the best of times

Driving around with my daughter at sunset, windows rolled down, stereo cranked up, singing at the top of our lungs to Paul Simon’s “Late In The Evening” and laughing like loons. Oh my god, what a blessed and pure DAMN-I-love-my-kid moment. So needed that.

hope for better things

I’ve never thought of myself as a yeller. In fact, I’ve mainly been a pretty meek and mild person, only becoming outspoken with people I’m close to or at cocktail parties after one too many “just to relax” drinks. When we were first married, arguing with my husband was impossible, because he would yell or use an intense tone, and I would shut down and not be able to speak or even whisper, I was so intimidated.

Perhaps his communicative techniques have grown on me over the years, because now I’m shocked to discover that not only do I have an inner yeller, it is not technically even an “inner” anymore. Get my dander up and you will have a yeller on your hands, whether you are an asshole driver, an (momentarily! of course!) insensitive husband, or, unfortunately, one of my children.

God, those poor babies. When they dawdle in the morning: yell. When they sass me in the afternoon: yell. When they run away from toothbrush-wielding me before bedtime: yell. When they are fighting over a toy in the car: yell. When they are whining about this or that: yell.

Yell, yell, yell.

And, funny thing, turns out they are yellers, too!

We all know children make amazing mirrors. Whatever we dish out, they shoot back at us, right between the eyes. So when I found myself becoming first annoyed, then exasperated, then genuinely worried about all their yelling, I had to open my eyes — well, my ears, really — and think about where it was all coming from.

I don’t think I can describe how much I hated myself in that moment when I realized they learned to yell from their parents. From me. And I know we’re supposed to cut ourselves some slack as parents, to recognize we’re doing the best we can with the tools we have . . . and yet, this time, I can’t allow myself that caveat. I realized the only way I’m going turn this around, and help my kids become people who can use their frustration and anger constructively (or at least not de-structively) is to become one myself.

That means, I’ve decided, no yelling. No. Yelling. None, at all. Not at them, not at my husband, not at idiot drivers. That may sound crazy, maybe even unhealthy, but I figure it’s like my version of AA: in order kick the habit, I have to forbid myself any and every indulgence. I may even have to get a sponsor, because at this point, honestly, it is a really tall order. I have become so habituated to blowing off steam or even little annoyances with a yell.

And my kids are suffering. I can’t be the one to do this to them. I can’t be the one they are afraid to be themselves around, the one who helps them build an aggressive shell of protection, the one who makes them cringe when they’ve made a mistake. I have been stressing my kids out, and I don’t want to do it any more. I’m totally crying as I type this, because it is a horrible admission to make, and while I’m still somewhat anonymous here, it is where I am publicly accountable to myself (if that makes any sense).

But, here it is: I’ve been a yeller, but I’m not any more. Starting this week, I will manage and express my negativity without yelling, I will seek help from peers or professionals if I can’t do it on my own, and I will report here regularly to make sure I’m keeping it real.

That is, if I don’t curl up and die of shame as soon as I hit the publish button.

thinky thots thursday

More gems from my genius offspring:

“How ’bout dis, Mama? YOU get a shot, and I NOT get a shot?! Dat would be AWESOME!”

“Why do they call it a ‘popsicle’ anyway? They should just call it “frozen sticky stuff on a stick’.”

“I not a cuddlebug. I a stinkbug!” *rips tremendous fart*

“I just didn’t feel like choosing to sit in the kindness circle, okay?”

“I did something bad. But I’m not going to tell you. Got it?”

“How do you know Jesus is sweet? Isn’t he dead?”

groping darkly through the past

Yesterday I spent the better part of ten minutes panicking that the ignition in my car was busted. With the key stuck inside. It had been acting funny lately, sometimes a little sticky to start, so when the key got really stuck I assumed it’s life was over and I’d have to spend hundreds of dollars we don’t have on getting it fixed. Not to mention, how would I pick up the kids from school in an hour?

I kept jiggling the key, flipping through the owner’s manual, and was about ready to call for a tow and then beg my neighbor to loan me her car so I could get the kids… and then I noticed something. A big letter D. Because the gearshift? Was still in Drive. Duh. I’d just used up the entire contents of my adrenal gland because I’d forgotten to put the car in Park.

Later, on my way to school, I laughed at my idiocy and then noticed the discussion on the radio about Alzheimer’s disease. My chuckling turned into a hiccup. What was a disturbing yet relatively isolated incident for me is the kind of terrifying experience literally millions of Americans have all the time. My own grandmother made untold numbers of panicky but unnecessary calls to the fire department before she became ill enough to require hospitalization.

The confusion of Alzheimer’s can create horrible dangers, like getting lost or leaving the stove on, but the sheer darkness of the disease can be even worse. Watching my grandmother’s dementia take hold over the years was like watching her go back in time. She forgot my grandfather had died, asking for him again and again. Then she forgot about him altogether, drifting further back in time to her first marriage and reliving all of its heartache. Next was adolescence, and the demons from that period that returned to torment her I can’t even bring myself to write about. But watching her writhe and scream in terror, oblivious to the safe, loving reality around her has marked me with a terrible knowledge, that if we carry our fears and our hurt with us, no matter how tucked away and forgotten, they will overwhelm us in the end, when we are least resistant and unable to cope.

Gradually, thankfully, she left that behind and returned to her childhood, eyes lighting up with joy when she “talked” to her brother and her mother, crooning their old songs quietly and nonsensically into her wheelchair-bound lap. And as her body finally broke down, she became an infant, drinking formula and crying out and soothed only by cuddles from her favorite nurse. She lost her her words and her comprehension and her sense of self. She was pure animal, seeking comfort and warmth and relief from the pain of her failing body.

And then she was gone, and truth be told, it was a blessing.

According to the World Alzheimer’s Report released this past Monday by the King’s College London, 35 million people worldwide currently have Alzheimer’s Disease. That number is projected to grow exponentially, to dizzying heights. It isn’t clear to me what we can do about this — obviously those needing care will outnumber those able to provide it. And considering the disease can crush not only those directly afflicted, but also the spirits of those who love and care for them, we’re looking at a large segment of the population that will be adversely affected by the ravages of this disease.

All I can offer is the hope that scientists and researchers find a cure, that our health care policies are re-tooled to allow more people more access to better care, and that we as people, as families, as friends and neighbors do more to help each other, even as hours of need stretch into days, weeks, months, more. Helping people touched by this illness becomes tedious, ugly, painful, unbearable. But the more of us who help, the more of us stand a fighting chance to stay above the rising tide of desolation Alzheimer’s brings.

So if you know someone struggling with this — patient or caregiver — a neighbor or coworker or casual acquaintance, take some time to help. Bring a meal, help with housework, or just be with them and listen. Fight the loneliness of Alzheimer’s Disease, and fight it with your love.

Click here to learn more.

the strength of ten

I just spent the last three hours — yes, three — writing and rewriting a cover letter. It’s true, I’m finally admitting that freelancing just isn’t cutting it financially. I’m still looking for more freelance work, but at the same time I’ve had my eye out for full time work as well. And I found something I’d be perfect for, at a company I adore, without a terrible commute, and . . . well it’s probably too good to be true, and there are probably at least five hundred other well-qualified people applying, but:

I did it. I JUST DID IT. I sat down and wrote a cover letter and sent it in with my resume. Nevermind the next weeks will be filled with a progression of hope, worry, anxiety, and full-throttle WHY WON’T THEY HIRE ME OH PLEASE GOD MAKE THEM HIRE ME. Nevermind that. Because today I did it. Woot!

in great aims and in small

I totally botched the school drop off today. I took an extra two minutes to finish my coffee, then proceeded to get stuck behind a lumbering garbage truck for an equal two minutes. So far, ok. But then I hit a couple of poorly-timed lights, one of which completely flummoxed a driver trying to make a left turn and blocked the rest of us for two complete light cycles. Even my 3-year-old’s impassioned “Come on, move it buddy, let’s go!” did nothing to speed things up, despite his near-professional delivery. These details may strike you as mundane, but let me assure you that in the morning school run, every minute counts. And that’s not a platitude, that’s a fact.

Anyway the end result was that just as we pulled up I could see the last of Shriekeuse’s classmates filing through the door. Because I find the car line still a bit of a foreign concept (we walked to the old school) and essentially the adrenal equivalent of skydiving naked, I don’t have the mental bandwidth to maneuver the car appropriately and talk to Shriekeuse simultaneously, so it was only once she was out of the car that I was able to call through the window, “your class has already gone in, so just run in and go straight to your classroom!”

Her face crumpled in on itself, like one of those time-lapse films of a decomposing orange. Tears glazed her eyes and her shoulders slumped protectively around her heart. “You can do it!” I gushed with the forced enthusiasm of parental desperation, “I can’t get out of the car here and go with you, the line is moving, you know I can’t honey. But you can totally do this, you know the way and your teacher will be so happy to see you!”

She looked so tiny and forlorn, dwarfed by her pink backpack and the enormity of the challenge she now faced. “Ok Mama,” she said, and I could see a spark of courage frantically battling the wind of abandonment that tried to extinguish it. As she turned away, I called after her, “Have a good day, sweetie!” and the emptiness of my false cheer rang off the concrete steps like a bell tolling the death of my maternal integrity.

It’s such a little thing, walking into school a few minutes late, yet such a big thing, too. Just like her, a small girl with big feelings. My poor, brave pea. I’m sorry, love. But what doesn’t kill you gives you plenty of material for your stand-up act. Or the therapist’s couch.

la plus ça change . . .

Pesto, tomato salad, pinot noir, kids on bikes, dead-heading the roses, laundry snapping on the line, mist creeping under the sun as it sets over the water . . . A perfect farewell to summer.

hushed and silent

Cleaning out the attic today, I found myself going through boxes of old baby clothes and baby toys. I don’t really know what I’m hanging onto it all for, as we’re really not having another child (though Monsieur Shriek is as hopelessly conflicted about it as I) and while some of it can be given away to relatives the rest of it is probably just here so I can occasionally relive my children’s earlier years. The impossibly wee onesies and booties. The tiny beanies. The footies! I sighed, and sniffed them, and reveled in nostalgia.

Then I found my nursing bras, sized more appropriately for a two-humped camel and replete with industrial fasteners, hidden panels, and more spandex than Richard Simmons would know what to do with. Next I found my breast pump, and recalled the wheezing little machine as it hummed its milky tune, the twin horns gurgling merrily along as they pinched and stretched my nipples so far I could lace up my sneakers with them.

And really? I’m so glad I’m not doing that any more. Even though I practically still let down every time I hear a baby cry, and miss the sweetness of my own fuzzyheaded one rooting and gulping and being so simply, essentially sustained by me… I don’t miss the contraptions I wore or the hassle of washing out all those bottles and pump parts or the bouts of mastitis or milk-stained sheets. I really don’t. I’m content to look back fondly and then close the boxes back up and arrange them neatly on the attic shelves again. Truly, I am.

Today, anyway.

in the weeds

Today I have:

• A) Fever
• B) Migraine
• C) Period
• D) All of the above

Today I also have:

• A) Kid struggling with control issues
• B) Kid struggling with aggression issues
• C) Husband struggling with job security issues
• D) All of the above

Today I am supposed to:

• A) Clean the house
• B) Pay the bills
• C) Look for work
• D) All of the above

Today I will instead:

• A) Have a pity party
• B) Moan pathetically
• C) Go back to bed while the kids watch tv
• D) All of the above

thinky thots thursday

If you spend a lot of time with your kids, you learn how to adjust your filters so that most of the whining and complaining goes straight to the Junk file. The nuggets of hilarity, however, are immediately captured so you can email them to your husband, or, you know, post them on your blog:

“Is it raining in my crack?”

“Snails don’t have any feet. They can only slid, slid, slid.”

“When I poop it goes down the drain and then is sucked up by the machine and then the machine makes it into corn and then it goes on the hay wagon.”

“When my bones move, it hurts my lip.”

“I made a cage for the ants! But they got out, oh no! Now they’re losted. Poor, poor losted ants.”

“Oh, man. I’m getting so old.”