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. 

oh, hi.

I don’t have any time anymore for ANYTHING. No time to write, no time to spend on anything but family, school, work, laundry, cooking, cleaning (this one is debatable) and stressing over the overwhelmingly full calendar. So…I thought I would give you an update on the past month or so. Here’s roughly what’s happened:

·      I listened to my children fight. A LOT. I heard things like, “you’re not my sister anymore! Get out of this house!” and, “you treat Zoe like she’s 10 and I’m the baby!” Also, the ass-kissing has begun. When one child is in trouble, the other has learned the trick of being sappy sweet to get on our good side. Today, Lucy even asked me if I could get her a snack – but ONLY when I had the time.  HA! 

·      We got a fish. The fish died. This story is only good because the fish was teetering on the edge of death for about a week before he croaked. The week before we went out of town, of course. And so, I left instructions for the girl who was dog-sitting to give me a call if the fish died so I could prepare the girls. We were headed to Colorado (another story) and got to about Lawrence, KS before Courtney called to say the fish was belly up. He’d waited just long enough for her to arrive before he bit it. Thankfully, Courtney is technically a Universal Life minister – thanks to the interwebs – and she was able to give Bubbles Chippie Blue a fitting tribute before flushing him. 

·      Colorado. Where do I begin? Long story short – we were to drive to the mountains outside of Denver to celebrate my nephew’s first birthday with my sister and brother in law and her family. We got to Colorado on Saturday and smooched on each other long enough to pass around a stomach bug. We spent most of the trip in the hotel bathroom in a town with no grocery store or WalMart. Plus, Steve and I were both knocked for a loop (to put it nicely) because of the altitude. Man, I didn’t think it would affect me but it did. Between the barfs and the shits and trying to catch our breath, it pretty much stunk. Literally. Vacation re-do to come…

·       I had an x-ray of my back. Turns out, my discs are just as bad as they were 9 years ago (not sure what that means) but I also have bone spurs on my spine. I was scheduled for an MRI and told to not exercise. Wait. Were you wondering why I’ve gained so much weight? Not anymore! MRI on Monday the 9^th.  

·      Lucy has a loose tooth. It looks like an old kernel of corn hanging right in the center of her mouth. It’s awesome. We have bribed ear piercing, doll clothes, books. You name it. Her sister has taken to randomly punching at Lucy’s mouth to try to knock it out. I realize that eventually the tooth will come out on it’s own and that if she’s ok with it I need to let it go. But I can’t. 

·      I’ve decided that I actually DO like white wine. I know, this is news that can’t be exciting to anyone but me. I just figure, if I’m good at anything, it’s drinking, and that I should be an equal opportunity wino. 

·      My hair is still growing. Can you believe it? ELEVEN weeks without a haircut. I’m in that phase where I simultaneously want to rip it out and I’m proud of myself for coming this far…so it stays.

I’m not certain what else I can update on. I just mostly feel overwhelmed about 99% of the time and when I do sit down to write, I find that I’d better spend my time writing for school.  School. Which is done in just three weeks…at least until June. Hooray! I’ll leave you with this – last night a lovely older woman called our house to ask if I would be able to volunteer for the Obama campaign. I told her that while I supported the campaign I wouldn’t even be able to begin to help. I told her I worked full time, was in grad school and had two young children. She asked me, “do you sleep?” and my answer, quite honestly, was no. Nope. I don’t sleep. I lay down around midnight which is about how late I stay up to finish all of the work I can’t get done with kids underfoot, then I spend a chunk of time trying to wind down from the 8 bazillion things that happened that day, sleep about 3 hours and then wake up around 4am to worry about all the things that are to happen the NEXT day. Sleep is for pussies. And, there you have it! The last month of my life in 830 words or less. Ca-ching!

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!

good riddance...

Well, well…well.  Stunning news tonight about Osama Bin Laden.  News that I thought I would never hear.  Dead.  Which, might make some people really, really happy, but honestly I just feel a little bit sick to my stomach.  Bin Laden – the mastermind behind the 9/11 attacks, that took the life of my cousin Karleton along with nearly 3,000 other people.  Bin Laden, who has been hiding, for lack of a better word, for nearly 10 years.  I have a lot of feelings about Bin Laden, many I’m sure you can guess, but now I am worried about the repercussions of this…what happens next? Dancing and celebrating to be sure, but then what happens tomorrow and the next days to come?  

I have always felt that there will never really be true closure for myself after September 11, 2001.  I don’t really know how all of my family feels about this, but it’s how I have always felt.  I mean, of course there was a memorial service, and those concrete things, but when you hear the words 9/11 every. single. day on the news, in passing, somewhere in the day – there really is no true closure.  Imagine, if you will, that images of your loved one’s murder were shown nearly daily on the news or over the internet, or that your loved one’s murderer had been on the loose for the past decade. It’s always seemed a bit like a band-aid getting ripped off the wound. Over and over and over again. 

I guess my hope is that the families and loved ones of 9/11 victims can feel like a chapter in this very, very long story has finally ended. I don’t know that this it will ever feel like closure, but it’s a start. 

a Saturday morning thought...

If you daughter has children and you haven't seen them in nearly three years, and they don't know who you are, and when you call here they refuse to talk to you because they don't know who you are? You are NOT allowed to call yourself a grandmother.  And if your stepson has children, do not call your daughter on a beautiful Saturday morning and tell her you are a grandmother again.  You aren't one to begin with...there is no again. I'm just sayin.

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.

birthday etiquette

It’s no secret that I would do just about anything to protect my girls. As in, I will shank you with my giant car key if it means keeping them from being hurt. And so, when I picked up Lucy from school today, I had to turn and leave as quickly as I got there because I thought I might have to do just that. 

Those of you with children over the age of three know that part of your job as a parent is to start stomaching all of those, “well, now you can’t come to my birthday party” comments. Your own child might utter those despicable words, or you might overhear them, say, at the table in your preschool class. Oh, wait. That’s just me. My point is that somewhere around three and a half, kids start realizing that the birthday party is perhaps the BEST means of leverage and social status beating out even the “playdate”. Please. Please do not get me started on that word. Seriously. Who made that up? Moving on.

Here is the catch. PARENTS: you have a little control over the hurt feelings. While you can’t control what comes out of your child’s mouth (don’t I know it?) you can control HOW the birthday party arrangements are made and what comes out of your own mouth so that I don’t have to hear, “oh! see you at the party tomorrow!” or “you’re going to so-and-so’s birthday party, right?” Right. In. Front. Of. My. Daughter. And this was not out of the child’s mouth – but the mother’s. For real.

The look on Lucy’s face was enough for me to know that number 1, she understood completely and without further explanation that she hadn’t been invited. And number 2, that I needed to get the hell out of that classroom before I said something. What the hell? I’m certainly not suggesting that my child should be invited to everyone’s party. Absolutely not, I get that. What I am saying is that if you know my child isn’t invited to your kid’s party? Shut the hell up about it when you’re right in front of her. She’s smarter than your kid and she’s onto you.

I think we as parents need to dig back and remember the times we were left out of something. Picked last (or not at all) for kickball. Not making the play. Not invited to THE party. It might have been a while, but I’m guessing we can all still remember how that felt. I know I can. We could do ourselves – and our children – a favor if we did just that.

growing up?

I had to take a few days to gain some perspective on a few things that have happened this week, and now that it’s behind me, I had to write about it.  I’m not going to tell you the details of what happened; just that what came out of it was the realization for me that not only am I an adult, I’m responsible for other human beings and the reckless, goofy, boob flashing (sorry dad) days of my past are just that – the past.  I feel a little conflicted about this. I mean, I know I’m a grown up, but at what point does being grown up equal boring? At what point does being grown up mean wearing mom jeans and driving a minivan? (I know I’m probably offending some of you out there, I apologize, it’s just my feeble attempt at trying to make a point)

Clearly, I’m going through a time in my life where I don’t want to lose my identity as “Kate” and yet, some of that identity is tied up in where I was ten years ago, or even earlier.  I can’t quite get past the fact that I have two little girls who look to me every day for guidance, rules, examples…and yet, I still think fart jokes are REALLY funny, and talk of body parts sends me into pre-pubescent fits of giggles.  I’m sorry. I just can’t help it.  My girls are getting older, and with that, there comes more responsibility on my part to show them what is acceptable behavior, not only for myself and for them, but also for girls in general.  What does that even mean? Frankly, I’ve never been one who feels comfortable with “acceptable behavior” – just look at my hair, my tattoos, my multicolored Chuck Taylors and my off color sense of humor.  How do I display what should be while not losing myself in the process?

One of the things no one tells you when you become a parent is how much of yourself you will lose in the day to day stuff.  That one day you will wake up and grab the keys to your minivan and wonder where the girl went who said that she would NEVER drive one.  You will go shopping and grumble under your breath about the rise of jeans or the length of skirts.  You will get your hair bleached blonde – something that used to be fun and part of your persona – and afterwards, you will look in the mirror and wonder if it’s just too much anymore.  You will hit your mid to late 30s and you will wonder where the line is between the fun girl you used to be and the example you are setting for your own young girls.  I guess in the end, I don’t know why it’s not ok to share my love of fart jokes, crazy hair and off color humor with my girls – because, really? What is life without some sort of humor?

I’m trying to maintain some of that humor these days.  I’ve realized that life is too short to worry that much about what is the right or wrong thing to do.  A former student from my preschool passed away this week at the age of seven.  Seven.  And I can’t even imagine what that is like for a parent to deal with - that is another story altogether - but I’m guessing that at the end of the day, even Cameron would tell us not to worry as much as we do about all the details of right and wrong.  Because, in the end, the fact that your child can tell a wicked fart joke probably means less than the fact that he or she was loved unconditionally – crazy hair and all.

on my own...

I’ve spent the better part of the past week trying to figure out how people handle single parenthood.  Seriously.  I’m a giant wimp.  Huge.  But I just don’t know how people manage this all the time.  I know plenty of women (and men, for that matter) who are single parents, and they just seem to make things work, but I’m that girl who will put it all out there for you and I have to say that I suck at this.  Steve is out of town on business this week and while it’s really quiet at night – something I always long for, to be honest – I’m just sick of being the bad guy all the time, simply because I’m the ONLY guy.  The juggling of schedules and packing of lunches and bathing of bodies and wiping of butts is one thing I’m pretty good at and I don’t mind.  I think I would lose my mind if I weren’t this busy.  It’s the lack of adult contact that is driving me insane.  It’s knowing that no one is going to walk in the door at 5:30pm and just run interference so I can cook dinner or pack lunches or just talk me off the ledge the kids have forced me upon, even if I bitch and complain about that person.  Which, I have been known to do – just ask him!

My point is that I have a new respect for all of those people in my life who are raising children on their own.  Big children, small children – really, anyone who is making rules and keeping them without losing their mind.  And honestly, I would like to write more about this, but I’m more tired than I’ve been since having a newborn, so I will leave it at that.   

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.

coming up for air

I’m not dead.  I’ve just been trying to figure out how to juggle everything these days.  I just started back to teaching preschool, and it’s the first year since Lucy was born that I am working full time.  It’s a lot to figure out, this new schedule.  Then, we had a great surprise just hours after Lucy got home from her first day of kindergarten, when we were contacted by the French immersion charter school (read: free!) in our neighborhood and were told that they had an opening for Lucy.  We had been on the waiting list since April and had pretty much given up all hope that she would get in – and wouldn’t you know she did – right after getting home from an excellent first day elsewhere!  I was an emotional basket case last week, starting with her first day of kindergarten, and then immediately deciding to pull her to start her in a different school and having to explain all of this to her.  It wasn’t something that we decided overnight.  We mulled over it all summer long, ultimately thinking we would never really have to make the choice.  We picked a wonderful Catholic grade school in our neighborhood…one that I hated to leave, but in the end it came down to a financial decision.  So, in the midst of all of that, I started teaching full time and also decided to take a short trip to upstate New York to surprise my aunt for her 50^th birthday party.  When I planned that trip, I had no idea of the week I would have had just before!  It was a great get away – perhaps at just the right time!

My point is that it’s been a crazy few weeks in the W house.  But we keep going as we always do.  I just haven’t had the time or the energy lately to keep up with writing.  I can tell a difference in myself when that is the case, and I know I am a better person for taking a few minutes out of every day to write, no matter where my writing takes me.  I have a few stories I want to share, including something that happened to me on the flight back to Kansas City yesterday afternoon.  I will do that when things calm down a bit.  In the meantime, I just wanted to say hello.

seeing the sea...

Vacation is always such a weird thing.  You either love it or you hate it and you either really, really want to come home or, like me this time, you wish you could figure out a way to live at the beach, rather than in the ho-hum Midwest.  I know that soon enough I will be wrapped up in the day to day stuff again and I will not feel like this, but right now I’m having a hard time feeling good about being home.  I thought a lot this week about sitting down to write, I really did…but something always seemed more important, like watching the sun rise and then set over the ocean, or watching my eldest daughter learn how to swim (!!) or watching my children interact with their grandparents and their aunt and uncle in ways that just never happen when the hustle and bustle of daily life get in the way. Yes, those moments took precedence over writing, and I’m glad they did. 

I thought about writing about the drive over the bridge that connects Jekyll Island with Brunswick and St. Simon’s Island, Georgia, and how I literally get the shakes when I have to drive it alone.  And that the first night my in-laws were there, they tried to get over it only to find it was closed because someone had tried to jump off of the bridge.  I thought about sharing the experience we had getting trapped in a torrential downpour in Atlanta after deciding it was too nice outside to drive to the aquarium…whoops!  My girls had their fist cab ride and you would have thought Lucy had won the lottery. “MOM!!!! You can ride? In a car??? WITHOUT a carseat???”  Yes, honey. Welcome to the South…

But, instead, my mind keeps coming back to something I witnessed one afternoon.  Something probably only I thought was interesting, or astounding, or heartbreaking.  (Sometimes I honestly wonder if I never really grew out of having emotions like I did when I was twelve.)  We had taken our things down to another part of the island during one high tide because the beach outside our condo was non-existent when the tide comes in.  While we were sitting there, I watched a mother take the arm of her blind child (a girl in her late teens if not early twenties) and lead her to where the waves were hitting the shore.  The first thing that struck me was how sweet the gesture was, and then I got really choked up thinking about what must have been going on in the mother’s head.  See?  This is when most people would be all, “what do you mean? You are making this up – no one thinks this much about people they don’t even know…” but I do.

How would I even begin to describe the ocean to my sight-impaired child?  How could I convey the way that the water looks first thing in the morning when the rising sun hits it and it sparkles like a thousand tiny mirrors?  Or how the sea gulls and pelicans search, bellies nearly touching the water, until they see what they want and then dive down for their meal? How schools of teeny, tiny fish washed up with each wave, only to be pulled back into the ocean with the undercurrent?  How do you put into words what it’s like to watch two dolphins do a dance, of sorts, up and then down again in the water just feet from where you stand? 

There are things I imagine you could describe with ease to someone who might never have seen them with their eyes – trees, cats, even people with their particular features and distinctions.  But, the ocean? Ever-changing.  Light and dark, wide and deep.  Mysterious.  Elusive.  I keep coming back to that scene, replaying it in my head, and each time I think of something else I might say to that child, another explanation – something else I might have missed the first time…I imagine that mother knows how this feels.  It’s a little like feeling guilty for having the gift of sight.

georgia on my mind

This week I’ve been knee deep in suitcases, swimsuits and sunscreen.  We are leaving for a week at the beach and it could not come at a better time.  Tomorrow is the last day of preschool for my children – and for me as a teacher – and when we return I will start the Greater Kansas City Writing Project summer institute.  A week on the beach is in order, for sure.  Honestly, I wouldn’t mind packing to MOVE to the beach.  There is something about sea air that just calms me and makes me feel like a different person.  Thinking about it nearly brings me to tears.  And I have to be honest, and totally cheesy, there is something so magnificent about the ocean I can hardly wait to be closer to it. 

Starting when I was about 15, I spent a few summers in the gulf coast with my then best friend and her family.  We spent hours and hours on the beach, coming in only to eat pimento cheese sandwiches for lunch with sliced tomatoes.  At night we would have bottle rocket wars on the beach and in the water.  We slept in a loft-style room full of windows and to this day one of my favorite memories is of laying still as can be on a twin bed with the window and the shades up as far as they could go.  I can hear the waves crashing and smell the salty air.  At the beach, the stars seem to multiply and go on forever.  That beach house was completely pink.  Ceiling to floor pink.  Outside and inside it was pink.  Even the piano was pink…and it was perfect.  In the “kids” room upstairs was an old juke box that contained only a few 45s: Rod Stewart singing “If You Think I’m Sexy” and Dr. Hook and the Cover of the Rolling Stone singing “You Make My Pants Wanna Get Up and Dance”.  Why I remember that is beyond me, but I do.  I learned to smoke stolen Virginia Slims in that room, and at night my friend’s younger, more daring brother would steal beer for us to sip as we played cards at the pink table. 

I don’t know why all those memories just came rushing back.  That was certainly not what I intended to write about when I sat down tonight. 

I’m looking forward to hearing the waves while I sleep with the windows open next week.  I don’t care if it’s hot as hell, I get one week a year to do that and I will.  I am looking forward to leaving the stress of work and school behind for a few days, but mostly to watching my girls experience the majesty of the ocean again.  I’m going to be watching at night for the lights of the shrimping boats off the coast.  I know when I see them that I’ll feel like I’m home again.

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.