now fortified with impotent fury!risperdal

This week was destined to blow goats anyway. After years of living with the horror show decorating choices of the builder circa 1989, we are finally taking the plunge and having several rooms repainted, the carpeting (!!!) in Sean’s bathroom ripped up and replaced with tile, and new carpet installed. This means that we had to get everything- books, games, computer bits, what have you- out of the Lad’s office/guest room for the painting today, and need to empty out that closet for Wed’s recarpeting bonanza. But all that crap can’t go into our bedroom, cause it’s being recarpeted. Oh and so’s Sean’s room, which means we need to jenga 3 rooms of stuff into 1. my office 2. my walk in closet.

At the same time, this is a short week at school for little man, who has until Wednesday to finish his fundraising for the Jump for the Heart doodah for the American Heart Association (voila, his info for it). Which, you know, the Lad and I were happy to support, because the AHA supports research into heart disease and strokes, and Gramps suffered from strokes and my dad died of a heart attack related to the chemotherapy for his lung cancer. For bonus oh fuck really people? the Lad’s aunt died this past Friday, and so my in laws are pausing in the midst of reno on Gramps’ house to get it on the market to attend yet another family funeral.

So in the midst of all this craziness- pack all paperwork into backpack! get shoes on the right feet! Throw kid at the school! Race in to tell nurse why yes, that giant front tooth IS coming in hence he is foaming and drooling and bleeding a bit and is not Cujo per se look just give him children’s tylenol all right? Get back home! Unload paint from car! Race around designated painting rooms to see what else we need to #$%! with before the painters oh shit show up early while Lad is still rocking a bathrobe and trying to move his computer out of his office- my mom called. While I was dropping the kid at school.

So the hospital doesn’t think she’s had a heart attack, see, but they’re concerned she might be about to have one. We’ll know more this afternoon. Mom, being mom, is insisting that #1 I not come up there and #2, this gives her all the excuse she needs to extracate from being the caregiver for my batshit crazy grandmother and move down here. Dear mom: I really didn’t need more reason to support Spazzy McWhackadoo’s attempts to jump rope to raise money for the AHA. No really.

Please send booze. And good thoughts.

The scene: the dinner table
The players: Lad, snarklet, and me

The lad referred to Mr. LKM being an authority figure, yet younger than Lad. Sean looked up quickly.
“How can that be?”
“He’s 10 years younger than me, kiddo.”
“So then he’s…uh….”
“I’m 37, your mom’s 36, so he’s….”
“27!”
“Right.”
“And I’m exactly 30 years younger than mom!”
“Yes, so when you’re her age she’ll be….”
“66!”
“Right!”
“And when I’m that age she’ll be….”
Lad and I both turned towards him and smiled, as our dear little child had fun with numbers.

Sean smiled wide. “96. Or dead.”

I am cleaning, sifting through the detrius of things held onto entirely too long. I am shedding things as a snake sheds its skin. I pry open a tin, and find old inks from long ago busted pens. And as I throw them out, I remember. There is a box, sitting near my desk, unobtrusive, easily forgotten.

Three pens, all black. One rollerball, one ballpoint, one fountain. I used them for a while, then stopped when it hurt too badly. Both metaphorically and physically, as my arms seized and ached and hurt viciously when I was pregnant. I never got back into the habit.

Unscrew cases and eyeball refills. I don’t have them, but this is not a nicety or a luxury. I will order new ones, today even, and come next week I will use your pens again. For years after you died, they languished in a drawer in my desk, until the day I finally threw them into an unassuming brown paper bag and went to a Mont Blanc store. The salesmen expected nothing of the young woman in the ratty jeans and t-shirt, but once they saw what I had fell all over themselves to help me, offer to buy them from me, two of them are rare, very rare, was I aware that they’re rare? Was I sure I wouldn’t sell them? Yes. Yes I was sure, and yes, I did really mean it when I asked to buy a replacement nib and use that monstrously huge fountain pen with my own smaller hands.

We both loved pens. Ridiculously, given how dreadful your handwriting was and mine still is. You labored for years to find a pen big enough for your hand. You and mom got me fountain pens in college in the faint, pointless hope that it would help me write more legibly. You started me on this kick, you with your techno-weenie love of gadgets and yet love of a good fountain pen. I remember when mom and I scoured the antique silver section of Marshall Field’s, trying to find something- anything- good for you for your fiftieth birthday. She still has the antique inkwell and pen holder we got you.

It is that time of year now when memory rushes up and knocks me sideways, when the gloom and despair begin to overtake me and more often than not I cannot remember why until weeks after it starts. This year, I have remembered early. This year, I came across your baby book- a ridiculous thing, you? A baby?- 15 years to the day after you were diagnosed with cancer. Cancer which then suspended the next seven and a half weeks in amber but also hit the fast forward button at the same moment, a disconcerting slingshot of time, days jumbled together with appointments and news and biopsies and chemo and what ifs and being at the house for dinner a lot more often and and and.

And then you were gone.

But I still have your pens.

When just looking at the organizational prowess of creative types on Craftzine makes you feel like epic fail?

(I am decluttering, as part of Year Of Less Stuff Take 2, and reorganizing, as part of Jesus Ghey Let’s Hope It Sticks This Time, and searching for inspiration to organize pantries, legos, knitting stuff, desks, and more random craft crap than you can shake a stick at. There is absolutely zero humor in this, ergo I’m not blogging it, unless it’s things like ‘you know, I think I can throw out the pattern for how to knit an edible thong with cherry licorice ropes and a pair of chopsticks’)

We are fast coming up on the third party at school this year. As I sat at the gate at the airport Monday, gmail cheerily informed me I had new mail. I swear I need to find a way to tie a specific sound alert to a given sender, because I need to come up with something appropriate for emails for the room mother for Sean’s class. Carmina Burana, perhaps. Or I Hate Everything About You, but I’m about a decade and a half past Ugly Kidd Joe, and really, hate is such a strong word. Is there a Serenade for Nimrods?

We had a lengthy chat at the beginning of the year about Sean’s allergies. No problems! She informed me. She was sensitive! And yet, without fail, she has specified a treat that Sean is allergic to. And you know, I don’t feel the entire class should bend to our will on his allergy when it comes to what they get to eat. The dye thing is not an inhalation allergy; there are peanut kids for whom inhalation exposure is a real threat, and I don’t mind the room being a peanut free zone, truly. I figured I’d have to supply his party treats, and while it marks him out as ‘other’ and ‘different’, it’s ok. (Besides. I make sure I get him the enormous, slathered in awesome frosting cupcakes from Whole Foods. He is truly okay with this).

But for not the first time, she has specified an activity that is not safe for Sean. Last time it was bingo using red M&Ms. Fine. I can sub in hershey’s kisses, but really. Is it that big a fucking deal to not pick a candy that he’s allergic to? (Not to mention: the thought of 20 6 year olds manhandling candy and trading it? Ugh.) This time, in her infinite wisdom, she has specified an activity AND treat all in one- the kids, she has decreed, will decorate heart shaped sugar cookies with red sprinkles and red hots and conversation hearts.

Way to exclude my kid there, bitch. I will admit, an entirely naturally-derived red mist of rage clouded my sight as I sat there reading and re-reading. I shot off a polite, concerned email to her (and offered to try to source safe sprinkles and sugar and such for the entire class) and heard nothing back- meanwhile, other mothers were volunteering to bring this and that and this morning I spoke with the school nurse who kiboshed the entire fucking idea, and so I then got to shoot around an email killing the decorating idea, offering alternatives, and giving a lengthy apologetica.

The room mother emailed back within minutes. Claiming she too had spoken to the nurse! And so this isn’t a big deal, and sure we’ll do that. And then came her shot across the bow.

“And I assume you’ll be at the party???”. cc’d to everyone.

I emailed back my thanks and noted, “I’ll be there if I can move this 6 hour long meeting. The joys of working parenthood.”

Woman. Do not even start the working vs. SAHM debate with me. You thought I got bitchy about conversation hearts, you have not seen a goddamned thing yet.

Long ago and far away, I thought I could not be a mom, much less a good mom. That while I could be a mother, that mom would not be me. There was something nurturing about it, something of giving over one’s self, something treacly and saccharine, something fundamentally at odds with my persona. So many of the messages we get about what a good mother is- self-sacrificing, creative in the domestic sense, pastel perfect, organized- are so at odds with me. I could not see myself smiling and laughing off a kitchen disaster, having perfectly ordered bins of craft materials, smilingly brushing back hair from a fevered brow or singing just the right song to take a small mind off a skinned knee. I saw myself as a wire monkey mother, completely incapable of providing soft and squishy mommy comfort.

We had a parent project to do, and I put it off as long as possible. We had to write you a ‘love letter’ telling you why we love being your parents, to be posted in the hallway. And I delayed, and squirmed, and chafed, and I could not figure out why. As I sat there staring at the lined heart shape, waiting to be filled with meticulous print that you could read instead of cursive, I was blank. How can I explain to you in words you can grasp how much we love you, and why? How can I express it to you in ways that won’t make the other parents look at you more askance than they already do, my mop-haired little energy ball?

You let me be me. Never once have you looked at me and asked me to be the mom I’m not. You haven’t asked for kid’s music. You haven’t asked for kid’s cuisine. You throw your arms wide and welcome the world your dad and I love. We bounce on your bed and sing ‘Fireflies’ at the top of our lungs. You take my lessons of gender equality in stride. You don’t ace me out of things because I’m a girl. You do tell me when not to look at your computer screen or the book you’re reading because it has spiders and you know I hate spiders not because I’m a girl but because well I just don’t like them. You love my very grown up cooking and delight in watching grown up science shows and cooking shows (in addition to a roster of brain melting kid oriented pablum, natch).

I love you because you are brilliant, and because you are so very smart your challenges to me are because you can understand and you do think deeply, whether it’s about math or history, about religious intolerance or racial injustice, and not that you are merely happy to get a day off of school for MLK Jr. Day and I have to struggle to get you to understand why he was important. Your brain fascinates me, as you work like a normal kid to figure out the order of the world- from house to neighborhood, town to state, state to country, country to continent, continents to earth- yet at the same time you are deeply interested in the revolutionary and civil wars. I love that you are 6 years old and can bloody well remember that both those wars occurred and that they were DIFFERENT, which gives you a leg up on some 20% of high school students according to the test data. I love that you never made me remember a bajillion species of dinosaurs. I love your kindness, and compassion, your devotion to your friends and your awareness of the world and needs beyond your own little sphere.

Someone told me, when I was pregnant, that you would be the ultimate clay I would work. But now, as I reflect on why I love you, little man, I would argue that in raising you I am shaping myself. You make me better, Sean, and not ’someone else’, and I love you for it.

It has come, that time that every parent dreads. We had tiptoed up to it before, with Sean’s questions of why, pray tell, did he never get to see my dad. So we had dealt with it, in those cases, matter of factly and simply. But as he never knew my father, he never had an emotional connection, which made it so much easier. It was simply truth, with no messy feelings to get in the way. This is when I confess that part of the motivation to get the goldfish (I’m sorry. ‘Chocolate oranda’) was that hey, kiddo’s gonna experience death and this one will be easier to deal with than a human!

Hershey O’Scharffenberger, I must point out, is very much alive this morning and, as per usual, pissed off every time I come into the room and fail to open his tank and dump in the entire tub of fish food. Unfortunately, the Lad’s grandfather, Sean’s beloved Gramps, died quite unexpectedly on Wednesday night. We are all doing okay, though this has reminded me that the thing I tell my new parent friends (you only think I have my shit together: we are all winging this, constantly, because the game always changes) really is not so much lip service.

As the Lad sat there valiantly trying to choke out words, it became clear I’d have to swoop in and do it, and it was like the words would not stop coming out of my mouth, even as Sean’s face began to crumble, even as he curled over in a ball and keened, and even though the words were kind and as gentle as could be and my arms were right there wrapped around him and my lips pressed against his hair I could tell it was like his little ship had sailed far beyond where the mapmakers knew what was what, right for that squiggle of a sea creature, of the unknown, of the ancient warning. And though he seemingly recovered quickly, I know, oh how I know, in the way his voice cracked as he asked last night what he should say to his Grandpa about his dad dying, in how he asked me in the car if Jewish heaven and Catholic heaven were different places because I knew he was scared he would have to choose. Oh how I know, as I think back on Wednesday, and the words coming out of my mouth- Gramps has died- he’s in heaven- he’s smiling down on you- he lives on in your heart- sweetie grandma and grandpa wanted to make sure you knew how very very happy you made Gramps especially when you saw him this summer on vacation- no sweetie you’ll never see him here on earth again- that I have put a wound on his heart that will never heal, and knowledge in his brain that will never go away.

By now, I think (I hope), the mad swirl of your first week of life has calmed. The influx of family has abated, your parents are beginning to know you, your rhythms, are likely starting to develop that unerring sense of what you need. (Pro tip: sometimes this will fail them. Try not to hold it against them. They are doing the best they can and you, oh littlest of men, can truly throw them for a loop. Let us just say you have brought seismic change to their universe, and will continue to do so, oh, for the rest of your life. Try not to abuse this power.)

I am sorry we are so remote, we who are one of the many outposts of friends and chosen family of your parents- and thus you- around the globe. Over six years ago, I watched your mother lift your cousin (as it were) Sean up, cradle his downy head against her shoulder, and close her eyes as she rested her cheek against the fuzz of his head. I watched your father settle his hand on Sean’s back, feel the rise and fall of his breathing. I knew then that someday there would be a you. And here you are, and your parents’ world begins anew.

We have already given you the words, in tactile form, that our little troika now uses to bless and welcome every baby into our circle. They are the words your mother lead us all in as Sean was welcomed to the family, both blood and chosen, and the larger community of Jews. But I give you more, Drew. You have two amazing parents, two people who feel and care more deeply than most people I know; two people who rise above privilege and station and luck of the dice of birth to not only care but act when it would be all too easy to simply loll along in comfortable, ignorant bliss; two people who throw their arms wide open and embrace the world- its food, its customs, its music, its art, its problems, its opportunities. I have every confidence that they will impress upon you creativity and compassion, the value of knowledge and the importance of action, the meaning of empathy and the art of listening.

And so I bless you with this, oh littlest of men. It is not something I often wish for boys. But I wish strength for you. Not strength of body, oh no (though I pray for your good health), but strength of your soul. The lessons that are your parents’ daily lives are tough ones for a small child. You will need strength to meet their example. You will need strength to understand the importance of the paths your parents have chosen. You will need strength to understand the value of a life less common, of being a bit different from your classmates, of walking the roads of compassion, interfaith, egalitarianism. You will need strength to never settle. You will need strength to always try. Knowing your limits, but being willing to push them, is its own kind of strength. And you will need strength to know that it is okay to ask for help, to cry sometimes, to need comfort, and to know that need is not a weakness.

So welcome to the family your parents have made. Welcome to the honorary aunts and uncles and cousins who span the globe, any and all of whom would be willing to be your shoulder should you ever need it, remind you of the amazing strength you have within yourself. Welcome to the world, little Drew. We are so happy you are here.

Love,
the Kansas outpost

The other night, a bunch of us were sitting around in vent, chatting after a run, shooting the shit about our lives. One of the younger members of the guild declared ‘I am never having kids’. Realize, most of the older folks in guild are sarcastic, semi-cranky, blunt people. But one of them- a 25+ year veteran of a major metro police force, a gruff and no-shit-from-no-body kind of man- started waxing rhapsodic. They’re a lot of work. But man. There is nothing better than having kids. We might complain sometimes, but oh. Best thing in the world, being a parent.

I bitch and complain a lot. But I try not to do it to Sean’s face. When he was sick, when he was awake it was all about him. Do you need snuggles? Can I get you another blankie? Ready to try some soup? I will hold you for as long as you want, pumpkin. The moment his head hit the pillow I was cracking a bottle of wine, logging on, and letting loose a stream of invective about lovable, money-sucking ambulatory petri dishes. But I’m willing to bet a couple of bucks that no one in my online fam doubts my (or, for that matter, the Lad’s) love for our son. That our bitching is pretty much usually about the crazy crapola- high fevers, incompetent ERs, psycho PTO fundraisers- that accompanies parenthood and not about our child, this little human being with feelings.

I keep telling friends who are pregnant and freaking that children really need basics- love, security, safety, food, warmth, medical attention (Sean would argue vociferously that needs to be expanded to include rhino, books, lego, and Fetch! With Ruff Ruffman!)- and everything else is gravy. Something has happened, in our little sphere, to remind me that not every parent is so good on the love and not-bitching-about-the-kid-themselves thing. We have a ringside seat to what happens when you deprive your kids of security, of that touchstone knowledge that your parents will have your back no matter what- no matter how big or small the need. (If they won’t help out with something small, how can you trust them when shit really hits the fan?) The bitterness and pure callous disregard for feelings is palpable, it’s like a stinging note in the fall breeze. I have yet to hear a good word, a loving one, a supportive one. All I hear is contempt: it is the truest word for it. Pure, vile contempt.

And oh, oh how it hurts. It is not my family, but oh how I want to give hugs and pet hair and bake cookies and talk in a tone and with words I doubt have ever been given sincerely. I don’t know why it rocked me so, but at the first opportunity I pulled Sean into my arms and buried my face in his hair, murmuring, “I have something super important to tell you, and I want you to listen.”

“What?”
“I love you.”
He looked at me as though I were nuts, and said slowly, like one might say to an especially dumb animal, “I love you too, Mom.”
“And it doesn’t matter how big you mess up. You can bomb a test-”
“Bomb?”
Fail. Flunk. the Lad offered helpfully.
“Or get on orange or break something or whatever. No matter what. We will still love you and support you. We love you and we will always try to help you when you need us. You need to always remember that. Sometimes it’s tough to remember your parents might be disappointed, but they’ll still love you and help you.”
Sean blinked at me, shaking the hair out of his eyes, squirming the ridiculous length of his body as he sprawled across my lap. And then he reached up and patted my shoulder.
“I know mom. I know.”

Your regularly irregular updates. I’m going to try to be better. Honest. No really. Hey stop rolling your eyes! OK fine. I got Hamthrax, all right? While the Lad was in Hawaii (still. It was a big trip). Now do you understand why it’s been crickets chirping here for over a week? Please allow me to make a semi hysterical PSA: if you have any opportunity to get you and/or your loved ones vaccinated for H1N1: DO IT. Run over grandmas in the parking lot to get in the giant line if you have to. Both Sean and I were on Tamiflu within 24 hours of our manifesting symptoms, and a full week out from it I am STILL falling over asleep at 9:30 and coughing like an old Jewish man after going up and down the stairs twice. Welcome back from Hawaii, honey (no thanks to Northwest and their 14 some odd hours delayed flight, no thanks to US Airways trying to dodge the transfer off of NWA, and thanks to US Airways for eventually getting him HOME), hope you enjoyed then sleeping in the guest room for FIVE DAYS. Hrooock.

But Sean’s back in school and was well enough in time for Halloween that he got to go to the school party AND trick-or-treating, which was his primary concern while his doctor and I were discussing the secondary infection risk of bronchitis (he got it) and pneumonia (he dodged it). 118 pieces of candy worth of trick or treating, I’ll add (61 of which had to be impounded due to dye).

But we are returning to normal. The leaves are falling in droves. My urge to bake is in high gear. I spent 2 weeks worrying about my parenting skills in the face of lack-of-dad-and-presence-of-major-virus and everything being topsy turvy. I am freaking out about being behind on making batches of cookie dough and getting them into the freezer (the goal: 4 batches this weekend).

But in the middle of all of this I am getting one of those slap-upside-the-head kinds of messages from the universe about parenthood. One of those moments where instead of ‘wench: ur doin it wrong’ I’m getting ‘ur doin’ it right’. More on that tomorrow.
No really, I swear.