TEN.

In the week during which the majority of my friends changed their Facebook profile pictures to the big red equal sign in support of same-sex marriage, my husband and I will celebrate a decade of our own marriage. As I scrolled through the sea of red tonight I couldn’t help but to think about marriage: my own, my parent’s, my friend’s, the hundreds of thousands of people out there who have been denied the right to marry the partner they have chosen.  I read a great article earlier today about parenting titled, “I quit.” And frankly, I wouldn’t be forthcoming if I didn’t tell you how often in my marriage those words crept into my head. Parenting is tough, indeed, but marriage is ridiculously hard work. Aside from being a mother, it’s the hardest thing I’ve ever done. And it’s not because the person I’m married to is some sort of tyrannical bastard. He’s pretty fucking awesome, if you didn’t already know.  It’s just that when you get married, you join up with someone and your life becomes their life and your stuff becomes their stuff. (Frankly, I should be the one apologizing to Steve, because getting my load of shit by way of marriage is kind of imbalanced and unfair to him, let’s be honest.)

I digress. It just seems to me that if you love someone enough to be ok with taking on their family, and their weird issues (like how much they might like shoe shopping, or how they might not really like cleaning as much as they seemed to before you got married, or how much they really, really like a certain really not-so-awesome sci-fi TV show, or how much they might like pro-wrestling…it’s real, I get it) then maybe we should just shut the fuck up and let them marry each other already.  I know enough stupid heterosexuals who are out there ruining their own marriages that it makes me want to cry out for my gay friends who just want to have their relationships recognized as real and meaningful – and most importantly, LEGAL. I used to think it was the white people who made everything challenging and ridiculous in this world. Now I’m starting to think it’s us straight married people.

It seems to me that the root of this stupid marriage debate is people getting real. Who are we to say we have things figured out? Who is bold enough to say that they have all the answers? If you say you do, you are lying. You don’t. It’s the people who are bigoted and frankly just scared who will tell you that marriage is only for a man and a woman. You know what I think? Marriage is for anyone who is brave enough to take another person, warts and all, and make them part of their own heart. I know I’m no sparkling gem. And my husband, while he’s pretty fucking awesome, is also pretty annoying sometimes. By law, I get to take him or leave him. Ten years ago I took him. And I would continue to choose him over and over again. I just want the same for my gay friends. Farting and all, they should be able to have a legal relationship with whatever dummy they choose. 

the day before the day

Tomorrow is the first day of school for my girls. Zoe will be starting kindergarten and Lucy will be a second grader. I could do the “where has the time gone?!” rant (which I’m doing internally, of course) or, I could share with you what happened at bedtime tonight. We try to read with the girls every night. Most nights we are pretty good about it, and tonight we read three books.  Three! (it's been a crazy week, three seems pretty astounding)  During A Bargain for Francis, Lucy leaned over and said, “man, that Thelma is rude.” I love that kid – she said exactly what I was thinking, only was way nicer about it. And then we read The Giving Tree.  I’ve read that book a ton of times and yet suddenly tonight I had some sort of epiphany about it. Perhaps I’m late to this party and you’re all like, “really? You’re JUST NOW getting that?” but I realized tonight that the tree is metaphor for parents.

I know.

I got all teary while reading because it occurred to me that this is my job. This letting go.  I raise my children to the point where I have to let someone else educate them as well. I must let them go in order for them to come back. It’s silly really, and I suppose I’m being a little over the top here.  But, as my girls head back for another year of school – the first where they are BOTH in grade school – I can’t help but to know how that tree feels. I’ve given my body to house theirs, my sleep to nurse them, my sanity to mother two children under two years apart. And in turn, they keep coming back for more. I want money. I want a house. I want a boat to go away from you. Someday, I know that they won’t want as much time with me, just like the boy and the tree – that they will have their own friends and need their own space. I see some of that happening already and it nearly takes my breath away. No houses or boats yet, but it’s all the same, really.

Tonight as I watched those two little sweet peas sleeping I could only think about how once I thought I might not make it through long, sleepless nights with them. Tonight I thought about how those little people are heading out into the world tomorrow. I like to think that even at five and seven they are pretty amazing and funny and smart and ready for whatever tomorrow holds. That, or they will teach their fellow students all about zombies and the Lord of the Rings and everyone will like them for that.  Either way, I think they are safe…it’s me I’m worried about. 

valentimes

I spent yesterday wondering how or what I could have written differently in my last blog post. It bothered me that I set off such a firestorm of comments and I felt like I hadn’t conveyed my message in the right way. Even though I enjoy making people think and talk, I never intend my words to offend or upset people beyond that. That was yesterday...sleep offered up perspective and today my children are running around in their underwear (inside, of course, they've made a beach in my living room) enjoying the first snow day of the season. I’m done wondering what I could have done differently yesterday because, in the end, it doesn’t really matter.

Today I’ve been thinking about Valentine’s Day and how much emphasis people place upon it.  It’s always been ridiculous to me, even before I married the guy who earns his livelihood in the greeting card business.  I think about Valentine’s Days past, where we would transform shoeboxes into mailboxes with tissue and glitter and stickers, and we would wait for children to place notes inside.  Later, in high school, I remember watching who would have a carnation delivered during 3^rd hour. It was always, in both cases, a popularity contest disguised as something different. I’ve never seen the point in using one day a year to profess your love to someone.  At least I’ve never understood being strong-armed into buying flowers or chocolates or even (yep, I’m going to say it) cards – none of which will last very long.

I’m terrible at showing my love for my husband in appropriate ways. I’m certain he will be the first to agree with me on this. I like to laugh and to poke fun and I rarely tell him in so many words how happy he has made me over the years.  A lot has changed since Steve and I met and in the 11 years since.  The past year or so has been particularly challenging for me. I’m not wholly certain why, but I know I’ve not been the best spouse, or even a very good friend at times.  And I continue to assume that he knows how I feel, even though I often do a shitty job of showing it.  It’s not fair to him, really.  I said last week that anyone who professes love over and over again on the internet is probably lying. I’m not going to do that here for a lot of reasons: mostly because I can hardly do it to his face without turning it into a joke of some kind. That’s just how we do things around here. I will say that it’s never, ever been a popularity contest for us. And I thank my stars for that.

worry wart

Today began quietly.  Like any other day, really, until I went to wake Lucy up and she rolled over and said to me, “I don’t think I can do this.”  It progressively got worse, highlighted with my carrying her upstairs to brush her teeth (she refused) and holding her while she bawled and shook, saying over and over again that she “just didn’t feel well and couldn’t possibly go to school.”  This is how many of our days have started lately, and it’s hard for me to write about it because it’s so raw right now, but I feel like I have to.  I’ve written before about Lucy and her anxiety, but somehow at six years old, she’s found new and different things that trigger it, and we are yet again searching for answers to this situation.

When she finally got out the door this morning (and before the two subsequent phone calls from her teacher and the nurse, each saying she was fine but needed to talk to me…and each supporting Lucy to the best of their abilities) I sat and cried.  I cried because it’s the week before Christmas and my six-year-old daughter is miserable – not just miserable but just plain sad.  I cried because I somehow feel responsible for her emotions, even though I know deep down that I have very little control there.  I cried because I knew I’d have to finally break down and call our pediatrician and try to explain to him what in the world was going on.  Has been going on.  And finally, I cried because my sweet baby girl is six. Six years old.  Way too young to have these feelings, right?

I’m not going to pretend that I know anything about depression or anxiety in the clinical sense of those terms.  I only know that I was a very anxious child.  I pushed so many of those memories back into the recesses of my brain – back where I’d never have to pull them out again…until this week.  I was a worrier, I worried myself into barfing, I was homesick even with my parents right down the street.  I put my parents through hell, and now I guess I’m getting paid back. I would, however, like to state for the record that if payback is a bitch, I get it and I’d like this to stop.  I understand but this is enough. 

The thing is, I’m trying to toe the line between giving Lucy the acknowledgement that she needs to know her feelings are valid and real and telling her she’s being silly.  The one memory I have of being that scared, anxious kid was feeling like I was at fault for feeling those things, and when I couldn’t control them, how could I possibly be to blame for them? What a lonely thing for a little girl to feel.  I remember that clearly, and I’m trying to show Lucy that her feelings matter while also trying to figure out how to get her beyond them.  We met with our pediatrician, are meeting with the school counselor and are also meeting with a behavioral psychiatrist as soon as they can get her in. 

Why am I telling this story? Simply because I want people to know that it’s not unheard of for young kids to have these issues – they are real and need to be taken seriously.  I realize that one day Lucy might look back and be mortified that her mother gave away her secrets – sold her out for a blog post – but instead I hope she knows it’s just because I love her and have to write in order to sort out my own feelings about this.  Oh, sweet, sweet Lucy B…one day I hope we can look back and laugh at this day.

I (still) do.

Today I made myself sit down and write about all the things that I’ve not let myself say in the past few months.  I knew this past weekend, on the eve of this 10^th anniversary of 9/11, that something was wrong with me.  I was entirely more concerned about the state of my family than I was about what that terrible day would bring.  I’m just going to say this: marriage is hard.  Of all the things I wish I had known before I entered into my own marriage – I wish someone had said, “Kate, one day you will wake up and you will find you have lost important connections with the person laying next to you.”  This is not a post about my marriage unraveling.  It’s not – and I assure you that, God forbid that ever happens, I will not be writing about it on my blog.  It’s a post to say, I get it now. I understand that no one tells you those things because if they did, no one would get married. Sort of like if people told you the truth about childbirth, there would be way less children in this world. 

I get it.  Lately, though, I’ve been thinking about marriage.  My own, my parents’, Steve’s parents, the upcoming nuptials of a friend, that of a good friend who is living here in KC while her husband is working in another city for a few months.  And I just need to put it out there that this life that Steve and I have created is the hardest job I’ve ever had.  Recently, I started back teaching after a summer off, I also started grad school, and Steve is still working full time as well as teaching two nights a week at the KC Art Institute.  We also have a home we try to maintain, two young children, a dog…you get the picture. We hardly see each other, and lately we’ve not been very good at making all of the pieces fit in this difficult daily puzzle of our lives.  It’s like you think everything is running smoothly, or at least is at status quo, until reality tells you differently. 

One of the reasons I fell in love with Steve is that, while it might not happen all that often, he has the ability put it all out on the table and let you know how he feels.  I suck at that.  I will bottle up how I feel and get resentful and mean and ugly until I finally blow up.  It’s not a healthy way to live – and it’s not a healthy way to have a relationship.  I’m also really lazy. I’m not going to lie, I am super, super, way lazy – I would rather sit on my ass or keep to myself than do the hard work – including relationship work.  It’s hard to find time to compliment my husband – even if I DO love him and I DO appreciate him, finding times to tell him that is not my strong point.  It goes both ways, for sure, but at the end of the day when people have NEEDED stuff from me all day long, the last thing I think about doing is laying on the compliments.  I would much rather lay on the couch.

I'll also say selfishly that I pretty much hate keeping this house together while other people get to reap the benefits of being with my family - the babysitters, the teachers, the people my husband works with.  I feel like for all the driving, cooking, cleaning, laundry, general problem solving I do, I should get to enjoy the reward of being with my family, but right now, in this time - that just isn't happening.  Instead, other people get to enjoy the energy of my kids and my husband while at the end of each day, my kids are either already in bed when I get home from school, or Steve and I get to do the catch up game instead of really enjoying each other's company.  I hate that other people are getting the best of us, but I digress.

My point is that I’m trying to hold myself more accountable for doing the hard work.   I’m putting out there that I know my married friends are doing the same hard work that we are doing here and I respect you all immensely for it.  I’m not saying that there aren’t amazing things about my marriage – I love the life we have made with each other and with our children.  We started a relationship built upon laughter and we continue to do a lot of that – we are raising two amazing, hilarious little girls, and I think all things considered we do a pretty great job of it.  I also know that the rat race we are in right now is temporary and one day I'm sure I'll miss the hustle and bustle (to an extent!)  I just feel like people don’t like to talk about this and it’s been bothering me. So there. I said it for you.  You’re welcome.  Also, I should probably apologize for throwing my husband under the bus in order to prove my point.  So…I’m sorry, Steve.  See ya tomorrow!

these are a few of my favorite things...

Lately, I’ve had quite a time with anxiety and just feeling down. It’s not something debilitating.  In fact, it’s not even something that I was going to mention.  But today I went to visit my doctor and he made me feel so much better about my health in general that I decided to start writing down all of the things that make me happy.  Once I started thinking of things, I honestly couldn’t stop – what a great exercise, really.  I started by posting them as my Facebook status today, and when the responses from people started to make me laugh, or sigh, or just remember WHY I have such great friends, I just wanted to write more about it.

It’s really the little things, I guess.  I was talking with my Aunt Karen yesterday about how we are always looking for the next big thing to come along. How, even when we have amazing moments (the example we both thought about was sitting on the beach recently) we were still thinking about the next better thing that might happen.  I guess it’s just our American way to think about stuff like this.  So I started focusing about all the little things that I see or hear or smell each day that make me happy.  Things I often look over with the hope that bigger things might be on the horizon. 

I started a list.  I will continue to add to it – it’s simply something to remind me that there is happy all around me. I just need to look more closely…

The smell of sunscreen. Swimming at night.  A great glass of wine.  A snuggly blanket and a good book.  Scoring a new, bestseller at the library before anyone else.  Bright red nail polish.  Ludacris (please don’t ask me why he makes me smile every time I hear him!) Thunderstorms.  Seashells.  Clean sheets.  Getting dressed up for a night out.  Fancy heels.  Finding the perfect swimsuit.  Doritos.  Cheetos.  Long talks on the phone with friends. Long talks anywhere with friends.  Fart jokes.  I stole this one from my cousin Amanda: the phrase, “to the window! To the wall!” – makes me laugh every time.  Bacon.  Hot air balloons.  My writing project friends.  Preschoolers.  Old school R&B music. Full bookshelves.  The Jersey Shore (what?!) Cinnamon toast.  Coffee with real cream.  Black dogs.  Hats, in general.  Bridges – but not being under them, only going across them, I don’t know why.  Bow ties.  Naked baby butts.  Reading out loud to an attentive audience.  Boat rides.  My sister.  Singing out loud – REALLY loudly.  Road trips.  New blue jeans.  Fireflies.

I just realized that I could probably go on with this until I bored each of you to death.  It’s not my intention to do that and I plan to continue with this “project” of sorts.  I hope it inspires you as well. Also? Sadly, maybe? When I check my Google analytics and see that people are actually reading this stuff? That makes me happy, too. Thanks a bunch.

36

This week I had a birthday.  Normally, birthdays sort of bother me.  I spend a lot of time thinking about particular birthdays of the past: the one, at 16, where I hung out in a car until midnight with my sweet friend Amy so we could celebrate our birthdays together (hers is June 12).  The birthday I spent crying about the boy who had broken up with me earlier that day…and that was the one where I was skinny and hot, but also? Who does that? Shame on him. My 21^st, where I wore a shiny gold dress to a club called The Edge and danced in a cage and then fell down half a flight of stairs – drunk on Midori sours…seriously.  The thought makes me simultaneously laugh and throw up in my mouth a little bit.  The one right after I had Lucy where I drank half a beer and thought I would die – I was 30 and remember thinking about how people did BIG things for 30^th birthdays.  That day I mostly felt like a giant boob. My point is that, at 36, I’ve decided to not ever be bothered with that trivial stuff anymore.  I’ve decided this is the year I will take back June 11^th. 

This year has been one of the best years of my life.  Honestly.  I’m not sure if it’s because I’m really happy with my work – I’ve found a happy place in teaching – or if it’s because my children are old enough now that I can stand back a bit and relax and enjoy them more?  I’m not sure.  I don’t know if it’s because I’ve finally decided that this extra 20 pounds is really not that big of a deal.  I just feel like each year gets a little bit better for me, and that all the stuff I worried about when I could fit into that shiny gold dress doesn’t matter at all anymore.  Sure, I’m not that skinny and cute, but I’m also not that skanky and stupid.

I’m hoping that my 36^th year will include more traveling and less whining.  More eating delicious food and drinking really good wine, and less worrying about where those calories are heading.  More time spent with family living far away and less time crying about that family not living in Kansas City anymore.  My 36^th year will be about FINALLY getting started on my masters and not letting the excuse of kids, money or time get in my way.  It’s not a new epiphany…it’s just about finally getting off my own back.  Women are way too hard on themselves and I’m finally seeing some of that.  This year will be about loving myself more and criticizing myself less.  I hope that some of you will hold me to it.

reflecting.

Last year during my annual review and conference with my bosses, I walked in and cried.  Literally, I walked in the door, sat down and started bawling.  I was pissed, and hurt, and frankly, done with teaching.  Honestly, I felt like I had sacrificed an entire year of teaching for nothing – and it had sucked.  I didn’t expect to cry.  I really didn’t even know what I was going to say.  Maybe, “I quit”?  I’m so glad I didn’t.

Last summer, as everyone knows, because I talk about it any chance I get, I was a fellow in the Greater Kansas City Writing Project’s summer institute.  It was, quite literally, what saved me as a teacher.  I left the SI and went back to the preschool classroom determined to give early childhood education one more chance.  I was determined to harness all the creativity and the strength and the validation I got from the GKCWP summer institute and put it to good use in my classroom. 

I am telling this story because I just sat down last night to fill out my self-evaluation for this year’s annual review.  I’m happy to say that there will be no tears at this review…at least sad ones.  This year has been amazing.  And, I teach preschool…I have stories upon stories of things that have happened this year that weren’t amazing, but those stories are nothing in light of all of the good things that happened in my class this year.

Last summer’s self-reflection taught me that I owe it to everyone to stand back and let children learn without my guiding every single moment.  I’ll add my own little caveat here: I don’t do this as often as I should in my own home.  I don’t know if it’s because I have control issues with my own kids, or if sometimes, at the end of a long day with other people’s children, I just need things to go my way?  I’m not certain. But I will say that the Dinosaur kids have had some pretty amazing experiences this year.  I’m guessing most parents will rank field trips and special visitors as the top “amazing experiences” but I’d like to tell you what I think was amazing, if I may…so here’s a list, in no particular order:

We created jobs and each chose one daily.  We made a “helpfulness board” and our “kindness catcher” watched for kind acts that we documented and posted on our bulletin board.  We baked and cooked and ate lots of new and different foods. We were the authors and illustrators of our OWN stories – and we know what the authors and an illustrators actually do (!!!!)  We grew vegetables and plants and flowers.  We hatched chicks. Out of eggs!  We watched caterpillars turn into chrysalis and then butterflies and we set them free. We learned how to have gentle hands and also how to tell our friends about our feelings.  We learned when we need some “safe” time…if only everyone would recognize when they need those moments!  We painted with all sorts of different mediums.  We wrote in journals, we drew with crayons, pencils and markers.  We scooped and shoveled, and dug and sorted and counted and patterned.  We passed out lunches to each other.  We learned to sit in a circle and listen to a story together and how to guess what the story might be about and even what might happen next.  We were really LOUD some days, and other days we needed things to be quiet. We taught a teacher, who was thinking this might not be her calling, to hang in there and to absolutely LOVE what she does.

I’m not certain what the future holds for me, but this class of kids has encouraged me to be my best: every. single. day. And not maybe the best I could be, but at least the best I could be for that day, for that child.  And, really? Isn’t that what early childhood education is all about?

signs, signs, everywhere signs...

I have written before about my weird cardinal sightings.  As in, they are everywhere I go.  After my grandparents Bloom passed away, I began to think that the cardinals were sent as a sign from them – you know, just reminding me that they still had an eye on me.  I know, you might think I’m nuts. It’s fine.  I know the cardinal’s song so well that when I hear it, my eyes start searching for where the bird is perched.  A few weeks ago, during a particularly bad day with Lucy, I thought to myself, “I wish I had some sign that I’m not alone or that things will be ok,” and I didn’t even get that thought fully out before the most beautiful male cardinal flew over and sat right in front of my car.  A few seconds later, the female joined him.  I love moments like that, even if it was pure coincidence, it reminds me that there is more out there – more beyond the human eye – and I fully believe that people who have passed on have a role in those moments. 

Like, the time in Boston when my cousin Karleton’s widow and his son were at a park on a day not long after Karleton’s death (if memory serves it was Karleton’s birthday or an anniversary?) and his son Jackson found a UNC hat at the park that day.  Karleton graduated from UNC and then lived in Boston. What are the odds of that happening randomly? 

The day of my Grandpa Bloom’s funeral, my sister and I went to Loose Park in Kansas City to spend some time together.  We had plans to fly to New York the week after that, and as my grandfather died very suddenly, we decided to keep our original plan and to spend time with my Gram after everyone else had gone home.  So, that day at the park, instead of attending his funeral, we fed the geese.  My grandpa was an artist and loved to draw geese and ducks – and he had a song about being kind to ducks that we loved to sing with him.  While we were feeding the geese, a white duck came barreling across the pond at us and shot up out of the water to stand literally about three feet from the two of us.  He raised his wings up over his head and did a little dance for us and then went right back into the water.  Lisen and I stood there completely silent.  There were no other ducks around – just this one, and it was pure white.  A few days later, I went back to the park to try to find the white duck and it was nowhere to be found.   I still keep one of his feathers that dropped during his dance in a little box in my bedside table.

The other night, my Aunt Karen called with a story about a lost earring.  She told me she had to call me because she knew I would understand.  Apparently, she took a shirt off a few weeks ago and with it came off an earring that she loved.  She had searched high and low with no luck, until her eldest daughter put on a sweatshirt and out fell the earring.  My aunt had never worn that sweatshirt.  That happened right after a particularly difficult weekend for my aunt and her family.  She and I both laughed about how my grandfather had made it happen so she’d know he was watching out for her.

I know people might think I’m reaching a little bit.  That’s fine.  I guess I just think if more of us really watched what happens around us – really paid attention to the things we just can’t seem to explain – more people would believe in something beyond ourselves.  I don’t mean spiritually beyond ourselves, I just mean that I see things all the time that I can’t quite explain – and I like to think that someone out there, or up there, has sent me a little sign.  And, coincidentally or not, they often come when I most need them.

*PS: It’s been a long time since I’ve given myself time to write.  There is no better time than getting some sort of mystery flu/cold to lie around and write, right?  I would like to say thank you. Thank you to all of you who commented about Lucy – people I’ve never even met wrote some of the sweetest words to me, and my sweet Pa had some great words of advice and reminders about my own childhood.   I really, truly thank you.  Lucy has had a really, really good past week or two – she’s still not eating at school, but she’s not so terribly sad and anxious anymore, and honestly, we are so glad to have our funny kid back that we are willing to believe the rest will work out eventually.

recently

I haven’t written about anything very personal in a while. Mostly, because in the past few months, Steve and I have been preoccupied, dealing with our eldest kiddo having some sort of bizarre anxiety. It’s sort of like how I imagine potty training a rabid, ferocious bear might be. I don’t want to talk too much about the details, but it has to do with food. We think she might have some sort of post-traumatic stress brought on by a stomach bug she got right around Christmas. Seriously, she’s not been herself since then, and it’s the best explanation we’ve come up with so far. Our pediatrician has chalked it up to a “phase” and this week (after two months of this “phase”) he was subsequently fired. A “phase” doesn’t last months and drive parents to cry and to drink excessively.

I don’t know a lot about anxiety, but I’m learning. I know when I was a little girl I would worry myself until I barfed. A lot. Over the past few weeks, I’ve looked back on that time and wondered what in the world my parents did to get through it. Now, as an adult, I worry a lot about things I can’t control. A lot. I hoped beyond hope for years that I wouldn’t pass that stupid trait along to my kids. And, guess what? Looks like I’ve done just that. The hard thing, aside from feeling like we’re all on a roller coaster without any brakes, is that I wonder what in the world my sweet girl will be like at age 10. Or 15. Or even in her mid-30s. How can I give her the tools to work through this, when, now, she really doesn’t even know how to express what is going on in her head? It’s painful. And I know if it’s painful for us, it has to be excruciating for her.

As a parent, all you ever want is for your child to be happy and healthy. In the past few months, my child has been about half of both those things. She’s not totally happy OR healthy and it’s quite frankly fucking terrible. I have no better words to describe it. It’s awful to try to find words to give her, but not to put words into her mouth. To try to explain to her what she’s dealing with, without over-explaining and confusing her. To try to make sense out of something that is completely senseless to me. It’s kept me up at night and has challenged me to my core. I told my sister the other day that I felt like a black cloud was following me. And here’s the thing: I know in my heart and in my head that people are going through WAY worse stuff than this. Way. I know this. But I also believe it’s one thing when your child is sick with something that can be pinpointed and treated, and something much different to wonder and question what is actually going on with a child who has up until recently been happy and healthy and is now struggling just to put a smile on her face.

I don’t know why I decided finally to write about this. Maybe because I just want people to know that kids really do have issues like this. Kids who are not yet able to explain what is going on in their heads. Kids who are not going through a “phase”. Also, because I’ve felt very alone while dealing with this, and I want others to know they aren’t alone, because this sucks. I don’t know what the solution is – we’ve enlisted the help of a few highly recommended professionals and hope that will help, but, really, all we can do is believe we are on the right path and believe that one day we’ll have a happy, healthy kid again. I’ll just say that I don’t know if I’ve never wanted anything so much in my life.

shhhhhhhhh...baby growing

Dear Jackson,

Jax. Little Buddy. Nubbins. Sweet tiny little butter bean.  Someday when you are big and strong and you can wrestle with your cousins (they are waiting patiently) I will tell you the story of visiting you in your tiny incubated baby grower.  Of the time I walked in, not knowing either how tiny your sweet body would be – all 2 pounds and 10 ounces of it – or how much I would love you.  An underdog? Only by defining your situation, certainly not by your stellar performance in the NICU so far.  Ounce by ounce, you will grow stronger, even though turning your tiny head from one side to the other while lying on your belly this week was more than impressive already.

Seeing you hooked up to all those monitors and wires and watching you receive a blood transfusion the other night was nothing like I ever imagined. Not only was I blown away at what the human body, particularly your tiny body, is capable of doing, I was also amazed at the nurses watching over you.  A NICU nurse might as well be a saint in my book to maintain a cool disposition when your tiny body forgets to breathe, as you often do (your brain isn’t mature enough to give that signal to your lungs every time…not just yet). 

Your mom and dad are learning so much, and they need reminders to take care of themselves and of each other so that they can be strong for you.  I can only imagine what this time is like for your mommy, who is not only dealing with the emotional tornado of new motherhood, but also doing it while not even being able to hold you whenever she wants.  I believe, for most people anyway, once someone becomes a mother – however they become a mother – the instinct and the fierce need to protect your child never quite goes away.  Not at age five or at 15 or even at 40, but especially not at two weeks.  There is no honeymoon period for the parents of preemie babies – that time when all you can think about is how amazing your child is – that time before the excessive worry kicks in. The worry for you has been there from the moment you were born.  Your mom has always had a heart as big and as wide as they come, but now she knows what it’s like to make a deal with the heavens, to offer up her own health just to keep you safe.  Motherhood is both a blessing and a curse – once she knows that feeling, she can never go back to the Kelley she was before you came along.  Your daddy, while he keeps strong for your mommy, has been changed already by what it is to be a dad.  You, sir, have been born into a long line of wonderful, caring and funny Willaredt boys – your daddy will teach you well and I know one day we will comment on how wonderfully you fit into that line.

I hated leaving yesterday because I can’t stand being so far away from you or your parents.  I want you to meet your Uncle Steve and your cousins, sure, but more than that, I wish you were closer so we could be more of a support – not just by phone or text or email.  I want to hate San Francisco for taking you so far away from us, but the truth is that I loved the city where you were born and I know we’ll be making visits there as often as we can.  We’ll make it work, and soon you will know all of your crazy relatives, people who would literally lay down their lives for you.  I’ve never met a bunch like them and wouldn’t trade them for the world. You, my little Pea, are a very lucky boy.

Love,

Aunt Kate

I'm taking my heart...

I just looked at this blog and realized I’d not posted anything in exactly one month. How did that happen? I mean, I pretty much know the answer – I’ve been busy and a bit lazy, and frankly – mostly – in a weather and winter related funk. But, a whole month? Even for me, that’s a lot of time to go without writing. And still, I don’t have much to share, but I wanted to say this – hug your family. Tell them you appreciate them and that you love them. In the past 24 hours, enough stuff has happened to make me appreciate the family I have close by, and to make me crazy wishing that the family who is across the country was closer. That’s all. I am serious when I say that this month has pretty much sucked. This winter in general has pretty much stunk it up. I’m ready for warmer weather and I’m ready to not feel like a cloud is following me around. I know. I KNOW. I’m way overdramatic and I have a lot to be thankful for. More to be thankful for than to be bitching about, but this is my blog so I get to choose how much I bitch on here.

I am taking a trip to San Francisco next week to see my sister in law. I never in a bazillion years thought I would miss my sister and my friend so much. I hope when I get home that I have plenty to write about and share on here – good news of travel and of warmer weather and of good friends sharing laughs without peeing their pants or accidentally pushing a baby out.

again.

I wanted so badly to write about this upcoming anniversary.  I am stunned, in a way, that it has been nine years.  In other ways it seems like it has been nine times nine years.  I sat down here tonight to get my feelings out about all of the hate and ignorance that I have been reading about in the news in the past few weeks: Koran burnings, mosque protests…just general ridiculousness.  But the truth is, that stuff makes me tired and angry and really, what good does that do for me, or for anyone?  My opinions of current events aside, I would like to think that Americans are smarter somehow, or better than they have shown the world this week.  I don’t know why I expect that anymore, I just do.  I feel like we should set a better example, that somehow we should be able to come together for the sake of goodness. I am so wrong. It embarrasses me, really.

 I am finding that I can’t write about September 11, 2001.  I just can’t put into words what that day was like for me or for my family – I wouldn’t dare begin to explain that.  I would just hope that you would all spend a little time with your family this Saturday.  I wish that you would take a moment or two to tell your family that you love them and that you appreciate them.  Tell your children you love them.  Call your father.  Your mother.  Your grandmother.  Yes, even your in-laws.  This is what I wish people would do to mark these anniversaries:  instead of rehashing the past and watching streaming video of the terrible events of nine years ago – pick up the phone and call someone in your family.  Take a few moments to think about what you would say to those people if it was the last time you could say anything to them. 

Dear Lucy,

It’s okay to be nervous.  You wouldn’t have been sprung from this body without inheriting that gene.  Go ahead and worry, but please, not so much.  I always thought that the one thing I never wanted my children to get from me was the worrying…the constant worrying.  And look at what I produced: a five-year-old who carries the weight of this world on her tiny shoulders.  It’s enough to make a mother cry, but a mother who has taken you to kindergarten one day and then pulled you out that afternoon to start at another one?  Well, my dear…one day I know you will hardly remember this time, but it seems so very important right now.  I spend nights fretting about you.  You seem to understand so much.  You always have.  But mostly, I worry that you’ll one day do what I’m doing and have sleepless nights about things that, in the end, are really not that serious.  We’re pretty lucky, you and I.  We have a lot of nice things and we have great family on all sides who somehow love us unconditionally…but I know sometimes it’s hard to focus on that. 

I guess these are just the challenges that moms and dads face: not ever really knowing for certain what the right thing is for their children.  I have friends with kids headed to college who say this never really changes.  Maybe it’s because I’m hyper-sensitive about mom stuff.  Maybe it’s because I see so much of myself in you.  Maybe this is just how it is.  I’m not sure.  I do know this: you are smart and funny and sweet and loving and you have a sense about people that I didn’t have until I was well on my way to adulthood.  You will be fine in whatever situation is handed you…I just know it.  You are going to be amazing in school.  You have the curiosity of your daddy mixed with my need to KNOW everything.  You are artistic and you are crafty and you know how to get along in nearly every social situation.  You can do this – even if right now you don’t know French and it’s confusing and even I question if it’s the right thing (and yes, one day you’ll see this, but right now I can’t let on that I wonder these things!). 

Soon you will be (as a friend told me today) parlaying the Français with no problems.  Until then, I’m going to stay up with you at night when you call me in to tell me about your worries.  I know how it feels to need someone to do that.  I love you so much little Peaches.

for lucy bloom, on the fifth anniversary of her first day

Every year on my birthday, for as long as I can remember, my mother would say to me, “I sure am glad it isn’t (X number) of years ago today!”  I used to laugh at her, not fully understanding her labor joke. And then I had my own children.  My eldest daughter turned five today, and each birthday, for each of my girls, I’ve sat with them and reminded them how lucky I am to have them as my daughters, and that every day reminds me how happy I am that I had them.  I thought a lot about this today, and also about all the things I’ve learned in the past five years.  

We were sent home from the hospital with Lucy after spending two extra days there due to her severe jaundice from her fairly awful delivery.  I remember spending the first night at home in our living room because Lucy was wrapped in a “bilirubin” blanket – which was light therapy for her jaundice.  The blanket needed a three-pronged plug and our old house only had the outlets with three prongs downstairs.  We were so tired that it never occurred to us to use an adapter and bring baby Lucy upstairs with us.  At one point during those first days, Steve looked at me and said, (and I quote) “if this is how it’s going to be, we’re going to DIE.”  The good news is that we didn’t die.  The bad news is that having Lucy, and then her sister Zoe opened up an entire floodgate of other stress-inducing stuff for us.

Being pregnant with Lucy taught me to see my body in a whole different light.  I had always beaten myself up for weight gain or changes in my body.  When I was pregnant with her, it was the first time in my life that someone told me it was actually good to gain weight.  That’s what you’re supposed to do! What a change – and such a hard thing to grasp when you've spent your entire life trying to lose it.  More recently, I’ve become more conscious of the things I say about my body.  Complaints of “I’m fat” or “I shouldn’t have eaten that” are kept to myself or sometimes lost altogether, in an attempt to have my girls grow up without body image issues – at least until much, much later in their lives.

Five years ago today, I gave birth to a tiny human being.  I will spare you the details (you’re welcome) but suffice it to say that I was amazed and astounded at what I did.  I made a person (with some help, thanks Steve).  And she came out of my body.  I did that…and it still sort amazes me, even five years later.  Someone once said that having a child was like taking your heart out and letting it walk around outside of your body.  I’m certain I’m misquoting it terribly, but that is what having Lucy (and later, her sister Zoe) did for me.  I watch that child throughout the day and every little thing she does gives me an emotion I didn’t know existed until she came along.  I get angry when she’s had her feelings hurt, I get sad when she has a hard time at school, I get embarrassed for her when she tells jokes and kids don’t get her silly, wonderful sense of humor. 

Mostly, though, I have learned from Lucy and her sister what it means to love unconditionally.  Amy Tan wrote, in The Joy Luck Club, “I love my daughter. She and I have shared the same body. There is a part of her mind that is a part of mine. But when she was born, she sprang from me like a slippery fish, and has been swimming away ever since.” Happy birthday, little fish.

yo' mama

It’s no secret that my relationship with my mother is rocky at best.  I don’t want to talk about her, but this week I’ve been thinking a lot about being a mom.  I would like to preface this by saying this post is not about anyone in particular.  If you would like to get offended by what I say here, go ahead, but it won’t be because I was talking about YOU.  Whomever you are.

First I would like to say that I think mother’s day is a sham.  I mean, I’m a mother every single day out of the year and I don’t need one silly day for people to kiss my ass. How come people don’t feel like that stuff is important on other days? I will not say who I think came up with mother’s day, because it has offended my husband, but I just think the entire day is ridiculous. I find it offensive that there is only one day out of the year that we call our moms and say thank you. Shouldn’t that happen more often? I mean, really.

So, this mother’s day, my husband told me I could do whatever I wanted to do. I chose to go shopping all by myself.  Any of you with children know what a special gift that is.  I even went to the grocery store ALL by myself – no little hands putting extra things in the basket, no one throwing her body on the floor because I chose the wrong kind of fruit snacks.  It was a little piece of heaven – and yet, most of this week I’ve gotten the stink eye from other moms when I tell them about my day.  I don’t really know why it’s caused such reaction, but maybe I should say that it’s the one upside of having a shitty mother – I don’t have an obligation to spend time with her one Sunday in May.  The downside? I don’t have a mother. Want to trade?

Here’s the thing about myself as a mother: I believe the only thing that matters is that my children are healthy and happy and mostly well behaved.  I didn’t have children to fulfill some empty place in my life – frankly, I had kids so I could see who they’d look like – me or Steve.  I wanted children because I love my husband so much that I wanted to make a human being with him, not because I needed something to do with my time.  My children are my soul, but they do not define ME.  Inside, I am still the same person I was before I had them – and I still need time to myself.  Actually, I covet time to myself.  And while the quantity of that time is wayyyyyyyy less than it was before the girls came along, it is still very important to my mental state and I make time for me every week.  I MUST, or I will lose my mind.

I don’t know how my children will look at me when we are all older – will they remember playing Candyland and laughing at old MGM cartoons until we thought we might wet our pants? Will they remember that I read Goodnight Moon every single night of their lives thus far? Or will they remember me as that lady who never cleaned her bedroom until their daddy threw a fit, and who sometimes made breakfast for dinner because she was just too damn lazy to do anything more?  I don’t know. But I do know this: my own mother did all the things that moms were “supposed” to do back in the day, she stayed home with us, made all the meals, did all the laundry, served on the PTA and the church committees. Where did it get her? She was miserable and still is, and we don’t have a relationship at all.  Clearly, I don’t know what particular qualities make a good mother. I only know how to be me, and I know that sometimes “me” doesn’t quite fit the traditional mold.  If I teach my girls anything, I hope they learn that they don’t have to fit into any particular category, and that just being who they are is always better than forsaking themselves to fit in.

This week on CBS Sunday Morning, they aired a great piece on the writer Erma Bombeck.   I remember my grandmother having her books, but I wanted to know more about her so I did some digging.  While she raised her children and wrote about those trials in a much different time, much of what she wrote hit close to home for me.  Especially these words about a different kind of mother: “She wanted children too, but for another reason.  They fulfilled a strong desire to love, raise, and leave as a legacy another human being. But they didn’t fulfill her ambitions, her struggle for individuality, or her need to make a contribution to this life, no matter how small.”  I wish more moms would think about these words and spend less time catering to other people and more time worrying about themselves. What a place that would be – a different world for ourselves and for our children.

a story

My story is still incomplete. A work in progress, if you will…but it is comprised of many, many moments that make me…well, me.  The days of my youth were spent trying to figure out who the “me” was.  I honestly, truly believe – without a doubt – that I only just started to know the answers. 

When I look back I remember deep orange shag carpet in the living room, replaced years later by pale blue.  When we arrived home from school, there would be lines in the carpet from the vacuum.  Today, I firmly believe that my mom would sit around ALL day long and just vacuum right before we walked in so that it looked like she’d done something while we were gone.  I remember a white Easter dress with a yellow blazer, a hand me down from my cousin Amanda, whom I didn’t really know until we were much older and we found out how much alike we are.  That dress came with a bright yellow hat and when I wore the outfit, I thought I was a star.

I remember sitting in the “waiting” room at Betty Tillotson’s school of dance while we watched my big sister’s dance class.  I wanted nothing more than to strap on her tap shoes and run out there…I bet I was no more than three.  Later, I danced until my knees ached and my toes bled and it is the best memory I have of feeling driven toward something bigger than myself.  I remember walking to the Masterman’s house two blocks away from my own, where you could create “experiments” with the lotions in the bathroom and where no one worried about messing up the lines in the carpet.  They had a cat named Nike and later, the biggest black cat I’d ever seen, aptly named Inky.  I always secretly wondered if Lucy Masterman was my real mom, as she was SO much cooler than my own. Maybe I just wished it. 

I remember making myself sick with anxiety about who might like me – at school, at church, in our neighborhood. I wish I could tell my 12-year-old self to straighten my shit up and realize how cool I was without even knowing it.  Or maybe I wasn’t cool, I still don’t know.  In high school, I learned about race by falling hard for the one kid who wasn’t sure he could be with a white girl.  In retrospect, it was for the better, but I learned a lot about myself and even more about how people relate to one another from that experience.  I remember thinking that my entire world would collapse when Justin Peck told me he didn’t want to go out anymore.  Which is pretty funny now, considering we never actually went anywhere.  That angst is still so palpable I can nearly reach out and touch it.  I remember riding in the backseat of my parent’s car to Woodstock, Illinois to visit my grandparents and listening to The Cure’s Japanese Whispers album the entire nine hours.  That album will always bring me back to plaid shorts from the thrift store, white t-shirts and old Chuck Taylors. 

My story includes two early 1980s Chevy Chevettes. One blue, one turd bucket brown…each more embarrassing than the next to my 16-year-old ego.  What I couldn’t see back then was how lucky I was to have a car at ALL.  I remember the feeling of freedom that came with driving.  And I can recall sitting in the driveway of our home with my sister after she had driven us home from school one spring day.  We knew my mother was lying to all of us, but that was the day we started investigating.  And when a mother tells such a deliberate lie to her children – much less to her husband – it is then that a relationship must change forever.  That part of my story led to a relationship with my smart and funny and amazing sister that I might not have had otherwise.  A relationship that I treasure and hold close to me in the deepest part of my heart.

My story includes boy after boy whom I tried to change.  Time and again I would sacrifice myself to please someone else, or just to keep the peace. My story includes a lot of other stories that I won’t repeat – things I am not proud of but that I would not change, as they are things that shape who I have become.  The one who told me I was fat and stupid, who left my self esteem so completely broken that I was merely a shadow of who I was before I met him.  The one who was good to me but just didn’t know how to love me without a mountain of drama to accompany that love.  I learned that the only person who could change the way that story would go was myself – and it took me far too long to figure that out. 

My story is about a boy, the best one ever, the one who finally just let me be me. Who still patiently lets me figure out who “me” is and never, ever asks me to pretend I’m someone different.  The boy who makes me laugh every single day, the one I can’t wait to grow old with.  My story is about two amazing, smart, beautiful and funny little girls who make me want to be a better person.  My story is important because I can and I will teach my girls all the things I didn’t get from my own mother, things that I needed to hear (and might still need to hear) and the lessons that I couldn’t learn from her.  I try to remember that the one lesson she did teach me many years ago does not ever have to shape who I am today.  My story is realizing that I am not so different from my kind and gentle father, that we share a passion for words and language and a knack for avoiding conflict.  All those years I spent fighting to be someone different, running from what I thought was so wrong, only to find that those are the very qualities that define me.

lucky number 7

Your Laughter by Pablo Neruda

Take bread away from me, if you wish,
take air away, but
do not take from me your laughter.

Do not take away the rose,
the lance flower that you pluck,
the water that suddenly
bursts forth in joy,
the sudden wave
of silver born in you.

My struggle is harsh and I come back
with eyes tired
at times from having seen
the unchanging earth,
but when your laughter enters
it rises to the sky seeking me
and it opens for me all
the doors of life.

My love, in the darkest
hour your laughter
opens, and if suddenly
you see my blood staining
the stones of the street,
laugh, because your laughter
will be for my hands
like a fresh sword.

Next to the sea in the autumn,
your laughter must raise
its foamy cascade,
and in the spring, love,
I want your laughter like
the flower I was waiting for,
the blue flower, the rose
of my echoing country.

Laugh at the night,
at the day, at the moon,
laugh at the twisted
streets of the island,
laugh at this clumsy
boy who loves you,
but when I open
my eyes and close them,
when my steps go,
when my steps return,
deny me bread, air,
light, spring,
but never your laughter
for I would die.

Tomorrow is my seventh wedding anniversary, and tonight while we were getting the kids ready for bed, Steve jokingly asked me what happened to us.  We went from spending our days and nights in relative ease – hanging out, dining out, enjoying good conversation and lazy Sunday afternoons.  Seven years ago tonight I was stumbling dancing to “White Wedding” on the bar at the Peanut after our rehearsal dinner.  Tonight, we were talking to Lucy about pooping. I think it’s safe to say that our life has changed.

The night I met my husband, I was dragged out by my then roommates, Julie and Kathy.  They wanted to watch a Chiefs football game and I had just flown home from New York where I had been with family after the death of my grandfather.  I didn’t want to go out – didn’t really even want to leave the house, but the girls picked out the clothes I would wear and told me to get my ass in the shower.  The bar where Steve was bartending that night was a last resort for us – after we found no place to sit at our normal hang out, I wanted to go home and they wanted to try one more place.  I’m so glad they did.  Later that night, after I stuck green beans in my nose and stole a bunch of firewood (please do not ask me to explain this), I gave my phone number to the boy who would become my husband.  After our first date, I came home, shut the door, and announced that I would marry him someday.

I’m not going to pretend that our life is all wine and roses.  It’s WAY more wine than it is roses, but I made a good choice and I married a good man.  I hope that we are teaching our girls that love knows no limits, speaks no particular language, and accepts strange obsessions with old British sci-fi shows and comic books.  Love is being able to talk about poops – it’s about laughter.