Tuesday, March 14, 2006
You’ve GOT to be kidding.
My roommate from college used to say, “It’s like dying from a thousand paper cuts.” She meant, of course, that while she had suffered no major devastation, she felt bombarded by small but painful inconveniences. Last week I was suffering from several annoying little paper cuts and one big ass thorn.
It all started with an announcement on Sunday morning that my co-chair, who had volunteered to organize, cook and serve our Ash Wednesday Pancake Supper, had not organized anything, bought anything, and would not even be present at said event. Guess who threw together a last minute pancake supper? Not a big deal really, just very annoying. The morning after the pancake supper, a faulty latch on the back gate let my wayward furry children, Ellie and Caribou, out to wreak havoc on the neighbors… again. I came home from dropping Harper Lee off at school to a hysterical phone message and a warning that the next time the dogs got out, they would be shot. Picture my body as the little cartoon thermometer gradually filling up with red-hot liquid until my head exploded. The next two days were filled with anxiety-induced nausea, crying, insomnia, and the grim realization that one of our dogs must be placed in another home. Meanwhile, my grandfather’s health is steadily declining, and my parents are under tremendous stress. Top it off with quite possibly the most laid-back, slow-moving building contractor in the universe, and you’ve got yourself several itching, burning paper cuts.
That’s why I decided to call a babysitter on Sunday afternoon and go mountain biking with Rob. “We just need to get out and blow off some steam,” I said. But being the stressed out worry-ball that I am, I was stiff and tight and gripping the handlebars of my bike as if my life depended on it and, consequently, was not riding too well. I was also trying out my new clip-less pedals for the first time at Fisher River Park, a fairly technical trail that often requires me to be able to put my foot down quickly. You know where this is going, right? I wish I could say that it had been an exciting, high-speed crash at the bottom of an awesome jump, but basically, I just went around a turn, forgot to snap my foot out of the pedal, and fell sideways into a pile of brush. It was embarrassingly stupid. So I dusted myself off and picked the bike up. That’s when I noticed the pain and the appearance of a piece of wood that had someone popped up underneath my skin like a tent stake.
Rob tried to get it out but to no avail, so we stopped by the drugstore on the way home for tweezers and hydrogen peroxide. Imagine how happy I was that we had actually paid someone to stay with our kids for this particular outing. After several failed attempts at home, including having Rob make a small incision in my arm with a razor blade, I packed a book for the long wait at the emergency room. The emergency room was no better. While I have had nothing but good experiences with our local hospital under normal circumstances, the emergency room is basically a glorified first-aid station, and I’m pretty sure I’ll never go there again. Basically, they told me, “We can’t find it. Put some warm towels on it, and maybe it will come out or just go away.” Huh? So I did.
Two days later my arm was red, swollen, and completely useless. Changing diapers, putting up ponytails, and maneuvering a twenty-pound baby in and out of a high chair is not easy with one arm. I went back to the doctor, who after an ultrasound said I did indeed have a foreign body in my arm. You think? They sent me to a surgeon who opened my arm up, dug around for over an hour, then stitched it back up and said, “If they’d just made a superficial cut on Sunday night when you first went in, this would have been easy to remove, but after two days, it has moved beneath the tendons and nerves. I’m sending you over to the hospital to be admitted, and we’ll do surgery this afternoon.”
Everything turned out fine. The surgeon removed the offending thorn, a long, thin spike-like thing that I now have in a jar on my kitchen shelf, my mom came for a few days, I have a ridiculous, but funny story to tell and one more scar to add to my collection. A $3,000.00 thorn was just the icing on the cake that was my week, and somehow it calmed me down. The whole thing just seemed too stupid to take seriously, and as always, it put things in perspective for me. I understand the fact that God has to grab me by the hair of the head and shake me once in a while. I’m quite exasperating, I’m sure. I just hope that next time His reality check isn’t quite as expensive
My roommate from college used to say, “It’s like dying from a thousand paper cuts.” She meant, of course, that while she had suffered no major devastation, she felt bombarded by small but painful inconveniences. Last week I was suffering from several annoying little paper cuts and one big ass thorn.
It all started with an announcement on Sunday morning that my co-chair, who had volunteered to organize, cook and serve our Ash Wednesday Pancake Supper, had not organized anything, bought anything, and would not even be present at said event. Guess who threw together a last minute pancake supper? Not a big deal really, just very annoying. The morning after the pancake supper, a faulty latch on the back gate let my wayward furry children, Ellie and Caribou, out to wreak havoc on the neighbors… again. I came home from dropping Harper Lee off at school to a hysterical phone message and a warning that the next time the dogs got out, they would be shot. Picture my body as the little cartoon thermometer gradually filling up with red-hot liquid until my head exploded. The next two days were filled with anxiety-induced nausea, crying, insomnia, and the grim realization that one of our dogs must be placed in another home. Meanwhile, my grandfather’s health is steadily declining, and my parents are under tremendous stress. Top it off with quite possibly the most laid-back, slow-moving building contractor in the universe, and you’ve got yourself several itching, burning paper cuts.
That’s why I decided to call a babysitter on Sunday afternoon and go mountain biking with Rob. “We just need to get out and blow off some steam,” I said. But being the stressed out worry-ball that I am, I was stiff and tight and gripping the handlebars of my bike as if my life depended on it and, consequently, was not riding too well. I was also trying out my new clip-less pedals for the first time at Fisher River Park, a fairly technical trail that often requires me to be able to put my foot down quickly. You know where this is going, right? I wish I could say that it had been an exciting, high-speed crash at the bottom of an awesome jump, but basically, I just went around a turn, forgot to snap my foot out of the pedal, and fell sideways into a pile of brush. It was embarrassingly stupid. So I dusted myself off and picked the bike up. That’s when I noticed the pain and the appearance of a piece of wood that had someone popped up underneath my skin like a tent stake.
Rob tried to get it out but to no avail, so we stopped by the drugstore on the way home for tweezers and hydrogen peroxide. Imagine how happy I was that we had actually paid someone to stay with our kids for this particular outing. After several failed attempts at home, including having Rob make a small incision in my arm with a razor blade, I packed a book for the long wait at the emergency room. The emergency room was no better. While I have had nothing but good experiences with our local hospital under normal circumstances, the emergency room is basically a glorified first-aid station, and I’m pretty sure I’ll never go there again. Basically, they told me, “We can’t find it. Put some warm towels on it, and maybe it will come out or just go away.” Huh? So I did.
Two days later my arm was red, swollen, and completely useless. Changing diapers, putting up ponytails, and maneuvering a twenty-pound baby in and out of a high chair is not easy with one arm. I went back to the doctor, who after an ultrasound said I did indeed have a foreign body in my arm. You think? They sent me to a surgeon who opened my arm up, dug around for over an hour, then stitched it back up and said, “If they’d just made a superficial cut on Sunday night when you first went in, this would have been easy to remove, but after two days, it has moved beneath the tendons and nerves. I’m sending you over to the hospital to be admitted, and we’ll do surgery this afternoon.”
Everything turned out fine. The surgeon removed the offending thorn, a long, thin spike-like thing that I now have in a jar on my kitchen shelf, my mom came for a few days, I have a ridiculous, but funny story to tell and one more scar to add to my collection. A $3,000.00 thorn was just the icing on the cake that was my week, and somehow it calmed me down. The whole thing just seemed too stupid to take seriously, and as always, it put things in perspective for me. I understand the fact that God has to grab me by the hair of the head and shake me once in a while. I’m quite exasperating, I’m sure. I just hope that next time His reality check isn’t quite as expensive
Wednesday, March 01, 2006
Drunk Monkeys
Our living room is blanketed in an inch of white sheetrock dust. Until yesterday, the cats were making their way in and out of the house via holes they had torn in the insulation in our ceiling. The wind has been whistling through a very noticeable crack in the wall inside Isaac’s “bedroom,” also known as the sunroom. I can see daylight through the corner of my shower. There are stacks of Rubbermaid totes lining the walls of my bedroom, and just yesterday, I read an article listing the ways one might control stress in his or her life. The number one strategy? An organized, clean and clutter-free living space. Hmmm…
Needless to say, I am on the brink of madness. My contractor makes fun of me for my addiction to running, and I’m this close to saying, “You know, if it weren’t for running, I would have ripped your head off your body by now,” but I am refraining. Running is my last remaining link to mental stability.
Most days I do really well with the whole mess, but sometimes, usually in the middle of the night, I am gripped by anxiety so strong I end up crying and making myself almost sick. It’s totally a control issue. I hate it when things are beyond my control, and I’ve tried to make this into a learning experience, a way to grow, but sometimes I just have to get the hell out of here.
That’s why Rob made reservations a couple of weekends ago for the four of us to stay in a hotel with an indoor pool and shopping and restaurants close by. We didn’t go anywhere particularly special or even that far away, but we weren’t at home, and that’s all that mattered to me.
Harper Lee had a great time in the pool, and even Isaac, once he got used to the cool water, kicked and splashed and had a wonderful time. I’ve learned that this is an excellent way to get a decent nap of out him as well. Basically, Saturday was a perfect day. We swam, we napped, we took a leisurely stroll over to the bookstore and browsed the shelves for new reading material. It was exactly what I’d been looking for.
Then we went to dinner. It was not a bad experience, but it was not what one might call relaxing either. As Harper Lee sang, burped, and shot paper off the end of her straw all while wearing a paper “Fuddrucker’s” hat, Isaac shouted loudly and banged his fists on the table as if demanding, “Feed me bananas! More bananas!” In between veggie puffs being slung to the floor and repeated trips to the drink fountain for refills of lemonade, Rob and I managed to choke down a couple of burgers and some onion rings, both of which made us sicker than dogs later that night.
At one point, I glanced over at Rob as he repaired a mangled paper hat and began to laugh. “What are you laughing at?” he asked.
“Fifteen years ago, when we were out together on a Saturday night, did you ever once picture this? I feel like we’re having dinner with a couple of drunk monkeys.” I said.
He laughed. “Yeah, things have changed.”
But then I said, “Of course, if you think about it, this probably isn’t all that different from a Saturday night fifteen years ago.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, fifteen years ago, chances are good we were sitting at a table in some bar with people singing, burping, banging on the table and shouting, “Where’s my beer?” We might have even been one of them. The only difference is that now we are always the designated drivers.”
So, while our trip was a reminder of how things have changed, it was also a reminder of how much they stay the same. It’s true that instead of slamming back shots of Jim Beam, I was trying to grab just a few bites here and there of my burger in between wiping mashed bananas and drool from someone else’s chin, but I still love Rob, still enjoy hanging out with him, and still have a good time whenever we’re together. It’s just that now I love the drunk monkeys with us just as much.
Our living room is blanketed in an inch of white sheetrock dust. Until yesterday, the cats were making their way in and out of the house via holes they had torn in the insulation in our ceiling. The wind has been whistling through a very noticeable crack in the wall inside Isaac’s “bedroom,” also known as the sunroom. I can see daylight through the corner of my shower. There are stacks of Rubbermaid totes lining the walls of my bedroom, and just yesterday, I read an article listing the ways one might control stress in his or her life. The number one strategy? An organized, clean and clutter-free living space. Hmmm…
Needless to say, I am on the brink of madness. My contractor makes fun of me for my addiction to running, and I’m this close to saying, “You know, if it weren’t for running, I would have ripped your head off your body by now,” but I am refraining. Running is my last remaining link to mental stability.
Most days I do really well with the whole mess, but sometimes, usually in the middle of the night, I am gripped by anxiety so strong I end up crying and making myself almost sick. It’s totally a control issue. I hate it when things are beyond my control, and I’ve tried to make this into a learning experience, a way to grow, but sometimes I just have to get the hell out of here.
That’s why Rob made reservations a couple of weekends ago for the four of us to stay in a hotel with an indoor pool and shopping and restaurants close by. We didn’t go anywhere particularly special or even that far away, but we weren’t at home, and that’s all that mattered to me.
Harper Lee had a great time in the pool, and even Isaac, once he got used to the cool water, kicked and splashed and had a wonderful time. I’ve learned that this is an excellent way to get a decent nap of out him as well. Basically, Saturday was a perfect day. We swam, we napped, we took a leisurely stroll over to the bookstore and browsed the shelves for new reading material. It was exactly what I’d been looking for.
Then we went to dinner. It was not a bad experience, but it was not what one might call relaxing either. As Harper Lee sang, burped, and shot paper off the end of her straw all while wearing a paper “Fuddrucker’s” hat, Isaac shouted loudly and banged his fists on the table as if demanding, “Feed me bananas! More bananas!” In between veggie puffs being slung to the floor and repeated trips to the drink fountain for refills of lemonade, Rob and I managed to choke down a couple of burgers and some onion rings, both of which made us sicker than dogs later that night.
At one point, I glanced over at Rob as he repaired a mangled paper hat and began to laugh. “What are you laughing at?” he asked.
“Fifteen years ago, when we were out together on a Saturday night, did you ever once picture this? I feel like we’re having dinner with a couple of drunk monkeys.” I said.
He laughed. “Yeah, things have changed.”
But then I said, “Of course, if you think about it, this probably isn’t all that different from a Saturday night fifteen years ago.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, fifteen years ago, chances are good we were sitting at a table in some bar with people singing, burping, banging on the table and shouting, “Where’s my beer?” We might have even been one of them. The only difference is that now we are always the designated drivers.”
So, while our trip was a reminder of how things have changed, it was also a reminder of how much they stay the same. It’s true that instead of slamming back shots of Jim Beam, I was trying to grab just a few bites here and there of my burger in between wiping mashed bananas and drool from someone else’s chin, but I still love Rob, still enjoy hanging out with him, and still have a good time whenever we’re together. It’s just that now I love the drunk monkeys with us just as much.
Friday, February 17, 2006
Naked Somersaults
Harper Lee loves gymnastics. She even has a balance beam and trapeze bar in the backyard, and she likes to practice her jumps, flips and rolls in front of the mirror in my bedroom. Usually this practice session takes place right before or after bath time while I nurse Isaac and watch “the show.” Because it is during our evening bath and bed routine, it usually means she’s naked. Have you ever watched a pre-schooler do naked somersaults? If you have kids, I’m sure you probably have, and if so, then you probably also know that it’s one of the funniest and sweetest things you’ll ever witness.
As Harper Lee leapt across the room with total joy and abandon the other night, I wondered when it is exactly that we lose that confidence, that happiness with ourselves, completely free from negative thoughts and self-doubt. I mean, think about it; even if you were completely alone in your house and knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that no one would see you, wouldn’t you still feel weird rolling head over heels on the carpet without a stitch on? Maybe you wouldn’t, in which case I think you are probably very well adjusted… or slightly deviant. I guess it depends on just how “joyful” it makes you.
The point is this: At what age do we begin to feel ashamed? And, if you knew what age it was, what could you do to prevent it from happening to your children? Or could you? Don’t get me wrong. I have no desire to raise a colony of nudists. I’m not really talking about making sure my kids want to run around naked as jaybirds. I’m talking about making sure they appreciate what wonderful things their bodies are. Whether they look like a model or movie star is completely irrelevant. I want them to revel in the wonder of their bodies and the awesome things they can do.
I see Harper Lee running as fast as she can and extending her legs out into these crazy little crooked leaps with her arms stretched up to the sky, and it makes my heart ache to think about the day that some dorky kid tells her she has ugly feet or she runs like a giraffe or whatever completely false but stupid and hurtful thing kids might say to one another, because that will be the beginning. The little doubts will creep in, and suddenly, the arms will stretch skyward a little less and the leaps will all but disappear.
Or she may be one of the few, who despite the inevitable cruelties of childhood and, God forbid, adolescence, will take it all with a grain of salt, look in the mirror and say, “I like my feet. They run fast, they jump high, and they don’t smell bad.” And with that, I imagine, she’ll twirl around, shake her hips and leap through life, happy and confident. That’s one of my goals anyway.
Harper Lee loves gymnastics. She even has a balance beam and trapeze bar in the backyard, and she likes to practice her jumps, flips and rolls in front of the mirror in my bedroom. Usually this practice session takes place right before or after bath time while I nurse Isaac and watch “the show.” Because it is during our evening bath and bed routine, it usually means she’s naked. Have you ever watched a pre-schooler do naked somersaults? If you have kids, I’m sure you probably have, and if so, then you probably also know that it’s one of the funniest and sweetest things you’ll ever witness.
As Harper Lee leapt across the room with total joy and abandon the other night, I wondered when it is exactly that we lose that confidence, that happiness with ourselves, completely free from negative thoughts and self-doubt. I mean, think about it; even if you were completely alone in your house and knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that no one would see you, wouldn’t you still feel weird rolling head over heels on the carpet without a stitch on? Maybe you wouldn’t, in which case I think you are probably very well adjusted… or slightly deviant. I guess it depends on just how “joyful” it makes you.
The point is this: At what age do we begin to feel ashamed? And, if you knew what age it was, what could you do to prevent it from happening to your children? Or could you? Don’t get me wrong. I have no desire to raise a colony of nudists. I’m not really talking about making sure my kids want to run around naked as jaybirds. I’m talking about making sure they appreciate what wonderful things their bodies are. Whether they look like a model or movie star is completely irrelevant. I want them to revel in the wonder of their bodies and the awesome things they can do.
I see Harper Lee running as fast as she can and extending her legs out into these crazy little crooked leaps with her arms stretched up to the sky, and it makes my heart ache to think about the day that some dorky kid tells her she has ugly feet or she runs like a giraffe or whatever completely false but stupid and hurtful thing kids might say to one another, because that will be the beginning. The little doubts will creep in, and suddenly, the arms will stretch skyward a little less and the leaps will all but disappear.
Or she may be one of the few, who despite the inevitable cruelties of childhood and, God forbid, adolescence, will take it all with a grain of salt, look in the mirror and say, “I like my feet. They run fast, they jump high, and they don’t smell bad.” And with that, I imagine, she’ll twirl around, shake her hips and leap through life, happy and confident. That’s one of my goals anyway.
Thursday, November 03, 2005
Happily Ever After
I like Disney movies as much as the next person, and I remember the magic of seeing “Sleeping Beauty” for the first time. My parents took me to downtown Asheville on a cold, rainy afternoon to see it on the big screen. I think my mom still has the picture of the three fairies that I drew on a notepad in the glove compartment of my dad’s truck after the movie. And now, almost twenty-eight years later, I get to relive the magic through my four-year-old’s eyes. She is in love with all of the Disney princesses.
Which is great, I guess, except that I am also seeing through thirty-three year old eyes this time, and I have to tell you, the princesses are not exactly the poster girls for the feminist movement. For her birthday, Harper Lee got a “princess” CD that she absolutely loves. We listen to it constantly. It’s cute and sweet, and she loves to dance to it, but I find portions of it faintly disturbing.
One song in particular is about “waiting for my prince,” which is harmless enough, I guess, but it’s the underlying messages that really get to me. I still believe that part of my problem as a teenage girl was that I had watched too many old movies depicting love as a type of search and rescue mission. I was supposed to sit by helplessly, while still working tirelessly to look good, and wait for some boy to search me out and sweep me off my feet. Imagine my surprise when most of the boys who searched me out turned out to be toads.
Finding “my prince” became way too important to me. It was so important, in fact, that I let what was essentially me slip by the wayside. In “waiting for my prince,” I lost myself. Sounds hokey, I know, but it’s true. I became so caught up in finding that perfect relationship that I completely let go of myself. I even began to do things that were decidedly not like me at all. And therein lies my problem with the princesses.
OK, so you want a prince. That’s great. There are some to be had. I, myself, have found one, but it didn’t happen until I quit waiting for him. That’s what I want Harper Lee to understand. She deserves a prince, if that’s what she wants, but she doesn’t have to wait on him to show up. He’ll show up when she least expects it, and in the meantime, she should be working on her PhD, writing a novel, creating abstract sculptures from used gardening equipment, finding a cure for cancer, teaching first graders to read, or whatever wonderful thing it is that makes her happy.
Men are wonderful. I grew up with a wonderful father, I have a wonderful husband, some of my best friends are wonderful men, and now, I have a wonderful son. I love them all very much, and they love me. But here’s the best part—unlike cartoon and silver screen men, they are real. They each love me for who I am, who I really am.
Rob Libbert loved me when I was a stressed-out grad student, he loved me as a sleep-deprived, unkempt mess of a new mom, not once, but twice, he loves me in sweaty running clothes, he loves me when I wake up grouchy with horrible bed-head, he loves me when I bitch and gripe about dirty laundry, and he loves me when I lose my temper and yell and scream. He just loves me, because I’m me-- warts and all. He has never once expected me to be what I am not. Real men don’t require that you be a fake, smiling-all-the-time, perfectly coiffed simpleton. If I teach Harper Lee nothing else, I hope that she at least learns this—sometimes it’s hard to differentiate between royalty and amphibians. The only way to be sure is to follow your own heart and be true to yourself. The toads will inevitably hop away. Only a prince can appreciate a real woman.
I like Disney movies as much as the next person, and I remember the magic of seeing “Sleeping Beauty” for the first time. My parents took me to downtown Asheville on a cold, rainy afternoon to see it on the big screen. I think my mom still has the picture of the three fairies that I drew on a notepad in the glove compartment of my dad’s truck after the movie. And now, almost twenty-eight years later, I get to relive the magic through my four-year-old’s eyes. She is in love with all of the Disney princesses.
Which is great, I guess, except that I am also seeing through thirty-three year old eyes this time, and I have to tell you, the princesses are not exactly the poster girls for the feminist movement. For her birthday, Harper Lee got a “princess” CD that she absolutely loves. We listen to it constantly. It’s cute and sweet, and she loves to dance to it, but I find portions of it faintly disturbing.
One song in particular is about “waiting for my prince,” which is harmless enough, I guess, but it’s the underlying messages that really get to me. I still believe that part of my problem as a teenage girl was that I had watched too many old movies depicting love as a type of search and rescue mission. I was supposed to sit by helplessly, while still working tirelessly to look good, and wait for some boy to search me out and sweep me off my feet. Imagine my surprise when most of the boys who searched me out turned out to be toads.
Finding “my prince” became way too important to me. It was so important, in fact, that I let what was essentially me slip by the wayside. In “waiting for my prince,” I lost myself. Sounds hokey, I know, but it’s true. I became so caught up in finding that perfect relationship that I completely let go of myself. I even began to do things that were decidedly not like me at all. And therein lies my problem with the princesses.
OK, so you want a prince. That’s great. There are some to be had. I, myself, have found one, but it didn’t happen until I quit waiting for him. That’s what I want Harper Lee to understand. She deserves a prince, if that’s what she wants, but she doesn’t have to wait on him to show up. He’ll show up when she least expects it, and in the meantime, she should be working on her PhD, writing a novel, creating abstract sculptures from used gardening equipment, finding a cure for cancer, teaching first graders to read, or whatever wonderful thing it is that makes her happy.
Men are wonderful. I grew up with a wonderful father, I have a wonderful husband, some of my best friends are wonderful men, and now, I have a wonderful son. I love them all very much, and they love me. But here’s the best part—unlike cartoon and silver screen men, they are real. They each love me for who I am, who I really am.
Rob Libbert loved me when I was a stressed-out grad student, he loved me as a sleep-deprived, unkempt mess of a new mom, not once, but twice, he loves me in sweaty running clothes, he loves me when I wake up grouchy with horrible bed-head, he loves me when I bitch and gripe about dirty laundry, and he loves me when I lose my temper and yell and scream. He just loves me, because I’m me-- warts and all. He has never once expected me to be what I am not. Real men don’t require that you be a fake, smiling-all-the-time, perfectly coiffed simpleton. If I teach Harper Lee nothing else, I hope that she at least learns this—sometimes it’s hard to differentiate between royalty and amphibians. The only way to be sure is to follow your own heart and be true to yourself. The toads will inevitably hop away. Only a prince can appreciate a real woman.
Wednesday, October 19, 2005
Digging Up Bones
We dug Murphy up two weekends ago. The builder is going to have to excavate the area where he was buried in order to build the foundation for our new addition, so I made Rob get the shovel and dig his grave. I was not about to let someone else bulldoze his remains, but once we did it, I sort of realized how insignificant our remains actually are.
I have always been afraid of the destruction of my body, even after death. This is probably one more glimpse into my dark and slightly bizarre psyche that I would be better off hiding, but I don’t like the idea of not being “whole.” Some of my worst fears center around the loss of body parts, even if I’m dead and wouldn’t know the difference. I don’t want any parts lost, like, for instance, one half of me at the bottom of the ocean and the other half swimming away in the belly of a shark. I wouldn’t want to be cremated either with millions of my particles floating away from each other on the breeze. I also don’t want to die in an unknown area away from home and be left to decompose in a remote jungle or on top of a snow-capped mountain. Of course, rotting in a box under the ground doesn’t exactly make me jump up and down with joy, but it is my preferred method of departure from the world.
But now that I have sifted through dirt and collected the bones of my most beloved dog, I don’t know why this particular ritual is so important to me. Apparently, exhuming the remains of pets is one of the few things on Rob’s list that he just absolutely will not do, so while he did do most of the difficult digging, as soon as we saw a hint of the first bone, he handed the shovel to me and went into the house. I got down on my hands and knees and began taking him out piece by piece. I knew that after four years, all that would be left would be bone, and I had told myself that even if it wasn’t all gone, there was nothing to be grossed out by, because it was, after all, just old Murph. But he was gone, completely. Even the blue afghan I had wrapped him in was gone. We had a thick, blue blanket that we often curled up in together on the couch for naps, and that is what I decided to bury him in. Not one thread of that blanket remained. In fact, all that did remain were some long, skinny leg bones, ribs, a pelvis, what I guess were shoulder blades, single vertebrae, a skull and a blue and green lizard collar that I bought for him at some little hippie shop in Asheville. I cried when I saw that, but, for the most part, it was not horribly sad. I scraped the dirt from his eye sockets and looked at his funny little front teeth and laughed when I thought about what a goofball he always was, but it was not as bad as I had expected it to be. If anything, it just made me realize that we are not our bodies. Of course, intellectually I have always known this, but it really hit me as I sat on the ground looking at this tiny pile of bones that had once been my dog. It was Murphy, but not really. Murphy was so much more than this.
I’ve even begun to look at my living body differently. Sometimes I can be a little uptight about my physical appearance. I have no delusions that I am beautiful, but I like being attractive, and while there’s little I can do about my Granddaddy Stotesbury ears or my pudgy knees, I do work pretty hard to keep my body fit. The past couple of months have been pretty discouraging for me because of it. While I’m sure it is vain to admit this, my stomach used to be my favorite body part. Now it is a mushy pouch that rolls up and hangs sloppily over the waistband of my pants. I hate it-- not my stomach, but the way it looks. This, of course, is only superficial. When I look at Isaac, I am pretty impressed with my flabby abdomen. The fact that my skin could stretch to the absolute limits to accommodate a ten- pound baby and then snap back to a reasonably normal size is pretty darned impressive. And it’s done it not only once but two times. I guess I should cut my stomach and myself a little slack and take into account the magnitude of what my body is capable of.
It’s just one more mark of living. For all the time we spend obsessing over being “perfect,” worshipping airbrushed models and movie stars and spending millions of dollars in covering up our imperfections, what we are doing is actually covering up the signs that we have lived. At age 33, I have two yellow teeth from nerve damage incurred from pulling myself up on a table at nine months of age, a long pink scar on my right calf from an awesome mountain bike crash nine years ago, wider hips from Harper Lee’s birth, a long, angry-looking purple scar across my lower abdomen from Isaac’s birth, a sore hamstring from miles of running on roads and trails, freckles across my nose from days spent outdoors playing with my children, running with the kids, and riding my bike and wrinkles around my eyes from much laughter. Those things make my body imperfect, I guess, but they make my life so much better.
We dug Murphy up two weekends ago. The builder is going to have to excavate the area where he was buried in order to build the foundation for our new addition, so I made Rob get the shovel and dig his grave. I was not about to let someone else bulldoze his remains, but once we did it, I sort of realized how insignificant our remains actually are.
I have always been afraid of the destruction of my body, even after death. This is probably one more glimpse into my dark and slightly bizarre psyche that I would be better off hiding, but I don’t like the idea of not being “whole.” Some of my worst fears center around the loss of body parts, even if I’m dead and wouldn’t know the difference. I don’t want any parts lost, like, for instance, one half of me at the bottom of the ocean and the other half swimming away in the belly of a shark. I wouldn’t want to be cremated either with millions of my particles floating away from each other on the breeze. I also don’t want to die in an unknown area away from home and be left to decompose in a remote jungle or on top of a snow-capped mountain. Of course, rotting in a box under the ground doesn’t exactly make me jump up and down with joy, but it is my preferred method of departure from the world.
But now that I have sifted through dirt and collected the bones of my most beloved dog, I don’t know why this particular ritual is so important to me. Apparently, exhuming the remains of pets is one of the few things on Rob’s list that he just absolutely will not do, so while he did do most of the difficult digging, as soon as we saw a hint of the first bone, he handed the shovel to me and went into the house. I got down on my hands and knees and began taking him out piece by piece. I knew that after four years, all that would be left would be bone, and I had told myself that even if it wasn’t all gone, there was nothing to be grossed out by, because it was, after all, just old Murph. But he was gone, completely. Even the blue afghan I had wrapped him in was gone. We had a thick, blue blanket that we often curled up in together on the couch for naps, and that is what I decided to bury him in. Not one thread of that blanket remained. In fact, all that did remain were some long, skinny leg bones, ribs, a pelvis, what I guess were shoulder blades, single vertebrae, a skull and a blue and green lizard collar that I bought for him at some little hippie shop in Asheville. I cried when I saw that, but, for the most part, it was not horribly sad. I scraped the dirt from his eye sockets and looked at his funny little front teeth and laughed when I thought about what a goofball he always was, but it was not as bad as I had expected it to be. If anything, it just made me realize that we are not our bodies. Of course, intellectually I have always known this, but it really hit me as I sat on the ground looking at this tiny pile of bones that had once been my dog. It was Murphy, but not really. Murphy was so much more than this.
I’ve even begun to look at my living body differently. Sometimes I can be a little uptight about my physical appearance. I have no delusions that I am beautiful, but I like being attractive, and while there’s little I can do about my Granddaddy Stotesbury ears or my pudgy knees, I do work pretty hard to keep my body fit. The past couple of months have been pretty discouraging for me because of it. While I’m sure it is vain to admit this, my stomach used to be my favorite body part. Now it is a mushy pouch that rolls up and hangs sloppily over the waistband of my pants. I hate it-- not my stomach, but the way it looks. This, of course, is only superficial. When I look at Isaac, I am pretty impressed with my flabby abdomen. The fact that my skin could stretch to the absolute limits to accommodate a ten- pound baby and then snap back to a reasonably normal size is pretty darned impressive. And it’s done it not only once but two times. I guess I should cut my stomach and myself a little slack and take into account the magnitude of what my body is capable of.
It’s just one more mark of living. For all the time we spend obsessing over being “perfect,” worshipping airbrushed models and movie stars and spending millions of dollars in covering up our imperfections, what we are doing is actually covering up the signs that we have lived. At age 33, I have two yellow teeth from nerve damage incurred from pulling myself up on a table at nine months of age, a long pink scar on my right calf from an awesome mountain bike crash nine years ago, wider hips from Harper Lee’s birth, a long, angry-looking purple scar across my lower abdomen from Isaac’s birth, a sore hamstring from miles of running on roads and trails, freckles across my nose from days spent outdoors playing with my children, running with the kids, and riding my bike and wrinkles around my eyes from much laughter. Those things make my body imperfect, I guess, but they make my life so much better.
Thursday, September 22, 2005
“Sleep When the Baby Sleeps” and Other Loads of Crap
I am so tired I can barely see straight. Isaac is officially eight weeks old today, and we are not even close to sleeping through the night. We are up three to four times a night, and I am wearing thin. Actually I have crossed over from just “tired” to something altogether different. Sometimes it doesn’t even feel like fatigue anymore. It’s more like being on autopilot, a zombie-like state. It’s that level of exhaustion that actually prevents you from sleeping on the rare occasion that you can actually lie down and close your eyes. Why is it that at the time in your life that you most need to have it together and be at your absolute best, you are dragged down, bleary-eyed and almost constantly confused? In Isaac’s short time on this planet I have locked him in the car at Eckerd’s, walked out of the grocery store without paying, and almost rear-ended two different cars while driving Harper Lee to school. I’m not sure I should even be allowed out of the house much less to be the primary caregiver to two small human beings.
I finally had my major meltdown two days ago. Poor Rob stayed home on Tuesday to help me out after a particularly difficult night. It sucks for him, but that’s probably the reason I finally flipped out. On an ordinary day, I’d just suck it up and do what had to be done, but since he was here, I went ahead with the two-hour crying jag that had been building up inside of me for close to two months. Between me and multiple e-mails and conference calls from work, Rob said his head felt like it was being slowly crushed in a vice, and his hands actually began to shake. By Tuesday night, we were both lying crumpled on the couch feeling completely deflated. That’s a good word for it actually—deflated.
Don’t get me wrong—Isaac is a really good baby. He’s not a screamer, and he’s easy to love and care for, because he’s such a snuggler and very happy, but he is also a “booby baby” as my friend calls it, and his constant night-time snacking is beginning to wear me down. Of course now I understand why so many breast-feeding activists seem like these militant, breast Nazis. Support for breast-feeding, even, and sometimes particularly, from friends and family is appallingly low. I cannot tell you the number of times I have had someone tell me that I need to give him a bottle, formula, or rice cereal. Never mind the fact that breast milk is the way God intended children to be fed, that people have survived for centuries on breast milk, that babies don’t even have the enzymes in their bodies at this age to process rice cereal, or that every doctor in the universe agrees that breastfeeding is best. Apparently my troubles would all be over if I let Beech-Nut or Gerber do the work. So I gave in. I decided to try bottles of formula, and you know what? He did the same damned thing with a bottle that he did with me, so there’s nothing wrong with my milk. He didn’t sleep any longer with formula, sometimes he slept less, he was fussier, and his poop was just out and out scary. The lesson? Do what you know is right and what your heart tells you to do and tell everyone else to do the same… with their OWN baby.
Feeling testy? Hell, yes. I’ve not slept in over two months. Longer than that if you count the miserable nights of pregnancy. I have housework to do, journal entries to write, although most of you probably aren’t even reading this anymore and have given me up for dead, church activities to plan, another child that needs as much attention as the baby, 14 more pounds of fat to run off, cross-country meets, and a husband that I used to see more often than just stumbling past one another in the dark, wee-hours of morning. But, unlike the first time around, I know this too shall pass. Isaac will sleep through the night, and someday I’ll forget all about this. I’m giving myself at least until Halloween before I really lose a grip.
I am so tired I can barely see straight. Isaac is officially eight weeks old today, and we are not even close to sleeping through the night. We are up three to four times a night, and I am wearing thin. Actually I have crossed over from just “tired” to something altogether different. Sometimes it doesn’t even feel like fatigue anymore. It’s more like being on autopilot, a zombie-like state. It’s that level of exhaustion that actually prevents you from sleeping on the rare occasion that you can actually lie down and close your eyes. Why is it that at the time in your life that you most need to have it together and be at your absolute best, you are dragged down, bleary-eyed and almost constantly confused? In Isaac’s short time on this planet I have locked him in the car at Eckerd’s, walked out of the grocery store without paying, and almost rear-ended two different cars while driving Harper Lee to school. I’m not sure I should even be allowed out of the house much less to be the primary caregiver to two small human beings.
I finally had my major meltdown two days ago. Poor Rob stayed home on Tuesday to help me out after a particularly difficult night. It sucks for him, but that’s probably the reason I finally flipped out. On an ordinary day, I’d just suck it up and do what had to be done, but since he was here, I went ahead with the two-hour crying jag that had been building up inside of me for close to two months. Between me and multiple e-mails and conference calls from work, Rob said his head felt like it was being slowly crushed in a vice, and his hands actually began to shake. By Tuesday night, we were both lying crumpled on the couch feeling completely deflated. That’s a good word for it actually—deflated.
Don’t get me wrong—Isaac is a really good baby. He’s not a screamer, and he’s easy to love and care for, because he’s such a snuggler and very happy, but he is also a “booby baby” as my friend calls it, and his constant night-time snacking is beginning to wear me down. Of course now I understand why so many breast-feeding activists seem like these militant, breast Nazis. Support for breast-feeding, even, and sometimes particularly, from friends and family is appallingly low. I cannot tell you the number of times I have had someone tell me that I need to give him a bottle, formula, or rice cereal. Never mind the fact that breast milk is the way God intended children to be fed, that people have survived for centuries on breast milk, that babies don’t even have the enzymes in their bodies at this age to process rice cereal, or that every doctor in the universe agrees that breastfeeding is best. Apparently my troubles would all be over if I let Beech-Nut or Gerber do the work. So I gave in. I decided to try bottles of formula, and you know what? He did the same damned thing with a bottle that he did with me, so there’s nothing wrong with my milk. He didn’t sleep any longer with formula, sometimes he slept less, he was fussier, and his poop was just out and out scary. The lesson? Do what you know is right and what your heart tells you to do and tell everyone else to do the same… with their OWN baby.
Feeling testy? Hell, yes. I’ve not slept in over two months. Longer than that if you count the miserable nights of pregnancy. I have housework to do, journal entries to write, although most of you probably aren’t even reading this anymore and have given me up for dead, church activities to plan, another child that needs as much attention as the baby, 14 more pounds of fat to run off, cross-country meets, and a husband that I used to see more often than just stumbling past one another in the dark, wee-hours of morning. But, unlike the first time around, I know this too shall pass. Isaac will sleep through the night, and someday I’ll forget all about this. I’m giving myself at least until Halloween before I really lose a grip.
Thursday, September 01, 2005
Mental Notes
Well, for the few of you who don’t know, Robert Isaac Libbert was born on Thursday, July 28 at 7:33 in the evening. He was 9 pounds 14 ounces and 21 1/2 inches long. He was also completely breech resulting in my worst fear, a C-section. But everything went pretty smoothly, and we are doing just fine. Of course, in light of my last psycho entry and the fact that I’ve not written in over six weeks, most of you probably guessed that the baby had come. It has been pretty much the kind of five weeks you might expect.
In fact, this entry and most of the ones to follow for quite some time will probably resemble my living room at this moment—total chaos. Right now there are blankets and pillows piled up on the couch. Rob has been sleeping out here since we decided to break the evenings into shifts in order to allow at least a few uninterrupted hours of sleep for each of us. There are toys, baby swings, baby vibrating chairs, nursing pillows, bottles of Mylicon infant gas drops, dirty dishes, boxes of Harper Lee’s art supplies, and other assorted things that I ordinarily wouldn’t leave lying around all over the place. It is, in other words, my version of hell, but I am remaining amazingly calm about the whole thing. Unlike my first time around with this, I know that this period of my life will be distressingly short. While it feels like an eternity before your baby sleeps through the night and develops a routine, before you know it, you’ll wake up to a genuine little kid who dresses herself, makes her own cereal, and is spending the afternoon with friends without you. When people tell you to relax and enjoy this part of parenthood, they know what they’re talking about. Maybe it’s the exhaustion and bleary-eyed sleep deprivation that most parents suffer from for most of the first year, but the time slips away and is gone forever before you ever realize it.
Harper Lee has, in just five short weeks, gone from being my little baby to my little girl. I am happy, because she has taken her new role as big sister and big kid in the family and run with it, but I am just slightly heartbroken when she says to me, “Mama, I just don’t need you as much anymore.” Of course she quickly amended this statement with, “I still like you, Mama, but I’m a big girl now, so I don’t need you as much.” This is probably true, and I’m relieved that she feels such confidence in herself, but it was one of those moments that every mother has from time to time when she, very briefly, doesn’t recognize the kid standing before her. It is bittersweet to say the least.
Isaac, on the other hand, is every bit the baby. Just when I’m thinking of ramming my head through the wall from the sheer torture of late-night wailing, constant rocking, sore nipples and aching shoulders, he looks at me with those big blue eyes, forms a perfect little “O” with his sweet lips, squeals with delight and then flashes a huge, gummy grin. I am reminded of the wonder and joy of raising another human being, and I’m convinced that it is all part of God’s design. Harper Lee summed it up best. Yesterday as I watched from the hallway as she and Isaac snuggled on her sleeping bag, she whispered to him, “You’re everything I wanted wrapped in a little present.” She leaned over to kiss the top of his head and added, “You’re the best boy ever.” Who needs sleep?
Well, for the few of you who don’t know, Robert Isaac Libbert was born on Thursday, July 28 at 7:33 in the evening. He was 9 pounds 14 ounces and 21 1/2 inches long. He was also completely breech resulting in my worst fear, a C-section. But everything went pretty smoothly, and we are doing just fine. Of course, in light of my last psycho entry and the fact that I’ve not written in over six weeks, most of you probably guessed that the baby had come. It has been pretty much the kind of five weeks you might expect.
In fact, this entry and most of the ones to follow for quite some time will probably resemble my living room at this moment—total chaos. Right now there are blankets and pillows piled up on the couch. Rob has been sleeping out here since we decided to break the evenings into shifts in order to allow at least a few uninterrupted hours of sleep for each of us. There are toys, baby swings, baby vibrating chairs, nursing pillows, bottles of Mylicon infant gas drops, dirty dishes, boxes of Harper Lee’s art supplies, and other assorted things that I ordinarily wouldn’t leave lying around all over the place. It is, in other words, my version of hell, but I am remaining amazingly calm about the whole thing. Unlike my first time around with this, I know that this period of my life will be distressingly short. While it feels like an eternity before your baby sleeps through the night and develops a routine, before you know it, you’ll wake up to a genuine little kid who dresses herself, makes her own cereal, and is spending the afternoon with friends without you. When people tell you to relax and enjoy this part of parenthood, they know what they’re talking about. Maybe it’s the exhaustion and bleary-eyed sleep deprivation that most parents suffer from for most of the first year, but the time slips away and is gone forever before you ever realize it.
Harper Lee has, in just five short weeks, gone from being my little baby to my little girl. I am happy, because she has taken her new role as big sister and big kid in the family and run with it, but I am just slightly heartbroken when she says to me, “Mama, I just don’t need you as much anymore.” Of course she quickly amended this statement with, “I still like you, Mama, but I’m a big girl now, so I don’t need you as much.” This is probably true, and I’m relieved that she feels such confidence in herself, but it was one of those moments that every mother has from time to time when she, very briefly, doesn’t recognize the kid standing before her. It is bittersweet to say the least.
Isaac, on the other hand, is every bit the baby. Just when I’m thinking of ramming my head through the wall from the sheer torture of late-night wailing, constant rocking, sore nipples and aching shoulders, he looks at me with those big blue eyes, forms a perfect little “O” with his sweet lips, squeals with delight and then flashes a huge, gummy grin. I am reminded of the wonder and joy of raising another human being, and I’m convinced that it is all part of God’s design. Harper Lee summed it up best. Yesterday as I watched from the hallway as she and Isaac snuggled on her sleeping bag, she whispered to him, “You’re everything I wanted wrapped in a little present.” She leaned over to kiss the top of his head and added, “You’re the best boy ever.” Who needs sleep?
