Happy Birthday, Baby

My baby, Three, turns two tomorrow. Happy second birthday to my sweet boy with precious perfect pink lips and round sweet cheeks and a Buddha belly and silly words and a huge smile and quick humor and a love for cuddles.

I will be deluging you tomorrow with photos.

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This is a Song for My Sons

This is a song for you, to carry in your pocket
take all our love with you in all the paths you walk in
I can’t say your life will always go like it should
but I can say that God is always good

and when the cold wind blows like I know it will
and when you feel alone like I know you will
and when the cold wind blows like we know it will

Don’t let your love grow
Don’t let your love grow
Don’t let your love grow cold

– Sara Groves, “Song for my Sons”

I just said good-bye to my babies. Sometimes it’s easier, this was harder. One turns 7 in about 10 days (my New Year’s Eve baby), and he’s really feeling angry and is full of a mixture of glad to see me and really pissed off. When they were leaving, he turned around and pushed Two with all his might. I called him over, he refused to come and I had to pull the Mommy card.

Me: One. Come here now.
One: NO WAY!
Me: I am STILL your mother and you will STILL listen to me and respect me. 1….2….3.
One came over and gave me all kinds of angry face and body. I told him,

Me: I understand that you feel all kinds of stuff – angry, sad, mad, disappointed,  but it is NOT okay to hurt your brother. I love you, and it’s okay that you feel any of those feelings, baby.

He just twisted and pulled away and tried to combust the world with his anger. I grabbed him again and enveloped him a hug, and he fought with all his wiry, long, lengthy and angry might.

Me: It’s okay, bud. It’s okay that you’re angry. I love you. This sucks bad. I’m angry too. This sucks. Say it with me. THIS SUCKS!
One: NO!
Me: THIS SUCKS! I hate this!
One: I HATE YOU! <tries to punch me>
Me: I hear you! It’s okay. You can be angry all you want. This sucks.
One: YOU SUCK! <punches and kicks with all his might>
Me: I love you, and my love is always going to be there, and be bigger than your anger, and I will still be here. I’m not going to leave you. Ever.

And he was gone like smoke.

The mother-in-law came back in, to fetch something One forgot and she had written something down on an envelope, in all her shakey, ragey, terrifed emotion. It said,

Maybe it’s good that you see the pain and anger of your children so you don’t ever do this again.

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Performance Anxiety

As one can imagine, taking photographs is strictly verboten around this joint. There may or may not have been a few snapped by The Caddy when the kiddos were here this last weekend, and I’ve used those to look at on my desk and remember their visit here and feel close to them when I’m so lonely for them.

When my parents were here last weekend, my mother took a few photos of me in the outside gazebo (where I have suddenly taken up smoking, apparently), with her face mashed into mine, in varying poses. Yesterday, I received an influx of messages in my email, and was able to quickly check my text messages – under, of course, the watchful eye of a minder, to make sure I didn’t drink it, or something – and had also received a veritable flood of concerned texts from friends. Jenny (hi Jenny!) called to enlighten me as to the source of the concern.

For an unknown reason, my mother posted the photo of she and me with mashed faces on her Facebook profile. The caption reads something close to, “I hope [my daughter] knows how much I loved her and what a difference she made to me. I REALLY hope it matters to her and that she knows somehow how much she taught me about how to love.” Or something. Apparently, I’m dead. She also, directly adjacent, posted a photo of her and Two, and captioned it, “My Two”.

So, after about 18 hours of consideration, discussion and reflection, I am ready to confront her about the photo and the post. I am currently in deliberation about the best way – for ME – to do it. Email? Phone? (*eeeeeeeek!!!!*), what am I trying to convey? What is my point? What do I want to accomplish? Oh dear Lord, I am terrified, but I am also angry, and pushing past the fear to reclaim my boundaries.

Trust me when I say I will update you.

UPDATE:

I spoke with our family therapist point person, and I have put in an email to the mother, asking if she’s free for a (refereed) phone call tomorrow at 4 pm. I already have stomach issues. I can do this. It won’t kill me. I can do this.

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Dynamite Family

We had a class on Family Dynamics yesterday. It was based on interdisciplinary theory of systems, in which the prevailing thought is that

Family therapy is based on family systems theory, in which the family is viewed as a living organism rather than just the sum of its individual members. Family therapy uses systems theory to evaluate family members in terms of their position or role within the system as a whole. Problems are treated by changing the way the system works rather than trying to fix a specific member. Family systems theory is based on several major concepts.

—http://www.answers.com/topic/family-therapy-2

So, it appears, I’m taking one for the team. My mother and father came to visit over the holidays, as well as my husband and the kids, and that was an unexpected opportunity for growth. Then again, around here, going pee is an opportunity for growth.

My mother and father have been married 36 years, and, the night before I went to university, began a process of separating and reuniting that would continue through at least the next 9 years. My father is in recovery for alcohol and prescription drug addiction, and my mother … well, my mother. I still don’t have a neat, pat descriptor for her. Growing up, it was impossible to separate how I felt from how she felt, due to her inability to allow me to have my own emotions and reactions. The clinical term for that relationship is enmeshment, and I have been fighting against that since I left for college. A healthy relationship is when two people are in the middle ground between enmeshed and detached. With my mom, the relationship is firmly in the enmeshed camp. I remember a particularly honest fight we had over the phone when I was in college, in which I hollered at her, “It feels like you want to live in my skin!” That has never changed.

They were both in town here on Thursday night, and came to eat dinner with me that evening. My father has been here a few times, and it was her first visit. She spent her time being involved in deep conversation about my recovery, my wellness plan, and her role in it with our head nurse. Then she suddenly showed up with copies of all my paperwork, course work and the plan I’ll be following. They had planned to return for lunch yesterday (Friday) and stay for a while, but my father called me in the mid-morning to tell me they might not make it until later in the afternoon. And then I heard my mother in the background, “Tell her to get me a wahwahwahwah…”

Me: “A what?”
Dad: *sigh* “I don’t know.  Get her something. Some information about something.”
Me: “Oh.”
[background] Mom [irritable]: “wahwahwahwahWAHWAHwahwah!”
Dad: *heavier sigh* “She wants you to get her information about a codependent recovery plan or wellness … thing.”
Me: “…for her?”
Dad: “Yyyyyyyep. (eye roll and tense jaw implied)
Me: “…here?”
Dad: “Yyyyyyyep.”
Me: “Huh. Well. No.”
Dad: “Thank you.”
Me: “That’s not something that’s under my particular umbrella at this moment, since I’m in, you know, recovery for myself. So if she wants that, she can ask for it from the facility herself.”
Dad: “Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.”

You won’t be surprised when I tell you that they didn’t show up yesterday.

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The Kids Are All Right

I got to see my babies! What a treat. The Caddy is, I think, pretty intensely furious with me, as evidenced by his actions and his responses when I start pushing for information and explanation for said actions. Yesterday was Thanksgiving here in the US of A, and he took the kiddos to visit his parents. Happily, his parents live in the same city in which is located my facility, so I anticipated seeing them fairly often, thinking that he was on the same page, as he had led me to believe.

Apparently not. However, I did get to see them yesterday for a couple of hours, and they are lovely. They were so loving and sweet. Three just launched right into it like I’d never been gone, Two came at me to “nuggle” (his variation of snuggle) and wouldn’t leave my side much, and broke down over every little thing that didn’t go exactly his way, and One just ran around and always stayed about arm’s-length from me. That was hard. I asked him if he’s been working really hard to make sure everyone feels okay, and he said yes. I reminded him that his one job while I’m gone is to feel how he feels and to talk about how he feels. No more, no less.

Overall, though, it appears that they are doing better than I thought. And I just found out from my mother last night that The Caddy is considering staying home the whole time, which is absolutely amazing and unexpected. If nothing else with The Caddy, at the very least, he will be expanding and growing in his role as a father in unimaginable ways, and I am so glad for the kids for that.

I have to go talk about my family dynamics, what fun.

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Mom, Interrupted

So, guess where I am?

No. Guess.

Really!

One hint: I’m not on a tropical island with my husband, babies at home in the care of a loving relative. Okay, another hint: I’m not at home crafting glue-and-glitter ornaments to use as homemade gift tags for perfectly chosen and wrapped Christmas gifts. Nor am I busily prepping ingredients for a pecan pie to take to the in-laws house for Thanksgiving dinner. Nor am I fretting over the laundry.

Because I’m in the nervous hospital. That’s right.

The nuthouse.

The fun palace.

The mental asylum.

I’m gathered with all my fellow nutters who can’t do life on life’s terms in order to “adopt a mentalizing stance” and “develop a well thought out Wellness and Recovery plan”, to “work through the steps of the recovery process” and to apply my “learning by practicing new behaviors within the therapeutic milieu”.

They keep telling me that I’m not a dropout, or a failure, or broken, that everyone goes through struggles, and that most people either have done this or should do this, and that I’m somehow a stronger person (than some ephemeral other, I guess) because I chose to check into this joint and learn better coping skills.

I just know that I miss my kids, and I miss my bed, and I miss my home and I miss my kids. I miss them so much. One cried last night when I talked to them, Two won’t talk about it, and Three just repeats, “Mom? Mom? Mom? Mom? Mom?” into the phone over and over again. Please, send healing thoughts and prayers and sacrifice a chicken or whatever you do or believe for my precious babies. They don’t deserve this.

We have a certain amount of freedom, since this is a voluntary facility, so I should get to blog a bit along the way. Recently, a friend read my blog and suggested that I “need a hook” to set my blog apart so people would read it. I guess I have one. I did it all for you. You’re welcome.

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Disco Rave Headbang

That’s what you get when you take 9 first graders, force them to sit through an hour-long PTO meeting by cramming them full of cookies and punch, then stuff them in a room with their parents and teacher for an Open House evening after a long day of school.

Watching One with his friends is just sheer joy, no matter how much they may have lost their brains to sugar and exhaustion and excitement. The Caddy took the day off, so we all got to go together and no one was rushed, and no one fought, and the older kids all played with Three and Two got to follow around his favorite bigger kids and it was just a delightful evening. We love the school so much, and watching as One has blossomed from a young child consumed with worry and fear of change and new events into a boy who will (albeit grudgingly but) more willingly take risks and who laughs and teases with abandon is just the highlight of the last year, when it comes to long-term growth in my children, I think. I don’t know, they’ve all grown and changed in such delightful and amazing ways.

I’m so blessed, it’s true.

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About the Abouuuuuuuuuut7

As I was writing my second blog post, I was summoned away by Imperial Master Two, and left the window open. Three, seeing his chance to finally become bigger than the e*trader baby, and his opportunity to set the record straight regarding my assertion that he was wearing the same outfit three days in a row, immediately began banging away. Alas, his excitement overwhelmed him and he became stuck on the letter “u”, much like a cat reclining on the keyboard, and his one shot at fame and fact-clarification was blown – BLOWN! I tell you.

He still regrets it.

He was able to give it one last effort with his attempt at communicating something by typing some numbers like 7 or 8 or something, but I returned to the room and hastily put paid to any effort at transmitting. *Phew!* Just think of what that kid could tell you. I don’t even close the bathroom door, he’s so little.

I figured, hey, this page is supposed to be about me, and what more is about me than my shit getting hijacked by a small, loud person in a smelly diaper? So I left it.

NOT AS STEALTH AS HE THINKS HE IS BABY

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37

I keep waiting for time to give me more words, but I don’t know if that will happen. I have been so blessed to be able to stay home with my babies. From the time I was a wee girl, people would ask me what I wanted to be when I grow up, and I would answer, “A teacher, an artist, a dancer, a mommy.” When I was older, “A Shamu whale rider, a mommy.” Older still, “A physician, a mommy,” and then my sister went to medical school and I was all, fuck that, and my answer crystallized into, “A mommy.” I loved kids from the time I was old enough to be older than another child in the room. I began babysitting at the earliest age allowed, and loved every second. I thought I was ripping the parents right off, that they were paying me to hang out with their cute kids and play and take care of them and sing and dance and party every day.

I was never devoid of ambition, there was always a shrill, anxiety-provoking voice in the back of my head proclaiming that Smart Girls had to go on to become Career Women who carried a briefcase and dressed in Career Clothes. I graduated college and did that for a week. I was miserable and cried every day. I quit on Friday, and went back to my job working with underserved youth and their families. I wanted to take them all home every day and night.

When I found out I was pregnant, I was terrified. Exhilarated, joyful, terrified, unprepared. I hadn’t quite planned it that way. We’d just moved from our home state to Phoenix for the Caddy’s job, and I had left my family, my friends since childhood, my home, my beloved job and kids, and here I was, knocked up. OMG. Why the face? And then, a baby, a move back to our home state, another baby, ANOTHER baby (yes, we figured out where they come from – and also, I’ve NEVER heard that joke before, EVER!), and I got to roll around with them in the dirt, go on leisurely walks, climb and run and nap and make lunch all I wanted. I could eat them up all day long.

But something changed a while back, and we’ve been living in this turmoil that seems to have begun as a slight disturbance and is now a full-fledged storm. It seems that the Caddy is feeling put upon. Life doesn’t feel fair to him. And it certainly isn’t. He works a tripleleventy hour week, and when he’s home, he always has reports to get out, reviews to do, texts to return, emails to manage, fire drills to which to respond, and life is a lot different than when we were dating and discovered over penne that we both wanted our future and hypothetical children to have a stay-at-home-parent full time until some nebulous time.  So, the Caddy wants things to be more equitable, I think.  I’m not completely sure, because while control issues and unfairness have been running themes of discord in our almost-nine-year marriage, no matter what changes, he is still unhappy.

A year ago, we almost separated. As in, he had a move-out date of Friday, it was Wednesday, we’d told the kids, and the only reason he didn’t leave the house on Friday is because my/his/our counselor/psychiatrist asked me if I would be willing to change the plans while he (Dr. Wunderbar, that is, not the Caddy), intervened and saw us for counseling once monthly and that we also see a new, highly specialized psychotherapist together, weekly.

Okay.

So we did, and things improved. I’m a good student, I like to please people and do what they say. Not always a good thing. Anyway, I read the books and I did the homework and I threw everything into it, because why not? If I was going to try again, I was going to TRY AGAIN IN THE HARDEST WAY I COULD ALRIGHT? ALRIGHT. We went weekly for like, two weeks. And then work got rully, rully busy and I threw down some ultimatums, and there were other things that happened, and we kinda saw Dr. Wundy monthlyish, and we were doing okay and hanging in there and sometimes enjoying each other and then BAM. Six months ago, here we are again. In the fucking ditch.

So, I went shopping.

And he was pissed. Like, piiiiiiiiiiissed. Finances are a fraught thing in our home, as in many couples’ houses, and oh, was it ever a defining moment. I don’t think he spoke to me for 8 days. Eight days of the cold shoulder routine. He would respond when I initiated a conversation, with the cold, abrupt and terse syllables that accompany the Ice Caddy routine. Brrrrrrr. Then he said that he was done “paying for me”. Finished letting me “walk all over” him. And he was going to “have to do whatever [he] had to do.” When I asked him what the hell that meant, he wouldn’t tell me. I asked him outright if he was going to cancel my debit card, take me off our account. After all this work I’d put into getting access to it.  He refused to answer.  But he can repeat multiple times daily, “I’m sick of getting run over.”

Two days later, he answered by canceling the one credit card that I had access to, maintaining a few cards of his own, without apology or explanation and resumed texting me about my purchases through the debit card (which is still in my possession, thankfully).

So, I’m looking for a job today. All I have to know is what’s going to happen today. Today, I’m looking for a job, facing the idea of leaving behind the days of snuggling sweet baby skin, walking into dealing with a toddler who is desperate for me when I leave, and who screams almost unendingly when I’m gone unless he’s with a loved one. And a preschooler who won’t repeat himself when he’s not understood, and is okay with people but only lets some people into his most trusted circle, and those people are his for life. Who insists on walking me to the door every time I leave and giving me a very important “special” to take with me “to ‘member me” when I’m gone. And a six-year-old who thinks that everything is his fault and that everything that’s bad that happens will make him die and has intrusive thoughts and anxiety.

Oh my God, I’m so sad.

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iSuck at iPhones

iPhone the Third went kaput a few days ago. iPhone the First went to a watery grave in the bathtub. When iPhone the Second arrived, after paying a $200 Stupid Tax for the replacement, the husband handed it to me and asked, “I know it can get crazy, but do you think you might keep the kids from taking it into the bathtub?” Replied I, “Oh. Yeah. The kids…suuuuuuure.” Had no idea all this time he’d thought it was one of the boys.

iPhone the Second went to a watery grave in the toilet. That one was a kid. Two was sitting on the potty like a big boy and I was doing the obligatory Mom Makes Herself a Fool dance about preschool poop that finally landed in the potty instead of in a pull-up. In my peripheral vision, I see Three, giggling like mad, race up to the potty edge and reach over with something in his han-OHMYGODTHAT’SMYPHONE! and plop, sunk like a rock.

Yes, I tried the rice and the vacuuming and the blowdrier and the sun and the hard reset and the native dancing under a harvest moon. Wasn’t going to happen. $200 later, iPhone the Third arrives, and I promptly research to discover how best to protect my now-$600 iPhone. I come across this bad boy, and I imagine the protection. The encasing. The safety. *shiver*

I’m imagining the dedication it would take just to answer a call. Haul out a box approximately the size of War & Peace in hardcover, and just as unwieldy, in the middle of the toothpaste aisle. Perform manipulatives and deft maneuvers that finally pop open cover, reach in and retrieve iPhone. Retrieve speakers from bag, place over ears, secure wires from Three’s hands that desperately want to grab them, tear case out of Two’s paws who is silently and deftly disassembling and rebuilding it into a bomb, explain patiently to One that no, he can’t use the phone to text his Mamie a brazillion emoticons and 8 lines of “ilove you”, and ignore the follow-up “why? why? why? why? why?”

Of course, by now, the phone call has rolled to voicemail, so I start the message and I hear, “Uh………..*clickclacktypeclack*………it’s me. *clickclacktypeclackclick* Sorry. Hang on. *clicketyclackbackspacebackspacebackspacebackspace.* Just a sec. *returnreturnreturn* *SIGH* Okay. Hey. It’s me. Just uh, calling to, uh….hang on. *covers mouthpiece and muffled talking* Igottago.”

Yeah, soooooo worth it.

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