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

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.