RenovationGirl

Firsts

I finally have a friend who can fully relate to me...years and years of infertility heartache, a miracle baby, but only one. She has a son, just one, and only one child. It's nice to finally have someone who doesn't throw their many children in my face about how hard their lives are (what I wouldn't give!!!) or who doesn't understand why Builder Boy can't just "sit and color" when I need to do something. She understands what it's like to have one child, specifically a boy child. She understands that the mere nature of having an only includes spoiling not because you want to spoil, but because there's not one else who requires your attention. It's so refreshing! When we talked last Saturday morning and I relayed to her our Friday night adventures, she commented, "Well, of course you freaked out...this was a first, and as the parent of an only child, everything is a first."

She was commenting on our very first trip to the ER with Builder Boy. I feel blessed to say that in almost eight years, this truly was our first time. We've had our close calls, but nothing ever requiring an emergency trip. Builder Boy was in the after care program at school on Friday (and yes, if you know me, this added to my guilt immeasurably...you know, if mean mommy didn't have to work then mean mommy wouldn't have had to have him in after care and then this wouldn't have happened...) and when I went to pick him up, I noticed an aftercare worker rushing over to a child. In that split second, I thought, "Gosh I hope that's not my kid." Not even for one second did I think it was Builder Boy. Not even as I got out of the car and headed over to the sidewalk. Even when the kid started walking slowly, head hanging, blood pouring from his face did I think it was him. Because that day, of all days, he was in a different coat than usual and it took me a bit to realize that this kid, dripping with blood was mine.

"What happened?!" I screeched in the hysterical, high-pitched way I have when my kid is dripping blood. "Oh," said the dad watching the playground, "He fell." In retrospect, I should have slapped him across the face for his nonchalance. Oh, okay! Thanks for filling me in!

Turns out, Builder Boy was playing on the the playset, tripped, and landed on his face, full force. His bottom teeth went completely through his bottom lip, hence the obscene amounts of precious blood spilling from my baby boy. He was an absolute champ throughout it all! I got him to the bathroom to clean him up and he did not shed one tear, not even when I hugged him (which you know will do most kids in when they're trying to hold it together). He did take one look at his face and started hyperventilating, almost throwing up, but with some slow, cleansing breaths he calmed himself down. One look at his cleaned up mouth, which was still gushing blood, showed all teeth were presented and accounted for. The mothers at after care sprang into action, getting me a cup to rinse his mouth and a bag of ice to sooth it and work on the swelling. One looked at his mouth for me (again, I'm a novice at this) and pronounced the necessity for a check up. All this time he was holding it together while his adorable friends, even the older kids who didn't really know him well, hovered around him, making sure he was okay. He started to get teary, and so we made a beeline to the car.

We headed to the ER to see if stitches were needed. (They weren't.) On the way there, he sobbed his little heart out while I patted his leg from the driver's seat. Somehow, someway, I got him there and without shedding one tear myself. This is short of a miracle. Once we were there, as he was sitting on the hospital bed, I noticed the gaping wound on his jaw. I thought for sure I would pass out. I didn't, but he noticed my face turn ashen and asked if he was getting worse. I assured him that he was fine and he said, "but your face is funny." So much for that theater degree!

For a child who freaks out about every.little.thing, he always handles the big stuff well. At two, he went to visit his grandma after her hip replacement surgery and was not the least bit overwhelmed by her walker and immobility. At four years old, as he watched his grandfather having a stroke, he calmly asked me if his Pappap was dying. For the past three years, he has seen his mama have four surgeries and waited sweetly at home, preparing the couch with his pillows and stuffed animals. Now, his first ER trip and when asked how the pain was, he shrugged and said, "Not bad!" He cracked jokes with the nurse, challenged the doctor on how long it would take to heal, and asked for something to eat.

This was a tough first, but we did it. And while I'm sure many people can trump this visit with numerous ones of their own, I wish they would remember that this is my first. Every single time something new happens with my child, it's a first. I don't wish these types of experiences on anyone, but trust me when I tell you, I'd love to have this be no big deal because I have so many more kids.

A Hushed Message

A few days ago, a got home from work to a message on our voice mail.  In very hushed tones, PorscheNut said, "Hey, call me back when you get a chance.  I have a story to tell you.  Porsche Peanut told me she and Builder Boy were playing truth or dare in his bedroom..." Click. 

Um.......

Since it was late at night, I couldn't call back right then, but truth be told, I wasn't ready to call back.  I wanted to talk first with Builder Boy to get the scoop, or at least hisscoop, as well as collect myself.  We knew the day would come when we'd have to worry about the boy/girl thing, but they're only going into first grade!  I was getting a little hysterical on the inside thinking of all the things they could have been doing during the clandestine game of truth or dare.  And since I have the boy, well, I was sure it'd be his fault whether is was his fault or not. 

In the meantime, before I could begin the interrogation, I talked with PorscheNut.  The following morning, I questioned Builder Boy about the situation. 

Me: (slyly) Builder Boy, were you and Porsche Peanut playing truth or dare in your bedroom?

BB: (without missing a beat) No. 

Me: (thoughtful)  Hmmm...really?  Because Porsche Peanut said you guys were...

BB:  (introspective silence)

Me:  (going in for the kill) You wouldn't have been daring one another to lick the bottoms of your feet, would you?

BB:  (stopping suddenly, he throws this over his shoulder) Stay out of my business, Mama! (and stomps off)

Oh boy, we're in trouble...

Approach With Fortitude Then Run Away Scared

I did it today...well, part of it.  I've dreaded it for years now.  The thought of it made me physically ill and created panic attacks of epic proportions.  But I put on my big girl panties, walked up those flights of stairs to our third floor and walked right up to those boxes and bins.  I walked up to them, determined that I would show them who's boss around here.  I waded through piles of stored items until in the farthest corner of the room, buried deep amongst Christmas wrapping paper, newly put away preschool toys, a play kitchen, and cookie tins, there they were in all their glory.

It was a bit of a showdown...I stared at them, and they stared right back in all their dusty glory.  I would not be deterred, no sir.  I dropped my hand right into their midst and grabbed the first thing my hand felt-a small bag. I whisked them away from their counterparts, bigger and fuller boxes and bags, and marched back downstairs, threw them on my bed, prepared to show them that I meant business.  I ripped open that bag and the items scattered across the freshly made linens. 

Oh...

It took my breath away.  Literally stole the breath from my body.  Out tumbled pastel fluffiness.  And I thought my heart might break. 

In this small bag of items that had been forgotten when the initial box of baby items had been sent into storage seclusion was a mishmash of babyhood.  A few small changing pads, a few bibs, a couple of hats, and a sheet for the pack and play.  That's it.  Nothing more.  No cute socks, or a favorite outfits, or cuddly blankets.  Nothing that held any particular memory.  Yet, that mishmash of forgotten items with no particular memory instead held all the memories.  All the things I have feared facing as we end our journey. 

I have left all of Builder Boy's clothes, toys, and linens untouched.  We have had no need for the space, and so there has been no need to purge any of the baby things.  I kept them at first for our next baby.  When the next baby alluded us, I kept it for the "just in case baby."  But "just in case" baby has become "never gonna happen baby."  It's time.  I feel it.  It's time to let go...of the journey, or the dream...and all of the baggage that goes with it.

In the midst of writing this,  reliving that brief moment, I had to stop.  On the verge of hysteria, my only thought was, "Call PorscheNut."  We spent some time crying on the phone together...she's already done this purging of baby items...and talking about how it was the memories that mattered, not the things, and that this parenting step was so incredibly hard.  Now still feels like the right time, though.  With Black Belt Mama expecting her baby boy soon, now is the time to move on, let someone else use the precious items.  It seems a whole lot easier to give them to someone I love instead of packing them up in garbage bags to be sifted through at Goodwill. 

I ran away from that little bag upstairs.  It's all waiting for me on my bed.  I will have to confront it at some point before bedtime.  Then again, I can always sleep in the spare room...

Back From The Beach

Every year, as we venture to the beach, ee cummings' poem, "maggie and milly and molly and may" comes into my mind.  Particularly the last couplet, "For whatever we lose, like a you or a me / it's always ourselves we find in the sea."  It's so true isn't it?  Something magical happens at the beach...the rolling of the tides, the sounds of waves crashing against the shore like they've been doing for a gazillion years, the warm sand caressing your shoe weary feet, the slight wind tousling salt-water stiffened hair...you feel at peace, at home, free. 

 

This vacation was nice...not as relaxing as I would have liked since I have to work throughout the vacation (and without a reliable internet connection, I did most of the work on my phone-ugh!), but we had some good family time.

Builder Boy is a total fish...he just loves to be in the water.  Big giant tumbling waves?  No problem! 

 

9 feet of water in the pool, bring it on!

 

Thinking about life while looking at the water? Oh yeah!

 

Builder Boy is so natural in the water and around it.  He feels at home, at peace...it's his thing.  This made the entire vacation a perfect vacation for me-for Builder Boy to have a sense of peace and comfort surrounded by the waves. 

The Girly-Girl With The Muddy Toes

We've been trying to get together for months now, PorscheNut and me.  Our kids enjoy playing together and we need the friend time.  So a couple of days ago, our schedules aligned and we set about making plans for the day.  Since it's summer, I'm all about outdoor, summer activities,  but neither one of us is very outdoorsy.  We're suburban girls who believe that "roughing it" means a three-star hotel, so an outdoor activity usually involves a park, playground, or swimming pool.  Until a couple of days ago when I happened to check a local farm's website and found that they had extended their strawberry-picking to, what's that-yes, just until that day we were looking for something to do.  It must be fate!

 

So we packed up and headed out, meeting for a should've-been-quick-but-ended-up-being-a-looooong-lunch before heading out to the farm.  That's when I realized...I had left my sneakers at home.  Here I was, sporting my usual summer footwear-flip-flops. I have spent a bit of time on farms and know that flip-flops aren't exactly proper footwear attire for farm life.  Oh well, what can you do.  So off we went to the farm. 

As we piled out of our cars into the blazing hot sun, PorscheNut commented that she had forgotten the sunscreen.  Uh, yes, well...so had I.  But what could we do?   Here we were, at the farm, ready to pick some yummy strawberries.  So off we went. 

 We picked our baskets and into the fields we went. 

 
It truly was a glorious day...warm and humid the way a good summer day should be.  But we've had lots of rain over the past few months and the ditches in between the mounds of strawberry plants were wet.  Okay, they weren't just wet...they were a soupy, muddy mess.  Soon, we were cackling as we slipped in the mud, arms flailing, trying to keep our strawberries in our baskets, but not falling on our butts into the mud. 

 
As we stooped and slipped, trying to find perfect strawberries, shouts of "I'll never complain about the prices of strawberries again," or "I never would have made it as a pioneer wife!" could be heard over the field.  And PorscheNut said not just once, "Whose idea was this, anyways?!"  But we looked out over the fields,

 
at the beauty of the day, and place, and the relationships joined there, and all of a sudden the mud and the burning sun and blown-out flip-flops and muddy sneakers just didn't seem to matter anymore.  

 
Because there were smiles at funny strawberries...

 
and friends helping friends carry heavy baskets laden with red wonders. And then, of course, there was the reason we came:

 
 which turned into this:

 
and this:

 
(my Portmeirion plates, although lovely, do not photograph well!)

As we were packing up to head home, I told PorscheNut how honest this all seemed.  How true.  That this type of work, this type of labor felt so real.  Not that teaching isn't a noble career, and certainly not that I wanted to begin a life of farming, but even just the short time we spent in the fields, with the strawberry plants and mud and the lake just beyond, I felt lighter and freer and more connected.

Girly-girl from the suburbs or not, I think I'd do okay with a house surrounded by a lot of land to gaze upon.  Even if it means wading through muddy fields with my flip-flops on.

 

No One Prepared Me For This

Many people attempted to prepare me for Builder Boy going to school.  They told me how sad I would be when I left him there (I was).  They told me how tired, and therefore, crabby Builder Boy would be when he returned home at the end of the day (he has been).  They told me to expect homework even though it's kindergarten (yep, he gets a bit, even though they told us he wouldn't get any!).  Oh yes, we were prepared for all of this, minus one major issue:

 

THE PAPERWORK.  THE PAPERS. PAPERS PAPERS PAPERS.

Look, I really like to see how Builder Boy is progressing in school.  I do!  But really, is it necessary for the teacher to send home every single stinking time he writes his name.  Throw me a bone here, lady-just send home one a week.  And yes, he is delighted every time he shows me each paper he has colored, each bear he has counted, every art project he has created, but oh my!  Can't some of this be put in a folder for Parent/Teacher Conferences?

OR...GULP...is there a folder there, too???

If you're like me, I have a hard time throwing away anything he creates...while I realize this adds to the clutter issue we have in our house (bordering on hoarding...), I just love to look back on his preschool creations now and compare how far he has come.  But, I will have to come up with some solution to the paper clutter.  I simply cannot keep everything. 

 
So, seasoned mommies, how do you keep up with the kindergarten paper onslaught?

The Brightness of Night

When you grieve, the nights are always so difficult.  The darkness is haunting and reminding and quiet.  The solitude and cover of the blackness permits the thoughts to weave inside your mind, sometimes freeing you and sometimes tying you up tightly.  For the widow it is the coldness of the sheets.  For the mother, it is the emptiness...of the crib, of the womb, of the heart.

I think for someone post-miscarriage, I'm doing amazingly well.  Everyone I know (minus one-thanks AWN!) has forgotten about this.  No one asks about it (it's really so passe!) and all assume I'm fine.  And truly, in the public day to day, I am fine.  If you asked me honestly how I felt, I would still tell you fine.  Because I think I am. 

But, there's been trouble on the home front.  It's no new battle. It's one I have fought for, oh, six years now.  I have tried many things to establish a peace treaty, but unfortunately, the opponents are tough and rather stubborn. We struggle every single day to come to some type of terms...me and motherhood. The innocent victim of this war?  Builder Boy.

I have talked often about my intense feelings of guilt and incompetency, how I never fit the image of the mother I want to be.  I have given excuses-too many jobs, not enough money, infertility-and begged off of ideas to help.  But things are getting critical here...damage is being done and issues must be rectified.  I need help.

Each night as darkness falls, the brightness of my own feelings blind me.  I am overcome by my own incompetency and the failings of each day (and they are many).  Each night I assess the damage and strategically plan for the next day.  All of the wrongs I will right and the things I will do better.  As I attempt to sleep, I pray and make commitments.  Yet, each morning, as the sun rises to its own light, I am shaded by it.  A certain darkness descends and I find myself feeling alone and scared and incapable.  I look at this beautiful child who will in just one month's time will leave this house daily for all day school, and I wonder, "How have my failings impacted him?"  The harsh words, the impatience, the time spent working, or time wasted on the computer, too few books read and far too much television.  Not enough flash cards, not enough play dates.  No sibling. 

He is a sweet and clever boy.  He is kind and empathetic to others.  He uses great manners in public.  He is full of wonder and energy.  He is inquisitive and imaginative.  And every day, as he grows, I feel as if I take a little of those positives away from him with my own negatives.  So, maybe I am not okay.  Maybe this miscarriage has damaged me far more than I admit.  Maybe this subconscious refusal to "not be okay" is causing my bad parenting.

So, it's time.  Changes are coming.  Builder Boy deserves a more engaging mother...a happier and nicer and more patient mother.  And I need some peace of mind as the night enfolds.

A Lego Birthday Celebration

I've been meaning to post about Builder Boy's 6th birthday, which was almost a month ago.  He wanted a party at the house, which although is a lot of work and expense, I have to confess I enjoy.  It allows me to be creative and I don't have to leave the house to do it! 

It had been threatening to rain all day, but about the time the guests started to arrive, the skies cleared. We were able to have the entire party outside.  All of those organized games I created?  Yea, totally didn't do those-the kids were having too much fun just playing.  Builder Boy's preschool class this year is a delightfully kind and close group of kids.  They love one another and just love to be together. So, together they were.  It was a lovely day.  Builder Boy had a blast and was spoiled rotten.  It couldn't have been a better 6th Birthday!

The favors: homemade Lego brick crayons and minifigures, Lego Blox candy, and a bag of Legos all in a "Lego box."

The favor boxes, pinata and cake:

The Pinata: 

Fixing the homemade pinata...clearly I didn't make it strong enough.  (Sorry you have to tilt your head.) 

Cake close-up...Remodel Man iced the cake!!  He did an awesome job!

Candy candy candy!!!! 

 

What a great day and what a great little boy.  Although it's late, Happy 6th Birthday to the best little boy in the  universe!  We love you more than anything, Builder Boy!
 
 
 

No Place for Babies

We had a park near our house when I was growing up that we could walk to.  It was a simple park...a baseball diamond/soccer field, a pavilion, a row of swings, an extremely high metal slide, and a merry go 'round.  Oh the merry go 'round. You would start running while pushing it until you got it going super fast, then you pulled yourself on to enjoy the ride.  I can remember how cool the air felt, how I felt like I was moving at warp speed, and how the sky spun until I was dizzy.  It was pure bliss and one of my very favorite parts of going to the park.

Today, Builder Boy and I went to our park.  We can also walk to this park.  It has many of the same highlights as my park did, albeit mostly made of plastic now, and this past fall they installed a merry go 'round.  I told Builder Boy all about my park (which he goes to now with my parents and which is run-down and kind of pathetic) and how much fun I used to have on the merry go 'round.  We excitedly ran to it and began our escapades.  As he pushed me on the merry go 'round, I lay back and watched the clear blue sky spinning.  I felt that same cool breeze and couldn't believe how fast it felt like I was moving. But as fast as I was moving on the merry go 'round cannot possibly compare to how fast I jumped off of the merry go 'round. 

Why, you ask?

To avoid hurling.  Yep, somewhere between 7 and 37 I have lost my ability to go 'round and 'round without extreme nausea.  For hours I was sick.  I had to sit in the park with my head between my knees while attempting to feign interest in what Builder Boy was doing.  He knew I wasn't feeling well, so he asked me how to spell "I love you," and subsequently etched it out the mulch I was sitting on "to make you feel better, Mama."  I had to stop a couple of times on the very short walk home to avoid getting sick on the street.  Once home, I had to lie down with a mint in my mouth and breath slowly and deliberately.  Hours later, I still do not feel right.

I totally can't hang with the 8 and under crowd.

6 Days, 35 Hours

Today I end the sixth day of work streak.  As of 7 PM this evening, I will have worked 35 hours.  While this is normal to most Americans (and a little more), what makes this quite unique is the fact that these 35 hours are in addition to my two other jobs.  So, technically speaking, this actually is the last of 75 hours I will have worked in the last 6 days.  To say that I am exhausted wouldn't even touch how I truly feel.  Because besides the sheer physical exhaustion, I am overwhelmed by everything else that is affected by this schedule. 

My heart aches each time I have to tell Builder Boy that I have to go to work and he breaks down-sometimes in tears, but more often in anger, his emotion of choice, followed by his taking his anger out of me. 

My body aches from standing on legs that are too out of shape to stand for five hours straight and from the lack of sleep I've had for the past, oh, six years. 

My house aches as it waits for some long overdue attention...organization projects halted midway through, toys that need purging, clothes that need laundering, floors that need scrubbing, walls that need washing, wood that needs polishing. 

My soul aches for all of the above and the toll it takes on me.  I have aged quite a bit of the past couple of years.  My face is showing the feelings of weariness and exhaustion.  I am soft in the middle.  The wrinkles on my face are more pronounced.  A "natural makeup" look just doesn't cut it anymore.  I long for some time to myself without the worries of bills, or a dirty house, or food the needs to be cooked, or family that needs tending to.  I ache for time to scrapbook, to tell Builder Boy's story, without feeling guilty for not working or cleaning or cooking. 

Worst of all?  I ache for the time away from my growing son, who at five cannot understand that I have to do this.  I ache for all the baby years I spent too stressed and occupied.  I ache for the preschool time when we should have played instead of watching television because I was too tired to do anything else.  I ache for all the fast food he has consumed (and his addiction to the toys) because I didn't have time to cook the way I like.  I ache for all the missed moments as I headed off to job one, two, or three.  And yes, I know he knows he's loved and provided for.  I do the best I can for him.  He's lucky to have such a great daddy and wonderful grandparents (on both sides), cousins who adore him, and aunts and uncles who would move mountains for him.  But I want to be there more and in better form.

So, today, I am just tired.  I will be glad when my shift is done tonight.  While I still have to get up at five tomorrow morning to go to the first job, at least it will be knowing that I have the evening to spend with Builder Boy.  This is what will get me through.