I carry a Mom Bag. It is large and pocketless and zips closed, so that when we go to New York, I can take it on the subway and not worry about something getting stolen out of it. Upon reflection, however, I realize that were anyone to try to swipe something out of it, or just take the whole thing, they would be really disappointed. There's nothing in there that's of any value to anyone but me. Sure, there are credit cards. But those can be cancelled immediately. My driver's license? Ok, if you're into broads with purple glasses and extra chins, and would like to be an organ donor, have at it, weirdo. Some cash, but never too much. I'm a mom, remember? Cash doesn't last long.
Among the items in the Mom Bag that are supremely useful but of no real value:
Chapstick
A Tide Pen
Emergency yarn
Gum
Advil
Nail clippers
Tweezers
Bandaids
A small spiral notebook
See? Useful, but not anything to write home about, if you're livin' the Thug Life. But I'm a Scout Mom, and we are prepared. I have whipped out that Tide Pen many times when a kid (whose kid doesn't matter. At some point, they're all mine.) has spilled something on his uniform, and WHOOSH, stain destroyed! Need gum to pop your ears on a plane? Gotcha covered. Splinter? TWEEZED! Homesick kid? Gum cures many ills. Especially if you have braces and Mom doesn't usually let you have it, but Miss Amy will...just this once. And Emergency yarn is a thing. If you think it isn't, try being anywhere with me when my anxiety is all ramped up and I don't have any knitting to keep my idle hands busy. There will be blood. Of course, then I would have the Bandaids, so...
There is one thing, however, that I have been carrying around for several weeks and I can't bring myself to part with it. It's more valuable to me at this point in my life than any legal tender. It is a wrapper from a package of peanut butter cheese crackers. And I may have it bronzed.
The day that Big Hairy Manchild shipped to Boot Camp, he had about ten minutes to sit with us at MEPS (Military Entrance Processing Station. I hate long parenthetical breaks. But I also hate it when people don't explain themselves and speak Military at ya.), and wolf down a snack before being sworn in and leaving. He chose three packs of the PB&C crackers and shoved one in his face and two in his pocket. When he was done, I automatically reached out my hand for the empty wrapper, as I had done thousands of times before, and he dutifully deposited it. Into the Mom Bag it went.
I'm sure anyone who saw this unfold barely even noticed it. But the irony hit me over the head like a Big Heavy Ironic Object.
In the weeks leading up to his departure, the Manchild and I had been engaged in a dance. It wasn't one of those gracefully choreographed Mother/Son numbers that goes viral on Facebook. Oh, it was viral, alright, in the sense that we were getting sick of each other. But we were also both spinning and sidestepping and trying very hard not to actually look one another in the eyeballs, and face the fact that soon we were going to have to do without one another. And since he emerged, with some effort, from my loins some twenty years ago, we had never done that. Now it was upon us, and we were both ready. And we felt weird about that.
It's hard to admit you want your kid to leave. You feel like a terrible person. And try explaining it to your friends who have young ones, or your friends who are dealing with custody arrangements and visitation. They're knee deep in the nurturing, and you're buying your wee one razors and...other things, occasionally. Hey, you face facts or you end up a really young grandma. Pick one. Anyway, moving on...
I didn't want him to be gone. I was just ready for him to leave. There's a difference. And the difference is this: The first sentence is all about Mom. The second one is all about Kid. As much as it was going to tear me up, I wanted him to go and start his life, and experience the success of seeing his goals come to fruition. And yes, I wanted to own a complete set of dishes again. I cannot adequately express to you the simple, but complete joy of opening a cupboard to retrieve a glass, and actually seeing a glass! Several, even! However will I choose between them?!
And he was conflicted in his own way. Sick to death of me being around all the time. And irritated with himself for wanting me to be. This Summer saw some epic eye rolling and door slamming, but we also nearly wet ourselves laughing more times than I can remember. It also saw the birth of his new favorite phrase, "You're Momming me pretty hard, right now." At first I couldn't figure out if it was an insult or a compliment. Then I realized it was a little of both. It was a response born of both gratitude and frustration. It was uttered when I threw my arm across his chest while driving. Because my right arm is going to stop a 175-pound body from flying through a windshield. It was accompanied by a snort when I reminded him to pick his wallet up off the table at a restaurant. The fact is, he was getting damned annoyed by my mere presence, and even angrier that he was going to miss me. The audacity of me loving him and making him love him back! I've got some nerve.
Poor Daddy. If my husband wasn't bald already, those last few weeks would have done it. The poor man had to wade through a sea of texts from the two of us, listing each others' transgressions one minute, and mopping up the Goodbye Tears the next. A lesser man would have been driven to drink. He just played a lot of golf and brought me home a cat.
By the time he left, Manchild's eyes had been rolled so many times they nearly stuck that way. Turns out our moms were right! We finally had a rather ugly interaction over dinner about three days before he left. I called him out on his attitude, and he realized I was right and responded by being angry at me for being right and stomping out of the restaurant, after I returned from storming off to the restroom. For the record, I am aware it sounds bad, and doesn't paint either of us in a favorable light. Also, it was a Red Robin. And the last thing I saw before I dramatically flung open the ladies' restroom door, was a picture above said door of George Costanza, posing seductively in his boxers and black dress socks. It's hard to be dramatic when presented with that image. The ride home was long and quiet. And when we got to the house, we got out of the car, and he grabbed me and hugged me, on purpose, with both arms, and let me cry, and didn't pull away first. He always pulled away first. And I almost never got both arms.
We were tired, and we were both waving our white flags.
And so, on that Monday morning, he was sworn into the Marines, as a man. And he bought his own food, because he is a man. And he let me, "Mom," him one last time, because he is a man, and realized that me being a mom doesn't undo that.
After a Summer of conflicted emotions, we are both where we need to be. I am focusing on enjoying the last of the time I have with Thing 2, and the Recruit is enjoying first class accommodations and special one-on-one time with the best motivational speakers and fitness trainers the Corps. has to offer.
And there is a crinkly, slightly crumby wrapper at the bottom of the Mom Bag, that still smells vaguely of peanut butter, and absolutely wreaks of irony. Maybe I'll glue it into his baby book.
But first, I'm going to have some cereal. Because I own bowls again!
Saturday, November 4, 2017
Thursday, October 19, 2017
Rotten Kid...
Things are weird. Just completely off-kilter and wrong. I am foggy and unfocused and aimless and tired. Several times this week I have walked into an empty house. The fledgling has done gone and fledged. And I hate it.
Ok, maybe not completely empty. There are always the Two Derps, and the Small Orange Meth Head. They certainly make their presence known when I come home, because it is always a surprise. They are quite convinced that every time I leave the house I am never coming home again, ever. It makes for quite the ego boost to walk into that level of glee and pee pee wiggle every time I come back from the store. Or the mailbox. Doesn't matter. Same pee pee wiggle, regardless.
Also, and I keep having to remind myself of this: It's not like the kid ever greeted me at the door. Unless I had groceries. And to his credit, it wasn't just to take inventory or graze, he would bring in everything. I mean EVERYTHING. In one trip. "Death Before Two Trips," is his philosophy on grocery unloading.
No, he spent most of his time in the Bat Cave, honestly, but he was here. He was around. I knew where he was and what he was doing (plotting), and if he was okay (debatable). He was always up in the middle of the night, cooking, and if his dad was home, making sure to leave every single cupboard door open. That's not a joke. He left a trail. I used to joke that even if he was inclined to embark on a life of crime, he would be the world's worst criminal, because he left too much evidence. Every morning was an episode of CSI: Kitchen. "Let's see, we have a skillet, a package of deli cheese, open and half hardened, and a loaf of bread left out that has reached the consistency of a door stop. I'm guessing grilled cheese." I noticed about a year ago that he was leaving his mark on a less consistent basis. That's when he laughed and confessed he only did that when his dad was home. Which is terrible. And hilarious.
I am not unique. Every parent goes through this. I am aware. I just wasn't ready. He didn't leave in stages. He left all at once. He completed my sentences and read my mind and then he left. He probably left because he could read my mind. I would some days. But it was time.
On the plus side, and it's a big plus, he is exactly where he wants to be, doing exactly what he's wanted to do for literally half the time he's spent on this earth. He had support, plenty of it. But in the end he did the work. He took the long way around and made things hard on himself sometimes, but he learned from his detours, and this is all him.
People have wondered if I am worried about him. Not the way one might expect. I am not worried one bit about his safety. The Marines have already invested too much in him to want to break him. The time will come soon enough when he very well may be in harm's way, but for now I know he's just really off-kilter, and foggy, and tired. How poetically ironic. No, he's fine, for now, and the next three months will be...unforgettable, for sure. At some point in the future he may even look back on these next 13 weeks and laugh. Maybe. Wayyyy off in the future.
In the meantime, we will soon have an address and we can send the Little Cherub letters. This is where I shall exact my revenge.
I have decided to go an unorthodox route with my first letter. I would like to remind everyone that he left home ON MY BIRTHDAY. And in my birthday card, he wrote, "Quit f@#*king crying! Happy Birthday." So instead of the gush and mush he is likely expecting, I have decided to send him a list of the texts I would have sent him if he were here and had his phone. Here is a sampling of actual things I picked up my phone to text him over the last four days:
I have to poop.
Why did you leave me, you giant butthole?
I am playing with Fart Slime. That's an actual thing I own now.
How much laundry do you OWN??!!! I swear I found onesies in the pile!
Are there stalls in the bathroom or do you have to poo out in the open?
Wow, I think a lot about poo.
I bought burgers and salmon filets from the meat counter the other evening and remembered to ask for just three and DID NOT CRY, thank you! PBBBBBFT!
Peanut just made a noise never before heard in nature.
Did I mention I'm insanely proud of you?
Or maybe just insane...
Please come potty these dogs.
Remember how many times we had to listen to Hooked On a Feeling on the sax? Well, now it's Skyfall.
I don't remember Skyfall having that much profanity in it.
I love you bigger than the universe.
I may say some other things, too, but I think that list ought to at least make him less homesick. In the meantime, it tickles me to think of him smacking his forehead and wondering just where he went wrong with me.
For now, poor Thing 2 will have to bear the brunt of my mothering. He's doing well, so far. And having recently reached the age at which he knows everything, he doesn't need me quite as much as he used to. He will leave me in phases. He's already started, really. I will be a professional by the time that happens. It won't bother me at all.
I think I'll start the Xanax drip now.
Ok, maybe not completely empty. There are always the Two Derps, and the Small Orange Meth Head. They certainly make their presence known when I come home, because it is always a surprise. They are quite convinced that every time I leave the house I am never coming home again, ever. It makes for quite the ego boost to walk into that level of glee and pee pee wiggle every time I come back from the store. Or the mailbox. Doesn't matter. Same pee pee wiggle, regardless.
Also, and I keep having to remind myself of this: It's not like the kid ever greeted me at the door. Unless I had groceries. And to his credit, it wasn't just to take inventory or graze, he would bring in everything. I mean EVERYTHING. In one trip. "Death Before Two Trips," is his philosophy on grocery unloading.
No, he spent most of his time in the Bat Cave, honestly, but he was here. He was around. I knew where he was and what he was doing (plotting), and if he was okay (debatable). He was always up in the middle of the night, cooking, and if his dad was home, making sure to leave every single cupboard door open. That's not a joke. He left a trail. I used to joke that even if he was inclined to embark on a life of crime, he would be the world's worst criminal, because he left too much evidence. Every morning was an episode of CSI: Kitchen. "Let's see, we have a skillet, a package of deli cheese, open and half hardened, and a loaf of bread left out that has reached the consistency of a door stop. I'm guessing grilled cheese." I noticed about a year ago that he was leaving his mark on a less consistent basis. That's when he laughed and confessed he only did that when his dad was home. Which is terrible. And hilarious.
I am not unique. Every parent goes through this. I am aware. I just wasn't ready. He didn't leave in stages. He left all at once. He completed my sentences and read my mind and then he left. He probably left because he could read my mind. I would some days. But it was time.
On the plus side, and it's a big plus, he is exactly where he wants to be, doing exactly what he's wanted to do for literally half the time he's spent on this earth. He had support, plenty of it. But in the end he did the work. He took the long way around and made things hard on himself sometimes, but he learned from his detours, and this is all him.
People have wondered if I am worried about him. Not the way one might expect. I am not worried one bit about his safety. The Marines have already invested too much in him to want to break him. The time will come soon enough when he very well may be in harm's way, but for now I know he's just really off-kilter, and foggy, and tired. How poetically ironic. No, he's fine, for now, and the next three months will be...unforgettable, for sure. At some point in the future he may even look back on these next 13 weeks and laugh. Maybe. Wayyyy off in the future.
In the meantime, we will soon have an address and we can send the Little Cherub letters. This is where I shall exact my revenge.
I have decided to go an unorthodox route with my first letter. I would like to remind everyone that he left home ON MY BIRTHDAY. And in my birthday card, he wrote, "Quit f@#*king crying! Happy Birthday." So instead of the gush and mush he is likely expecting, I have decided to send him a list of the texts I would have sent him if he were here and had his phone. Here is a sampling of actual things I picked up my phone to text him over the last four days:
I have to poop.
Why did you leave me, you giant butthole?
I am playing with Fart Slime. That's an actual thing I own now.
How much laundry do you OWN??!!! I swear I found onesies in the pile!
Are there stalls in the bathroom or do you have to poo out in the open?
Wow, I think a lot about poo.
I bought burgers and salmon filets from the meat counter the other evening and remembered to ask for just three and DID NOT CRY, thank you! PBBBBBFT!
Peanut just made a noise never before heard in nature.
Did I mention I'm insanely proud of you?
Or maybe just insane...
Please come potty these dogs.
Remember how many times we had to listen to Hooked On a Feeling on the sax? Well, now it's Skyfall.
I don't remember Skyfall having that much profanity in it.
I love you bigger than the universe.
I may say some other things, too, but I think that list ought to at least make him less homesick. In the meantime, it tickles me to think of him smacking his forehead and wondering just where he went wrong with me.
For now, poor Thing 2 will have to bear the brunt of my mothering. He's doing well, so far. And having recently reached the age at which he knows everything, he doesn't need me quite as much as he used to. He will leave me in phases. He's already started, really. I will be a professional by the time that happens. It won't bother me at all.
I think I'll start the Xanax drip now.
Wednesday, October 4, 2017
Whose Poop Is That?
The following is an actual list of For Real items and/or substances which ended up on my For Real boobs before 10:30 this morning:
Barbecue sauce
An entire cat
Poop
That's correct: poop. I don't know whose poop. Presumably not mine. Dear lord, I do not want to envision a world in which it was mine...Anyhooooo, poop. My children are 15 and 20 years of age, and I had really hoped that at this point in my illustrious career I would be done dealing with pee and poo on a daily basis. Alas, this has turned out not to be the case. Mostly because we have animals. Two dogs, one of whom has a very loose definition of, "outside,", one kitten who clearly has a meth problem, and a fish named Bill. Bill is my favorite, poopwise. Very little cleanup and he has yet to bark when he needs to relieve himself.
It was an eventful morning.
6:45am: I woke to a very quiet house. I panicked. Quiet is frightening to mothers, even at this late stage. I've seen some stuff, man... I thought Thing Two had missed his bus. Turns out he hadn't. Crisis averted. So far, so good.
8:00-ish: I must have dozed off, because I woke up with a jolt to realize that Small Dog hadn't stirred. This wasn't good, because she is famous for being the most obnoxious morning person in the known universe. It turns out that she was having a reaction to her vaccines from the day before. She wouldn't move, would barely respond, and when I tried to pick her up, she howled in pain. HOWLED. It was horrible. I immediately did the only sensible thing I could do and burst into tears and assumed she was going to die.
I should probably explain, for those of you who are new to this joint, that I am, shall we say...tightly wound. High maintenance doesn't quite seem right. I don't think high maintenance girls end up with poo on them very often. So we'll go with tightly wound. And the Things refer to Small Dog as my Replacement Baby. For good reason. Thus, when she was in pain with what turned out to be a fairly common and extremely treatable malady, it was only natural that I have her dead and buried in the monkey-run crack house that is my brain.
9:00-sumthin': I had wrapped Small Dog in a blanket and tried, unsuccessfully, to get her to potty, eat something, or take any fluids. I was still crying. Large Dog was doing her part to help by smelling her bestie's butt every five seconds and Kitten was helping by attaching himself like Velcro to my breasts every minute and a half. In his defense, it did help me to stop crying, because I would have to take a break to wince and gasp when he would skitter up onto my head and launch himself from above by digging his talons into my scalp.
After That: I called the Vet.
After After That: Small dog was resting on the sofa, and I decided to eat my feelings. Turns out my feelings are damned delicious. This is where the barbecue sauce on the boobs happened. If we're being honest, there may or may not (there was) have been a piece of cake involved. You'll notice there was no cake mentioned on the list of items on my bosom. If you are familiar with my work with cake, you'll know why.
Surprisingly, deboning a piece of cold chicken in record time did not make me feel better or solve the problem. So I sat down to calmly assess the situation, because I heard about someone doing that once. Velcro Kitten immediately ascended to his favorite perch, and, as commentary on my choice NOT to share my chicken with him, presented his balloon knot to me. I mean, he got me right between the eyes. He turned around in circles for a few seconds and was about to lie down when an air molecule at the other end of the house moved and he had to launch himself from my forehead.
Post-Forehead Launch: I looked down and there was something brown on Ethel.
All moms have played, "Poop Or Chocolate?" And 9 times out of 10, it's chocolate. This was time number 10. NO, I didn't taste it!
Shortly Thereafter: The Vet called, with comforting news and a cool head, and a solution. And I went upstairs to run a shower so I could go retrieve medicine for Small Dog. The next ten minutes went something like this:
Started shower
Removed clothing
Received text from Thing Two
I asked him a question
He answered me
I asked again, "Are you sure about yada yada yada?"
Oh, yes, most definitely sure, Mom, more sure than any child has ever been. Ever.
I texted him what he needed and proceeded to sit down on the...throne...
*shower is still running*
He texted back. Turns out he was wrong.
I was now nekkid, indisposed, and irritated.
I "wrapped up the proceedings," and went downstairs to retrieve the requested info in my Alltogether.
I answered the kid and surveyed my Queendom, trying to see it from the eyes of a would be Home Invader: a large dog lay upside down, legs splayed wide open under the ceiling fan in the family room; a fleece burrito of some sort, with a wet black nose protruding from it was on the sofa, propped up with a throw pillow picturing two balls of yarn and sporting the sentence, "I Like Big Balls and I Cannot Lie;" a stripey wild-eyed kitten was hanging sideways from a houseplant by the sink, looking as if he had just eaten a bowl of ecstasy for breakfast; and an ample, naked woman was standing in her kitchen tapping furiously at her phone and, finally, looking heavenward and yelling, "Whose poop was that, anyway?!"
There's a reason Thing One rarely emerges from his room before noon. There's also a reason he's not particularly nervous about leaving for Boot Camp.
All is now well. Everyone who needs to be medicated has been thusly dosed. Everyone is sleeping peacefully. And I have no poo on my person.
I had a childhood friend whose house was always calm. By the time I would arrive in the morning to walk to school with her, her mother would always have her hair done and the coffee on. A radio on top of the refrigerator was always on, very quietly, tuned to an AM station that played oldies. There was usually breakfast on the stove and a newspaper was out on the kitchen table, already half finished. Quiet. Routine. Calm. I loved that kitchen. I loved that house.
I do not live in that house.
My routine is not quiet. My routine involves a lot of Tide Pen. But it's mine. And my sons seem ok, so far. And my animals, with the exception of Bill, who lacks feet, follow me worshipfully all day long, and are sleeping, oblivious and flatulent, next to me, at this very minute. We all have our way of being in the world, and maybe someday my house will be quiet and routine and poop free.
But lord, I hope not.
Tuesday, May 30, 2017
Diary Of a Mad Fat Woman
Allow me to address my use of the F word. For those of you who cringe at the word, "Fat," and whose gut reaction is to object and come up with another descriptor, I understand. And I appreciate the intent, but not saying it doesn't make it not true. Am I the fattest person in creation? No. But I carry a lot of extra weight, and some parts of me are bearing more of the burden than others. Some parts are relatively fine. Other parts. two, to be exact, are ginormous, and seem to remain that way regardless of what the rest of my body is doing. I think we all know the parts of which I speak. And that's fine. I may never be able to comfortably wear blouses with buttons, or turn sideways without looking like I am holding my breath, but I have grown rather fond of Lucy and Ethel and have learned to think of them like my own set of cat's whiskers. They enter the room before I do and scope out the surroundings to check for danger. Beware, those who would seek to crouch around corners and do harm to my person, for you just might lose an eye.
Having established that I am, in fact, aware of my proportions, let's move on to the issue at hand: Anger. In this age of crunchy memes and internet gurus who name themselves after vegetables, we have begun to attach shame to anger and those who are dealing with it, as if it is an affliction and not a natural human response. And it's pissing me off.
On the subject of anger, there is no shortage of quotable quotes. Ralph Waldo Emerson said, "For every minute you remain angry, you give up sixty seconds of peace of mind." Hmmm. Okay, first, I am about to argue with Ralph Waldo Emerson, and I realize how high-fallootin' that may seem and I don't care. Secondly, this sounds terrific on the surface, if you're having a great day and your world is full of puppies and rainbows and that load of laundry you just folded yielded no mateless socks. The first time I read this quote I was having such a morning, and I agreed wholeheartedly and thought it to be simply brilliant. A few weeks later, however, it resurfaced on a day that was made entirely of mateless socks and my take on it was different.
The issue I have with Emerson's assertion is located just about squarely in the middle of it, in his use of the words, "give up." To give something up isn't a passive activity. In order to give up a thing, you have to actively hand it over, or put it down, or leave it behind and walk away. Those are all conscious choices. Ask anyone who has given up smoking if it, "just happened," or anyone who has foregone sleep to establish an exercise regimen if giving up that sleep was without effort. Giving something up requires rumination, decision, and execution. As someone whose mind is usually operating at the speed of Caffeinated Meerkat, why would I willingly give up a precious moment's peace?
If someone steals your car, you're going to be angry. If someone stabs you in the back at work, you're going to be angry. If someone bullies your child, you're going to be angry. There are events in your life which will result in you being overcome with a very sudden and acute feeling of understandable and justifiable anger. You will not take the time to consider your peace of mind. You will feel flushed, your heart will race, and you may express yourself through the use of creative verbage, questioning the parentage of your tormentor. And you will likely remain this way for some time, because that is how feelings work. That is how they have to work, because feelings must be processed. You cannot just squelch and suppress, and stifle your anger. Unprocessed anger is dangerous and it makes one sick. You have to acknowledge it. You have to sit with it. You have to feel it until you can't stand it for one more second, and only when you're sick to death of it will you be ready to move on and leave it behind.
As established earlier, I'm a big enough person (ha!) to admit that mine is not the only way of looking at things. And I do acknowledge that Emerson was talking about, "remaining," angry and not being angry. There is a big difference between being mad and staying that way. If we're being literal, Emerson also said, "every minute," we remain angry, etc. Well, again, respectfully, I disagree. You have to process. How long that takes is up to the individual, and who am I to say that if you stayed angry about something for six months that only took me two weeks to deal with, you did something wrong?
But we do have to decide to move on at some point, and not because some famous dead guy said so. We have to move on for our own health. And guess what? It may not be a one-and-done deal. Because we don't live in a vacuum. And the universe has a way of...well, sometimes being shitty. If you're looking for a good example of this, I would highly recommend watching comedian Mike Birbiglia's special, "My Girlfriend's Boyfriend." Oof...rough stuff. But he talks about a truly awful time in his life when a completely unfair thing happened to him and it turned into the gift that just kept on giving. It's not necessarily funny, but it's real and raw and completely relatable. It's also already a matter of public record, which means he can speak pretty freely, without worrying about offending anyone.
What to do, though, when you've worked so hard to put something behind you, and the universe catches up to you, and says, "Ma'am, I think you dropped this," and dumps it in your lap again? This is the tangle in which I found myself ensnared. A years old, long-dealt-with (I thought) pain had resurfaced. And I'll be honest, I wasn't sure I was going to make it out of this one.
At first, I didn't even recognize the fact that I was angry. Which sounds impossible, I realize, but it's true. I manage depression on a daily basis, that I recognize. I am largely fueled by anxiety (Hello, old friend!). And I certainly thought I was self aware enough to know when I was mad. But it turns out that my usual level of anger is just mild irritation, compared to the absolute fury I found myself teeming with when the universe, ever helpful, decided to return my discarded baggage. And it was frightening, and at times, emotionally crippling. I just wanted it to stop, yet I wasn't quite ready to let it go, either. I was exhausted, but I couldn't sleep, and I felt like I was screaming but no one could hear me. This wasn't the flatness and fatigue that I'm used to trudging through, nor the worry and nausea that like to hang around and remind me that what I'm doing isn't good enough. This was fiery, and maddening, and coming from somewhere deep and dark, and it hit me like a tidal wave and I couldn't breathe. And finally, I realized, this...was...ANGER. This was a feeling. A fully developed, pregnant emotion, with layers and dimensions, and it hurt, and it was terrifying, and it meant I WAS ALIVE.
And then the dam broke.
I cried almost nonstop for three days. I stood in the shower and screamed things at the top of my lungs that would make Howard Stern, say, "Ok, enough, already." I hit things, I threw things, and finally, I didn't have it in me anymore, and I had to stop. I had to decide what to do, and my options were limited and clear. I would like to say that I didn't consider the destructive path. I did. For a bit.
My choice was to keep moving, but forward this time. Enough flailing and spinning. One step and then another, and then one more. I put down the baggage, aware that the universe may try to catch up to me and return it, but I discarded it before, I can do it again, and the more I keep moving forward, the more distance I put between us. It will not be easy.
I was reluctant to share my experience, but ultimately felt compelled. There is always a concern that people will misinterpret my reasons for sharing, or be put off by my vulnerability. But I have found that there are always others who are walking or have walked similar paths, and I usually hear from them and we are able to encourage and learn from each other.
I am confused by my experience. I don't want to feel that way again, but going through it made me realize I was still alive. I haven't been engaged in my life in a very long time. The anger was a catalyst. I have direction now.
Anger is not inherently bad. It simply is. It cannot be wiped under the rug by a pretty picture of a sunset. It cannot be erased by reminding someone of another's misfortune. This is not a competition. It must be acknowledged, and respected, and truly, deeply felt. I am both terrified of it, and awed by its power.
I needed it.
Having established that I am, in fact, aware of my proportions, let's move on to the issue at hand: Anger. In this age of crunchy memes and internet gurus who name themselves after vegetables, we have begun to attach shame to anger and those who are dealing with it, as if it is an affliction and not a natural human response. And it's pissing me off.
On the subject of anger, there is no shortage of quotable quotes. Ralph Waldo Emerson said, "For every minute you remain angry, you give up sixty seconds of peace of mind." Hmmm. Okay, first, I am about to argue with Ralph Waldo Emerson, and I realize how high-fallootin' that may seem and I don't care. Secondly, this sounds terrific on the surface, if you're having a great day and your world is full of puppies and rainbows and that load of laundry you just folded yielded no mateless socks. The first time I read this quote I was having such a morning, and I agreed wholeheartedly and thought it to be simply brilliant. A few weeks later, however, it resurfaced on a day that was made entirely of mateless socks and my take on it was different.
The issue I have with Emerson's assertion is located just about squarely in the middle of it, in his use of the words, "give up." To give something up isn't a passive activity. In order to give up a thing, you have to actively hand it over, or put it down, or leave it behind and walk away. Those are all conscious choices. Ask anyone who has given up smoking if it, "just happened," or anyone who has foregone sleep to establish an exercise regimen if giving up that sleep was without effort. Giving something up requires rumination, decision, and execution. As someone whose mind is usually operating at the speed of Caffeinated Meerkat, why would I willingly give up a precious moment's peace?
If someone steals your car, you're going to be angry. If someone stabs you in the back at work, you're going to be angry. If someone bullies your child, you're going to be angry. There are events in your life which will result in you being overcome with a very sudden and acute feeling of understandable and justifiable anger. You will not take the time to consider your peace of mind. You will feel flushed, your heart will race, and you may express yourself through the use of creative verbage, questioning the parentage of your tormentor. And you will likely remain this way for some time, because that is how feelings work. That is how they have to work, because feelings must be processed. You cannot just squelch and suppress, and stifle your anger. Unprocessed anger is dangerous and it makes one sick. You have to acknowledge it. You have to sit with it. You have to feel it until you can't stand it for one more second, and only when you're sick to death of it will you be ready to move on and leave it behind.
As established earlier, I'm a big enough person (ha!) to admit that mine is not the only way of looking at things. And I do acknowledge that Emerson was talking about, "remaining," angry and not being angry. There is a big difference between being mad and staying that way. If we're being literal, Emerson also said, "every minute," we remain angry, etc. Well, again, respectfully, I disagree. You have to process. How long that takes is up to the individual, and who am I to say that if you stayed angry about something for six months that only took me two weeks to deal with, you did something wrong?
But we do have to decide to move on at some point, and not because some famous dead guy said so. We have to move on for our own health. And guess what? It may not be a one-and-done deal. Because we don't live in a vacuum. And the universe has a way of...well, sometimes being shitty. If you're looking for a good example of this, I would highly recommend watching comedian Mike Birbiglia's special, "My Girlfriend's Boyfriend." Oof...rough stuff. But he talks about a truly awful time in his life when a completely unfair thing happened to him and it turned into the gift that just kept on giving. It's not necessarily funny, but it's real and raw and completely relatable. It's also already a matter of public record, which means he can speak pretty freely, without worrying about offending anyone.
What to do, though, when you've worked so hard to put something behind you, and the universe catches up to you, and says, "Ma'am, I think you dropped this," and dumps it in your lap again? This is the tangle in which I found myself ensnared. A years old, long-dealt-with (I thought) pain had resurfaced. And I'll be honest, I wasn't sure I was going to make it out of this one.
At first, I didn't even recognize the fact that I was angry. Which sounds impossible, I realize, but it's true. I manage depression on a daily basis, that I recognize. I am largely fueled by anxiety (Hello, old friend!). And I certainly thought I was self aware enough to know when I was mad. But it turns out that my usual level of anger is just mild irritation, compared to the absolute fury I found myself teeming with when the universe, ever helpful, decided to return my discarded baggage. And it was frightening, and at times, emotionally crippling. I just wanted it to stop, yet I wasn't quite ready to let it go, either. I was exhausted, but I couldn't sleep, and I felt like I was screaming but no one could hear me. This wasn't the flatness and fatigue that I'm used to trudging through, nor the worry and nausea that like to hang around and remind me that what I'm doing isn't good enough. This was fiery, and maddening, and coming from somewhere deep and dark, and it hit me like a tidal wave and I couldn't breathe. And finally, I realized, this...was...ANGER. This was a feeling. A fully developed, pregnant emotion, with layers and dimensions, and it hurt, and it was terrifying, and it meant I WAS ALIVE.
And then the dam broke.
I cried almost nonstop for three days. I stood in the shower and screamed things at the top of my lungs that would make Howard Stern, say, "Ok, enough, already." I hit things, I threw things, and finally, I didn't have it in me anymore, and I had to stop. I had to decide what to do, and my options were limited and clear. I would like to say that I didn't consider the destructive path. I did. For a bit.
My choice was to keep moving, but forward this time. Enough flailing and spinning. One step and then another, and then one more. I put down the baggage, aware that the universe may try to catch up to me and return it, but I discarded it before, I can do it again, and the more I keep moving forward, the more distance I put between us. It will not be easy.
I was reluctant to share my experience, but ultimately felt compelled. There is always a concern that people will misinterpret my reasons for sharing, or be put off by my vulnerability. But I have found that there are always others who are walking or have walked similar paths, and I usually hear from them and we are able to encourage and learn from each other.
I am confused by my experience. I don't want to feel that way again, but going through it made me realize I was still alive. I haven't been engaged in my life in a very long time. The anger was a catalyst. I have direction now.
Anger is not inherently bad. It simply is. It cannot be wiped under the rug by a pretty picture of a sunset. It cannot be erased by reminding someone of another's misfortune. This is not a competition. It must be acknowledged, and respected, and truly, deeply felt. I am both terrified of it, and awed by its power.
I needed it.
Thursday, April 6, 2017
Too Broad a Brush
This one's gonna be all over the place, so buckle up.
One of the things that absolutely sucks about depression is how misunderstood it is. And living in a culture that stigmatizes mental illness doesn't help -- anyone. Not those living with mental illness, not those living with them. And let me be crystal clear before we continue: I am not fishing here. For anything. I'm not seeking validation, I'm not begging for compliments, I'm not looking for advice. Especially not advice. And heaven help you if you suggest I learn to, "Choose happiness." Good for freakin' you if you can live that way. I'm not you.
For the record, because I know there are those who will see this and just will not accept that their methods are fallible, I choose the positive frequently, when my brain will allow me to do so. I give my friends the benefit of the doubt, always. I assume that I will be treated with the same level of respect with which I treat others. I find humor in almost everything, including some things that are damned inappropriate. And I have never once, no matter how bad things have become in my own life, looked around and wanted to trade my problems for someone else's. But suggesting to a depressed person that they look on the bright side long enough and that will cure them is insulting on a level that I haven't found words to describe, yet. Depression isn't a choice.
Another thing it isn't, is sadness. It's so much more than that. Sadness would be great, because at least it's something. And there is a great deal of sadness that comes along with depression, certainly. But so much of the time, depression is just...flatness. Nothing. It's looking at a gorgeous day and knowing it's a gorgeous day, and just not caring one iota, and knowing that isn't normal, and that you're broken. Depression is living with the knowledge that you're broken, all the time.
Depression is exhausting. I wake up tired and frequently angry that I woke up at all. My body hurts before I've done anything. You may have noticed that it's been almost three months since my last blog entry. I've thought about it, several times. I get ideas. I keep a list of topics for possible exploration. I have walked into our home office, looked at my computer, and walked right back out. I'm also aware that typing doesn't count as cardio. But the fact is, even thinking about trying to organize my thoughts is just too much, most days. I come up with a subject, my first thought begins to form, and my depressive brain goes to work, convincing me that no ones cares and it's pathetic to make myself vulnerable, and what if it offends someone? Depressive brains are dirty liars.
Depression is constantly feeling as if you have to apologize for being the way you are. This is something that I struggle with daily. Having to tell people that I am not well enough to do - Insert Social Activity Here - and then immediately apologize for not being well enough. Does that make any sense at all? Would I feel the need to apologize if I had the flu? Of course not. And the flu passes. Depression may pass, over time, but for some people it is just a fact of life. It may wane, but it never truly goes away. I find myself apologizing when my husband asks me if I am feeling better. How nuts is that? Really consider that for a moment. I have several people in my life who deal with similar issues and I have made it clear to them that they owe me no apologies. And I mean it. I just can't seem to extend the same grace to myself.
A once-close friend who tends to isolate explained to me years ago that although she was doing well at the time, I should prepare myself for a time when she would just sort of...disappear, and that I should be aware it had nothing to do with me and not to be offended. I couldn't imagine it, at the time, partly because she was so healthy and we were so close. And I certainly couldn't imagine being offended by something she had little to no control over. I would like to say it never happened. But it did. Sure enough, about two years later, she started to retreat. My calls weren't returned every time. We would make plans and she would break them. I would see her from a ways off, while out doing errands, and I could tell by her gait and the rest of her body language, that she was trying to be invisible and just get in and get out. I will admit I was hurt, at first, and ran through The Checklist in my mind. You know, that list you keep socked away for insecurity emergencies. Did I? Should I have? What if? Was I? It's a helpful little exercise that always accomplishes precisely nothing. Not to say that reflection can't be useful, and not to sound like I'm whipping out a bad break-up line, but this time, at least, it wasn't me, it was her. She tried to tell me. She apologized in advance and described how it would go down. I just didn't believe her, I guess.
Now I do.
Depression's death toll extends far beyond its physical one, which is heartbreaking enough. It can also be the death of friendships, as in situations like the one I described above. At a time when a struggling and isolated person really needs their friends the most, they are at their least able to be around other people. It's exhausting to try to be "on" and be everything others expect you to be, so you don't come across as the wet blanket and ruin everyone's good time. You put on a good show and behave yourself and tell your little jokes and play the role everyone expects, no harm no foul. Until you can't do it anymore and you melt down completely, and everyone says, "We had no idea." And why would they? You can't fault people for not knowing you're sick if you don't tell them what's going on. On the other hand, if you talk about it too much, you're labeled an Eyeore and people stop listening. Some people stop listening because they're jerks. Let's just say it. But some people don't know what to do, so they just shut down and leave you alone. It isn't meant to be hurtful, but it hurts.
Depressed people tend to live on the fringes. It's a side effect of retreating that, again, isn't intentional, but can be really painful. You can't fault folks for giving up after a while. If you send the message often enough that you are avoiding social interaction, eventually people are going to say, "Ok, message received," and stop including you in things. And not just events, but information. Realizing that you're not really part of a group of people you may care about deeply, even love, is heartbreaking. And it's usually something small that results in those revelations. There's a plan afoot, it's being discussed in front of you, but you're not included. A group of people you belong to (you thought) is making reference to something they obviously all know about and you're completely lost. These behaviors aren't meant to be exclusive, they aren't meant to be anything, they aren't intentional. It's just what starts to happen when you've needed so much space for so long, and people are trying to give that to you.
I will admit that my own personal experience over the last few months has prompted me to share this. And I warn you right now, this will not be the last time I will share things of this nature. I don't think my experiences are worse or harder than anyone else's problems. I don't assert that I am the only one living with this. In fact, it is precisely because I know I'm not alone that I am trying to take the mask off. I am sharing this because our country treats mental illness with kid gloves, or just ignores it. Enough already. People are dying or living less than healthy lives because they aren't being understood, or believed. We have to stop acting as if depression is a choice, and treating people who have it as if they're just not trying hard enough. We also have to recognize that what works for one person may not work for another. Meds may be an answer for one person, a disaster for another. Therapy may be a life saver for one person, and an absolute, torturous bore for yet another. But depression is real. Self-care is not selfish. And if you're reading this and you're struggling, know this:
DEPRESSION IS REAL.
YOU ARE NOT IMAGINING IT.
I BELIEVE YOU.
To clarify, I am not considering self-harm. But many are, so I'm sharing this:
National Suicide Prevention Lifeline
1-800-273-TALK
www.suicidepreventionlifeline.org
One of the things that absolutely sucks about depression is how misunderstood it is. And living in a culture that stigmatizes mental illness doesn't help -- anyone. Not those living with mental illness, not those living with them. And let me be crystal clear before we continue: I am not fishing here. For anything. I'm not seeking validation, I'm not begging for compliments, I'm not looking for advice. Especially not advice. And heaven help you if you suggest I learn to, "Choose happiness." Good for freakin' you if you can live that way. I'm not you.
For the record, because I know there are those who will see this and just will not accept that their methods are fallible, I choose the positive frequently, when my brain will allow me to do so. I give my friends the benefit of the doubt, always. I assume that I will be treated with the same level of respect with which I treat others. I find humor in almost everything, including some things that are damned inappropriate. And I have never once, no matter how bad things have become in my own life, looked around and wanted to trade my problems for someone else's. But suggesting to a depressed person that they look on the bright side long enough and that will cure them is insulting on a level that I haven't found words to describe, yet. Depression isn't a choice.
Another thing it isn't, is sadness. It's so much more than that. Sadness would be great, because at least it's something. And there is a great deal of sadness that comes along with depression, certainly. But so much of the time, depression is just...flatness. Nothing. It's looking at a gorgeous day and knowing it's a gorgeous day, and just not caring one iota, and knowing that isn't normal, and that you're broken. Depression is living with the knowledge that you're broken, all the time.
Depression is exhausting. I wake up tired and frequently angry that I woke up at all. My body hurts before I've done anything. You may have noticed that it's been almost three months since my last blog entry. I've thought about it, several times. I get ideas. I keep a list of topics for possible exploration. I have walked into our home office, looked at my computer, and walked right back out. I'm also aware that typing doesn't count as cardio. But the fact is, even thinking about trying to organize my thoughts is just too much, most days. I come up with a subject, my first thought begins to form, and my depressive brain goes to work, convincing me that no ones cares and it's pathetic to make myself vulnerable, and what if it offends someone? Depressive brains are dirty liars.
Depression is constantly feeling as if you have to apologize for being the way you are. This is something that I struggle with daily. Having to tell people that I am not well enough to do - Insert Social Activity Here - and then immediately apologize for not being well enough. Does that make any sense at all? Would I feel the need to apologize if I had the flu? Of course not. And the flu passes. Depression may pass, over time, but for some people it is just a fact of life. It may wane, but it never truly goes away. I find myself apologizing when my husband asks me if I am feeling better. How nuts is that? Really consider that for a moment. I have several people in my life who deal with similar issues and I have made it clear to them that they owe me no apologies. And I mean it. I just can't seem to extend the same grace to myself.
A once-close friend who tends to isolate explained to me years ago that although she was doing well at the time, I should prepare myself for a time when she would just sort of...disappear, and that I should be aware it had nothing to do with me and not to be offended. I couldn't imagine it, at the time, partly because she was so healthy and we were so close. And I certainly couldn't imagine being offended by something she had little to no control over. I would like to say it never happened. But it did. Sure enough, about two years later, she started to retreat. My calls weren't returned every time. We would make plans and she would break them. I would see her from a ways off, while out doing errands, and I could tell by her gait and the rest of her body language, that she was trying to be invisible and just get in and get out. I will admit I was hurt, at first, and ran through The Checklist in my mind. You know, that list you keep socked away for insecurity emergencies. Did I? Should I have? What if? Was I? It's a helpful little exercise that always accomplishes precisely nothing. Not to say that reflection can't be useful, and not to sound like I'm whipping out a bad break-up line, but this time, at least, it wasn't me, it was her. She tried to tell me. She apologized in advance and described how it would go down. I just didn't believe her, I guess.
Now I do.
Depression's death toll extends far beyond its physical one, which is heartbreaking enough. It can also be the death of friendships, as in situations like the one I described above. At a time when a struggling and isolated person really needs their friends the most, they are at their least able to be around other people. It's exhausting to try to be "on" and be everything others expect you to be, so you don't come across as the wet blanket and ruin everyone's good time. You put on a good show and behave yourself and tell your little jokes and play the role everyone expects, no harm no foul. Until you can't do it anymore and you melt down completely, and everyone says, "We had no idea." And why would they? You can't fault people for not knowing you're sick if you don't tell them what's going on. On the other hand, if you talk about it too much, you're labeled an Eyeore and people stop listening. Some people stop listening because they're jerks. Let's just say it. But some people don't know what to do, so they just shut down and leave you alone. It isn't meant to be hurtful, but it hurts.
Depressed people tend to live on the fringes. It's a side effect of retreating that, again, isn't intentional, but can be really painful. You can't fault folks for giving up after a while. If you send the message often enough that you are avoiding social interaction, eventually people are going to say, "Ok, message received," and stop including you in things. And not just events, but information. Realizing that you're not really part of a group of people you may care about deeply, even love, is heartbreaking. And it's usually something small that results in those revelations. There's a plan afoot, it's being discussed in front of you, but you're not included. A group of people you belong to (you thought) is making reference to something they obviously all know about and you're completely lost. These behaviors aren't meant to be exclusive, they aren't meant to be anything, they aren't intentional. It's just what starts to happen when you've needed so much space for so long, and people are trying to give that to you.
I will admit that my own personal experience over the last few months has prompted me to share this. And I warn you right now, this will not be the last time I will share things of this nature. I don't think my experiences are worse or harder than anyone else's problems. I don't assert that I am the only one living with this. In fact, it is precisely because I know I'm not alone that I am trying to take the mask off. I am sharing this because our country treats mental illness with kid gloves, or just ignores it. Enough already. People are dying or living less than healthy lives because they aren't being understood, or believed. We have to stop acting as if depression is a choice, and treating people who have it as if they're just not trying hard enough. We also have to recognize that what works for one person may not work for another. Meds may be an answer for one person, a disaster for another. Therapy may be a life saver for one person, and an absolute, torturous bore for yet another. But depression is real. Self-care is not selfish. And if you're reading this and you're struggling, know this:
DEPRESSION IS REAL.
YOU ARE NOT IMAGINING IT.
I BELIEVE YOU.
To clarify, I am not considering self-harm. But many are, so I'm sharing this:
National Suicide Prevention Lifeline
1-800-273-TALK
www.suicidepreventionlifeline.org
Thursday, January 12, 2017
Things I've Learned About The Things
I tried. I really did. I just want that on record when they find me, slumped over Lily, sticky from a spilled Coke, a burrito hanging out of my gaping maw.
This week has been full. Specifically, it's been full of dog hair, mouse poop, and a lot of head scratching. No, I do not have head lice. The scratching has been mostly metaphorical. Except for just now when I stopped typing to scratch my head because talking about scratching my head made me need to actually scratch my head. I am highly suggestible. I should probably choose my friends more wisely...
The week started out with my uterus trying to kill me, followed by The Great Mouse Invasion. Well, it was two mice, so far, and one drawer, and we've made fairly quick work of them as pictured below:
I have rounded out the second half of the week with a three day headache and a fall on the ice. Probably Karma for killing poor little Fievel. To which I say, too bad. This wasn't Ralph S. Mouse, making raspberries and zooming around my kitchen on a red motorcycle. I like mice just fine, but they pee and poop indiscriminately all over one's house. I don't even let the boys do that anymore. No, none of the aforementioned afflictions is tragic, I am aware. It's just been sort of...relentless, and I feel as if I'm having that Running Down A Hallway dream, in which the hallway never ends. So I am tired. But for some reason, I am at peace with it. It almost feels good to be this worn out.
Somewhere along the line, I developed incredible patience. And I use the word, "incredible," correctly, here, and not in some hyberbolic sense. Boy, that drives me up a tree. No, Madison, your latte wasn't AMAZING. And your Snap Chat filters, aren't AWESOME. What are you going to say to describe the Grand Canyon, should you ever see it? No, when I say it's incredible, I mean, I can't believe it. Specifically, I seem to be very patient with children, whether or not I made them, and I find that perplexing, because I know from whence I came, genetically speaking. I am also an only child, of an only child. I don't have all that many first cousins, and I didn't do a ton of babysitting. It was pretty much just me, I was raised in apartments or duplexes, so I was raised to play quietly, and I had no frame of reference when it came to sibling rivalry, or the volume that can reach, so the fact that I can tune out nonsense, is quite bizarre to me, even while it's happening.
I didn't particularly want kids until I got married, and then I wanted them right that very second. It didn't exactly happen that quickly. but it wasn't too long. In 1997, Mr. Wonderful and I brought forth upon this nation a boy child, and named him after his father. Yes, his name is Mr. Wonderful, jr. Kindergarten was a little rough, but it's okay. That kind of thing builds character. And he was the moodiest, crankiest, little monkey you ever did see. He came out, all 10lbs, 24 inches of him, nearly able to reach the pedals. We considered having him drive us home from the hospital, because we were tired. But he was purple and squinty and royally pissed off, and not making a sound. He didn't cry for about 30 seconds, which isn't long, unless you're a brand new mother and you're asking everyone, "Why isn't he crying?" about a thousand times and no one will answer you. But then he made a sound. A very loud sound. And then he made more. And he pretty much hasn't stopped. Sometimes there are smells that go along with the sounds. He's a multitasker, that one.
Our eldest was a challenge, in that he was and still is, the strongest willed person I have ever known in my life. It will serve him well, eventually, but while he was young, and still mostly under my tutelage, it was freaking exhausting. I had no leverage with the kid. I still don't. Some parenting experts (ha!) will use terms like, "currency." Well, my bank account was in the red with this one. Nada, zip, zilch, NUTTIN'. If he didn't want to do something, he wasn't going to do it. He would consistently choose the punishment over doing what we wanted him to do. Or, he would say, "Okay," just as agreeably as you please, which would placate The Folks, and then about 30 minutes later we would realize we'd been played again and he hadn't done squat. I caught onto this much sooner than Daddy, for the record. I got around it. Daddy never really did. Daddy has some fascinating veins in his forehead, by the way.
Little Cherub had colic, too. I went back to work when he was six weeks old and it was right around that time that he started in with it. The worst time was when I would pick him up from my mom's place after work and load him into the car to drive home. He would shriek absolutely the whole way home. A co-worker didn't have a reliable car during this same time, and she lived right on the way to our house, so I would take her home and she would hold a big ol' pile of pacifiers for me, and he would shriek, and lose his binky, and she would plug him back in, and he would be okay for 3 or 4 minutes until he realized he was supposed to angry again, then he would shriek and unplug himself, and she would replace the binky. This would go on until we dropped her off and then he would just holler for the remaining ten minutes. I eventually became really skilled at reaching behind me while driving and finding and replacing the pacifiers totally by feel, while he was still in a rear facing car seat. My co-worker, by the way, still doesn't have children, mostly because they won't let you have any up there in the Nervous Hospital.
Lord Fauntleroy also talked early. Early and incessantly. But that doesn't mean he was always able to understand what he was saying. And his inability to comprehend the words that he could pronounce, coupled with a brain that was working on overdrive 18 hours a day, produced some world class tantrums. Two notable, nearly seismic events were the Ritz Cracker Debaucle, and the What The !@#% Tantrum.
The Ritz Cracker Debaucle occurred in the car. Most of these occurred in the car, now that I think of it. And that makes perfect sense, if you know this particular kid. I didn't read parenting books when I was preparing for my Blessed Events, but if I had known then what I know now, at least as regards the first kid, I would have read a book on toddlers, flipped everything they said 180 degrees, and I would have been ready. Case in point, most babies are calmed by being in the car, this one lost his ever lovin' MIND on the road. But the cracker thing...I had snacks with me all the time, because this kid would get hangry. He loved Ritz Crackers. Who doesn't? Little round discs of butter and happiness. One day on a drive, I had a sleeve of Ritz and I was handing them to him two at a time. He was about three years old at this point, he was facing front, and he could safely eat a couple of crackers in the backseat. But the road was getting pretty curvy and the next time he asked for more crackers, I told him I really needed to watch the road, so instead of just giving him a couple, I would give him several. The display that commenced would have put anyone off reproducing. He was absolutely incensed! No matter how I tried to explain to him that several was more than a couple, he wasn't buying it. And I really was trying not to laugh, which I'm sure didn't help. He was so upset that I was shafting him on the crackers! And he just couldn't trust me and take my word for the fact that I really was trying to give him more. I don't even remember how that one turned out. We both lived, so I guess it turned out fine?
The What The !@#% Tantrum occurred a couple of months later, in the car on the way home from a truly wonderful trip to the ocean. We had such a good time, in fact, that we had stayed an extra day. We made it about half an hour inland and Young Sir began screaming. Just screaming. We went through the whole checklist. There was nothing wrong with him that we could fix. He wasn't hungry, hurt, poopy (he had been potty trained for months), nothing. His carseat belt wasn't too tight, he wasn't bleeding out his eyeballs. Trust me when I tell you we did everything we could to diagnose the issue and mete out a solution. He screamed and cried the rest of the two and a half hour drive home. We never did figure it out. But he was safe and again, no one died,
Five years after Thing One arrived on the scene, we presented him with the most overrated gift he has ever received: his baby brother. We tried hard for this one, and in the end, I'm still not sure how he happened. Yes, I know how he actually happened, put the flashcards away. It's just that I lost a couple and it was sad and frustrating, and the fact that any of us get born is miraculous to me, now that I've been through that. All the things that have to go right in order for us just to BE...anyway, we weren't exactly trying at that point, and I had actually told my friends out loud that we were going to give it a rest, so of course, the next week I found out I was On The Nest.
I suppose it's possible for two people to be more different than Things One and Two, but I'm not sure how. They do share an affinity for chips and bodily noises, but other than that...If one zigged, the other zagged, and then yelled at him for zigging. If one was asked to do something, he would do it, and then next time do it without being asked, plus a little more. The other would do it, after you asked him five times, and then he would not quite finish. Where I had absolutely no leverage with one, the other would cave if I looked at him cross ways, and just could not deal with the idea of disappointing me. One is Macy's the other, Tractor Supply.
The younger kid was quiet. He learned to comfort himself at night. He didn't really talk until he went to pre-school, where he became very verbal. Turns out he had lots to say, he just couldn't get a word in. He had one good ol' fashioned meltdown that I remember, and I wasn't really even around for it. It happened on poor Daddy's watch. The kid loved church and had a Pastor Outfit that he would wear around the house. He would set up the coffee table like an altar and give us Communion using his sippy cups as chalices and Wheat Thins as the wafers. From what I was told, one week at church, he suddenly realized that he wanted to be wearing his Pastor Outfit, which was at home, and when Daddy tried to explain that and suggest, calmly, that he could wear it as soon as they got home, the child apparently did his best Linda Blair impression. Thank goodness they were already in church. An exorcism was performed, and all was well. Hahahaha. No. Actually, I believe they had to leave and go home because the kid had gone full-on Old Testament and there were locusts incoming.
To my credit, I have never compared them to each other, at least out loud, I have never once asked one why he couldn't be more like his brother. That question never made sense to me. They're separate people, that's why. And I have always worked very hard to remember what it felt like to be whatever age they happen to be when I am contemplating bloody murder. They don't always appreciate their differences, but I certainly do.
The best thing I have managed to do, though, for my own sanity and theirs, is to recognize that they aren't little extensions of me and my husband. Yes, Thing One has my brain. That's why he has such trouble doing things the first time you ask. We're both pretty sure we have a more creative way of doing whatever it is and we have so many great ideas, and we can see clearly in our minds how breathtakingly impressive the finished product is going to be. Except that then we snap back to reality, see how much we've done vs. how much we've left to do and we just stop and go play Halo. Or knit. I probably don't need to clarify which one of us does what.
And yes, Thing Two walks like his father, sits like his father, wheels his suitcase through the airport at 55 mph like his father. But he also pronounces things like my grandma, Clara, who died four months before I got married. And he isn't afraid of anything. ANYTHING. Which he most certainly didn't get from me.
The Things are their own people, and once I really began to see them as separate from me, I was much more at peace when they did things that made me question why I should continue to let them live. For instance, the year that Thing One turned 14, he got all...stupid. He mostly grew out of it, and is basically human again, but now Thing Two is in the middle of it, and guess what? He's stupid. Don't go hatin' on me, either. We were all 14 once, and we were all stupid. And if you're thinking you were never stupid, then you still are and you need to go work on that.
When I began to see them as separate from me, I was able to remove my ego (mostly) from the equation, and stop seeing every negative thing they did as having something to do with me. Guess what? Almost nothing they do has anything to do with me. That What The !@#% Tantrum? I know what caused that, now. He was angry. That's it. He was angry. He was mad as hell, and three years old, and he couldn't tell me why. And maybe there wasn't really a reason. I have been to some pretty dark places over the last couple of years, while dealing with depression. There have been times I was angry because...angry. That's it. Couldn't tell you why, and I am a 44-year-old with a fairly good grasp on the English language. But his father and I were so focused on why he was doing this to us, and why can't we do the right thing to fix it, that it never occurred to us that the kid was just angry and he was going to have to feel that way until he was good and tired of it. When he retreats and seems to ignore us completely, well, he kind of is. Partly because we're old dorks, but mostly because he's overwhelmed. He isn't aimless, just because he doesn't do things like his father. He has all kinds of admirable goals, and all kinds of great ideas about how to achieve them. But his brain gets so far ahead of reality and then the return trip often leaves him virtually paralyzed and not knowing how to proceed.
And Thing Two isn't an inherently better person because he does things right this minute. He's pretty tightly wrapped, if the truth be known. It's how he manages his time, that's all. Pay now, play later. And as much as I would like to take credit for it, I can't. His father and I could both procrastinate professionally and make quite a living. The kid is just trying to keep his head above water like everyone else, and doing things now, rather than later, keeps him from getting his knickers in a wad. Most of the time. As I mentioned, we are smack dab in the middle of 14. Our knickers are wadded a good deal of the time over things of supreme importance.
So...I am tired. I think too much and I love these Things with my whole heart and it is exhausting. And it gets harder as they get older, sorry. It does. I have friends with wee ones and I would love to be able to tell you it's easier when they're older. That would be complete donkeytwaddle. Yes, they don't need you to feed them and carry them, and yes, you tend to get more sleep. But then they get stupid, and you don't really want them operating the stove, so you're back to feeding them. And they hurt themselves doing some Big Kid thing and you have to carry them. And they start dating or driving or both, and there goes the sleep.
Something else I've learned, though...totally worth it.
I
This week has been full. Specifically, it's been full of dog hair, mouse poop, and a lot of head scratching. No, I do not have head lice. The scratching has been mostly metaphorical. Except for just now when I stopped typing to scratch my head because talking about scratching my head made me need to actually scratch my head. I am highly suggestible. I should probably choose my friends more wisely...
The week started out with my uterus trying to kill me, followed by The Great Mouse Invasion. Well, it was two mice, so far, and one drawer, and we've made fairly quick work of them as pictured below:
I have rounded out the second half of the week with a three day headache and a fall on the ice. Probably Karma for killing poor little Fievel. To which I say, too bad. This wasn't Ralph S. Mouse, making raspberries and zooming around my kitchen on a red motorcycle. I like mice just fine, but they pee and poop indiscriminately all over one's house. I don't even let the boys do that anymore. No, none of the aforementioned afflictions is tragic, I am aware. It's just been sort of...relentless, and I feel as if I'm having that Running Down A Hallway dream, in which the hallway never ends. So I am tired. But for some reason, I am at peace with it. It almost feels good to be this worn out.
Somewhere along the line, I developed incredible patience. And I use the word, "incredible," correctly, here, and not in some hyberbolic sense. Boy, that drives me up a tree. No, Madison, your latte wasn't AMAZING. And your Snap Chat filters, aren't AWESOME. What are you going to say to describe the Grand Canyon, should you ever see it? No, when I say it's incredible, I mean, I can't believe it. Specifically, I seem to be very patient with children, whether or not I made them, and I find that perplexing, because I know from whence I came, genetically speaking. I am also an only child, of an only child. I don't have all that many first cousins, and I didn't do a ton of babysitting. It was pretty much just me, I was raised in apartments or duplexes, so I was raised to play quietly, and I had no frame of reference when it came to sibling rivalry, or the volume that can reach, so the fact that I can tune out nonsense, is quite bizarre to me, even while it's happening.
I didn't particularly want kids until I got married, and then I wanted them right that very second. It didn't exactly happen that quickly. but it wasn't too long. In 1997, Mr. Wonderful and I brought forth upon this nation a boy child, and named him after his father. Yes, his name is Mr. Wonderful, jr. Kindergarten was a little rough, but it's okay. That kind of thing builds character. And he was the moodiest, crankiest, little monkey you ever did see. He came out, all 10lbs, 24 inches of him, nearly able to reach the pedals. We considered having him drive us home from the hospital, because we were tired. But he was purple and squinty and royally pissed off, and not making a sound. He didn't cry for about 30 seconds, which isn't long, unless you're a brand new mother and you're asking everyone, "Why isn't he crying?" about a thousand times and no one will answer you. But then he made a sound. A very loud sound. And then he made more. And he pretty much hasn't stopped. Sometimes there are smells that go along with the sounds. He's a multitasker, that one.
Our eldest was a challenge, in that he was and still is, the strongest willed person I have ever known in my life. It will serve him well, eventually, but while he was young, and still mostly under my tutelage, it was freaking exhausting. I had no leverage with the kid. I still don't. Some parenting experts (ha!) will use terms like, "currency." Well, my bank account was in the red with this one. Nada, zip, zilch, NUTTIN'. If he didn't want to do something, he wasn't going to do it. He would consistently choose the punishment over doing what we wanted him to do. Or, he would say, "Okay," just as agreeably as you please, which would placate The Folks, and then about 30 minutes later we would realize we'd been played again and he hadn't done squat. I caught onto this much sooner than Daddy, for the record. I got around it. Daddy never really did. Daddy has some fascinating veins in his forehead, by the way.
Little Cherub had colic, too. I went back to work when he was six weeks old and it was right around that time that he started in with it. The worst time was when I would pick him up from my mom's place after work and load him into the car to drive home. He would shriek absolutely the whole way home. A co-worker didn't have a reliable car during this same time, and she lived right on the way to our house, so I would take her home and she would hold a big ol' pile of pacifiers for me, and he would shriek, and lose his binky, and she would plug him back in, and he would be okay for 3 or 4 minutes until he realized he was supposed to angry again, then he would shriek and unplug himself, and she would replace the binky. This would go on until we dropped her off and then he would just holler for the remaining ten minutes. I eventually became really skilled at reaching behind me while driving and finding and replacing the pacifiers totally by feel, while he was still in a rear facing car seat. My co-worker, by the way, still doesn't have children, mostly because they won't let you have any up there in the Nervous Hospital.
Lord Fauntleroy also talked early. Early and incessantly. But that doesn't mean he was always able to understand what he was saying. And his inability to comprehend the words that he could pronounce, coupled with a brain that was working on overdrive 18 hours a day, produced some world class tantrums. Two notable, nearly seismic events were the Ritz Cracker Debaucle, and the What The !@#% Tantrum.
The Ritz Cracker Debaucle occurred in the car. Most of these occurred in the car, now that I think of it. And that makes perfect sense, if you know this particular kid. I didn't read parenting books when I was preparing for my Blessed Events, but if I had known then what I know now, at least as regards the first kid, I would have read a book on toddlers, flipped everything they said 180 degrees, and I would have been ready. Case in point, most babies are calmed by being in the car, this one lost his ever lovin' MIND on the road. But the cracker thing...I had snacks with me all the time, because this kid would get hangry. He loved Ritz Crackers. Who doesn't? Little round discs of butter and happiness. One day on a drive, I had a sleeve of Ritz and I was handing them to him two at a time. He was about three years old at this point, he was facing front, and he could safely eat a couple of crackers in the backseat. But the road was getting pretty curvy and the next time he asked for more crackers, I told him I really needed to watch the road, so instead of just giving him a couple, I would give him several. The display that commenced would have put anyone off reproducing. He was absolutely incensed! No matter how I tried to explain to him that several was more than a couple, he wasn't buying it. And I really was trying not to laugh, which I'm sure didn't help. He was so upset that I was shafting him on the crackers! And he just couldn't trust me and take my word for the fact that I really was trying to give him more. I don't even remember how that one turned out. We both lived, so I guess it turned out fine?
The What The !@#% Tantrum occurred a couple of months later, in the car on the way home from a truly wonderful trip to the ocean. We had such a good time, in fact, that we had stayed an extra day. We made it about half an hour inland and Young Sir began screaming. Just screaming. We went through the whole checklist. There was nothing wrong with him that we could fix. He wasn't hungry, hurt, poopy (he had been potty trained for months), nothing. His carseat belt wasn't too tight, he wasn't bleeding out his eyeballs. Trust me when I tell you we did everything we could to diagnose the issue and mete out a solution. He screamed and cried the rest of the two and a half hour drive home. We never did figure it out. But he was safe and again, no one died,
Five years after Thing One arrived on the scene, we presented him with the most overrated gift he has ever received: his baby brother. We tried hard for this one, and in the end, I'm still not sure how he happened. Yes, I know how he actually happened, put the flashcards away. It's just that I lost a couple and it was sad and frustrating, and the fact that any of us get born is miraculous to me, now that I've been through that. All the things that have to go right in order for us just to BE...anyway, we weren't exactly trying at that point, and I had actually told my friends out loud that we were going to give it a rest, so of course, the next week I found out I was On The Nest.
I suppose it's possible for two people to be more different than Things One and Two, but I'm not sure how. They do share an affinity for chips and bodily noises, but other than that...If one zigged, the other zagged, and then yelled at him for zigging. If one was asked to do something, he would do it, and then next time do it without being asked, plus a little more. The other would do it, after you asked him five times, and then he would not quite finish. Where I had absolutely no leverage with one, the other would cave if I looked at him cross ways, and just could not deal with the idea of disappointing me. One is Macy's the other, Tractor Supply.
The younger kid was quiet. He learned to comfort himself at night. He didn't really talk until he went to pre-school, where he became very verbal. Turns out he had lots to say, he just couldn't get a word in. He had one good ol' fashioned meltdown that I remember, and I wasn't really even around for it. It happened on poor Daddy's watch. The kid loved church and had a Pastor Outfit that he would wear around the house. He would set up the coffee table like an altar and give us Communion using his sippy cups as chalices and Wheat Thins as the wafers. From what I was told, one week at church, he suddenly realized that he wanted to be wearing his Pastor Outfit, which was at home, and when Daddy tried to explain that and suggest, calmly, that he could wear it as soon as they got home, the child apparently did his best Linda Blair impression. Thank goodness they were already in church. An exorcism was performed, and all was well. Hahahaha. No. Actually, I believe they had to leave and go home because the kid had gone full-on Old Testament and there were locusts incoming.
To my credit, I have never compared them to each other, at least out loud, I have never once asked one why he couldn't be more like his brother. That question never made sense to me. They're separate people, that's why. And I have always worked very hard to remember what it felt like to be whatever age they happen to be when I am contemplating bloody murder. They don't always appreciate their differences, but I certainly do.
The best thing I have managed to do, though, for my own sanity and theirs, is to recognize that they aren't little extensions of me and my husband. Yes, Thing One has my brain. That's why he has such trouble doing things the first time you ask. We're both pretty sure we have a more creative way of doing whatever it is and we have so many great ideas, and we can see clearly in our minds how breathtakingly impressive the finished product is going to be. Except that then we snap back to reality, see how much we've done vs. how much we've left to do and we just stop and go play Halo. Or knit. I probably don't need to clarify which one of us does what.
And yes, Thing Two walks like his father, sits like his father, wheels his suitcase through the airport at 55 mph like his father. But he also pronounces things like my grandma, Clara, who died four months before I got married. And he isn't afraid of anything. ANYTHING. Which he most certainly didn't get from me.
The Things are their own people, and once I really began to see them as separate from me, I was much more at peace when they did things that made me question why I should continue to let them live. For instance, the year that Thing One turned 14, he got all...stupid. He mostly grew out of it, and is basically human again, but now Thing Two is in the middle of it, and guess what? He's stupid. Don't go hatin' on me, either. We were all 14 once, and we were all stupid. And if you're thinking you were never stupid, then you still are and you need to go work on that.
When I began to see them as separate from me, I was able to remove my ego (mostly) from the equation, and stop seeing every negative thing they did as having something to do with me. Guess what? Almost nothing they do has anything to do with me. That What The !@#% Tantrum? I know what caused that, now. He was angry. That's it. He was angry. He was mad as hell, and three years old, and he couldn't tell me why. And maybe there wasn't really a reason. I have been to some pretty dark places over the last couple of years, while dealing with depression. There have been times I was angry because...angry. That's it. Couldn't tell you why, and I am a 44-year-old with a fairly good grasp on the English language. But his father and I were so focused on why he was doing this to us, and why can't we do the right thing to fix it, that it never occurred to us that the kid was just angry and he was going to have to feel that way until he was good and tired of it. When he retreats and seems to ignore us completely, well, he kind of is. Partly because we're old dorks, but mostly because he's overwhelmed. He isn't aimless, just because he doesn't do things like his father. He has all kinds of admirable goals, and all kinds of great ideas about how to achieve them. But his brain gets so far ahead of reality and then the return trip often leaves him virtually paralyzed and not knowing how to proceed.
And Thing Two isn't an inherently better person because he does things right this minute. He's pretty tightly wrapped, if the truth be known. It's how he manages his time, that's all. Pay now, play later. And as much as I would like to take credit for it, I can't. His father and I could both procrastinate professionally and make quite a living. The kid is just trying to keep his head above water like everyone else, and doing things now, rather than later, keeps him from getting his knickers in a wad. Most of the time. As I mentioned, we are smack dab in the middle of 14. Our knickers are wadded a good deal of the time over things of supreme importance.
So...I am tired. I think too much and I love these Things with my whole heart and it is exhausting. And it gets harder as they get older, sorry. It does. I have friends with wee ones and I would love to be able to tell you it's easier when they're older. That would be complete donkeytwaddle. Yes, they don't need you to feed them and carry them, and yes, you tend to get more sleep. But then they get stupid, and you don't really want them operating the stove, so you're back to feeding them. And they hurt themselves doing some Big Kid thing and you have to carry them. And they start dating or driving or both, and there goes the sleep.
Something else I've learned, though...totally worth it.
I
Thursday, January 5, 2017
Shiny, Glossy People
Thank goodness I do the grocery shopping, or I would never know what was going on in the world. Thanks to the extensive selection of periodicals located in and around the checkout stand at my favorite food purveyor, I am able to keep up on all the important stuff. Many is the time that Mr. Wonderful and I have had the following conversation, as he stares, bewildered, at the Today Show:
Him: Who is that?
Me: Oh, that's So-and-So.
Him: How do you know that?
Me: Because I do the grocery shopping.
And then I leave the room, because I cannot stand the Today Show. Unless at some point I become alarmingly, devastatingly famous, and am asked to appear on their fine program, in which case I will totally sell out and do it.
He looks at me like that's a ridiculous answer every time we have that exchange, even though we have it fairly often. It's one of the things we do best as a couple, having the same conversation, almost word for word, a maddening number of times. I contend it's because his listener is broken. He contends it's because he hangs on every word that comes out of my face and wants to hear them repeatedly. The truth is probably, as with most scenarios, somewhere in the middle.
But anyone who does the shopping for their family can tell you that it's true. One trip through the checkout and you will be up to date on who's sleeping with whom (I don't care), which diets will help you keep the weight off for good (None of them), the best cheesecake recipe in the known universe (This is invariably on the same cover as the diet story. Hmm...), and who Kanye is feuding with this week (And we're back to I couldn't care less). I generally glance at them, at the most, with one exception: The Weekly World News. I always check that one just to make sure I'm up on whatever the Bat Boy is doing.
This week, however, I was delighted to see this on the latest issue of a very popular woman's magazine that, in the interest of not being sued by someone, should someone of legal import ever read this, I shall call, "Shmosmopolitan":
Imagine my euphoria, my glee, my near ecstasy, when my gaze fell upon this! My first thought was, "Well! Mission accomplished, Shmosmo!" Barely two days into the new year, and I had already achieved an indeed Epic Ass, without even trying! Perhaps, they meant "epic," differently than I was interpreting it? But they didn't clarify, so I'm putting that in the Win column. And if my boobs could talk, well...I won't linger on that one, because I'm fairly certain we all know what they would say. But for those of you who would like to play the at home version of What Would Amy's Boobs Say? just smush your cheeks together, and shout, "We can't breathe!" There are other topics they discuss amongst themselves, I'm sure. Such as, Why does she keep putting her crochet hook in here? How long do you think she's going to look for her sunglasses before she remembers we have them? And, She really needs to start wearing a bib."
My first reaction was to laugh, heartily, and obviously to take the pic. but I immediately started looking at the cover girl, and I am disappointed to tell you, it killed the mood.
I wish it hadn't. I wish I didn't care. I wish I could tell you that I didn't start immediately doing what I immediately did. But it wouldn't be true.
I've seen the links on Facebook, the ones "outing" all the untouched images of models and actors. I know the fashion magazines are keeping the airbrushing industry alive. I know it. I believe it. I rant about it. I renounce the ridiculous standards, and preach (to the choir, mostly, because that's the safest audience to preach to) how demeaning it is and how beautiful these people are without it, and how unnecessary it is, and how it just perpetuates unattainable stereotypes for men and women alike. And I believe every word I hear coming out of my mouth. I really do.
But...
I start the checklist. You may have one, too. That mental checklist you run down as you stare at the covers and the headlines, and put your Doritos on the belt:
Well, sure, she's probably 15...
Well, sure, she's on TV, she can afford a professional food slapper to knock things out of her hand...
Well, sure, but she hasn't had any kids...
Well, sure, but she was just born that way, she's naturally (insert adjective here: tall, willowy, svelte),
whereas I am pretty sure I come from Hobbits...
Well, sure, but she has to look like that, it's her job, she has a trainer and a personal chef...
Well, sure, but these folks have to count every single calorie, that's no way to live...
Well, sure, but I can't afford to work out for hours every day, I have better things to do...
That last one is going to set off bull#@*! alarms for some of you, I am keenly aware. You know I spend a vast amount of time holding up a small dog. Some of you also know that I have a doggy version of a Baby Bjorn for the aforementioned pup, so I could just strap her on my front and do almost any exercise I felt like doing. I know I make my fair share of excuses.
But do you see the sick cycle my brain goes through? I see a completely false version of an entirely different human being, with her own genetics, her own lifestyle, her own hang ups, and I immediately take it at its face value (mistake number one), and begin to compare that lie (because that's what it is) to my own truth...which quite frankly, ain't so true. I cautioned a good friend just a couple of nights ago about doing this very thing, comparing her worst to what someone else was presenting to the world as their best.
I was told by many people who had reached them before I did that my 40s were going to be the best years of my life so far. I was going to finally feel comfortable in my own skin, and stop caring what others thought when they looked at me from the side. I'm fairly ok with Straight Ahead, Facing Front Amy. But Profile Amy is a nightmare, and she'll cut ya if you try to photograph her. The profoundly disappointing fact is, that for someone with as much skin as I have, I am no more comfortable in it than I was in my 30s. It turns out that I have been waiting for something to happen that doesn't happen by waiting.
It's embarassing to admit this. I feel like I've been fooled. I've thought of myself as being above all that shallow nonsense, but it turns out I'm just another stooge who's been duped into buying a load of goods, and using terms normally reserved for well dressed gangsters in movies from the 1940s.
I've mentioned that I am a fearful person. I deal with depression and anxiety on a daily basis, and I fake it pretty well in public, but I am a hot mess much of the time, on the inside. Add to that a dose of truly Grade A crappy self-esteem, and simply abysmal body image, and you've got yourself a recipe for disaster. I've bought the lie, and I've used it to convince myself that A) it matters, and B) I'm failing at achieving it.
And I'm not the only one.
I'm tired. I'm tired of avoiding my own reflection in the bathroom mirror when I get in and out of the shower. I'm tired of sucking in my gut when I pull up next to someone at a traffic light. I'm tired of hanging upside down and doing gymnastics to take a selfie that captures only one chin.
I'm not looking for diet advice. I know I need to move more. I have been a couch potato, and I have been a 6-day-a-week-worker-outer. I have run the gamut. Well, I've speed walked it. I know what a serving size of chicken looks like and how many grapes are considered enough for one person. That's not the problem. The problem is defying convention and loving my lumps, because they are part of me, and I am worth loving. That's going to take work.
That's probably what this blog is going to end up being about, ultimately. And, as is my habit, it will be peppered with self-deprecating smart assery. And I would like to say that learning to accept myself, wholly, unabashedly, will be enough for me to keep at it. But it won't, at least not for a while. So, what I intend to do is to keep digging, and analyzing, and challenging, and confessing at the keyboard, in the hopes that some of this rings true for someone else who might stumble upon it. Because I may not feel I'm worth it yet. But I know you guys are.
Him: Who is that?
Me: Oh, that's So-and-So.
Him: How do you know that?
Me: Because I do the grocery shopping.
And then I leave the room, because I cannot stand the Today Show. Unless at some point I become alarmingly, devastatingly famous, and am asked to appear on their fine program, in which case I will totally sell out and do it.
He looks at me like that's a ridiculous answer every time we have that exchange, even though we have it fairly often. It's one of the things we do best as a couple, having the same conversation, almost word for word, a maddening number of times. I contend it's because his listener is broken. He contends it's because he hangs on every word that comes out of my face and wants to hear them repeatedly. The truth is probably, as with most scenarios, somewhere in the middle.
But anyone who does the shopping for their family can tell you that it's true. One trip through the checkout and you will be up to date on who's sleeping with whom (I don't care), which diets will help you keep the weight off for good (None of them), the best cheesecake recipe in the known universe (This is invariably on the same cover as the diet story. Hmm...), and who Kanye is feuding with this week (And we're back to I couldn't care less). I generally glance at them, at the most, with one exception: The Weekly World News. I always check that one just to make sure I'm up on whatever the Bat Boy is doing.
This week, however, I was delighted to see this on the latest issue of a very popular woman's magazine that, in the interest of not being sued by someone, should someone of legal import ever read this, I shall call, "Shmosmopolitan":
Imagine my euphoria, my glee, my near ecstasy, when my gaze fell upon this! My first thought was, "Well! Mission accomplished, Shmosmo!" Barely two days into the new year, and I had already achieved an indeed Epic Ass, without even trying! Perhaps, they meant "epic," differently than I was interpreting it? But they didn't clarify, so I'm putting that in the Win column. And if my boobs could talk, well...I won't linger on that one, because I'm fairly certain we all know what they would say. But for those of you who would like to play the at home version of What Would Amy's Boobs Say? just smush your cheeks together, and shout, "We can't breathe!" There are other topics they discuss amongst themselves, I'm sure. Such as, Why does she keep putting her crochet hook in here? How long do you think she's going to look for her sunglasses before she remembers we have them? And, She really needs to start wearing a bib."
My first reaction was to laugh, heartily, and obviously to take the pic. but I immediately started looking at the cover girl, and I am disappointed to tell you, it killed the mood.
I wish it hadn't. I wish I didn't care. I wish I could tell you that I didn't start immediately doing what I immediately did. But it wouldn't be true.
I've seen the links on Facebook, the ones "outing" all the untouched images of models and actors. I know the fashion magazines are keeping the airbrushing industry alive. I know it. I believe it. I rant about it. I renounce the ridiculous standards, and preach (to the choir, mostly, because that's the safest audience to preach to) how demeaning it is and how beautiful these people are without it, and how unnecessary it is, and how it just perpetuates unattainable stereotypes for men and women alike. And I believe every word I hear coming out of my mouth. I really do.
But...
I start the checklist. You may have one, too. That mental checklist you run down as you stare at the covers and the headlines, and put your Doritos on the belt:
Well, sure, she's probably 15...
Well, sure, she's on TV, she can afford a professional food slapper to knock things out of her hand...
Well, sure, but she hasn't had any kids...
Well, sure, but she was just born that way, she's naturally (insert adjective here: tall, willowy, svelte),
whereas I am pretty sure I come from Hobbits...
Well, sure, but she has to look like that, it's her job, she has a trainer and a personal chef...
Well, sure, but these folks have to count every single calorie, that's no way to live...
Well, sure, but I can't afford to work out for hours every day, I have better things to do...
That last one is going to set off bull#@*! alarms for some of you, I am keenly aware. You know I spend a vast amount of time holding up a small dog. Some of you also know that I have a doggy version of a Baby Bjorn for the aforementioned pup, so I could just strap her on my front and do almost any exercise I felt like doing. I know I make my fair share of excuses.
But do you see the sick cycle my brain goes through? I see a completely false version of an entirely different human being, with her own genetics, her own lifestyle, her own hang ups, and I immediately take it at its face value (mistake number one), and begin to compare that lie (because that's what it is) to my own truth...which quite frankly, ain't so true. I cautioned a good friend just a couple of nights ago about doing this very thing, comparing her worst to what someone else was presenting to the world as their best.
I was told by many people who had reached them before I did that my 40s were going to be the best years of my life so far. I was going to finally feel comfortable in my own skin, and stop caring what others thought when they looked at me from the side. I'm fairly ok with Straight Ahead, Facing Front Amy. But Profile Amy is a nightmare, and she'll cut ya if you try to photograph her. The profoundly disappointing fact is, that for someone with as much skin as I have, I am no more comfortable in it than I was in my 30s. It turns out that I have been waiting for something to happen that doesn't happen by waiting.
It's embarassing to admit this. I feel like I've been fooled. I've thought of myself as being above all that shallow nonsense, but it turns out I'm just another stooge who's been duped into buying a load of goods, and using terms normally reserved for well dressed gangsters in movies from the 1940s.
I've mentioned that I am a fearful person. I deal with depression and anxiety on a daily basis, and I fake it pretty well in public, but I am a hot mess much of the time, on the inside. Add to that a dose of truly Grade A crappy self-esteem, and simply abysmal body image, and you've got yourself a recipe for disaster. I've bought the lie, and I've used it to convince myself that A) it matters, and B) I'm failing at achieving it.
And I'm not the only one.
I'm tired. I'm tired of avoiding my own reflection in the bathroom mirror when I get in and out of the shower. I'm tired of sucking in my gut when I pull up next to someone at a traffic light. I'm tired of hanging upside down and doing gymnastics to take a selfie that captures only one chin.
I'm not looking for diet advice. I know I need to move more. I have been a couch potato, and I have been a 6-day-a-week-worker-outer. I have run the gamut. Well, I've speed walked it. I know what a serving size of chicken looks like and how many grapes are considered enough for one person. That's not the problem. The problem is defying convention and loving my lumps, because they are part of me, and I am worth loving. That's going to take work.
That's probably what this blog is going to end up being about, ultimately. And, as is my habit, it will be peppered with self-deprecating smart assery. And I would like to say that learning to accept myself, wholly, unabashedly, will be enough for me to keep at it. But it won't, at least not for a while. So, what I intend to do is to keep digging, and analyzing, and challenging, and confessing at the keyboard, in the hopes that some of this rings true for someone else who might stumble upon it. Because I may not feel I'm worth it yet. But I know you guys are.
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