RenovationGirl

Let's Bake Some Damn Gingerbread Pirates

Today is our last day off after Thanksgiving. I am always grateful for this extra day. Since I worked Black Friday (and by Black Friday, I actually mean Thanksgiving night as we head to clock in by 11:45 to work the opening midnight shift...another post on that to follow...), I spent all of Friday recovering. Apparently, my body can't handle a 24 hour day like it used to! Builder Boy and I are both off today, and after a weekend of work, recovery, cleaning, and more work, I set a to-do list that included mostly things we do together, and with as little television as possible. On my list was read together, work on his homework, and study for yet another test (did I mention that he has a test almost every day of the week???). On his list was bake gingerbread pirates. Yay! Get some holiday baking done, spend some time together, and have him removed from the television for a few hours-it was win/win.

Our day had been going well...shortly after he got up, he asked to watch Empire Strikes Back. I was still finishing up some grading I was working on, so I put the movie on, made him some popcorn, and knocked a few things off of my list of to-dos. We had lunch and then settled in to bake some cookies. During a conversation, I answered a question he asked (when can he start using his advent calendar?) and he was not pleased with the answer (Thursday). "But Dad told me advent started Wednesday!" Me: "Well, he must have not looked at the calendar...December 1st is Thursday..." BB: "No, it's not. Dad said Wednesdsay." Me: "Well, buddy, I'm looking at a calendar and it says Thursday." BB: "Well, it's wrong. Dad said..." We went round and round like this for awhile until I hit my breaking point.

This happens a lot around here...Dad is always right, mom is always wrong, and stupid, and not as smart as a teenager (Builder Boy's words, not mine...). I have told him before how hurtful these words are. I've asked him to imagine what it would feel like if someone said that to him, but he doesn't get it. I'm his mom, a metaphoric punching bag for him. I get it...he and his Dad are the best of buds...a lot of that comes from the common interest in all things boy. But a lot of it comes from the fact that I am always working. Always. If I'm home, I'm cleaning, cooking, paying bills, working my cyber teaching job, grading papers. Or I'm at school or my retail job. Dad is here in the morning to get him off to school. He's here on the weekends and nights when I work my retail job. He's here to play with while I make dinner or make calls for work. Dad is here. Mom is not. To say I am okay with this would be lying.

I see the major divide. Them versus me. The boys against the girl. I have no other children to take to a movie or read with or be stupid for. When Builder Boy hangs out with Remodel Man, I am alone. Just me. By myself, existing in all the failure I see surrounding me. Being reminded of my infertility. Forcing me to acknowledge how I've failed to reproduce and even worse, failed to be the mom I wanted to be to the child I do have. Friends are too busy or too far away to fill the void. Just me.

So today, as I informed Builder Boy in no uncertain terms that I am NOT stupid and it's hurtful when he says that, I turned to him and said, "Now let's bake some damn gingerbread pirates!" Yea, how's that for some good bonding time with the world's greatest mother. Perhaps I should just find a fourth job to take...

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...

While Everyone's Asleep

Everyone is asleep in the house.  The cool, night air, a welcome relief from the glaringly hot day, laps into the house.  I sit, in the kitchen.  The place where I spend most of my days at home.  It is a mess and I should be cleaning.  But it can wait.

For now, I focus on the positive.  The fun summer times we are having as a family.  How our summer focus is on family and not the house.  Bike rides and trips to the zoo and a visit (twice) to a historic village in town and lots of days and nights at the pool. Play dates with friends and long conversations with kindred spirits who are too far away.  Breathing in the clear nights and allowing the sun to soak into the skin.  A birthday celebration and time with family and a trip to the sandy beach soon.  A mother who gives her everything and more for her family and a grandfather who loves spending time with his grandson at a coffeehouse under a shady tree.  Watching the Stars Wars movies, starting with 1 and working our way to "our" Star Wars movies.  Ice cream and homemade popsicles and eating dinner on the patio.  Veggies and  potato packs on the grill and fresh cherries we could eat by the poundful.  Reconnecting with close friends and making new ones. 

What I will not focus on is my mammogram tomorrow or my aunt's fatigue after her first round of chemo.  Builder Boy's breakdown earlier today or Remodel Man's stress.  My sister's loneliness or my mother's concern for her family.  Our financial stresses or the overwhelming work schedule this week.  A school year that has already started with drama and stress and a little bit of comedy.  Buying school supplies in mid-July.

No, for tonight, I will focus on the quiet of the night.  I will focus on the life we live now.  I will focus on the family I have been blessed with and the friends who support us.  Because while everyone's asleep, the mind can take me to the bad places, but there is time for those places...or not.  I'll focus on the not...

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.

 

Elbow Deep in Vomit

On Friday night, I turned to Remodel Man and commented, "It hasn't even started and I feel like the weekend is over!"  With a birthday celebration, a holiday family party, and a baptism, we had no weekend left.  For someone who works as much as I do, two days together free of commitment makes the chance of me being committed a lot less likely.  This weekend, however, was not a free one.

We got through our busy Saturday and were looking forward to welcoming a new baby into our faith community...a very special baby (and adorable to boot!) and Remodel Man's newest goddaughter.  As I stood in the laundry room grabbing some clothes Sunday morning, a sleepy Builder Boy exited his room and I gasped, "Builder Boy, what's all over your shirt?!"  I thought it was the chocolate ice cream he had right before we headed home from our party that he had wiped on his shirtsleeve (yep, I let him sleep in his shirt!).  "Can we go in there and I'll tell you," he said shakily pointing to my bedroom.  Uh-oh...

Turns out, Builder Boy had  thrown up multiple times during the night and was "too sick" to call for us or come get us. Oh my!!!  My first instinct was, "How sweet!  What a brave boy to be so sick and not need us or get us!"  My second instinct as I walked into his room was, "GAG, dear Lord, I wish he would've come get us!" 

Needless to say, I spent the day taking care of a very sick little boy and doing loads and loads and loads of laundry.  Remodel Man headed to the baptism and enjoyed a nice day of celebration.  Me?  I still smell puke even though there can't be any smell left.  My hands are raw from scrubbing puke out of the linens and washing my hands in the futile hopes that I will not get whatever Builder Boy has.  I am exhausted.

And yet, I felt like a woman with a purpose today.  My child is sick-I must take care of him.  In his sick sweetness, he would murmur, "I love you, Mama."  It warmed my heart as I was walking miles and miles between the kitchen and living room with crackers and popsicles and ginger ale.  For the first time in a long time, I felt like I was the favorite parent.  I'm the mom, that's the way it should be,right?  But it's not.  Builder Boy loves his Dada.  They are buddies. But today, it felt different. It felt like old times when Builder Boy was all about his Mama.

Just as soon, though, as it started, Dada walked in.  Things went right back to normal.  Mama the servant, housekeeper, bill payer, provider, chef.  Dada the fun one, the one you snuggle with, the buddy.  In an instant, even though things had been cleaned up for hours, I felt elbow deep in vomit again.

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?

Funny How That Works Out...

We are not a family who is good with keeping a schedule.  We clean whenever it gets to the point that its dangerous.  We cook whatever is in the freezer.  We do laundry when we need it.  We go to church at a different mass every week.  For the past five years, my work schedule has changed every day of the week.  Some weeks, I worked Monday, Wednesday, Friday, the next week I'd work Tuesday, Thursday. Throw in a couple of nights at the retail job or a weekend day just for a little more fun.  This worked for us.  It allowed us to not have to put Builder Boy in a stranger's care, it allowed me to be a part-time SAHM, part-time WAHM, part-time work outside the home mom.  I was able to bring in my portion of the money AND be active in the day to day aspects of my son's life.  It wasn't easy, but it worked.

All summer, the thought of school starting loomed over us.  For the first time in Builder Boy's life, I would not be here any morning to get him up.  This also would be the first year of full day school.  We dreaded the consistency of it all and the pressure it added to an already stressful life.

Well, aren't we surprised!

We are on week four of our new fall schedule.  I am working full-time at the one teaching job (still with two part-time jobs, too) and Builder Boy is now in kindergarten all day, every day.  I am no more tired than I was with the old schedule, although I do miss the every-other-day-getting-a-full-night-sleep aspect of our old schedule.  And while it is tough to keep up the momentum of getting everyone ready every day of the week, we are so pleasantly surprised that we like this new schedule.

For once, we feel like a normal family.  We go to school/work, we come home and eat dinner, we hang out, then we go to bed.  I do have the ominous feeling at times of living like Bill Murray's character in the "Groundhog's Day" movie, but there is something nice and reassuring about a consistent lifestyle.  Strangely, the house is staying cleaner, more meals are being cooked, more quality time is being spent with Builder Boy, and more bills are being paid on time and fully. 

So, that's where we are.  How's your new school year going?

Sunday Night Blues

Do you get the Sunday night blues?  My dad always talked about them when I was growing up and when I entered the adult world, I knew exactly what he meant.  There you are, happily going about your weekend when BLAMO! it hits you.  You have to work tomorrow.  Well, I don't start back to work until the week after this (three weeks before Labor Day-how ridiculous is that?!) and yet I already have the Sunday Night Blues.

Mostly because we just got back from vacation and I know that this is my last full week of freedom.  In exactly nine days, I will officially be back to work full-time, plus my two and a 1/2 side jobs.  It's fine.  Truly it is.  We will all adjust to our new lives, but, to be honest with you:  I DON'T WANNA!!!!!  While I have worked the past years many more hours than the normal full-time worker, I could do much of it in the middle of the night, in my pj's, no make up or cute clothes.  I certainly got a lot less sleep than the average human, but it worked for me.  I could be a part-time stay at home mom and feel like I was involved, yet make money and feel some sense of personal satisfaction beyond diaper changes and Lego contests.  It worked.

Now, I will be up 5 days a week a 5 AM.  I will never be the one to take my son to school. I will have to race to pick him up after school.  I cannot be there if he gets sick at school (I work an hour a way) or volunteer in his classroom.  At least one night a week, I will work outside the home at my retail job.  All nights I will have to work my online job.  Occasionally I will work my stamping consultant job.  It will be crazy.

YET, there is some peace of mind that I will have a steadier and bigger pay check.  The benefits are better than what we've had.  The drive to work, while long, is familiar as is the curriculum I teach. All will be well. 

But boy these Sunday Night Blues are yucky!!  :)

Little Pink Booties

I finally hooked up with my RE today.  All looks good post D&C.  We're all set to have the surgery as soon as I figure out the best time to have it.  I didn't want to miss days of work, but it's looking like that's what going to happen. 

Our baby was a girl.  I knew it was in my heart, but they confirmed this today.  It made it all very real again. We move along, we're fine, we go through the day to day, and then we get this news, and all of a sudden, there it is again.  I mean, we're fine and all, but this just kind of hit us hard.

You see, we want another child, but I think we both would love to have a little girl.  Remodel Man especially wants that father/daughter relationship...a little girl to look up to her daddy...to be her protector...to have her dance on his feet...to have a father/daughter dance at her wedding.  Telling him today was incredibly difficult.  And he took it very hard.

For me, well, I have goddaughters and I have made their mothers, my two closest friends, swear that I can come prom and wedding dress shopping! :)  But still, I'm very close to my mother and would love to have a relationship like that with my own daughter. 

Regardless, now we know.  We can move on and see what happens after surgery.  I am still eternally grateful for this little boy who has been entrusted to us. 

Thank you all for your amazingly supportive comments...it is good to know I am not alone. 

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.