I Wonder: On Treading Water

I wonder if all us infertile baby bloggers did a check in... one of those no shit, everything is ^&*ing real check-ins. Would we shed the parenting guilt that we are so grateful to be here and talk about the difficulty of the seasons?

Whatever that season is we are in.

For me, we are the, if lucky, new high schooler parents. But, woooooo boyyyyy, we will get to that.

We are also the throes of parenting a pandemic while in critical years.

We are aging parents and changing jobs

We are world is burning, and black lives matter, and who is our President now really fighting for?

We are, what is truth and reality when YouTube and podcasts and AI are blurring the line between information and manipulation.

We are, who are we without those we parent, and how close they are until they fly/fall out of/ flee the nest?

And when people say, how are you, REALLY? Do they want to know?  

How are you really?

Really, we are.... treading.

I guess there is a reason that treading water is an important part of the swimming test. There are going to be times when you are making progress and lapping lanes, but I am feeling more and more life is sometimes just about rotating, maintaining your buoyance keeping your head above water, and churning for what is next.

what is it about a new year. Interrupted

I lost my Dad last week.
And then my Grandma.
But my Dad?  He's my Dad ya'll.

He wasn't finished.
Here's the thing.
I had started a New Years poem back on actual New Years Eve.
I finished it for you.

And for him.

And probably for me too.

what is it about a New Year
when the last one just keeps passing
a pandemic, an election, candles, cake

celebrations, mourning, unfinished 
a new one keeps arriving
uninvited, unrequited, not as planned
bubbles, streamers, kisses.  Silly hats.
 

++++++++
[January 15th]
And then it is interrupted.
passing means more than time
Mourning and unfinished. 
These words hit different. More. heavier.

And you wonder why you started then abandoned a free form poem
Three weeks ago
When the form was freer.

Now you know probate. 
Embalming. Urns. 
There are rules for urns.  Did you know there are urn rules?
Not very free form.

Paperwork is overwhelming.
Teamwork abounds. Mostly.
Find the passwords.
Tax implications.

When did grief become a logistic?

Hymns, readings.  
Is a mass a celebration of life?
Do you know him like I do?

How do you put the right words
Ones that fit nicely in the columns.
Is there a budget for telling your story?
Is my final jpeg hi res enough?

No one taught me how to do this part of life.

So I look for the silly hats. 
Found them in the back closet.
With the mice droppings.
Also the fancy china.

The confetti and streamers?
Those are in the places you don’t expect.

The stories of the sister who ran away.  But only to the corner.
Too young to cross the street without her brother.
 
The hikers, the dreamers, the planners.
The careful details of every single day.
Not the feelings. Just the details.
Every pamphlet that exists.

The receipts that should have been tossed.
Circa 2006.
Glad you saved money on that CVS trip, Dad.

The failing college grades (I’ll never tell).
Sixteen years of engineering magazines.
The bike license from 1975.

The letter to your Dad about the three girls you are dating in fall of 1972.
You married one seven months later.
The tall, intelligent brunette you knew he’d like.
You met her on the bus.
Sounds like she’s a good cook.

And the bookmark in your childhood Bible.
I’ll keep the verse to myself.

The hiking routes… carefully planned. 
The tissues and bandanas and funeral programs in those Marmot pockets.
Gotta keep them dry and warm.

And always a buckeye.
Do you know how lucky you were?

You really could have thrown some things away.

Did you need seventeen pairs of eyeglasses to see
How loved you are?

I’ll take that tomato pie recipe.
If you tackle the garage.

What a reminder 
that we only have each other for a time
sometimes that time is yours,
sometimes it is mine.

Who do we belong to, really?

Funny I asked what it is about a new year
Now that we are in these new places
You and me.

Sounds like it will always be unfinished.
Life certainly seems to be.

So until the next time with the streamers and confetti
Let’s not let the next unfinished celebration pass.
Until I have the receipts.
Already got the hat.

"You Look Happy Today Mama"!

I wasn't ready for that tiny voice after these last ten days.

And let's not be wrong, she's the loudest voice.

I picked them up early, soccer dinners in tow, drove around to the other carpool line so she could run inside to change for soccer.

While one boy declared soccer dinner of maple soy salmon his very favorite meal ever and the other was happy to see I had secretly packed him a sunbutter sandwich after he made the earnest go of the salmon.

She ran in.  

And came back out dressed.

And declared "You look happy today Mama!"

Me: OIFFFFFFFFFFFF

First thought:  "How do I look all the other days?!?!"

Second:  "Not today.  Seriously"

Last week, a seriously traumatic medical issue with a client while with them.  Long term implications.  Heavy emotional load.

Nights of anxious sleeping and worrying about that.

Awful weekend for myriad reasons.

Busy season at work, and always feeling like I'm not giving enough and worrying about that.

Family norovirus over the weekend and worrying about that.

Not feeling quite right since yesterday morning, realizing its dehydration but diagnosing myself with having a heart attack for 36 hours straight (and counting) and worrying about that.

Googling all the things, locking myself into the office medical suite with the blood pressure cuff and worrying about that.

Waking this morning and pushing through, as you do with a couple days of planned leave on the table, after an unexpected one with sick kids earlier in the week and worrying about that.

Dropping them off at school. It's Palentines Day and one left all their cards in the car, and do we sort natural consequences and save and worrying about that.

Still not feeling great and getting to work, and realizing you are everything the pandemic didn't teach about being in person when sick, and deciding to deliver the damn Valentines, work from home and and worrying about that.

Getting home to see that ugh was a real fever, but deadlines season is COMING AT YOU FAST and worrying about that.

Plowing through the Zooms, congratulating yourself on the decision to work from home, but worrying that your next 5-7 days of planned not in person isn't going to be great and worrying about that.

Cooking said healthy dinner (with the secret covert sunbutter sandwich) whilst on said Zoom that you had to move to your phone because of course your home internet went out and worrying about that.

And you pick them up "early", give some extra time to get where you need to be and her first observation is "you look so happy Mom!"

HOT TIP: NOT SO HAPPY.

LIKE "HOLY ^%&T HOW ARE YOU READING HAPPY???"

I can't even imagine what that look was.  Because it felt like exhausted-dejected-notenough-fullplate- opentabsinbrainbrowser abject resignation exhaustion.

I MEAN HOW DO I LOOK ALL THE OK WEEKS?!?!? Also, I have a FEVER AND A STRESS AND A WTF UNIVERSE.

But hey. Ya'll. Let's remember all the tiny, open, vulnerable hearts with non formed pre-frontal cortexes.  [TBH, still gonna worry about that]

But they see that.  They see things.

And frankly, she lifted me with her TOTALLY WRONG happy assessment and I leaned into it.

I sat in the rain and the fresh air and the friendship on the soccer sideline this evening and some joyful ridiculous text chains from my friends and reminded my resilient self that it is always another day. For them, and for us.  

When We Aren't the Best Parent

I just preliminarily titled this "When we aren't the best parent", before I started posting my story.

So that's pretty instructive about where I'm coming from.

I know blogging is antiquated, and we are in a Twitter/Facebook world, but I just had one of those OH.  UGH.  GAH. BLECH moments  I needed to document for... being real as a human.

I'll equivocate with the fact that I'm weary. Work/Life in this season is... unrelenting.

Plus, I'm genetically disposed to insomnia, and my sleep patterns are so screwed up.

I've had crazy dreams lately. Having to clear the pool because my kids soccer team needs to play there. You know, in the water.  

Having to rescue a 6 foot person from drowning in a 3 foot pool.  

And always the missing my final exam that I needed to ace to have enough credits to graduate.  [Did you know I can fly in an empty mall if I have enough running space?]

WITH THAT BACKGROUND OUT OF THE WAY. 

So James.  Tiny, sweet baby James, is 7.  Upon my calculation, from mask on to comfortable enough mask off, he has spent 37% of his life in an unprecedented global pandemic.  THANKS COVID.

But he, and I, also had the gift of riding side-saddle for almost two years.  We had a thing. He literally perched next to me, 18 inches away. He gave me the space for all the Zooms.  I gave him all the circle breathing, letter tracing, stamp gaming, OE and OA and OO phonetic sounding. 

I got to see him building the sounds and words.  I got to see him being guided by his awesome teaching team from letter awareness to reading.  I saw him, 18 inches from me,  learn how to thread a needle, how to make a stitch, how to "share equally' (aka divide).  He can name more state capitols than me, and doesn't always need a snuggle when he falls down.

He knew, from those months of riding side saddle during the pandemic, that I had to do my job and was the sweetest resilient kid there ever was.

Today? 

He wasn't feeling so well. He's not the kind of kid who comes downstairs and is not feeling so good, so that is so real.  I held him home from school [AS YOU SHOULD DO] (and then got a negative covid test and then a flag for a classroom positive), and then.... I wasn't the best parent.

I need to be reminded that he's seven and hasn't been through the sh%t show of a global pandemic when you aren't well you get some parent attention.  

I was the "welp, work at home day parent".  He clearly embraced the unlimited TV access portion of the day, but I need to be shaken.  

I had a mid-day 90 minute zoom and told my tiny (Montessori, so capable, but UGH) kid, to make himself a sandwich when he said he was hungry.

I TOLD HIM TO MAKE HIMSELF A SANDWICH. HE IS SEVEN AND SICK AND I TOLD MY KID TO MAKE HIMSELF LUNCH BECAUSE I HAD TO "WORK."

He's seven.  We aren't at my-memorable-game-shows-on-USA-all-day age. 

Hell I take meals to all the people when they have sickness/babies/death/crisis and I couldn't be bothered to make a sandwich for my SICK KID.

I told him to make himself a sandwich. And he did.  With some carrots and an apple. What kind of weird terrible space between working life and parenting a sick kid life is that????

Forgive me universe. And I'll introduce him to Press Your Luck, Let's Make a Deal, and all those important sick day shows later.

That's our COVID redux for today. 

On Grief

So we've been in it.. haven't we.

We have made it.  We have pieced it together.  Haven't we?  Have we?

TRUTH: IT HAS BEEN SO MESSY

We've laughed and mourned as we look at our Facebook "on this days"

And this day.  It is the same the day 365 days ago with less "HOW AM I GOING TO DO IT"

Because we did it.

But we are in the space where we are afraid to name hope.  See hope.  Choose hope. 

We lost a friend.  A 3rd grader.

But we dug out.  We dig out.

We see omnicrons and BAs and waves and boosters.  We see families get through the virus.   We see friends with what seem to be life long diagnoses and health damage.  We return to school.  Masks go off, they go on.  

We test the sneezes and the pollens and the tummies and the scaries.  We are lucky that everywhere we live a test is available.

We do what is normal.  We do sports and playdates. We do sleepovers and eat in restaurants.  We have birthday parties in and outside, masked and unmasked. 

We have joy.  Joy?  Remember that?

And we have the PCRs and rapid tests still.  Those are so good. Overlapping caution.

And then the world stops.

They were too young last time. Sandy Hook was an adult problem. They were a week old. And sixteen months old.  

The fear was yours.  The fear was mine.  

I was born in Newtown/Danbury.  Likely at the same hospital. 

That grief is yours.  That fear is yours.  It's in the tiny baby old man brow wrinkles.  It's in the deep dimples and the silly smiles.  It's in the sleepless nights and the early mornings.

But now?  You have a nine and ten year old. They were in that classroom.  They could have been.

A old souled six year old.  Sandy Hook aged.

But ones who have lived in the in between. In the time when grief and hope overshadow each other.  They are old enough to know and understand.  

They ask questions about the why and the how?  About evil and mental health?  About how we didn't protect the kids.  

They named their preferred hiding spaces and how R's classroom is probably the safest.

They ask about death.

Overlapping caution.

And still it's dulled and resigned and unexpected and maybe that's what grief is.

Grief isn't sharp.  It's rounded and dull and resigned and... unexpected.  

They know that grief is as hard to own as reality with it's understandable corners and sharpness.  

They know that grief and resiliency wrestle each other every day.

And please, universe, did we equip them and do we continue to do so every minute and hour and day with the right tools.

Grief is a season, a wave, and a reality.  It is joy and resilience and overwhelming sadness.  

Please let us be enough.  

Please let us all do better.