Saturday, July 30, 2011

Wanderlust and Pixie Dust

When I see a girl with two full arms of tattoos, I occasionally get a feeling not unlike wanderlust. The pull of being somewhere, something, and someone else. 

Often I think about the path my life is on, and how I ended up here. Please don't misunderstand, I really like where I am. Looking back at all the stupid, irresponsible and dangerous things I've done seeking a thrill, it's a small miracle I've ended up in such a stable place. 

Last night as I was leaving the grocery store at 9, my glamourous Friday evening coming to a close, the clouds overhead were low and fluffy-puffy swollen. The sky was edging towards darkness, glimmers of pink and orange and blue fading in the west.  I nearly stopped as I pushed my loaded cart across the steaming parking lot and asked aloud, "Is this all a dream? Is this really my life?" Always I figured this is where I'd end up, but actually arriving at this point in my life is a bit more surreal than I'd thought it would be.

Lately I've been a bit of a voyeur, clicking through vacation and jet-setting pictures on the FB. I have one friend who seemingly lives a life of leisure, partying and traveling with zero cares. It stuns me every time. Really? And how did this become your life?

Just as much as I look around me and wonder how this is mine. Mother of two beautiful boys and one beautiful dead girl. Me? This is my reality? Grocery shopping on Friday night, playground playdates and zoo trips sprinkled throughout the week, peanut butter and jelly lunches and two-man baths each night. It's mine. 

I'll sometimes wish for a little magic, a chance to pop out of my life, briefly. To travel without a thought for who's at home, for dinner at midnight, for tattoos on both arms, for an ashram, for something other than ordinary. 

We all know how that math goes, though: if I'd chosen that path so long ago, I wouldn't be here. And I so very much like it here. 

Monday, July 18, 2011

For 20 Years From Today

Dear E,

When you're sitting around with your friends, or your therapist, or whoever, talking about how your mother was some sort of Type-A lunatic who put you in time out for unrolling the toilet paper, I mean hey man it's only toilet paper, please refer to this epistle for the rest of your story.

You did not receive time out for unrolling the toilet paper, per se.

It's not because I especially like toilet paper.
It's not because we can't afford more.
It's not because now I have to go get another roll and put it in the bathroom, another trip up and down the stairs with 20+ pounds of human in tow.
It's not because I don't find it absolutely fucking hilarious finding you sitting on the toilet, surrounded by a mountain of unravelled absorbent paper, while you are fully engrossed in and enjoying the task you've undertaken--because it's a pretty damn funny, and might I add cute, sight to behold.

No, none of these earned you time out, although I don't appreciate wasting things.

It's because when I've already told you 861 times before to NOT unroll the toilet paper, and then you insist on doing it again, I've just about reached my limit.

Mommy/Mom/Crazy Lady Holding the Acre of Unused Toilet Paper

Sunday, July 17, 2011

A Midsummer Afternoon's Post


I know.

Mid-July and not a peep for the month yet, huh? Dude, I've been busy.

You may ask yourself, "How exactly does a stay-at-home-parent REALLY expect me to believe she's totally swamped? She STAYS. AT. HOME."

Exactly. Things just come up all the time and then the dog's paws need wiping and then someone's behind needs wiping and then it's dinnertime and boom, it's bedtime and then I'm too tired to write or it's the no-computer time or something.

So anyway, hello.

Also this: I keep thinking about last summer. When I was newly out from Calla's death and pregnant with O. I couldn't bring myself to do much more than turn on "Yo Gabba Gabba" and sit on the couch while E danced and sang and told me not to bite my friends.

Like I could have mustered enough energy to bite anyone.

I did the bare minimum, parent-wise, last summer. I was sad and uncomfortable and anxious and, pre-airconditioning that we now have, really, really hot. I mean, E was well-fed and clothed and cleaned, had plenty of books and toys and shows and games to keep him happy. And I could entertain him enough, could read the stories and do the voices and cook the dinners. I was, however, a bit of a basketcase behind his back.

So I phoned it in. And all of a sudden this year E had his third birthday and the same summer festivals and parties and concerts are rolling around and I'm all, "Wait. How did I miss this last year?" So I've decided to do as much as I possibly can with the boys, and with C as a family, all day and on the weekends and at nighttime--even if that's just running around the yard or taking a bike ride or whatever. Because I missed so much last year. I was living with my hands covering my eyes and ears, rocking in the corner muttering, "I can't believe she died, oh please let him live," over and over and over.

It pretty much sucked, and I was not the most fun mother on earth.

All this to say, I've been busy. But happy, because I wake up and think to myself, "Homey, I can DO this."

We've been taking the boys on bike rides through the cemetery. It's right across the street, pretty much, from our house, and it is beautiful. It's super hilly and quiet and once you're in, you'd never know you're in the middle of the city. We've found some old parts where the stones date back to the mid 1700s. And then there's the deer who we see now and then. He's curious and cute and it's like a real-live game of Where's Waldo?--he blends. Baby O refuses to keep his helmet on in the trailer, so our rides are frequently punctuated with me freaking out and adjusting his helmet, only to have him yank it off four seconds later. It's a process.

We stop at Calla's spot--it's a nice hill where E can run up and down and burn off some energy. There was an open grave nearby once when we went, so of course most of my energy was spent keeping him far from it. I tried explaining why we were there, whose name was on the stone. He was far more interested in the truck that lowers the casket into the earth. So he's not really ready yet.

(I'm making this sound like we were frolicking as a funeral and burial were going on feet from us--don't worry, that wasn't the case. We were alone--except for the truck and its driver.)

I think people sometimes confuse my ability to function as a normal person with being, ahem, "all better now." Yes, we have our beautiful baby O, too--clearly another marker of someone who's completely healed, right?


I mean, yes, of course, things are far better than they were eighteen months ago. (But even just writing that, "eighteen months ago," it could be eighteen seconds or eighteen decades ago.) The hole in our lives is not the raw, ragged, gaping maw it once was. But it's still a hole. She's still dead and always will be. Calla's still our daughter, still E and O's sister, who is not with us. And that will always hurt.

But it's strange, being a year and a half out from her birth. I've met new people; they don't know. And I'm mostly OK with that. But there are days when I want to scream, "What about HER?! I have a daughter and she's dead and I'm sad and I MISS HER and you don't even KNOW IT!"

That would make things all about me though, wouldn't it?

Every night before I go to sleep I sneak into the boys' rooms and give kisses and whispers and just feel their chests rise and fall. I listen to them breathe and imagine what they're dreaming. Now that E is in a big boy bed I can kneel next to it and, if I'm careful, put my ear against his chest and listen to his heartbeat. For these tiny moments I am ever so grateful.

Last night I gave myself a good cry, long overdue and possibly facilitated by the red wine I had before bed. I have Calla's pink knit cap under my pillow, and it's been there for eighteen months. I try to hold it in my hand all night long, but I keep it between the pillows in case I roll over or lose my grip.  And last night it made me sad that all I get for her goodnights is some donated yarn, the only thing I have--not packed away-- that touched her. No kisses, no dreaming, and definitely no heartbeat.

Life may get easier, but living without her never does.