Two words: music lessons. I have managed to give birth to three children completely devoid of musical talent. I spent 2 years giving money to a lovely lady so that my children could slaughter the piano (yes, you can make a piano sound bad) and so that they could scream at me all the other days when they had to practice. To their defense, they now can clearly tell what is "good" music, or at least they haven't subjected me to an excess of Miley Cyrus. The youngest, Boo, requests the Beach Boys. Louder. Bunny, the girl child, is the most conventional of my children, and is in the throes of an Abba binge. She got the soundtrack to Momma Mia, which comes with the lyrics, so we spend a lot of time singing, "Take A Chance on Me!" Loudly. Monkey Boy only likes LOUD ROCK MUSIC. For example, his favorite bands are Led Zeppelin and White Stripes. He actually put a Led Zeppelin song down on his "What You Need to Know About Me" questionnaire for the first day of school. Between his music, sports and fabulous hair, he is going to be a babe magnet. If he ever stops whining. Okay, he will be a babe magnet when his voice changes I have been praying for since about 10 minutes after his birth because the pitch of his whine is one that reverberates in your brain hours after he stops making noise. Monkey Boy was the only one of our newborns to complain about his arrival. The other two came out and said, "Wah!" and were done. Bunny spent the first few hours staring at the light, and Boo went to sleep. Monkey Boy complained and complained and complained. Of course, a woman who had a breathing style like Darth Vader was delivering next door, so I cried along with him in rhythm with her exhales and inhales. I was happier when her child was born than when mine was.
Oh, I am not sure what the technical definition of Munchausen's syndrome is, and whether if you don't want to be sick you can still have it. Let me explain. Every time I am put in a long-term stressful situation, I develop an illness. I don't develop a headache, I get really sick. In fact I managed to convince one of my doctors not once, but twice, that I had a brain tumor. In his defense, I had completely different symptoms both times, and each time after I had gotten some big test (a MRI, a CAT scan) that came back negative. I have managed to do this to my new doctor now. I have been having intense stomach pains for about 6 months that come and go periodically, and even though my husband could trivialize them as PMS, they have no relationship to any of that. This month they reached a new plateau where I couldn't talk very much while they were going on and I actually asked hubby to come home from work and be nice to me. The only thing that worked was starving myself and remaining in fetal position. So, new doctor sent me to get TWO gall bladder tests that revealed that not only is my gallbladder healthy, but it is working overtime, and so, once again, I have managed to make myself ill via stress. And guess what? Now that I know I get to keep my gallbladder, I have no pain. I suppose I should be grateful because each "major illness" is not as horrible as the one before, so maybe by the time this is done, my stress will be of the rough skin/hangnail variety.
So, today I had an experience that made me a little sad. My youngest was coming home from school, and he wanted to hold my hand. My hands were full, and I needed to shift stuff so I could have an empty hand. While he was walking beside me, he was running his fingers up and down my arm and as soon as he could slip his hand in mine, he gave me the most beatific smile. I felt really sad because this is my last year as a full-time mom, and the lovebabies are getting just scraps of me whenever I can focus for longer than 10 seconds which happens only on the second Tuesday of the month. The older my children get, the more I enjoy being around them, but the converse side is I am not sure they would say the same. I am pretty sure that my 12 year-old future son will realize that his mother who never shaves her legs because it takes concentration is not as beautiful as she was when he was in preschool. Right now he is wearing his father's glasses and for the first time I can see the man he will become. And my daughter is already telling me my clothes are bad. When she isn't stealing them.
Since I don't have a gallbladder problem, I have also decided that I don't have depression. I am just eating that entire jar of potato chips because it is the company's fault for making them tasty.
Whenever I have a chance to do a lot of reading, I tend to go on "tears" where I only read about that subject. A few years ago I read a book about Los Alamos' founding, so I actually checked out a book on chaos theory. And then when I read about breaking the Enigma code during World War II, I decided that I wanted to learn about secret codes. I know NOTHING about either because I couldn't even understand the dedicatory quote and just called it quits early. So, in the past month I have read all four of the Twilight series (if you know any teenage girl you wish to speak to, you should read these books) which are a love story between a vampire and a human. Fortunately, I already knew everything there was to know about vampires from my previous childhood obsession with them, but somehow it led me to reading about Israeli spies. So, I now have a library book about the history of the Mossad on my shelf, and I read the Jerusalem Post today. It was very National Enquirer because they are obsessed with finding this missing, abused child, and I was thinking, "Have you visited a refugee camp?" but it was as sordid as New York Post. I meant to get to Al-Jazeera's English page because I wanted to see if I can figure out why the Lebanese don't like the Jordanians, and whether all this horrid stuff about the Egyptian Secret Police is true (Guatanoma Bay is preferred to Egyptian prisons), but I didn't to it. I have decided to try and understand the whole Arab-Israeli conflict better because it is key to every foreign policy out there.
I have to go and scream at Monkey Boy now and tell him to stop playing ball since he was supposed to be asleep 45 minutes ago and it is loud. And I won't promise another blog post anytime soon. It is that concentration thing, and I need to make sure I don't have any more new diseases.
Thursday, August 28, 2008
Monday, August 11, 2008
Exercise for the Handicapped
Well, to say I have been busy the last few weeks would be an understatement, but I decided to wait until I stopped hyperventilating to write. My mother is here, and it hasn't been the unmitigated disaster I supposed, but let's just say the stress level here is sort of equivalent to the Korean or Iraqi/Iranian borders. We are making it though without the help of chemical or police interventions thus far. And today I taught her how to use a swifter in a wheelchair. If she can mop, she can stay.
The toughest part for me is having to stop being a 50s housewife. My husband likes to deal with all the "stuff" and I like to tend to the kids and bake. It is a beautiful relationship because it works, but unfortunately I can't take on that role with my mom. I have learned how to be patient and assertive and cry on demand, but I am trying to do the assertive more. For example, today I told her job that I refuse to let her "quit" until I get insurance to fully and completely explain the repercussions of this, and since that insurance office is held by an imaginary person who doesn't call back, they can just keep paying her for not working, even if the poor babies in the classroom aren't being taught. And I intend to start paying attention to the stuff around here, too, even if I have no intention of actually tending to it.
Guess what? My hometown of Greenville was mentioned 3!!! times in yesterday's NYTimes book review, or rather, three people from my hometown were mentioned positively in the paper. We have lots of "old" famous writers - Shelby Foote, Walker Percy, etc., but the most famous local running around right now is Julia Reed, who is the lead writer at Vogue Magazine. She has a new cookbook/memoir out called Ham Biscuits, Hostess Gowns, and other Southern Specialties. There is a line in there that I am going to adopt as my motto, "She ain't much in a parlor, but she is hell in a tonk." And everything she says about Pepperidge Farm Thin White bread is true. It is worth the search.
The other thing interesting to me, at least, about this whole caregiver thing is how I have really become aware of the complete lack of gifts I have in this department. I can plow through a to do list, but I can only nurture people who I gave birth to. My husband who had a sickly youth (his mother is fantastically nurturing in the health department) never gets sick anymore. When I asked him why, he said, "Because it is too scary." I guess it is because when I get sick, I want to have someone bring me a glass of water and then not make any sound at all until I am well. No patting of hands, warm soup, etc. Just leave me alone. And, if you need more than that yourself, you better give me clear instructions as to your needs because it will never, ever occur to me. And my mother, bless her, is the exact opposite. She thrives when she is in my company. I finally had to tell her that my fantasy vacation is to go somewhere for 3 days and no one talk to me. When she is better, I am going on a retreat with a bunch of monks. I am trying to find one with a cave, just because I think if I am in a cave, it will be even less likely that someone will come and bug me.
Do you all remember a few years ago when that book The 5 Languages of Love came out? I don't remember them all, but I know that MY language of love is acts of service. My husband will always be rewarded more for mopping my floor than for buying me sparkly things. My sons and my mother are all physical touch love language people. This makes me stark raving nuts. I like the hello/goodbye hug but lots of contact makes me cranky. My youngest child is following his brother's path in that he likes to physically be in contact me the whole time he sleeps. Son #1 almost never immediately sticking his hand up my shirt when he tried to talk to me, but he has FINALLY realized that it politically incorrect to fondle your mother in public. And it can't just be a foot gently touching me for Boy #2. He has to hold on to me and breath up my nostrils. When I try to escape, he murmurs, "oh, mommy, I love you. I love to touch you." This would be creepy except I know the boy is a babe magnet and will soon drop me cold, so I try to enjoy it right now. The whole point of this is I was trying to decide if this was always the case, or a new development in my personality, the anti-touch thing. Well, hubby dear is not complaining, so I decided to ask my college boyfriend about this, and he said, "You weren't particularly cuddly." I find this hilarious, so I think my acutal shirt will say, "Not cuddly, but hell in a tonk."
The toughest part for me is having to stop being a 50s housewife. My husband likes to deal with all the "stuff" and I like to tend to the kids and bake. It is a beautiful relationship because it works, but unfortunately I can't take on that role with my mom. I have learned how to be patient and assertive and cry on demand, but I am trying to do the assertive more. For example, today I told her job that I refuse to let her "quit" until I get insurance to fully and completely explain the repercussions of this, and since that insurance office is held by an imaginary person who doesn't call back, they can just keep paying her for not working, even if the poor babies in the classroom aren't being taught. And I intend to start paying attention to the stuff around here, too, even if I have no intention of actually tending to it.
Guess what? My hometown of Greenville was mentioned 3!!! times in yesterday's NYTimes book review, or rather, three people from my hometown were mentioned positively in the paper. We have lots of "old" famous writers - Shelby Foote, Walker Percy, etc., but the most famous local running around right now is Julia Reed, who is the lead writer at Vogue Magazine. She has a new cookbook/memoir out called Ham Biscuits, Hostess Gowns, and other Southern Specialties. There is a line in there that I am going to adopt as my motto, "She ain't much in a parlor, but she is hell in a tonk." And everything she says about Pepperidge Farm Thin White bread is true. It is worth the search.
The other thing interesting to me, at least, about this whole caregiver thing is how I have really become aware of the complete lack of gifts I have in this department. I can plow through a to do list, but I can only nurture people who I gave birth to. My husband who had a sickly youth (his mother is fantastically nurturing in the health department) never gets sick anymore. When I asked him why, he said, "Because it is too scary." I guess it is because when I get sick, I want to have someone bring me a glass of water and then not make any sound at all until I am well. No patting of hands, warm soup, etc. Just leave me alone. And, if you need more than that yourself, you better give me clear instructions as to your needs because it will never, ever occur to me. And my mother, bless her, is the exact opposite. She thrives when she is in my company. I finally had to tell her that my fantasy vacation is to go somewhere for 3 days and no one talk to me. When she is better, I am going on a retreat with a bunch of monks. I am trying to find one with a cave, just because I think if I am in a cave, it will be even less likely that someone will come and bug me.
Do you all remember a few years ago when that book The 5 Languages of Love came out? I don't remember them all, but I know that MY language of love is acts of service. My husband will always be rewarded more for mopping my floor than for buying me sparkly things. My sons and my mother are all physical touch love language people. This makes me stark raving nuts. I like the hello/goodbye hug but lots of contact makes me cranky. My youngest child is following his brother's path in that he likes to physically be in contact me the whole time he sleeps. Son #1 almost never immediately sticking his hand up my shirt when he tried to talk to me, but he has FINALLY realized that it politically incorrect to fondle your mother in public. And it can't just be a foot gently touching me for Boy #2. He has to hold on to me and breath up my nostrils. When I try to escape, he murmurs, "oh, mommy, I love you. I love to touch you." This would be creepy except I know the boy is a babe magnet and will soon drop me cold, so I try to enjoy it right now. The whole point of this is I was trying to decide if this was always the case, or a new development in my personality, the anti-touch thing. Well, hubby dear is not complaining, so I decided to ask my college boyfriend about this, and he said, "You weren't particularly cuddly." I find this hilarious, so I think my acutal shirt will say, "Not cuddly, but hell in a tonk."
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)