“Devin, what did you do at daycare today?” (Man, I am an awesome mother.)
“Went skating. Remember?”
*blank stare* (Still! Awesome mother!)
“Remember mom? We left my skates at home on accident?”
“We didn’t leave anything at home.”
“Yes we did! Remember?!”
“Um, no. Thank you. We did no such thing.”
“Mom, it’s OK. I’m half of the ‘we’.”
“Is the other half a turd in your pocket?”
“Excuse me?” (said with utter disgust)
“Do you have a turd in your pocket?” (said while giggling)
“Oh. My. Gosh.” (more with disgust and a new hint of disdain)
“What? My dad used to say that to me all the time!” (said with more giggling at the fact that I am now quoting my parents and using them as a reference)
“Yeah, well, that was your DAD!”
*blank stare of utter confusion*
“It was your DAD, not your MOM.”
“Right. I get that. What’s the difference?”
“Your dad is a boy… your mom is a girl…” (said very slowly so as not to confuse the retards)
*LIGHTBULB!*
“Are you telling me that it’s OK for a boy to say turd but not a girl?”
“uh - YEAH. (moron) That just doesn’t sound nice coming out of a girl’s mouth.”
I think my fucking 8 year old just told me I wasn’t very lady like.
——————————————————————————- I don’t even want to think about the lecture I’d get from him if he ever happens to hear last night’s show - which you can CLICK HERE TO DOWNLOAD. Ahem.
I think it must be a law that if you have kids under the age of 10, people are required to ask you if you are “done yet”. Like you’re a slow roasted pork loin or something.
Of course what they mean is, will you be having any more children?
For the last two years my answer has always been the same.
I am done. Well done. Charred on the outside, no pink in the middle. Done.
I am madly in love with both of my children. I am humbled and grateful for the way in which both of them came into this world. I am constantly amazed and more then a little sad when faced with the reality that they are growing up far too quickly.
And still, I am done.
The smell of a newborn still makes me weak in the ovaries and I have yet to find a worthy substitute for the sweet peace that only comes from laying with a snuggling infant. The weight of a baby in my arms is one of the most comforting sensations I’ve ever experienced.
But just the same, I know that I have met all of my children.
I have zero interest in starting over in the childrearing department. If I ever change another diaper it will be as a charitable act for some other young mother. That chapter in my life, while wonderful and unique, is closed. I’m moving wholeheartedly, with no regrets, into the next.
Now if someone would explain this to my daughter, that would be fabulous.
She was flipping through pictures last week when it started. “Look! Iz my little sister!” she announced, holding out her own baby picture to me with a healthy dose of misplaced pride.
“No, sweetheart, that’s you when you were a baby,” I assured her. She accepted my explanation and continued sifting through snapshots.
A few days later she skipped into the kitchen with a wide grin lighting up her face. “Mommy! Mommy! I’m a big sister!” she sang.
“No, baby, you’re a little sister.”
“Noooo,” she laughed at my ignorance, “I’m a big sister.”
“Noooo. You’re a little sister. Devin’s your big brother and you’re the little sister. You’re a big girl now though, aren’t you?!”
She was obviously annoyed. At first. But her annoyance quickly gave way to something that I tried to pretend wasn’t sadness.
“I wanna be the big sister.”
“Well, you’re a very big girl,” I repeated, “but we don’t have any more babies here. Just you and Devin!” And YAY! Hey! Isn’t that great!
“Can I have a baby sister, Mommy? Pleeease?”
“Oh Boo, we can’t-”
“I would luff her Mommy. I would luff my sister!”
My God, the child’s voice was like honey. It dripped with innocence and longing. My uterus and my heart lurched in perfect unison and I came damn close to dropping to my knees right there on the kitchen tile and promising her that Of course you can have a baby sister, honey. Of course! And how about a pony? Wouldn’t you like a pony, too?
Britt, we do not have babies to appease our children!
My voice of reason can be such a whore.
I know! Jeeez! But wouldn’t she be just the sweetest big sister you’ve ever -
Britt! We do not have babies to appease our children! We do not have babies to appease our children! We do not. have. babies!
OK FINE! I get it! Sheesh.
And I do. I get it. I’m done. I’m totally and absolutely and 100% done having babies. I have no interest in starting over. I am done with the diaper phase. That chapter is closed. Finished. Done.
I’m done.
But… um… would someone mind holding on to my uterus for a few weeks? I mean, you know, just in case? I’m not so sure I can be trusted with it right now.
——————————————————————————————-
While I am busy not making babies tonight, I’ll also be co-hosting the second edition of “Clearly, You’re Retarded” with Avitable on TalkShoe. We’ll be discussing being Open vs. being Guarded - and not just in blogging. You can listen live, chat, and even join in here!
My husband has a thing about butt squeezing. Squeezing my butt in particular. He tried to explain this fascination to me a few nights ago.
Him: I just… it’s squeezable! Ya know?
Me: Yeah, I get it. It’s squishy.
Him: No, no, that’s good - it’s squeeezable!
Me: Like a new roll of toilet paper. Awesome.
Him: Hey, don’t knock toilet paper. I love a new roll of toilet paper.
And then we laughed and laughed over the fact that my ass reminded my husband of a glorious roll of toilet paper.
Me: God I hope I remember this conversation in the morning.
Him: Oh shit. You’re going to blog this, aren’t you? Sometimes I feel like I’m being recorded.
And that’s what the rest of this post is about.
I didn’t ask my husband’s permission to start this blog. In fact, I’d probably been writing it for months he looked at the URL himself. I wasn’t hiding it, but neither of us thought of it as any big deal.
He still doesn’t.
Occasionally he’ll make a joke when I get a gift or an ad check in the mail and tell me I need to get my ass back on that computer and start earning my keep. He would also like me to tell you that if anyone wants to send him a motorcycle, he will buy his own helmet. And he doesn’t come right out and say so, but I get the impression that he thinks it’s cute that his wife has made friends on the Internet. That (and a “mmhh, that’s nice honey” response once in a while) is about the extent of his fascination with the Internet.
I obviously didn’t ask my children’s permission before I started this blog either. Nor did I discuss their privacy when I started talking about them. Because they are my children and I am the parent and I get to rely on my own judgment to make that call.
No, this blog was not a family project at all.
This blog was for me. It was about me and my perspective and my outlet.
And it may very well have stayed that way if people hadn’t started actually reading it.
But they did start reading. They read about me and my life. And about what motherhood is like for me. And about my marriage through my eyes. And about all of the various people in my life - as written by me.
And, as is the nature of the blog, they started to have an opinion on me… and my life.
It started off well.
All the encouragement and well wishes and LOLs were aimed squarely at me in the beginning, as rightful owner of The Blog. But because I wrote about my family, the commentary started to extend to them as well.
“Ooh, you’re husband is hot!” they’d say. And Jared would prance around the house and say “damn right I am. Those people know what’s up!”
“Hey, someone said I was cute too,” I’d remind him. And he’d concede that “well, yeah, you’re not bad. But clearly they’re coming back for this tasty piece of man meat,” and continue with his I’m So Fine Rooster Dance.
Overall, everyone was happy.
Of course, you can’t put your life out on the Internet and expect that everyone will love you forever.
Wait. That’s a lie. You can very much expect that everyone will love you because why the hell wouldn’t they want to bask in the glow of my awesomeness? But the Internet will be quick to point out the naivete of your ways.
Oh yes, the Internet - with it’s anonymous haters, not at all anonymous haters, religious well meaning bigots, and just plain ol’ run of the mill crazies - will readily remind you that you are not, in fact, universally adored. At all.
And nothing is off limits. The very same topics that you discuss candidly in front of a supportive community are fair game to the hecklers. You cannot enjoy the emails applauding the stamina of your marriage without having to endure the misguided speculation about your relationship being a dysfunctional farce. You don’t get to read the comments about how cute you are if you dare to put your face in the public eye without having to swallow the playground level digs about anything that is perceived as being “wrong” with you.
As Mrs. Garrett would say, you take the good, you take the bad, you take it all and there you have, the Facts of Life.
While this is something *I* have come to terms with in regards to how it relates to and affects me, I’ve started to think seriously about what I’ve dragged my family into without their express consent.
I’ve asked Jared about this. I’ve told him that people will say that I’m a bad wife and that our marriage is a sham. I’ve told him that some people think that Adam and I are having an affair. And his usual response is to roll his eyes and snort a little before stopping and pretending to appear very concerned.
“Wait. Do they still think I’m hot?”
“Well, yes babe. But they are also saying that your wife is sleeping with another man and that your marriage is a lie.”
“Heh. Awesome. Even crazy people think I’m hot. What can I say? I’ve got Universal Appeal, baby!”
And then there is more rooster dancing.
Obviously I can’t discuss this seriously with him.
But I wonder, am I setting up the people who mean the most to me to be fodder for someone else’s criticism? It’s already too easy for strangers to forget that they are not merely mocking a blogger, but that they are ripping on the family life of two innocent children. My husband - who is not only innocent in all this, but shamelessly supportive of it - has already had his ability to think for himself called into question publicly.
And how far will it go?
I’ve read some horrendous crap about Dooce’s daughter and Sweetney’s family. And while my first thought was “wow, that’s pretty fucking low, those are just kids people are slamming!”, I also conceded that their parents put them out into the world to be judged. Certainly they didn’t expect anyone to judge them cruelly (because seriously - kids!), but that was a naive idealism they were quickly cured of.
Is it just a matter of time before someone starts bashing my kids for something?
Is Jared prepared to deal with the harsh reality that someone might not think he’s hot?
It’s one thing for me to say, “meh, some people don’t like me. Some people do. Such is life.”
But is it fair for me to make that decision for anyone else?
————————————————————————————- Speaking of how I am The Queen Of The Segues, tomorrow Avitable and I will be discussing being Open vs. being Guarded. I wonder who will be falling on what side of THAT issue. Listen to this week’s episode at 9pm EST or download last week’s to catch up at TalkShoe!
I spend a lot of times thinking about the ways in which I have a failed as a parent. Hell, I’m writing a book about it.
But not today. Today I know that somehow, at some point, I’ve done something right.
Let’s rewind to Friday. While the rest of the country was celebrating Independence Day, our family was scrambling to find a way to make Jared’s 28th birthday not suck.
He had to work on the 4th, and while most adults find themselves working on their birthdays, when your birthday is on a National Holiday it seems especially offensive to be spending it at an office instead of celebrating with friends and family.
To add insult to injury, his wife is kind of a self centered wench.
Seriously. She was off on a weekend getaway to New York City the weekend before and had put absolutely no thought or planning into how to celebrate the big day. In fact, she had not even begun to think about buying a birthday gift, except to say “No, you’re not getting a Wii. Those things are ridiculously expensive. I’m not spending $400 on a stupid video game.”
And she might have said that over her iPhone while standing in front of her hotel in New York.
BUT THIS IS NOT ABOUT HIS CRAPPY WIFE! No!
This is about my fabulous children and how they are clearly a reflection of what type of mother I am.
By Thursday afternoon, it had occurred to me that it might not be appropriate to let Jared’s birthday go by unmentioned. It also occurred to me that this was an epiphany that would have been good to have weeks ago. It also occurred to me that the only thing that I could think of that the man wanted was a Wii.
Which basically meant - I was screwed. There was no way I was going to be able to come up with an extra $400 that wasn’t already earmarked for something AND a Wii that could be purchased locally by Friday.
(I swear at some point this ends up being about my children. Really.)
Thursday night I got home from work and checked the mail, bracing myself for the bills I’d surely been avoiding. But instead of bills, I found 3 unexpected checks. Three checks totaling well over $400.
Hmmm. Was it possible… maybe…
I got online and started searching the websites of every retail store I could think of. WalMart, Target, CircuitCity. Over and over again the buzz I’d been reading about on the Internet was confirmed: Sold Out. Out of Stock. Are You Fucking Crazy Lady? A Wii? In Stock? HAHAHAHAHAHA!
Jared came home from work and I began lobbying for the idea of a PlayStation. Or a new weed whacker. Or what about a puppy? Don’t you want a new puppy? Because honestly babe, wouldn’t that be just as good?
Apparently… no. And don’t worry about it. And it’s no big deal. And really, don’t worry about it.
The conversation was dropped and we both resigned ourselves to the fact that his birthday was going to suck. He got up the next morning and went to work and I got up to prepare for a day of grocery shopping and laundry. I hollered at the kids to get dressed and FIND YOUR DAMN SHOES! and sat down to check my email before we left.
And I thought… hmmm… maybe… just one more try…
Seriously Lady? A Wii? HAHAHAHHAHAHHAHAHA
The websites continued to mock me. But I thought maybe… just maybe… and I picked up the phone.
Three WalMarts, two Targets, a CircuitCity and one Toys R’ Us later and… no. Nothing. Maybe try again Sunday. I hollered over my shoulder AGAIN and wondered HOW FREAKING HARD IS IT TO FIND A PAIR OF SHOES PEOPLE?!?! and picked up the phone for the last time. One more chance. One Best Buy 10 miles away was my last hope.
And the angels sang, my friends. And the song they were singing was “yeah, a couple in stock still.”
“Really? You have one left? Right now? In the store? Thanks!”
I hung up the phone and grabbed my purse. “GUYS!! Let’s go!” I took a deep breath and prepared to continue with the hollering and the sheparding and the empty threats that always accompany the three of us trying to leave the house.
But when I whirled around I found two children dressed, WITH THEIR SHOES ON, and clutching all the money they had in the world.
And here is where it becomes about my kids.
“You found one? They have it?” Devin’s eyes were as big as saucers and I realized that somehow he had picked up on my frantic search.
“Um, yeah buddy. I found a Wii for Dad. But we have to hurry.”
“Emma, let’s go! We have to get Daddy’s birthday present RIGHT NOW.” and the two of them ran for the car without so much as a single reminder from me or a GET OUTTA MY WAY aimed at each other.
Instead of listening to the radio as we zoomed down I-4 towards what was possibly THE ONLY WII LEFT IN THE CENTRAL FLORIDA AREA, I listened to the sound of two children squealing in the background. “We’re getting Daddy’s birfday! We’re getting Daddy’s birfday!” Their excitement was palpable.
We flew into the first open parking spot and literally ran into the store. Well, as close to “ran” as one is capable of with a three year old in tow. “They’re over here! They’re over here!” Devin shouted and pointed as he led me to the gaming section.
And there it was. One box. One singular solitary Nintendo Wii left.
I grabbed it off the shelf and pumped my fist in the air cheering, “We did it! We did it! Look at that guys! We did it!” I have no doubt in my mind I am blog flodder for some unsuspecting Best Buy customer today. But I didn’t give a damn about the scene we were making. The whooping and jumping had been hard fought and was, in our minds, completely deserved. We had saved Christmas! Er. Birthday. Whatever.
Moments later, as I was perusing the accessories and Guitar Hero options, all the while clutching my spoils to my chest, I noticed Devin leaning closer to the shelves.
“$249? $79? $59.99? Oh man…” his face fell as he read off the black numbers on each yellow tag.
“What’s the matter baby?” I couldn’t understand why he was standing there looking so defeated. We had won!
He held out his hand and unclenched his fist, releasing the wad of bills he’d been clinging to since we left the house.
“I only have $12.”
Tears welled up in his eyes and my heart twisted and jerked behind my ribs. I dropped to my knees in the aisle at Best Buy, immediately forgetting the triumph of a few minutes ago. I assured him everything was OK. Mommy knew how much everything would be and we would be fine. It’s all going to be fine, baby.
“If I hadn’t bought those stupid Pokemon cards… I wanted to get Dad a birthday present. I can’t even get him a game with $12.”
Jerk. Twist. Thud.
“Sweetheart, you have nothing to worry about. Mommy will get this and it will be from all of us. We’re going to get everything Daddy needs. I promise.”
He didn’t budge. “But he’s my Dad. He should get something from me.”
I couldn’t argue with his logic, and I was hesitant to try to convince him that it didn’t matter. The best I could do was promise him we’d figure out something. Having appeased him temporarily, we tracked down a cart and loaded it up with a game that came with another controller and Guitar Hero III. $417 later, we checked out and headed for WalMart to get groceries.
We were walking through the WalMart parking lot when Devin came up with his own solution.
“Dad’s going to need a cake. Do you think I could get a cake for $12?”
An hour later as we unloaded the groceries in the checkout line, Devin carefully picked through the cart to gather his purchases. One personally selected birthday card. One box of Funfetti cake batter. One can of ready-to-spread chocolate frosting. And one package of edible sprinkles. Because Dad really likes stuff like sprinkles on cakes.
Without a word, he set his items up on the conveyor belt behind the rest of our groceries and slid the plastic divider between the two piles.
I ignored the nasty looks from the cashier and the people waiting in line behind us. They had no idea what they were witnessing, but it was so much more than the extra 3 minutes they were all going to have to wait for OMG A SEPARATE PURCHASE.
$5.14 and one very proud little boy later, we floated out of WalMart.
My heart swelled to see his joy. He was just so damned pleased with the idea of being able to give. I thought about all the times I had chided him to be nice to his sister and lectured him about thinking of other people and reminded him, ever so gently that, yes you DO HAVE TO PUT ALL THE DISHES IN THE DISHWASHER EVEN IF YOU DIDN’T USE ALL OF THEM. And I thought maybe, just maybe, I wasn’t screwing up this whole motherhood thing completely.
And while I am tempted to end this post here because I know it is already painfully long, I can’t. I can’t not tell you about what came next.
Because next, we went home and took naps. Ha! But then after that next, we got up and those two kids baked that FunFetti Cake with chocolate ready-to-spread frosting and rainbow colored sprinkles. And they waited to lick the spoons and the bowls until they were absolutely sure that Dad’s Birthday Cake That Was Especially From Devin was going to be Perfect.
And then they colored on cards, wrote their names on envelopes, and insisted on holding down wrapping paper and carefully applying scotch tape in almost exactly the spots where I told them to.
And then they plotted and schemed and scouted out hiding places.
“Why are you hiding?” I asked.
“Because you have to jump out and yell SURPRISE! when it’s a birthday!” they explained.
“But he knows that you’re here,” I reasoned.
“But it’s a BIRTHDAY! and you have to have SURPRISE! on a BIRTHDAY!” they insisted. And then they exchanged the look from the Secret Sibling Code that I am confident I recognized as the Moms Are So Dumb look.
And then they waited. And waited. And as the hours ticked by and Jared did not come home from work, I used every mothering trick I know to keep their spirits buoyed.
“He’s not coming is he?”
“Not yet. But he will.”
“Is it going to be dark? Will we be in bed?”
“I don’t know,” I whispered, torn between lying to them or crushing them. “Let’s set up the presents and figure out where to hide the cake,” and then we won’t have to think about whether or not this will all be for nothing just yet.
And then, finally, the call came.
“He’s on his way!”
They screamed and danced and promptly forgot all their carefully laid plans. “He’s coming! He’s coming!” Emma shook like a puppy with a too big for its body tail. “Oh my gosh! Oh my gosh! What do we do?! What do we DO?!” Devin raced around the house in a desperate search for his head.
“Hide! Hide!” It was hard not to get swept up in their plan.
They shoved me out the door and ordered me to stand in the driveway so that I could give them a sign when his truck turned onto the street. And so I stood in that driveway by myself watching the corner intently for a full twenty minutes and didn’t care one bit that my neighbors surely thought I was a crazy person.
And then finally, I saw it. The tip of his ladder came around the corner, quickly followed by the black front of his truck. And in that instant I was three and I was eight and I turned around and ran up that driveway and flew through the front door.
“He’s here! He’s here!” All notions of a surprise being silly when he knew we were home were forgotten by everyone. Because it’s not a BIRTHDAY! without a SURPRISE!, silly.
The three of us huddled behind the couch and tried desperately to silence our nervous energy. Devin shifted and reshifted the cake in his hands and Emma finally threw herself face first on the floor exclaiming, “I can’t take it anymore!”
I swear it took that man three days to get out of his truck.
And then beep, the alarm, and he was there. We grabbed one another’s arms and whispered, “now? now?” before finally hearing a deep voice call out.
“Hello? Is anyone here?”
“SURPRISE! SURPRISE!” and we exploded from behind that couch with the best damn surprise that the world has ever seen.
And as the birthday song rang out and the sight of my husband disappeared underneath a pile of tiny arms and legs and blond heads, I knew he had been wrong. We had both been wrong.
You can read a lot about the dangers of exposing your kids to the Internet. Everyone from the mommy blogger to the childless blogger, and even the mainstream media, has weighed in on the blogging phenomenon known as Child Exploitation. And while I won’t pretend to have anything fresh or new to say on the subject, I’d like to tell you my story.
I think most mothers will tell you that they have an overriding goal for childrearing. It’s a self imposed standard used to measure your success or failure as a parent. You can identify this goal with statements like “I just want them to be healthy”, “No matter what, I want them to be happy”, “I want my kids to know what it means to give back”. It is these “I just want them to…” mottoes that govern nearly every decision we make for our kids.
Since before my first child was born, my personal parenting mantra has been “I want them to know that they are loved. By lots and lots of people.”
I believe that everything good - from a healthy self esteem to an appreciation for others - comes from a strong foundation of love. One that is bigger and broader than I can provide alone. And selfishly, I always wanted to know that if anything ever happened to me, my kids would at least know that there were still lots of people in the world who loved them.
That was easy when I lived in Parkersburg, Iowa.
We lived within 15 minutes of grandparents, uncles and cousins. They were surrounded by friends who loved like family. On any given holiday, they were overwhelmed with a sea of arms waiting to overwhelm them with hugs and a horde of kids ready to run wild beside them. You had only to look at the house stuffed to the breaking point for birthday parties to see that I was excelling at Providing A Happy Childhood 101.
I was terrified. The fears I had for myself and my life paled in comparison to the guilt I wrestled with over what I had done to my children.
I had taken them from their grandparents. I had ripped them from the security of their family. Despite all my talk about family and community and the importance of people who loved us, I took my kids from the Village that was happily helping me raise them.
And then the strangest thing happened.
We received our first house warming presents, not from neighbors or family, but via UPS ground delivery. Before we had time to put paint on the walls, AmyD sent each of the kids something special for their new rooms. Glittery pink accents for Emma, and Spiderman memorabilia for Devin - because she knew each of them as little people.
A few months later, Amy sent another box to the new house. This time it was stuffed with dresses and much needed winter clothes for Emma, who was ecstatic to learn that her friend Maggie (Amy’s daughter) had sent her presents. At only 2 and 3 years old, Maggie and Emma had already been giggling and pointing at each other over a web cam connection.
Then we hit our first holiday away from home.
Experts will tell you, the first is always the hardest. But I don’t think the experts anticipate that you will have a blogging buddy reach out to you and welcome you into their home. The experts don’t know about Deanna Banana and Lee, and how they laugh easily and immediately take on your children as if they’ve loved them since birth. Apparently the experts have never seen two families, both far from Home, gathered around one table and truly, truly grateful to be in exactly that place.
The media is right - it’s absolutely unbelievable what kids can get from the people on the Internet.
A surrogate uncle who loves them so fiercely that he has to be reminded at times that I do kind of know what I’m doing here thank you. A cute little babysitter who plays board games with them for hours and always promises that “they were good, really.” A woman who squeals when they lick her and teaches them how to make a McMansion Fort. A Kawol who promises he’ll be back, despite being woken up with the sun. And an entire family that made Emma forget that she was afraid of the water, and reminded Devin that there were kids Just Like Him out there.
Some people will tell you that what we do here with these blogs is strange.
They’ll tell you we’re an antisocial bunch, sitting behind our computer screens talking to a bunch of strangers. They may say that it’s dysfunctional or dangerous to share your lives, your families, and God forbid your children with a bunch of crazy Internet people.
But me and my family?
We’ll tell you… thank you.
Thank you for helping me raise children who will never sit in a corner at a party because they’re convinced they have enough friends.
Thank you for allowing me to show them that the world is absolutely full of good people.
From the bottom of my heart, thank you, for being part of our Village.
Just when you think you have nothing to blog about…
Your 8-year-old son overhears you (OK, hears you because you were in the car rocking out with him in the backseat) singing that “I kissed a girl and I liked it!” and asks “why would a girl say she was kissing a girl? And she thinks it’s wrong and right? What is she talking about?” and you make the awkward moment go away by pretending like you don’t hear him, and then of course you mention it to one of your gay friends later who tells you that you TOTALLY FAILED AT PARENTING! and should have answered his question and it’s not too early to start talking about it because someone else probably already is and this gay friend of yours says:
“Hey, why don’t you ask your son tomorrow if he’s ever heard the word fag?”
And so, you do.
Well, eventually. But first you start out small.
“Devin, have you ever heard the word gay?”
The crestfallen look on his face gave me the answer before he managed to mumble, “yeah”.
“Really?” I’m fairly certain I failed to keep the shock from my voice. “When?”
“Uhhh, pretty much every day when they call me it.”
“Who calls you that?”
“Uhhh, like half the kids at daycare.”
“What the fuck do you mean half the kids at daycare? Where the hell are the adults I at that daycare that I am paying to make sure you are having a happy childhoood? Why in God’s name would a child ever say that to another child? How did you not ever tell me this before so that I could beat the ever loving shit out of these little brats? You give me names, Son. Give me names now and I will call down The Wrath upon the heads of these little son of a bitches!” I screamed in my head.
Outwardly I swallowed my tongue and clung to my composure.
“Do you know what that word means?” I asked him.
“No,” he shook his head, “but I know they say it because they think it’s the very worst thing they can say to me.”
CRASH. BOOM. BANG. That would be the sound of my son’s innocence shattering at my feet, along side my hope that he would remain untouched by bigotry and hate so long as he remained in elementary school.
“Sweetheart, gay is not the worst thing that someone can say to someone, but the way they are using it is very, very nasty. Gay means that a boy likes boys or a girl likes girls.”
“Uhhh… you mean like boyfriend/boyfriend or girlfriend/girlfriend.”
“Yep, that’s exactly what I mean.”
“Well that is definitely not me.”
The insistence in his voice pierced my heart as I watched him recoil at the idea of homosexuality being associated with him.
Today was going to be the day I told you about how badly I would miss my children.
Today I was going to describe in loving detail how I wake up with my three year old in bed with me every morning. I was going to tell you about how I was dreading not feeling those tiny little feet poking me in my ribs and that sleepy but blissful grin that I find myself nose to nose with each day.
Today I was going to talk about how I was going to miss the sound of my son making breakfast in the kitchen for his little sister. I was going to wonder aloud if anyone else was reminding him to brush his teeth and change his underwear.
Today, I am supposed to tell you about singing “You Are My Sunshine” to Emma every night exactly two times so that she can go to sleep, and how that moment just after she’s closed her eyes and just before I get up from her bed is my exactly favorite moment of each day.
I was going to put on a brave face, and tell you that although I was going to be missing them like crazy, I was going to make the most of the next six weeks and focus on all of the things I would be able to do now that Jared and I would have the house - and our whole lives, really - to ourselves. For six weeks.
You would have “ooohed” and “awwwed” and (((hugs)))’ed me and we would have all sat around musing about what a wonderful mother I was for allowing my kids this special time with their grandparents, even though it was clearly breaking my sweet sweet maternal heart to let them go.
That’s what today’s post was supposed to be.
But do we have any of that shit going on here? No. No we don’t.
Instead, a fucking tornado came and wiped out my in-law’s (aka THE KIDS’S GRANDPARENTS WHO WANTED THEM TO STAY WITH THEM FOR THE FIRST HALF OF THE SUMMER) house (aka THE PLACE WHERE MY KIDS WOULD HAVE SPENT THE FIRST HALF OF THE SUMMER STAYING).
And so, instead of getting in the car tomorrow morning to drive to Nashville and meet the grandparents and drop off the kids - I WILL BE SPENDING ALL DAMN WEEKEND HOME ALONE WITH THEM.
And instead of 6 weeks of footloose and fancy free living, complete with not one, not two, but three child free Girls Gone Wild weekends with friends - I will be making a mad dash for sitters for a free night here and there and groceries and summer childcare camps and oh yeah - not living child free AT ALL!
And did I tell you about those pokey little feet? The ones that wake me up in the middle of the night? The ones that mean I am getting up late and running around trying to get not ONE but THREE people ready every morning before we all dash out the door for the daycare/commute/work extravaganza?!?! Did I mention that? Because they are still going to be here every dang morning until FOREVER.
And instead of the occasional happy hour after work or a casual “stop at the store” or just a random WHATEVER THE HELL I WANT BECAUSE THE MOOD STRIKES ME JUST BECAUSE I CAN, I will run out of the office at 5 every day and sprint through traffic to do the daycare/dinner/bed/bath extravaganza. Every. Damn. Night.
Such is life. I know. But I have to admit I have allowed myself to fantasize about what the next six weeks would be like for months now. And I was really starting to come around to the idea of having a little Not In Charge Of The Whole Damned World Time. Just a little.
And I know that we’re lucky everyone is OK and no one wanted this and holy crap how spoiled of a brat can one woman be. I know.
But dude. SIX WEEKS. For the first time since I was 19 years old. SIX WHOLE FREAKING WEEKS.
Le sigh. Ah well. I’m sure I would have missed them too much anyway. I mean - clearly.
I wonder if I’ll ever be able to use that word again without an overwhelming flood of emotions, not the least of which is guilt. And confusion. And just raw, raw, raw… emotion. My perception of home has changed dramatically in the last week.
It is a strange thing to stand in the rubble of the town that you fought so hard to leave. I remembered how defiant I had been, convinced that I was bigger than this place. More, somehow, than these people. It shames me even now to write those words. I left kicking and screaming, hell bent on proving myself.
I ran back desperate to connect with any part of it I could find.
I found it difficult to look them in the eyes, these people I’d abandoned. I’d been so maliciously proud when I’d finally stopped referring to them as Home. I’d moved on. Left them behind. And as they clung to one another I found I was ashamed that I was no longer one of them. How could I tell them now how wrong I’d been? How could I make them understand that this was my home too? How could they believe that my heart was just as broken and shattered and thrown about in the debris as their own?
What a hypocritical slap in the face. My home was not shattered. My house was not lost. It was standing with four walls and a roof, completely in tact 1400 miles away in Florida. My children’s beds would not be found in the trees. Our pictures are safely tucked away in boxes and photo albums. Without telling them when, they knew the moment I arrived that I would be leaving again… back to my life. Back to my home.
And they never will. They will pick through the piles and dust off what they can find, clinging to whatever trinkets of their lives they uncover. They will meet with insurance agents and fill out papers and deposit claim checks. Some will rebuild and some will move on. But all of it will take months, years maybe. And it will never be the same.
And yet in some way, I envied them.
That itty bitty town swelled with love and courage and compassion. They were in this together. Those who weren’t hit by the storm emptied out their souls to help their neighbors and friends. They planted flags amidst the destruction and scrawled “A-P Will Stand Strong” in spray paint against whatever walls they could find standing.
They’ve lost everything - and yet they know where they belong. They know who they are. Mixed among my own self absorbed guilt was tremendous pride. Through their fear, through their devastation, through their incomprehensible loss - they held each other together the best anyone could hope for.
You simply cannot deny or minimize the painful truth that our parents and friends are homeless. Their heartbreak is palpable in the air as you walk down what used to be streets and neighborhoods.
But so too is their spirit. Palpable, I mean. It is as much a living, breathing essence as the tornado itself was. It is impossible to stand in the path of destruction and not be overwhelmed by the fact that so, so many of them are alive. People would meet you in the street and habitually ask “how are you?” and the answer was just too damn big to verbalize.
You are broken. You are scared. You are heart sick. And you are grateful. You are clinging to your loved ones with a sense of joy that you could not have ever possibly understood before. You are crying and you are talking and you are laughing, because God damn it - you can.
And you are home.
Without walls, without rooftops, without furniture or clothing - you are home. Surrounded by those who you have now imagined life without - you are home.
My son had just turned two when I realized that I had already failed him as a mother. I remember very clearly thinking “I can’t believe I’ve already screwed this up. What the hell do I do now?”
The daycare had called. Again. It seemed Devin was biting the other children in class. Again. Specifically, he was walking up to unsuspecting toddlers and removing large chunks of their face with his teeth. Just… because.
Now, I am not an idiot. Obviously I did not pronounce myself a failure and my son a lost cause over a little toddler biting. That would be ludicrous.
After all, I had read that children bit from time to time. I vaguely remembered something about a need to express one’s self or communicate aggression. Something like that. My point is that the first time I heard about what the daycare administrator referred to as a Biting Incident, I did not panic.
I sat my two year old down and we had a very rational conversation. I acknowledged his need to be heard and vent his frustration. We discussed that biting was not a socially acceptable form of communication because it infringed on the boundaries and rights of others. We explored alternative ways to express anger, such as alone time and using our words. I made sure to keep the lines of communication open and spoke in very soothing tones that said “I am not here to judge you”.
I can’t imagine for the life of me why that wasn’t more effective.
Two days after The Talk, I received a phone call about another Biting Incident. At this point, I started to get suspicious.
Perhaps the adults at the daycare facility were not properly in tune with his needs. Maybe Devin had tried to use his words and no one had validated his feelings. Whatever the reason, I had raised this child and I knew he was not capable of unprovoked violence.
I refrained from saying all of this when I called the mother of his latest victim to apologize. I was determined that she would not think I was making excuses for my child. I was far too responsible a parent for anything that lazy. I stuck to assuring her that this would “never happen again. And again, Devin is very, very sorry.”
Because of course, he was. He must be.
A few weeks passed after The Phone Call and I was buoyed by the fact that we had been free from another Biting Incident. And honestly, I wasn’t surprised. The Talk: Part Two had obviously been more effective than the first. I had put a little more emphasis on alternative ways of expressing frustration the second time around – including time outs and spanking, should the need arise. I must admit, I was proud of my superior mothering. I had been proactive and involved and put an end to this little “issue” before it became a real “problem”.
Clearly, I had this parenting gig figured out.
In fact, all thoughts of the Biting Incidents had been nearly forgotten the day that we invited our friends and their daughter over for dinner. It didn’t even occur to me to bring it up as the other mother and I watched our husbands master the grill and our children run back and forth across the little wooden deck while we swapped accomplishments and anecdotes about them.
I think I was bragging about his uncanny ability to put together a jigsaw puzzle upside down when it happened.
Their little girl was beautiful. The very picture you call to mind when you think about a brown eyed girl. Her cheeks were full, her hair dark and springy as it curled from her ears to her shoulders. And those brown eyes – she could melt you into an appeasing puddle of good with one longing look from those perfectly round eyes.
Frankly, I’m not sure how Devin was able to deflect her charm. But he did. As she reached out a toy to him in a beautiful gesture of sharing, he seized the opportunity to attack. My son leaned in close, as if to hug her, wrapped his arms around her to hold her still, and proceed to rip the flesh from the side of her face.
She screamed. Oh my God did that child scream. And cried. Big, wet tears spilled all over her now lopsided face and on to her perfectly spotless sweater set.
I could have killed him. Right then and there. I’d have put us both out of our misery in one fell swoop if given the right tools and a few seconds of privacy. But of course I couldn’t do that because there was all that screaming and crying to attend to.
I don’t remember what happened immediately after that. It’s possible that I eventually saw through the blinding humiliation and packed my son up into his room for the night. It’s also possible that I sat whimpering in a corner for the rest of the evening while my husband took care of the discipline and apologies and whatever awkward small talk surely followed. The aftermath, for whatever reason, has not been etched into my memory as clearly as the attack itself.
And that God awful screaming.
What I do remember is the phone call with my mother the next day. She called to see how our much anticipated Date Night With The Other Parents had gone (because when you’re 21 and have a two year old, finding other parents who want to hang out with you is always a pretty big deal).
“So? How was it?” her voice bubbled over the line, so full of naive hope and optimism. “Did you have fun? What did you guys do? How were the kids?”
“He’s doomed, Mom! Doomed!” I was doing a pretty good imitation of The Scream myself.
“Um, hello? Honey, is that you?”
“Oh my God…” I sobbed, “I’ve ruined him. Ruined him! I don’t understand where it all went wrong! You should have seen him. He was so… so… wrong! It was so awful.”
“Baby? Honey?” I think my mother was still trying to confirm my identity in between my gulping for air.
“I don’t know what I did. But.. but… he’s ruined. Oh my God Mom, he’s going to be a serial killer. This is how it starts. We have to get rid of the dog before he starts torturing it. That’s what they do when they’re kids. Torture animals and children…”
“Britt? What in the hell…” at least she had figured out it was me.
“He tried to EAT HER! I’m going to be that woman on TV. That one that says she never saw it coming and she doesn’t know how her son ended up like this and she never saw the signs and OH MY GOD WHERE DID IT ALL GO WRONG?!?!”
I was too busy listening to the reporter in my head who was interviewing me twenty years in the future to hear my mom’s reaction. Plus, I was crying a lot. And sniffing and snorting from all of the crying. It was probably a solid two minutes before I recognized the sound coming from the phone.
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