Love on a stick
The holiday break is over, and we are back on the specialist merry-go-round in the continuing saga of Monkey And The Head Infection That Actually Isn’t Just Autism, Thanks. More on that tomorrow, just as soon as I figure out what number chapter we’re up to and I stop hitting my head against the desk.
But yesterday we arrived at the ENT’s office for a visit, and the doc was kind enough to offer Monkey the big glass jar of lollipops right at the main reception desk, before we even began. There was a moment there when I worried this was going to end badly—the doctor, being playful, was moving the jar side to side as Monkey tried to read the wrappers and select the right pop—but Monkey only said, “You know, I could get one out if you’d STOP DOING THAT” rather than melting down, so that was good. Once he had his prize, the doctor put the jar back and chuckled at him.
Monkey pocketed the lollipop and then looked around at all of us, clearly exasperated. “Is that why we came all the way over here? Just to get a lollipop?” he asked. While I choked on my tongue, the doctor hastily apologized for not moving things along, and directed Monkey to the exam room.
Monkey enjoyed his lollipop and regaled us all with assurances of how he’s PERFECTLY FINE now, NEVER BETTER, even after it was confirmed that he still has a raging infection and remains nearly deaf in one ear. Apparently it was a REALLY GOOD lollipop.
Happy Love Thursday, everyone. If you’re struggling right now, may I suggest a lollipop?
Guilt is my copilot
There is a part of me that feels like my return to therapy has mostly been a few months of “Oh hey, we thought maybe my kid was dying, but apparently he’s not, so I guess I should be fine now” sprinkled in amongst random chatting and just… kind of… time-wasting. I mean, I’m happy to sit around and chitchat, but not when I’m paying for it. And not when I have other things I’d rather do, and actual issues I’d like to address.
So this week I went in and after about ten minutes of catch-up chitchat I said, “So, listen, I need a plan. And goals and stuff. Attainable objectives. I MADE A VISION BOARD, and that’s all the random woo-woo I need for this year. Now I want a schedule and to maybe deal with some stuff and change things.” Then we ended up having a long conversation about me and my habitual martyrdom. So, you know, progress.
One of the things I was asked was why I am utterly unable to compartmentalize (or, at the very least, not feel guilty) when it comes to my children suffering. Apparently “BECAUSE THEY ARE MY PRESHUSSSS BAYBEEEEEEEZ” is not considered an acceptable answer. I’m sure there’s a treasure trove of psychological angst to unravel there in the coming months. Maybe my therapist can buy a boat or a summer home when we’re done. read more…
Still my Small Boy
It seems wrong, somehow, to call you Small Boy when you are all of eleven whole years old, but I’m not ready to give it up. I’m not ready to stop seeing the shadow of the toddler version of you—all dimples and roundness and wide grin—every time I look at you, either. Sorry. And I am definitely not ready to give up your standard retort to “Hello, Small Boy,” which is—of course—“Hello, Medium Mommy.”
Ten felt like a milestone to me. Eleven feels like a ticking time bomb; the countdown to middle school has begun, and you are still my small boy, still so far away from being ready for this next phase. I worry. A lot. And I know sometimes I don’t hide it very well. It’s only because I wish I could make the world an easier place for you, even though I know I can’t, and even though I know that if I could, you wouldn’t be the same you.
And you, Small Boy, are pretty awesome. read more…
Not actually about chocolate
So. I told you that I went ahead and made a vision board this year, and I am simultaneously eager to share and feeling weirdly shy about it all, like maybe I will try to explain why it was so awesome and you’ll be all, “And? You… made a collage. Welcome to the arts and crafts shack, Mir, and next week we might let you churn your own ice cream.”
There are people who insist I must be a creative person because I’m a writer, and those people make me laugh, because when I think of creative I think of people who are WAY LESS TYPE-A than I am. Creative people go with the flow! They are in tune with the universe! They do not shriek at their children to PICK UP THIS MESS and hyperventilate when the week’s dinner plan is somehow thrown off course. Creative people are ZEN. Or so I tend to believe, anyway.
I am not Zen. I am most often the polar opposite of Zen. I am the person bitching at Zen, asking why it’s always LATE and why can’t it just HANG UP ITS COAT and why can’t it just CALL if plans change? Yeah.
In short, I believed that making vision boards is an activity for people who already know what they want and how to pursue it. But desperate times and all of that; I knew that I was sorely in need of at least an ATTEMPT to have a little chat with myself about, well, me. read more…
And it was all very good
I made a vision board yesterday, as planned. I was ready to go through the motions and be unimpressed, but it turned out to be kind of cool and yes, FINE, THERE WAS SOME WOO-WOO INVOLVED, and once I am done compartmentalizing all of that perhaps I will share.
In other news, THE CHILDREN ARE HOME, and Santa brought Band Hero and LEGO Rock Band and we are quite the motley crew of musicians. I am afraid I can’t share more without incriminating myself, but suffice it to say that the children forcibly removed the drumsticks from my grasp last night. Ahem.
2011 is shaping up to be plenty entertaining. Today—after losing the pen she was working with for perhaps the third time in a row—I idly remarked to Chickadee that, “I think it’s possible that you are actually too stupid to live.” (Quick, call Child Protective Services! Sarcasm is BAD FOR THE CHILDRENZ!)
She quickly retorted, “That is NOT TRUE! I am plenty stupid and I’m still alive.” We looked at each other for a moment and she concluded, “Wait, that didn’t come out right.” I assured her that it really had.
Happy New Year!
A fitting end to the week
The kids are coming home today, so yesterday Otto and I tried to cram in everything we might want to do before they’re back. The day ended with a trip to The High to see the Dali exhibit, and it was blissfully free of “this is boring”s, “what’s with his moustache”s, and “he’s touching me”s.
At one point, we overheard this:
Her: So you’re a writer?
Him: Yeah, that’s right. I’m a writer.
Her: So what sorts of things do you write?
Him: Well… right now I have a book in editing.
Her: Really? What’s it about?
Him: Oh… you know… just… fiction.
Her: Fiction, huh?
Him: Yep, fiction.
Her: So could you be more vague? About your book about… fiction?
Him: I don’t know, probably.
(They laughed, but I couldn’t help feeling like the woman wasn’t all that amused.) read more…
Come home soon, kids!
It’s no secret that I’m completely smitten with the dog. I adore her. Yes, I have become one of those people who basically treats the dog like a third child, albeit a child who never grows up and is a bit “special.” (Hey, neither of the kids I gave birth to lose their fool minds whenever the UPS guy comes up the driveway, is all I’m sayin’.) Also it’s very, very rare for me to make the human children eat kibble out of a bowl on the floor. So there’s differences, of course.
Yes, in the world of blended families, Licorice is Otto’s and my lovechild. (We love each other SO MUCH, we produced a furball. Go, us!) So when the (human) children go off to visit their dad, Licorice stays behind, somewhat confused as to where her playmates have disappeared off to. (Not for lack of trying on Monkey’s part, you understand. He has been angling for us to allow them to take the dog when they see their dad for FOREVER. That… is a whole ‘nother story. About specialness. Ha.)
And for the most part, just having Licorice here is kind of like being alone. Mostly. read more…
Yes, we have no bananas
One of the things I always look forward to over winter break is going downtown and eating at restaurants normally overrun by students. It’s not that I don’t love the UGA students—I mean, what’s not to love about all those kids in tank tops and UGGs who whine at my husband about their grades?—it’s just that I like being able to go out for a meal and find a parking space, and also not be packed into the restaurant like sardines.
FURTHERMORE, my favorite pizza chain in the entire world, Mellow Mushroom, now offers a decent gluten-free crust. The evening plan was clear: Pizza ahoy!
Otto patiently waited for me to finish working, and then we headed out for our fancy evening. Well, okay, not FANCY, but I do get pretty excited about pizza, I’m not gonna lie. I’d have to be pretty stoked about it to abandon our favorite dinner mode when the kids are gone, which is sitting on the couch, eating while watching television, like heathens. read more…
Just like being there
I forgot to tell you perhaps the greatest thing about Christmas Day: We got to be in the family picture!
See, Otto and his brother had arranged for us to talk to the family on Skype at some point on Christmas morning. Which would’ve been fine. But NO, Nearly Nickless somehow wired up his computer through their giant plasma TV up in the corner of the room and set a webcam on top of it and Otto and I were then beamed into the room, Starship Command-style, to converse with everyone else. That was pretty cool for us, because we could see the entire living room and watch the nephews run around and everything. But then they decided to do a family picture and had everyone line up below the TV.
Those pictures later surfaced on Facebook, and everyone in the room looks really great. In spite of the fact that Otto’s and my GIANT DISEMBODIED HEADS are floating above them.
Now I will forever remember this as the year we stayed home and got to be the GREAT AND POWERFUL TWO-HEADED OZ.
So this was Christmas
Christmas was bittersweet, but surprisingly lovely.
I’ve never not been with my kids on Christmas, before. I’ve been divorced for… HOLY CRAP, I’ve been divorced for coming up on eight years. Thus far we’ve managed to divide up the holidays in such a way that we alternate some of the other ones, but Christmas has always been shared. Christmas Eve and morning at one house, Christmas Day at the other. I’m really glad we’ve been able to make that work for as long as we have. But this year—with the canceled plans, rescheduling of getting the kids up north, and general mayhem—it just couldn’t be done. My ex asked if he could get the kids on Christmas Eve day and I said sure, because so much had already been disrupted and ruined and it somehow seemed like the least I could do.
So we did our family Christmas early and I put on a brave face and sent them off on the 24th, and the entire day I just felt awful, inside and out. By evening I had a slight fever and I thought HERE WE GO, NOW I GET THE FLU. But when we woke up Christmas Day I was fine. read more…