Sunday, March 30, 2008

Games


I've been thinking about do-overs. You know when you were a kid and you messed up in a game you called "do-over" and you were granted immediate clemency. You got to do it over. And whether or not you did better, it didn't matter. You felt like you were part of a team because you were granted the do-over. Everyone knew how you felt when you first screwed up and liked you well enough to say, "hey, yeah, let's give her another shot."

I thought about it yesterday when I was sitting at my hair salon and the hairstylist was asking me if I wanted the same color as last time or try something new. I looked at her and thought to myself, who the heck cares what I look like? Certainly not my husband as he sits and stares at a letter. Definitely not my kids. Maybe the guys at Kroger? Nah. Perhaps the guards who sit at the gate to the Army Post? Heck no. So I answered, "It doesn't matter, whatever is easiest." As I sat there dwelling on that cheerful conclusion, I noticed a bottle of shampoo that I was a sucker enough to buy the last time. Only the bottle was different. And there was a big sticker that said, NEW AND IMPROVED!

Now wait a minute. I paid a lot, I mean a lot, for that stupid bottle of shampoo. And now they are saying, "you know, that last bottle...not so good. But THIS bottle!!! THIS bottle, you gotta have! " I wanted a do-over. I wanted to say something to that hairstylist and demand I got that new improved bottle for free. But, I could tell this twenty something girl was not on my team and it just wasn't worth it. I will just have to deal with the less than perfect shampoo sitting in my shower. I was a sucker with no do-over clout.

That was more apparent last night when I was talking to my girlfriend. She and I were talking about how it really stings when we bring the kids to different events and there are daddies everywhere. Yesterday was our first time bringing our boys to a soccer game. Well, there were daddies everywhere you looked. For being a military town, there were plenty of guys playing soccer, or giving pointers to their kids. And it really stings.

I mean, if we noticed it, it makes you wonder how the kids are reacting to the men who are not their Daddy. And as we were talking about this, my friend started crying. You see, her husband has been gone since late September. And he won't be back until the week before Christmas of this year. I didn't have words to comfort her. I just said, "It is just too much. It is just too much."

It is on days like this, you just want to cry: do-over! do-over! Whoever made the decision to have these Daddies, brothers, husbands go to war for a year and three months please please call a do-over. It is just too much. Because it isn't the big events that are straining the wives. It is the little things. It is the spilled milks, the arguing, the flat tires, the wet newspapers, the bugs in the house, the doctor's offices, the middle of the night fevers, the bad dreams, the creaks in the night, the oil changes, the bottles of really really expensive shampoos that we find are not that great and the hair color decisions that we know don't matter because, really- who is looking at us anyway?

I wish I could call a do-over for my dear friend and all the women out there who do both parent's jobs with seemingly no team behind them...but I am just a sucker with no do-over clout.

Thursday, March 27, 2008

Another Bullet


Another allergy has infiltrated our little world. This time it is milk. The other two kids have nut allergies and fish and some other foods. And so I have to go to the pharmacy and pick up another box filled with needles that will potentially save my children's lives if they happen to take a bite of a peanut butter and jelly sandwich or drink a cup of someone's milk.


I started laughing when the doctor came into the room and told me the news. Aidan is allergic to milk. Another allergy. What on earth could we have done to prevent this? I guess if we never met, never fell in love, never married, never had children. Which, obviously, is not a realistic scenario . I was laughing because I was having a conversation in my head to whomever (God, Mary, my grandparents , etc.) would listen right before he walked in. Begging them to just let me have one child that I don't have to worry about. One child that I could send out into the world without wondering if today will be the day he or she will eat a bite of food that will kill him or her.


Apparently no one was listening. Perhaps they are all tired of me making requests and begging for relief. I know I am tired of having to ask. Maybe if my husband makes it through the deployment unscathed, he can be the one to take over the requests. Maybe someone will grant him his wishes.


So I laugh. I cry. I take a deep breath and start going through my cabinets and refrigerator to figure out what foods contain the "bullets" that might kill my kid. I type a long email to my husband giving him the newest bit of news affecting our family. And I sit and wait for the phone to ring in case he was able to get a line out to call home.

Wednesday, March 26, 2008

Searching


I've been in touch with some old friends lately. Some make me want to get back to the good 'ole days and make different choices, take different paths. Now, my old friend pain has been under control with me living on a daily "balance beam" of making sure I don't startle the monster under my skin. But I have to live as normally as possible if for nothing else but making my kids feel like their lives are normal even if Daddy has suddenly left.
One of my friends, living in Los Angeles on the beach in a huge, gorgeous house and who works as a writer on several different shows, is someone I call when I need to hear about a life I could have (tried) to have. The last time we spoke, my kids started screaming in the background and the baby had a poopy diaper, so I told her that I had to go to change a diaper. She replied that she was going to take a walk on the beach. Bitch. (kidding) I started getting melancholy about me diving into a nasty diaper and her diving into the Pacific.

Another friend found out about my condition and remembered our first year in college when I was diagnosed with a "rare" muscle condition that I had to have surgery on. My first Thanksgiving in college was spent recovering from such surgery. I started thinking about the rare things which my body has been subjected. Now, why is it that I have negative rare things? Why can't I be the rarest fairest beauty of the land? No, I have rare conditions and diseases.
I was feeling rather blue about these two points.
Today I had to bring my youngest to the neurologist. He asked me for background information: Was the birth normal? No. Was he hospitalized in the last year? Yes. (OK, getting more depressed) Has anyone in the family been diagnosed with migraines or seizures? Well, now that you mentioned it...

I told him about the Trigeminal Neuralgia and his reaction: ugh. That was his professional opinion. Ugh. If you could describe my mentality at this point it would be a picture of Linus from the Peanuts drooping his head and dragging his blanky. I was just blah. Between me and my condition and my friends and their observations and great lives, I was just on the edge of depression. And then two events happened.

The neurologist said: I only wish that all of the kids that come into my office could look as good as yours. It might not sound like much to anyone else, but to me it was like a light being turned on. I was so expecting another radical diagnosis with major events to follow. It seems that is the case whenever we go to the doctor these days. But it wasn't. My son was close to perfect, and the doctor thought so too.

The second event occurred well after we arrived home. My parents had taken my older two to their house to give me a couple of days off. I had been feeling quite alone and out of control of the pain (the twinges were starting again), and thinking about the rareness of my conditions, etc. And then the phone rang. My daughter was on the other end saying good night to me, her voice cracking, "I miss you Mommy".

She missed me. She knows nothing about the dreams I have about being a writer. She knows nothing about the pain (thank God). She just knows she loves me, pure and simple. And it is that pure, simple love which is the rarest thing in the world, that I will hang on to when I start doubting my life.

So I will pick up my Linus blanky, tame the monster under my skin, and love my kids more each day. Because for now, that seems to be the cure for anything.


Monday, March 24, 2008

52 Weeks


As my kids lay around in a sugar hangover and I am still batting away their requests for more chocolate, more jelly beans, more more more (thank you Easter bunny!) I start thinking about how I need to get back into shape. Pre-children shape would be ideal, but even back to after-the-first-child kind of shape. (why does everything just get lower and wider after a child or two?) Given the fact that I have had three children in five years any kind of shape besides the one I am in now would be great.



I am giving myself until my hubby gets home. So I went and bought some DVDs. I do belong to a gym that I did go to on a regular basis until "the pain" started. Not only did that prevent me from going, but my youngest kept getting these awful, nasty colds and I swear it was from there. Good excuses, but still not in shape.



The DVDs were kickboxing aerobic exercises. Three different levels, three different instructors. The first one was a nice girl/woman who was very compassionate towards women who have babies at home. I mean honestly, unless you can grab forty-five minutes while the baby is sleeping to do this routine, you have a child under your feet while you are trying to do the jumps, jabs and squats. That is what someone should make: an exercise that incorporates the Mommy jumping around the children who are climbing up her legs and crawling around her feet. Now one, two, three squat, pick up the baby, lift him in the air and down, two three four.



Speaking of which, during the entire routine I am breathing (like she requested in a nice but stern manner: I better hear you counting, that is how you know your breathing! Do people not know? Are there a group of people out there who don't know if they are breathing unless they are counting? And... how is she going to hear me? Will she take it out on the girls behind her who are dutifully keeping count while she is yelling at me?) and I am keeping count, but it kinda sounds like labor breathing. You know: whooone whatwo whathree, and I look over at my 11 month old and realize, that is how he is going to learn how to speak and count! He will have a speech impediment because I am exercising. Another good excuse, no?



So after looking at my 11 month old and deciding we can just send him to a speech therapist if need be, I focus on what the Breathing Marshall (cute girl/woman on TV screen) is saying as she is doing more toe touches, now we all know how hard it is to get your body back after a baby, right girls? The women behind her nod and smile and they continue counting, Darla had her baby 13 weeks ago! And she nods towards a woman who is quite normal looking. Sandy has had two children! Sandy was definitely buff, but I decided her children were probably teenagers so she has had plenty of time to work out. I was beginning to feel quite OK with myself. Hey, I just had a baby too! It is OK for me to be like this. I am starting a workout routine, so I am OK here. Then: And I just had a baby 10 weeks ago! From the Nazi bleach blond Counting Marshall (the evil girl/woman on screen.)



I stared at the TV as I am punching the imaginary hanging bag. 10 weeks ago? She was perfect. Oh, I hated her. I had my kid (doing math in my head) almost 52 weeks ago. I switch to front kicks, and breathe with a ferocity that makes my almost 52 week old son look up at me and smile. Just like the happy women on the screen.

I am counting and breathing and kicking and scowling.


And I have two more DVDs to go.

Friday, March 21, 2008

High Five


I wonder if God gets tired of his "children" (us) asking questions. You know the kinds of questions we all ask from time to time. Are you listening? Can you give me a miracle? Do you hear our prayers? etc.


Because I am tired of my children asking me impossible questions! I have given up on trying to answer them with any clarity. Now I just stare at them and throw any answer in which I can use a complete sentence. Some samples of the questions I got at 11pm last night from my four year old (who should have been sound asleep -- as should I):




Mommy does Jesus like chocolate bunnys and jelly beans?
My answer: yes, I believe he did. Go to bed.


Why did everyone hold their palms up for Jesus? Were they giving him a high five?

My answer: yes, I believe they were. Go to bed.


Did the Easter Bunny die on the cross too?
My answer: yes he did (just kidding folks)

My answer: no, the Easter Bunny is coming to our house unless you don't go to sleep.


I know, I know. Not the greatest way to handle the situation. I should have brought out the bible or something. But I am tired. Tired of fielding these impossible questions. Here are some more gems from the last week:


Mommy, what is above outer space?

Me: Well...I think it is just gas and matter (my mind is racing at this point...)HEAVEN! Heaven is above outer space! (I was VERY proud I came up with this kid friendly answer)


Did Jesus go to outer space then?

Me: Yes. (My poor kid. I can see his mental image of Jesus in a space suit flying by the moon to get to Heaven. I have ruined him.)


Why did the Roman Soldiers kill Jesus? Isn't Daddy a soldier? Is he Roman?

Me: (internally whining...why does he do this when we are in the car and I am trapped) Ok. They weren't very nice and they didn't like Jesus talking to all of the people of Rome. Yes, Daddy is a soldier. No he is not Roman. (where is this going?)


Mommy, is Daddy fighting the bad guys in Iraq because they don't like Jesus talking to all of the people?

Me: well... (wow. my kid is a genius! he just summed up two thousand years worth of strife in the middle east! ) you see...Daddy is....

Mommy can I watch a show?


End conversation. Thank God. And by the way God, while we are at it, thanks for listening to all of my questions. I am sure they aren't easy to answer either.





Tuesday, March 18, 2008

Calamity Jane


As I sit here on a balmy seemingly Spring night (though it is only March), I am almost relaxed. I say almost because there is a Tornado Watch out for my area of the world. Another tornado. Which my kids know means we have to go under the house. Not the basement, but literally under the house. We do not have a basement. You would think we would have a basement since we seem to get more tornadoes every year than sunny days, but we do not.

So I am not relaxed because if the weather alarm starts shrilling this weird ring that sounds like it is underwater, I have to somehow run upstairs (another annoying trait about this house that we rent- yes we are old and we rent- it's a military thing - the master is on the first floor)and grab three (three!) sleeping children, the safe with all of our documents, helmets and my diaper bag and - get this- go outside, down my deck stairs to a crawl space door, open the door and bending over crawl into the crawl space. They call it a crawl space for a reason. You can't stand up. Now picture all of this with lightning, hail and thunder with three screaming, crying kids who won't even leave the house unless they have "Bear" and "Ellie" (their loveys).

Once we are in the crawl space (under my kitchen), we sit in a tent that my husband set up before he left. We have wind up flashlights ,water, you name it. It is a regular party! And we wait. And wait. And then the questions start.

"Mommy, when is the tornado going to come?"
"Mommy, I have to go pee pee can I go in my diaper?"
"Mommy, is our house going to blow away?"
"Mommy, I am done now, can we go upstairs?"
"Mommy, why did God make tornadoes?"

Which is a very good question. I will add that one to my list of questions for Him.

What they don't have is a way to let everyone know they can come out of their hiding places. They have a blaring horn to warn you to take cover, but nothing to say, hey...come on out, it's safe. I usually call my family and ask them to tune in to the weather channel to see if we are safe or not. At least my cell phone works under the house. (There's a concept for a commercial: strung out mom with bed head sitting in her tornado shelter with three crying kids and her house blowing away but her cell phone has all the bars.)

Like everything else in my life right now, I have to plan what we are going to do way before we do it. For instance, by the back door as I write this, lie two tiny Crocs (the shoes my husband hates), a bag of helmets, the safe and my diaper bag. If I could lay the children there I would.

I think planning ahead is a survival tool for me right now. Even at night, right before I fall asleep, I plan my every move if someone were to break in: wake up,grab phone, dial 911, drop phone, get gun, sit at door like those chicks in those CSI shows, with the gun held near my shoulder, and blow the guy away once he steps in my view. That is my plan. What would actually happen: wake up, shake like crazy, search for phone, trip over laundry pile, try to open gun safe but hands are shaking too much, get it open eventually, creep into hallway, see the guy, pee in my pants and start shooting like a crazy person who just got out from under the house with three kids, a bear and a stuffed elephant.

I guess there is my back up plan. I can go back to relaxing.

Monday, March 17, 2008

Can You Hear Me?


This one goes out to all of the military wives out there who suddenly get overcome with sadness, fear and loneliness at or around 9:30PM (or in our language 2130.) Now because we are on duty 24 hours a day with the military brats, we can't exactly show signs of weakness or fear. No, we take it to the showers. Literally. We cry and stomp and just let the hot water run out as our frustrations do. It is our only place to let go without the kids witnessing us.

I have talked to several military wives who attest to this. Where else can we vent? (besides our blogs of course) The windows of our SUVs or minivans are not dark enough. The phone calls that we may get from our husbands are so sporadic and delayed, by the time you actually hear him say "I'm fine...it's you with the hard job" the line is cut. (And to any guy who may be reading this, that line doesn't work. First of all, we know you aren't "fine" and second of all, we know we have the harder job. Stop rubbing it in.)

The "support" groups that are offered are a nice idea, but everyone is so gung-ho about being the strong woman, it is almost like no one wants to fess up to being a crying, sniffling ball of wuss that we are allowed to be from time to time (as long as it takes place in the shower).

When I am having a day like I did today: the kids are fighting every two minutes, (I don't like you anymore and Mommy, so and so pinched me, etc.) the baby is just non-stop crying (why? why? why? I have offered everything to make him stop from Cheerios to his favorite toys and he just keeps going and going), and every single room I just spent a half hour cleaning, the kids go right into and manage to mess up even worse than it looked before I cleaned it. (Does anyone else hate Sundays?) I start imagining my husband and his job.

Now you would think that I would straighten myself up and pull myself together and say, "He's doing a good thing out there, so I must hold up the home front" or something like that. No. I get mad. I get so mad that I want to just punch someone. But then I remember my friends whose husbands are over there for a year and a half. For the third time in a row. I mean do the kids even remember their dads at that point? It is too much.

So I know some strong, resilient, tough women who happen to be military wives and moms. We have our moments, some good, some bad. We wait until the 2100 hour to allow ourselves our weakness to wash off of us and whirl down the drain. Then we wait for the next phone call from our guys whom we may or may not hear before the line gets cut off.

Saturday, March 15, 2008

Squiggly Thoughts


Here are some things that I never want to do again:

1. Deliver food, plates, a toy and compassion to a new widow and her baby girl. Especially when she asks me to do the impossible task of bringing the rest of the guys home. I brought a toy for the baby and it played a song when tipped over. I often wonder if that sound now brings back that awful time in the widow's life and it makes me regret giving it to her.

2. Go into labor at home and have my wonderful husband drive me to the hospital. Picture this: I am literally screaming out in pain while he is obeying EVERY traffic law. Stop signs. Red lights. THE SPEED LIMIT. Dropping me off at the entrance while he parked the car. Aidan would have been born in the front seat of the Jeep or the front of the hospital had he not gotten stuck. Bad for me, good for hubby.

3. Live in a country that I don't know the language. As much as I love my dear friends Luba and Milan, I was so very lonely in Slovakia. Add being a new mom on top of that, and you get a whole bunch of worry to add to the loneliness. There are many stories along these lines that I will have to write about at another time.

4. Move. I know this will not come true, but it should only be two or three or four more times right? sigh

5. See my brain on film. A surreal experience. The neurologist was explaining the results and findings of my MRI and all I could hear was: "...no lesions...blah blah blah...no masses found...blah blah...no Multiple Sclerosis" I was mesmerized by the fact that I was literally staring at the squiggly things that were my brain matter. Part of me was fascinated. Part of me was completely weirded out that THAT thing was sitting in my head.

So those were the five things that I do not want to ever do again. I am sure I will add to my list in due time and I am sure I have forgotten many moments in my life that I should have listed. Like my Goth days. Okay that was number 6.

Thursday, March 13, 2008

These Are the Days of My Life

Ahh yes. The day of reckoning. Tomorrow I will meet with the doctor who has seen inside of my head (my husband is surely jealous!) What did she find? What will she do? Did the ink color my brain a suspicious color? Is there a mass of something that I am not aware of? What exactly is pressing on the nerve in my head? (The nerve of it!) Tune in this time tomorrow to find out the answers to all of these questions and more. I am sure you are all waiting with bated breath. As am I.

Tuesday, March 11, 2008

Fried

When you are acting as a single mom as I am right now, the moments with the kids that you can sit back and enjoy them are few and far between. Mostly, you are running around like a crazed banshee picking things up off the floor, the ceiling fans, the counters. Or you are cleaning people's tushies (is that the plural of tushy?) and scraping food off of the table, floor and that ever disgusting highchair. (How is it the highchair that once sat at the store with gleaming plastic, the pad so smooth and the straps so soft and supple- nary a crumb on them- is suddenly a festering slime magnet with straps that you can't even adjust anymore due to the amount of goo that has hardened under the buckles?) But I digress.

So I had an almost moment. I had a moment of commercial-worthy mothering. Me, pouring a cup of hot water (without shaking!) and reaching up to get the honey with a smile on my face. The baby playing on the floor -which I just mopped thank you!- with some fridge toys. I could almost hear the director yelling cut! Perfection!

Then - reality hits. The honey drops on the floor, the lid cracks off and after bouncing a few times, drips into a puddle. Next, the box of tea will not open and the perfect baby will not stop pushing play on the fridge toy that has possibly the most annoying song on earth. Finally, the actress playing me (me) picks baby up and promptly walks right into the puddle of honey that accumulated on the floor.

Four hours later the actress playing an annoyed, tired and irritated mother (me) finally gets back to her cup of now cold water. Just when single parenting feels like it just doesn't get any better and I want to pack it in and walk away, I look up and see my eleven month old steal, then eat, his first french fry.

And it is those moments,so tiny, few and far between that keeps this mom (me) going.



Sunday, March 9, 2008

Angels in the Snow


Is there nothing quite as humbling as a little boy's tracks in the snow? As I run around the house cleaning and putting away laundry -- racing against a nonexistent clock-- I stopped to watch my four year old son playing outside. I kept my eye on him, he was jumping on the snow filled trampoline. But what caught my eye were his tracks.

You could tell where he started and when I followed them, it amazed me. Up and down and across logs and trees, over the fence, down to where the woods started at the edge of our yard and back up to the deck. It was pure curiosity that fueled my child. It was ten degrees outside and I thought for sure he would be back within two minutes, but he was out there still...jumping away on the frozen, snow filled trampoline.

When does that disappear in one's life? If I have fifteen minutes to look at a magazine, I feel I am enjoying life. But I am not. Curiosity and pure abandonment is the joy of life isn't it? Jumping over logs to see if there is a puddle to splash...now that is joy. Not having five minutes to drive to the nearest drive-through.

Watching him, I understood more my husband. He never grew out of that stage. His tracks took him into a profession that allows him to jump over, through and on any mission he is sent. His curiosity allows him to learn many languages and his abandonment of anything routine gives him the chance to get on his own trampoline in life.

I wish I hadn't given up my tracks in the snow. I am not sure when it happened, but it did. I now come inside after two minutes, thinking about something or someone that needed my attention. I guess watching my son and my husband allows for me to live life in a way that I perhaps once did. I follow their tracks in the snow with my watchful eyes and they wave from the distance.

Friday, March 7, 2008

Majors and Minors

Isn't it strange when other people know more about the major parts of your life before you do? Like when you get an ultrasound and the technician knows not only the sex of your baby, but if there is something wrong with him/her and for a brief moment, if there is more than one.

I feel like there are several people all over the world that know more about me and my family than I do, and it is so disconcerting. Last night I got a phone call from an institution (that I can't name) that was trying to verify something my husband had done. Well, I was no help since I don't know where said husband is nor do I know what he is doing. And the person on the other end of the phone did. I felt like asking her, "C'mon, just between us ladies...give me a hint" But I held back.

It was so weird to be talking to someone who knows more about my husband than I do at the present time; I am sure if I talk to my brother-in-laws they could tell me things about my husband from the past that I don't know and don't want to know. That is an entirely different topic.

And on a smaller level whenever my kids are with other people- whether it is in their cars, houses,or classrooms- I don't know how they behave. I hope to God they are sweet, kind and polite but come on. I am sure they have many moments of being a 4year old and a 3 year old. People are just too nice to tell me.

And then there are the doctors. And for me, it is one doctor in particular that is holding the key to the next few months if not years of my life. I sit here and wonder what she is doing tonight. Is she watching shows that her TIVO recorded? Is she practicing in front of her mirror how she will tell me, "Well Eileen, the findings are, yes you have MS." And then she hears the music from American Idol starting and forgets all about me. (Why I am picturing this highly intelligent woman acting like a fifteen year old I don't know)

So I sit here and wonder how many people in our lives know something we don't about ourselves, our families, our country, our world. And do we want to know? I am still debating that. For now I have to go watch Rock of Love 2 and forget about what I don't know for a while.

Wednesday, March 5, 2008

Whale Watching


So the other night I dreamt that I was being chased by a whale. If I was in the water, it was there underneath the raft. If I was on dry land, it would dive after me and somehow reach me in the pine trees that I had run into. This massive "whale"-- it was black and faceless and tubular-- was invisible to everyone else. In this dream I was hiding behind a pine tree and waiting for it to go away.

Now it doesn't take a psych degree to figure out the whale is representing all of the problems in my world right now...chasing me, etc. But yesterday when I was walking into the cold, sterile and metal-filled room for my MRI, I got a chill. The MRI was definitely tubular. The students that were sitting around and taking notes on God knows what (we hadn't started yet, were they writing about me? "nervous patient, overweight, bad hair, not enough makeup") were definitely faceless in a no- bedside-manner way.

The forty-five minute procedure was pretty tough. My head was in a cage, my ears plugged and dye was injected into my arm. As the dye traveled into my blood stream I had an instant memory of childhood: chewing on a pen and having the ink explode into my mouth. My eyes were closed and after a few seconds all I could see was blue in my eyelids.

When the bings and bongs and electric grindy noises started I knew that the whale had finally caught up to me. I started to panic, fighting the urge to scream out. Then my wedding ring started vibrating and pulling at my finger. I began to calm down and think straight, I can get through this. People are out there pulling for me and everything was going to be ok. Breathe.

I may still be hiding behind the pine tree but I know that the doctors, my friends and family know what is lurking behind me and they are going to help get rid of it.

Monday, March 3, 2008

Monsters Under Our Beds

Last night my three year old snuck into my bed. I remember seeing her standing on my husband's now empty side (why I don't take up the whole bed and sleep in the middle I don't know) and throwing the blankets back. She crawled in and slept the rest of the night there. No words were exchanged...they weren't needed.

Don't you wish you could climb into your parent's bed again? There are big fluffy pillows,the rythmic sounds of adults sleeping, no bad dreams and no monsters under the bed. Mom and Dad were super heros...albeit sleepy ones. I am scared to death that my children might view me as a super hero.

I wonder what I am going to do when they find out that the monsters are still under my bed. They are called worried, anxious and scared. What if my monsters start to wake me?

Sunday, March 2, 2008

Little Moments

Today was a day of small happenings. Our world, meaning me and the kids, got enclosed. After my sister left I sat at the kitchen table thinking about how much our daily lives have changed in a matter of 72 hours.

Little things like pulling into the driveway and seeing his Jeep and forgetting for the tiniest of minutes that he isn't here. Or opening a cabinet and seeing his favorite chips. Getting the mail and seeing his magazines. The last bit of laundry with his clothing still clinging to mine. (I was thinking of keeping one item in the laundry basket just to have it appear every other day...) Having the baby on my hip-- him in a onesie covered in yellow slime droppings of sweet potato and corn-- and lugging the garbage can out to the curb.

But the worst little moments come from the kids. Sudden bursts of sheer sadness -- me thinking they have a wound of some sort -- them sobbing, "I miss Daddy" I am so caught off guard by these that I stumble for the right words. Or hearing them upstairs yell out "Daddy!" when I open the garage door and the alarm beeps (His usual entering spot after work)...no guys just me, coming in from garbage duty.

So we have made it through a couple of days. Only a few months to go. I am already babied out, I am already done with trying to cook for such picky people. I am already so tired of changing the sheets on the crib.

I am already done trying to explain to the three and four year old that he isn't coming back for a while. So instead I try to fill their little heads with other little thoughts, while mine is always thinking of him.