My husband and I stood back and admired our work: every dust-bunny was wrangled, the chaos under every piece of furniture was tamed, every scrap of fabric had been washed, fluffed, and replaced appropriately. We were ready to welcome my husband’s family to Thanksgiving in Louisville, our polished doors were open. Then, Sunday evening, as I parted my daughter’s hair for pigtails in preparation for my side of the family’s humble Thanksgiving dinner, I found lice.
The initial reaction was denial: that certainly wasn’t something moving in my child’s immaculate hair. But as I confirmed another case in my son’s head, the reaction transformed to shock: Shave their heads like the Nazis did to Jews in the concentration camps, I thought to myself as I began to compulsively scratch my own scalp and tear pillow cases from the newly made beds. My bathroom became the set of a bad-mother-movie scene as I herded my poor, naked children into an empty bathtub and demanded, “Don’t move, I’ll be right back!” Dashing out the door and down to the local pharmacy, I began to realize the host of repercussions from this outbreak: my son had had his first sleepover at our house the night before, so I had to call that mother; I’d have to alert both of their schools and we would be “that family” when the fliers went home in the backpacks; I’d have to tell the twenty guests traveling near and far for Thanksgiving that our house may continue to give long after the turkey carcass, and I’d have to clean my entire house, again.
I stood in the pharmacy’s consultation line, furiously scratching my own scalp from paranoia, pacing with impatience, practicing a newfound bounty of tics I’d adopted in the past 10 minutes. I think the pharmacist was ignoring me as I’m sure I resembled a junky looking for a fix. Nope, just a mom with the first outbreak of head lice (easily confused). When I explained our problem he was kind and reassuring, his kids and grandkids had all gone through this too, and pointed me to the treatment aisle. “They’re persistent little fellas,” he yelled as I was leaving. “Good luck!”
It was then that I began to question my faith. I’m not particularly religious, but really think God gets a kick out of testing our family before Thanksgiving, our favorite of the holidays. One year, our gas line that fuels our gas stove (a necessary component to preparing a feast unless you know Squanto) went out two days before T-Day. This year He’d (She’d never do that) broken our washer Sunday morning and sent a plague of lice upon our house by Sunday evening. Customary to the past holiday catastrophes, my husband and I tackled this hurdle with beautiful marital synergy. I preened the heads, a laborious and back-breaking process as you hunch over squirming children’s manes searching for minuscule nits (the term “nit-picking” has taken on a whole new meaning) hours every day, in such a meticulous fashion I am now destined to be a premature hunchback. My husband repaired the washer and helped me conquer the house and every scrap of fabric in it, again.
Neither of us practiced our hobbies of micromanaging (mine) or emotional tantrums (his); we worked in perfect stoic unison to complete the incredible task at hand. The groceries are finished, the wine is breathing...Thanksgiving--bring it on!
Friday, June 17, 2011
You're the Man, Dad
I've crossed paths with a variety dads in my life: one devoted, one distant, and one MIA. I never knew my own biological father and the evidence of his existence was sparse and unspoken, so I created my own version of this apparition-like DNA that aided in my conception. As a teenager, I'd sneak outside to smoke a cigarette, stare up at the sky, and conduct a heart-to-heart with the dad I never knew. He looked like Willie Nelson, or so I imagined, and had a road-weary, soft voice that gave me mountains of concise advice. He chose his words carefully, was reflective and had those deep blue eyes that showed the contents of his character.
If my imaginary dad was Willie, the step-dad that raised me was Dick Cheney. Conservative, thorough, and reliable, yet stern and detached, he'd leave me messages on post-it notes as his form of communication: "Check your oil" or "Lock the barn". These were the tidbits of advice thrown my way in perfectly proportioned handwriting. He always helped me with the enigmatic algebraic equations that gave me trouble and was the financier for most of my needs. But most needs, the ones that really matter in the long run between a father and daughter, aren't met through money. And this is where my reliable, yet devastatingly distant step-dad faltered. As a young female, I wanted above all else to feel loved, unconditionally, and to be told how worthy I was. To see pride in a daddy's eyes.
Somehow, someway, despite the fair to middling examples of fatherhood evident in my genealogy, I hit the jackpot with my husband. He was the third son born in a family of eight children, so family values are intrinsic. To be honest, he's a much better parent than I am--always sacrificing, patient, and active. After a hard day at work, he runs in the house and wrestles with the kids on the carpet or sprays them with the hose--he always has time to play with the kids, not just conduct the mundane tasks of parenting, but truly enjoys them and they know it. What makes him the best father I've ever known is that look in his eyes when he interacts with our children; you can't fake that, you can't buy that kind of love. There is no doubt in my mind my son will be a great father because of his example and my daughter will not seek love in unworthy suiters, because she has a beautiful specimen of a man to compare all the rest to.
For this Father's Day, I'm not buying another meaningless gift. I'm going to give my husband the gift he always seems to ask for--recognition. Whenever my husband drives ten hours straight to the beach or repairs a catastrophe in the basement, he always asks, "Who's the man?" This Sunday in my house is going to be the "You're the Man Day" because it takes a lot to be a great one. Anyone who has had a father, brilliant or brutal, understands the significance of this role. But, when the unsurmountable to-do list obstructs the view of just how awesome dads can be, they get taken for granted. Not this Sunday though, we're having a full day of appreciation and gratitude for the love, the strength, the loyalty, and the joy you bring into our life. Happy Father's Day to all the dads out there that make a difference. You're the man.
If my imaginary dad was Willie, the step-dad that raised me was Dick Cheney. Conservative, thorough, and reliable, yet stern and detached, he'd leave me messages on post-it notes as his form of communication: "Check your oil" or "Lock the barn". These were the tidbits of advice thrown my way in perfectly proportioned handwriting. He always helped me with the enigmatic algebraic equations that gave me trouble and was the financier for most of my needs. But most needs, the ones that really matter in the long run between a father and daughter, aren't met through money. And this is where my reliable, yet devastatingly distant step-dad faltered. As a young female, I wanted above all else to feel loved, unconditionally, and to be told how worthy I was. To see pride in a daddy's eyes.
Somehow, someway, despite the fair to middling examples of fatherhood evident in my genealogy, I hit the jackpot with my husband. He was the third son born in a family of eight children, so family values are intrinsic. To be honest, he's a much better parent than I am--always sacrificing, patient, and active. After a hard day at work, he runs in the house and wrestles with the kids on the carpet or sprays them with the hose--he always has time to play with the kids, not just conduct the mundane tasks of parenting, but truly enjoys them and they know it. What makes him the best father I've ever known is that look in his eyes when he interacts with our children; you can't fake that, you can't buy that kind of love. There is no doubt in my mind my son will be a great father because of his example and my daughter will not seek love in unworthy suiters, because she has a beautiful specimen of a man to compare all the rest to.
For this Father's Day, I'm not buying another meaningless gift. I'm going to give my husband the gift he always seems to ask for--recognition. Whenever my husband drives ten hours straight to the beach or repairs a catastrophe in the basement, he always asks, "Who's the man?" This Sunday in my house is going to be the "You're the Man Day" because it takes a lot to be a great one. Anyone who has had a father, brilliant or brutal, understands the significance of this role. But, when the unsurmountable to-do list obstructs the view of just how awesome dads can be, they get taken for granted. Not this Sunday though, we're having a full day of appreciation and gratitude for the love, the strength, the loyalty, and the joy you bring into our life. Happy Father's Day to all the dads out there that make a difference. You're the man.
Friday, July 30, 2010
Seasonal Meltdown
I had a melt-down while cooking dinner last night. A tributary of tears flooded my perfectly fluffed curried rice and over-salted the marinade. The kids in the other room decrecendoed their wails and squeals to quiet whispers of, what's wrong with mommy?
The on-set of the school year is fast approaching; the life as I've known it for two months is gradually drying up. Soon, the hurried schedules, frenzied routine and overall exhaustion will drain the creative juices from my being. A drought will weasel itself into a once prolific, carefree state of mind. All will turn to dust.
“Oh nothing, kids. Mom’s just fine.”
When my husband rushed to the scene, I not only soiled the shoulder of his new tee-shirt, but unleashed a dramatic fury of philosophical debate on the state of labor in the capitalistic system. “We’re going to be hamsters on the wheel again, Billy. There won’t even be time to dream,” I said between hysterical gasps for air. “Our passions will never manifest; we’ll be too tired to even have them. No sex, no art, just work and passing out on the couch at 8:30. Life of the proletariat, I didn’t want this…”
Then he started to cry.
For most, summer ends sometime in late September, but to the teacher, summer ends promptly on the first day of school, actually, on the hectic week prior filled with meetings, planning, and setting up shop. Weather is no factor. I suppose a bit of mourning is appropriate to this season--look what Demeter does to the Earth every year when her child is taken from her, when her summer frolicking ceases. Every year I enter an equally irrational lament. It’s just that life is so damn full of all the right stuff in the summer: authentic family time, pleasure, leisure, creativity, time for a hang-over…that it saddens me to the core when it must end. Two months isn’t enough for me to cram in all of the wonderful things about being a living, breathing human being. Even my son, a first grader, is ambivalent about starting the process all over again, “There’s so much work, mom. I want to play and have alone time.” Me too, little man.
But am I alone as a teacher? At my professional developments, my colleagues seem so geared up, eager, freakishly in to it. When we start the year, they always say they are “excited” and “ready.” I’m never ready, just submissive. Don’t get me wrong, there are days that I leave work with a permanent smile plastered to my face, satisfied that I’ve made a difference. Days that I can’t stop talking about work at the dinner table. Days where I feel smart (but those are limited). Days I’m grateful to have a job amidst the rising unemployment numbers. It’s just the inequality of the longevity of the school year and the infrequency of those days…and the lack of bathroom breaks or time to write or groom or think or be the wife and mother and artist I want to be. There are just so many sacrifices.
The school year will begin and my son will succeed, my students will learn, and I will survive. Somewhere in this season of change, the tears will evaporate and creative juices will rain down from above whetting the spirit, pulse through arid veins, causing a run-off of joy and make green all that withered or fell, brown and lifeless, to the ground. Hopefully, I won’t have to wait until next May. Hopefully, I’ll find a neat balance and function with vigor and efficiency, able to wear all hats proudly. Hopefully, I haven’t ruined my rice, sent my husband into a mild-depression, or terrified my kids in yet another season meltdown.
The on-set of the school year is fast approaching; the life as I've known it for two months is gradually drying up. Soon, the hurried schedules, frenzied routine and overall exhaustion will drain the creative juices from my being. A drought will weasel itself into a once prolific, carefree state of mind. All will turn to dust.
“Oh nothing, kids. Mom’s just fine.”
When my husband rushed to the scene, I not only soiled the shoulder of his new tee-shirt, but unleashed a dramatic fury of philosophical debate on the state of labor in the capitalistic system. “We’re going to be hamsters on the wheel again, Billy. There won’t even be time to dream,” I said between hysterical gasps for air. “Our passions will never manifest; we’ll be too tired to even have them. No sex, no art, just work and passing out on the couch at 8:30. Life of the proletariat, I didn’t want this…”
Then he started to cry.
For most, summer ends sometime in late September, but to the teacher, summer ends promptly on the first day of school, actually, on the hectic week prior filled with meetings, planning, and setting up shop. Weather is no factor. I suppose a bit of mourning is appropriate to this season--look what Demeter does to the Earth every year when her child is taken from her, when her summer frolicking ceases. Every year I enter an equally irrational lament. It’s just that life is so damn full of all the right stuff in the summer: authentic family time, pleasure, leisure, creativity, time for a hang-over…that it saddens me to the core when it must end. Two months isn’t enough for me to cram in all of the wonderful things about being a living, breathing human being. Even my son, a first grader, is ambivalent about starting the process all over again, “There’s so much work, mom. I want to play and have alone time.” Me too, little man.
But am I alone as a teacher? At my professional developments, my colleagues seem so geared up, eager, freakishly in to it. When we start the year, they always say they are “excited” and “ready.” I’m never ready, just submissive. Don’t get me wrong, there are days that I leave work with a permanent smile plastered to my face, satisfied that I’ve made a difference. Days that I can’t stop talking about work at the dinner table. Days where I feel smart (but those are limited). Days I’m grateful to have a job amidst the rising unemployment numbers. It’s just the inequality of the longevity of the school year and the infrequency of those days…and the lack of bathroom breaks or time to write or groom or think or be the wife and mother and artist I want to be. There are just so many sacrifices.
The school year will begin and my son will succeed, my students will learn, and I will survive. Somewhere in this season of change, the tears will evaporate and creative juices will rain down from above whetting the spirit, pulse through arid veins, causing a run-off of joy and make green all that withered or fell, brown and lifeless, to the ground. Hopefully, I won’t have to wait until next May. Hopefully, I’ll find a neat balance and function with vigor and efficiency, able to wear all hats proudly. Hopefully, I haven’t ruined my rice, sent my husband into a mild-depression, or terrified my kids in yet another season meltdown.
Wednesday, July 7, 2010
Ode to the Family Vacation
Evidence of it litters the house. First-aid kits, cans of bug spray, and sleeping bags all eager to come out of hibernation scurry out of high cabinets and dark basements to greet each other in unsightly piles in the living room. It broadcasts itself daily from a dry-erase calendar precariously hanging on the fridge with a showy proclamation of its power: "VACATION" accentuated with a long black arrow spanning seven vacant date boxes. The family vacation is among us, the countdown is ticking.
Like the Griswolds, this is an annual sojourn from the hurried pace of our daily lives. Months of saving and planning ensure fodder for photo albums and stories for decades (picture those last lines accompanied with flutes and birds in the background). This is where memories are made, god dammit, and you are going to enjoy this trip because I said so or I'll turn this car around right now. Stop whining, mom and dad are having a margarita and look at the sunset, NOW!
Like I was saying, family vacations are where memories are made, like the time my son ate a contaminated piece of cantaloupe off the Shoney's Big Boy buffet somewhere in the middle of Mississippi and developed explosive diarrhea day one of New Orleans' Jazz Fest. Trying to convince the cocaine snorting man in the bathroom we truly had more of an emergency, my son was developing a severe scrotum rash as we speak, I will never be able to forget. Or when I threw-up an entire fruit plate then covered it with my beach towel in the beautiful marble lobby of my parents'Cozumel time-share after attempting to consume all the duty-free tequila on the island the night before (I was 15 and ambitious). Or when my sister left the rest of the family in Ireland to chase the only (that I could see) six-foot-seven-east-African across the country on a bus. Yes, people these are memories.
So what if the expedition that drains your yearly savings or puts you back in debt after working all year to clear it ends in so called disaster. So what if it takes years to repair the delicate family dynamics a weeks worth of good vacationing can unravel--it makes us strong. Does anyone ever really say, "We shouldn't have spent that money on a vacation?" No, well maybe if your husband was killed in a tsunami or something, but as long as no real physical harm is done, even the bad vacations are absolutely worth it. Even when a Mexican business owner follows you home trying to convince you to have his love-child (Jesus Christo, merely hypothetical, por supuesto--but that's what I call immersing yourself in the culture). Load up the van, or validate the passport, it's vacation season!
Like the Griswolds, this is an annual sojourn from the hurried pace of our daily lives. Months of saving and planning ensure fodder for photo albums and stories for decades (picture those last lines accompanied with flutes and birds in the background). This is where memories are made, god dammit, and you are going to enjoy this trip because I said so or I'll turn this car around right now. Stop whining, mom and dad are having a margarita and look at the sunset, NOW!
Like I was saying, family vacations are where memories are made, like the time my son ate a contaminated piece of cantaloupe off the Shoney's Big Boy buffet somewhere in the middle of Mississippi and developed explosive diarrhea day one of New Orleans' Jazz Fest. Trying to convince the cocaine snorting man in the bathroom we truly had more of an emergency, my son was developing a severe scrotum rash as we speak, I will never be able to forget. Or when I threw-up an entire fruit plate then covered it with my beach towel in the beautiful marble lobby of my parents'Cozumel time-share after attempting to consume all the duty-free tequila on the island the night before (I was 15 and ambitious). Or when my sister left the rest of the family in Ireland to chase the only (that I could see) six-foot-seven-east-African across the country on a bus. Yes, people these are memories.
So what if the expedition that drains your yearly savings or puts you back in debt after working all year to clear it ends in so called disaster. So what if it takes years to repair the delicate family dynamics a weeks worth of good vacationing can unravel--it makes us strong. Does anyone ever really say, "We shouldn't have spent that money on a vacation?" No, well maybe if your husband was killed in a tsunami or something, but as long as no real physical harm is done, even the bad vacations are absolutely worth it. Even when a Mexican business owner follows you home trying to convince you to have his love-child (Jesus Christo, merely hypothetical, por supuesto--but that's what I call immersing yourself in the culture). Load up the van, or validate the passport, it's vacation season!
Friday, June 25, 2010
Closed for the Season
Like the jaw of a snapping turtle, my vagina slammed shut after the birth of my daughter. Postpartum sex is always met with ambivalence and resignation, but this time around I found something I had not bargained for. I was expecting to be loosy-goosey after two vaginal births, ready to practice Kegels with intense ferocity in the grocery, while driving, while teaching poetic devices, but instead, the muscles of my vag played a cruel joke upon the already precarious so-called-sex-life in my marriage.
The doctors diagnosed me with "vaginismus" an involuntary muscle spasm in the vagina caused by stress or trauma. Are you serious? I'd never heard of such a thing--my vag had a mind of its own? Holding up a sign up saying, "Sorry, closed for the season, come back next fall?" My husband was not going to buy this one. Then came the proposed treatment: a host of anti-anxiety drugs and muscle relaxers along with the introduction of a sex-coach. This last one made me laugh. The spectrum of images associated with what a sex-coach might look like ranged from a hairy-legged man propping one foot up on the side of the bed dressed in polyester athletic shorts and a whistle, to a creature akin to gnome, a sex fairy poised at the edge of the bed examining angles and technique. Thanks, but I'll pass.
Opting out of the western sex-remedies, I tried acupuncture and after two sessions, it exhaled. But just because my puss relaxed, didn't mean our sex life resumed to the impressive pre-parenthood caliber. Sex with children (you know what I mean, that sounds awful) is always a curious procedure sandwiched somewhere between nap time and Windexing the greasy fingers off the front door. Every Sunday at 2:00, my husband lurks around me like a Pavlov dog, sniffing around for the bone I'm supposed to throw him. And I succumb for maintenance purposes, as sexy as a turnip, hoping no little eyes find their way through a keyhole. My friend's clandestine escapade occurs Saturdays at noon in the bathroom; she tells her kids, "Daddy and I are doing our bills."
I'm fortunate enough to have a solid marriage; I still find my husband attractive, honest. It's just the damned giving that exhausts me and sucks the passion from my loins. A simple equation: (needy children)2 + dirty house + demanding job = the lubrication equivalent of sand. Until I can figure it all out, don't call Sundays at nap time. Fifty-two times a year ain't bad.
Friday, June 18, 2010
Firing Squad
Amidst my frantic, coffee-induced French toast making this morning, I heard the most disturbing story as NPR blared in the background. In Utah, an inmate on death-row was executed by firing squad, this being his preferred method of extermination. What the what? Checking to make sure I indeed woke up in the right century, I stood motionless, spatula in hand, only to hear the latest reports of BP's oil spill in the Gulf. Yep, right year; wrong direction.
I've always hated guns myself--they seem so barbaric and loud. An obscene penis extension that somehow seemed below me, besides, when I was seven my grandma told me driving down the road in her VW Rabbit that my bio-dad had shot himself. How was I to ever appreciate firearms? You think you have everything figured out before parenthood. As if I could definitively check the boxes, "For Peace" and "Against Guns." Easy, this would be the basic philosophy from which I raised my highly in-tuned, balanced boy. But then came Iron Will.
Please don't get me wrong, my son is not a psychopath...he can be very loving and perceptive at times, AND he loves guns (a statement I thought I'd never proclaim, I'm not far from an NRA bumper sticker at this point). My husband, Billy, and I vowed not to let our son watch violent shows and saw our pre-children abode decorated with art, free of plastic noise-makers, and above all, toy guns. We buy organic food, I breastfed, we watch independent films. But I realized none of this mattered the day my son picked up a Certified Organic sweet potato from Whole Foods and said he was going to shoot me with it.
This was not the last of these freakishly sadistic statements. We've heard, "Give me chocolate or I will destroy you, Mom!" as tiny finger-guns were aggressively fired at my face. His soft jaw becomes uncomfortably obtuse when he juts it out to accompany his finger artillery proclaiming, "I'll shoot you cars if you don't move out of our way," from the backseat of the car. While driving the other day I was completely unaware that he was rapidly firing at any object that came in our path: stop signs, street lights, puppies, old ladies... Do we have a problem here?
What is it with boys' intrinsic gravitational pull toward weapons? I've even found myself pushing the sword as a diversion for the gun (I dunno, it seems more noble). My mom thinks it's hysterical, the irony of her grandson possibly joining the Marines or something someday. She actually bought him a rabbit pelt and discussed hunting like some back-woods granny in a coon-skin cap. At this rate, my hands are up in exasperated surrender. Fire a way little man.
Thursday, June 17, 2010
Welcome to my madness
First of all, I never thought I'd have a blog. I have kids. Who has time to read a blog when they have kids, right? But then school ended and I became obsessed with getting back into the swing of writing, so why not? The most logical topic for my blog, of course, would be parenthood because to say I'm completely immersed in it would not be a lie. To say it's what I know, would.
Parenthood has taught me a lot about myself and the world around me. For instance, I didn't realize it (the world) did not revolve around me until I had kids. I've also learned about a host of medical conditions through my children and the aftermath they've inflicted upon my body. But, it's not all bad. I've also learned patience, cunning, and the art of bribery. I eat healthier, I recycle more, and drink less. Not a terrible trade-off for that fact I always pee a little when I sneeze and have to pay a shit-load just to get out of my house without my children.
But this isn't about being without children, its about what goes on when we're together and I'm supposed to be in charge. That's a joke. So, welcome to my blog. I promise to tell the truth, but have to admit I'm a natural exaggerator and would rather you laugh that be bogged down with mere details. Hopefully you will enjoy a slice of our lives; anyone that has kids knows: it's a learning process. Welcome to my madness.
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