For the past 18 months, I've awakened each morning in the same way -- to the sight of a sleep-rumpled little boy standing by my bed, clutching his beloved blankie.
He waits silently until I open my eyes, then raises both arms for a boost into our bed. We drowse, his fingers entangled in my hair.
Lately, these early-morning visits have become sporadic. Some mornings he appears; on others, I find him sitting quietly on the couch, patiently waiting for the household to rouse.
I used to bemoan being awakened at 6:30 a.m. Now I dread the day these bedside visits stop.
My baby's burgeoning independence unfortunately coincides with his sister's impending entrance into kindergarten.
One no longer wants to snuggle in the morning; the other is about to don her brown Mary Janes and stride into a new phase of life.
My role is changing -- no, being changed for me -- and I find I no longer know my lines.
Thursday, August 07, 2008
Thursday, July 31, 2008
My tiny beholders
In the hours before my 20th high school reunion, I scrutinized the sag, bemoaned the pooch, and struck various poses in front of the mirror, alternately adjusting bra straps (must. get. boobs. back. to. original. spot.) and sucking in my stomach.
Sighing, I turned from the mirror and picked up my tiny purse.
"Mommy?"
Two little people blocked the door.
The girl child touched my dress. Boy child eyed the sparkley necklace.
"You look beautiful."
And when I looked again, I saw what they saw. And I was.
*************
Fireflies have vanished. Kindergarten starts in two weeks. Hiatus is officially ended.
Sighing, I turned from the mirror and picked up my tiny purse.
"Mommy?"
Two little people blocked the door.
The girl child touched my dress. Boy child eyed the sparkley necklace.
"You look beautiful."
And when I looked again, I saw what they saw. And I was.
*************
Fireflies have vanished. Kindergarten starts in two weeks. Hiatus is officially ended.
Thursday, June 19, 2008
On hiatus
I'm working on two long-term projects and ...
... equally exciting ...
... I'm about to start another regular writing gig with a mama/reporter friend of mine.
I'm immersed at work. I have more to write at night. And, just before the kids go to bed, we chase fireflies across the lawn.
I am reveling in this quickened pace, but there is little time to blog. I will be dropping in on yours, and I may post here periodically as time allows.
But right now, I have to focus on what's right in front of me, here IRL.
Be well.
In 45 minutes, I'll be out on the front porch swing, bare feet dangling, drinking a glass of wine and pointing the kids toward tiny, blinking lights.
... equally exciting ...
... I'm about to start another regular writing gig with a mama/reporter friend of mine.
I'm immersed at work. I have more to write at night. And, just before the kids go to bed, we chase fireflies across the lawn.
I am reveling in this quickened pace, but there is little time to blog. I will be dropping in on yours, and I may post here periodically as time allows.
But right now, I have to focus on what's right in front of me, here IRL.
Be well.
In 45 minutes, I'll be out on the front porch swing, bare feet dangling, drinking a glass of wine and pointing the kids toward tiny, blinking lights.
Thursday, June 12, 2008
This summer, I head west
This summer, I'll be heading to Odessa, Texas, for a friend's baby shower.
I spent two years in Odessa, a rough-and-tumble town in West Texas, and home to the best damn bloody Mary I've ever had. Mel, my expecting friend, is the one who introduced me to these spicy perfections at a joint called Riley's Roadhouse.
I met Mel at the newspaper. Her desk was next to mine. On my first day, Mel spent hours on the phone, ranting about the boyfriend who had cheated on her with a stripper. His name was Seven. His parents were aiming for Sven, but someone screwed up the birth certificate. Anyway, at one point Mel picked up this stuffed animal from her desk, and, using a pair of scissors, decapitated it.
"I (whack) can't (snip) believe (swish) I trusted him!"
I knew we were destined to be friends.
After hitting a few clubs with Mel, she took me to Riley's.
"Do NOT put down your purse," she hissed as we walked through the door.
And then she introduced me to Queen Mary. Yum.
Mel and I specialized in dating inappropriate men. I settled on the TV reporter who essentially read my big investigative story on air -- without crediting me.
"OK, aside from that, what is wrong with him?" I asked Mel.
"He has no soul," she replied.
One night, I met Mel at a club so she could introduce me to her latest. He said hello, then promptly slumped over the table and passed out.
I jabbed her.
"What's wrong with him?" I shout-whispered over the pulsing music.
"Oh, I don't know," Mel said, airily waving a cigarette. "He smoked some pot, popped a couple of Valium and chased them with a couple of margaritas."
"Do you think he's OK?" I asked.
"He's fine," Mel said. "He does this all the time. Let's go dance."
Still, this guy was an improvement over the hapless Seven.
One night, after getting off work, Mel and I met Seven at a bar in nearby Midland.
Once there, we had time to down only one beer before closing. We piled into Mel's car -- Mel, Seven, me, another girlfriend, and two of Seven's friends. Seven said he would drive.
"I've only had one beer," he assured us.
Fifteen minutes later, cop lights flashed behind us.
We all watched as Seven attempted to pass a sobriety test.
Sandwiched between Seven's two lunkhead buddies in the backseat, I watched him flunk it.
"Dude," said one of the guys. "I forgot about the bong. Should I stuff it under the seat?"
"You have a bong?" I squeaked. Drugs were not my thing. I was, I admit, a bit of a goody-goody in that department.Oh, great.
"Yeah, dude. What should I do with it?"
I slouched down in my seat.
"Mel, it is high time you broke things off with Seven. If you want to make it easier, just tell him you can't be with someone whose parents can't spell."
I dumped my story-stealing boyfriend and she left Seven puzzling over the true pronunciation of his name.
And here we are all these years later.
I haven't seen Mel since my own baby shower in 2002. And now I'm headed to hers.
I can't believe I'm saying this, but Odessa, here I come. Just slide that bloody Mary down the bar.
And don't touch my purse.
I spent two years in Odessa, a rough-and-tumble town in West Texas, and home to the best damn bloody Mary I've ever had. Mel, my expecting friend, is the one who introduced me to these spicy perfections at a joint called Riley's Roadhouse.
I met Mel at the newspaper. Her desk was next to mine. On my first day, Mel spent hours on the phone, ranting about the boyfriend who had cheated on her with a stripper. His name was Seven. His parents were aiming for Sven, but someone screwed up the birth certificate. Anyway, at one point Mel picked up this stuffed animal from her desk, and, using a pair of scissors, decapitated it.
"I (whack) can't (snip) believe (swish) I trusted him!"
I knew we were destined to be friends.
After hitting a few clubs with Mel, she took me to Riley's.
"Do NOT put down your purse," she hissed as we walked through the door.
And then she introduced me to Queen Mary. Yum.
Mel and I specialized in dating inappropriate men. I settled on the TV reporter who essentially read my big investigative story on air -- without crediting me.
"OK, aside from that, what is wrong with him?" I asked Mel.
"He has no soul," she replied.
One night, I met Mel at a club so she could introduce me to her latest. He said hello, then promptly slumped over the table and passed out.
I jabbed her.
"What's wrong with him?" I shout-whispered over the pulsing music.
"Oh, I don't know," Mel said, airily waving a cigarette. "He smoked some pot, popped a couple of Valium and chased them with a couple of margaritas."
"Do you think he's OK?" I asked.
"He's fine," Mel said. "He does this all the time. Let's go dance."
Still, this guy was an improvement over the hapless Seven.
One night, after getting off work, Mel and I met Seven at a bar in nearby Midland.
Once there, we had time to down only one beer before closing. We piled into Mel's car -- Mel, Seven, me, another girlfriend, and two of Seven's friends. Seven said he would drive.
"I've only had one beer," he assured us.
Fifteen minutes later, cop lights flashed behind us.
We all watched as Seven attempted to pass a sobriety test.
Sandwiched between Seven's two lunkhead buddies in the backseat, I watched him flunk it.
"Dude," said one of the guys. "I forgot about the bong. Should I stuff it under the seat?"
"You have a bong?" I squeaked. Drugs were not my thing. I was, I admit, a bit of a goody-goody in that department.Oh, great.
"Yeah, dude. What should I do with it?"
I slouched down in my seat.
"Mel, it is high time you broke things off with Seven. If you want to make it easier, just tell him you can't be with someone whose parents can't spell."
I dumped my story-stealing boyfriend and she left Seven puzzling over the true pronunciation of his name.
And here we are all these years later.
I haven't seen Mel since my own baby shower in 2002. And now I'm headed to hers.
I can't believe I'm saying this, but Odessa, here I come. Just slide that bloody Mary down the bar.
And don't touch my purse.
Wednesday, June 11, 2008
The avenging toddler
The teacher was baffled.
"He's always so sweet," she said.
The note she handed over read: The E-man was aggressive today. He kept hitting and scratching two of his friends.
After a little questioning (along with a peek at the names on the other parents' injury notes) I figured out who the victims were — two little boys who had hit and scratched the E-man.
The previous week. Apparently, the E-man had been brooding, biding his time.
A few days ago, we got another note. The E-man had whacked a kid in the head with a Lego — the same kid who had bitten the E-man's big toe.
The previous week.
It appears my little man knows how to nurture a grudge. It's gotten to the point that I can anticipate a spurt of aggression. Someone will do something to him. He'll talk about his injury for several days.
And then he engineers a surprise attack on his attacker.
We've have a few talks about this, but remain at an impasse with our vengeful tot.
And quite frankly, I feel a bit hypocritical. I am, after all, the woman who painstakingly listed all of the Hub's out-of-town trips vs. mine in an effort to prove that I am more often the one carrying the domestic load.
My list was typed. With columns. Including one for number of days gone.
ahem
I can whip out an old offense and wield it within seconds of Hubs recommitting said offense.
Perhaps the E-man's issue is merely his timing?
I kid. Kind of.
Really, all I can say about this matter is that it's a darn good thing for Hubs that he's never bitten my big toe.
"He's always so sweet," she said.
The note she handed over read: The E-man was aggressive today. He kept hitting and scratching two of his friends.
After a little questioning (along with a peek at the names on the other parents' injury notes) I figured out who the victims were — two little boys who had hit and scratched the E-man.
The previous week. Apparently, the E-man had been brooding, biding his time.
A few days ago, we got another note. The E-man had whacked a kid in the head with a Lego — the same kid who had bitten the E-man's big toe.
The previous week.
It appears my little man knows how to nurture a grudge. It's gotten to the point that I can anticipate a spurt of aggression. Someone will do something to him. He'll talk about his injury for several days.
And then he engineers a surprise attack on his attacker.
We've have a few talks about this, but remain at an impasse with our vengeful tot.
And quite frankly, I feel a bit hypocritical. I am, after all, the woman who painstakingly listed all of the Hub's out-of-town trips vs. mine in an effort to prove that I am more often the one carrying the domestic load.
My list was typed. With columns. Including one for number of days gone.
ahem
I can whip out an old offense and wield it within seconds of Hubs recommitting said offense.
Perhaps the E-man's issue is merely his timing?
I kid. Kind of.
Really, all I can say about this matter is that it's a darn good thing for Hubs that he's never bitten my big toe.
Monday, June 09, 2008
On a lighter note...
... and in anticipation of Father's Day, here's an essay Hubs wrote shortly after the birth of our second child.
By Hubs
“Can you pick up the kids? I’ve got to work late.”
In response, a vision instantly pops into my head: a 2-year-old screaming because she just went potty, but not in her little toilet, and our little master, all of 3 months, out-yelling her because he discovered his dad is insufficient in the anatomy department.
“Sure, I’ll get them — but how late will you be?” I ask.
No matter what her response, I will ask, “Why so late?” and “Do you have to do it tonight?”
There is no escape.
What could be better, you might ask, than a night alone with my two adorable children? The daycare teachers joke that they want to borrow them, maybe take them home one night, because they are so cute, cuddly and well-behaved. I joke back that I almost called them at about 3 a.m. this morning when we were changing our sheets and comforter after our little guy anointed the bed during a diaper change.
I would have happily lent him out the night he was wailing inconsolably because I gently put him in his crib after 30 minutes of rocking. How dare I mistreat him so?
How could I know that he wanted to stay up and socialize? This is the scariest sight I know — a wide-eyed baby smiling at you in the way-too-early hours of the morning. The smile, it sucks me in; I cave like a dieting chocoholic who just found a lonely Hershey’s Kiss. If it weren’t for that toothless grin, which he musters even when I’m suctioning his nose, I would suspect he just doesn’t like me and is out to do me in.
The thought of being alone without the Milk Bar — aka “Mama” — sends me searching for a way out, any way, any direction. I want to be with them. I just want the option of passing the little guy off to the one with the right equipment. It’s so easy. He cries, she puts him on, and voila: peace. In her absence, he starts to fuss, the 2-year-old chimes in and the blissful evening of watching my beloved Astros with my little adorables turns into something on Elm Street.
I often point out to my wife how different it is when she is away. But she waves it off, saying it can’t be that bad.
She doesn’t know. Upon her arrival, usually later than she said, our oldest is asleep and the younger one is napping in my arms, oh so innocent-looking. How sweet it all appears. The quiet, the calm — both belie the scene an hour earlier.
The little one went off when his standard comfort-apparatus wasn’t to be found and the other joined in because she was having trouble pooping.
Panties down, on the little throne, panties up, more cries of “I need to poop!” Panties down, “I need a book,” panties up. Panties down, no poop. No poop to be found. I want her to poop. I pray for poop. How my priorities seem so simple, yet out of my control. A little poop in the potty and all will be well.
Later, I’m rinsing out panties. I have poop.
When, I wonder, will my wife get home?
I phone, but her cell goes to voice mail. How could she abandon me? My hope rises with every glimpse of headlights through the blinds. It’s not her. It’s still not her.
Finally, one child is asleep and the other is quiet for the moment. More lights, the sound of her car in the drive. The car door shuts, keys rattle, the front door opens and she enters, smiling.
“Sorry I’m late.” She pauses to croon at the now-sleeping little guy. “How was it?”
I shake my head. “I hope you brought beer.”
By Hubs
“Can you pick up the kids? I’ve got to work late.”
In response, a vision instantly pops into my head: a 2-year-old screaming because she just went potty, but not in her little toilet, and our little master, all of 3 months, out-yelling her because he discovered his dad is insufficient in the anatomy department.
“Sure, I’ll get them — but how late will you be?” I ask.
No matter what her response, I will ask, “Why so late?” and “Do you have to do it tonight?”
There is no escape.
What could be better, you might ask, than a night alone with my two adorable children? The daycare teachers joke that they want to borrow them, maybe take them home one night, because they are so cute, cuddly and well-behaved. I joke back that I almost called them at about 3 a.m. this morning when we were changing our sheets and comforter after our little guy anointed the bed during a diaper change.
I would have happily lent him out the night he was wailing inconsolably because I gently put him in his crib after 30 minutes of rocking. How dare I mistreat him so?
How could I know that he wanted to stay up and socialize? This is the scariest sight I know — a wide-eyed baby smiling at you in the way-too-early hours of the morning. The smile, it sucks me in; I cave like a dieting chocoholic who just found a lonely Hershey’s Kiss. If it weren’t for that toothless grin, which he musters even when I’m suctioning his nose, I would suspect he just doesn’t like me and is out to do me in.
The thought of being alone without the Milk Bar — aka “Mama” — sends me searching for a way out, any way, any direction. I want to be with them. I just want the option of passing the little guy off to the one with the right equipment. It’s so easy. He cries, she puts him on, and voila: peace. In her absence, he starts to fuss, the 2-year-old chimes in and the blissful evening of watching my beloved Astros with my little adorables turns into something on Elm Street.
I often point out to my wife how different it is when she is away. But she waves it off, saying it can’t be that bad.
She doesn’t know. Upon her arrival, usually later than she said, our oldest is asleep and the younger one is napping in my arms, oh so innocent-looking. How sweet it all appears. The quiet, the calm — both belie the scene an hour earlier.
The little one went off when his standard comfort-apparatus wasn’t to be found and the other joined in because she was having trouble pooping.
Panties down, on the little throne, panties up, more cries of “I need to poop!” Panties down, “I need a book,” panties up. Panties down, no poop. No poop to be found. I want her to poop. I pray for poop. How my priorities seem so simple, yet out of my control. A little poop in the potty and all will be well.
Later, I’m rinsing out panties. I have poop.
When, I wonder, will my wife get home?
I phone, but her cell goes to voice mail. How could she abandon me? My hope rises with every glimpse of headlights through the blinds. It’s not her. It’s still not her.
Finally, one child is asleep and the other is quiet for the moment. More lights, the sound of her car in the drive. The car door shuts, keys rattle, the front door opens and she enters, smiling.
“Sorry I’m late.” She pauses to croon at the now-sleeping little guy. “How was it?”
I shake my head. “I hope you brought beer.”
Thursday, June 05, 2008
Circle time
I arrive at Group each morning, notebook in hand, pen at the ready.
At first, the women were overly conscious of me.
When the therapist asked a question, they looked at me, not her, when they answered. Several glanced frequently at my notebook, trying to decipher its abbreviated scribblings.
Now they don't notice me so much. I am the silent figure on a chair outside the circle. Only the occasional flip of my notebook paper gives me away.
I listen to the secrets that dribble out each morning, secrets that involve absent mothers, abusive mothers, unknown mothers.
And I am struck -- again and again -- by the realization that no matter what these women suffered at the hands of their mothers, they still love and miss them all these years later. They've looked everywhere for that soft maternal touch -- in pain pill bottles, liquor cabinets and crack houses.
Still, it eludes them.
What I see and hear each morning further convinces me that there is no love more resilient than that of a child for her mother. Some days, it breaks my heart. Other days, I am overwhelmed and frightened by their desperate need...
... because it reminds me of the revered place I've been allotted in each of my own children's hearts.
And I pray that I never disappoint them.
At first, the women were overly conscious of me.
When the therapist asked a question, they looked at me, not her, when they answered. Several glanced frequently at my notebook, trying to decipher its abbreviated scribblings.
Now they don't notice me so much. I am the silent figure on a chair outside the circle. Only the occasional flip of my notebook paper gives me away.
I listen to the secrets that dribble out each morning, secrets that involve absent mothers, abusive mothers, unknown mothers.
And I am struck -- again and again -- by the realization that no matter what these women suffered at the hands of their mothers, they still love and miss them all these years later. They've looked everywhere for that soft maternal touch -- in pain pill bottles, liquor cabinets and crack houses.
Still, it eludes them.
What I see and hear each morning further convinces me that there is no love more resilient than that of a child for her mother. Some days, it breaks my heart. Other days, I am overwhelmed and frightened by their desperate need...
... because it reminds me of the revered place I've been allotted in each of my own children's hearts.
And I pray that I never disappoint them.
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