One Down

The first of two surgeries involving my head/face for 2007 is done. Today I learned that my sinus structure is "unsual" - rather than one large opening on each side, I had several small ones - all of which just cements my status as a freak of nature. Well, actually, John learned this from the ENT who performed the surgery, because I was in the recovery room groggily but persistently asking the poor guy assigned to me a series of probably annoying questions - how long did the surgery take? how many patients do you go through in a day? am I swollen? why did the surgery take longer than the 40 minutes I was quoted? so, do they just basically shove instruments up the nostrils and suck everything out? - oh yeah, he loved me.

I am considering removing some of the medical community from my blacklist. Everyone I dealt with today was competent, communicative, patient, and accomodating. The ENT especially has restored my confidence that there are good doctors out there if you're lucky enough to find them. Of course, he's still on the hook to remove a walnut-sized tumor from my neck/jaw later this year - and that surgery is legitimately more extreme, involved, and risky - so the pressure is on now, doc.

Now I get to spend three days at home checking work e-mail at my leisure and spraying saline up my recently excavated head. I feel okay other than some grogginess left over from the general anesthesia. By the way, WOW. One minute I'm answering questions strategically posed by what felt like three dozen people in scrubs standing over my head - My kids are 5 1/2 and 4, they're out of school for the summer, we just moved into a new house - and the next minute I hear voices yelling my name and telling me I'm in the recovery room. What is UP with that? Time doesn't pass when you're under general anesthesia? For all I know, there was no surgery - they just knocked me unconscious, rolled me into a new room, and woke me up. Hmm, maybe that's why I'm not in pain. Perhaps I should re-think my blacklist revisions.

Unqualified

Until I had my kids, I believed that I was a competent and hard-working enough individual that I could handle whatever challenges may come my way. Parenting, as one of those things to come my way, has bitch slapped me back to the reality that there are some things I'll never feel that I've mastered. I flip back and forth between believing my kids are truly unique and I've been put on Earth to make sure they only terrorize really deserving people (these are the times my blood pressure goes up to the level where I become conscious of it coursing violently through my veins), and believing these kids were born "normal" to me, inhabitor of Bizarro World, where every parenting tip I implement is the exact opposite of the one I should have, and the poor, confused creatures are a prankster's experiment gone wrong, not manipulative or controlling tyrants (appearances - so very deceiving). Either way, I am clearly ill-equipped.




After last year's Memorial Day trip to the woods, John played dumb and "accidentally" booked two weddings this year. With sinus surgery looming next week, I decided to keep it simple and take the kids for one night. My brother called at one point during my drive, and asked if the kids were with me. "Oh yeah," I said. Before long, you'll hear Bryce complaining about wanting to get out of the car." (Stupid. I knew it before I was even done speaking.) Bryce, aka Super Sonic Hearing Boy, piped up in his most fingernail-on-chalkboard, everything-within-a-mile-wants-to-keel-over-to-end-the-agony whine: "MOOOOMMMMM, I'M TIRED OF SITTING! AAAEEEAOOOHHWWAAAA!" Suddenly my brother wanted to get off the phone. I don't get it.

When we got to the cabin, my mom had games, toys, bubbles, and the kids' favorite snacks ready and waiting. The kids waited five or ten minutes before they started fighting and complaining about whatever petty thing they could come up with. I can't stand it when they do this. I want to pick them up by their shirt collars and scream into their faces, "WHAT? IS ALL THIS CIVILIZED GIVING AND SHARING AND PROVIDING JUST TOO MUCH OF AN INCONVENIENCE FOR YOU?" but I don't. I drink wine instead, and when they've pushed my buttons for long enough, I engage in stupid conversations and ultimatums like, "That's it! If I have to give one more ultimatum, I'm getting rid of all your books and vegetables." (I learned that one in my Bizarro parenting class.)


I end up saying things I regret, or using a tone of voice I shouldn't, or threatening something I won't follow through on. I'm smart enough to know all of this compounds my never-ending problem, but not smart enough, or focused enough, to effectively change it. The result is frustration, guilt, a constant sense of failure.


At the cabin area park when Quinn walked up to an older, overweight, shirtless boy and said, factually, "you have a fat tummy," I saw the boy's younger cousin / brother laugh and repeat Quinn's statement, and I called Quinn over to ask what he said. "I was talking about his fat tummy," he said. "Quinn, we don't say that to people. You could have hurt his feelings. You need to go apologize to him." He did, and the next day we passed the same boy on the path the park again. Quinn looked at him and I stiffened, expecting the worst, but he only said, "That boy is playing basketball. I wish I was big enough so I could play basketball." When we got to the sand box, he sat next to Bryce and built a big sand pile, Bryce's "ant world, with an emergency exit," and after a few minutes Quinn looked at me and said, "am I playing nicely today? Not like yesterday when I was throwing sand at everyone?" I thought for a second that I should have handled something differently, that his emphasis was on his bad behavior, and that I'd been the one to create that, and my brain started to shut down in its self-criticism and over-computing, but I just said, "Yes, Quinn - you're playing nicely. Thank you, good job." and immediately felt ridiculous for praising him for doing the bare minimum of what I expect him to do.


To make things worse, I feel a general sense of dread and pressure anymore - not just about parenting. People talk about juggling work, home, kids, parenting, blended family madness, marriage, money, and self, but the idea of juggling seems a more in control action than whatever it is I'm doing. I feel like I'm trying to walk across a chasm of unknown proportions using rapidly moving, invisible, multi-dimensional steps. I don't know where they are, when they'll appear and disappear, and if I stop before I reach the other side (the location of which I'm clueless), I'm not sure what will happen, but whatever it is will be really, really bad. I'm pretty sure it involves falling. In whatever way possible while stepping without sight through unknown space, I go through the motions I think I'm supposed to: wake up, go to work, work frantically and attempt to come home in time for dinner, get home late (again), attempt to be engaged, focused, and patient with the kids through bedtime, fail within 20 minutes, blame failure on sheer fatigue and stress, put Quinn back in bed multiple times, end up yelling at the kids to stay in their beds, sit on the couch and feel like a scumbag parent, go to bed planning a different tomorrow, wake up and re-live it all again.


Next week I'm having surgery on my sinuses. "Don't bend over or your head will pound excruciatingly," they've said. "Rest for a few days," they've said. "Take your pain meds," they've said. All I've heard is, "good luck getting through this with your kids on summer vacation." I'll have to come up with some new ultimatums. How about water removal? "You guys come scream into my aching face one more time, that's it. Dehydration punishment."

Tonight after the 25th meaningless ultimatum, Quinn came downstairs after I'd put him to bed, and I told him to go back on his own. He said, "but I just want YOU to put me in bed, I forgot to get a hug and kiss." I said, "well, come here and get one, then go back to bed." He repeated himself (typical), and I sighed with frustration and said, absurdly, "this is the LAST time." All the way up, I wondered what would compel this kid to even want to be near me after so much strife. When will he start wondering that same thing?

Alarmingly Complicated, Eh?

I'm really losing the ability to sit down and write. Hmm, take two more bites of frozen custard or type something about my trip to Canada? Custard.

At the airport after I confidently handed over my nine-year-old passport and while I chatted non-chalantly with my co-workers and fellow travelers, the airline rep rifled through the passport pages and tapped tentatively on her keyboard, eyes darting from the screen to my passport and back. "There's a different name on the passport than the ticket," she said in an accusatory tone. Before the whole sentence was even out of her mouth, and in front of all of my curious co-workers, the blood drained out of my face but I tried to look nonplussed while I grabbed for my driver's license. "Oh, my passport has my maiden name on it - I didn't even think about that. Ha, ha! Well, here's my driver's license!"

"That won't work. You'll have to have a marriage license, the passport, AND a driver's license. They won't let you through customs without that."

Forty minutes later, after multiple cell phone conversations and lots of "we're calm and cool even though we should be panicking" moments, John drove back through the airport drop off lane and slowed down only to hold our marriage license out the window. I grabbed it and yelled goodbye to the kids, and then spent 20 minutes attempting awkwardly to dash through the airport with what felt like 80 pounds of laptop and work files over my right shoulder, a purse unnaturally on my left and therefore sliding off every three steps, and a coat (because it's supposed to be cold in Canada, even though it really wasn't while I was there) resting over my forearm and flying out cape-like from behind me. I sat down and panted for five minutes before the flight started boarding, at which point I proudly walked up to the gate attendant with boarding pass, passport, driver's license, and marriage license, and said, "the name is different on my passport, but I've got a marriage license!" The gate attendant looked at me, said, "okay," tore my boarding pass, and waved me through. I was confused, and if I'd had more energy, would have been downright incensed that he didn't even look at the document I'd almost missed the plane for. "Well," said a co-worker, "I guarantee you they'll look at it when you get to customs in Canada." We changed planes in Denver and I waved all of my paperwork at the gate attendant again, and this time I was practically mocked. When we arrived in Canada, I was nervous, anxiously awaiting the moment of truth. The customs official said, "what are you doing in Canada?" and I said, "I'm here on business," and she said, "when was the last time you were here?" and I said, "I've never been here," and she said, "are you bringing anything that will stay in Canada?" and I said, "No." and she said, "have a good trip." I blinked a few times and gingerly pushed my marriage license toward her, hoping it would catch her eye, but she just waved me on, like I was confused.

I dejectedly approached my anxiously waiting co-workers. "They didn't even ask to see it?!" I was jaded now, not to mention dehydrated and probably slightly delirious (I don't travel much, can you tell?): "I'm pinning the damned marriage license to my shirt. SOMEONE IS GOING TO LOOK AT THIS THING."

(Nobody ever did. EVEN ON THE WAY BACK TO THE U.S. The border official at U.S. customs in the Canadian airport did not say ONE. SINGLE. WORD. to me. I gave him my passport and ticket, he looked sort of bored and irritated, picked up the passport and grunted, then threw it back at me. I'm guessing he looked at my passport picture, but I can't be sure. So I'm here to tell you that if you want to sneak into the U.S. from Canada (yeah, right), it's pretty easy.)

**********************************

You crazy Canadians! You're so darned friendly and helpful and smiley, people can't help but LIKE you! Even you, hotel representative who had to deliver the news to me that my new room was still not available 10 hours after our morning conversation regarding the problem with the ethernet connection in my first room, even YOU were remarkably full of smiles, tense ones though they were, as you explained in a mildly high tone that there was nothing you could do because the computer said you were waiting on housekeeping (pronounced endearingly to us midwestern accent-less drones, hOsekeeping) -- so really all you could do was check with ho(u)sekeeping -- even for YOU I couldn't muster any of the real disappointment and derision I usually find so easily for people I meet and create unrealistic standards for (I'm a peach!). And you, office receptionist, coming over every couple of hours -- not so often that it felt annoying or overbearing, but often enough that we realized you hadn't forgotten the coke-chugging, overweight, under-nourished U.S. citizens using up all of your "big paper" (I love that you call it that! It's so simple and to the point - why do we have to name the exact measurements, right? 11x14. 81/2 x 11. Yeah, yeah, we're all so smart and sophisticated. It's just 'big paper' - we all know what we're talking about. COMMUNITY! AH!) -- stopping by just to see if we needed anything. If WE needed anything! We were using up all of your supplies and kicking your employees out of their spots because they had the prime network spots and we were on a short timeline, and you wanted to make sure we weren't going without. Can you please come teach this alien mentality to us? We don't really know what that is down here. I'm sure you figured that out, among other things, when several of you walked us through your fabulous downtown tunnel system -- oops, excuse me, Plus 15 system -- to an Indian food buffet and at least half of my co-workers gawked at your plates in confusion and masked disgust as you sat down in your simultaneously unassuming and worldly way to eat the traditional Indian dishes. SIGH. My people are uncultured slobs, what can I say? But you guys with your maple leaf and your cheery acceptance of frigid cold and your genuine appreciation for other human beings, even selfish and hateful ones for whatever minimal value they bring to society - you rock, eh?

**********************************

Coming off the plane, delirious with fatigue and feeling appreciation for the U.S. only because my bed resides here, I headed towards the luggage claim area. I was talking to a co-worker and still struggling with coat, purse, and cruise-ship-anchor-weighted laptop when I saw Quinn's tiny face about 50 feet in front of me. The next few seconds went by in slow motion. First, I noticed his ecstatic expression and felt a pang of... something... when I realized I hadn't known if the kids had noticed much difference during my absence until that moment. Next, I noticed how his hair was blowing back from his forehead, indicating the speed at which he was heading for me. Finally, I realized too late that between me and Quinn stood 1.) an armed airport official and 2.) a very loud alarm system and 3.) a sign reminding all airport visitors that the terrorist threat alert had just been raised to orange. The armed airport guard saw the darting four-year-old, looked at John, looked at me, and stood up with his arm outstretched, yelling, "go back, go back, you can't cross that lllliiiiiiiiiiinnnnnne!" Quinn kept running, but his face flushed and his smile disappeared, and he looked at the guard and back to me, then kept coming for me, which tripped the Very Loud Alarm Next To the Sign Re: Terrorist Threat Alert.

I ran up to Quinn and grabbed him, his face still flushed with fear and confusion. "I'm so glad to see you, buddy," I whispered in his ear. "I just wanted to hug you. I couldn't see your nose and eyes and mouth and I wanted to get close to you. But next time you go to Canada, I won't make the alarm go off." I hugged him again as Bryce walked up. Expecting him to melt my heart, too, I reached for him, and he buried his face in my shoulder. "Mom," he said, "Do you have our presents?"

Yep. Welcome home.

Fair(e)

I'm leaving for a week-long business trip today, so John and I took the kids to my mom's after schlepping Bryce to a friend's birthday party on Friday night, and had a late dinner date. This week's activity level made it feel like four weeks rolled into one, and while I shoveled down chips and margaritas, I vented about work and the insanity therein. At one point I used the phrase, "not fair" and John pointed out that the job I've (for the most part) loved and enjoyed for the past year has become a source of frustration and the target of my claims of injustice coincidentally ever since the incident of the incompetent doctor and some ensuing news that I do indeed have a (most likely benign) parotid tumor that does indeed have to be surgically removed regardless of whether or not it's benign. "And it's not fair that you have to have major surgery for this walnut-sized tumor in your neck, and it's not fair that there's a 20% chance it's malignant, and it's not fair that you have no choice in how to treat or get rid of it, and it's not fair that your life will have to be put on hold while you deal with it. It's really not fair."

"No," I said, "I don't think about the tumor as something 'fair' or 'not fair' - or at least not consciously." And then I sat there like a kid figuring out algebra after months of staring at equations. "Wow," I was really intrigued by this now, "I didn't even really realize I was using the 'it's not fair' phrase about anything while I've been rambling about work. I usually hate that mentality, and I definitely wouldn't outwardly use that phrase about a tumor...because when - or for whom - would a tumor or a major surgery be 'fair'?"

I'd rather call work unfair - there are people involved, and predictable sets of expectations, and someone specific I can blame for my frustration. That's healthy, right? I think I'll go with that. After all, I'm closer to my tumor than I am to any of my co-workers anyway.

*****************************************

I went with my parents to take the kids to a "Renaissance Faire" yesterday. It was hot, and the kids were constantly whining about seeing the cave again and buying a sword and wanting ice cream or their legs being tired. We walked into the maze and Quinn ducked into a small opening and disappeared, then refused to answer when we called for him and subsequently panicked. I scolded him and ruined the fun by yelling every time he walked more than two steps ahead of me after that. Another precocious and freakishly maze-talented kid showed us the way out of the maze but only after telling the kids he'd show them a short cut and the "tall adults" could just meet them at the exit, followed by more screams of "NOOOO" from me. On the way out, my parents agreed to buy the kids swords and Bryce naturally went for the one as tall as his own body, and then threw a fit when my mom tried to convince him to get the smaller one. The sword salesman intervened and showed the kids the "test" for proper sword size (tip of sword under arm, arm stretched out, grab the handle - if you can't reach the handle, the sword is too long), then gave them a speech about brotherhood: "You train with your brother, you practice with your brother, but you do not SLAY your brother. If your brother were slain, there would be no one to protect you in battle." The kids were mesmerized, and now if you ask them, "what do we do with our brothers?" they'll say, "Train and practice, but we don't SLAY our brother, because we need him there to protect us in battle." Utilitarianism: the new brotherly love.

It is what it is.

In the car the other day, the kids were taunting each other with a baseball cap in the only way kids who are strapped into five-point harnesses can, reaching out across the chasm of the back seat and waving the item of the moment their brother's face, then yanking it back just before the other one can grab hold in triumph and elicit screams of agony. Because Quinn is younger and smaller, Bryce continues to assume that he'll always have the physical advantage, and this assumption is causing much strife. In this particular instance, Quinn's formerly slower, less sophisticated reflexes seemed suddenly cat-like when he reached out and clutched the baseball cap before Bryce managed to pull it back to safety. John and I have been working on our reactions to the kids' fights and screams, and so rather than impatiently sigh and slap my knee in frustration about Bryce's wailing over his loss of the baseball cap, I just said calmly, "well, I guess next time you won't wave your things in front of Quinn's face." Against all odds, Bryce quieted down and about 30 seconds later John and I heard a deep, gleeful "ahaHA!" from the back seat: "Mom, YES! I got it back! I nabbed it like a duck nabs popcorn!"

***************************

There are countless of these stories to tell, but I haven't been telling them here much lately. It's true that I'm busier than I can ever remember being, but I think that has become an excuse or some kind of cover-up for something that might be writer's block or a desire to pull back into myself. There are funny and frustrating and annoying things going on with the little kids as always, but there are also dangerous, life-changing, depressing, frightening, and mind-numbing things going on with John's older kids right now. I could write about them, I might write about them, and when I come here I feel compelled to write about them because in the past that written expression has felt like some sort of self therapy or some other new-agey type of benefit, but I deal with all of it every waking moment as it is, and the thought of re-hashing it here, therapeutic as that re-hashing may be, basically and frankly turns my stomach. As a result, I go days or weeks without writing anything at all, then throwing something brainless up about the new house or my crazy kids.

My job has become more and more challenging over the past several months, and one of the phrases that gets batted around with too much ease and non-chalance is "it is what it is." No matter how ridiculously inefficient something is, no matter who is or isn't being held accountable, no matter how much re-work and wasted time is being disussed, "it is what it is." Ho hum, we're just here to do a job. We rolled the rock up the hill and it tumbled back down. It is what it is! Let's roll it back up like we've done every day for the past year. Look at our peaceful, Zen-like attitude. It is what it is! I railed against this for a long time, calling people out and stating the obvious, that the only reason this is our stance is because we have absolutely no control over what we're doing. We just say this phrase over and over like we're some deep, patient, collective wise being. After a long enough period of time went by, though, the phrase wormed its way into my consciousness and it seems to have found a permanent home on the tip of my tongue. At first I only used it sarcastically, but then I started to see its value for areas of life besides work. Rather than picturing myself with blank eyes and a sheepish shrug to the world every time I uttered the phrase, I started recognizing the truth behind it, as simplistic as it may be.

Sometimes there is just nothing to say, nothing to write, nothing to solicit feedback on. I experience the madness and the chaos and I might not want to share it or even think about it beyond the minutes, hours, or days of the actual events themselves. And when I do, those words exist as I completed them, but I may not intend to re-visit the subject(s) beyond the substance or time of their original formation. My brother recently posted to his readers begging his "real life" friends and family not to re-visit blog posts with him in conversation. I think this is because he wants the posts to exist as they are; there is no intent on his part to post a story or random set of thoughts as a conversation starter at the bar. There is obviously a balance between cognizant outward expression and the journal-like nature of a personal blog, but for the most part, I think writers have an expectation that their "publications" (whatever the nature) are complete works. Comments may be posted and may exist as readers' own thoughts or responses if they feel they need to offer them, but the writer won't necessarily feel compelled to reply or converse because to the writer, the piece exists just as it was intended to; it is what it is.

I may avoid writing about certain topics or experiences because I don't want to end up in a conversation about it with a friend or family member who has read it and wants to ask me for details. It shouldn't really be that way. What is here is not my communication with people who know me "in real life." It's just one aspect of my existence and one small, inconsistent space where I express myself. There may be exaggerations here solely for story-telling purposes, there may be stories here that I'm not really ready to delve into details over. What's here should, for the most part, just be taken for what it is, and nothing more. Having said all that, I have no idea if this means I'll start posting more or if I'll continue to whine about how busy I am and how I never have time to write. Hey, it is what it is!

Housewarming

Finally, pictures of the house. I've gone back and forth about this because I have a complex about bragging, or having people assume that I'm bragging. I try to squelch this instinct because 1.) I claim not to care what people think and 2.) I rarely assume someone is "bragging" when they're telling me something good about their life, and also 3.) I talk so much about the challenges and the "bad" parts, I hope people know that if they're jealous and coveting of one part of my life, they'd better be prepared to deal with all of it - and I've laid the majority of it out here (to recap: pathologically lying stepson, internally unmotivated stepdaughter, two screaming, control-hungry pre-schoolers, spouse with self-run business and conflicting hours, in-law issues to the hilt), so buyer beware. On to the tour...

The front yard and driveway, where our kids ride, I mean fall off of, their bikes. Also known as the place where our neighbors learn the source of all that recent shrieking in the neighborhood.

Come on in. Our kids are the rulers around here, but they like visitors.

Oh come on - you just got here. You're not escaping yet. Be very careful as you turn around. This is the hallway that John coated in Pledge.

The Pottery Barn couch (bought specifically for this room after we had the contract on the house) makes everything all better. You can sit anywhere but the corner. That's my spot. I fall asleep there most nights before John comes in and finds me drooling in yet another failed attempt to watch a week's worth of The Colbert Report.

Downstairs half bath - something we never had at the other house.

The kitchen. John and I hear angels sing every time we walk in here. You could make gourmet meals here every night, if you weren't us. We just like the fact that I can toast an English muffin and fry an egg while John simultaneously makes the kids' lunches without either of us ever having to sigh with impatience about the other one being in our way (no dysfunction around here!). Who knew that was possible?

Sigh. Oh, kitchen. How I love thee.

Mudroom. The built-in lockers and shoe cubbies pretty much sealed the deal for us. If you knew of the shoe and backpack carnage at our old house, you'd understand.

John's office. What? You think it's strange that a photographer's office doesn't have any photographs? Hey, some people have been busy sliding around on their new wood floors. Give a guy a break.

DETAIL SHOTS

Pledge

I was never part of the Greek system in college, but I've heard stories about the hazing rituals, and I'm starting to feel like a new initiate of Phi Beta Heart Attack. On the one hand, I am humbled and flush with the perceived welcome into the new world I've stumbled upon. On the other hand, I'm looking half-suspiciously, half-eagerly over my shoulder every few seconds and wondering what forced feat comes next, what unimaginable challenge, what unexpected combination of heart palpitations.

Some of it is work-related, some is new house-related, some is high-maintenance kid-related, some is blended family-related, some of it is possible-upcoming-major-surgery-related, some of it is unspecified, but mostly right now my heart is pounding and my muscles are aching because when I ran down the stairs in my bare feet in the bedtime search for Quinn's blanket, my smooth, dry heels made contact with the wood floors and subsquently flipped out from under me. I spent a suspended few seconds in the air looking like a ridiculous cartoon character (and letting out an involuntary cartoon-like squeal in the process) before I landed with a sadly audience-less yet dramatic thud on my left hip. By the time John made it downstairs and asked innocently if I was okay, I was stomping around with irritation. "No I'm not okay! I stepped down and slid all over the place. WHAT is on these floors?!" He stared at me as I watched the wheels in his head visibly turn, then the muscles in his face start to shake with the effort to stay straight.

"Uh..."

"John.. what?"

"Pledge. What's on the floors is Pledge."

"That's for FURNITURE!"

"Well, wood surfaces. Especially when you want to slide. Which the kids did. This afternoon."

"Pledge!!! You coated the floors in Pledge?"

Barely keeping the tears of laughter from streaming down his beet-red face as the kids triumphantly "ice skated" past me in their pajamas, he sputtered out a tentative "sorry? I'm sorry! I'm really sor--ahahahahaa!"

Well. At least the rest of Phi Beta Heart Attack is enjoying my hazing.