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Monthly Archives: February 2012

The *Sniff* Magic of Disney

I spent two hours the other day desperately trying to reattach the “O” key to the keyboard of my laptop, after I removed it to free a crumb from underneath. Frustrated, and unable to figure out what was wrong with the key, I put it aside and gave up.

A few hours later, I awoke from a nap with new enthusiasm, and decided to try again. I reattached it on the first try. The problem? I tried, for two hours, to reattach the key upside down. 

Clearly, I don’t do sick well. I don’t do idle time very well, either.

Among my musings today, pondering my overwhelming and inextinguishable desire to visit Walt Disney World right now, despite the child-to-adult ratio in my house, and the fact that my children, were they to join me, would have no idea what was going on, and worse, wouldn’t remember one moment of our trip.

Now, slow down. I know what you’re thinking. I’m sure you had me pegged as a Disney World naysayer, a hater, an antiestablishment revolutionary. Well, you’re half right.

For years, I scoffed about The Happiest Place on Earth. I was zealous in my position that Disney World was a contrived, corporate preparation, whose only function was to fleece every visitor, immediately and theatrically, of all his money. I refused to watch Disney movies after the age of five. I refused to sing along to impromptu verses of Under the Sea on the school bus. I refused to say ‘Awww…’ when others named their pets after Disney characters. I flat-out refused. I was hardcore.

Walt Disney World Resort - Orlando, Florida

When I was twenty or twenty-one, I experienced the, ahem, magic, of Disney, for the first time. I don’t know what happened to me, but the moment I crossed that gate, I was in love. In love with the manicured grounds, the music, the gift shops, the fireworks, and every ray of sunlight that danced over my skin. I loved Disney World. Loved it. And would cap every trip off with plans for the next.

I loved Disney World so much that I began bringing people with me. People who hated Disney.

I fancied myself the Pied Piper of Disney World. I was determined to convince the staunchest, most Ramones-loving, vintage-shoe-wearing, edamame-munching friend I had, that Disney World would impress on many levels, but most importantly, on the heart. Sure, I had to deal with the sarcasm, the jokes, the rolling eyes. I grinned and bore it. But in each instance, I’m proud to say, I was able to win them over.

I’ve been creating Disney World converts for well over ten years now, and though I remain impressed by this distinction, I haven’t yet had the occasion to work this magic on my husband.

Another trout who swims upstream, my husband is a complicated creature. He loves animation, but had, until he met me, shunned all things Disney. I’ve worked him in slowly, via movies and Pixar, and an occasional reluctant stumble into the Disney Store. I’ve used desensitization techniques such as mingling my many (many) Tinkerbell mugs with his action figures, and tossing my stuffed Mike Wazowski in with the babies’ toys. And I think it’s starting to work.

Trouble is, I can’t seem to get there. Hell, I can’t seem to get anywhere since I started spitting out children like a vending machine. He and I had an amazing overnight to Boston lined up for this past weekend, which was bashed to bits by my gall bladder issue. We even tried, and failed miserably, to jet off to Florida for two or three days last summer. That time was spent moving from our comfortable, quiet two-bedroom apartment to our loud, miserable three-bedroom apartment, from which I can now not wait to get out.

And now we’re staring down the barrel of another move, a home purchase, and all requisite crap-I-don’t-understand that must be done to bring the house up to speed structurally. And then, inevitably, something else. Or we’ll actually have the presence of mind to plan something, but deer will fall from the sky into the engines of the plane, or Florida will break off and sink into the ocean. Because life’s not fair.

And I’m in a dig-my-heels-in and pout, Veruca Salt frame of mind right now. And a little cranky that every break we carve out for ourselves gets spackled with some sort of insanity, or you know, necessary activity like finding a home we all fit in. Whatever.

Bottom line? I miss Disney World. It’s a booster for my jaded, overwrought spirit. And I really wanted my husband to experience the same, as I did, as an adult without children. But that ship has long since sailed, and this is the joy we’re meant for right now, I suppose.

So we will take our breaks as and when we receive them, and comfort ourselves with the promise of a spacious, appropriately appointed domicile, and we’ll fall down the rabbit hole of home improvement and saving for the future and navigating life with a new set of responsibilities, like landscape grading. And we’ll be fine for now, taking things as they come.

But I will get back there someday. Soon, I hope. And watching four faces light up simultaneously just might prove to be more rewarding than the adults-only shindig I imagined.

Maybe.

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Sore and Stubborn: A Report from Mom Prison (with Illustrations!)

The "Before" Picture

It all started several years ago. In high school. I believe I was dealt a bum gall bladder. At the beginning of my senior year, it started going haywire, and literally never stopped. The first attack I ever experienced began around 10am, one morning in the early fall of 1995. I was in English class. The pain literally knocked me out of my chair. I lay on the floor, doubled over, moaning, “Owwww,” over and over.  I made my way, somehow, to the nurse’s office, and then to a medical center, where I was asked, not once, but fifty-seven times, if I was pregnant. I was not pregnant. I was *gulp* a virgin. I had to “admit” that after the ninth of tenth time they asked, which, at the time, was more mortifying than being poked and prodded in the places they were poking and prodding.

"After"

Having found nothing  upon an exam, and once the attack passed about four hours later, I was sent home.

In college, another significant attack occurred, which landed me in the hospital. I begged the doctor to take it out, told them this happened before, and would most certainly happen again. I was relieved when surgery was recommended, until the surgeon found no stones on my ultrasound. I was sent home and referred to a gastroenterologist to investigate the issue and make further recommendations.

The gastroenterologist informed me that I was having spasms, and did not recommend any further care besides “keeping an eye on it”, noting that surgeons wouldn’t operate without the presence of stones.

So that was lovely.

I had small, rather inconsequential (either that or I just grew used to the pain) attacks for several years following, but having been told I had no stones, I didn’t bother knocking on any provider’s door, since no action would be taken if I did.

When I was about 30 weeks pregnant with the twins, the issue again reared its ugly, ugly head. This time, though, when the ultrasound was performed, there were, indeed, stones. I felt like I won the Not-Terribly-Necessary Defective Organ Lottery. They wanted to operate, but I was too far along in the pregnancy, so they referred me to a surgeon who gave me medicine to make things tolerable until surgery was safe again.

I’m not so proud to say this, but a year passed – a year of carefully watching my diet, using the prescribed medications with discretion, and repeatedly making – and subsequently cancelling – appointments with the surgeon – before I was forced to deal with the issue last week.

I realized, when I had finally made it to the hospital, that my relief had faded, and I was really scared. I had only ever had a c-section, and was actually petrified of being put to sleep and cut open. Being in the hospital itself was also frightening, and not just because my nurse had only a tenuous grip on the English language, or because my CNA was more nice than competent, (and you know, I was putting my life in their hands) but also because I knew the raging battle that would be ahead of me once the surgery was over and I returned home.

Any mother knows this battle well. I, personally, am having significant difficulty fighting it. It’s the battle to put the baton down, or, worse, hand it to someone else, and watch the show.

Among the things I can’t do? Lift my kids, hold my kids, hug my kids, or comfort my kids – which means I can yell out commentary from the sidelines, strongly urging caregivers to jump on in before Maggie falls over, and then watch her fall over and cry, or yell from my room, for the third time, that Michael’s ready for his nap, or place my children back on the floor when they try to climb up my sides as I walk by. And, no, all that’s not difficult at all. I’ve tried holding the babies, just to satisfy my motherly instinct, but have gotten a few knees in the sutures, so I’m trying my best to avoid it altogether. I’ve also tried just sitting with them, from a distance, but they don’t understand I can’t be climbed on.

Matthew has taken to kissing my boo-boo for me, several times a day. As a matter of fact, I was awakened with a kiss to the boo-boo this morning. What could be better than that? I really don’t want him to know there’s anything wrong with me, but I can’t exactly hide it, either.

So, here I sit, in bed, sore from carrying my daughter from the bedroom to the living room last night (It was an accident. I swear!),  wondering when the laundry will return to its drawers, when someone will take my daughter out of her crib – because she’s very clearly awake – and when I will be back to normal, because it cannot be after the four weeks they’ve suggested.

That’s right. I’m in Mom Prison, and I should take my sentence, sip some tea, watch some HGTV, and enjoy it. And although I’m healing, and need to rest, and my husband just made me a rather delicious crab salad sandwich, I still don’t think I’d decline if someone decided to spring me.

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That Kid, That Time: A Guest Post by Kate at Sweet ‘n’ Sour

 

Find Kate at her blog Sweet ‘n’ Sour, where she writes about all things weird and wonderful. She’s the astounded mother of two boys and lives in Oakland, California. You can also follow her on Facebook.

 

My older boy will be 12 soon. This is the child born more than a week early, weighing six pounds, three ounces. Now he’s over 100 pounds and within spittin’ range of my height (5’10″) — broad of shoulder, muscular of thigh. Lately, when I catch him doing some uber-physical boy thing like wrestling his brother to the ground or running the soccer ball until he’s dripping sweat, I realize, My God! I’m raising a man.

I have always felt at ease around this kid, connected and close. Of course, now that he’s on the cusp of puberty, he’s exploring the limits of this connection; he’ll pull away for a while, let some distance flow into the space between us, and then, when he’s ready, meander back. I notice this mostly in public situations, where my new (and utterly predictable) ability to be embarrassing seems to manifest. “Mom,” he mutters out of the side of his mouth as he throws himself into the car at school pick up. “Turn it down.” You’d think the kid would appreciate a parent who pulls up with Smells Like Teen Spirit throbbing from the car speakers. But no.

The other night, the six of us — me, my two sons, my husband, and our infinitely neurotic poodles — sat down to watch some DVDs I had made from old home videos of the boys. I assumed watching them would be lighthearted, charming, however, I was unprepared by the intensity and complexity of my feelings as I saw my babies come back to life on the screen. There was my older boy at one-and-a-half, shriek-laughing at the antics of a young neighbor, or dancing to Sheila E and yelling, “I’m a football player!” in his baby accent, or eating birthday cake with whole-body enthusiasm. My breath caught in my throat with the renewed realization that that kid, that time, is gone.

He was 15 months old when I got pregnant with his younger brother. Even though he watched my belly grow bigger, and we talked about babies and hung out with babies and read about babies, he wasn’t prepared the day his brother was born and our duet was interrupted. How could he have been? It was hard enough for me to grasp, and I was the grownup. In the home movies, I could see him trying to master himself, trying to be a “good big brother.” He’d tense his jaw, hug the baby a bit too hard, smile a little too brightly. In the weeks after my second son was born, my older boy had night terrors — a perfect vehicle, really, for expressing all that confusion, sadness, and rage.

The amazing thing is that he’s talked to me about how hard it was for him when his brother arrived. The first time was when he was eight or so. I was cleaning the bathroom, and for some reason unknown to me, he started telling me how, once right after the baby came, he had wanted to come to me, in the bedroom where I was nursing, but I had prevented him. I sat down on the closed toilet and drew him on my lap.

“Of course it was hard when your brother was born,” I said. “You woke up one morning and there was a new baby. And you were still a baby yourself.” I told him that I loved his brother and was glad he was in our family, but I had also felt sad about the big change his birth had brought.

Four years later, piled on the couch with my family watching those DVDs, I had to breathe through some tears. There he was, my first child, glorious in his fresh-hatched beauty, having his first experience of loss, and its companion, suffering. At just two, he got a taste of the bittersweet flavor of human intimacy — how hard it can be to trust the connection, even in disconnect. And there was nothing I could have or should have done to protect him.

If I had a choice, I wouldn’t want to go back to those baby days, not really. After all, the current iteration of my son is pretty great, with all the soccer and electric guitar and endless fart jokes. But even so, the night we watched the home movies, after the boys were in bed, I went to my room and cried for a while, grieving the passing of that kid, that time.

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Paradise by the Dashboard Light

Saturday was not a really fantastic day. I had been awake with one screaming, writhing, burping baby or another, virtually all night. My husband arrived home from work at 2am. I was grateful for the extra help, but we both couldn’t settle the babies sufficiently until well after 4am.

We woke up, in a stupor, at 7:30, to my son’s fervent appeals (and small but painful slaps in the head) for eggies and juice. We dragged ourselves out of bed and feigned lucidity as long as we could, but abruptly fell asleep during their naptime. I managed to struggle through the remainder of the day with the assistance of caffeine and a mashed-beyond-recognition Reese’s Peanut Butter Heart I found in my purse.

Once the elusive silence of night finally settled over our house, I collapsed in a heap on my bed, physically and mentally exhausted, my entire body aching for sleep.

I was tucked comfortably between a brand new set of buttery 500-thread count sheets and sliding my legs around, well, like a kid with a new toy, when I heard a familiar thumping sound.

Bum, ba-dum, ba-dum, da da da…

I rolled over without much thought, figuring it was a car driving by.

Bum, ba-dum, ba-dum, da da da…

I listened and waited for the noise to fade into the distance.

It’s not un-u-SU-AL to be loved by anyone…

“Ohhh, what the…” I grumbled quietly to myself, tapping my forehead with my index finger.

I wasn’t going to fault them for their taste in music. I just didn’t want to hear it. And I really didn’t want it to wake my kids.

I heard a car door, and then someone drive off. Home free, I thought.

And then another bass line cascaded in.

Seriously?

I stood up and very carefully parted the blinds with my fingers, needing a look at the A*hole who was obviously bent on robbing me of sleep.

I saw a car, in front of a garage of a neighboring building, running, with its lights on. Maybe they were waiting for someone? Warming up the car? Using the phone?

I settled back into bed and hoped, with every fiber of my being, that they would drive away, or at least get out of the stinking car.

Another two songs came and went as my fury mounted. I then made the decision any other sane, logical, well-rested mother of three would: I got out of bed, put on my coat and shoes, and stomped outside, braless, at 11:30pm, with my kids asleep in their rooms, to make them turn off the music.

I crossed the parking lot without much (okay, any) concern about how ridiculous I looked, and continued until I reached a white, convertible Midlife Crisismobile with a couple sitting inside. I arrived just in time to see Blake Carrington lean over and lay a passionate kiss on his younger, perkier female counterpart. I knocked on the driver’s side window. And knocked. And knocked. For a good minute, before the woman, startled, noticed and pointed at me. The man turned around, somewhat startled as well, then stared at me, open-mouthed, like a hungry goldfish.

I frustratedly motioned to him to roll down his window. He did. An overwhelming cloud of alcohol and sexual tension wafted towards me.

“I’m really sorry, but I’m over there, ” I said, motioning to my apartment, “and I’ve got three kids in there asleep, and that’s really loud.”

The man fumbled an apology. The woman just looked afraid, and I don’t blame her. I probably looked like a crazy, braless vagrant, wearing a lavender Land’s End jacket I wandered off with at a bus stop.

“Yes, and the oldest is two,” I returned. “You know, I don’t mean to rain on your parade,” I scolded, waving my finger all around his car, “but that’s really  loud.”

He apologized again, said he they were going in anyway (of course), and he would turn off the car.

“Thank you!” I sputtered, turned on my heel, and marched back to my front door.

When I arrived inside, I silently congratulated myself for my proactive parenting. And not so much for being the Mama Bear, but for not allowing anything or anyone take away my opportunity to rest.

I lay in bed for a few moments, amused, wondering if his Viagra would work, or whether he would get a leg cramp, or if they might, in the throes of chemically-assisted passion, roll off the side of the bed.

An hour after I finally settled into bed, the Universe rounded the corner with its karmic kick in the pants. Both twins woke up, simultaneously, screaming bloody murder. I spent the following hour or so hushing, rocking, feeding, and shuttling them back and forth to maintain quiet in the house. I collapsed again, more exhausted than earlier, and promptly fell asleep.

Proving once again that no good (bad, or indifferent) deed goes unpunished around here. Not one. Trust me.

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Panic at the Family-Style Chicken Place

For the twins’ first birthday, and after this debacle, we decided to try (again at) making some happy family memories outside of the house.

I hate to admit this, but the twins don’t get out much, aside from visiting family. This disappointing fact was punctuated yesterday by Maggie’s sitting on the floor, howling and undoing the velcro on her shoes, for a good fifteen minutes, before I was able to distract her with a dinner roll. That might have been the fifth or sixth time she’s worn shoes. Ever.

Chicken Suit

We wanted to have a proper ‘birthday dinner’ for the twins, and had been trying to fit it in all week, with no success. We decided the safest bet would be the family-style chicken restaurant. It’s always packed, and always loud. Between the bustle and the noise, our children would blend into the background. Right?

In the interest of full disclosure, we did try this once before. During that visit, Matthew flung pasta shells wildly over his head and ripped most of the paper tablecloth off the table. It definitely could have gone better, but it also could have gone much worse.

When we arrived, it was dark and raining. I pulled up to the door and my husband and mother unloaded our children, a double stroller, and all of our earthly belongings from our van. They assembled our traveling show while I parked the car.

As we made our way to the hostess stand (which, in my mind, was sixteen miles away, and dotted with bubbling piranha pits, nettle, and venomous snakes), Matthew decided he didn’t want to hold Grammy’s hand anymore, so he broke free and started running circles around the waiting area.

I asked him if he wanted to be carried. He did. So, I held him precariously with my left arm, while pushing the double stroller with my right. If you’ve had the pleasure of pushing a double stroller with two children in it, you’d know that they are not easy to steer with two hands, never mind one. I manned the stroller as it banged back and forth between a wall to our right and columns to our left, while my husband, up ahead, spoke to the hostess, and my mother, alongside us, carried the diaper bag.

I had begun to break a sweat. This was not how I envisioned a successful outing with my family. I took a deep breath as I approached the hostess stand. We were directed through one dining room and into another. I pushed the twins, very carefully, between two rows of tables. By that point, I was physically shaking. Would Matthew accidentally kick someone in the head? Would Maggie let out one of her blood-curdling screams? Would I hit an occupied table with the baby carriage, sending hot decaf flying into someone’s lap?

I was completely stressed. I considered turning tail and running – without the kids – more than once. When we arrived at our table, naturally, activity ceased as everyone’s attention turned to us – to count the children, the adults, to pair said children with present adults, and to listen for the bellows of dissatisfied babies…

Not to disappoint, Michael let out a screech, and Maggie joined in.  At that point, I felt completely deflated. We were already there, though, and as far as I could see, there was no way out, so I stood up a bit straighter and handled the situation.

I could only imagine the people around us thinking, “Oh, there they go…”

Damn, I thought. Foiled before we even sat down.

Despite the setback, I had no choice but to charge forward. With a little fancy footwork, we secured all three in highchairs, then took seats ourselves. When I finally came to a resting position, I could feel my pulse throbbing in my ears. I was still shaking a bit on the inside.

Matthew busied himself with a golf pencil and a Keno betting card. The twins were subdued by rolls and butter. My shoulders were basically up around my head, and I refused to sit back in my chair, ready to lunge after whatever went flying from the table.

After a few moments, our food arrived. That was the beauty of the family-style chicken place, you see. The food was all prepared and ready to be dealt, like a hand of poker, to each table. Bread, pasta, chicken, salad, fries. Full House.

I, of course, after a spirited round of ‘Not It’, had charge of Maggie. Matthew went to my husband, and my mother took care of Michael.

And you know what happened next?

We ate.

We sat and ate a meal. At a table. In a restaurant. Like a family.

By mid-chicken, my shoulders had descended from my earlobes, and I could no longer hear the blood wooshing through my veins. I was satisfied that Maggie was comfortable, based on the fact that she was shoveling pasta shells into her mouth like a refugee. Matthew was alternating bites of chicken with pasta and fries, taking short breaks to color with his pencil and say hello to the busboys and servers. And Michael, well, he just ate. He’s good for that.

A woman dining alone, probably in her early sixties, chatted with Matthew and played Peek-a-Boo with Michael, who bounced happily in his chair, laughing and flirting with her.

And when we were done, we got up. And we packed the twins back into their monstrous carriage, and we collected Matthew and our belongings, and we left.

And it was that uneventful. Uneventful, yet so memorable.

Because I think we’ve turned a corner. A corner that brings me just a little bit closer to having my life back, and us closer to truly enjoying our family.

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