It all started because I am dumb about technology. No, wait. It started before that. While I was gestating Little A., so many moons ago, I worked for a funny little nonprofit. My officemate, the super sweet Celeste, mentioned this funny little show one of her friends was performing in. My ears perked up, because, as I have mentioned before, performing dance is in my all-time top-ten favorite things to do. But I was pregnant and new in town and and and and...the timing was wrong. I couldn't even go SEE the show because the timing was wrong. And then my life got a little more complicated. And then I got pregnant again and my life got a lot more complicated. And I resigned myself to never doing a lot of things that I might have always wanted to do. And I missed myself, but not critically. And and and.
Fast forward to this summer. This summer when everything went all to pieces but even the tiniest little pieces, stuck back together with scotch tape and sometimes just scotch, are so much better than the whole used to be. A dear friend mentioned the show again, somehow, in passing. Maybe while we were at the gym, or at the playground. Between diaper changes and tantrum management, the show stuck in my head this time. I am in pretty good shape, I thought. I should maybe just start taking dance classes again, I thought. And then one night, while scrolling around Facebook on my phone, I sorta-kinda accidentally pushed this check-mark icon next to an audition announcement (I thought it was to open the event page). And a couple of friends noticed and "liked" that I was going to go. And then other friends asked, "Are you really going to go?" What the hell, I'll go, I thought.
AND SO. I got cast, you guys. I am IN that funny little show. Except it's not little. Every weekend between now and Christmas I am in rehearsals. Usually both days of the weekend. Usually for at least two hours. And then there are SEVEN shows over two weekends and our family calendar looks INSANE. Of course I have the guilts for leaving the girls for all those hours, but in the grand scheme of things? Nearly all of that time, they will be with their dad. And that is really good. And it is just a few weekends out of an entire year and our lifetimes. Yes, I am crazy for even thinking of it, but AWAY WE GO.
Last weekend was the first weekend of rehearsals. This week, I bought an extra giant bottle of ibuprofen and only today, 4 days later, have I regained pain-free function of my neck (turns out burlesque involves a lot of hair-whipping. Who knew?). But leaving that rehearsal on Sunday afternoon was the best. I felt like...myself. The myself I ignored for years. The myself I hope someday my girls will tell each other old familiar stories about, with at least a small amount of pride and self-recognition. Because myself is kind of grabbing life by the balls right now. Myself: taking care of business and having fun. What a concept, huh? I'm not saying it's perfect: my house is smells funny and the girls' hair is always a mess and we are probably going to have grilled cheese sandwiches AGAIN tonight. But we are also having a lot of fun, and I am keeping an eagle eye on everyone's emotional well-being and who cares if the socks don't match. We are all sleeping, eating, and growing.
So, again, I bring you the profoundest-blogger life lesson: JUST DO THINGS. I mean, I am the first person in history to realize this, right? WHERE IS MY GODDAMN BOOK DEAL.
xoxo,
A
Thursday, September 19, 2013
Wednesday, September 18, 2013
Familiars (1 of 3)
Most evenings, in the tiny sliver of time between supper and tub, I run out the back door to to check on the chicken ladies. I drop off any peelings or cucumber-end snack might be left from our meal, secure the coop, bring in an egg or two, etc. A little moment to myself before our bedtime routine/chaos. One night, for some reason, I waited until after the girls were both tucked in and quiet, so it was a bit later than usual. The sun was setting all pink and gorgeous. I had a glass of wine at the ready and some Parks and Rec on the Netflix queue. So, you know, it was gonna be a good night. As I approached, the chickens were bawk-bawk-bawking around their little enclosure and looked at me with some alarm. But they are ALWAYS alarmed, and ALWAYS bawking, so I thought nothing of it. I threw some spinach into the pen, and turned on the little flashlight app so I could poke around for eggs. And heard a rustling, crunching sound. I turned my light toward the sound. In the corner of the coop where the nest was that week, the light revealed a pile of really soft-looking glossy black fur. A cat in the coop? The fuck? I thought. And then the cat moved and showed me its equally soft looking glossy white-striped back because NOT CAT! SKUNK!!1!!!! SKUNK!!!!!11!1!11!11
Yes, ok. I live in Maine, but in the suburbs! Why are all the animals in my face all the time? Anyway, luckily, the skunk didn't register my presence, and continued crunching away at the egg pile.
I don't know if I have ever moved so quickly plus silently in my life, you guys. Without even knowing fully how I got there, I found myself in the middle of my back lawn, dialing Tim on the phone. I explained the situation and his words, his REAL ACTUAL WORDS were: Wow! Well, that's probably the worst thing that could happen, huh? Well...don't go back in, I guess? So...very...helpful. We agreed that he would block any potential entry points the following evening (we are doing a sort-of nesting deal, post forthcoming). I spent the next half hour googling "will skunks kill chickens." And finally realized the sheer force of my worry would not actually keep the skunk from killing my chickens, went inside and forced myself to have my relaxing evening. To brace myself against the possibility of returning to a coop full of headless birds the next day.
The skunk did not kill my chickens that night. Praise baby Jesus.
So. In the following weeks the skunk and I got into a routine. I would race out to the coop after bolting down my supper, collect any eggs, and race back inside. Every third night or so, I would leave the eggs there so the skunk enjoy a tasty snack that was not the blood of my flock. Sometimes the skunk would beat me to the coop and I would find nothing but empty shells. We even bumped into each other a couple of times but somehow I never got sprayed, and it never got spooked off.
And one night, while I was sitting on the back deck, I watched the skunk squeeze itself out from under the coop. You know how cats fit themselves into impossible spaces? It was like that, in reverse. Its narrow head stuck out of this teeny-tiny hole under the corner of the coop, and then the rest of its bulk shimmied out after. Twice the size of a housecat. Fluffy and silent. I watched the skunk squeeze itself into another tiny opening to get into the coop. The chickens didn't even raise an alarm. I stayed outside until the skunk went back into its basement apartment, and went in myself.
One evening not too long after that, our beloved Brooklyn friends were visiting. And suddenly there was a smell. A SMELL THAT YOU COULD TASTE. If you've never had the pleasure of experiencing REALLY fresh skunk spray -- well, it is...thick. And...oily. It clings to every part of the inside of your nose, pungent as fuck. It's otherwise indescribable. We had to close the windows. And the smell was still so strong that it kept me awake.
And the next morning, just up the street from my driveway, was the body of a skunk. Of course I can't confirm if it was "my" skunk. But. We have too many eggs, now.
xoxox,
A
Yes, ok. I live in Maine, but in the suburbs! Why are all the animals in my face all the time? Anyway, luckily, the skunk didn't register my presence, and continued crunching away at the egg pile.
I don't know if I have ever moved so quickly plus silently in my life, you guys. Without even knowing fully how I got there, I found myself in the middle of my back lawn, dialing Tim on the phone. I explained the situation and his words, his REAL ACTUAL WORDS were: Wow! Well, that's probably the worst thing that could happen, huh? Well...don't go back in, I guess? So...very...helpful. We agreed that he would block any potential entry points the following evening (we are doing a sort-of nesting deal, post forthcoming). I spent the next half hour googling "will skunks kill chickens." And finally realized the sheer force of my worry would not actually keep the skunk from killing my chickens, went inside and forced myself to have my relaxing evening. To brace myself against the possibility of returning to a coop full of headless birds the next day.
The skunk did not kill my chickens that night. Praise baby Jesus.
So. In the following weeks the skunk and I got into a routine. I would race out to the coop after bolting down my supper, collect any eggs, and race back inside. Every third night or so, I would leave the eggs there so the skunk enjoy a tasty snack that was not the blood of my flock. Sometimes the skunk would beat me to the coop and I would find nothing but empty shells. We even bumped into each other a couple of times but somehow I never got sprayed, and it never got spooked off.
And one night, while I was sitting on the back deck, I watched the skunk squeeze itself out from under the coop. You know how cats fit themselves into impossible spaces? It was like that, in reverse. Its narrow head stuck out of this teeny-tiny hole under the corner of the coop, and then the rest of its bulk shimmied out after. Twice the size of a housecat. Fluffy and silent. I watched the skunk squeeze itself into another tiny opening to get into the coop. The chickens didn't even raise an alarm. I stayed outside until the skunk went back into its basement apartment, and went in myself.
One evening not too long after that, our beloved Brooklyn friends were visiting. And suddenly there was a smell. A SMELL THAT YOU COULD TASTE. If you've never had the pleasure of experiencing REALLY fresh skunk spray -- well, it is...thick. And...oily. It clings to every part of the inside of your nose, pungent as fuck. It's otherwise indescribable. We had to close the windows. And the smell was still so strong that it kept me awake.
And the next morning, just up the street from my driveway, was the body of a skunk. Of course I can't confirm if it was "my" skunk. But. We have too many eggs, now.
xoxox,
A
Thursday, August 15, 2013
Every Little Thing
Over the past few weeks the girls and I have put on some major mileage and had so much fun and are basically squeezing all the adventure we possibly can out of these few precious weeks of summer our New England climate gives us. And summer is loving us back.
Brooklyn: We walked to three playgrounds in one day (!), I had too-much wine and wonderful catch-up time with my girlfriends (!!) and then we took a FERRY to HEAVEN (!!!) and it was so absurdly magical that I had a little lump in my throat for most of the weekend.
Parenting at the same time, in the same place, with old friends, is amazing. You see them in a best, new light. And you also see that you are the same to them, and they are the same to you, even though everything is different.
And. As with most things, once you are actually doing the thing, it just...unfolds. I was in a mild twist about having the girls in the car for so long and general traveling solo-parent-style. And, of course: There was a grating 45-minute stretch of whining (the mamuuuuh mamaaaaaah maaaamuuuh sob sob thing that makes one wish ears were never even invented) instigated by my darling eldest before she took her own trip to Nap-ville, at the beginning of the 3rd hour of driving on the way down. As per my "breaks every 2 hours" rule, we had just pulled back on the road from our Big Treat fast-food lunch when the whining began. I wanted to shove their new Minion toys (which Baby G. promptly christened "my pickle-bull" after "despicable") into my ears. But then my big girl gave in to her fatigue and slept the entire rest of the ride to the CT grandparents' house and proceeded to have the best times ever for the rest of the weekend. There was one night wherein we all couldn't fall asleep for shit, and then slept like crap. There was a terrifying thunderstorm on the way back during which I discovered 1., the wipers on the car are inadequate, 2., the defrost on the car is inadequate and 3., when you are on a busy highway and you can't see past the front of your car, and you just have to pull over praying that everyone will let you do so, your hands can shake so hard that it can take upwards of 15 minutes to calm them so they will not also be inadequate. I could have done without those parts, but then, we could have just not gone, and none of the good stuff would have happened either.
(BLOGGER LIFE PHILOSOPHY IN YOUR FACE.)
Portland, Maine (with beloved houseguests): Not one but TWO trips to the best ice cream shop/petting zoo ever. A golden afternoon at the beach. Magic-hour suppers on my back porch. Three adorable little girls playing together. Not one, not two, but THREE amazing good ol'fashioned late-night hangouts with my girlfriend who is, no contest, the best person in the world with whom to destroy your liver. Resultant hilarious hung-over parenting afternoons. And the aforementioned precious chance to share space with an old friend, who is also a (great) mom and a (great) wife.
I had a little Gretchen-Rubin-esque epiphany during that week. You know how some people just make you feel wonderful and like yourself? Your best self, in the most Oprah-manner of speech, but in an effortless way? These people are your "inflators" and you should cling to them always, and make them fly hundreds of miles to see you and your children. Guilt them into it, I don't care. Just get them into your space. And you should drive or fly hundreds of miles to see them, also. The other kind of people are "deflators" who make you feel bad and fuck them.That is what I learned that week.
Northport, Maine: For a few years now, my family has been heading up the coast of Maine for our family business's association retreat. This sounds like it should be boring, but it is not, not by a long shot. The first year, Little A. was just barely there: I had confirmed my pregnancy the very day before we drove 4 hours to Bar Harbor and I spent the whole weekend bobbing around in that heady mixture of joy and panic that is the beginning of pregnancy and also wondering if everyone would notice my avoidance of wine and blue cheese. This year, our fourth year, I finally got the whole weekend RIGHT. I hired one of Little A.'s beloved teachers, Miss Alicia, to babysit. My brother and his kids were also coming, and Miss Alicia knows them very well also. Alicia was fantastic all weekend - she required absolutely NO instruction, she was up for anything, and she can drive a golf cart. (I have a ridiculous inability to drive anything smaller than a car. So stupid! I need to get over it.) So, A+ childcare choice.
The drive up to the resort was rainy and sleepy, but the weather also meant very little traffic. I would only give myself an A- for transport because my car broke down that morning, all full of our stuff, but then I got to drive my dad's fancy Audi, so maybe I get just a regular A.
Friday evening there is always a lobster bake/ridiculous dance party. The girls were happy to learn the Macarena and hang in the bounce-house until bedtime (A- for much later than usual bedtime). My dad started drinking CC over ice at 6 pm and didn't stop until well after he had danced with my mother - TWICE - to "Blurred Lines." That was a scene, my friends, that I will never forget. I will never forget. I also might have taught my mother how to dance "Gangnam Style," but there was no video recording so let's just pretend it never happened. I might have been drinking rum. Weirdest-wedding-ever-dance-party: A+!
Poor Baby G. succumbed to a tummy bug overnight on Friday, so I spent the pre-dawn hours changing both of us out of multiple pairs of barfed-upon PJs. Friday-into-Saturday, I'm afraid, gets a D. But Saturday officially dawned bright and lovely and we all went to the beach (A) and with plenty of Tylenol and cuddles, by afternoon, the Baby was just fine (B+). And all the grownups went to a wine-tasting (A), which was fun except day-drinking should be followed either by more drinking or immediate napping and I did neither (C+) and by 9 pm that night I was DONE. My brother and his wife were DONE too, so they took me down the mountain in their golf cart, collected my nieces from my cabin, and we all went to bed early (A+). But that was OK too. We all slept like champions and drove home the next day without incident (A-).
Weekend cumulative average: A
And this weekend, well. For the first time ever, the Green Team is splitting up to have separate adventures. Little A. is spending the weekend with my parents, and has already told me that she is going to "take Nana on all the rides at Santa's Village because otherwise Nana might not have fun. And Grampa can take pictures." Baby G. is going to her first Red Sox game with her dad, CT grandparents, and uncle. And I am headed up the coast again for a little getaway of my own. This will be the first night I have spent away since Baby G was born. I am going to miss the dickens out of those girls but oh, oh, oh. SLEEPING IN and other adult-y things, how I have longed for thee.
I used to hate summer. Indoorsy, bookish nerds with an aversion to bare skin don't fare well with heat and sweat and tourists all around. But now I can see what all the hype is about: it's fun. FUN! Summer is a stupid and highly inappropriate Daft Punk song blasting out of your car window and all three of us girls singing along. Summer is ice cream dripping down your chin. Summer is the perfect light reflecting off the slick of low tide. Summer is a little black dress under fireworks. And I'm paraphrasing myself here, but around these parts, Summer 2013 is delivering fun, on all fronts.
So, what did you do on your summer vacation?
xoxo, A
Brooklyn: We walked to three playgrounds in one day (!), I had too-much wine and wonderful catch-up time with my girlfriends (!!) and then we took a FERRY to HEAVEN (!!!) and it was so absurdly magical that I had a little lump in my throat for most of the weekend.
Parenting at the same time, in the same place, with old friends, is amazing. You see them in a best, new light. And you also see that you are the same to them, and they are the same to you, even though everything is different.
And. As with most things, once you are actually doing the thing, it just...unfolds. I was in a mild twist about having the girls in the car for so long and general traveling solo-parent-style. And, of course: There was a grating 45-minute stretch of whining (the mamuuuuh mamaaaaaah maaaamuuuh sob sob thing that makes one wish ears were never even invented) instigated by my darling eldest before she took her own trip to Nap-ville, at the beginning of the 3rd hour of driving on the way down. As per my "breaks every 2 hours" rule, we had just pulled back on the road from our Big Treat fast-food lunch when the whining began. I wanted to shove their new Minion toys (which Baby G. promptly christened "my pickle-bull" after "despicable") into my ears. But then my big girl gave in to her fatigue and slept the entire rest of the ride to the CT grandparents' house and proceeded to have the best times ever for the rest of the weekend. There was one night wherein we all couldn't fall asleep for shit, and then slept like crap. There was a terrifying thunderstorm on the way back during which I discovered 1., the wipers on the car are inadequate, 2., the defrost on the car is inadequate and 3., when you are on a busy highway and you can't see past the front of your car, and you just have to pull over praying that everyone will let you do so, your hands can shake so hard that it can take upwards of 15 minutes to calm them so they will not also be inadequate. I could have done without those parts, but then, we could have just not gone, and none of the good stuff would have happened either.
(BLOGGER LIFE PHILOSOPHY IN YOUR FACE.)
Portland, Maine (with beloved houseguests): Not one but TWO trips to the best ice cream shop/petting zoo ever. A golden afternoon at the beach. Magic-hour suppers on my back porch. Three adorable little girls playing together. Not one, not two, but THREE amazing good ol'fashioned late-night hangouts with my girlfriend who is, no contest, the best person in the world with whom to destroy your liver. Resultant hilarious hung-over parenting afternoons. And the aforementioned precious chance to share space with an old friend, who is also a (great) mom and a (great) wife.
I had a little Gretchen-Rubin-esque epiphany during that week. You know how some people just make you feel wonderful and like yourself? Your best self, in the most Oprah-manner of speech, but in an effortless way? These people are your "inflators" and you should cling to them always, and make them fly hundreds of miles to see you and your children. Guilt them into it, I don't care. Just get them into your space. And you should drive or fly hundreds of miles to see them, also. The other kind of people are "deflators" who make you feel bad and fuck them.That is what I learned that week.
Northport, Maine: For a few years now, my family has been heading up the coast of Maine for our family business's association retreat. This sounds like it should be boring, but it is not, not by a long shot. The first year, Little A. was just barely there: I had confirmed my pregnancy the very day before we drove 4 hours to Bar Harbor and I spent the whole weekend bobbing around in that heady mixture of joy and panic that is the beginning of pregnancy and also wondering if everyone would notice my avoidance of wine and blue cheese. This year, our fourth year, I finally got the whole weekend RIGHT. I hired one of Little A.'s beloved teachers, Miss Alicia, to babysit. My brother and his kids were also coming, and Miss Alicia knows them very well also. Alicia was fantastic all weekend - she required absolutely NO instruction, she was up for anything, and she can drive a golf cart. (I have a ridiculous inability to drive anything smaller than a car. So stupid! I need to get over it.) So, A+ childcare choice.
The drive up to the resort was rainy and sleepy, but the weather also meant very little traffic. I would only give myself an A- for transport because my car broke down that morning, all full of our stuff, but then I got to drive my dad's fancy Audi, so maybe I get just a regular A.
Friday evening there is always a lobster bake/ridiculous dance party. The girls were happy to learn the Macarena and hang in the bounce-house until bedtime (A- for much later than usual bedtime). My dad started drinking CC over ice at 6 pm and didn't stop until well after he had danced with my mother - TWICE - to "Blurred Lines." That was a scene, my friends, that I will never forget. I will never forget. I also might have taught my mother how to dance "Gangnam Style," but there was no video recording so let's just pretend it never happened. I might have been drinking rum. Weirdest-wedding-ever-dance-party: A+!
Poor Baby G. succumbed to a tummy bug overnight on Friday, so I spent the pre-dawn hours changing both of us out of multiple pairs of barfed-upon PJs. Friday-into-Saturday, I'm afraid, gets a D. But Saturday officially dawned bright and lovely and we all went to the beach (A) and with plenty of Tylenol and cuddles, by afternoon, the Baby was just fine (B+). And all the grownups went to a wine-tasting (A), which was fun except day-drinking should be followed either by more drinking or immediate napping and I did neither (C+) and by 9 pm that night I was DONE. My brother and his wife were DONE too, so they took me down the mountain in their golf cart, collected my nieces from my cabin, and we all went to bed early (A+). But that was OK too. We all slept like champions and drove home the next day without incident (A-).
Weekend cumulative average: A
And this weekend, well. For the first time ever, the Green Team is splitting up to have separate adventures. Little A. is spending the weekend with my parents, and has already told me that she is going to "take Nana on all the rides at Santa's Village because otherwise Nana might not have fun. And Grampa can take pictures." Baby G. is going to her first Red Sox game with her dad, CT grandparents, and uncle. And I am headed up the coast again for a little getaway of my own. This will be the first night I have spent away since Baby G was born. I am going to miss the dickens out of those girls but oh, oh, oh. SLEEPING IN and other adult-y things, how I have longed for thee.
I used to hate summer. Indoorsy, bookish nerds with an aversion to bare skin don't fare well with heat and sweat and tourists all around. But now I can see what all the hype is about: it's fun. FUN! Summer is a stupid and highly inappropriate Daft Punk song blasting out of your car window and all three of us girls singing along. Summer is ice cream dripping down your chin. Summer is the perfect light reflecting off the slick of low tide. Summer is a little black dress under fireworks. And I'm paraphrasing myself here, but around these parts, Summer 2013 is delivering fun, on all fronts.
So, what did you do on your summer vacation?
xoxo, A
Friday, August 2, 2013
I Didn't Even Know I Had a Belfry Up in this Piece
On Tuesday night, a few hours after I fell into a wine-y, swoon-y kind of sleep, I had a very strange dream. In my dream, it was 3 am. I awoke in my bed, and looked around my own room, just as it was when I went to sleep, Little A. snoozing next to me. A bat was swooping and darting around my room. Round and round it went, skimming over the covers, banking turns off the angled walls, stirring up the air. The cat jumped off the bed and went to investigate. She made a couple of prrts! but then just sat in the middle of the room and watched the bat's hectic flight pattern, SWOOP-retreat-SWOOP-retreat. And as quickly as the night visitor came, it disappeared. I heard a thump, maybe in the closet. The cat trotted over to the closet, but quickly returned to her place on the bed. And we all went back to sleep.
I told my mother about the strange dream and thought nothing more of it. She has been having strange dreams this week, too. There must be something in the cosmos. So the usual Wednesday thing happened at my house, and I put myself to bed early.
And then it was 1 am. And there was a shadow on my ceiling. And it was THE FUCKING BAT WHICH WAS NOT A DREAM BAT AT ALL BUT A REAL FUCKING BAT IN MY BEDROOM.
Jesus Christ, you guys. I am all for bats in nature. They catch bugs! They are a valuable part of the ecosystem! Bat houses! Yay! But in my bedroom? Swooping my bed? Getting close to my FACE.
No. No no no no no no. NO TO THE POWER OF INFINITY.
As is typical in these midnight fright scenarios, for a few long moments I froze and watched the little fucker swoop around. Nothing like waking up in a cold panic to get the old adrenal glands pumping. What to do. What to do about a FUCKING BAT IN MY BEDROOM. I willed my limbs to work. I turned on the light. The bat flew out of the bedroom.
Aha, I thought. Bat rodeo. I grabbed a pillowcase, thinking maybe I would throw it on top of the bat if it landed somewhere. Like a net! I have successfully employed this method with unruly cats and toddlers, but not flying things, so it would be an experiment. The cat and I paused on the stairs to watch the bat swoop around the living room. Once I saw it clear that room, I followed, flapping the pillowcase in front of me as a sort of shield/bullfighter cape thing. While also trying very hard not to shriek or otherwise raise an alarm that would wake the sleeping children.
And so, that was the game. The bat would fly into a dim room. The cat and I would follow behind, the cat with her tail in the air, me with my trusty pillowcase flapping in front of me. Finally, the three of us made it to the kitchen. Which is next to the dining room. Which is where there is a giant door to the deck. Which was my hope for a flying-rodent-free abode.
The bat landed on a window and tried its damnedest to scrabble out through the screen, and then just rested there for a moment. I raced over to the door and opened it as wide as it could go, and then tried to send psychic signals about the nearness of the open door. I flapped my pillowcase and turned lights off and on, trying to find the right level of dimness to encourage a scared, tired, and probably hungry bat to FIND THE FUCKING OPEN DOOR ALREADY. The cat sat in the middle of the kitchen and deigned to raise one paw at the bat as it flew past her on one of its tumble runs. Then she looked at me and asked for a treat. Fucking cats, man.
Once, twice, the bat made a crazy circle around the perimeter of the kitchen. On the third pass, it took a sharp right a few feet in front of me and flew straight out into the darkness. Out into the OUTSIDE. Out into its OWN DAMN HOUSE.
And so I successfully, luckily, got the bat out of my house. It took me an hour or so to get back to sleep after that, and all day yesterday I had the PTSDs around bird-shadows. I'm over that today (I think).
SO. Let it be known to all that I am a bat-wrangler extraordinaire! Both girls slept through the night and never had a clue what drama a flying rodent wrought in their home.
I dearly hope I will never have to employ that particular skill-set, ever, ever, ever again.
xoxo, A
I told my mother about the strange dream and thought nothing more of it. She has been having strange dreams this week, too. There must be something in the cosmos. So the usual Wednesday thing happened at my house, and I put myself to bed early.
And then it was 1 am. And there was a shadow on my ceiling. And it was THE FUCKING BAT WHICH WAS NOT A DREAM BAT AT ALL BUT A REAL FUCKING BAT IN MY BEDROOM.
Jesus Christ, you guys. I am all for bats in nature. They catch bugs! They are a valuable part of the ecosystem! Bat houses! Yay! But in my bedroom? Swooping my bed? Getting close to my FACE.
No. No no no no no no. NO TO THE POWER OF INFINITY.
As is typical in these midnight fright scenarios, for a few long moments I froze and watched the little fucker swoop around. Nothing like waking up in a cold panic to get the old adrenal glands pumping. What to do. What to do about a FUCKING BAT IN MY BEDROOM. I willed my limbs to work. I turned on the light. The bat flew out of the bedroom.
Aha, I thought. Bat rodeo. I grabbed a pillowcase, thinking maybe I would throw it on top of the bat if it landed somewhere. Like a net! I have successfully employed this method with unruly cats and toddlers, but not flying things, so it would be an experiment. The cat and I paused on the stairs to watch the bat swoop around the living room. Once I saw it clear that room, I followed, flapping the pillowcase in front of me as a sort of shield/bullfighter cape thing. While also trying very hard not to shriek or otherwise raise an alarm that would wake the sleeping children.
And so, that was the game. The bat would fly into a dim room. The cat and I would follow behind, the cat with her tail in the air, me with my trusty pillowcase flapping in front of me. Finally, the three of us made it to the kitchen. Which is next to the dining room. Which is where there is a giant door to the deck. Which was my hope for a flying-rodent-free abode.
The bat landed on a window and tried its damnedest to scrabble out through the screen, and then just rested there for a moment. I raced over to the door and opened it as wide as it could go, and then tried to send psychic signals about the nearness of the open door. I flapped my pillowcase and turned lights off and on, trying to find the right level of dimness to encourage a scared, tired, and probably hungry bat to FIND THE FUCKING OPEN DOOR ALREADY. The cat sat in the middle of the kitchen and deigned to raise one paw at the bat as it flew past her on one of its tumble runs. Then she looked at me and asked for a treat. Fucking cats, man.
Once, twice, the bat made a crazy circle around the perimeter of the kitchen. On the third pass, it took a sharp right a few feet in front of me and flew straight out into the darkness. Out into the OUTSIDE. Out into its OWN DAMN HOUSE.
And so I successfully, luckily, got the bat out of my house. It took me an hour or so to get back to sleep after that, and all day yesterday I had the PTSDs around bird-shadows. I'm over that today (I think).
SO. Let it be known to all that I am a bat-wrangler extraordinaire! Both girls slept through the night and never had a clue what drama a flying rodent wrought in their home.
I dearly hope I will never have to employ that particular skill-set, ever, ever, ever again.
xoxo, A
Thursday, July 25, 2013
Two! Sleeps! 'Til Brooklyn!
My good friend (and obviously one of my biggest inspirations -- thanks for all the writing prompts, Lynn!) recently shared her feelings about traveling with kids. Hell on earth, she says. And I can definitely see where she's coming from. About 2 hours in to our 3.5 hour flight home from a recent trip to Florida (which had a whole host of problems, really deserving of its own post), Baby G. got restless and spent a good 45 minutes slapping and poking me. It wasn't malicious, really, but really. Slapping. Poking. Jumping. All the while increasing her vocal volume until people started turning around to see what the fuss was all about. Finally I dumped her into my dad's lap and hissed YOU TAKE HER NOW and went to stand by the bathroom and pretended not to know any of my travel party for 15 minutes. There might have been a quick glass of wine involved but I'll never tell.
So. Was it relaxing? No. I was utterly exhausted by the time we got home. But was it worth it? Yes. I can safely say: yes. Though I didn't get to loll on a chair and read trashy magazines or even have one fruity cocktail without wondering if someone was going to drown or get sunburned or wake up and need tending, there were so many lovely moments. Watching the girls through my fingers as they run away from my beach chair to the edge of the Gulf of Mexico, holding their grandfather's hand. Discovering the tiny baby coconut that would become Little A.'s prized possession. Reconnecting with a dear friend while our little girls slept all piled into the same room. And all of our trips are like that. Tiring/exhilarating. Stressful/amazing.
So I'll start packing tonight, for my first solo road trip with the girls. Even though I know there will be moments of hell during our 6-hour drive, once we get there, and on the way home. Even though I just spent an arm and a leg on road snacks that will be eaten within the first 45 minutes. Because we need to walk to the coolest playgrounds in the coolest neighborhood in my most favorite city in the whole wide world. Because I don't want Little A. to think Maine bagels are actually BAGELS. Because I wouldn't miss the chance to see my dear friend and her boy play with my girls. Because I need to sit on a roof with my girlfriends and see and hear the same sights and sounds of my long-gone self-centered single gal days. Because I love to travel, and goddammit, so will my kids.
(Wish me luck, though, seriously.)
xoxo, A
Thursday, July 18, 2013
Lather Rinse Repeat
Last night I had an out-of-body experience. I floated up to the ceiling of Little A's room and saw myself grab and rip to shreds a magazine. Not just any magazine, no, but her most favorite magazine in the whole wide world. It was 8:02 pm. It was hot as fuck. She was tired. I was tired. She had just deliberately spit on the floor, after 45 minutes of outrageously wild behavior -- running away, crying, laughing hysterically while kicking her legs every which way including at my face, throwing books, and so very much SHRIEKING, in the tub and in the baby's room and in her room and right next to me, directly into my ear, as I sat at the top of the stairs frantically trying to collect myself and wondering what the fuck do I do now and can I maybe just go out onto the deck and come back in 30 minutes -- and it was my very last straw. We both heard the glob of spit hit the floor and she looked at me with mingled dread and defiance and I didn't say a word. I exited my body, which slowly got up from her bed where I had been trying to just talk to her or get her to breathe or somehow get things back under control and walked directly to the magazine and picked it up and ripped and ripped and ripped. And she wailed and tried to punch me and said I was the worst mother in the world and that I hated her and that she hated me. And I wanted to wail and I felt like the worst mother in the world and I hated myself. And I spiraled back down into myself and sat next to her and held her still-small fists and just said this is out of control, we have to get it under control. I love you and could never hate you. I should not have ripped your magazine. This is out of control. We have to get it under control. I love you and could never hate you. Over and over, a chanted prayer/wish/mantra. And we did get it under control. And I should not have ripped her magazine, and she should not have shrieked in my ear. And we talked about all the scary feelings we were both feeling in that moment. And we talked about how many changes we've been through in the past few weeks. She misses her dad being around, she misses her old teacher at school, and she doesn't like her new teacher, and her cousin doesn't want to hug her at school. Big hurts and little hurts and they all fucking hurt. And I should not have ripped her magazine. I absorbed all of her hurt sobs into my body and they have settled somewhere around my heart and there they sit, so heavy.
After 15 minutes of talking and crying we went back into her sister's room (where the AC unit is) and I made her a special nest next to where I was going to sleep and we laid down together and I rubbed her back until she fell asleep. And then, finally, lying on an improvised bed between her and her sister in the dark and cool room, I cried too. Silent, guilty, stinging tears.
My oldest girl. So much like me, and so mysterious in the way any other person is. I love her with every cell of my body and her very existence fills me with joy and we dance together and play and joke and most hours are delightful but also she makes me more angry than anyone I have ever known. Since our last breakdown/breakthrough her behavior has changed. She is still excellent at school but every other night or so is a struggle. Last night was extreme, really extreme, and just after she fell asleep the skies opened and a thunderstorm rolled through just to prove the point. Thanks, Universe. I get the message. She is not protecting me anymore, I think. She is just at one of those ages, I think. She is processing the separation, I think.
This is hard and weird, guys. I am 100% convinced things will be better because of the changes I affected to our family. And in so many ways, they already are. The knot of tension and uncertainty that lived in my chest for the past two years has disappeared for one. It has been replaced by other knots, but they are MY knots and I know how to work on that shit. We are eating better and dancing and singing and doing more fun stuff. There is less stress in the house, period. We just have to get past this hard part to get to really really good but I also have to get cozy with the notion that the hard part might last a little longer than I was expecting because there are more agendas at work than just mine. And my guiding philosophy of keep on movin, don't stop, might not work for everyone in our little family. I have to just stop and be with first baby, this tough cookie, this spitter, this cuddler, and singer and painter and dancer, right where she is. And I have to just stop and be with her sister, my last baby, our 5-second tantrum-er, and goofball, and toothbrush-obsessor, right where she is. And I also have to just stop and be with me, single mother, don't wanna to go to sleep because this is my time-er, story-teller, hugger, comfort-giver, magazine-ripper, right where I am. I just need to be nice to all of us, including me. I am not letting myself off the hook for that asshole move, but by god I am going to go out tonight and allow myself to recharge so that particular brand of assholery will not reoccur.
We are here: facing off and shouting threats and throwing our plates to the floor and pulling hair and in time out. We are here: going to the beach and having cupcakes and wearing princess dresses and painting toenails and having breakfast dance parties. We are here.
xoxo, A
After 15 minutes of talking and crying we went back into her sister's room (where the AC unit is) and I made her a special nest next to where I was going to sleep and we laid down together and I rubbed her back until she fell asleep. And then, finally, lying on an improvised bed between her and her sister in the dark and cool room, I cried too. Silent, guilty, stinging tears.
My oldest girl. So much like me, and so mysterious in the way any other person is. I love her with every cell of my body and her very existence fills me with joy and we dance together and play and joke and most hours are delightful but also she makes me more angry than anyone I have ever known. Since our last breakdown/breakthrough her behavior has changed. She is still excellent at school but every other night or so is a struggle. Last night was extreme, really extreme, and just after she fell asleep the skies opened and a thunderstorm rolled through just to prove the point. Thanks, Universe. I get the message. She is not protecting me anymore, I think. She is just at one of those ages, I think. She is processing the separation, I think.
This is hard and weird, guys. I am 100% convinced things will be better because of the changes I affected to our family. And in so many ways, they already are. The knot of tension and uncertainty that lived in my chest for the past two years has disappeared for one. It has been replaced by other knots, but they are MY knots and I know how to work on that shit. We are eating better and dancing and singing and doing more fun stuff. There is less stress in the house, period. We just have to get past this hard part to get to really really good but I also have to get cozy with the notion that the hard part might last a little longer than I was expecting because there are more agendas at work than just mine. And my guiding philosophy of keep on movin, don't stop, might not work for everyone in our little family. I have to just stop and be with first baby, this tough cookie, this spitter, this cuddler, and singer and painter and dancer, right where she is. And I have to just stop and be with her sister, my last baby, our 5-second tantrum-er, and goofball, and toothbrush-obsessor, right where she is. And I also have to just stop and be with me, single mother, don't wanna to go to sleep because this is my time-er, story-teller, hugger, comfort-giver, magazine-ripper, right where I am. I just need to be nice to all of us, including me. I am not letting myself off the hook for that asshole move, but by god I am going to go out tonight and allow myself to recharge so that particular brand of assholery will not reoccur.
We are here: facing off and shouting threats and throwing our plates to the floor and pulling hair and in time out. We are here: going to the beach and having cupcakes and wearing princess dresses and painting toenails and having breakfast dance parties. We are here.
xoxo, A
Wednesday, July 3, 2013
You Take the Good, You Take the Bad
My good friend (and super talented bloggess) Lynn wrote this lovely piece today. A topic top of mind and close to our hearts these last weeks, so I'm writing my thoughts out here, too.
When we found out Greg was sick with stage-4, metastasized pancreatic cancer, it was a shock, to say the least. He was so young and so strong. He was Tim's boss for several months, a couple of years ago, and they had remained fairly close. You know, beers-once-a-month close. And suddenly, here was this young, strong guy, living under a death sentence. 6 months, they gave him. And Greg, although he and his wife didn't characterize it as "fighting," boy, did he fight. He gave cancer the middle finger in the form of energy work, chemo, immunity treatments, clean eating, etc., etc. He did everything and he and his wife navigated the whole process with amazing grace and strength. And the fucking disease got him anyway. He passed peacefully at home right around the 6-month mark.
Living with animals gives us training wheels for the whole death talk. When Little A. was around 5 months old, our beloved Black Kitty died, peacefully, at home. He was old and sick but mostly like himself until the end. We buried him in the backyard, after making up a special box filled with a cozy blankets and treats. We gave him farewell pats and shed a few tears over his body, all together as a family. She was too young to talk about it, of course, but I wanted her to see that we would miss him and remember him and that was hard, but also that everything alive dies. A fact of life, albeit a sucky one. Since then we have lost another cat, a few chickens, and two fish, to causes natural and not. My grandmother passed away while I was pregnant with Baby G, and of course most recently we have talked about Greg. With every passing and as she grows, the level of discourse naturally becomes more sophisticated and more self-reflective. The questions range from why do we stop breathing when we die to where did Fifi Fishie go when she died to when will YOU die, Mama? Her questions are hard to answer and I feel it would be doing her a major disservice to duck them. Or to sugarcoat the answers.
We stop breathing because our bodies get tired or too hurt and besides we don't need our bodies anymore when we die, I say
She went out of her body. We put her body into the ground and she stays in our memories, I say.
I am not intending to die for a long, long time, but no one can really plan that. I exercise and eat healthy so my body will stay strong. But I can't promise to live for a long, long time. What I can promise is that when I die I am going to be with you, inside your heart, I say.
I say these things and will keep saying them and hope she understands. She seems to understand.
My heart was heavy on the day of Greg's memorial service. I had stayed up late making the chocolate cream pie I would bring to the service, so I was tired and feeling many feelings about how the whole thing would be very hard on Tim and, how, in spite of our separation, I wanted to support him because he needed it and I was the only one who could. So, I stood beside him with tired legs and a tired back and rubbed his back while tears streamed down his face, while we listened to many, many people fondly reminisce about Greg. There were plenty of tears from everyone because goddamn it, a good guy was stolen from all of us. But also there was laughter and love and light and a shitload of pies, because Greg loved pie and there was another a way for us to honor him: through the baking of the pies and the happiness of our bellies after eating said pies, all filled with love and sugar. When we got home, Addie asked how the party was. Because she insisted that it was a "party." I said it was a little sad and a little happy and she said It was sad because Greg died. It was happy because you love him and ate the pie you made and wore your pretty skirt. Did you know I got to have A CHOCOLATE SUNDAE with Nana and Grampa? And then she rampaged around a bit and went to sleep.
Little A. has made a little shrine to the ladybug husks she finds in her room and calls it "Ladybug Heaven." She notices all the little lives around her and wonders when they will die and does not seem scared. I wish for her to never be scared of life and all its hard, unfair implications. She wants me to sing I love you forever, I like you for always, as long as I'm living, my first baby you'll be, three times every night. We add a footnote that she will be my baby even AFTER I am living. I want her to feel everything, not be closed to life, to be realistic and know I will always be here, even if I'm not. And that she will always be here, even if she's not. That is a prayer for both girls as they fall asleep (I have many): Don't be afraid, because I am here. Don't be afraid, because you are here. We will love on each other forever. And pie helps, so take a big slice.
xoxo, A
When we found out Greg was sick with stage-4, metastasized pancreatic cancer, it was a shock, to say the least. He was so young and so strong. He was Tim's boss for several months, a couple of years ago, and they had remained fairly close. You know, beers-once-a-month close. And suddenly, here was this young, strong guy, living under a death sentence. 6 months, they gave him. And Greg, although he and his wife didn't characterize it as "fighting," boy, did he fight. He gave cancer the middle finger in the form of energy work, chemo, immunity treatments, clean eating, etc., etc. He did everything and he and his wife navigated the whole process with amazing grace and strength. And the fucking disease got him anyway. He passed peacefully at home right around the 6-month mark.
Living with animals gives us training wheels for the whole death talk. When Little A. was around 5 months old, our beloved Black Kitty died, peacefully, at home. He was old and sick but mostly like himself until the end. We buried him in the backyard, after making up a special box filled with a cozy blankets and treats. We gave him farewell pats and shed a few tears over his body, all together as a family. She was too young to talk about it, of course, but I wanted her to see that we would miss him and remember him and that was hard, but also that everything alive dies. A fact of life, albeit a sucky one. Since then we have lost another cat, a few chickens, and two fish, to causes natural and not. My grandmother passed away while I was pregnant with Baby G, and of course most recently we have talked about Greg. With every passing and as she grows, the level of discourse naturally becomes more sophisticated and more self-reflective. The questions range from why do we stop breathing when we die to where did Fifi Fishie go when she died to when will YOU die, Mama? Her questions are hard to answer and I feel it would be doing her a major disservice to duck them. Or to sugarcoat the answers.
We stop breathing because our bodies get tired or too hurt and besides we don't need our bodies anymore when we die, I say
She went out of her body. We put her body into the ground and she stays in our memories, I say.
I am not intending to die for a long, long time, but no one can really plan that. I exercise and eat healthy so my body will stay strong. But I can't promise to live for a long, long time. What I can promise is that when I die I am going to be with you, inside your heart, I say.
I say these things and will keep saying them and hope she understands. She seems to understand.
My heart was heavy on the day of Greg's memorial service. I had stayed up late making the chocolate cream pie I would bring to the service, so I was tired and feeling many feelings about how the whole thing would be very hard on Tim and, how, in spite of our separation, I wanted to support him because he needed it and I was the only one who could. So, I stood beside him with tired legs and a tired back and rubbed his back while tears streamed down his face, while we listened to many, many people fondly reminisce about Greg. There were plenty of tears from everyone because goddamn it, a good guy was stolen from all of us. But also there was laughter and love and light and a shitload of pies, because Greg loved pie and there was another a way for us to honor him: through the baking of the pies and the happiness of our bellies after eating said pies, all filled with love and sugar. When we got home, Addie asked how the party was. Because she insisted that it was a "party." I said it was a little sad and a little happy and she said It was sad because Greg died. It was happy because you love him and ate the pie you made and wore your pretty skirt. Did you know I got to have A CHOCOLATE SUNDAE with Nana and Grampa? And then she rampaged around a bit and went to sleep.
Little A. has made a little shrine to the ladybug husks she finds in her room and calls it "Ladybug Heaven." She notices all the little lives around her and wonders when they will die and does not seem scared. I wish for her to never be scared of life and all its hard, unfair implications. She wants me to sing I love you forever, I like you for always, as long as I'm living, my first baby you'll be, three times every night. We add a footnote that she will be my baby even AFTER I am living. I want her to feel everything, not be closed to life, to be realistic and know I will always be here, even if I'm not. And that she will always be here, even if she's not. That is a prayer for both girls as they fall asleep (I have many): Don't be afraid, because I am here. Don't be afraid, because you are here. We will love on each other forever. And pie helps, so take a big slice.
xoxo, A
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)