Bumpy Hot Dogs

Did you lock the front door?! I don’t know, DID YOU?!

Did I unplug my hair straightener? Oh God. I’m just turning the car around now.

Did you fill the dog’s water? I THOUGHT YOU DID!

My dad once pronounced that he had never met anyone as uptight and nervous as me…until he met my husband. “My god, I think he makes you look a little laid back!” When we moved into our first house my nervousness and paranoia fed his, and vice versa. Gone were the carefree days of dating and early love. We had responsibilities now. People had expectations.

It.was.exhausting. We were like MiracleGro to the other’s crab grass. It wasn’t just leaving the house. We’d freak out about financial decisions, wardrobe decisions, whether the chicken was thoroughly cooked―just about everything could cause us to wring our hands. We made each other nervous wrecks. Two people with mild anxiety issues met, fell deeply in love…and went mad. We both probably should have been medicated but we would have just passed out from hyperventilating, trying to remember if we had remembered to take our pills.

I was destined to be a terribly nervous and fearful parent. I even tried to joke about my anxiety issues at my first obstetrician appointment. Aaaaand that’s how I learned that certain healthcare professionals are not amused by wisecracks about mental health disorders.

Then Monkey was born. I will not spin you my delivery yarn, but suffice it to say it did not go smoothly. I was left recovering from a C-Section in a home alternately referred to as a ‘60s back-split, a quad-level or, as my dad once barked, “The stairs that never end!”  If you haven’t had the pleasure of a C-section, one of the discharge instructions from the hospital is to, “Take the stairs only once a day.” I also couldn’t lay flat for a couple of weeks, so that complicated sleeping a bit, and all of this meant I would have to choose between sleeping, eating, and using the bathroom. Pick one and stick with it all day. So I slept, sitting up, on the couch on the level that put me just four stairs from a bathroom but two flights away from my newborn. It was the best I could do. Even if I’d wanted to violate the “no stairs” rule it would have taken me 15 minutes to go anywhere.

I was in pain, exhausted, and a scared new mom…but I couldn’t go check on Monkey every five minutes. I couldn’t make sure he was breathing or that he hadn’t somehow hoisted himself up and out of the crib, rolled down the hall and up into the knife drawer two sets of stairs away. Somehow I found a little peace. “Eh. I guess he’s fine?” 

The pain that kept me from moving freely through my house was a blessing. It was a baptism by fire. I had to let the fear go. He’d be fine and I needed to get some sleep. Unlike when I babysat as a teenager and would actually wake up the poor babies to make sure they were still breathing (crying at that point), I developed a calmer demeanor. He was fine and I physically couldn’t live in a constant state of fear.  Now, there were flare-ups of course. No one quits hysteria without a few episodes of sobbing whilst sloshing a bucket of bleach around the house and shrieking about people who bring germs around newborns. But, overall? Having a baby had settled the nerves that once scratched the edges of my brain.

Luckily, we also have a great pediatrician who is all tough love and calm. I once let my mom freak me out about Sassafras’ wonky toe. She was born with a bit of a crinkled toe and it has yet to fall in line. My mom refused to just wait and see what happened (as prescribed) and she hounded me out of my more relaxed approach and told me I needed to ask our pediatrician again.

Um, <tentative and scuffing my toe against the floor> my mom wants to know if there is anything we can do about her toe?

Does your mom want her to wear a big shoe?!  She’s 11 months!  It will be fine. But ask her―does she want her to wear a big shoe?

I returned to not worrying about what was certainly out of my control.

In four years nothing terrible befell my family and I had moments of the blissful sense of entitlement I think so many parents feel:  “Well, I must be doing something right―we’re fine!”

As a young public defender, I learned that when selecting a jury you had to overcome the general public’s belief that “they must have done something because they are sitting in the defendant’s chair.”  Potential jurors need to believe, like the greater population, that bad things don’t happen to good people. We don’t say it out loud because it sounds awful, but I see it as a different way of living in fear. I believe that at their core, many people are so terrified of pain and suffering that they believe “others” have done something to deserve their misfortune.

I have always loathed when people say things like, “She loved her husband too much to let cancer win,” or, “He loved his kids too much to give in.” Bullshit. Those words gnash my teeth. That person was fortunate to survive, yes, but that doesn’t mean those who did not survive are any less deserving. Bad things happens to good people and there is nothing you can do to avoid that.

People who succumb to cancer or serious injury or depression?  They loved their family just as much. Don’t get me wrong―I do believe a positive attitude and deep love can sustain people through so much―but it isn’t a magic cure and it’s not a force field. As a recovering catastrophe-enthusiast and worrywart I appreciate where people are coming from when they utter such platitudes. I appreciate it because I recognize it for what it really is: fear. It is too scary and awful to think no one is safe and that death and destruction encircle all of us like a pod of hungry shark.

We have close friends who are going through parent hell. One month ago everything was fine. Today they are living your worst nightmare as a parent. In a moment they could not see coming, they were forced to stare into the face of their child’s mortality. I sit in stunned sadness just thinking about what they must be going through.  I grieve for the way of life they lost and the new one they have to fight through. They did everything “right.” Their child is sweet and kind and beautiful and they are loving and conscientious. But awful shit happens.

And so I let the fear creep back in. As I shed endless tears for our friends I begin to see illness and danger as guaranteed if I do not stay vigilant. All the work my pediatrician had done in convincing me not to overreact was nearly completely undone. I began to interrogate Monkey about his little complaints of minor physical ailments. I started obsessing over Sass’ fussiness that was obviously just teething.

The other night Monkey called us into his room.

My foot <sniffle> weawwy weawwy huuuuuurts.

He was teary and rubbing the top of his right foot.  He had been mentioning that his foot hurt on and off for a few days. I had been writing it off as growing pains but our friend’s terrible diagnosis was dominating my mind.

Where does it hurt? How long has it hurt? Does anything else hurt?

My mind was racing. I ran my hands over his foot and took shallow breaths. It was bone cancer. Muscular Dystrophy. He had some disorder that caused his muscles to disintegrate.  We were going to have to find a Dr. House-like specialist.

What does it feel like?

Well, Mom, <big sigh> it feels like a bumpy hot dog. It’s weawwy bad <sniff>.

Aaaaaaaand that’s how your nearly-four-year-old brings you back to reality. For some unknown reason, when he’s faking illness because he needs a little more attention, he complains that his ailment feels like a hot dog. E.g. My head feels like a hot dog. Sometimes it’s bumpy, sometimes it’s big, sometimes it’s jumping. I find him marvelously quirky.

Monkey gave me what I needed―a big dose of get-over-yourself. Other people’s suffering is not a reflection of me.  Other people’s tragedy is not a reason to take stock or change my behavior or make it personal. Other people’s pain is theirs. There is no blame. There is no avoiding it. Such is life. Such is being a mom. 

I need to get back to that “Eh, it’s going to be fine” mentality. The shark will never stop circling, but it’s going to be okay. Sadness and suffering finds us all, but we will persevere. Worrying about Monkey and Sassafras isn’t what has kept them well, but they are healthy. We are lucky. It is going to be fine. And I am grateful. 

-Elizabeth

My House Was Clean Yesterday... Sorry You Missed It.

Oh my gosh, don’t worry about it!

It’s my immediate response when a fellow mom apologizes for the state of her house or the layer of grime in her car. I play along. I swear, with a chuckle, I’m not judging. I go on about what terrible shape my house is in…

But honestly, fellow mom? I totally am. I am judging you. I am stink-eyeing your baseboards and dying to see if you have that weird produce gunk at the bottom of your fridge. But not for the reason you might think. It really has nothing to do with you.

I love the blog finding joy. In it Rachel Martin ardently argues that we as mothers need to stop apologizing for the dishes in our sinks and the Legos on our family room floors. Instead, we should work together to reestablish the pre-Facebook community of mothers that supported one another on their couches and in their kitchens.

Thinking that we fall anywhere short of Pinterest-perfection leaves us feeling like losers and terribly alone. I have avoided participating in most forms of social media because I already suffer enough by comparison―I don’t need to access it on my laptop and handheld device. 

I’ve been suffering my whole life.  I was judging book-covering materials in elementary school, staring into lockers to admire others’ organizers in high school, and sweeping my eyes into the corners of dorm rooms in college. Now, whenever I step into someone else’s house I’m hyper-vigilant.

I judge the cleanliness of your floors and the tidiness of your kitchen counters. Do you find the time to wipe down your baseboards? If I’m really being honest with myself, my judgy-ness (it’s a word) is grounded in making myself feel superior. I am laser-focused on your house because it makes me feel less like a failure. 

<phew> Her perfectly layered knickknacks need a good dusting...I’m not a hopeless slob that’s going to raise the smelly kid in school.

It’s an unfortunate female trait I had long before I had kids. Being super-judgmental has been a coping mechanism since bodysuits were cool and I was too timid to snap my tops on. Why do women do this to one another? Why do we have to mock and judge each other? Reading the comments to any online parenting article makes me want to curl in a ball and eat an entire bag of Cheetos.

I attack housework the same way I did writing papers in college. I was deeply concerned with how my professors viewed me. I wanted to be the top student who always delivered exemplary work. I’d set up everything perfectly on my desk...then I’d discover the Popstars marathon playing all Saturday afternoon.  (Please don’t deny watching it―that cheapens the experience for all of us.) Then I’d be up all night, sick to my stomach, throwing together crap and cursing my procrastination.

I want to have the spotless house that I am proud of and unafraid to welcome surprise guests into. But Pinning homemade cleaners and cabinet-organization-schemes is sometimes all I do. I spray environment-killing chemicals all over the place and cause a frying pan landslide every time I need to sauté something.  Now my husband’s return from work or my mother-in-law coming for dinner is my deadline and I’m sick to my stomach and cursing the end of nap-time.

I was taking the compulsory and entertaining tour of a friends’ new home. The new homeowner was discussing how filthy the last homeowner had been. She told me with great disgust how there were cobwebs all through the basement. I could feel my face warming. I immediately began picturing the cobwebs on full display in my basement, on the front hall light and twinkling in the sun on both kids’ bedroom blinds.  

Oh, haha, I bet I have a bunch of those myself…

No! Not like hers! You wouldn’t live like that!

Instead of being hurt or stressed, her comments actually made me feel so much better. She didn’t think of me as being dirty like the last owner of her home. She couldn’t fathom I could be so negligent as a mom and Chief COH (Cleaner-of-House). That’s what mattered to me:  that a fellow mom had faith I wasn’t Pig Pen.

I don’t really care if you have figured out how to keep your bathroom towels fluffy with a house full of kids.  I don’t actually mind that suspicious stain on the hall rug. Why do I judge? Because I am afraid I won’t measure up to you. All we really want is to be liked and I have somehow attached having a clean home with being accepted.

Rachel Martin is right. I need to stop torturing myself by comparison. My friend with the sparkling house that always looks perfectly put together? She truly believes me better-than-cobweb-lady. And the next time she comes to my house? I’m not apologizing for the tray under the water dispenser on the fridge. But I am asking her how the hell she gets her's so clean. 

-Elizabeth

I Really Miss Trapper Keepers

Hey can you take the trash out while you still have your snow boots on? My husband walks in the door to me yapping orders. It’s only Monday but I’m already a bit fried. Another snowy and icy week where the kids and I will move from room to room and go through the motions of playing, eating, napping, repeat.

Yeah, but I don’t even need them anymore. The sun must have melted the driveway! <said with the same tone one would remark about the unicorn giving free rides in the park>

My husband didn’t even consider that I shoveled the driveway--the crumbling, uneven driveway, with compacted snow from his tire tracks.

While the kids napped.

When I usually like to sit for a minute and watch women of great wealth snark at each other.

The sun?! The SUN? THE SUN?!?! IT. WAS. ME!  I was in the midst of trying to cook dinner while simultaneously yelling at the kids to play nicely and at the dogs to stop making piles of slobber near where I was chopping veggies. My hair was frizzy and thrown into a messy ponytail. The black yoga pants I pulled on in the morning were covered in yellow dog fur with traces of toddler sneeze. And, like my face, my hooded zip-up looked tired and crumpled. 

For the rest of the night I whacked away at that deceased horse:

Thanks for dinner. It was good.

Oh, no problem--THE SUN DID ALL THE WORK!

Do you know where Sass put her pacifier?

I don’t know...why don’t you ASK THE SUN?!

I know, I know…I can be a long day.

It feels wrong to me to complain about being a stay-at-home-mom when things get rough. It’s like I’m complaining about my family…which I am. I feel shrill and bitchy when I do it. If I go on about how Sassafrass never.stops.moving, it makes me feel guilty, like I am somehow saying I don’t like my kid. But, three years ago? I was complaining about my boss who called me in to accuse me of forging an office document and threw papers at my head (might I clarify that I did not and he just looked in the wrong file folder). Well, that was more interesting cocktail banter than a fidgety toddler.

I was a philosophy major (one of three women in the program) and went on to become a criminal defense attorney. I was in and out of lock up in the county jail and it never phased me. I am quite comfortable in what my grandparent’s generation would have considered a “man’s world.” It wasn’t that I ever avoided a more “traditional” life; I think it was just that I didn’t realize I actually wanted it. 

I was lucky enough to work part-time after Monkey, but I still wasn’t happy. I wanted to be home with him every day. I felt like I had a foot in each world, and both were slipping. After all those years of pricey education I felt guilty wanting to stay home with Monkey. I felt like it would be interpreted as laziness or occupational malaise.

After Sassafrass was born my husband and I figured out how I could stay at home full-time with the kids. It was a mutual sacrifice chosen by my husband and I together. We reduced both our income and my sanity. I was a public defender making shockingly little money for how much my degree cost, and I never really had a tight grip on my horses, so one could argue the sacrifices were minimal. But still. I got what I wanted so desperately.

Therefore, I should not be entertaining any negative feelings towards my new chosen profession.  

Just because you get to walk on the path you chose doesn’t mean it’s easy. I had wanted to go to law school for as long as I could remember. The dream was born right after my belief that I was the next great fashion designer. I turned in my Trapper Keeper of fashion sketches for a calendar full of scheduled trials and briefs. When I got to law school and realized it was just piles of hard work, I actually felt lucky to be living my dream. Many people were there because they didn’t know what else to do with their lives. Those classmates were like the kids in gym forced to run laps for punishment and the rest of us happy law students were the cross-country team. But living my dream didn’t mean the papers and exams sucked any less.

So I find myself again in the same position: I want to be a stay at home mom and consider myself lucky to be able to do it, but it still doesn’t feel right. I don’t even look the part. I don’t do well looking “casual.” If I throw on a t-shirt and jeans I look like I got a 3 a.m. call to meet someone in the emergency room. I never really rocked the business suit either. I seemed to believe my suit jackets were somehow magical, thus preventing the outside world from seeing that underneath I was wearing the tank top I purchased in eleventh grade. No life choice has ever really “fit.”  

I spend my days doing what a chauvinistic relative calls “the domestics.” I find myself planning meals, cleaning the house, doing my husband’s laundry and sometimes not leaving the house for days on end.  I work in service of my husband and children, and a lot of the time I feel overworked and under appreciated. But doesn’t every working adult?

How many spouses give you a pat on the back for meeting that presentation deadline? Grading that stack of papers with days to spare? That’s the conundrum of being a stay-at-home-mom. It’s your job…but your co-workers are the very same people you would have complained to about other co-workers.  

That little so-and-so that ate your lunch out of the office fridge? The lunch you were looking forward to all morning? Well, you really shouldn’t call him names. He’s three and he wanted leftover Indian for lunch, too.  Whining about that judge who makes you tape all the staples on your briefs (true story) because it may snag their robe? That makes you sound wearied and noble. Complaining that your husband wears too many freakin’ t-shirts…as you count aloud to prove your point? That makes you sound kinda pitiful and makes people think you need to get out more.

I have a friend who is just meant to be a stay-at-home-mom. She was born for it. She does a fantastic job, and it is so obvious that it is in her DNA. I know another woman who was counting down the days of her maternity leave. She loves her son as much as a stay-at-home mom loves her kids, but she happily returned to the office.  

When I was part-time it felt odd. Like playing the role of a grownup in a third grade play. I want to be the type of stay-at-home-mom that exudes whatever my friend has. I want it to be in my bones--staying at home. But it isn’t. Thursdays are the worst. I have held it together as long as I can. I have pressed play, picked up Cheerios and smiled through the same question 37 times. I am done. I am a cranky tyrant on Thursdays. But didn’t I feel that way when I worked in an office? Hell, maybe I’m just super-lazy and don’t enjoy hard work.

I am still floundering a bit. Like that bad grade I got in Ethics class during college (I know, make your lawyer jokes), the Civil Procedure teacher who, I swear, was speaking Greek, and the magistrate who had it out for me my first year at the Public Defender’s Office. These things make me question the path I have chosen. I may look like a “before” picture on a makeover segment and I can be rather cranky…but I’m happy. I love that I get to stay at home with my kids. I am very grateful that I, again, have my dream job.

Maybe I was right with the first dream though… I could design stay-at-home-mom uniforms! Stain repellent, comfortable yet flattering. Gotta go find a Trapper Keeper.

-Elizabeth

A Less Frizzy February

I like to torture myself by playing back the things I have said to my kids. I lie in bed at night and run through my one-woman rage production:

It’s not time to wake up—no. You need to get some more rest...Well then just lie there with your eyes closed! 

Do NOT give that dog Cheerios!

Stop rubbing your hand in that!

Are you kidding me? Hold your cup up and down! You spilled everywhere!

You want it open? Okay, bring it here. Closed? Here, please. Open? <grumble> Seriously?! Nope. Putting this away now.

NO! We are going to paint! It is going to be fun. God! Why are you whining?! YOU wanted to paint!

No. NO! Stop trying to run over your fur-sister!

Sit on your fanny! Sit! DOWN!

Monkey! Knock.It.Off. You are just looking for a reason to cry. Stop crying!

Eat! Stop talking—just eat. Please. EAT!

Please, Sassafrass, stop turning on your toys and walking away! Too loud!

Sit up! Stop pushing back!

Please! Mom just needs a minute! A minute!

Take a deep breath. CALM DOWN!

<banging on kitchen window> STOP! Did you just eat poo?! (Don’t worry--that’s directed at one of the four-legged children.)

I’ve never been into the sappy, sentimental love. I prefer romantic comedies with a bit of angst and slapstick to sweeping sagas with sinking-ships and bared souls. As a control freak, I wrote our wedding vows and poured over books and poems looking for quotes and readings that balanced the romance of marriage with my less-than-flowery worldview. My favorite was from Antoine de Saint-Exupéry: “Love does not consist of gazing at each other, but in looking outward together in the same direction.” Not the least bit fluffy—lovingly pragmatic I’d like to say.

In my family, Thanksgiving is a time to eat good food and drink bourbon slushies.  We have never gone around the table and shared what we’re grateful for. Thanksgiving’s proximity to Christmas causes me to ratchet up for the holidays instead of pausing to reflect. Don’t get me wrong, we aren’t unzipping our pants and picking our teeth with turkey cartilage, we’re just enjoying each other’s company without actually voicing how thankful we are for it.

Growing up, Valentine’s Day was always a welcome break in the slushy Ohio winter. I always disliked February: the high of the holidays had completely worn off and the promise of warm weather was too distant. I looked forward to Valentine’s Day because my mom would always have a wrapped gift waiting for us on our chair at breakfast.  It wasn’t the gift that mattered so much; it was my mom’s attention to what would brighten my gloomy month. A new sweatshirt in third grade to boost a pilled wardrobe that needed to stretch for another few months. A new set of Lip Smackers in seventh grade to refresh my dwindling collection gathering lint in my backpack. Bags of homemade cookies sent every year to my college mailbox. Thoughtful, practical gifts to show us we were loved…but no teary proclamations.

I decided this year, that I am going to start a new tradition for myself. This isn’t a Pinterest tradition that necessitates cream of tartar or Xanthum Gum, but rather a day to flip my daily script. I am going to take this holiday of love and inject a little grateful-turkey-talk. My mom used Valentine’s Day to give me a boost during the gray winters, and I want to try to do the same for myself.

So many days I review my “mom script,” and I am not proud of what comes out of my mouth. I wince when I relive some interactions with my kids, and I feel like it’s worse in the wintertime. We are trapped indoors and growing weary of our confines.

I read somewhere that parents should speak to their kids like they are being filmed and someone else is going to see the footage. Well, I would rather eat the stuff I wipe out of restaurant high chairs than be forced to see video of my cranky and snarky fits. I’ve caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror a few times when yelling at Monkey about not unrolling the toilet paper all over the floor—not pretty. Does screaming at my kids make my hair frizz or is it always that bad?

So, ­instead of beating myself up about the nagging and snapping and squawking, I am going to replay the sweet things my kids do this February 14th. Even on our worst days, one of them will do something that makes me want to cry with joy/take a picture/ hug them until they are flailing for freedom. When I obsess over my mistakes, I can forget those little things.

Mom- we da best family.

Awwwww <as Sassafras nuzzles one of our exceedingly-patient Labs>

Mom, Handy Manny would say this dinner deliciso! (After he’s gagged over the mushrooms.)

My spunky little girl looking me square in the eye and beaming while she puts a soggy Teddy Graham in my mouth—gifting me one of her most prized possessions.

We havin’ a good day mom. (Even when we most definitely are not.)

My sweet daughter flirting with me in Target, daring me to tickle her in that spot under her jaw that makes her squeal and crumple into a ball.

Awwww, Sass, you juss needa take a deep breath.  It’s okay sister--we almost home.

My dogs leaping on Monkey’s bed at the end of the night for story time…and the poo-breath is barely noticeable.

Yes, I think I see my hair smoothing already...

-Elizabeth