FamilybitsDylan, Daphne and I were just hanging out in the kitchen, eating pizza and talking about nothing in particular. It’s just about my favorite thing to do.
Dylan: “Mommy, when Mrs. Jumbo went on the train, she had a baby.”
Me: “Yep. The stork brought her baby Dumbo while she was on the train.”
Dylan: “Yeah. She was on the train.” [ponders]
Me: “Do you remember where I was when I had my babies?”
Dylan: [perking up] “Where?”
Me: “In the hospital. You were all born in the hospital. Do you remember coming to see me there after Daphne was born?”
Dylan: “Is that when I was sick last time?”
Me: “Well, you were sick when you were born, a long time before Daphne was born.”[long pause]
Dylan: “Mommy, what were those things on my tummy?”
Me: “Oh… the sticky things?”
Dylan: “Yeah. What were they?”
Me: “Well, they were there so we could listen to your heart all the time, like we do with the stethoscope.”
Dylan: “You mean like sticky stethoscopes?”
Me: “Yes, exactly.”
Dylan: “I didn’t like them.”
Me: “They were there for just a little while.”
Dylan: “Mommy, when those sticky stethoscopes were on my tummy, I went like this [grimaces] because I wanted to go home.”
Me: “You did?”
Dylan: “Yes. I wanted to go home and meet you.”
My heart melted all over the floor.
Of course he doesn’t remember the eight or nine IVs going into every vein in his body, or the umbilical catheter, or the blown cranial veins, or the pic lines, or the EKG tabs, or the monitors, or the pint-sized defibrillator at his bedside.
He doesn’t remember coming home with a mohawk and an addiction to morphine, all thin and looking like a lost teen.
But he does remember all the times we went back to Stanford for the follow-up EKGs and echocardiograms.
And he knows that he almost died, and that he’s all better now.
And that home is very great.
FamilybitsI just had the most amazing conversation with my husband… and yes, he knows I’m doing this. At any rate, he’s been fairly warned already.
While we are having our trial separation, we’ve agreed to look into (more) counseling, together and separately, and to share our findings. It seems a prudent course of action. This way we get to retreat to our respective corners, bone up on Dr. Laura (kidding), get some perspective, all without having to pay for a separate residence or spooking the kids. We go off separately, regroup on our anniversary next month, and then go from there.
So get this: he’s been reading a book he finds helpful, which is great. He’s also just contacted the author, who puts on (of course) a retreat for couples. In Big Sur. Which shouldn’t cost much.
So of course I was flippant right out of the chute and asked the price, and he got back to me with the breakdown for five days. Keep in mind that food is included in all of the rates.
Standard Accommodations: $1,050 per person.
Single Housing: available on a limited basis for an additional $70 per day.
Bunk Bed Rooms: $795 per person.
Sleeping Bags: $475 per person. Meeting rooms are sometimes used as shared sleeping bag space and may be available for workshop participants with limited financial means. Sleeping bag spaces are for sleeping only, as meeting rooms are frequently in use between 9 a.m. and 11 p.m. and therefore inaccessible. There is a 7-day limit on sleeping bag stays.
Own Accommodations: $580 per person. [Apparently, it costs more to drive in each day than it costs to crash on the floor.]
But wait, there’s more! There are scholarships available! That’s right! In exchange for a work commitment ("usually in the kitchen") of either 4 or 8 hours, you will receive a discount of $50 or $100! That’s $12.50 an hour! That may even be more than your nonworking spouse earns back home!
At this point, I was laughing so hard I couldn’t continue the conversation. In all fairness, so was Gil. I could just see the couples signing up for this thing. There’s nothing quite like having the opportunity to fight over someone else’s dirty dishes to patch up a relationship.
On arrival:
Mrs. Bickerson: [glaring at the bunk beds]
Mr. Bickerson: [testing the bounce of the mattress on lower bunk with hands] “Well, honey! This is it! Or home for the next five days!
Mrs. Bickerson: [crosses arms]
Mr. Bickerson: “Heh. Or I could take the top bunk.”
Over in the next wing:
Mr. Bickerson: “Isn’t this great, doll? It’ll be just like when we used to sneak off into the meadow with your parents’ old horse blanket.”
Mrs. Bickerson: [glaring at the sleeping bags and the tables pushed to the side of the room]
Mr. Bickerson: [cough] “And we could even zip our bags together! What do you say, there, kitten? Rowrr!”
Mrs. Bickerson: [looks at bottom of shoe, flicks off piece of stale popcorn]
Mr. Bickerson: “I always thought our mattress was too soft. Could be a sore back that’s been making us so grumpy!”
Later, on KP duty:
Mrs. Bickerson: “Excuse me?”
Mr. Bickerson: “Well, it’s just a couple of hours after dinner. We can talk the whole time, just you and me. Like when we were first married.”
Mrs. Bickerson: [blank stare]
Mr. Bickerson: Well, and the Bielskis, of course. They’re three sleeping bags over.” [waves to Mr. Bielski]
Mrs. Bickerson: “We’re cleaning the kitchen.”
Mr. Bickerson: “Nothing that we wouldn’t be doing at home anyway, muffin. You want to wash, or dry?”
Mrs. Bickerson: [exchanges murderous glances with Mrs. Bielski]
FamilybitsWe just returned from the doctor, who declared me strep-free, but something-else-full. Pharyngitis of idiopathic origin. AKA who-knows-wtf-it-is-so-here’s-some-antibiotics-just-in-case.
While we were there, the nurse asked if Dylan and Daphne were twins. *sigh* “No, they’re just really close in age. Eighteen months.” “We spaced the birth control.” “We’re Irish Catholics.” Actually the last two statements, while true, were uttered on the inside.
The doctor made up for it, though, when he expressed surprise that there was a third child at home, a six-year-old. “Wow, you must have started young!” “No, I’m 35. I was 29 when I had my first.” “Oh. That’s right. [peers closely] You could have fooled me. I would have guessed mid-20’s.”
And he wasn’t even trying to sell me something. I grinned.
So now we’re home while Gil and Logan are at t-ball. I just don’t feel up to going over there. Besides, I can put the kids in the living room at their little table with juice, yogurt and goldfish crackers to watch Dora, something that would never happen on Gil’s watch. He’d freak if he could see them in there, unsupervised with cultured edibles. Heh. Makes it twice the fun, in my opinion.
(OK, OK, I put a splat mat down; I’m not a total idiot. And if you haven’t discovered the Land of Nod yet, go there now. It’s fabul-great, as Jilbur would say.)
Oh, love this: Dylan just walked in with his empty goldfish bowl to complain that they tasted yucky. “I see you managed to eat them all, though.” “But they tasted yucky because they had germs on them.” “Hmmm. What did these germs look like?” “Rug.” “Well, no wonder.”
FamilybitsOur kids are adding to their vocabularies every day through the wonders of Disney. Sleeping Beauty brought us “You pompous windbag!” and “love’s first kiss” (muttered for a while there after each kiss from Mommy).
Hercules has taught them things they don’t even understand. I once overheard Logan pretending to be trapped under a couch cushion and shouting, “Call IXII!” I was five minutes into an explanation of the Roman numeral system before I noticed his glazed expression (or as we say in Silicon Valley, “screen saver face.") and finally dropped the subject.
The Little Mermaid has given us wonderful, French-accented exclamations. That chef… he’s such a nut. A violent nut, but still. He appeals.
Logan: [curled up on couch with tummy ache and fever]
Gil: “Buddy? Would you like me to bring dinner in here so you can stay comfortable and keep watching your movie?”
Logan: “Oui.”
Gil: [pause] “Did you just say, ‘Oui?’”
Logan: “It’s a dumb word.”
FamilybitsIn between naps tonight (did you think I did anything so quaint as “sleep?"), I extricated myself from between my two youngest and went in search of less close quarters. I wandered into the hall and paused, trying to remember who was where and listening for restless children.
Satisfied, I opened the door to my room, and was surprised to see a bedside lamp on. I started to ask Gil if he was reading, when I suddenly realized that there was no one in the bed. The five of us were distributed between the three children’s beds, and the roomiest bed in the house, a luxurious Eastern king, went begging.
And it looked strangely smug.
Familybits“I just don’t understand, Mommy..”
~ Miss R
Well, I was going to write on several other subject matters this evening, such as my trip; the fact that the program directors at the WB have their asses up their heads; how foolhardy my brother-in-law can be..all excellent writing fodder, guaranteed for at least 965 good words.
Instead, I found myself dealing with a broken heart, which also brought back a flood of feelings to me. Not so good feelings. The kind you think you’ve gotten over years ago, but when they are revisited upon you, through your own children, they are 100 fold worse, because you know, and truly there is not a damn thing you can do about it, except hold your tongue and hold your child.
FamilybitsBuzz noticed that the blahs are going around, and his post reminded me of something from this morning that made me so very, very happy to be a mom, and especially happy to be me.
I was sleeping on my tummy, which I never do unless I am completely crashed and don’t feel uncomfortable enough to roll back. I felt a tickling on my forehead, and my cheek. I opened one eye and blinked and saw that Dylan had crawled over me and was resting his head on the pillow next to me. He was stroking my hair and brushing his fingers over my face, watching me sleep.
I smiled at him and said, “I love you.” He looked back at me, never taking his eyes off mine, and replied solemnly, “Good.”
FamilybitsWe had a lovely dinner with Mom and George tonight, and I took some pics of her garden for her because, well, because, I guess because she’s still a bit of a gypsy.
She commutes between her home in Northern California and her job in Gary, Indiana (please don’t ask). As a result, she doesn’t get to see each of her treasures in all of the various stages of glory. We keep hoping that she’ll settle down one day, because she ain’t gettin’ any younger and her grandchildren would like to see her grow up.
So, Mom, these are for you.
FamilybitsHave y’all seen what’s outside my front door? It ages me just a little every time I look out there.
Maybe I’m just grumpy from not having eaten much in the last 48 hours; maybe my blood sugar is dragging ass. I’ve just hit the second layer of that box of chocolates, so I hope to have that corrected soon.
But I think I just really need more sleep! I dream about sleep they way some folks dream about success, or freedom, or fame, or sex… wait… I dream about that too… how does that go again? I have been running on a steady sleep deficit for 6 years now, and I never quite feel like I get enough.
The kids, however, have elevated it to an art form. Once the little monsters are asleep, they are GLORIOUSLY asleep, wallowing in sleep, sleeping to the hilt. It is a thing of beauty. If properly under way, one of my children’s sleeps can withstand lights, cymbals, shouting, and to my utter disbelief on one occasion, a complete change of bed sheets.
Me? Oh, no. No, no, no, no, no. I wake up if mitosis occurs.
I hear the slightest murmur of a tummy, the minutest change in breathing. If I ever do fall into a deep slumber amidst noisy havoc, like I did yesterday, I’ll snap wide awake the moment everyone leaves the house to leave me in peace. The silence will jolt me right out of whatever dreams were soothing me and healing my poor, addled brain.
FamilybitsLogan: “Dad, I’m hungry. Let’s get breakfast.”
Dad: [reading book]
Logan: “Da-ad, that book doesn’t look like breakfast.”
Dylan: “Help! I need help with my bottom!”
Mom: “Um… I’m helping Daphne!” [grin]
Dad: [Drags self out of bed to help Dylan]
Logan: ”That sure doesn’t look like breakfast either.”
Mom: “Logan, Daddy’s not in a joking mood right now.”
Logan: “I’m not joking.”
Mom: [Look of Death]
Logan: “OK, I’m joking. Heh.”
Familybits1:20 a.m. After having ralphed all over me in her bed once tonight, Daphne just fell asleep with her face in a Tupperware bowl, in my arms, crouched on the cold tile floor of our bathroom. Didn’t even wake up when I laid her in bed and removed the bowl from her head.
FamilybitsThanks for staying home today with three barfing children so I could come to work and finish this job on time.
I know you had that 3-hour training for your new consulting gig scheduled for a long time, and that you canceled it without even asking if I could cover.
I know that you had a babysitter lined up, and that I asked you to cancel her becaue she is seven months pregnant and brings her 5-year-old, and I didn’t want the three of them catching what our children have.
I also know that you cleaned up nine barfy messes between last night and this afternoon (well, I cleaned up one last night with my feet, and picked up a stray chunk this morning with my little toe), and you still seemed pretty cheerful as of 4 p.m.
And most importantly, I want you to know that I am not coming home until the floors are clean and there are fresh sheets on the bed. You have my number. Mwah.
FamilybitsThis is what I need. I figure I could have several months of my life back if I could find a way to get out of a tucked-in-bed situation with my child(ren) without waking them.
Seriously, moms now--very few of you dads really spend long stretches of time pondering things like this, so you can just hop over to Buzz’s or tj’s--how many hours, weeks, months of your life do you think you’ve spent lying there, measuring depth and cadence of breathing, gauging muscle tone to determine sleep stage, and making tentative, incremental movements toward getting disentangled so you can get up?
And chances are that once you do, you can’t figure out why you wanted up in the first place.
FamilybitsHi! My name is Mindy, and I’ll be your coward tonight.
I hear coughing down the hall, and I know exactly what it is. It’s Logan, saying hello to his lunch. We all said hello to his dinner earlier tonight, and I just knew there would be several more acts to follow.
After a 13-hour day, on the last full day before I deliver this project, I came home, went through the motions of not eating dinner, soothed the children, dressed them for bed, settled in with them to watch The Little Mermaid, and… three… two… one… YAK.
Logan was throwing up all over the bed. And the mattress, and the box spring, and the unfinished pine bed frame, and the floor, and the laundry basket. I raced around to his side and held him as he did it all over again, on the rest of the floor, on my feet, on my ankles, and on my jammies.
I was pretty sure we had it all cleaned up (with the mattress and box springs on end across the room, 409 and Fabreez standing sentinel), but now that I am sitting a room away and can still smell it, I am sure I will be changing into different jammies any moment now. In fact, I may even sleep here with Daphne. Gil can fend for himself.
Later, I asked Dylan how HE was feeling, and he said, “Good, because I like when you’re home.” That’s the stuff.
So I finally wandered out to the kitchen at about 10 o’clock, and as I was standing there gazing aimlessly into the fridge, Gil walked by and said, “Oh, your doctor’s office called to remind you of your appointment at 9 a.m., and remember, you have to fast for 12 hours beforehand!”
[Refrigerator door slamming] Shit.
FamilybitsGAH! Is there one person in your house that is usually in charge of setting joint passwords? It used to be me; that is, until I handed all the bill paying chores over to Gil last month. I had been doing it for the last ten years, and this year I went *TILT* (in case that wasn’t evident, Constant Reader) and dumped it in his lap.
So, the first thing he did, understandably, was fumble the password and lock himself out of our account. So, he set a new one, which I cannot remember to save my life. The ones I chose were intuitive, I thought, based on shared jokes, or a word from the billboard in the middle of the desert on which he proposed to me (true story).
Now, our new banking password is the name of a beer. Plus a number. Not a number that means anything, like “5” for the five members of our family, or “3” for our three children, or even “2” for number of irritating adults who live in our house, but a different number. Put it all together and what you get is me asking him seventeen times what the new password is, even though I don’t have to pay the bills. It just makes me mad not to be able to get in.
Control issues? Maybe.
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