Life 2.0. Letting Go

I am a selfish person. A bit of a control freak. And I didn't truly see that until the separation/divorce.

Because, until recently, I controlled almost every aspect of the girls' lives.

I know who their doctors are. I know when to schedule their appointments. I know that the only hairdresser who can cut Charlotte's stick-straight hair and Hannah's ridiculously thick hair with the same perfection is Suzy at Beauty Queen in San Carlos. I know that, when it comes to yogurt, Hannah will only eat Yoplait low-fat originals and Charlotte will only eat Trader Joe's non-fat French Vanilla. I scheduled their camps and classes and play dates and birthday parties and doctor's appointments. I helped them choose their clothes and shoes and accessories. I said "No" to the plaid skirt-tie-dyed-shirt-polka-dot-tights combo. I got yelled at for it--by them--but I said "No" anyway. Most of the time. I chose most of their books and toys and puzzles. I helped Charlotte with her speech therapy and physical therapy and occupational therapy. In short, I was the boss.

But now I have to share all of that. And I don't like it.

It's not an easy thing to let go of--not even the half time that Thomas has them. And not even when he's doing such a good job at it.

It's not that I didn't think that he could do it. It's that it hadn't ever really occurred to me that he'd need to. It wasn't supposed to be this way--after all, the SAHM thing was my job for almost eight years. And, while there were times when it was hard to be at home, times when I missed interacting with adults, this was my job. It was a job I wanted. A job I still want. A job I didn't know I guarded so jealously until last night, when I saw the papers for Hannah's new school. The papers that had a name--not mine--at the top. The papers that listed an address--not mine--as her home. Her home is with me only on Wednesdays and Thursdays and every other Friday/Saturday/Sunday. And that's hard. Even when he's doing such a good job.

Between the two of us and the two houses, we've somehow managed it so that the girls actually do chores now. They make their beds (almost) every morning before breakfast. They know how to fold clothes--theoretically, sure, but it's a start. They put away their toys. Sometimes. They take off their shoes when they come in the house. They get up and go to camp and go to bed when someone tells them to. Charlotte does push ups (or tries to), which is really good for her shoulder girdle. Hannah showed me the proper way to do crunches which is, let's face it, really good for my abs.

Next week is the first week of school. And Monday is a particularly important day, as it will be Charlotte's first day of Kindergarten. My baby off to school. All grown up, as she thinks, even if I'm not ready to admit it. And Monday morning isn't my morning to have them, so I won't be the one getting them ready for their first day of school, helping to choose their clothes and do their hair and pack their lunches and get their backpacks ready.

But I will still get to practice the mad rush to be at line-up on time; there's no way I'm going to miss walking with Charlotte to Mrs Baldini's classroom, marveling--as we did with Hannah--that that tiny little person is ready to go to school. And I go to school with Hannah for her first day, too, and try not to worry because I know that math homework at the Smarty Pants school is going to be even harder for me than her second grade algebra and plane geometry were. Fortunately, Thomas is pretty good at math, too.

I don't write anymore . . . .

. . . . and I hate it.

I write for my job, but it's not the same.


But for this, for me, I can't find a space, a voice , a reason.


I don't want to write stuff that would come from Angry-hurt-soon-to-be-divorced woman. Sometimes, what seems reasonable to be angry or hurt about on Monday is totally pointless on Wednesday. But I need to write. It's what I do. I actually dream in chapters and credits.


Really.


Some nights, my dreams will be prefaced with a "Chapter III" page. Some nights, I roll credits at the end of the dream. It doesn't matter if I've actually seen the dream. Credits will roll. Better than Alice in Wonderland, I suppose, when heads roll. But. I had a point.


My point was . . . . ?


Oh yes . . .


I write. I need to write. But I feel like I can't write about the stuff that is closest to my heart these days. I don't want to hurt people who may not deserve it. I don't want to publish things I can't take back. But I'm left feeling as though my tongue were cut out and my hands cut off, with no way to say how and what I feel.

Divorce is an ugly thing, no matter how hard you try to make it otherwise. You spent too many years studying one another, figuring out which button to push and when. And some days, one or the other of you will relish pushing that button, just because you can. And some days, you say things you can't ever take back.

And some days, I remember what Hannah said when she found the DIY divorce book in my room: "What if every page said, "Don't do it?"

It makes me sad, but the answer still has to be, "Sometimes, you just have to do it."

'tis True

All changes, even the most longed for, have their melancholy; for what we leave behind us is a part of ourselves; we must die to one life before we can enter another.

~Anatole France

Hannah: My Seven-Year-Old Happy Pill

As she watched me get dressed this morning, Hannah looked me over approvingly and said, "Diamonds."

As she knew that I was already wearing the diamond earrings, I asked what she meant.

"If I were a 40 or 41 year old guy, that's what I'd think. You're gorgeous. Like diamonds."

As I'm still working on being less self-deprecating, it was hard not to add "But diamonds are cold and hard."

For once I took the compliment and mentally added, "Yes, like diamonds. Full of unexpected fire." I like that better.

Now I'll just work on believing it.

Hannah-ism, on Sibling Rivalry

The girls were sitting at the counter, finishing dinner, when Hannah challenged Charlotte to a race to the bottom of their milk glasses.

Silly me:

"Hannah, not everything has to be a competition."

Hannah, once again showing a frankness beyond her years:

"Mom, it's been a competition since the day you brought her home from the hospital."

Missing My Girlies

I went in to check on the girls last night, as I have almost every night since they were born. In fact, when I count it up, I think that there were fewer than two dozen nights I’d not been home to slip in, pull up their covers and kiss them good-night before I went to bed.

Hannah is always first, because if I wake Charlotte up, even a bit, I will have to either race from the room before she wakes all the way—meaning that I have to skip Hannah—or I will end up sitting with her until she falls asleep again.

So last night, I climbed up to kiss Hannah. I felt around the bed for her—she likes to make a nest and disappear—and then I remembered. “They’re with Thomas.” Not with me. And, lest you think I’ve completely lost it, it wasn’t that I’d forgotten where they were. It was complete reflex. Muscle memory. Heart memory. Whatever you want to call it.

They spent a couple of days with Thomas last week and Sunday, of course, but I’d been so exhausted from the seemingly interminable move and starting a new job and working late on the nights they were with him and then coming home to unpack boxes and trying to create a bit of order somewhere that, though of course I missed them, I hadn’t had time to notice how quiet and hollow and empty the house felt. How I felt.

I worked late again tonight, but the minute I got home and put the key in the lock I began to cry. That’s one way (though absolutely not recommended) to season your scrambled egg dinner when you can’t remember in which box you packed the salt.

So tonight, I vacuumed. I unpacked more boxes. I worked. I wrote this. I did laundry. And the dishes. And talked to my BIL and to my sister. And unpacked more boxes and worked a bit more. I made Charlotte’s bed so it wouldn’t still look like there was a little person in it, though that seemed like a good idea last night. I put on their bedtime music and tried to convince myself that it will get better. Everyone says it will. Maybe it will. But not today.

Inadvertantly Inappropriate

On the way to speech therapy this morning (not that we can blame this one on the apraxia):

Charlotte: Mommy, guessa me get you for you birday?
Me: I don't know! What are you getting me for my birthday?
Char: Me get you a toy!
Me: Really? What kind of toy?
Char: A GWOWN UP toy!
Me:



Um… How's about flowers?

We’re Skipping the Anniversary This Year

After almost 13 years of marriage, Thomas and I have decided to go our almost separate ways (we have kids, people--tied for life). We officially separated in early January and expect that everything will be final in mid-August, less than one month after what would have been our 13th wedding anniversary.

We’re trying to stay amicable throughout the process, but there’s a good reason why divorce is of the five most stressful life events. I think that selling a house should also be on the list, so we decided to get that one out of the way at the same time. And, as Thomas says, after 14 years you get pretty good at pushing each other’s buttons. In fact, those buttons can get pretty worn with use.

The girls are taking it better than expected. Well, Hannah is. Charlotte, not so much. Her temper tantrums increased for a while, and she asks, almost daily, if Mommy and Daddy are both going to be home for dinner. The pediatrician says this will get better as she adjusts. She is only five, after all, and the apraxia also limits her ability to communicate her displeasure.

Hannah, on the other hand, was initially excited at the prospect of finally getting her own bedroom. She assumed that one of them would live with me for a while, the other with Thomas, and then they’d switch. Um, no. Sorry. Then when she saw a book on divorce she asked, “What if every page said, 'Don’t do it?'” That called for a very long hug.

And then she began to imagine other, more interesting possibilities.

The next day, when I asked if she wanted to talk about it some more, she thought about it for a bit and then asked if I was going to get married again. I assured her that I wasn’t thinking of that right now. In fact, I wasn’t even thinking of dating right now. Then she asked, “Is Daddy going to get married again?”

I said that I didn’t think he was thinking of that right now, either. Next up was “But you both might get married again?” Me: “Yes, I suppose so.”

Hannah came back with, “So that would mean two weddings.” Small pause. “So I’d get to be a bridesmaid twice?!”

A short time after that, she sighed and said, “Well, I guess it’s almost dating season.” I laughed so hard that I choked on my coffee (we were at Philz, natch). (Later, Thomas and I wondered just how many you were allowed to bag in a dating season.) But she wasn’t done. Less that five minutes later, with an incredibly sly look for one so young, she offered, “Well, when you’re ready to date, I know a couple of boys you can get down with.” I had to leave the building. After regaining my composure, I asked what, exactly, she meant by “get down with.”

“You know—get some lovin.” I startled quite a few people with a shout of laughter. And then I said that I hoped she was talking about one of her teachers, though all are happily married and of no dating interest to me, and not one of her classmates. That’s taking Mrs. Robinson a bit too far. A lot too far. And she’s SEVEN. She is not supposed to know these things yet, right? Right?

This is a life change that, of course, neither of us had really expected or planned for. It’s also the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do—after all, Thomas was such a good friend for so many years—but I know that, in the end, both of us will be happier for it. We are committed to making sure that Hannah and Charlotte always know how much they are loved and that they will always come first. I hope that he and I are able to become better friends and learn, one day, to stop pushing those damn buttons.

Oh, and, Thomas gets custody of the dog.

In My Garden

It's already beginning to look like summer here. Well, if you ignore the seemingly interminable rain. And that fact that we have yet to turn on the sprinklers. And the grass is still green. Oh, fine. My garden is already beautiful. (Don't ask me what these plants are; I can't remember and only know that the last one is lavender.)











No, I do not need to mow the grass again--I'm pretending that letting it grow is part of the plan.

A Quick Tour of MoMa

A really quick trip. Two minutes, in fact.

I found this through Refinery 29's Daily Diversion. Amazing.

You know what they say about big feet . . . .

Big sticks.

A Bit of Random Grossness

Want to know how you get the smell of dried dog poop out of your nose after you accidentally snort dried dog poop while trying to see if it was actually dirt or chocolate*?


You don't.


You can blow your nose, wipe the inside with a wet Q-Tip, snort half a bottle of nasal spray, inhale deeply after spraying perfume, think about snorting a line of baking soda . . .


Try whatever you like. It's not gonna work.


Happy Thursday!



* At the time it seemed to matter if it was chocolate or dirt. If it's dirt, the dog is in trouble. If it's chocolate, the girl's are in trouble. It was poop. It's in my nose. Everyone is in trouble. Because I am an idiot and not a happy camper.

More Randomness

And now a random, ridiculous and probably rhetorical question:

A group of men spend two years doing a little military-style training. Learning to shoot and how to make and detonate bombs. They plot the murder of a police officer apparently for the sole purpose of setting off a bomb at the funeral.

The charges include plotting to wage war against the US, possessing a firearm during a crime of violence, teaching the use of explosives, and attempting to use a weapon of mass destruction—that would be the homemade bombs.

The indictment reads, in part:

"It is believed by the Hutaree that this engagement would then serve as a catalyst for a more widespread uprising against the government."

Guess what "Hutaree" is supposed to mean? Christian Warrior.

And that's why it isn't still front page news. Which it would be if this group of men were Muslim. They would also be labeled as "Terrorists." Not "Militia."

Why is that?

File Under: I Don't Care Who You Are, That's Funny

And yes. Yes, I did just quote Larry the Cable Guy.

Completely Random

I was making a bagel for breakfast this morning when it occurred to me that I had no idea where the sesame seeds came from. As I was pretty sure that they couldn't be a McDonald's creation, and because I can't help myself, I ran to Wikipedia.

Given the size of the seed, I had surmised that it must come from a grass of some sort. Alas, I am not always as smart as I should be--particularly when it comes to plants. The sesame plant is not a grass, but a flowering herb. The seeds grow in the plant's pods. While there are many wild varieties, usually found in Africa, sesame was probably first cultivated in India, where it has a long history and is used in many rituals.

Other things I didn't know about sesame seeds and/or plants:

• According to Assyrian legend, when the gods met to create the world, they drank wine made from sesame seeds. (yep--stole that directly from the Wikipedia page)

• The phrase "Open sesame" came from "Arabian Nights" and refers to the pods of the plant opening when mature.
• The seeds are really good for you: "exceptionally rich in iron, magnesium, manganese, copper and calcium (90 mg per tablespoon for unhulled seeds, 10 mg for hulled), and contain vitamin B1 . . . and vitamin E . . . They contain lignans, including unique content of sesamine . . . with antioxidant and anti-cancer properties. Among edible oils from six plants, sesame oil had the highest antioxidant content."
• It's easier to absorb the nutrients if you grind then up before eating. Tahini is a delicious example.
• The plants are very pretty.

Curiosity. It's a beautiful thing. Well, for me, anyway. Even if you didn't want to know anything about sesame seeds, at least check out the video link in the first paragraph.

Escape from Louse Mountain

I hate bugs. Ever heard me mention that? I. Really. Hate. Bugs.

And now one of my biggest bug-related fears has come true, not once, not twice, but thrice: Head lice. Head LICE. Not on me, which would be horrid enough. On my children. I thought we were going to escape them altogether. After all, I never had lice. Thomas never had lice. None of our siblings ever had lice. Hannah didn't get them at camp last summer when all of her friends did.

But two weeks ago, she started scratching. I didn't see anything the several times that I checked. But then, as I was holding the shower door for her, SOMETHING fell on my arm. It looked like a little bit of fuzz. But a more solid bit of fuzz than fuzz normally appears to be. And it fell from her head.

I have spent the past seven years hiding, as well as I can, the fact that I don't like bugs. That I'm pretty much terrified of spiders. I hide it because I don't want Hannah and Charlotte to have my ridiculous fear of these tiny creatures.

Leetle sidebar: My fear stems from an incident when I was very young: I learned upon kicking a log in my grandparents yard that said log was infested with now-angry Daddy Longlegs. Angry Daddy Longlegs swarm. Did you know that? I did not. Hence my life-long fear of spiders (do NOT tell me that "technically, they are not spiders." I know that. I get it. It doesn't matter), and other bugs. On contact, they all tend to cause the same creepy crawling of the skin.

And I think I've done a pretty good job not infecting them with my bugophoboa--in fact, a couple of years ago, at Happy Hollow Park and Zoo, Hannah actually held an African Giant Millipede--which, Jeezus Edith, some people keep as pets. So when the little bit of oh-dear-god-please-let-that-be-fuzz fell on my arm, I quickly and calmly-ish slapped my hand over it, ushered Hannah into the shower and ran to ask Thomas "What the hell is this?!" We had to Google it. It was a louse. It had friends. Lots of friends. My head began to itch. Not bugs--just psychosomatic.

We treated it with Nix. Twice. I made her wash her hair every day. We did the fine-toothed comb. Every day. We [[insert sound of shudder]] picked nits. Every day. I washed in hot water and dried on hot for 70 minutes all bedding, stuffed animals, pillows, clothes and anything else that would fit in the washer and/or dryer. Vacuum, vacuum, vacuum. The floor. The beds. The dog, for good measure. Finally, a little over a week later, they were gone.

And then they came back. Two days ago, first thing in the morning, she started scratching again. "No no no no! Oh please, no!" The universe turned a deaf ear to my pleas. Somehow, I missed at least two and those fertile little fuckers were at it again. Did you know they can hold their breath for an obscene amount of time, which is why just shampooing won't kill them? I did not.

Back to the pharmacy. Everything back in the washer and/or dryer on the hottest setting. Vacuum, vacuum. Bleach the sink and tub after the treating and [[insert sound of shudder]] nit picking sessions. Everything I've read says that lice are not an indication that you or your house are lacking in cleanliness, which is small comfort when the treatment is to clean yourself and your home harder than you probably thought possible.

Throughout all of this, I've been giving myself a mental high five because, as much as I hate bugs (have I mentioned that?), I haven't freaked out in front of the girls. Even when Hannah made me leave a live louse on a tissue for a couple of minutes because she wanted to see what it looked like. I almost offered to let her look at one online, but wasn't sure if the magnified images would, in a nanosecond, undo seven years of my not freaking out.

This morning all of our de-lousing efforts--not to mention Hannah's incredible patience with the fine-toothed comb in her very thick hair--were clearly paying off. There were very few nits left! And then, from the kitchen I heard, "Um, Mel? Bad news. Charlotte has them, too."

Frickemfuckemfrackem. I need a bigger washing machine.

Random Observation

Skirts and dresses in the Spring? Love wearing them.


Skirts and dresses in 30-40 mph wind gusts? Not so much.

There's an App For That

It was a moonless night in late summer and I was stretched out on the path near our campsite, just beyond the canopy of the trees where I had an uninterrupted view of the sky. We were at Tuolumne Meadows, high above the Yosemite Valley floor, a place that, in the daylight, would seem more closely related to the surface of the moon than to the vast forests and meadows and waterfalls that lay sweltering in the valley below.

The closest actual structure (unfortunately the bathroom) was ¼ mile away, so after the campfires started dying away, I could easily imagine that there was no light between me and the stars, and I had never seen so many in a single sky. I kept having the vision of a small girl with a bottle of glitter in one hand and a bottle of sequins in the other, throwing them up against black velvet. In some places they lay so thickly you couldn’t tell one from the other. In others, they were much more spread out, but not a single portion of velvet was left unadorned.

And, although the moon was not up, the stars and planets themselves were bright enough that I had a dim appreciation for what it must have been like in Galileo’s time, when the sky was dark enough that Venus cast a shadow on the earth. As I lay there, I felt no more than a speck in the cosmos, as small and far away from everyone on Earth as those stars were from me, completely alone and yet content.

For the past couple of weeks, Mars has hung like a ruby in the Eastern sky, a more vivid red than I can recall seeing it. Naturally, I had to look it up and, on January 27, Mars was the closest it had been to the Earth in almost two years. I mention this because, when I have to take Kairos out at night, I’m often caught for a moment or 10, mesmerized by the astral display and curious as to whether anyone I know is looking at exactly the same place at just that moment.

I don’t know the names of all of the constellations, just that I can lose myself looking for them and at them. And I like knowing that, right now—this actual moment—Saturn has risen, chasing the moon and Mars, all following my Gemini constellation. And I don’t even have to take the dog out or try to see through the clouds because, guess what? There’s an app for that: Planets 1.6 for the iPhone.

Charlotte-isms? Sure, Why Not?

Also known as, "Oh great, another smartypants in the family."


Charlotte's big pink box of Legos serves two main functions: They're an excellent fine-motor exercise for her, and they keep her amused and engaged for at least an hour--no TV required! This is a huge endorsement, as Charlotte generally lives for two things: Chocolate and television.

After playing quietly for a few minutes, Charlotte asked me to help her take apart two of the bricks.

Me:
Do you know why you can't get them apart?
[[Note: the correct answer was "Because I bite my fingernails down to the quick."]

Charlotte, with an exasperated sigh:
Because it makes me tired.

Little Kids Should Not Have Seizures. Not.

Charlotte has been on medication to control seizures for more than two years. Before her fifth birthday, she'd had two EEGs and an MRI, both of which have risks--EEG requires sleep deprivation and, for younger kids, the MRI requires anesthesia. I'm not going to equate sleep deprivation with the risks of anesthesia in general, but anyone who has ever seen me sans sleep will understand why there is risk attached. If you haven't had the pleasure, let's just say that that particular irritability trigger is one which Charlotte comes by honestly.

Over the past two years, we've gradually had to increase the medication to adjust for growth spurts. The last time we did this was between Thanksgiving and Christmas. We spent 10 days on the East Coast for winter break, and, not long after we returned, Charlotte had a seizure. And then another. And another.

I should mention that her seizures have always been very small. In fact, for a long time, we didn't know she was having them. But I perfectly remember the first time I saw one. She wasn't yet a year old. She was wearing a navy blue outfit dotted with little white anchors, with a white sailor collar. She was on her stomach on the floor and had just pushed herself up onto her arms when she started shaking. Part of my brain thought, "That looks like a seizure." The rest of my brain rejected that thought outright, insisting instead that it was the exertion of pushing herself up. It wasn't a seizure. No one else saw it. It didn't happen again. The pediatrician thought it was, yes, the exertion of pushing herself up.

Charlotte was born six weeks early and very small--three pounds, 11 ounces. She spent two weeks in the NICU to get her weight up to FOUR POUNDS. They send them home at four pounds. Jeezus, talk about scary. But she never needed any other intervention--no lung, heart, or other issues. Nothing to explain why she wouldn't walk until she was almost two or talk until she was almost three, or why, at five, her fine motor skills would be below average and she'd still be in speech therapy.

In the week after we got home from the East Coast, Charlotte had three or four seizures. We noted it, but decided to take the "watch and see" approach, as she typically has more seizures when she's over-tired. And then the day after her fifth birthday, they started coming, one after the other after the other. Over the course of the morning, she had ten. Ten. She'd never had that many in an entire day. Ever.

A quick, slightly (ha!) panicked call to the neurologist resulted in a new medication that had to be started that very day, plus an urgent request for an MRI through Lucile Packard Childrens Hospital--they are the only place to go if you need to put a kid under for an MRI. We couldn't get in for the MRI until yesterday, almost 10 days after the episode, but they had to bump someone else, so I couldn't really complain about it. Loudly.

The MRI was scheduled for 10:00am, but we had to arrive at 8:30 to complete registration and all of the pre-op stuff--basically to make sure she wasn't sick and to get a current height and weight. Other than me accidentally getting a few deep breaths of the anesthesia (more on that later, perhaps), the whole thing went well. The hardest part of both MRIs was waiting for Charlotte to wake up. She likes her sleep anyway (again, comes by that honestly), and so uses this as an excellent opportunity to get in an extra hour. Both times the nurse had to wake her up after I sat for the hour, watching that tiny body, making sure of the exhale and inhale, happy to see the slight flush of pink that kept her suddenly, amazingly translucent skin from looking too doll-like.

But awake she finally did, and recovered as well as she has from anything before: from the previous MRI, from getting stitches in her head, from various colds, hives, bumps, bruises and scratches--none of which she ever complains about. In other words, she rejected outright Nurse Jenn's instructions that she have nothing but clear liquids and popcicles for a few hours, then maybe yogurt or ice cream before moving on to toast or rice or crackers.

No. Charlotte wanted Goldfish. And chocolate. And pizza. After several minutes of "discussion," we "compromised" on the Goldfish: she got one bowl instead of two. And then we agreed that if she felt as though the milk was going to make her vomit, she knew where the bathroom was. I did get her to stick to toast with butter and honey for dinner but was completely unable to convince her of the potential dangers of running, leaping from the furniture, turning cartwheels and dancing with the dog--all of which were also discouraged by Nurse Jenn. I think Charlotte took Nurse Jenn's lack of specificity as a series of very large loopholes ripe for exploitation.

The neurologist promised to call as soon as she heard anything, and she was true to her word. She called me tonight, at 8:00, because she didn't think I'd want to wait the entire weekend to hear that it was unchanged from the MRI a year ago. She also apologized not being able to give me a better answer to "Why did this happen?". Apparently, "Sometimes it just happens" is all they can give you.

So for now, we're back to "watch and see." I get to go back to trying to suppress the instinct to catch her the minute she begins to fall. And Charlotte gets to keep being Charlotte: Funny, tough, sweet, indomitable. And definitey not ever in the mood to have someone catch her if she falls or even notice that anything happened.