We bought ourselves a camper trailer. It's a Traveleer circa 1952. No, it's not an Airstream. It's what's lovingly referred to as the "canned ham" style, thus named because it resembles, well, a canned ham. It's not in perfect condition; it's evident it has sixty years on it, in the form of peeling maple veneer walls, a floor you can see through and a musty scent. But it is a thing of quality. It has wood cabinets, a boothed dinette, an adorable, teensy, 50's stove, an old steel refrigerator that actually works, and lots of potential.
My handy guy has turned his mechanical attention to our little blue and white trailer. He's on a break from work and over the past week he has replaced the failing floor with sturdy sheets of blond maple. He has installed tail-lights on the back and hooked them successfully to the minivan. He's even rigged the van with a hefty hitch. All this work, of course, has required materials. So Ben has been spending an inordinate amount of time at Home Depot.
We all have our Home Depot stories. I've had a salesperson (and I use that term loosely) literally run away down the paint aisle when it was clear I had a question. The benefit of the place is that it is giant; it has lots of products. The downfall is it's impenetrability. Where might the washers be found to fix my dripping faucet? Okay, I found a hundred square feet of washers. Which one might be the washer to fit my Kohler Coralais single-handle pull-out spray kitchen faucet? One could ponder for hours.
One day last week, Ben ventured into Home Depot (known by my kids as "The Big Store") with Mihiretu in tow. Let it be said that Mihiretu in a store is a catastrophe waiting to happen. That boy is meant to be outside. Confine him indoors on an adult errand and you (and all innocent bystanders) will leave deaf and loony.
Ben was waiting in the returns line. It was a rainy Tuesday and Home Depot was (shocking!) understaffed. Five soggy men, including my own, stood silently, miserably, in cue. Mihiretu was hopping a giant roll of outdoor carpet. He'd jump, shrieking happily, and crash noisily on the other side.
Marin County, it's been said many times, is liberal. Home Depot, even the Marin branch, is not. Here you have the contractors, the DIYers, the manly men. What they made of a lunatic Ethiopian boy with a white guy in clogs is anyone's guess.
Ben, certain his grumpy compatriots would not save his spot, shout-whispered for Mihiretu to stop. Mihiretu, after one last terrific leap, wandered towards a display of indoor plants. Ben, distracted momentarily as he moved forward in line, looked up and found no boy. Soon, however, a mop of curls rose from among the plant containers. Merry, almond eyes peered at him from a jungle of palms. Suddenly, the jungle was moving, Mihiretu with it. As the plants slid into the checkout area, Ben saw that they were on a cart, a cart that was piloted by his son. More shout-whispers from Ben and the cart was abandoned diagonally, halfway between aisle and checkout stand, and Mihiretu, reluctantly, was at Ben's side, just as his transaction was finally completed. Ben scooped him up, to much earsplitting protest.
"Wanna shoulder-ride, Mihiretu?" Ben asked, in a last ditch effort to contain him. Every kid in our family loves shoulder-rides from Dad. Generally, when we're all together, I have a no-shoulder-ride rule, because a battle invariably ensues.
Mihiretu, happily perched on Ben's shoulders, small brown fingers attempting to pull Ben's very short hair, shrieks of joy echoing through the warehouse, was content. And so, working fast, Ben trundled his cart through the store, in search of Liquid Nails (you heard right, Liquid Nails, ladies and gentlemen). As Ben stood before the wall of glue, attempting to discern which particular kind of Liquid Nails fit the bill, Mihiretu quieted. Soon, as Ben held two bottles of glue in his hands, weighing their merits, he felt Mihiretu's chin rest on his head, Mihiretu's fingers loosen from his scalp and a small palm ooze slowly over his eye. Ben cocked his head to get a look at his passenger. His eyes were half-open, he listed to one side.
"You tired, buddy?" Ben asked.
Mihiretu's mouth pulled into a vague half-smile, which, when combined with the droopy eyes and the off-kilter posture, made him appear to be the littlest drunk in Marin.
Ben gently laid Mihiretu in the giant, as yet empty shopping cart. He placed Mihiretu's folded sweatshirt beneath his brown curls and spread his own over him like a blanket. Mihiretu's eyes closed completely and, head cocked askew on his neck, his mouth hung open in slumber.
Grateful for the silence, tucking the Liquid Nails in under Mihiretu's sneakered feet, Ben rolled the cart towards floor mats. Soon, the cart parked, he was halfway down the aisle, peacefully puzzling over his choices in the shriek-less quiet. A brawny middle-aged man, beer-bellied, wearing scuffed steel-toed boots and a Carhart jacket fraying at the cuffs, rounded the corner from the other direction. Ben glanced his way just in time to see him stop short in front of the cart, scratching his belly uncertainly. For all intents and purposes, this looked like a comatose - or worse - black child placed in the cart for purchase, with no discernible parent present. Now on which aisle can you find those?
Ben said later that as strange as the scene might have appeared to that guy, for Ben it was actually a good moment. Mihiretu was serenely asleep. Ben was happily perusing the Big Store. All was well. Did it look weird? Did Ben care? We Caprons are past the point of worrying how we appear to the outside world. Sometimes, most times, we are a tornado of seeming chaos, but sometimes, maybe even most times, we're doing okay. We're doing our very best to put one foot in front of the other. If we have strange looking shoes, so be it. And, hey, we've got a trailer. We're taking this circus on the road.
Thursday, February 24, 2011
Wednesday, February 2, 2011
Mmm-mmm-my-mmm-mmm
Apparently Ben and I have been using the f-word as an adverb far too frequently.
Recently Mihiretu has started saying "fucka-fucka-fucka" when he's feeling playful. He might be kicking a soccer ball through the house, say, or pushing a pint-sized dump-truck filled with legos. "Fucka-fucka-fucka", he'll say, almost to himself. Contentedly, like we are when we swear, generally speaking. It's only when we're feeling loose, when we're making jokes or exercising some theatricality that we use this word. "That is so fucking great!" we might howl when we realize that the new season of Survivor starts next week. Or "Fucking weasels. It was the fucking weasels that ate our chickens!"
A couple weeks ago, Mihiretu connected "fucka" with another favorite word, "butt". He, like most of the under-five set, just loves to talk about butts. "I see Lana's butt!" he'll crow when she changes into her pajamas. "Smell my butt!" he'll insist, post-fart, poking his bottom towards the nearest family member. Or, like yesterday, when we were seated next to a mom at the park who was showing a little crack, a whispered "Butt!" accompanied by a small pointing finger, a suppressed giggle and much maternal shushing.
Like the old Reeses commercial, "Fuck" and "butt" are two great tastes that taste great together. "Fucka-my-butt" he might mumble as he places one MegaBlock on another. When this particular linguistic combination was first launched, I, being the only adult present, ignored it, knowing that if I responded I would hear nothing but "fucka-my-butt" for months. Occasionally, over the last few weeks, he has busted out with it in public but because it was always half-hearted and combined with other nonsense words, I'm fairly certain no one noticed.
Last week, however, Mihiretu shouted "fucka-my-butt" in Ben's presence. He caught Ben at a particularly harried moment. "Don't ever say that!" he demanded.
And so, these days, when Mihiretu wants to piss us off, which is often, we hear a lot of "fucka-my-butt". We are now on the same united team of ignore so when he drops his favorite oath, we don't look at him, we don't say anything, we don't - ever - crack a smile. The girls are under strict orders to follow our lead.
Last night after the kids were in bed, Ben and I, nestled on the couch, feet propped on the coffee table, got on the topic of "fucka-my-butt". Soon, of course, we were laughing.
"I'm just worried," Ben said, "that people are going to think we taught him that. That," and here he gulped and wiped a tear of mirth, "it's a parental suggestion around here."
When we finally got off the couch, I asked Ben to please put the throw pillows back where he found them (as you might imagine they have very specific spots). "Fucka-my-butt", he said, conversationally, plumping pillows.
Later, propped up in bed with books, we heard a small voice call out for Mommy.
"Fucka-my-butt," I sighed as I bookmarked my novel and threw off the covers.
Even later, somewhere around two, Ben got paged by Mihiretu. "Fucka-my-BUTT," he mumbled groggily as he rolled out of bed. I couldn't sleep for laughing.
Recently Mihiretu has started saying "fucka-fucka-fucka" when he's feeling playful. He might be kicking a soccer ball through the house, say, or pushing a pint-sized dump-truck filled with legos. "Fucka-fucka-fucka", he'll say, almost to himself. Contentedly, like we are when we swear, generally speaking. It's only when we're feeling loose, when we're making jokes or exercising some theatricality that we use this word. "That is so fucking great!" we might howl when we realize that the new season of Survivor starts next week. Or "Fucking weasels. It was the fucking weasels that ate our chickens!"
A couple weeks ago, Mihiretu connected "fucka" with another favorite word, "butt". He, like most of the under-five set, just loves to talk about butts. "I see Lana's butt!" he'll crow when she changes into her pajamas. "Smell my butt!" he'll insist, post-fart, poking his bottom towards the nearest family member. Or, like yesterday, when we were seated next to a mom at the park who was showing a little crack, a whispered "Butt!" accompanied by a small pointing finger, a suppressed giggle and much maternal shushing.
Like the old Reeses commercial, "Fuck" and "butt" are two great tastes that taste great together. "Fucka-my-butt" he might mumble as he places one MegaBlock on another. When this particular linguistic combination was first launched, I, being the only adult present, ignored it, knowing that if I responded I would hear nothing but "fucka-my-butt" for months. Occasionally, over the last few weeks, he has busted out with it in public but because it was always half-hearted and combined with other nonsense words, I'm fairly certain no one noticed.
Last week, however, Mihiretu shouted "fucka-my-butt" in Ben's presence. He caught Ben at a particularly harried moment. "Don't ever say that!" he demanded.
And so, these days, when Mihiretu wants to piss us off, which is often, we hear a lot of "fucka-my-butt". We are now on the same united team of ignore so when he drops his favorite oath, we don't look at him, we don't say anything, we don't - ever - crack a smile. The girls are under strict orders to follow our lead.
Last night after the kids were in bed, Ben and I, nestled on the couch, feet propped on the coffee table, got on the topic of "fucka-my-butt". Soon, of course, we were laughing.
"I'm just worried," Ben said, "that people are going to think we taught him that. That," and here he gulped and wiped a tear of mirth, "it's a parental suggestion around here."
When we finally got off the couch, I asked Ben to please put the throw pillows back where he found them (as you might imagine they have very specific spots). "Fucka-my-butt", he said, conversationally, plumping pillows.
Later, propped up in bed with books, we heard a small voice call out for Mommy.
"Fucka-my-butt," I sighed as I bookmarked my novel and threw off the covers.
Even later, somewhere around two, Ben got paged by Mihiretu. "Fucka-my-BUTT," he mumbled groggily as he rolled out of bed. I couldn't sleep for laughing.
Tuesday, February 1, 2011
First Loves
I got a message a couple days ago via Facebook from my friend, Casey. It read, in part, as follows.
"I was at work, and we were trying to find a title for an article written by one of our writers. It was about first loves. And I, out of no where!!!!!!!!!! spouted off, 'How 'bout Liz is a fucking asshole!'
Everyone stared at me, and one said 'Therapy's not going well, eh?'"
Casey, in case I piqued your interest, is male. And, for the record, though he would disagree, though he, in fact, has heartily voiced his disagreement not just today but in days past, in his case I wasn't really a fucking asshole. Or at least not as much of a fucking asshole as I was on other occasions, to other suitors. Casey and I were very close friends in high school. Drama freaks, both onstage and off. We had sadly unsynchronized crushes on each other. Or maybe by the time he finally proclaimed his love just after graduation, I was still crushed out but couldn't possibly pursue a relationship that involved someone who was actually into me, someone whom I knew so well.
Casey brings up an interesting point, though. More often than not, we do look back on those first loves and think with great passion, "What a fucking asshole!" At least if we've been thwarted. And usually we have. I had to actually de-friend my first love because his status updates were making me crazy. Even though I've long ago let go of my love for him (if it indeed was bonafide love and not deep, dark, infatuation), I don't need to know how he hearts his missus, his twenty-nine-year-old, six-foot, ninety-pound, professional model missus. My ego can't take it.
I think my marriage to Ben is, happily, even charged with some of that first love energy. We didn't start dating until we were twenty-eight but I remember him, I remember thinking he was cute, when we were eleven. He harkens back to adolescence, when my emotions were raw, my self-esteem low and my romantic fantasies giant. It imbues our union with some teenage magic.
As much as is made of how Facebook is reinventing our social structure, my theory is that it's largely powered by people seeking in the present what they didn't find in the past. If you're like me, you look up every past romantic liaison, hell every past crush you can think of, for curiosity's sake if nothing else. Or perhaps to see the guy you thought you would marry, the guy that could never say those three magic little words, with twenty extra pounds on him and very little hair. To prevail now because you didn't then.
Gillian Grisman was Casey's girlfriend junior year. Their relationship, played out before me in drama class, rendered me an unattractive shade of green. I didn't dislike Gillian, if fact I think we were friends, but when I got his message the other day, I responded:
"Who knew that being called a fucking asshole would feel like such a compliment? Face on you, Gillian Grisman. I won, after all..."
Revenge is best served cold, they say. And is there a bit of satisfaction for this mother of three, this woman knee-deep in laundry and dishes and demands, to think that she, or a younger, rounder, juicier version of her present self, once inspired not only love but misery? There is, my friends, there is. I'm a real heartbreaker, pushing my vacuum cleaner around the living room.
"I was at work, and we were trying to find a title for an article written by one of our writers. It was about first loves. And I, out of no where!!!!!!!!!! spouted off, 'How 'bout Liz is a fucking asshole!'
Everyone stared at me, and one said 'Therapy's not going well, eh?'"
Casey, in case I piqued your interest, is male. And, for the record, though he would disagree, though he, in fact, has heartily voiced his disagreement not just today but in days past, in his case I wasn't really a fucking asshole. Or at least not as much of a fucking asshole as I was on other occasions, to other suitors. Casey and I were very close friends in high school. Drama freaks, both onstage and off. We had sadly unsynchronized crushes on each other. Or maybe by the time he finally proclaimed his love just after graduation, I was still crushed out but couldn't possibly pursue a relationship that involved someone who was actually into me, someone whom I knew so well.
Casey brings up an interesting point, though. More often than not, we do look back on those first loves and think with great passion, "What a fucking asshole!" At least if we've been thwarted. And usually we have. I had to actually de-friend my first love because his status updates were making me crazy. Even though I've long ago let go of my love for him (if it indeed was bonafide love and not deep, dark, infatuation), I don't need to know how he hearts his missus, his twenty-nine-year-old, six-foot, ninety-pound, professional model missus. My ego can't take it.
I think my marriage to Ben is, happily, even charged with some of that first love energy. We didn't start dating until we were twenty-eight but I remember him, I remember thinking he was cute, when we were eleven. He harkens back to adolescence, when my emotions were raw, my self-esteem low and my romantic fantasies giant. It imbues our union with some teenage magic.
As much as is made of how Facebook is reinventing our social structure, my theory is that it's largely powered by people seeking in the present what they didn't find in the past. If you're like me, you look up every past romantic liaison, hell every past crush you can think of, for curiosity's sake if nothing else. Or perhaps to see the guy you thought you would marry, the guy that could never say those three magic little words, with twenty extra pounds on him and very little hair. To prevail now because you didn't then.
Gillian Grisman was Casey's girlfriend junior year. Their relationship, played out before me in drama class, rendered me an unattractive shade of green. I didn't dislike Gillian, if fact I think we were friends, but when I got his message the other day, I responded:
"Who knew that being called a fucking asshole would feel like such a compliment? Face on you, Gillian Grisman. I won, after all..."
Revenge is best served cold, they say. And is there a bit of satisfaction for this mother of three, this woman knee-deep in laundry and dishes and demands, to think that she, or a younger, rounder, juicier version of her present self, once inspired not only love but misery? There is, my friends, there is. I'm a real heartbreaker, pushing my vacuum cleaner around the living room.
Monday, January 31, 2011
This Guy
Mihiretu wakes up at least a couple of times most nights. Generally, if he's woken from a bad dream, or just simply surfaced out of R.E.M., it's Ben he calls for. Ben then climbs into his bed and they fall back asleep together. If, however, Mihiretu has some problem that needs solving in the early hours, I'm his man. I'm the designated two a.m. masseuse if his leg cramps in a growing pain (I get a surprising amount of business for this particular job, that catch-up kid is growing so fast I swear I can see it happening if he stands still long enough). And, if perchance his pull-up doesn't catch all it's supposed to, I'm the one he wants to remedy the soggy situation.
This morning at five, I heard a groggy "Mommy, Mommy". Knowing full well what that foretold, I, wrapped in sleepy denial, still nudged a solidly slumbering Ben and sent him to the rescue. As I knew would happen, he was back in a moment. "Wet bed," he reported, "Puddle of pee."
I pulled the offending puddle off the mattress and fetched some clean pajamas. Ben sponged down the boy with a warm washcloth, clothed him and we all climbed into the big bed.
Mihiretu was snuggled into Ben, perhaps even on top of him, so I edged to my side of our giant mattress and dozed. I'm fairly certain that Mihiretu never did return to sleep because I could hear him talking now and then. That talk colored my dreams, injected them with anxiety. In one, Mihiretu was destroying something (shocking!), in another, my long gone father made an appearance, informing me that I was late for an appointment. When I fully rose to consciousness at seven, Ben and Mihiretu were whispering and tickling.
"Weird dreams," I mumbled.
"Yeah?" Ben said, snaking a finger into a small, brown armpit. "Like what?"
"Mmm," I said, rubbing my palm over my eyes, "I think my dad was in the one I just had."
At the word "dad", Mihiretu's favorite topic, he pushed Ben's hand away and leaned towards me.
"You dad?" he asked.
"Yeah," I said, rolling on my side to face him. "I had a dad."
"Daddy?" he asked, trying to put the pieces together. "Who you daddy?"
He then pointed earnestly at Ben, on whom he was now sprawled. "This guy?"
Ben and I laughed. Both at the paging-Dr.-Freud notion of Ben being my daddy and at Mihiretu's casual reference to his favorite person on earth as "this guy". Ben could have been a cab-driver or a plumber who just happened to be in bed with us. Or, say, the guy that brought him here from Ethiopia, the guy that sits him on his lap and feeds him scrambled eggs, the guy that says, "Oh, honey, it looks like you're frustrated" and pulls him into a hug when he's yelling and sobbing and throwing silverware, the guy who sleeps half the night curled around him. This guy. Oh yeah, this guy.
This morning at five, I heard a groggy "Mommy, Mommy". Knowing full well what that foretold, I, wrapped in sleepy denial, still nudged a solidly slumbering Ben and sent him to the rescue. As I knew would happen, he was back in a moment. "Wet bed," he reported, "Puddle of pee."
I pulled the offending puddle off the mattress and fetched some clean pajamas. Ben sponged down the boy with a warm washcloth, clothed him and we all climbed into the big bed.
Mihiretu was snuggled into Ben, perhaps even on top of him, so I edged to my side of our giant mattress and dozed. I'm fairly certain that Mihiretu never did return to sleep because I could hear him talking now and then. That talk colored my dreams, injected them with anxiety. In one, Mihiretu was destroying something (shocking!), in another, my long gone father made an appearance, informing me that I was late for an appointment. When I fully rose to consciousness at seven, Ben and Mihiretu were whispering and tickling.
"Weird dreams," I mumbled.
"Yeah?" Ben said, snaking a finger into a small, brown armpit. "Like what?"
"Mmm," I said, rubbing my palm over my eyes, "I think my dad was in the one I just had."
At the word "dad", Mihiretu's favorite topic, he pushed Ben's hand away and leaned towards me.
"You dad?" he asked.
"Yeah," I said, rolling on my side to face him. "I had a dad."
"Daddy?" he asked, trying to put the pieces together. "Who you daddy?"
He then pointed earnestly at Ben, on whom he was now sprawled. "This guy?"
Ben and I laughed. Both at the paging-Dr.-Freud notion of Ben being my daddy and at Mihiretu's casual reference to his favorite person on earth as "this guy". Ben could have been a cab-driver or a plumber who just happened to be in bed with us. Or, say, the guy that brought him here from Ethiopia, the guy that sits him on his lap and feeds him scrambled eggs, the guy that says, "Oh, honey, it looks like you're frustrated" and pulls him into a hug when he's yelling and sobbing and throwing silverware, the guy who sleeps half the night curled around him. This guy. Oh yeah, this guy.
Friday, January 28, 2011
Solidarity
Ben has taken some time off work. It is glorious. Not only because I love his company - I do - but also because it brings the adult-child ration up to a fairly reasonable number. With two full-time parents we're just beginning to be able to cover everyone's needs.
It's been a week now. A week of sleeping until (could it be?) seven because, yes, though I still have to make lunches and breakfasts and beds, Ben's there with me corralling children into clothes, into shoes, into backpacks, and out the door. And if, per chance, I don't manage to reset every room of the house to its proper order by eight a.m., there's magically more opportunity to do it later in the day. Ben might be picking up Mihiretu, say, even taking that rascal to the beach. Loads of leisure time to properly plump pillows and fold quilts.
And at five, when everyone is tired and the wheels start coming off the wagon, when I'm elbow-deep in dinner preparation, Ben can read a story to our small restless natives or, like last night, google Chinese acrobats or world-record high dives, the four of them clustered around the dining table, their gaping mouths lit by the blue of the screen.
There's not a lot of room at the moment to be grumpy. My desperation, my overwhelm, my panic is at bay. I am well-slept, well-exercised and well-fed. The kids haven't sat in front of the TV in a week. There is another adult who can catch my mumbled asides or share a covert roll of the eyes when someone, and I'm not naming names here, puts on five different pairs of socks (some multiple times) before she finally places shoes on her feet and walks out the door to school.
Surprisingly, Mihiretu, though he's gotten hours of dedicated, sister-less, Dad-time and even some solo playtime with me, is still mostly mired in obstinance and defensiveness. A whiff of parental disapproval and he is screeching, intent on hearing-loss, he is throwing rather large metal toy trucks at whomever he perceives to be his enemy, he's proclaiming, "Okay, I no play den." (he believes we will be devastated if deprived of his company). Last night he left the dinner table in a fury because his soup was hot (god forbid). We had a half-hour of "Daddy's poo-poo" from under the table before we got him back on track. It's been two and a half months of terrible behavior, inspired by who know's what. It was easier, when Ben was working, to pin it on the stress his job puts on the family dynamic (he's working too hard, he's gone from the family, I'm on my own, the kids miss him and there isn't enough of me to go around). But now that he's here, now that we've glided into some calm water, now that we can devote our relaxed and patient selves to the kids and especially to Mihiretu, it's especially discouraging to watch him continue to flip out. I have many moments of wondering if it's ever going to get better. Wondering if our life with him is going to be like this, with age-appropriate variations, as long as we're alive.
After we'd finally gotten the kids in bed last night, after we'd settled on the couch and watched a Netflixed episode of the first season of "Lost" (we're regretfully behind on our pop culture), Ben, while the credits rolled, said, "What are we going to do about that guy?"
He was clearly absorbed in the challenges of Mihiretu and not, like me, still pondering who burned the partially constructed life-raft or the mysterious presence of the "others" in the jungle or the sexual tension seemingly between each and every castaway (with the hopeful exception of the ten-year-old boy).
I had no answer. But as I sat and held his hand, I thought of the five really good minutes I had with Mihiretu that evening. Because Ben's here more, he's now viewed by our small boy as the bad guy more often (hence this evening's "Daddy's poo-poo" and not the usual refrain of "Mommy's poo-poo"). Ben always says that scarcity breeds value. I'm more scarce for Mihiretu lately because Ben's more present. And so tonight, while he was busy being mad at Dad, he requested that I brush his teeth, that I help him into pajamas. It's a welcome departure to be the good cop, I have to say. The girls had turned on Toots and the Maytals in the other room and as I held his pajama pants out for him to step into, Mihiretu started to dance. He's got one hell of a funny dance. He sticks his butt behind him and shakes it, he grins maniacally, he half-closes his eyes, pokes his chin in the air and waggles it in opposition to his rear. Do I have to say it? He has rhythm.
And so he danced to "Funky Kingston" in his underwear and I laughed and for the moment I thought, it's worth it. It will get better. We just have to hang on. And at least in the short term, I have the company of my husband to ride the storm. We can only see three feet in front of us in the fog, where Mihiretu's concerned, but for the next three feet I have a hand to hold.
It's been a week now. A week of sleeping until (could it be?) seven because, yes, though I still have to make lunches and breakfasts and beds, Ben's there with me corralling children into clothes, into shoes, into backpacks, and out the door. And if, per chance, I don't manage to reset every room of the house to its proper order by eight a.m., there's magically more opportunity to do it later in the day. Ben might be picking up Mihiretu, say, even taking that rascal to the beach. Loads of leisure time to properly plump pillows and fold quilts.
And at five, when everyone is tired and the wheels start coming off the wagon, when I'm elbow-deep in dinner preparation, Ben can read a story to our small restless natives or, like last night, google Chinese acrobats or world-record high dives, the four of them clustered around the dining table, their gaping mouths lit by the blue of the screen.
There's not a lot of room at the moment to be grumpy. My desperation, my overwhelm, my panic is at bay. I am well-slept, well-exercised and well-fed. The kids haven't sat in front of the TV in a week. There is another adult who can catch my mumbled asides or share a covert roll of the eyes when someone, and I'm not naming names here, puts on five different pairs of socks (some multiple times) before she finally places shoes on her feet and walks out the door to school.
Surprisingly, Mihiretu, though he's gotten hours of dedicated, sister-less, Dad-time and even some solo playtime with me, is still mostly mired in obstinance and defensiveness. A whiff of parental disapproval and he is screeching, intent on hearing-loss, he is throwing rather large metal toy trucks at whomever he perceives to be his enemy, he's proclaiming, "Okay, I no play den." (he believes we will be devastated if deprived of his company). Last night he left the dinner table in a fury because his soup was hot (god forbid). We had a half-hour of "Daddy's poo-poo" from under the table before we got him back on track. It's been two and a half months of terrible behavior, inspired by who know's what. It was easier, when Ben was working, to pin it on the stress his job puts on the family dynamic (he's working too hard, he's gone from the family, I'm on my own, the kids miss him and there isn't enough of me to go around). But now that he's here, now that we've glided into some calm water, now that we can devote our relaxed and patient selves to the kids and especially to Mihiretu, it's especially discouraging to watch him continue to flip out. I have many moments of wondering if it's ever going to get better. Wondering if our life with him is going to be like this, with age-appropriate variations, as long as we're alive.
After we'd finally gotten the kids in bed last night, after we'd settled on the couch and watched a Netflixed episode of the first season of "Lost" (we're regretfully behind on our pop culture), Ben, while the credits rolled, said, "What are we going to do about that guy?"
He was clearly absorbed in the challenges of Mihiretu and not, like me, still pondering who burned the partially constructed life-raft or the mysterious presence of the "others" in the jungle or the sexual tension seemingly between each and every castaway (with the hopeful exception of the ten-year-old boy).
I had no answer. But as I sat and held his hand, I thought of the five really good minutes I had with Mihiretu that evening. Because Ben's here more, he's now viewed by our small boy as the bad guy more often (hence this evening's "Daddy's poo-poo" and not the usual refrain of "Mommy's poo-poo"). Ben always says that scarcity breeds value. I'm more scarce for Mihiretu lately because Ben's more present. And so tonight, while he was busy being mad at Dad, he requested that I brush his teeth, that I help him into pajamas. It's a welcome departure to be the good cop, I have to say. The girls had turned on Toots and the Maytals in the other room and as I held his pajama pants out for him to step into, Mihiretu started to dance. He's got one hell of a funny dance. He sticks his butt behind him and shakes it, he grins maniacally, he half-closes his eyes, pokes his chin in the air and waggles it in opposition to his rear. Do I have to say it? He has rhythm.
And so he danced to "Funky Kingston" in his underwear and I laughed and for the moment I thought, it's worth it. It will get better. We just have to hang on. And at least in the short term, I have the company of my husband to ride the storm. We can only see three feet in front of us in the fog, where Mihiretu's concerned, but for the next three feet I have a hand to hold.
Thursday, January 20, 2011
Moving Mom
We moved my mom this week. The large assisted-living facility where she's spent the last few years was no longer a good fit. After a lot of searching, my brother, Jean-Paul, his wife, Tracy, and I found what seems to be a good board-and-care. A board-and-care, for those of you blessedly ignorant of the world of elder-care, is a private home that has four to six residents (I want to say "inmates" but I'll refrain). There are more care-givers per person; the care tends to be more personal and, hopefully, better. The one we found, and here it should be said that it was Tracy doing ninety percent of the research, is clean, friendly and somehow even smells good.
It is very difficult to move an Alzheimers patient. Not physically, generally speaking, but emotionally. My mother's world has shrunk. The only truly familiar element of her life is the room where she was living. We took her out of that room and brought her to a new one. She was understandably jarred.
We moved her on Tuesday. I met my brother at the new place, where he was sitting on the new bed with my mom. She was conveying as respectfully as she could - she still worships my brother, even if she's not always clear that he's her son - that she would like to go back to her room now. My brother, as gently as possible, and he is a gentle man, was telling her that this was now her room. She wasn't having it.
Eventually one of the Filipino care-givers brought in a cup of tea and some Chips Ahoy. My mother brightened. Soon she was chomping happily on cookies as I showed her some of the family photos Tracy had brought over from the old place.
It wasn't a surprise that a sweet treat could lift her mood. She, like me, has a great love of dessert. I read, while we were preparing to adopt Mihiretu, that if a person entering a new situation consumes sugar (particularly a child and what is my mother now if not a child?), they are more likely to have positive feelings associated with that new place or set of people. Yay, Chips Ahoy.
As she ate, Jean-Paul and I told her stories about the people in the pictures. She looked closely at an old snapshot of herself, a four-year-old Margaret, long legs and uncertain smile. "That's you, Mom," I said, carefully holding the frame close to her face. "When you were a child."
"I was a child?" she asked earnestly. It did seem unlikely, even to me, that the girl in the sepia print could be the faded, collapsed woman before me.
Still munching, she launched into her happy talk, telling us what wonderful children we were, what wonderful people we have become.
She gritted her teeth and declared, "Altogether, altogether, altogether!" She clapped her hands with each word.
She leaned over her cookies towards me and said, eyes wide and fervent, "You were the best one I ever had!"
I glanced sideways at my brother. "No offense," I said.
"Oh," he said, laughing, "She said I was the best one before you got here."
The joy of the cookies could only last so long. Soon we were making our way to the living-room where the other three inmates/residents, were propped in their wheelchairs, staring vacantly at the Tina Turner concert on the giant TV. I sat with my mother on the couch. She looked warily at her compatriots.
"These aren't the old peoples," she said, suspicious. "These are new peoples."
"Well, yeah, Mom," I said, gesturing to an elderly woman in a blue sweat-suit trying to scoot across the floor by shuffling her slippered feet in front of her wheelchair. "That's Lola, your new friend."
"That blue thing?" my mother said, her lip curling in distaste. "Shitty."
Over the last year, my formally reserved and polite mother has become obsessed with poop. The care in the last place was light on hygiene, which might have a lot to do with it. She has always been meticulous and lately she has been frequently soiled and unable to help herself. And so, when the pendulum has swung negative, everything for her is "shitty" and "crappy". This from the woman whom, until the last few years, only once uttered "shit" in my presence, when she had stalled her old Mercury Zephyr on the hill below our house when we were late to school.
Now my mother had shifted her focus to Tina Turner.
"What is that?" she asked, pointing a wobbly finger at the sequined, seventy-year-old Tina, and her younger but equally sequined dancers. "It's shit," she said, answering her own question.
Sensing that the living-room wasn't her happy place, I got her up and we took a walk into the kitchen. There we met Elvie, the woman who runs the place, also Filipino, tiny and kind. Jean-Paul came in from taking a work call on his cellphone and after my mom introduced him to Elvie as her husband, we explained (not for the first time) that this was Elvie's house, that she did all the cooking, that she worked very hard.
"That must hurt her bottom," my mother observed cheerfully. My brother and I hid our smiles behind our hands as Elvie explained how she loved working with elders, how the Filipino culture reveres older generations. She said that she couldn't care for her own parents, that they were still in the Philippines, but she could give all the love she had to the people that lived in her house. My mother remarked that she was very kind. It did feel gratifying that maybe my mother has landed with a person who is as kind and giving as she once was herself. Karma's got to pay off sometime, right? And time is running out for Margaret.
As I left that day, as I've left every day since, the first gulp of air as I shut the front door behind me was so sweet. Not because it smells bad inside, quite the opposite. It's akin to how I felt when I was sixteen, leaving my parents' house on a fragrant June evening, the keys to the Zephyr in my hand and my newly minted drivers' license in my pocket, knowing that I was free - of them, yes, but also free to go out into the world, to explore, to live my own life separate from them, if only for a few hours. I walk out of Elvie's house and with that first breath, I know that I am not an inmate, of that house, of my own mind. I, at least until my body comes to claim me, am deliciously free.
It is very difficult to move an Alzheimers patient. Not physically, generally speaking, but emotionally. My mother's world has shrunk. The only truly familiar element of her life is the room where she was living. We took her out of that room and brought her to a new one. She was understandably jarred.
We moved her on Tuesday. I met my brother at the new place, where he was sitting on the new bed with my mom. She was conveying as respectfully as she could - she still worships my brother, even if she's not always clear that he's her son - that she would like to go back to her room now. My brother, as gently as possible, and he is a gentle man, was telling her that this was now her room. She wasn't having it.
Eventually one of the Filipino care-givers brought in a cup of tea and some Chips Ahoy. My mother brightened. Soon she was chomping happily on cookies as I showed her some of the family photos Tracy had brought over from the old place.
It wasn't a surprise that a sweet treat could lift her mood. She, like me, has a great love of dessert. I read, while we were preparing to adopt Mihiretu, that if a person entering a new situation consumes sugar (particularly a child and what is my mother now if not a child?), they are more likely to have positive feelings associated with that new place or set of people. Yay, Chips Ahoy.
As she ate, Jean-Paul and I told her stories about the people in the pictures. She looked closely at an old snapshot of herself, a four-year-old Margaret, long legs and uncertain smile. "That's you, Mom," I said, carefully holding the frame close to her face. "When you were a child."
"I was a child?" she asked earnestly. It did seem unlikely, even to me, that the girl in the sepia print could be the faded, collapsed woman before me.
Still munching, she launched into her happy talk, telling us what wonderful children we were, what wonderful people we have become.
She gritted her teeth and declared, "Altogether, altogether, altogether!" She clapped her hands with each word.
She leaned over her cookies towards me and said, eyes wide and fervent, "You were the best one I ever had!"
I glanced sideways at my brother. "No offense," I said.
"Oh," he said, laughing, "She said I was the best one before you got here."
The joy of the cookies could only last so long. Soon we were making our way to the living-room where the other three inmates/residents, were propped in their wheelchairs, staring vacantly at the Tina Turner concert on the giant TV. I sat with my mother on the couch. She looked warily at her compatriots.
"These aren't the old peoples," she said, suspicious. "These are new peoples."
"Well, yeah, Mom," I said, gesturing to an elderly woman in a blue sweat-suit trying to scoot across the floor by shuffling her slippered feet in front of her wheelchair. "That's Lola, your new friend."
"That blue thing?" my mother said, her lip curling in distaste. "Shitty."
Over the last year, my formally reserved and polite mother has become obsessed with poop. The care in the last place was light on hygiene, which might have a lot to do with it. She has always been meticulous and lately she has been frequently soiled and unable to help herself. And so, when the pendulum has swung negative, everything for her is "shitty" and "crappy". This from the woman whom, until the last few years, only once uttered "shit" in my presence, when she had stalled her old Mercury Zephyr on the hill below our house when we were late to school.
Now my mother had shifted her focus to Tina Turner.
"What is that?" she asked, pointing a wobbly finger at the sequined, seventy-year-old Tina, and her younger but equally sequined dancers. "It's shit," she said, answering her own question.
Sensing that the living-room wasn't her happy place, I got her up and we took a walk into the kitchen. There we met Elvie, the woman who runs the place, also Filipino, tiny and kind. Jean-Paul came in from taking a work call on his cellphone and after my mom introduced him to Elvie as her husband, we explained (not for the first time) that this was Elvie's house, that she did all the cooking, that she worked very hard.
"That must hurt her bottom," my mother observed cheerfully. My brother and I hid our smiles behind our hands as Elvie explained how she loved working with elders, how the Filipino culture reveres older generations. She said that she couldn't care for her own parents, that they were still in the Philippines, but she could give all the love she had to the people that lived in her house. My mother remarked that she was very kind. It did feel gratifying that maybe my mother has landed with a person who is as kind and giving as she once was herself. Karma's got to pay off sometime, right? And time is running out for Margaret.
As I left that day, as I've left every day since, the first gulp of air as I shut the front door behind me was so sweet. Not because it smells bad inside, quite the opposite. It's akin to how I felt when I was sixteen, leaving my parents' house on a fragrant June evening, the keys to the Zephyr in my hand and my newly minted drivers' license in my pocket, knowing that I was free - of them, yes, but also free to go out into the world, to explore, to live my own life separate from them, if only for a few hours. I walk out of Elvie's house and with that first breath, I know that I am not an inmate, of that house, of my own mind. I, at least until my body comes to claim me, am deliciously free.
Sunday, January 16, 2011
Message Received
Ben and I were cleaning the kitchen this morning after making pancakes. Mae had a friend spend the night so instead of the din of the usual three kids, we had four sources of sound. The kids had been released from the breakfast counter and were headed down the hall, yelling and stomping. I was wiping down the griddle and Ben was putting the milk back in the fridge when somehow, over all that racket, I heard him sigh.
In an effort to comfort, I said, "Do you remember that we have a date tonight?"
"Didn't you just hear me?" he asked as he shut the fridge.
My hand paused above the griddle. "What'd you say?"
"I asked what we should do on our date tonight." He grinned as he picked up the butter.
I stared at the griddle, sponge poised above it, trying to piece together the previous few minutes. "When did you say that?"
"I was over at the sink." The butter landed in the door compartment.
"Did I answer you?" By now I was searching his face, wondering if it was really this bad.
"I don't know." he said, hand to his forehead. "Maybe I just thought it."
I laughed and returned to the griddle. "It's like that, isn't it?"
We've been together for twelve years now. I know him better than I've ever known anyone - at least anyone I haven't birthed. We have to communicate around children's fists, shrieks, blood. When we're together, most of my thoughts are voiced to him. In the melee, it's become almost impossible to know what we've actually said and what we haven't. Sometimes I repeat something three times. Sometimes I forget to say it all. It's not because he's not important to me. Quite the opposite. It comes from being belly down in the foxholes.
And that, ladies and gentlemen, is why dates are a good idea.
In an effort to comfort, I said, "Do you remember that we have a date tonight?"
"Didn't you just hear me?" he asked as he shut the fridge.
My hand paused above the griddle. "What'd you say?"
"I asked what we should do on our date tonight." He grinned as he picked up the butter.
I stared at the griddle, sponge poised above it, trying to piece together the previous few minutes. "When did you say that?"
"I was over at the sink." The butter landed in the door compartment.
"Did I answer you?" By now I was searching his face, wondering if it was really this bad.
"I don't know." he said, hand to his forehead. "Maybe I just thought it."
I laughed and returned to the griddle. "It's like that, isn't it?"
We've been together for twelve years now. I know him better than I've ever known anyone - at least anyone I haven't birthed. We have to communicate around children's fists, shrieks, blood. When we're together, most of my thoughts are voiced to him. In the melee, it's become almost impossible to know what we've actually said and what we haven't. Sometimes I repeat something three times. Sometimes I forget to say it all. It's not because he's not important to me. Quite the opposite. It comes from being belly down in the foxholes.
And that, ladies and gentlemen, is why dates are a good idea.
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