Caloden

Last fall I happened to wander over to the park one morning when I realized I had happened upon a Mommy’s Play Group. I looked around at the mothers and offspring and realized a few things: 1. the children were all about the same size as Devon. 2. I hadn’t been invited. 3. they were all bitches, the mommies, and that was that. Looking back I can now see that my paranoia had something to do with my depression. Afterall, I had never called any of those moms so what would possibly have motivated them to pick up the phone and call that mom with the white haired boy who lives near the park. At the time I gave them no slack, now I can see their point of view and move on with my life. Especially since I was invited to a play group just this morning. I recently picked up the phone and called a long neglected friend and during the process of our chat she invited me to join in her reindeer games. This fit perfectly with a recent nagging thought that I have made few contacts with other mothers who have children of Devon’s age.

I used to attend play groups when Loren and Cass were little. We had moved back to Fort Collins to finish up school and I was lonely, so I joined a group called MOPS (Mothers of Preschoolers). I was vaguely aware that the group had religious roots, but most of the women seemed normal, so I faithfully attended every two weeks until I was placed in the Mauve Group with the same group of women for every meeting. We would make our craft, listen to the guest speaker -usually women who had helpful tips about how to more efficiently do laundry and then we would have a snack and free time. There was free day care for the little ones, I got some cookies and coffee and chat with other adults. One day one of the women approached me to have a playdate at her house and I accepted, thinking I might actually have found somebody with whom I could raise some hell. I accepted and the day arrived with Loren, Cassidy and me sitting in her living room. I started to suspect trouble when I noticed all the many blue goose appliques on her walls. Blue goose oven mits in the kitchen, a blue goose cookie jar and more blue goose guest towels in the bathroom. Then we started talking about preschool and she launched into a rant about how she was disappointed that her older son’s kindergarten didn’t teach Creation to give the children a sturdy foundation on which to build their education. I waited for the moment when we would jab each other in the sides, laugh diabolically about that silly concept of toiling for six days straight only to take a load off on the seventh day, and then she would offer me a bloody mary and all would be good. Just as I was about to hit her with my elbow, I happened to glance the sincerity in her golden-retriever-brown eyes and I knew I had made a horrible mistake. This woman was no friend! She was some religious nut. And likely all the MOPS moms were closet Jesus Freaks. I knew right then that no amount of laundry efficieny lectures would make me civilized, I was a heathen through and through. These women could keep their Tupperware and Avon parties. I would rather rot in loniliness at the parks than put up with this vile bullshit.

So it was with some trepidation that I attended this morning’s play group. Luckily for me, most of the moms or kids were sick today. We ended up with just my friend and her friend and our three children. Devon didn’t vomit or scream. I was able to make witty conversation and there were no long, awkward silences. We didn’t have margaritas or bloody maries but maybe that has been scheduled for the next playgroup.

I swear to god. I swear to god. I swear to fucking god. (Yes, I know it’s Lent and I didn’t use a capital G and I combined the F word with the G word.) But fucking A, it’s either her or me. Somebody has to go. She makes me insane. She pushes my buttons. My daily meditations of how I will be patient, consitsent and provide stable boundaries in which to rear her in a loving and educating way can so easily fly out the window in a second flat. Does she sense this? Does she know that she is stronger and that I am but a pathetic ball of unworthy mothering pulp?

I think she knows. I think she’ll use it to her advantage. I think I am doomed, done for. More than anything, I think I need a drink.

The thing about being a mom is that it’s an everyday gig. Sometimes that means an EVERYDAY gig…. And other times it means an every day GIG!  Tonight I am of the feeling of the former. They have won this weekend. The pre-teen, the red head and the baby. I just want to crawl under the bed, where they would never think to look for me, and sleep for three days.

Last night Loren and I went to the grocery store for a big shop. We have been cracking down on Cass and her never ending demands lately and so she opted to remain home while we harvested and gathered. I usually shop on Sundays, but being ski season and having to work on Sundays, Friday seems like a better time to trudge on out and scour the store for the endless food goods my brood requires. Loren was his usual Chatty Cathy self, so I set myself on Auto Reply, bought Devon a balloon to placate him and off we went. We were most of our way through the store by the time we got to the hygeine aisles. New toothbrush for me, bubble bath for Cassidy and Devon. Then Loren popped the question. I should add here that his class is currently studying anatomy and physiology. It is the requisite 7th grade curriculum of nutrition, digestion and sex ed. So as we passed the femine hygeine aisle Loren said, “So, So-and-so asked one of the girls in my class what a tampon was. She laughed in his face and ran off.”

Sensing yet another Now-or-Never moment, I casually replied, “Oh. Huh. Really? How was that?”

“Stupid, really.”

“Well you know what one is, don’t you?” I asked, hoping for a Casual Cool on my part.

“Duh, Mom. You told me when I was, like, six.” He sighed.

“Oh. Right. I was just wondering if you remembered.”

“Yeah, so do they come in different sizes? Tampons? You know like Devon’s diapers.” He asked.

Now here I paused, did I get into flow? Heavy days? Light days? Pre-childbirth and post? Would it traumatize him? Would that be better if it did? These are not the sorts of questions you usually associate with the cosmetics aisle. So this time I opted for Causal Honesty.

“Well, Loren, it varies from girl to girl. Woman to woman and where they are in life. Right now it’s probably not something you need to worry about too much. “

But then, that evil dark side got the better of me and I couldn’t resist it.

“But you know, someday you might need to know these things. You might have a girlfriend or wife who needs you to run out to the store and shop in the Feminine Needs aisle. Then you’ll definitely need To Know. The sign of a True Man is one who is completely comfortable in That aisle, you know.” I said to him with a bit of a smile on my face.

He looked at me in the complete horror of the preteen that he is and said, “Ugh, Mom! Gross! I don’t think so.”

On our way home we were again chatting about stuff when we got on to the subject of music. I felt a bubble of excitement as told him of my latest discovery, that when I am hooked up to Yahoo! IM I can listen to streaming music. He looked over at me and I knew what was coming.

“Duh. You didn’t know that?” He said as he rolled his eyes. He then went on to tell me all the features of it that I just didn’t GET.
I like to think of it as information sharing. He scratches my back and I scratch his. Perhaps that is part of what this parenting gig is all about.

Today was the kind of day when everything just sort of falls into place. Having not experienced too many of these in the past year, I am always a bit suspicious of them when the arise. Matt has been home sick all week with a hellacious case of RSV, I didn’t know adults could get this but he has it something fierce. We alternate turns on the computer so that we can both get some work accomplished. This morning after he had dropped off the older two kids at school, we ordered out huevos rancheros from one of our favorite restaurants. Then Matt, Devon and I sat around the table and happily slurped from take out containers. I tackled the job of cleaning out the fridge, a feat in and of itself, while Devon washed his jungle animals in the kitchen sink and Matt worked at whatever it is he does on the computer. He works as a promotion sort of person at an internet company, it seems like alot of mouse clicking to me, but it pays so who am I to bitch. Devon then graced us with a two hour nap during which I was able to harvest all sorts of cancer nuggets for posts. Later the big kids came home, we had snacks, went for a big grocery shop and actually ate dinner around the table. We conversed, laughed and cleaned up just like regular people.

I have memories of myself from this time last year. On my days off, when it was warm, I would pop Devon in the jogger and walk about town. I would look into the windows of people I imagined to be normal and good. And I would know deep down that both my family and I were neither of these things and I would go home and weep in the bathroom. At the time I didn’t grasp the fact that I had post partum depression and anxiety issues, I figured I had made it through Devon’s surgery, the older two were upright and breathing and that all was good.   But it wasn’t and I wasn’t. However, today truly was good. It was simple and it was true.  And tonight that is all I need.

One of my priorities this year is to buck up and face things head on. I have a tendancy towards ostrich like avoidance and, if given the opportunity, will bury my head in the warm comfort of any sand-like substance until any sort of drama passes. To that end I have been attending to some immediate needs, namely my mouth. I am a religious tooth brusher and a dedicated flosser, but it doesn’t really matter. Genetics have screwed me heartily in this arena. I could walk around with a toothbrush in my mouth all day and I would still have corroding teeth. By the time all my adult teeth came in, I had a number of cavities. Then a fall from atop a closet straight on my head head left me with not only a nasty ass concussion, but also with cracks in most of my molars. Add 20 years to that, three pregnancies (during which my only obsessive need was to chew on ice all day, every day) and an ever growing fear of the dentist and 2006 has brought dental hell to my mouth. It comes as no big surprise to me. I had actually begun this journey a few years ago. I found a lovely female dentist who would gas me up for about 30 minutes while she assured me of how couragous and noble I was to tackle my fears and battle the evils of genetics festering in my mouth. But then she got married and wanted to breed, so she and her dentist husband left our valley in search of a more normal life. Bitch.

So a few weeks ago when I was skiing I began to feel the most hideous pain in my mouth. It was the sort of pain that makes you realize, “Oh fuck, shit really does happen.” Not only did it hurt to holy hell, but I had taken the day off, put Devon in the nursery and actually stolen a few hours for myself. But when the pain became unbearable, I hauled ass down the mountain, scooped up Devon and called Matt so that he could make an appointment for me with whatever dentist was on our new health plan. I figured I was in for a root canal, already having had four, I knew the jig. But no. He took an x-ray, sighed and said,”Yep, it’s gotta go. We could do a root canal, but the teeth on either side need caps. And on the other side of your mouth you have the same situation. And then there is this and this and this and…” When he saw me convulsing and sobbing, he said, “Oh,my. All right then. I’ll let you take a few minutes and decide.”

A few years ago I found myself in a somewhat similar situation and ended up paying over 3K for a rootcanal and platinum/porcelain cap. It’s a lovely tooth, the favorite one in my mouth. But I don’t have 35K for a whole round of those babies, writing for The Cancer Blog just doesn’t support that sort of fancy dental work. So the good doctor numbed me up and pulled it. I left the office feeling as though I were the Queen of all Trailer Trash with my gaping hole to prove it, the only saving grace being that the hole is actually far back out of viewing range. Yesterday I had to go back for step two. It took two valiums to get me in the door, but tridge in I did.  Another extraction. Another hole. Another round of Trailer Royalty. Only this time the removal wasn’t so smooth. Two hours of tugging, digging and that god awful drill. My face is completely swollen on one side, in a lovely battered Trailer Queen sort of way. Next week I return for two fillings and the the fittings for my bridge work. I can’t believe I am only 35 and talking about brigde work in mouth.

My mother, bless her evil soul, has taken pity on me and has been making me soup and giving me shots of high grade tequila. And tonight at the dinner table my father pulled back his lip and showed me his trailer hole. It was the same tooth I had removed yesterday. The bad teeth are from his side of the family.  He laughed and said, “That’s nothing, really. Your Aunt Mary (his sister) had full dentures by the time she was 25.” And here I was feeling sorry for myself.

Back when I first began nursing Devon I thought the whole process would be no big deal. I had already had two babies, nursed them for a few months and it was all good. What was the big deal? My milk would come in, he’d open up his toothless mouth and I would simply insert my boob and all would be well. Nope. No such thing. It was horrible. It hurt. I was scabbed. I cried everytime he nursed, and sometimes I thought mean thoughts about his endless appetite needs. So I went to see a lactation specialist who grasped my nipple in her fingers, shoved it into Devon’s mouth and called it good -and we wonder wear breast fixation originates. After that experience things picked up and all really was good. He slurped and suckled to his heart’s content and grew roly and poly. I though we could keep it up for a few months, do the switch to formula and call it done. But once Devon was diagnosed with his gimpy heart, the doctors said I should definitely nurse him for a year. So nurse him I did and I tried to wean him last fall. That was a fiasco which resulted in me flat out lying to people that he was indeed weaned and happy as hell about it. But the true Hollywood Story was a bit darker. In the night I continued to let him nurse willy nilly and every morning for the past 18 months I have gotten out of bed feeling as though my bones might break. I have often thought of kicking him off the teat, but when he curls up to me in the night and giggles at the sight of my breast I just haven;t been able to do it. But no more. Mai-Mai’s Night Kitchen is officially closed. I have not nursed Devon for the past two nights. And he doesn’t even give a damn, little fucker. He fusses a bit in the night but after I hug him and tuck him back into bed all is well. The only difference is that now he gets up and eats a hearty breakfast.

I, on the other hand, am suffering badly. My breasts currently rival Dolly Parton and Pam Anderson. They are so large that I even my biggest Big Girl bras are chump change for the pair. After 18 months of constant output, my front side is in shock. I do awaken feeling almost human and this more than makes up for the pain in my frontal region. I know it will subside and someday I can again pull out my petite C cups and enjoy undergarments that are not made to hols up 50 pounds of milk production. But in the meantime the heating pad and Motrin are my best friends.