Miracle Moment

Ever have one of those days where everything seems to go in slow motion?  You know, everything  you do is a chore due to fatigue, illness, the blahs, whatever?  That's where I've been for the last nine months.

I have written posts about my funk and have recently learned that my body is playing tricks on me and it's driving me--and subsequently my family--nuts. 

I was having what is now a "normal" day.  Trying my best to be the epitome of SuperMom and get my chores done so I could end my day and wind down.  I was cleaning the kitchen after dinner and heard this coming from the living room . . . .

Trust me when I tell you, this is going on my gratitude list for today, because I have been unable to stop smiling since it happened.  Priceless.  Adorable.  And much needed. 

It is said that motherhood is a thankless job.  True dat.  In moments like this, I get all the thanks I need.

Dear Uncle Dean,

Uncle Dean,

My dearest Uncle, I am writing to ask for your assistance.  My penance here must come to an end, as I can no longer tolerate my horrific living conditions.  I have reached the limits of my patience. 

The woman who is called “Mommy” is obviously a babbling idiot.  The drivel that comes out of her mouth when addressing me is unbearable.  I realize that I am a baby, but she is apparently retarded if she cannot see that my intellect far exceeds her own.  And please don’t get me started on the “singing” she does, as it pains me to think about.  I laugh and smile to play along, but trust me when I tell you it’s awful.  And the pictures, oh the pictures.  As much as she holds that shiny thing up to my face, with that blinding bright light, I am surprised that she gets anything else done.  The shiny thing will be destroyed, of that I can assure you.

This “Daddy” fellow is quite a character also.  He insists on dressing me in these wretched bright orange outfits, complete with a hat, and makes me watch grown men chasing a leather ball on television.  Barbaric.  And the Daddy enjoys this.  It’s sad, really.  Bless his heart.  The Daddy has also been gracious enough to share not one, but two “colds” with me, which enraged the Mommy.  I don’t know why this upset her, but I can tell you that this illness caused me not to enjoy one of my true comforts, my paci, as I couldn’t breathe through my nose.  Unacceptable. 

I heard the Mommy tell the Daddy yesterday that the television is to remain off while I am awake.  She says I get too excited when I see that wonderful box coming to life to entertain me.  The lights and the noise offer an escape from my dreary time here, and that horrible woman wants to strip me of it.  I know that in and of itself is enough to warrant my displeasure.  It gets worse.

I am allotted three meals a day, which I must admit is the highlight of my sentence here.  They insist I eat at least one green vegetable a day.  The Daddy says that this will make me “big and strong”.  Is he blind or just dumb?  I am anything but unhealthy, as I weigh as much as a small toddler.  Which brings me to my next complaint:  Have you any idea what they expect me to wear on “Halloween” (whatever the hell that is)?  A COW costume.  Now, I am acutely aware that I am chubby, a wee bit food-motivated, and have a love of milk.  But seriously, a COW?  I find it degrading and insulting at best.  It is criminal child abuse and I have contemplated calling the authorities. 

See?  Do you see what I must endure?  Pathetic.

The furry four-legged thing has it out for me.  You should see the way it looks at me.  If the Mommy is on the floor playing with me, the furry thing walks right up and sits between us.  The Daddy coddles the thing and showers it with attention.  With all the treats and toys it gets, it has the nerve to go in to my toy basket and steal my toys.  Bitch.  It is the devil incarnate.

The only sunshine in my life is the long-haired one they tell me is my sister and the tall handsome one they call my brother. This must be true, because we do share devastating good looks. She talks to me and tells me that what I am going through is nothing compared to the hell she had to endure. Ribbons, dresses, dance lessons(!!), were just a few of the things she was tortured with. They expect them to clean their rooms! The brother tells me that I will fall prey to the same fate if I don’t escape soon. Yours truly will not be cleaning anything, and I expect to be long gone before they can demand such nonsense. The sister tells me they are setting her free in less than a year. Lucky girl.

The final straw was this plaything they expect me to entertain myself with.  It’s outrageously scary.  There are savage animals strewn all over this thing and a seat that rotates so that I can’t possibly miss their horrifying faces.  Everywhere I turn there they are—staring back at me with their frightening eyes.  And what’s worse, they expect me to exert myself by turning the damn seat myself.  Can you believe that?  It’s not enough that I am virtually standing in this thing—they expect me to burn calories by turning myself also.  Sir Riley is above physical exertion.  Imbeciles.

So, I beg of you, dear Uncle, to rescue me.  The lady who calls herself “Grandma” and was put on this Earth strictly for my entertainment, keeps telling me she is making sweet potatoes for “Thanksgiving”.  I am hoping this will entice you enough to come down from your mountain and save me. 

I have it all worked out.  We can train your furry thing (the Daddy calls it “Pixel”) to change me while you’re at work.  I can handle feeding myself, and I will nap when I damn well feel like it.  Other than that, my demands are pretty straight-forward.  I insist on a toddy of brandy before bed, and not the cheap stuff.  I also enjoy Cuban cigars on occasion.  I feel I would thrive in the world of academia, so I may even be able to accompany you as you teach.  If not, Pix (see, I already have a cute nickname for your furry thing) and I can just hang out at the house until you get there in the evening.  To clear up any possible misunderstandings, I don't do housework, yardwork, or cook.  My job is to look cute and eat.  In exchange for your hospitality, I will grace you with my presence and maybe give you some decorating advice.  Which from what I gathered on my short visit to your place, you could use.  Bright red paint in the half-bath?  Was that some sort of twisted joke gone awry?  I digress.

This will work out, you’ll see.  I don’t know what crime I have committed to have to endure this, but I feel I have paid my dues.  Seven months is long enough.  I look forward to seeing you on “Thanksgiving”.  There will be one ever-thankful little boy if you will kindly take me in.  Have your people call my people to firm up the details.

Love,

Your favorite nephew,

Riley

The Times They Are A-Changin'

It's been at least a year since we've had any social events here, for many reasons, Riley being the main one.  Scratch that.  The fact that my dog barks incessantly at company and disrupts Riley sleeping is more like it.

We had friends over for dinner Sunday night--a couple and their daughter.  We've been friends with these folks forever and it was nice to catch up.  We love their company--Mel is always a goodtime and Jason is a master of culinary arts.  Jason standing at our grill is a sight I have missed.  We started way earlier than we normally would and ended in time for the little ones to make their early bedtimes.  It was indeed different.

After working out some technical difficulties with the grill, dinner was underway and we soon sat down to eat.  In the past, our dinner conversation was about the latest band we saw live, or the band we planned to see next, or when we were gonna go to the beach together.  Should we have a New Year's Party this year?  And when's the last time you saw so-and-so?   

They have become parents of a bundle of energy and we now have Riley.  Oh my, how things have changed.  Our mealtime talk covered topics such as disciplinary issues, potty-training, and the sorry state of  public education.  And isn't that big kids' consignment sale coming up?  We reminisced about how things were "when I was a kid".  "Kids have it so much easier now!"  It reminded me of the stories my mom used to tell, "I had to walk to school.  Both ways!".  Oy.

Jason and I stupidly attempted acrobatics in the back yard with the kids.  Yeah, I'm still eating Ibuprofen . . . . Spring chicken, I am not.  Ouch.   

Our babies were looked after by one another.  Diaper changes, or saving one of them from the brink of disaster, or attending to a whine or whimper seemed to come naturally to all of us--whether it was our child or not.

I was in awe of both of their abilities as parents.  Taming busy hands and answering an inquisitive mind seemed to come as easily as breathing.  It was an amazing thing to see. 

Amidst all the changes that come with parenthood, it was comforting to see that some things are durable enough to withstand redefinition.  Yes, things are different, but the camaraderie and ease I've always felt was still there . . . . . even if we did sound (and feel) old. 

The D Word

My first therapy appointment was Friday.  I had all but talked myself out of the need for it.  It's amazing how self-sabotaging my psyche can be sometimes.  I relunctantly went, filled out all the necessary forms, and waited in the lobby pretending to read a book.  I felt like I was being called in to the Principal's office. 

We made our necessary introductions and I dove right in:  I confessed that I wasn't happy.  I recounted the events over the last year and a half.  All the changes in employment, relationship status, new mommy stuff.  Everything.  I tearfully told her that I was rarely in a good mood, couldn't sleep if my life depended upon it, and that I was irritable.  Always irritable.

She listened and punctuated my ramblings with suggestions and observations.  "It sounds like you're lonely.", she offered.  Lonely?  Huh?  I opened my mouth to argue the point, only to be flooded with the realization that I was, in fact, lonely.  Ugh.  I hate that word.  I have prided myself in being strong-willed and independent.  I didn't need anyone.  Ha!  What a joke . . . .

It was in that moment I had the revelation that my relationship with Riley had become extremely disproportionate.  I need him a lot more than he needs me.  Seeing as how he is seven months old and dependent upon me for everything, that's saying something.  He is the one thing in my life that is a constant source of joy.  He is my sunshine on the cloudiest of days.  He is also entirely too young to shoulder such a responsibility.  I have given my sweet baby boy the impossible task of my happiness.  My poor baby.

At the end of our session, she gave me a to-do list of things that must be accomplished before our next meeting.  I must get out of the house with a girlfriend.  I must call my in-laws to watch the baby so I can get out next week.  I must at least get my feet wet with the playgroup I just joined.  I nodded my head in agreement, though I was filled with dread inside.  New stuff.  Change.  Hadn't I had enough of that? 

Then she said it.  It was her opinion that I was depressed.  Yuck.  Just thinking of that word being used to describe me gets me all teary.  It's just so  . . . . . well, depressing.  What the hell, man?  Wasn't this supposed to be the prime of my life?  Wasn't I supposed to be filled with happiness, seeing as how I have a new bundle of joy who I am head-over-heels in love with?  What the hell is wrong with me? 

Balance.  That's what's wrong with me.  Or more specifically, lack of balance.  As of late, balance seems to be that fleeting moment that occurs as the pendulum is swinging from one extreme to the other. 

I did like I was told.  I was gone yesterday for an unprecedented four and a half hours.  It almost didn't happen.  Riley had an unexpected doctor's appointment yesterday morning and I almost cancelled my date.  His father is more than capable, I told myself.  Detach.  Baby steps.  One foot in front of the other.  I went with a girlfriend for coffee, pedis, and lunch while his father handled the appointment. Beautifully, I might add.
 

Boy, were my friend and I a sight to behold.  She just sent her only daughter to college, and I am unhealthily attached to my baby.  What a pair!  It was nice to be out and about and have some real conversation with someone who can empathize.  And it will happen again.  Soon.

I have scheduled the grandparents to come over and watch Riley so I can get out of the house one afternoon next week.  "What did you used to do for you before Riley was born?", my therapist asked.  She may as well have been asking me to explain quantum physics.  I honestly couldn't remember.  I am going to use that time next week to see if I can't piece together something that resembles me-time. 

Though wobbly, I am trying to find my identity outside of these walls.  I am looking for the me before I was "John's wife" or "Riley's mom".

Wish me luck.

Dirty Laundry

This poor woman at my insurance company drew the short straw and had to talk to the sobbing white lady today.  Bless her heart.  "Are you in danger of hurting yourself or someone else?", she asked.  I chuckled to myself.  I hadn't thought about it until she asked.  She had to ask, she said.  If I was honestly in the mindset to hurt myself or someone else, I highly doubt I would be on the phone verifying that my insurance would cover such a catastrophe.  I found this amusing and was grateful for the break from crying.  Oh, the crying.  Not just any cry--the ugly cry.  Yuck.

If I am completely honest with myself and others, which I strive to be, I must air the good and the bad.  This blog is titled "Sternly Blunt" for a reason.  I'm pretty good at both.  I am about to bluntly talk about what's really going on.  Maybe in the hopes of hearing from someone with similar experience.  Maybe to encourage someone else who is going through something similar to do what I did today.  I realize that I may be judged by some, and that's a risk I'm willing to take.

I'm not happy.  There.  I said it. 

In past posts, I have joked about and tried to make fun of myself for not having a life.  Which I don't.  I am a social creature by nature.  Riley's schedule doesn't exactly lend itself to a social life.  He naps three times a day and is bed by 8:00 every night.  Outside of necessary errands, that doesn't leave a whole lot of time to socialize.  John travels and has a life outside this house.  Morgan is a busy teenager and is never here.  Which leaves me, Riley and the dog.  All.  The.  Time. 

I realize some of my dilemma is of my own making.  Who implemented the schedule?  Um, me.  Who insisted on staying home with the baby?  Um, that would be me again.  Who could go back to school and put Riley in daycare if she chose to?  Again, me.  I don't want to do that, though.  I really want to be doing exactly what I'm doing.  I just want to be happier doing it. 

Riley is a true joy.  Really, he is.  That chubby little booger is sweet, happy, hungry (all the time) and looooooves his mama.  He is quite content to just sit and be with me.  I could eat him up.  He's also demanding, a huge time constraint, and can be rather diva-ish when he hasn't had enough rest (I have no idea where he gets that).  Whew!  Thus, the problem with being tethered to the house.  Blech.  I had heard girlfriends talk about how isolating motherhood can be, especially when caring for an infant.  After vowing to not let myself become one of "those moms", I am in fact, her.  That mom.  I have justified, rationalized, and talked myself into a corner of woeful isolation. 

I am tired of my family asking "What's wrong with you?".  I am sick of my husband talking about my "tone" when I address him.  He means well, but I swear if I hear, "Is there anything I can do to help?" one more time I'm gonna cut him.  I'm just tired of not feeling like myself. I'm ready to feel like me again, which hasn't been the case since long before Riley was born.

Baby blues?  Possibly.  Hormones?  Maybe.  Mid-life crisis?  I dunno.  But I'm gonna find out.  Pride and ego be damned, I called and made an appointment with a therapist today. 

After telling myself for months "Tomorrow will be better; it'll be different", maybe this time it really will. 

Lucky Dog

We acquired Sandy, my eleven-pound Pekingese, about six years ago.  She was a scrawny pup given to Beba as a gift.  And, like most children's pets, she quickly became my responsibility.  After the vows and promises that Morgan would be her primary caregiver, it was no time at all before she was mine to take care of.  I am the only one she'll listen to and the only one she begs for love and attention.  She allows the other members of the family to live here--in her house.  She's a bitch, but we love her dearly. 

I grew up with Cocker Spaniels and had zero experience with other breeds.  Pekingese would not have been my breed of choice, to say the least.  They're yappy, hyper, and ultra-possessive.  After doing some research, the advice I got about house-training was something akin to "Yeah, good luck with that".  We eventually got it done, though.

On the flip side, she is one of the most loving and loyal creatures I have ever known.  She takes up with one, maybe two, members of the household and is loyal to them 'til the end.  She would spend her last breath trying to save me from a perceived threat. 

"You talkin' to me?"

Most of my homeys lovingly refer to Sandy as "Satan".  When they see her, she is in the throws of following her instincts to protect her domain, her things, her food, and me.  Mostly her.  She has a fierce case of "little dog syndrome" and is not afraid of anything . . . . except losing my affection.

When John and I started dating, it was no time at all before he was head-over-heels in love with the little bitch.  He is drawn to them.  Bitches, I mean.  I guess that speaks volumes about his love for me.  Ha!  I used to tease that Sandy was the only reason he was in the relationship.  He showers her with love, affection, toys, and treats.  She has more toys than Riley (John being the biggest one), and I dare say probably always will.  Even that's not good enough though.  Twice in the last week I have caught her sneaking toys out of Riley's toy basket.  Bitch.  She is one of two princesses in this house, and she gets treated accordingly.  By John, at least.  My mother-in-law swears she gets treated better than most kids.

I have read that canines can sense when their beloved humans are injured or ill.  They sense pregnancy as both.  She was by my side all those nights I tossed and turned or was up pacing the floors because I couldn't get comfortable enough to sleep.  Or because the baby chose 3 a.m. to treat my uterus as a Jungle Gym.  If I was up, she was up.  If I paced, she paced.  She even endured my daily two mile walks in the freezing cold, trying to coax my body into labor.  By the end of my pregnancy, she and I became inseparable.  I cried on my way to the hospital because I had to leave her behind.  And because somehow I knew things would never be the same between us.  I was right.

I treated Riley's homecoming with the utmost care where she was concerned.  We took the advice of pet experts and brought something home that smelled like him, so she could get used to it before we actually brought "the thing" home with us.  I didn't dare cross the threshold of the house for the first time carrying the baby.  I immediately dropped down on the floor to get my kisses and welcome home.  And then we introduced her to Riley.

At first she was ultra-protective of him.  At times, she wouldn't even let John near me or the baby.  It was no time at all before she was letting me know Riley needed something when he cried.  She would look at me as if to say, "You hear him, right?  Um, you gonna DO something?".  She was protective and wary of him.  She didn't dare go near him.  It's amazing what their instincts tell them. 

I try, and mostly fail, to divide my attention between the two of them.  Several times a day as I am cheerfully playing with or talking to Riley, I catch her giving me this look.  As if to say, "How could you?  I was here first".  She's killin' me.

The Princess on her Throne in the van on a road trip.

As Riley becomes more active, mobile, and vocal she is becoming more and more threatened by him.  This is evidenced by her "claiming" her things by running interference when he gets close to them.  Or by "checking" him when I put her food out.  This is when she goes up to him and butts her head against some part of his body, to let him know that this is HERS.  I guess she thinks he's taken everything else she loves, why not this too.  It breaks my heart and makes me want to "check" her at the same time. 

It's gonna be no time at all before Riley is crawling and walking and is really able to get close to the things she loves.  How is she gonna act then?  I am trying to prevent being in the position of having to entertain the thought of getting rid of her.  It would kill me, but I can't have her bein' ugly to the baby. 

In the battle of bitches, I can assure you I'm gonna win this one. 

Suggestions or similar experiences are welcome, as I am fresh out of ideas.  I hope there's a clear and simple way to fix this.  I'm afraid I will be seeking legal counsel if I threaten to get rid of John's beloved.

Proud Mama

Forgive me for using this outlet to do one of my favorite things:  brag on my churen.  Nothing too long or all that obnoxious, I hope.

First off, Chucker will be starting on his varsity soccer team as a sophomore.  We are really excited about this.  Last year while watching one of his games, I quickly learned the boy has talent.  And a following.  Of course, his family members who attended the game were cheering him on . . . . and so were a swarm of teenage girls.  "Good play, Chuckie!".  If I heard that once, I heard it at least twenty-five times.  Chuckie?  Who the hell is "Chuckie"?  After the game we were headed to the car and several girls we passed said, "Great game, Chuckie!". 

"Who's that?", I asked.

"I don't know her."  (Uh-huh.  The boy's a rock star, apparently.) 

"What's up with all these girls calling you 'Chuckie'?" 

"I don't know, they just do". 

I don't imagine he cares what they call him, as long as they call him.  I found myself in the awkward position of wanting to harm some teenagers and not embarrass my son.  I'll see if I can't do a little better this year. 

That's Chucker in the red . . .

On to Riley . . . . I decided to teach him sign language.  We started at two months.  I learned all the signs relevant to our daily routine and started incorporating them.  Every.  Day.  I felt like an idiot most of the time, as he would watch my hands and get this really confused look on his face.  We've been at it for months, with no sign of him being all that interested.  He started recognizing a few of the signs a couple of weeks ago, but wouldn't even attempt to sign them himself.  Monday, whilst eating his carrots for lunch, he started signing "milk", unprompted.  I don't dare say m-i-l-k without being ready to deliver, 'cause he gets REALLY mad.  Piglet.  Apparently, carrots were not what he wanted for lunch, and he was telling me as much.  Over and over and over again.  I was fortunate enough to capture this picture . . . .

That chubby little right hand is signing "milk"!

In other news, Beba tooootally perfected her round-off back handspring.  In the world of high school cheerleading, this is huge.   

That is all.  Now that was pretty painless, admit it!  

Rocky Top

I just got home yesterday from our anniversary trip.  John decided we should spend it in Kodak in the Smoky Mountains of Tennessee.  I was in it strictly for a change of scenery.  Traveling with an infant is far from romantic or a vacation, so my expectations were low.  Our getaway far exceeded them, and I'm finding out I kinda dig the Volunteer State. 

We arrived Thursday afternoon after a four hour car ride, that I must admit, wasn't all that bad (I HATE riding in a car for long periods of time).  The ride went quickly and was pretty uneventful.  We stopped at a gas station for a potty break and I really thought we were gonna be taken hostage by some pretty mean lookin' mountain folk, but other than that it was smooth sailing.  Once we got into Tennessee, I noticed something foreign . . . people actually know and obey the rules of the road.  Slower traffic actually merges in to the right lane to allow faster cars to pass.  What the hell?  This happened over and over again.  Yeah, this is lookin' like my kind of place, for real.

That night we made our way in to Sevierville for dinner.  I had fried chicken that tasted just like my Mom's, which is no easy feat.  It was scrumptious.  We were served apple fritters as a starter.  These were big hushpuppy-looking things that tasted like apple bread and served with warm homemade apple butter.  To.  Die.  For.  We mighta accidentally ordered some to go.  Oops.

Friday morning we went shopping.  Yes, I went shopping.  There were numerous outlet malls and I am an outlet whore.  We ducked in to a burger joint to feed the baby, after I scored some great deals at my favorite stores.  In a sea of orange (everyone in Tennessee wears orange) I barely noticed this young man wearing an orange t-shirt, until he walked by me and I saw the front of it.  It was a Browns shirt.  We talked briefly and turns out Cleveland has a huge following there.  Who knew?  These people are serious about their football--it's a mainstream religion in Tennessee.  Now I'm really diggin' this state.

We made our way in to Knoxville that evening, which was about a half-hour drive from where we were staying.  The motherland.  The college football mecca.  At least for John.  I was promised ribs, so I happily complied.  If a picture is worth a thousand words, I really needn't say more . . .

Neyland Stadium

John's Disneyland--the UT Bookstore

He showed amazing restraint in the store.  He bought Riley a hat (in case y'all couldn't tell from the ridiculous number of pictures I uploaded to Facebook), Sandy a toy, and himself a t-shirt at my insistence. 

Too cute for color TV!

We then headed down to a popular restaurant on the river.  We waited for nearly an hour for a table.  This should speak volumes, as I am rarely willing to wait at all, much less forty minutes.  Keith Urban was in town and this place was busier than a one-legged man in an ass kickin' contest.  There were folks everywhere.  We were finally seated and I ordered a full rack of ribs with mac 'n cheese and slaw.  I'm glad there was no chance of running in to someone I knew, as I tore in to them like I was eating my last meal, 'cause I'm classy like that.  Dee-lish.  This meal alone justified the four hour car ride. 

It was well worth the wait . . . and me looking like a pig.

Saturday we had a chance to visit with family.  We spent the rest of the day at the hotel in the pool or napping.  Most of the time it seems John and I are more roommates than husband and wife, so it was nice to slow down and spend some time together.  Awesome. 

I have visited Tennessee a few times and have always found the people to be super friendly.  Riley was oohed and aahed over everywhere we went.  Everyone was nice and helpful.  On a previous trip to Tennessee, I stopped at a gas station to use the facilities and ask for directions.  Upon walking in the store, the man at the register said hello and asked how "mama 'n 'em" were doing.  I immediately looked over my shoulder to see who he was talking to, as I knew he didn't know my "mama 'n 'em".  I was surprised by it and found it ridiculously charming.  By the end of my stay I had grown accustomed to answering, "Just fine.  Thanks for askin'".  How can you not love a place like that?

Yesterday, we decided to come home by way of Boone, so we could check out my brother-in-law's new digs.  The quickest route was closed due to construction, so we detoured through some beautiful countryside.  Our detour took us north to Virginia, back in to Tennessee, and finally in to North Carolina.  Lush green trees, winding roads, and breath-taking views of the mountains made the thirty extra minutes more than tolerable.  The digs were nice too.  He has a gorgeous rustic condo with a stellar view . . . . that I will be visiting again.  Soon.  I'm sorta taking it upon myself to make this my winter vacation home.

I called him a whore.  Several times.

This little escapade was well worth my efforts and made me feel slightly guilty for bitchin' in the first place.  I mean, any state that is the subject of a John Denver song has to be a goodtime, right? 

Absolutely.