A story to make us all feel better

I was visiting Jenica on Saturday with C&A and I realized I'd forgotten some things for them that would make staying Saturday night possible (bottles, diaper wipes, my trusty lovenox injection ... where would I be?). I knew I'd have to drive the three hours home that same night ... I waited until as late as possible to leave to guarantee me the most possible driving time with them ASLEEP. I left late and was tired, so stopped for a giant cup of coffee at a DD drive through. I slurped it down and felt more awake, but then. I realized (duh), I had to pee. I didn't know what to do ... it was dark and my girls were sound asleep in the back of the car. It is pretty much physically impossible for me to carry them around anymore, at least at the same time and I'd also forgotten their shoes (yes, I do that kind of thing!). I drove and drove, becoming more uncomfortable by the minute.

Finally, I decided I had to do something. I ruled out rest areas because I knew I could never leave my little babies in the car even for a minute in a place like that (especially at night!) ... what if what if ... or even if they just woke up and got scared because I wasn't there and they didn't know where I was ...

I decided against some other alternatives, including parking by the side of the road to pee so I could stay near the car (while still taking care of my business) and peeing in a diaper (just too gross!). I was, by then, in pain with all of the pressure on my poor bladder and trying desperately to think clearly in my pain/caffeine fog. I saw a sign for the state police and got off the highway. I drove into the police campus and it looked closed ... no lights on anywhere. Plus, I wasn't sure if I'd get in trouble for leaving the girls in the car long enough to go inside to beg for assistance (and they could still wake up alone and afraid). Steph, this one's for you! So after circling a while, I finally settled on parking my car in a far away lot. I then hopped out and peed like a racehorse using my car as a visual shield from the station building. It took forever! I had so much pee to pee but finally, I was done. I hopped up and was about to open the driver's door to go on my way when a super tall and good looking police man walked around from the other side.

EEK! I was all afluster. He said "can I help you?" and I was a stuttering, whiny mess. It all came out in a rush like "I just peed right over there (gesturing to the place to make sure he could properly visualize the scene) ... I'm pregnant (gesture to my abdomen in case he missed it before) and my babies are asleep in the car (gesture there too ... my hands must have been flailing around) and I can't get them out (I did NOT add that they had no shoes ...) and and and. The poor guy just stood there, trying to absorb it all. I can only imagine I made his night as he retold the story to his buddies in the station. "... so then I came across a whopping pregnant lady who PEED in the back parking lot ... man, you should have seen the puddle!"

I was so humiliated I cried as I got back onto the highway but I felt like a million dollars with an empty bladder! I vowed to myself I would never tell a soul but here I am, unable to resist a laugh! On Sunday morning, I mustered the courage to tell John (who... shh.. once pooed his pants on Ravenwood Drive hustling back to our house) and he said "why didn't you just pull over and pee into the empty coffee cup". Head smack! Yes ... why didn't I??? Next time for SURE!

A Story to Share

I witnessed something so moving yesterday ... I just wanted to share it with you.

We were at Costco and eating a healthy pizza/hotdog dinner in the foodcourt after shopping ... I saw a woman sitting nearby with two children. I was just noticing what a great mom she was to each of them individually ... hugging a little girl who seemed to be around 2 years old and telling knockknock jokes to her son who was maybe four or so. Then I noticed the little girl had a really horrible birth mark on the entire lower portion of her face. That registered a little but overall, I was just enjoying their happy family scene, thinking about what a good mom she was.

THEN. When it was time for them to leave, she hobbled over to a motorized wheelchair and sat down! She called her two children and they happily tumbled on it with her, one in a basket in the front, the other on her lap ... and they scooted off.

I teared up and jabbed my husband to turn around so he could see. "THAT is a strong woman!" I remarked. My heart was so moved by what I'd just seen ... I had an urge to run after her to see if I could help her get to her car or whatever. I settled for a quick prayer to God that he would see over her and her two and bless her efforts 20 times over.

The Giving Tree

I offer advance apologies for subjecting you to another post on martyr mothering. I feel compelled to write more on the subject because the stark reality of it all has really been hitting home, thanks to the toxic cocktail of pregnancy hormones charging through my veins.

So, it starts with a grotesquely sad story, The Giving Tree, by a strange looking bald guy. In case you were not traumatized by this story (and the giant black and white photo of its author on the back cover) that nearly dehydrated me as a child from all of the crying, here is a summary ...

Baby and sapling grow together, as child and tree mature and child exploits tree, tree, with a self destructive giving nature offers shade, then fruit, then leaves, branches, and finally its very self, right down a nub in the grass in an effort to meet the needs of its selfish man friend. The end, it is a rotting stump. Now, those of you who have ever tried to rid your property of a tree, know that this is not a true story. No, the true story begins with the tree dropping rude amounts of little black berries and dead leaves all over your belongings and scraping the side of your house with its branches that termites and carpenter ants use as elevated highways. It ends with the tree thwarting all attempts to exterminate it by producing endless shoots from its general stump area. Removal of the stump is impossible to achieve as the tree has been, from its very inception, been planning for the moment it would be brought to justice by sending out countless super human strength root lengths that, stretched end to end, would cross an astonishing distance in space. I digress.

The made up story is a beautiful illustration of the unlimited, giving heart of mothers everywhere who literally allow themselves to be consumed and destroyed by their offspring. I am not talking about spiders ... women, HUMAN women are doing this every day. It occurred to me this morning ... John and I woke up at six, while our parasitic shoots still slumbered in their beds. We walked the yard, together marveling over the miracle spring has brought to our dull gardens, drinking coffee, and feeling fortunate. We ended on the deck ... it was a rare moment on a magical, misty May morning killed by the sound of a wailed "MOMMMMMEEEEEEEEE" from somewhere in the house. I sighed and went inside while John went on to do important yard work.

I changed the soggy diapers of my two ungrateful toddlers while being kicked repeatedly in the gut by our soon to be newborn. I found clean clothes appropriate for a day that is scheduled to start rainy and end warm. I transported us downstairs, found four little shoes, and correctly applied them to four corresponding and wiggly little feet. Then we went outside. Claire ran off calling to John who I could see striding away from her toward the water. "Keep an eye on her!" I called after them and turned my attention to Ava who was reaching for something I couldn't identify on the ground. I pulled her away as she howled in protest. I sweet talked her away from it and walked to the front yard where John and Claire were mulching a flower bed. Ava and I sat happily for a moment on a nearby wall, watching the progress ... but then. Ava wanted down so she could drag sleep sheep through muddy puddles for a moment before howling to get back up in order to smear her grimy little hands on my white maternity pants. Aahhh! I yelled. No! She quickly shifted goals to wanting to climb on top of the wall to get to the dog who was perched on top, ten feet away. I was busy telling her 'no' and why (she is a PRECIOUS BAAABBBY! She can't be allowed to walk near a five foot drop to an asphalt driveway!) when I felt two little hands being wiped on my last pair of clean maternity pants. Claire, pausing from her intense work with damp, cedar red mulch, had "cleaned" her hands off on me.

I felt the intensity of hormonal anger welling up ... NO! EVERYONE INSIDE!! For those of you who have not experienced hormone anger, it is positively hydraulic. Or volcanic. It is like being in a small raft going over a waterfall into class A (or five or whatever) rapids. All there is to be done is brace yourself! Claire, my compliant little girl, headed toward the front door while Ava lingered uncertainly behind, embracing her filthy sleep sheep. I called to her again, insistently "AVA!" Nothing. John, who at times serves as lighter fluid for my outbursts said "Ava come give daddy a kiss".

Claire was at the front door waiting, I was halfway there, dressed in previously white pants, heart pounding with the effort of just being me right now ... I just wanted to get the girls inside where they would be contained and away from wet mulch and puddles. DAMN IT! I yelled. I have been adding to my swear word repertoire as life requires. Damn, while mild in comparison to some of the other gems in my vocabulary, is new (and therefore, effective). John said sorry and shooed Ava on her way.

I stalked to the house to make breakfast for the girls. I broke eggs into a pan for scrambling and bit my lip as I tried to fish out pieces of shell before they became obscured by cooked egg white. "It's not fair!" I said aloud. "No, it isn't fair!" As I was making oatmeal, limping around on my bad pregnant hip, desperately trying to retrieve microscopic pieces of egg shell from our breakfast, John was outside gardening. It wasn't fair. I quelled my frustration with this thought until he foolishly entered the kitchen, done with his important outdoor work. I let him have it ... it isn't fair! Here I am, rushing around fat and pregnant, making breakfast for your ungrateful little children on a SATURDAY while you garden (I emphasized that word with a dubious tone that insinuated perhaps it wasn't a job at all but a pleasure).

He agreed with me so I repeated myself until he was forced to come to his own defense ... something about how I don't go to work, don't administer the payment of bills, don't maintain the house or yard or the cars, don't even pump my own gas! I clarified in a sputter "but on WEEKENDS, it is so unfair!" The discussion fizzled out then, leaving me feeling adequately vented. But on I brood.

I mean, think about it ... I am rounding the bed of 150 pounds, with unsightly bulges in what used to be "non problem areas". I am tired and broken down, hobbling around with a bottle of Tums to ward off the heartburn, tirelessly explaining to C&A why they should avoid jumping on or kicking me in the belly. My poor belly, bruised by daily injections of Lovenox until this Harriett character arrives. I am no longer the knowledgeable, problem solving up and coming vice president of whatever small department in one of the world's most prestigious banks ... I am a mom and a wife.

I was just polishing off this round of self pity and the remainder of my oatmeal when Ava held her fat little arms out "carry you". I scooped her up, cradling her cool little body against mine and she lay her fuzzy head on my shoulder. We swayed together like that for a minute or two and I said "oh little one, you, my love are worth every second of every day. EVERY SECOND OF EVERY DAY" I can't think of a single other thing that needs to be said on this subject.

Happy Mother's Day!

Message to Toddlers: Manners Matter

Yes, I know what you're thinking "Good Luck Lady". Well, I have all of these unrealistic memories of being well mannered from earliest childhood. I believe as an infant, my amazing parents had me saying please and thank you and holding open doors for others before passing through myself. Therefore, I determined to set my sites high. I believe, in general, that children will rise to meet your expectations and, with that in mind, I launched on a full scale effort to finish school my children right here at home and right now.

Like a lot of good things, our lessons in manners are meal centered. My kids are open to all kinds of suggestions when weakened with hunger. I require the word "please" to be spoken as part of a sentence when food/drink requests are made. Claire, clever girl, has developed a very short and convenient catch-all sentence "Yes please". I am sorry to report compromise won a round. Okay fine, I thought. A little yes please would have me leaping to attention to serve. But then, two nights ago, I came to my senses. We had guests over and Claire said to me "Mommy, juice???" She really says these demands so sweetly and with a long, questioning end tone that it usually fools me for a second. I hustled to the kitchen and was nearly to the refrigerator when I realized I'd been tricked. I turned and faced her "that is not how you ask" and then continued to walk away. She hustled after me "MOMMY!" I stopped expectantly waiting. She turned back toward the door and said dismissively over her shoulder "yes please." Oh wait ONE RED SECOND. THAT was not what I had in mind when I was aiming for manners. It occurred to me that what I really want is for my children to ask sweetly (and include the word 'please' in a grammatically correct way) because I just might say NO.

Now I say NO all the time. ALLLLL the time ALLLLL day long. But they know I can't resist feeding and watering them so food/drink requests are delivered with the smug assurance of success. Yesterday, in an effort to reestablish myself as mean alpha mom, I told Claire that from then on, if she didn't say please, the answer would be no. I only remembered I told her that just now, so I am guessing she's been ordering me around ever since without me even noticing.

I bought a book "How to Raise a Lady", written by some snotty woman who probably has no children. It is published by Brooks Brothers so I should have known to not expect a hands on guide. The first chapter ends with a section titled "Your Daughter is Becoming a Young Lady if ..." with a long list of ifs that would bring sinister laughter to my child's mouth if she knew. The third item "She always knocks on a closed door, particularly one that leads to a bathroom or bedroom." Hmm. As I read this, I suffered a collage style flashback of times I've been "caught with my pants down", and let out a chuckle. Oh boy. Claire barges in and then says in an accusing voice "Mommmmmyyyy, what are you doooooinggggg?" I SHOULD say "go back outside, close the door and knock." but instead I give her honest answers "peeing" or "clipping my toenails" or "plucking out creepy random beard hairs". Well no more! You may ask "why not lock the door?". That just tells me that you are either not a mom or you are a bad mom. What if I fell in the bathroom and was unconscious on the floor while my babies wail at me from outside a closed door "Moooooommmmmmeeeeeeeee". No, I'd rather they discover my bloody body themselves. I really think things through like this.

On to another gem on the you-know-she's-becoming-a-lady-if list "If she is wearing a cap, beret (oh please) or hat, she removes the headgear when she sits down to eat at a table at home or in a restaurant." It then adds helpfully "a kerchief is not officially a hat, and need not be removed". The only reasonable response to a book like this is to throw it away.

I will close with a recap of our very rude morning. We went to playgroup at my friend Li's house. Li works full time, so couldn't actually be there to host. Instead, she arranged for her poor mother and angelic friend, Grace, to be there. I'll keep this short because I am still working through the emotions. Claire and Ava got enormously attached to a jack in the box toy and were taking turns hitting each other with it to determine who would play with it first. Grace came over to assist and Claire, detecting Grace's generous nature, flew into a rage (tantrum) which began its decline only as I dragged both girls out to the car to go home. Claire then threw up and somehow Grace (I was and am mortified) ended up mopping up the worst of it and waved at us as we drove away. I was so angry with Claire. During the ten minute drive home, I contemplated the pros and cons of forgiving her. Or not. I forced myself to be civil and her sweet repeated statement "Mommy, was I very naughty?" was answered through my clenched teeth. I peppered my terse language with threats to never ever take her anywhere again and to throw up on HER the next time I am not feeling well. I decided, on the drive home, to send Grace flowers. I am still cooling off.