I don’t have anything to say tonight, so here are some pictures of my kids on a sailboat.
Monthly Archives: November 2013
When Sebastian is a teenager, and he “jacks in” to his iHolo to check out the PepsiColaInternet, I hope he doesn’t read the stuff his dear old mom wrote about him and then draw the conclusion that I was ever unhappy with him in any way.
Because I’m not. He’s a wonderful little boy, a perfect jewel. A jewel that is both clear and cloudy, full of fissures and feathers yet imbued with a supernatural elan, desired by rich ladies and pirates and international jewel thieves alike.
The world is bigger and louder and brighter and clangier for our young friend than it is for the average kid, yet he pushes through overwhelming scariness over and over again just to make it through the day.
Do I wish things were easier for for him, and by extension, us? Well, yes, but only because I want to ease his path through life like a sweeper in a curling match, running ahead and quickly brushing any impediments to smooth travels out of the way. Luckily for both of us, that’s not possible. And in the long run, we’ll all be tougher for hitting all those bumps and divots.
So, teenage Sebastian, put down your food replacement pill and your e-cigarette, and pay attention: You have always been wonderful, and I love you so. Nothing you have ever done has made me unhappy. And I promise: When you set fire to the living-room rug when you are 8, I will go easy on you.
Henry turned 18 months old on Sunday, and he talks more than some teenagers I know. He’s always asking for MO MALK to go with his GAM CACKA, then perhaps later we can GO OW SIGH. He politely says “TAN OO” when I hand him a bowl of Goldfish and the whole talking thing fills me with complex emotions: Joy. Wonder. And, from somewhere deep in my soul, abject bitterness.
Sebastian was not even 2 years old when we started interventions in earnest for his developmental delays. In his short life I have spent three summers and an entire year shuttling him to speech therapists and occupational therapists and sensory gyms and psychologists and developmental pediatricians and others I have forgotten.
When he was 18 months old, he didn’t say a single word. A year later, at 2 and a half, after countless hours of help from all the different corners of Dallas, he said one: Hi.
Of course, all that chipping away did eventually pay off in a big way. These days, although things with our young friend are still hard (yes, very hard), at least he has no problems with talking anymore. At 5, he has the vocabulary of a liberal arts graduate student, and experiences ZERO hesitancy expressing whatever ideas pop into his little blonde head.
We’re lucky. I know we are.
But still, when just-a-baby Henry points to his face and casually shouts, “NOSE. MOUF. TEEF,” I grin at him, because he is so proud of his teeth and he only has seven, ha ha I totally scoreboard him with my 32. But I also feel my jaw set with stress as I can’t help but remember only a short time ago, I held a very similarly featured toddler who could only stare blankly when I pointed at his nose, his mouth, his teeth.
Well, that week was pretty epically crappy.
I missed three and a half days of work (I tried to go in Thursday, and by noon I zoomed out the faculty parking lot in a cloud of dust because NOPE) and Steve missed three days. Now it’s Sunday night and we’re still both kind of hollow-eyed and sniffly and rumbly-tummied. We both went to doctors, who were mystified. Bloodwork and flu tests revealed nothing. It’s actually kind of scary when you have a slate of weird and violent symptoms and doctors just look perplexed. They sent us both home with nausea meds and a prescription for antibiotics (while noting that our problems were almost certainly viral). THANKS OBAMA.
So this weekend lasted one million hours because little kids don’t care that you’re sick. They want you to GET WITH THE PROGRAM and PLAY SOME JENGA and MAKE SOME SNACKS and BUILD SOME HOTWHEELS TRACKS. I heard a lot of “Get off the sofa, Mommy. It’s a.m., not p.m. That means it’s DAYTIME. Also, can I have some Cheez-Its?”
Anyway, we’re hopeful things are on their way back to normal (aka horribly stressful but at least familiar).
I started feeling funny Monday during second period, and by the end of the day I was dialing triage. I spent the night in endless fever dreams, wading through flooded dungeons, fighting rabid wombats with a sword.
I’m sure you know what happened next: Steve came home from work yesterday complaining that he “felt funny” and by 6 p.m. he was sicker than I was.
I stayed at home yesterday and today which means I have used 43 percent of my personal days only 26 percent into the school year, a stressful ratio.
The kids seem OK so far health-wise, but dealing with them is a two-man job and right now we have no men.
So I might be make-up blogging into December, is what I’m saying.
For Halloween, Steve always carefully crafts a costume over a period of months. This year, he had a porkpie hat, a canvas jacket, Terminator-style sunglasses, a painstakingly curated goatee and mustache, and one pound of blue rock candy. A pitch-perfect (though unbald) Heisenberg. He won $100 in his office contest for best costume, but sadly, his pumpkin-carving-contest entry was disqualified.
Sebastian asked to be “a skeleton,” which confused me, because I almost had to pull him out of the Perot Museum kid’s camp this summer because there was a life-size skeleton model in the classroom wearing a sombrero and poncho, and the grinning visage made Sebastian frantic with its scariness. Maybe he is facing his fears?
Henry was Yoda, because
he is a HUGE Star Wars fan the costume from last year still fit.
I dressed as the World’s Most Extreme Introvert.
On Halloween night, right at the onset of dark, we set a bucket of lollipops on a chair in front of our door and set off in search of more, better-quality candy. I was hoping for TONS of Reese’s products, because Sebastian hates peanuts and I could relieve him of those without resorting to misdirection and trickery.
For the third year in a row, our neighborhood was mostly dark. I find it irritating, to be honest. Be a good neighbor. Put out a bucket of candy and an uncarved pumpkin. I know you’re retired and have embraced utter misanthropy. I sympathize, because I’m 30 years younger and I have, too. But there’s a Walgreen’s down the block with store-brand candy. C’mon. I know you’re home. Your porch light is off but the back of your house is ablaze with the flickering light of CSI: Miami.
Anyway, because 4/5 of the houses were dark, we had to abandon our teachers-and-middle-managers neighborhood and cross the street to the doctors-and-lawyers neighborhood, where the pickings were slightly better. Sebastian (no skull mask; too scary) and Henry (seven-toothed smile) killed with cuteness and spread joy and rainbows all over the place, utterly earning every piece of candy in their buckets (Spider-Man and generic skulls-and-bats).
When we got home, we let Henry have one lollipop which he spat onto the carpet after 30 seconds. Sebastian got to pick out a few fun-sized candies and he left the rest for the Candy Fairy, who used Amazon’s one-day delivery to leave a toy plane in trade.
He thought that was a pretty good deal. I did too, especially since there were not nearly enough peanut butter cups in his haul.
We are off to a poor start. Last night I was cracking my knuckles and playing “Eye of the Tiger” to get pumped up for Day 1 of NaBloPoMo, when Henry woke up and had a freakout and needed mommy to get him back to sleep. No rest for the weary; no blog for the mommy.
Here is why blogging is both a blessing and a curse — you look back on your old entries and think these two things:
1) I had forgotten those details! I am so glad to have a record of my thoughts and feelings during those days gone by! Thanks, Past Me!
2) What kind of piece of crap narcissist would write this stuff?! Did I really think that line was funny? Why would I put those intensely private things online? ANYONE WHO READ THIS PROBABLY HATES ME NOW SOB SOB PAST ME IS A BUTTFACE
But writing makes my brain feel good, and to paraphrase Dorothy Parker, while I don’t love writing, I love having written. So at the risk of embarrassing Future Me, I’ll try not to skip any more days this month. *staring significantly at no-sleep toddler, who ignores me because he is focused on dipping his palm into a pool of ketchup*