered up to bed at around 10:30.

It was depressing.

The phone rang.

“Did you like your flowers?” John asked.

“What flowers. I didn’t get any flowers,” I said.

“Check the porch. You probably didn’t see them. There should be a box of flowers there for you.” I grumbled and plodded down the steps in my slippers and opened the door. There, in the dark of the night, was my husband, hands full of roses and candy. Let me tell you, I haven’t cried happy tears in a long time. Because when you’re lonely, sometimes you just want someone to hold you for a long time and remind you that what you do is worthwhile. That you’re loved. That it doesn’t matter if you are dripping black mascara on their white Van Heusen collared shirt.

If you get a chance, call someone you care about today. Remind them that what they do is important. That it is important enough that they should strive to do it well. Especially if that someone is a mom… or a writer.

Remind them that they are loved.

Ella's World

Ella is different. We know that. Something isn’t “normal.” We are in limbo- waiting for an official diagnosis. The speech pathologists strongly encouraged us to get Ella evaluated. I took her to the doctor to get a referral so we could get an appointment at the Kirch Developmental Services Center at Strong.

There is a six-month waiting period to see someone there.

It isn’t autism. Anyone who has spent any amount of time with her can tell that. She is far too social. She makes eye contact. She gives hugs. She loves to be held. She doesn’t fall anywhere on the “spectrum.”

The pediatrician didn’t spend much time with us at our last appointment. He promised to call in the referral, listened to her heart and lungs and looked at her ears and up her nose- and sent us on our merry way.

I feel so rushed in doctor’s offices. Yesterday was my yearly OB appointment. The doctor was in and out so fast, I felt mildly offended. (And a little icky.) The rush makes me feel flustered- unable to organize my thoughts to ask the questions I have been meaning to ask. And then I’m left with the thought, “Well- I’ll write it down and ask next year.” Good grief- send me a kit and I’ll swab my own cervix next time.

My dentist’s office called the other day to change my Friday appointment to another day of the week. Why? The office would no longer be open on Fridays. I’m saving my pennies to get my teeth fixed and he’s taking off Fridays. (Our pediatric dentist is not open on Fridays, either. And during the summer, they are only open half-days Monday through Thursday.)

Doctors roll their eyes when patients self-diagnose. But honestly, when we’re brushed aside, treated efficiently but sometimes not thoroughly, when the doctors don’t take the time to talk to us, what are we left with?

I think I’ve diagnosed Ella. I think she has Receptive Language Disorder. All of the symptoms fit perfectly:

• May not speak at all, or may have a limited vocabulary for their age

• Has difficulty understanding simple directions or are unable to name objects

• Shows problems with socialization

• Inability to follow directions but show comprehension with routine, repetitive directions

• Echolalia (repeating back words or phrases either immediately or at a later time.)

• Inappropriate responses to "wh" questions

• Difficulty responding appropriately to: yes/no questions, either/or questions, who/what/where questions, when/why/how questions

• Repeats back a question first and then responds to them

• High activity level and not attending to spoken language

• Jargon (e.g. unintelligible speech)

• Uses "memorized" phrases and sentences

• They may have a problem with words or sentences, both understanding and speaking them

• Learning problems and academic difficulties

It’s been compared to aphasia after a stroke.

The problem is in the brain- possibly damage caused by a head injury, a seizure, or malnutrition.

Daniel was born at 7 lbs. Ella- 3 ½ lbs.

What happened? What went wrong? Was it my fault? I’m racking my brain, trying to think of a reason. If there’s a reason, maybe I can understand better. Maybe I can help. Because, although she can receive therapy to help her cope with her communication problems, there’s no fixing this. If this is what’s the matter with her, she will have communication difficulties her whole life.
I will be told not to get worked up. Wait until you receive an official diagnosis.

Can’t do that.

Ella has speech therapy three times a week. My schedule revolves around her therapy and I don’t even know if it’s helping because they don’t have an official diagnosis to work with. It’s very frustrating. I can now relate to those parenting magazine articles that encourage parents to be their child’s health advocate.

Ella, I’m advocating for you.

I’m going to do my best to make this better.

I love you so much.

Pray more, eat less, sleep well...

I'm not one who is prone to being overly dramatic, so you will know that I am being completely serious when I tell you that my children are ruining my life.

My life, right now, is all about sleep.

This is a sudden, strange switch. Two weeks ago, I rarely got to sleep before 2am. Now, I could sleep 12-14 hours a day, if my kids would allow me to do so. They won't, however, because they are mean.

I noticed that my sleep habits were changing last weekend. I took a rather long nap Saturday afternoon. I fell asleep promptly after my head hit the pillow later that night, and I did not want to get up the next morning. I spent Sunday afternoon snoozing and Sunday night in a dead coma.

As I type this, it is 9:30 and I am so ready to call it a day. You're probably thinking that the time change has messed me up (as it probably has you), and that is true... but I am generally a night owl who has to be forced to go to bed like a six-year old. Right now, I'm not a night owl or a day owl. (Yes, there are such things as day owls. One example is the burrowing owl, a rather small, long-legged bird found throughout North and South America.) I'm a sloth. I'm in full-fledged hibernation mode.

I discussed the sleepiness with my doctor.

Holly: I'm depressed. All I want to do is sleep.

Doctor: Explain depressed.

Holly: I feel... numb. I have no energy. I don't want to get out of bed in the morning.

Doctor: Describe no energy.

Holly: A general feeling of inertia and a lack of a will to go on.

Doctor: Well, that sounds serious.

Holly: (Sniffling) I know! I don't make these trips out here for non-serious matters. Which reminds me- I'd like to discuss the parking situation later. Yes, it's serious. I think I need more sleep.

Doctor: It sounds like you're getting a lot of sleep. Look, there are several things we can do. Obviously, the medication you are on right now is not working for you. However, it's hard for me to tell whether or not just eliminating some of the stressors in your life will be enough to get you through this slump.

Holly: I can't eliminate my stressors. I took an oath.

Doctor: Well, obviously we can't eliminate THOSE stressors. But we can look into ways of making your life easier.

The conversation went on like this for a bit. And it's true- it's hard to tell if I'm feeling yucky because of external factors: i.e., work, demanding children, lack of exercise, daylight savings time, and my recent diet of Diet Dr. Pepper and jellybeans , or if my worsening depression is making me more prone to falling into bad habits and mismanaging my stress. It's a vicious cycle.

The doctor brought up the "p" word. I am now at the highest dosage of antidepressant he can prescribe me. He wants to send me to a psychiatrist. To which I say, "You go to a psychiatrist. I'm going to Wegmans to buy more jellybeans." Because I am an irrational depressed person.

My plan for the next couple of months: get through the next couple of months. Get a regular exercise routine going. Make contact with the outside world via telephone and occasional visits with friends. Pray more, eat less, sleep well. (That would be a great self-help title for a book.) Learn to be thankful for my little stressors. And for my big ones. Get outside more.

Ultimately, I'd like to get to the point where I don't think sleep is the best thing in my life, because quite frankly, that's no way to live.

Sucker-punched

The twins are turning 3 on the 20th. They are in the process of transitioning from county services to being under the supervision of the school district. Their overall development needed to be assessed to determine what services they would continue to receive, and so two speech and development pathologists came to my house yesterday morning. They were early. I didn’t get to vacuum the living room.

The twins were fairly cooperative. It took about two hours to test them and ask me about a gazillion questions. The pathologists quickly came up with their assessments of my children.

They are going to recommend that Daniel continues the speech therapy he has now. Daniel is doing a lot more talking, but has trouble articulating words. He’s also still drooling. He’s moderately behind in terms of how many words he should be using, but overall, they weren’t very concerned. They were pleased about the progress he had made in the past year.

They were baffled by Ella. Apparently, Ella did really really well in various parts of the testing. She relates to the world visually, is great with spatial concepts and has an above-average understanding as to how things work.

Ella did poorly in the whole talking and understanding what people are saying bit. The pathologist pointed out a lot of things I had noticed, but hadn’t really dwelled upon.

Ella mimics. Often she says the last word I say in the form of a question. The few sentences she puts together are scripted: usually from something I or another person says often or something she has heard on television. The rest of the “words” she says are complete nonsense, what speech therapists refer to as “jargon.” Apparently, she should have dropped the jargon a long time ago. She rarely follows direction, which I attributed to her “silliness.” (I ask her to put her shoes away. She stares at me and smiles.)

On the other hand, she is social. She loves hugs and kisses and is happy to be in the company of others. She plays with her brothers (when they let her) and enjoys being read to. She makes eye-contact and smiles all of the time.

The pathologists said things like “processing disorder,” “need a full evaluation from a doctor who specializes in these things,” “huge discrepancy between her abilities,” “let’s see if we can find a why behind the matter,” and “autism spectrum disorder.”

They were interested in her preoccupation with music and her spinning, and asked about any obsessive behaviors she has. They jotted down notes when I mentioned that she doesn’t budge when the television is on, and that she plays with her toy computer for long periods of time. They noted how often she counted objects.

Ella doesn’t exhibit any of those symptoms that autistic people in television shows have: she doesn’t stack blocks or revert into herself nor does she require a rigid schedule. She is excessively happy, bubbly, exuberant, and is seemingly as passionate about life as a two-year old could be.

On the other hand, she often screams like a banshee when things don’t go her way. Much of the time she won’t stop screaming unless I put the television on, which has a calming effect on her.

I started crying when the pathologists were explaining all of the symptoms of autism that Ella didn’t exhibit: impaired social interaction, excessive repetitive behaviors, and they told me lots of kids with autism have food allergies.

I cried because I was planning to talk to the doctor about the possibility of Ella having a food allergy- she gets terrible stomach problems after she eats certain foods.

It’s been over 24 hours since they left. I stopped shaking three hours after they drove off.

Ella has already been put through a whole rigamarole with her heart and kidneys and the whole genetic testing thing to make sure she didn’t have some weird disorder.

Of course, I’ve spent the past day scrutinizing her behavior and browsing through information about speech delays and autism. Ella just doesn’t quite fit the mold. I don’t buy it. I’m 80% confident that she is going to make great strides in language development in the next year and that the discrepancy between her abilities will narrow and she will just be considered “brilliant.” Silly… but brilliant.

On the other hand, there are some odd things about Ella. She often exhibits asymmetrical facial features, speaks in a sing-song voice, and we have often joked that she lives in her own happy little world.

Either way, it’s okay. It could not possibly change the way I feel about her. Sometimes John and I get her out of her crib at night if we hear her singing to herself, just to have time alone with her, because she’s such a delightful little person.

I will do whatever it takes to make sure she gets whatever treatment or therapy she needs, but if there is something wrong, I promise not to freak out, not to blame vaccines, not to become obsessed with trying to fix her. I will pray and I will trust in God’s plan for my little sprite.

This is all, of course, after I get over this feeling of being sucker-punched in the gut.

Grace, Amazing

I have done something horrifically awful to my left foot, which is my laziest foot, so I’m really not surprised it was the one that got injured.

The noodles were in the pot, boiling away, the children scattered about playing amicably, and I was multi-tasking: preparing dinner and changing loads of laundry. I took a load out of the dryer and brought it across the kitchen toward my sunken living room. Sunken is important. If it wasn’t a sunken living room, if a year and a half ago we had gone with the house that had the living room on the same plane as the kitchen, I would not be in this mess right now.

Two steps lead into our living room. The first step I took was without incident. It was the second step that killed me, that and the matchbox car on the floor. I crumpled like a soda can that’s been stepped upon. I screamed as it was happening because in that instant, I saw the days stretched out before me, days where I would be hopping about the house on one foot, hopping after my kids, crawling up stairs, unable to put pressure on my foot.

The reason I think it might be broken is because after the initial pain, which was severe and endless and nauseating, there was no short reprieve. The pain lessened, but was consistent. Generally, when I twist my ankle or foot, the pain eventually subsides and gives me the illusion that everything is going to be okay. I fall for this trick EVERY TIME. I lope around, further injuring myself, when what I should be doing is resting and icing my foot. A day later I wake up all swollen with a great excuse for avoiding housework.

My foot swelled right away, and continues to do so. After the fall, I sat on the floor waiting for the throbbing to cease and desist. It never quite did. The timer went off and I just sat there, knowing I was overcooking the noodles. The kids stared at me contemplatively. They were probably thinking Mama has lost it… again.

John was and is still out with a client. I fed the kids and then I put on the television, my faithful and loyal babysitter in emergency situations. I crawled into the other room and sat on the window seat, my leg laid out before me, and I slowly removed my sock and stared at the purple jumbo-sized egg that seemed to be growing beneath my skin. Then, I put a bag of frozen peas on it. And then I cried. Because it hurt. Because I was alone. Because I felt really really sorry for myself and I wanted my mom.

The kids were watching Dora the Explorer. Dora is always “engaging” her young audience, asking them questions… is this kind of television superior to the kind that completely ignores its audience? Anyway, Dora was talking about thankfulness. She asked her television audience: What are YOU thankful for?

I heard Caleb’s soft voice answer, “My mommy.”

I’m the mom now. Not that I can’t call on my own mom, and believe me I do, but I am now the one who needs to provide a sense of security and unconditional love. And there are evenings like this one, where I’m taking turns gazing out the window at the cold, dark November night and then at my cold, purple foot, that I feel so inadequate for the job. I wonder, how can I do this right? How can I be a parent who won't feel the need to apologize to her adult children for all of the ways she failed? And I fail in so many different ways every day.

But he’s still thankful for me. I’m the person he thought of when Dora asked the question. And I don’t think he would lie to Dora. She’s intimidating for a cartoon. Plus, she has a crazy monkey sidekick I wouldn’t mess with, either.

Listening to that voice from across the hall, I felt a sadness settle on me. It was quiet and lovely, but sad… and it was one of the few times that I’ve thought to myself… this is what grace feels like.

Amazing.

Lying

I am a liar. (I have decided that, at least for the time-being, I will begin all of my posts with declarative statements. Look for future posts starting with the following: “I am a binge-eater”, “I am not a morning person”, and “I am the Batman.”)

Caleb has been playing with a seashell that hails from North Carolina, where we vacationed when he was but a fetus in my belly. I told him he could hear the ocean when we put the shell to his ear. He wanted to know why. So I told him, of course, that there was a tiny ocean inside the seashell that he could not see, but could hear. The sound was he heard was the lapping of the waves, the wind over the water, the spray of the surf.

Caleb is so stinking rational. At first, he was incredulous. But I was insistent! He asked all sorts of questions:

“I think I hear whistling,” he said.

“Little tiny seagulls,” I said.

“How come no water comes out when I shake the seashell?” he asked.

“It’s so small, you wouldn’t be able to see the water if it did come out.” I said.

“Is there really a little tiny ocean in this shell?” he asked.

“That’s an affirmative,” I said.

“Did God make the little tiny ocean?” he asked.

Oh, man. He had to bring God into my convoluted tale. I was stumped. Did I draw God into my lie? Did I tell the truth? Did I cover up with another lie, like, gosh I think I hear Ella crying?

(I went with the third option. I’m a terrible person.)

This morning, John went and told Caleb that there was no little tiny ocean in the seashell, that the sound was just air circling its cavernous insides. Caleb was crushed. He said he didn’t want the seashell anymore. He gave it to Ben.

“Here Ben,” he said, grouchily. “You can have this for the REST OF YOUR LIFE!”

Then he sat cross-armed on the sofa. I scuttled up next to him and told him I knew how he felt. Because I do! I know what it’s like to believe in something so wonderful, so fantastical, and so beautiful that just believing in it makes me feel a part of something greater than what I am. And I always feel mad at the reality; my fictions are much more fun, more interesting, and make life seems less ordinary. I told Caleb that I knew there wasn’t really a beautiful, blue-skied sea kingdom inside the shiny North Carolina shell, but that I still liked to pretend that there was.

As we waited for the bus, we made up a story about the people who went to the beach inside the shell. Little bitty people who liked to body surf; babies who never dirtied their swim diapers; mommies who had an abundant supply of lemonade and red popcicles; children who never had to reapply sunscreen; daddies who tossed their kids into the water over and over again and never got tired out; sharks who were nice and let people ride on their backs. A very strange, fun place.

I’m hoping this imaginative exercise will help Caleb out when he inevitably realizes there is no Santa Claus, that the fluff left behind by the Easter bunny is just stuffing from the throw pillow Daniel pulled apart, and that the leprechaun that he swears he saw on St. Patrick’s day is a myth perpetuated by people who drink too much and hallucinate angry little green men who horde gold.

The tooth fairy? Oh, the tooth fairy is very real. Very, very real.

Sometimes I get the blahs

Warning: this post has lots of sentences without verbs
And… fear not… funny, light-hearted Holly will be back ASAP! Promise.

Today was such a beautiful day. Warm in the sun, pleasantly cool in the shade. I had such plans for the day: basic household chores, get a little writing done, play with the kids outdoors, that kind of stuff.

By late morning I fell into a bit of a funk. Actually, I’ve been in a funk for the past several days. Life has seemed a little more tedious than usual. John’s late nights have seemed longer, the bedtime rituals more daunting, the laundry more oppressive, my phone silent, my head achy, my mind wandering to lonely places I shouldn’t let it wander to.

All of this caught up to me as I sat on the landing of my stairs, listening to Ben and Daniel fight over a toy while Caleb pestered me for a snack. I sat there, feeling the mundane rituals of housewifery weigh me down and I suddenly felt so overwhelmed that I became nauseous.

It was then I remembered I hadn’t filled my prescription in the last couple of days.

The prescription. The antidepressant prescription. The one that keeps Holly going lightly instead of going downhill fast.

I went to grab the bottle to call my trusty pharmacist when I saw those words no one in my state wants to see: NO MORE REFILLS.

Which meant I would have to go to Rite Aid and plead my case and get them to give me some pills to tide me over for the next few days. Which meant I would have to call my doctor, who would tell me I needed to come in so he could assess the situation.

A normal person, if there is such a being, which I doubt, is able to manage life so she doesn’t get bogged down in the details. Perhaps there is a schedule: chores, work, meals, kids, extra-curricular activities. A person in a depressed state is unable to rationally plan the day accordingly. All of the day’s little challenges and tasks and responsibilities seem heaped together in a tangled, garbled mess and the impossibility of getting all you need to get accomplished overshadows the possibility of getting something accomplished. Which, of course, leads to anxiety and fear and hopelessness, and all of it seems so vast and insurmountable but at the same time, utterly pointless.

And then you are numb, sitting stagnantly on the landing of your stairs, surrounded by toys and mismatched socks and the mail you were going to sort through. The sing-song sounds of children’s television play in the background but the kids aren’t even paying attention to it, which means of course that they probably watch too much television, which makes you feel like an even crappier mother.

And making lunch seems exhausting. Thinking about making dinner nearly causes a panic attack. The rest of the day goes by like static or a monotone hum or the buzzing of the fly that slipped noisily into the house when you opened the garage to take the rotting, putrid garbage out, filled with dirty disposable diapers that will sit in some landfill for years and years and years.

When you realize you are stumped about dinner and that your husband isn’t coming home until late and that your daughter hasn’t eaten a vegetable in weeks and weeks, the tears start to flow. Then come the choking sobs, the sniveling runny nose and the rocking back and forth like a frightened child. Because that’s what you are: a frightened child with four frightened children who have no idea why they’re mother is so… sad.

And of course, it isn’t rational. I love my life. I love my children. I love my home and my mundane rituals like attempting the morning crossword while Ben draws pictures of Jedi Knights next to me or getting dressed while Ella plays with my makeup brushes. This sadness is a biological phenomenon and no one can convince be otherwise. Because when I’m on the medication, I’m as close as I can get to the “normal” woman who has a messy but happy home and who doesn’t go over the edge over the thought of what she will do if her two-year olds refuse to take a nap again.

I got my “emergency supply” of meds and will be fine tomorrow. Today, I have a killer headache because I’ve been grinding my teeth since this morning. Today I wanted to be anywhere but home.

Tomorrow, I will be home again.

The thing about Daniel...

I live with a guy who verbally and emotionally abuses me on a regular basis.

I know. You are shocked. Let me give you some examples so you will know I am telling the truth.

Sometimes, when I smile at him, he grunts at me. Once in a while I think he actually snarls. This happens most often right after he wakes up. Hey, I’m not a morning person either, but I try to be a decent human being anyway.

If he asks me for something and I don’t jump to it THAT SECOND, he withholds affection. He shuts down and refuses to look at me at all. He crosses his arms and glares at me until I feel very uncomfortable.

Sometimes, he throws things in an act of aggression. I think he’s trying to establish himself as the alpha male. He can be sexist, constantly expecting that I as the female get him drinks and food. He won’t let me near his stuff: God FORBID I play around with his cell phone.

Quite frankly, his behavior frightens me at times.

There have been moments where I have felt like I was in danger physically. He hit me once. Maybe more than once. One time, he bit me on the knee.

Before you call social services, I should tell you this guy is 2 years old.

You see, the thing about Daniel is…

He can be kind of a jerk.

But I keep going back for more. He’s just so stinking good looking. And when he’s in a good mood, when he’s been fed, he’s had enough to drink and his pants are dry… oh the good times we have. The snuggling! The slobbery kisses! The laughter that emanates from his belly!

The thing is, after he is cruel, he almost always is sorry. He comes to me and puts his arms out and I take him back every time. I hold him and tell him I love him. Mostly because if I didn’t, well…


I think we can stop this twisted little analogy now.

I do it because I’m his mama and that’s what mamas do.

(Can you tell I’m having a difficult Daniel day?)

Musings (musings?) on the death of a pop star

So many people have written to me begging me for my opinion about Michael Jackson and his tragic demise that I felt I should appease their curiosity.

That statement was a blatant lie, by the way.

Two days before Michael Jackson died, Ella and I were singing "Man in the Mirror" (which was playing on the PA) in the children's department at K-Mart.

If you wanna make the world a better place
Take a look at yourself and then make a change, yey
Na na na, na na na, na na na no

This is a true story. So, as you can imagine, his death has floored me, left me bereft, confused, and struggling with my own mortality.

Another blatant lie. It was an odd coincidence, however.

(Michael- methinks you took your own lyrics a bit too seriously and literally. The "changing" parts, I mean. I mean in regards to the way you butchered your own face.)

I was satisfying my own curiosity today googling the results of Jackson's autopsy on the internet. The man, at his death, weighed 115 pounds and his stomach was completely empty except for pills. He had scars and needle wounds all over his body.

If he hadn't died, he would've made an excellent candidate to play the part of a zombie in the future "thriller" Pride and Prejudice and Zombies.

I don't mean to be trite. The whole thing is sad, has been sad for a long time. I do say this, however. This was a man who lied in front of millions of people (just like I did at the beginning of this post! Minus the millions of people bit) about never getting plastic surgery. Did he genuinely believe that we would believe his nose and cheekbones became like that naturally?

If he lied about that, with no qualms, why should we have believed him when he said he never behaved inappropriately around the dozens of boys who stayed at his ranch?

For a moment, I would like to hearken back to the days of my youth, when I was a small fry at the elementary school #37 in the city of Rochester. At my school, there was a store, run by much older and wiser fifth graders, that sold supplies: pencils and what not. For a couple of years, all of my notepads donned the face of Jackson. The young, extremely popular, black Michael Jackson.

Weird how culture permeates our lives and infiltrates our memories whether we want it to or not. Jackson, to me, will always be associated with 2nd grade mathematics.

Those are my limited thoughts on that subject.

When John heard about Michael Jackson's death, by the way, he too expressed his morose, stating, "It's always sad when an elderly white woman dies."

Also, you will notice that I used the word "musings" in the title of my post. I think every blogger should use the word "musings" at least ONCE. Now that I've done it, hopefully I won't feel the need to do it again.

Rest In Peace, Zack

I had wanted to give an update tonight on our Father's Day/ Ben's b-day weekend, but that will have to wait until later because tonight there is something very heavy on my heart. You will all be saddened to know that our beloved pet, Zack, has passed on.

Zack came into our lives about three weeks ago when my son, Caleb, found him crawling on a leaf. Zack was a common tent caterpillar. Caleb and Zack formed an immediate bond. They spent the first few days together frolicking in the backyard. Well, Caleb frolicked and Zack chilled out in the mason jar we provided him.

We fed Zack leaves, since he seemed to enjoy them. I consulted my caterpillar reference book, The Very Hungry Caterpillar by ecologist Eric Carle. I fed Zack sausage, strawberries, and watermelon. These were suggested by Mr. Carle to grow your caterpillar nice and fat. Sure enough, Zack soon formed a cocoon!

You might think that watching a caterpillar cocoon himself is a beautiful and moving experience. It is not. It is kind of icky. Nevertheless, we were very excited to witness Zack's transformation into a beautiful... moth. We consulted our reference book and discovered caterpillars can stay in their cocoons for up to two weeks before they come out.

Three weeks went by. This past Saturday, I told my sister Joyce about Zack taking his time becoming a moth. She looked at him, looked at me, and shook her head. It was then I knew. I think I had known for a while, but I didn't want to admit it. Zack was never going to hatch. He had died... in cocoon.

Was it my fault? Did I not feed him enough? Was his small home too confining? Did we smother him with our love and affection? Should I not have fed him cake?

I will never know the answer to these questions.

You are probably wondering what I am going to tell Caleb. This is a wonderful opportunity to have a deep discussion about life and death and the difference between souless caterpillars and soulful humans. It is a great opportunity to explain that sometimes bad things happen to good caterpillars, and that Zack would have wanted us to move on. What an opportunity to have a meaningful discussion with my first-born son.

I thought about it, however, and I've decided against it. I've decided that Zack emerged from the cocoon and flew away before I could say chrysalis. He is now living somewhere in the backyard. Everytime we see a moth, we will wonder, is it Zack? Only I will know the truth.

Yes, I sleep fine at night. Why do you ask?

Zack and Caleb during happier times.

Purgatory

I'm a protestant Christian and therefore do not believe in purgatory. In fact, I don't even know the true definition of purgatory and am too lazy to look it up. I'm going to be COMPLETELY sacreligious and tell you what I imagine it to be like: some place where you are waiting, uncomfortably, though not in physical pain, to be admitted into heaven.

I imagine purgatory is different for different people. For my husband, purgatory would probably be some place where he was forced to listen to Enya while sorting cherries. For me, it would either be having to suffer through a lifetime of dinners with my four children, or the following:

Wandering the floors of a hospital with Benjamin, the twins, and a broken stroller. On Wednesday, I had a surreal experience at Rochester General. Ella had an appointment with her urologist. We arrived ON TIME. I had Ben and Daniel in tow, as well. I put the twins in the double stroller which, I should tell you, has a broken wheel. The wheel is no longer attached, per se, to the stroller. It can, however, be briefly maneuvered into place where it will stay for very short periods of time until it pops off. Then I have to stop the stroller, give it a good kick back into place, and continue. In the meantime, every person I pass feels the need to tell me my wheel is about to fall off. I feel like a boob telling them, "I know... I'm just making due because I'd rather push a broken stroller through the hospital than let my toddlers walk. They're BAD walkers." By "bad" I mean they tend to walk in circles so that it feels like I have two giggling satellites orbitting me. This is pretty much the way my life is like at home, too. Giggling, orbitting, drooling satellites.

We made it to the doctor's office where we were informed that we were supposed to be at radiology. I missed this somehow. It was probably my fault, but I'm blaming them. I did NOT receive the memo.

Radiology is a horrible place. The last time Ella had her kidneys and bladder x-rayed, they literally stuck her in a tube where she could not move so that they could get accurate pictures. She was only a few weeks old at the time, and I could not believe I was actually ALLOWING some person to stick the baby girl I had so longed for in a plastic tube.

From Ella's doctor's office, radiology happens to be on the complete opposite end of the hospital. To give you some perspective, Rochester General has two separate parking garages: one next to the building we were at, and one next to radiology. I dutifully pushed my sad stroller back into the elevator we had just arrived on. The twins munched on pretzels as Ben pushed the emergency button. A voice came suddenly from above (this happens a lot in purgatory) and I quickly yelled, "my kid did it! It was an accident! Everything's good here... how are you?"

Except for stopping several times to fix the stroller and taking a brief respite at the hospital oasis (i.e. the water fountain), our journey was fairly uneventful. We arrived outside radiology where a large man with a shaved head, a tattoo of a fire-breathing dragon, and a Yankee's baseball jersey sat on a bench packing his cigarettes. Ben looked at him, narrowed his eyes and said, "the Yankees are stupid." At that moment, the wheel to the stroller popped off and landed at the man's feet. He stared at me. "I'm so sorry," I whispered. I grabbed the wheel and then Ben and somehow we all made it through the door and into the waiting room without getting shot.

Now I would have procured babysitting for the boys if I had realized I was going to have to hold my daughter down while people I have never met before stuck a catheter into her urethra. Really. Hearing Ella scream like she's dying while she looks at me plaintively is not a picnic. Ben and Daniel sat outside the room with the nicest nurse in the world drawing pictures of Jedis and wavy lines, respectively.

After the x-rays were taken, we were supposed to head back to the urologist's office to discuss the results. I felt we could discuss them just fine on the phone and took my kids and my broken stroller and headed for the parking garage... on the other side of the hospital. On our way out a woman in hospital garb chased after us... "Miss! Miss!" I stopped and turned around. "Your wheel is about to fall off!"