I found myself in an emotional state tonight, so what better way to get me outside of myself than by delving deep into someone else's sordid inner life by way of a little random blog reading? Perhaps I would find someone who could take me out of my own issues for a little while, or at the very least, allow me to laugh at their miseries for a bit while thanking my lucky stars I don't have *their* problems.
One of my first selections was a parenting blog that caught my eye with a title along the lines of "Calm, Centered Parenting" or some such thing. In hindsight, I am shocked at the cynicism I displayed in choosing that blog for I surely thought that it would be a tongue-in-cheek blog written by someone at least half as crazy as myself, bemoaning the challenges of a profession that can, on days, cause one to dream of small, cloistered rooms with rows of torture devices whose sole purposes are to enforce a Cease and Desist order amongst rival sibling factions. Replete with gags and shackles. I mean, really, how can anyone use the words 'calm' and 'centered' in the same sentence as parenting?
But when I clicked on it, to my initial dismay I discovered that it was exactly what it purported to be. It was calm, verging on sedate, and infused with an inner groundedness that made one realize that HERE was a woman who had really done some inner soul searching. Her prose was calm, cathartic, and ultimately peaceful. She spoke of her day, of herself, of the passing of time. Nowhere did she mention her child/ren. Other than a quote from La Leche League, there was no evidence at all that she was, indeed, a parent. That inner cynic (that I was unaware lived so ardently inside my head until now) quickly concluded that she was either 1.) a poser, 2.) a psychotic woman who clearly had figured out the art of maintaining inner calm whilst honing her bondage skills on her poor little vixens or 3.) still pregnant with her first.
Now, the fact that this calm, peaceful blog dismayed me most likely speaks volumes about the condition of my psyche (not to mention my parenting) to those reading this (let's hope none of you hold psych degrees). I went into that blog a smartass, a warrior from the front lines who stands knee-deep in the thick of it and can't see anything other than the trees from where she is right now. But as I read, I began to remember the hopefulness with which I started this whole crazy venture. I remembered the time when I put 360% into it - when I read book after book about child development and all of it's derivatives (inlcuding an entire library on parenting atypical children) in an effort to be the best parent I could be. When I threw so much of myself into it that when I finally let my head surface I found that I had completely lost me in the process. And with that realization, and the subsequent struggle to dig her out of the mire and dust her off, I somehow brushed away a lot of that hopefulness and was left with a bit of a fatalistic, survivalistic attitude.
And I'm not sure I like that. Some days it is hard to see that it can be anything other than the way it is, but I think I need to find that hopefulness again: the hope that my kids can and WILL make it to adulthood without any major charges filed against them in a court of law; that they can and WILL be productive members of society rather than living with me until they are 30; and that they will be beautiful little souls in the process.
Somehow, in spite of their mom, they will prevail. Or maybe because of her. Who can really say for sure?
Friday, April 24, 2009
Friday, April 3, 2009
A Little Reminder
As I was lying in bed the other night I decided to give myself an impromptu feel-up in the form of a breast self-exam. Arm over head, I palpated what little breast tissue is left after nursing 3 offlings for more years than I care to admit in any public venue. First right side, fingers walking back and forth, circling, pushing, rolling over skin and rather well-developed pectoral muscles (if I do say so myself) while I absently watched the TV channels flip in the darkened room as R orchestrated his own bedtime lullaby, conducting the remote with as much skill as any seasoned conductor. Left arm up, I continued my quest for nothing. And as life always goes, you wait for nothing, inevitably you'll get something. I stopped. Put my arm down. Felt around. Back up, and again, expecting it to be some weird muscular development. Two times, three, up and down and still the same little lump, the same soft rolling under the surface.
"Give me your hand," I said into the dark where R's face changed color and shape with the rolling channels as the blue glow shifted across his skin. He complied, as he's been taught to do (ummm... yeah... just roll with me on this one). I placed his hand over the general vicinity of my heart and pressed his fingertips into my skin.
A second or two passed as he moved his fingers in a circular motion, saying nothing. "Do you feel it?" I whispered, and for the first time in the course of our relationship, I really, really hoped he would tell me no.
"The lump? Yes."
I uttered my favorite curse word, lingering on the vowel sound, stretching it out and ending it softly this time, the ending consonants barely clicking in my throat. Funny how in one situation the hard ending consonants resonate with a satisfying, anger-swelling gutteral crescendo and in another the emphasis can be repositioned, redefining it as something else entirely... a plea to the Gods, perhaps.
And then I lay there silently, as thought after thought ran willy nilly through my head: It can't be cancer - no one in my family has had any kind of cancer, let alone breast cancer. (Can you say "Denial?") But I banned hydrogenated oils back when it was still considered a left-wing hippie nutso thing to do. (I always seem to be ahead of the times with fashion, too...) But I nursed my young for almost as many years as I have fingers, which according to current breastfeeding statistics, reduces my breast cancer rate by about 60%. And seriously, who gets breast cancer without any appreciable breast tissue to speak of? (I mean, come on, I might be a full A-cup if I lay down... on my left side... and make sure they don't slip off into my arm pits...)
Exhausting the litany of ironies that surely prevent me, by default, from this most egregious of womanly fates, my brain jumped immediately from my breasts to the next logical thing. The children who are responsible for their current status as third-world entities on my body; no longer considered developed nations in their own right, these little bad babies have certainly suffered a severe downturn over the years. No pun intended. (Okay, well maybe just a little.)
And laying there, I had a minor epiphany. I may not be a terrific Mom. I know my kids have heard more than their fair share of robust, often colorful language, and often at decibel levels that will probably cost them a bit of their hearing down the road. I know that I do not always respond in the best, most loving way possible (as my bloody-mouthed, snaggle toothed Princess would probably attest to wholeheartedly). I know that I have probably spent in excess of 60% of my parenting days beating myself up for not handling something better than I did. But I've been there, full-on, ever present, battling, dueling, apologizing and embracing. We've had entire conversations a la Inspector Clouseau that would make Peter Sellers proud. We've earnestly sung "Joe's weenie" to the tune of Dolly Parton's "Jolene" on the way to the grocery store. We've turned our eyelids inside out at the dinner table to both impress and repulse (and often exacerbate) those around us. I may not always be good at my job, but I'm always there. Always.
And if something happened to me, most everyone would be okay. I don't minimize the loss, but there are always other friends, other lovers, other spouses even. But no matter how hard we try, nothing can ever replace a mother. Who else can suggest a nice rousing game of "Houdini" with the duct tape when boredom and misbehavior are at an all time high? Who else can tuck you in with a sweet whisper, "If you get out of bed again, I'll chop your legs off. I love you!" and you know that they are only half joking? Who else can appreciate just how hard it really was for you to make it to adulthood and not wind up locked away in a little cell for a very long time?
Sure, my kids may wind up on a therapist's chaise lounge someday because of me, but I want to BE there to let the therapist know that, no, I really didn't actually intend to use a hacksaw to remove their limbs and they damn well knew I was joking. And that that time I threatened to leave them in the wilderness with a compass, a canteen of water and the direction "South" as a homeschooling survival skills class was obviously just a bluff. And no, I never intended to actually stab anyone with a fork. It just so happened that I was, on occasion, grasping one maniacally during provocation - it could happen to anyone with a hearty appetite and a temper.
Really, I just want to be sure that they actually make it to that therapist's couch someday. And not because I WASN'T around to drive them to it. I may not ever win the Best-Mom-in-the-World award, but I at least want to cross the finish line, fork in hand, doing my best Cousteau impression. I may be an underachiever, but at least I'm an underachiever with flair.
"Give me your hand," I said into the dark where R's face changed color and shape with the rolling channels as the blue glow shifted across his skin. He complied, as he's been taught to do (ummm... yeah... just roll with me on this one). I placed his hand over the general vicinity of my heart and pressed his fingertips into my skin.
A second or two passed as he moved his fingers in a circular motion, saying nothing. "Do you feel it?" I whispered, and for the first time in the course of our relationship, I really, really hoped he would tell me no.
"The lump? Yes."
I uttered my favorite curse word, lingering on the vowel sound, stretching it out and ending it softly this time, the ending consonants barely clicking in my throat. Funny how in one situation the hard ending consonants resonate with a satisfying, anger-swelling gutteral crescendo and in another the emphasis can be repositioned, redefining it as something else entirely... a plea to the Gods, perhaps.
And then I lay there silently, as thought after thought ran willy nilly through my head: It can't be cancer - no one in my family has had any kind of cancer, let alone breast cancer. (Can you say "Denial?") But I banned hydrogenated oils back when it was still considered a left-wing hippie nutso thing to do. (I always seem to be ahead of the times with fashion, too...) But I nursed my young for almost as many years as I have fingers, which according to current breastfeeding statistics, reduces my breast cancer rate by about 60%. And seriously, who gets breast cancer without any appreciable breast tissue to speak of? (I mean, come on, I might be a full A-cup if I lay down... on my left side... and make sure they don't slip off into my arm pits...)
Exhausting the litany of ironies that surely prevent me, by default, from this most egregious of womanly fates, my brain jumped immediately from my breasts to the next logical thing. The children who are responsible for their current status as third-world entities on my body; no longer considered developed nations in their own right, these little bad babies have certainly suffered a severe downturn over the years. No pun intended. (Okay, well maybe just a little.)
And laying there, I had a minor epiphany. I may not be a terrific Mom. I know my kids have heard more than their fair share of robust, often colorful language, and often at decibel levels that will probably cost them a bit of their hearing down the road. I know that I do not always respond in the best, most loving way possible (as my bloody-mouthed, snaggle toothed Princess would probably attest to wholeheartedly). I know that I have probably spent in excess of 60% of my parenting days beating myself up for not handling something better than I did. But I've been there, full-on, ever present, battling, dueling, apologizing and embracing. We've had entire conversations a la Inspector Clouseau that would make Peter Sellers proud. We've earnestly sung "Joe's weenie" to the tune of Dolly Parton's "Jolene" on the way to the grocery store. We've turned our eyelids inside out at the dinner table to both impress and repulse (and often exacerbate) those around us. I may not always be good at my job, but I'm always there. Always.
And if something happened to me, most everyone would be okay. I don't minimize the loss, but there are always other friends, other lovers, other spouses even. But no matter how hard we try, nothing can ever replace a mother. Who else can suggest a nice rousing game of "Houdini" with the duct tape when boredom and misbehavior are at an all time high? Who else can tuck you in with a sweet whisper, "If you get out of bed again, I'll chop your legs off. I love you!" and you know that they are only half joking? Who else can appreciate just how hard it really was for you to make it to adulthood and not wind up locked away in a little cell for a very long time?
Sure, my kids may wind up on a therapist's chaise lounge someday because of me, but I want to BE there to let the therapist know that, no, I really didn't actually intend to use a hacksaw to remove their limbs and they damn well knew I was joking. And that that time I threatened to leave them in the wilderness with a compass, a canteen of water and the direction "South" as a homeschooling survival skills class was obviously just a bluff. And no, I never intended to actually stab anyone with a fork. It just so happened that I was, on occasion, grasping one maniacally during provocation - it could happen to anyone with a hearty appetite and a temper.
Really, I just want to be sure that they actually make it to that therapist's couch someday. And not because I WASN'T around to drive them to it. I may not ever win the Best-Mom-in-the-World award, but I at least want to cross the finish line, fork in hand, doing my best Cousteau impression. I may be an underachiever, but at least I'm an underachiever with flair.
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