That thing I wrote the other day about not knowing if I regret having a daughter… remember that?
This is my fear (rational or not) about raising boys exclusively: I just don’t think, eventually, that I will understand them entirely. They are going to grow up with a different cultural reference than I have. There will come a day that Jeff will implicitly understand something about their maleness, and I will feel confused and left out.
Actually I think that day may have already come. On Wednesday, to be precise.
Within about an hour on Wednesday evening the boys:
· Used colored pencils as guns and ran around pretending to shoot each other (including the toddler);
· Upon being told that wasn’t safe, turned the pencils into swords and swash-buckled around the house;
· Rearranged the furniture (these are the same kids who claim they aren’t strong enough to carry in groceries, by the way), thus transforming the living room into an indoor football arena, and played a full-contact game with a regulation-sized football, using the Christmas tree as a goal-post;
· Cranked up the stereo and flattened an enormous cardboard box which they used as a dance floor, which was totally fine until they
· Turned dancing into a game called “Push Each Other Off The Box,” whereupon Caleb—at a distinct size disadvantage—was plowed into a wall and started crying;
· Turned the sofa into their personal stunt-man-training-facility, which also resulted in Caleb crying. And bleeding;
· Placed the flattened box at the top of the stairs and helped Caleb lay down on it and said something about “…sledding!” and were clearly planning on launching the poor baby to his death until I intervened.
They accomplished this destruction in under one hour.
The sledding incident pushed me over the edge. I may have yelled. Okay, I did yell.
And Jensen, offended at being told (in nicer words of course) that he was a complete bonehead, threw up his hands and rolled his eyes and said, “But, Mom, there isn’t anything to do that doesn’t involve hurting each other!”
I fell into stunned silence and looked at Jeff with pleading eyes. “What is wrong with your children?” I asked silently. And he smiled. And shrugged. And he understood them with absolute clarity. I was the only one not in the loop.
It has happened.
My husband has a dependency problem. We work through it, mostly. It’s the same old story. Sometimes he manages it well, sometimes he slips into old patterns of using and avoidance and defensiveness and untruthiness. Sometimes I get mad. Sometimes I just let him withdraw from us. It threatens us. But, so far, we have survived.
His drug of choice? The Economist. Cross my heart and hope to die, he is strung out on global financial affairs. Could be worse, I suppose.
But if anything’s going to ruin our marriage, it will be that damned magazine. He has them stashed all over the house… tucked into bathroom drawers, behind sofa cushions, in the storeroom. He is probably never more than five steps away from a fix. Maybe an article about rule of law in Russia. 5:30 on any given weeknight, and I’m in the kitchen tripping over 73 Legos and Hot Wheels and am openly swearing and burning my hand on the oven and the older boys are engaged in a battle to see who can remove the other’s eyes first and the baby has taken off his diaper and peed on the floor and the decibel level in our house approaches the output of a jackhammer. (When did we become this stereotype? That is another post for another day.)
And with pupils that I’m sure are dilated, Jeff sits in the middle of it all, blissfully reading about the rise in India’s manufacturing output in the past decade.
He looks confused when I ask calmly (albeit with a perceptibly bad attitude) if he would kindly put down the magazine and remove the propane tank from Evan’s grubby hands.
Then he gets mad when I not-quite-yell, five minutes later, for him to put away the damned (I whisper that word, so the kids don’t know I’m mad) magazine and engage with us for a few minutes.
“Just let me finish this article,” he says. Every. Single. Night.
I do not exaggerate.
___________________
Jeff was home on Monday. Late in the afternoon I ran some errands. I came home to a crying toddler who was pouring dried pasta all over the floor; an eight-year-old who was screaming, “Fine!” and slamming his bedroom door; and a preschooler who, wearing nothing but underwear, was repeatedly jumping off the back of the sofa and yelling maniacally about… something. Jeff was cooking dinner. Or trying to. (If you ever stop breathing my husband will save your life without batting an eyelash, but putting dinner on the table for a family of five without splattering tomato sauce on the ceiling and breaking something is beyond his skill set.) His jaw was set. He threw a pot in the sink. The house was a disaster.
I surveyed. I sat down at the table and opened my laptop. I read. I typed. He stared aghast at me from the stove as Caleb attempted to eat a Christmas ornament.
“I can’t get a single thing done,” Jeff said, and threw something else in the general direction of the sink.
“Hmmm. Wonder how that feels?” I replied. Calmly. Sweetly.
He not-quite-yelled, “How about if you put away the computer and help?!”
We looked at each other for a good long minute. I closed the laptop and rescued Caleb from himself, then checked the bread in the oven. Jeff turned to the sink. I can’t quite put my finger on it, but I think some sort of intervention occurred in that moment.
We’ve been clean now for 37 hours. Here’s hoping for a sober holiday season.
Today is our wedding anniversary.
But this isn’t a frilly tribute to my perfect husband or a romanticized memory of myself as a princess on our wedding day or a rose-colored description of our marriage. That’s not who I was on the day we got married. That’s not who I am now. I tend to be a little more understated than a Hallmark card.
My anniversary gift to Jeff this year is accordingly quiet. This year, I am giving him my remission.
A month ago neither of us believed remission from multiple sclerosis was possible. A month ago I was losing function daily. I couldn’t write. I couldn’t carry our toddler. I had exquisite nerve pain almost constantly. I spent the majority of each day in bed. And when it seemed things might be getting better, I started to lose my vision. We prepared ourselves for a rapid decline and a drastic change in our lives.
But I saw my neurologist last week. His optimism forced me to recognize that I was feeling better. I was improving. And over the past few days, I have felt, almost, like the self that I recognize. I didn’t want to say it out loud. I didn’t want to write about it. Not for fear of jinxing it, but because I just wanted to keep this knowledge to myself. It is so beautiful, so precious, that I can only compare it to my newborn babies. Or my marriage. I just wanted to hold it close for a while.
MS remission isn’t like cancer remission. It doesn’t necessarily mean that the signs and symptoms go away . My legs are still tingly, and sometimes a little weak. I still have crushing exhaution. But what remission does mean is that things aren’t getting worse. It means that, right now, my body is not attacking my brain. It might last a few days. It might last a few years. There is no way to know. But right now, my disease is quiet. I am strong.
Last night we went out to dinner to celebrate our anniversary. I asked Jeff if he would still love me if I am in a wheelchair. He looked stunned that I would even ask. “Of course,” he said. If I slur my speech? Of course. If I can’t see? Without a doubt. He is a rock.
This isn’t what he envisioned when he married me. It isn’t what I envisioned. But it is real, and it is good. Very good. Better than I ever imagined.
Happy Anniversary, Jeff.
I love my husband. Even if he did say the other night, “Wow. I didn’t know your warranty was going to run out at 39 years.”
Yes. My warranty. Has evidently, in his view, expired.
I’ll grant you it has not been a good few weeks for me. The sudden and constant and searing pain that is accompanied by slurred speech and an inability to use my dominant hand is definitely a bummer. As are the medications that make me stumble and fall and sleep, say, 15 hours a day and make it ill-advised for me to drive or carry my children. As are the narcotics that didn’t control the pain (I’ve stopped taking them) (and I’d be a terrible addict because, frankly, I just puke too much). As are the bazillions of dollars of medical tests I am undergoing. As was the cavalier mention of something that sounded a whole hell of a lot like “brain tumor” and the tests that I know are for MS (even though the doctors didn’t feel it necessary to share that bit of information). (I don’t think either of these things is the case, incidentally. But, being semi-responsible health-care providers, they have to look.)
I do not fault Jeff for his observation. Even if I could, I don’t. However, it did inspire me to take a look at my out-of-warranty minivan. You know: the one that has two dings in the windshield and a dent in the side and a couple of gaping cracks across the dash and a bum hubcap that makes an alarming sound and (let’s face it) is dirty as hell. I looked at the van. Then I looked at myself in the mirror. And I decided that I could use a little retooling.
My detailing plan didn’t start well. I went to a stupid walk-in place in the mall to get my eyebrows waxed. “Not too thin,” I said. “Just clean them up.” Well. I walked out with eyebrows that looked like they each belong to a different person and are approximately the thickness of quilting thread.
But. That experience will not deter me. I am getting a pedicure (at a reputable salon). Also a haircut. (The haircut is on the same day as the test where they stick actual needles into my actual muscles but I am pretending it will be acupuncture and will correct my energy flow thus making me more beautiful, even if it is supposed to be painful). I haven’t entirely ruled out getting my hair colored. And, even though nobody trusts me to stay conscious at the gym or on a bike ride, I am satisfying myself with the Wii Fit in the safety of my own home just to feel like I’m doing something besides sleeping and waiting for my motorized wheelchair.
I’m shaking my head, because I’m not at all sure we can afford my extended warranty. And at this rate we’ll probably find out next week that I need a new transmission. However, Jeff drove his old Taurus until the mirrors fell off. He’s too tight to get anything new unless it’s absolutely necessary. So I’m pretty sure I’m safe.
The stuff has to be from outer space. It gives me chills. And it’s growing in our front yard. This yellow, spongy fungus stuff is taking over my yard and I’m more than a little scared that it’s going to abduct my children. So I asked Jeff to take some photos of it, so that when the kids go missing we’ll have something to show the FBI as evidence. Simple enough. And when Jeff told me he took the photos, I said “Thanks. I’ll look at them later.”
I checked the camera today, to look at the pictures of the fungus. Turns out he took pictures of some other stuff, too. Lots of other stuff. 359 pictures worth of other stuff, to be exact. Guess who gets to download and sort all 359 of them? It ain’t him, that’s a fact. So it is that I find myself sorting through all his photos today and cursing him under my breath.
But then I stop cursing and just look. Because his photos? Are beautiful.
(This is the yellow stuff in my yard. Is it not creepy?)
And so I sort through the photos and am overwhelmed at the treasures I am finding, at the quiet beauty my quiet husband sees in the world. And I am realizing all over again how much I love him. I’m already feeling sentimental, when I find this picture, and my heart leaps into my throat. Because this makes me happier than I can even imagine being.
And puppydog tails.
Yesterday was like Monday, except it was Tuesday.
To put it all in perspective, my Monday was especially heinous because Jeff had to go back to work after a week of vacation. And then, because it was just a Bad Day that felt like Monday, I had another Monday the very next day. That meant I had two double-plus-sucky Mondays in a row. Sometimes life isn’t fair.
But, back to yesterday. The Monday-that-was-really-Tuesday. By 5:00 (in the evening) I still hadn’t brushed my teeth. If, by the way, you’re a stay-at-home-parent who doesn’t sometimes not brush his or her teeth, do not feel obligated to tell me this in the comments because I already feel like enough of a loser. Anyway. No toothbrushing. Partially due to lack of opportunity, and largely due to bad attitude.
But at five, I got religion and decided to brush. Sadly, though, my 17-month-old is obsessed with toothbrushes and snagged mine before I could stop him. This is the same kid who has had bright green mucous oozing from every orifice and a rattling cough for about 12 days now. This is the kid who, while playing with his blocks yesterday, had an 11-inch string of snot hanging from his nose to the floor. This is the same kid who sneezed up some alarming ectoplasm all over his afternoon snack an hour earlier.
So my snotty kid grabbed my toothbrush and promptly stuck it in his mouth and I could not wrestle it away from him. He had a pretty serious relationship with that thing. By the time I got it away from him, it was dripping and I didn’t have another toothbrush so I just shrugged my shoulders and ran it under some hot water and brushed away. Gross, yes, but it seemed like the lesser of two evils and actually fit the rest of my day pretty well.
But then. Then the day turned around entirely. Jeff came home from work early.
This meant I did not have to scrape together a scrumptious dinner of leftovers for three starving boys by myself. This meant I did not have to wrestle all of them to a Cub Scout meeting alone. This meant I did not have to dig deep and find the stamina to get them all clean and into bed without a partner.
And, mostly, this meant that I got to watch Jeff’s face when I told him that right after our oozing and coughing son molested my toothbrush, he grabbed Jeff’s and did the exact same thing to it. That his tootbrush actually had mucous hanging from it. His reaction was predictably priceless.
My petty misery? Yes, she loves company.
There was a time, long (long) ago, when I had one child. Jeff would go away for days, weeks, even months at a time (depending on where he was doing his anesthesia rotation), and he would leave us to fend for ourselves. Jensen and I spent endless hours together playing and talking and eating and whatever else we did to pass the time. And I was solely responsible for all domestic chores. There were times, during those years, when I thought I had it pretty bad.
It had been a long while since I thought about those one-child days. But then last weekend Jeff took Jensen and Evan camping, leaving Caleb and me behind. I’m not at all averse to camping. This was a Cub Scout adventure though and camping with, like, 52 free-range and very smelly eight-year-olds sounds rather akin to torture. (Oh, as an aside, somehow Jensen’s toothbrush landed in the latrine. The kid has a problem, apparently.) So we stayed home, just Caleb and me, and I had some time to remember when Jensen and I were on our own. And I realized that the single best part about family life may actually be when everyone else is gone. Because that solitude that I used to think was rough? Sometime in the past seven years, it has morphed into a little piece of heaven.
Heaven: for 26 hours, the house was picked up and clean and quiet and peaceful. For 26 hours Caleb was completely content because he had no competition for my attention. For 26 hours there were no dirty dishes on the counters and no stinky unflushed toilets and no dirty laundry in the middle of the kitchen (I know, I don’t get it either) and the lights were all turned off and nobody told me they didn’t like dinner and I didn’t have to tell anyone to turn the tv down and there weren’t dirty shoeprints on the floor. For 26 hours no one undermined my every move.
And then, Jeff came home.
Hee.
The following is an example of why I know, in my heart, that Jeff and I will never get divorced. This discussion took place during dinner preparation the other night.
Me: Man, I really hate this potato masher.
Jeff: Me too. It sucks.
Me: I think we should commit to addressing this problem.
Jeff: Yeah.
Jeff: I’m really glad we had this talk.
Me: throws potato masher in trash can
Seriously, with communication like that, what could ever go wrong?
Never mind the fact that we will probably forget to buy a new potato masher. Never mind the fact that sometime next month one of us will be looking for the potato masher and will snark at the other, “What the hell did you do with the potato masher?!” and the other will respond, “Me? Why is it always me? I didn’t do anything with it. What did you do with it?” And the other will mutter under his/her breath, “Whatever. Screw you.” Never mind the fact that this scenario is a very real possibility.
Okay. But here’s how I really know we’ll never get divorced: that argument won’t matter a bit. We’ll forget to buy a new potato masher for the next 14 months, and we’ll bicker about it. And it won’t matter at all.
People like us, we could put Dr. Phil out of work. Maybe.
Here’s a fun! and easy! way to start the holiday season: a do-it-yourself Christmas card photo shoot! After all, nothing says “festive” like crying children and swearing parents. Want awesome holiday pics like ours? Here’s a foolproof step-by-step guide:
1) Do not plan ahead. This is crucial. Pictures better reflect your kids’ personalities when they’re spontaneous. So spring it on them (and your photographer/husband) with no advanced warning. (Added bonus: your husband will love you for this!)
2) Get the kids completely wound up. This always makes for successful pictures.
5) Bribe kids with leftover Halloween candy that no one wants. Example: “I’ll give you Milk Duds if you stop crying.” It kind of works.
7) “Smile!”
“No, kids, your real smiles.”
10) {sigh} Put away the camera. Tell your husband to stop dropping f-bombs in front of the kids. Open a beer. Consider studying up on Photoshop; after all, with the 54 pictures he just took, there’s gotta be something salvageable. Right?
