Horror movie memories
I had a totally different post planned this afternoon than the one suggested by the title of this blog. I was appreciating my two younger children, who have a great relationship (granted, one is six, and the other is not yet three years old). It's not just that they play together quite a bit, either.
Yesterday, I gave the youngest a crew cut, an act guaranteed to send him into hysterics. I decided to trap him with a strategically placed towel, which I didn't do the LAST time I got ambitious about his hair, resulting in having to struggle to avoid his hands. He kept frantically wiping his head, then scrubbing at his tearful face, and managed to ingest half the hair I cut off. THIS time, however, it went much better (not to mention, FASTER) - he still cried, but couldn't grab his head or get in the way, so I managed to almost complete the job before he figured out how to lose the towel. The important point, though, is that his sister Catherine spent the entire time in the kitchen comforting him. He must have noticed, too, because when she got upset over something today, he immediately went to her, put his arm around her, and told her, "It's all right, Catherine".
So I was feeling pretty good, sitting on the couch with Adam on my lap, chillin' & watchin' some tube, when the back door into the kitchen slammed, accompanied by my daughter Samantha's voice shouting "Mom, I hit my head again! I'm bleeding!"
I don't even remember dumping Adam off my lap, but I hope he hit the floor gently, because I was already running for Sam. When I saw her, I was briefly horrified by her realistic depiction of "Carrie" (remember that movie? I never saw the update, and frankly never sat through the entire original, but did read the book, and I remember plenty of the key scenes). Poor Sam's face was COVERED in blood. The overflow had dripped down her neck, onto her shirt and her jeans, and her hands were also coated from feeling her face.
There's a reason I didn't go into medicine as a career, mostly having to do with my distaste of bodily fluids. However, as a mother, I do seem to have developed the ability to go instantly into crisis mode, where I can ignore the ickiness of the injury in favor of evaluating its seriousness. I can always afford to be icked out AFTER.
Fortunately, it wasn't that bad. The doctor was able to treat it by using that neato new medical glue instead of stitches, and the huge bump on her head should go down after a couple of days. A trip to Build-A-Bear helped to alleviate any residual symptoms. Sam, having had a dose of Tylenol to help the headache, is sitting here reading all this, clutching her new pink bear, and should be fine - no signs of concussion.
I, however, could use a margarita.
Aging graciously
As of yesterday, I'm now less than a year away from the big four-oh.
I work with some great people. One of the groups for which I provide MIS-type support is a customer service team. We had to attend a work function over the weekend, and in honor of my birthday, they gave me a gift of some top-shelf tequila since they know I love margaritas. (The local liquor store guy was horrified by the idea that I'd use this ritzy stuff as part of a mixed drink.) My teammate also bought me some birthday drinks, and yesterday, I was presented with a beautiful flower assortment in a cool vase. They even complimented me by saying they had no idea I was that close to 40.
I'm suddenly a lot less worried about the next birthday. Having friends who make me feel appreciated and with whom I had some good laughs this weekend has put things in perspective.
Normally my birthdays are unremarked, or worse, are more stressful than the average day. This year, however, I really enjoyed it. If you ladies ever read this, I want to thank you for making my last birthday in the under-40 decade fun and special.
Off the parenting cliff
I only THOUGHT I had perils over the weekend. How much one can learn in the space of 48 hours.
I have a strained relationship with my older daughter, with memories of the same type of relationship with my own mother. I can remember far more times when she seemed unhappy with me than was the reverse. Samantha often accuses me of speaking in a "mean" way to her...for instance, when I went outside to find her so I could call her in for dinner, her immediate reaction was to say, in whiny tones, "I'm not HUNNNNNgry!", and then, when I repeated that she should come in, to begin to raise her voice, which had already developed a distinct tone. This was an apparent reaction to her father "embarrassing" her. I know how that feels, too - he embarrasses ME all the time, although I also understand that she meant it in a different way than I usually do. However, I don't think I should need to
apologetically ask her to deign to come to dinner with the rest of her family.
There's a big disparity between what she THINKS I'm after and what I really want. Part of it is her absolute inability to actually listen to the words I'm saying - she's preparing her defense (or offense) while I'm speaking, so she doesn't hear me. Then she launches an attack, and I'm forced to try to deflect it, and before you know it, I'm ordering her inside, or to her room, or whatever. I just plain don't know how to resolve this. How can you explain to somebody that the person they THINK they're interacting with is totally different from the way you see your own self?
My own mother died when I was sixteen, so we never had a chance to fix any of our relationship issues. Also, she's not around now to offer helpful advice, which I REALLY NEED...as I'm writing this, I'm wishing I could just run away from this whole gig and find a new life, preferably as a beach bum somewhere warm but not TOO hot. But my real plan is to get a joint therapy session going for me & Sam. Hopefully, they'll be able to impart some useful techniques that I can also use to relate to Catherine.
Poor Catherine - she spent most of this afternoon sitting fully clothed in the bathtub, which was empty, just because she wanted to avoid both her father and her sister. Her dad is a yeller (as in one who yells constantly, unavoidably, unstoppably, and usually with absolutely no attempt to try to resolve a situation more quietly). Her sister really only gets along with Adam, the youngest of my kids, and sure enough was starting in on Catherine before they had been in a room together for a minute. I'm not exaggerating. Unfortunately, Catherine later displayed the same situational deafness that her sister has honed to perfection, and I had to postpone the brownie-baking activity we had planned. This resulted in Catherine screaming at the top of her lungs, totally freaking out her younger brother, who began wailing along with her.
I feel sometimes like I must be the worst mother in the world. I have a full-time job to support the entire family (my husband's "job" consists of sitting in the local bar, ostensibly "bouncing", but he is only paid in trade for this pseudo-work). At the end of my work day, I come home to Mark complaining about something - doesn't matter what, it's all the same drivel - and the kids acting up in response. He's great at pointing out things that need to be done - only by ME, of course, never mind that he's home all day while I'm working, and that my after-work jobs include food shopping, bathing the younger kids, doing laundry, washing dishes, vacuuming, etc.
This whole thing is a vicious cycle that I know HOW to break, at least in theory - just can't figure all the angles. I have no local family to turn to for support, and can't really afford fulltime daycare or a nanny for four kids, especially with the older three out of school for the summer. I fantasize about winning big money just so I could afford to stay at home full time, finance my divorce, and focus on being a better mother. (My older son, having come across me in tears while re-reading this whole vent, was sympathetic and consoling. Maybe I'm doing SOMETHING right.)
I'm just gonna need to figure out how to fix all of this without the benefit of the Lotto, somehow - after all, lots of people do.
Wish me luck.
More parenting perils
Parents make mistakes. Parents are, after all, just people. Procreating is not difficult for most of us...and I apologize to those couples who've had difficulties in this area...but no matter how hard it is, actually RAISING the kids is far harder.
I've created a nighttime monster in my son Adam. Because he's the last of my children (having ensured, thanks to modern surgical techniques, that he IS the last), I've tended to baby him. So I know it's my own fault. That's not to say it's any easier to deal with when the kid falls asleep in my arms and then, even though he's apparently out cold, can feel me trying to get up so I can put him to bed, at which point he immediately stiffens his entire body and starts saying, "No, mom, no!"
I usually end up sleeping with him but I decided last night to hold firm. He could just cry it out and get himself to sleep. Marshmallow that I am, I totally caved when I heard him sobbing, "You love me, mama! You love me, dada!" So I went back, picked him up, gave him a huge hug, and sat down with him again. He fell asleep, sniffling sadly...and I conked out soon after, which led to ...
Mistake #2 (at least last night): My older son Steven had a friend sleeping over, and they were downstairs in the basement playing a video game. My husband came home around 2am from the local watering hole and locked the door into the house. I woke up, still holding Adam, at 4:30, and after successfully putting Adam to bed, realized Steven wasn't in the house. Luckily, he had his cell phone, so I called him...he and his friend were camped on the back porch, which was cooler than the basement. I apologized...a LOT. Naturally, I thought he'd be back in the house before 2am.
Oh well...at least nobody got hurt.
Easy to please
I managed to amaze my son Adam the other day. This isn't really difficult to do, since he's not yet 3 years old.
My two older kids are at an age where they think I have no clue. I know from experience that I didn't really think my parents had any useful advice for me until I reached my twenties. It's good to know that eventually my own offspring will realize I'm not the moron they have been thinking I am - at least, if I live that long.
My younger daughter is kind of on the cusp - sometimes I still say things that manage to catch her attention, but she's almost at the point where she'll manage to ignore most of what I say. I've noticed this with my older daughter, who actually admitted the other day that she wasn't listening.
But Adam...if not quite a
blank slate, he's still got some room for me. And he was at first surprised, then tremendously pleased, when I sang "Old McDonald" to him the other day. I could tell what he was thinking:
Me (singing, offkey as usual): "Old McDonald had a farm..."
Adam:
What? Mom knows that song? I thought only Joe from Blue's Clues knew that song!His little face broke into a huge smile. Beaming at me, he started to sing along.
Well, I'll just enjoy it while it lasts.
