Poor Bereft Me

In October of 1996 I had been on a mission for 2 months. A new set of missionaries arrived, and my group suddenly wasn't the youngest anymore. And we loved the group of girls who removed us from that lowly state by taking it over.

There was one girl in the class that I liked pretty immediately. I don't even remember our first encounter(s) but I remember always thinking she was pretty cool.

Then one day she said to me, "I think you were in my freshman Spanish class in college." And it turned out, I was. I stand out in crowds. I make people stop and notice. My Spanish-speaking skills are superb.

We became fast friends and we spent the duration of our missions together with a lot of highs and lows. A lot. And then we went our separate ways. She married soon after the mission and I showed up to her very classy and nice reception dinner, late, carrying a laundry basket with a mop and broom sticking out of it, surrounded by several other cleaning supplies. It was incredibly tacky, but she still smiled and greeted me, and we stayed friends. :)

She started the whole married and children thing long before me, but we kept in touch over the years. She was full of spit and vinegar and had a way of saying things as they were, in a way I was always envious. Spit and vinegar isn't bad, right? I mean, I think Avee's full of it and I'm her mother.

So, a year and a half ago when J found out he was getting the job here in Texas, I emailed and then called my friend to see just how far she was from the "Dallas Area". I knew that they had not so long ago bought a house in Tyler, and I was just hopeful that Tyler was within a couple of hours of where we were going to move.

Talk about joy of all joys when I learned that because of a sudden job change, THEY had moved to this town, just a few months before. And they were living in an apartment, something we had planned to do while J was in this stage of his career, traveling all the time.

J was flying to Texas the next day or so to look for housing and I told him he had to check out at least 5-7 apartments before looking at the one Amy lived in because I knew I couldn't be unbiased enough to not want to live there, no matter the cost or convenience. He did just that, and was immediately most impressed with where Amy lived. So we moved in. Our doors are a football field length from each other. When J described it to me over the phone, I expressed dissatisfaction that it wasn't next door, with a suite-like door between our homes, so we could live more communally. Or something. I remember actually being disappointed it wasn't closer. I'm really good at finding even the greatest of circumstances disappointing.

Well, we've lived near each other since the first of January, 2006. It has been heaven. I have dumped my kids on her at times because I'm afraid I might hurt them. I've gone over to her house at dinner time and sat at the table and watched them eat, just for the company, and they've never made me feel like an intruder. Even though I was. I've spent countless hours on their gigantic bean bag (I'm sure it has a better name than that, I just don't know...) saying over and over without meaning it "Well, I really should go now."
I've borrowed eggs, flour, nutmeg, 1/4 cup of mayonnaise, dozens of cups of milk, butter, salsa, salad dressing, freshly made chocolate chip cookies, water, and at least a dozen other random things. The best part was I could send Bo over, sometimes just in his skivvies and I wouldn't have to leave my very important task of burning or completely screwing up dinner.

She would come over and hang out with me for an hour or two in the morning and give my life some semblance of sanity with adult conversation. She never once made me feel like the slob I am with laundry strewn all across my living room, a weeks worth of dishes on the table and kitchen counters, and magic marker masterpieces on my carpet.

She's taught me the therapeutic powers of late-night Target runs or getting away just for some frozen custard or Chili's dessert.

She's calmed my parenting concerns with having "been there and done that" with two very active boys.

I don't have to put on airs with her. Ever. She can see me in the completely disgusting state I often let myself get into with no husband to answer to during the week, and I never feel self-conscious. Don't get me wrong, Amy's not all fluffy and sweet like I may be making her look, but she isn't critical or judgmental. She'll be the first to compliment my snot-stained shirt or nappy hair. But some things just can't be ignored. I understand that.

Oh, and since I'm being honest---another really annoying thing about her is she doesn't gossip. Try as I may to get her to, she won't. It's really annoying. Trust me.

Avee adores her. Bo does too, but in a different, boy kind of way. Avee thinks she's her mom. The first year we were here, Avee basically preferred Amy to me. I was usually okay with it because then it was Amy's knees she was clinging to while Amy prepared dinner. I had no problem sitting on the gigantic bean bag watching it all.

Well, Amy bought a house. A friggin beautiful, completely enviable, with a backyard and bonus room---house. You may or may not recall a post I did last July on feeling jealous. I'm not easily prone to it, but Amy was the subject of my feeling it then, and it's happened again. In combination with feeling very happy for the house they scored, I'm immensely jealous. It's the kind of house I could live in for the rest of my life.

But I wasn't invited.

Most of the details of buying and negotiating and closing and all the stuff that goes with buying a house, happened as I was preparing for our trip to the Carolinas and then while were gone. It made it less threatening that I had something else going on to focus on.

Then Thursday they closed.
And Friday they moved.
And this morning when I woke up, I realized that there was no chance of her two little guys knocking on my door in pajamas to borrow some eggs. Or cheese. Or each holding the ends of a cookie sheet so that they could BOTH return it to me. Or knocking on my door to return Avee in her pajamas. She's always trying to bust out of here.

And today when I woke up from my Sunday nap, I felt so sad for the loss of that proximity. I actually thought I'd escape feeling sad. She's only moved a mile away. But that's a mile I can't send Bo in his underwear, and a mile that Avee, even on her best day, can't navigate safely.

I'm glad for the year and 3 and a half months I had. It really was heaven, and a huge blessing with this "single-parenting" stage of my life. And, on the upside, now when I go to Walmart on Sunday for an ice cream fix I didn't prepare for, I don't have to duck and run to the car in fear of her children seeing me and asking why I go to the store on Sunday but they don't.

But even if they ever did see me, I'm sure Amy would just tell them I like the heat. And I want to burn in hell.

The Serious Sick Type

Apparently Bo is a very serious boy when he's sick.

I woke up this morning, this very morning and thought, "Wow, it's been over a month since my kids have been sick, that's gotta be a record." Unbeknownst to me in that moment, something was attacking little Bo's immune system. I'm not sure what it is yet, it seems flu-like, but what do I know? I put bandaids on acute respiratory distress. He is engaging in Sick Nobody-like behavior, so I know it's real. Whining, moaning, thrashing a little for effect. I do feel for the little guy.

I had a quick dr's appointment this morning, just to get a shot in my right flank. I'm RH negative and so I always have to get that rhogam shot at 28 weeks. I'm 30 weeks, but both Bo and Avee have ended up being A- also, so this time around, I forgot and my doctor did too. Good thing he makes the big bucks and is required to remember.

I called my friend last minute and asked if I could dump my kids on her. She said yes. Bo had started whining a few minutes before we loaded into the car so I wasn't sure if he was up for playing. I gave him the choice and he chose to come with me rather than stay at a very fun house full of cool toys. That was my first clue. Second clue was when I did a curb check with the car and he started wailing like I had used his body to jump the curb and not the poor car's.

In a span of about 20 minutes I felt his temperature jump. And then that strange mom-feeling sets in where you just feel so bad that your baby is sick, but it's not your fault (or so you tell yourself) and really not much you can do. To assuage my guilt for his suffering, I offered to stop and get him a Sprite.

In his halted, wimpery voice: But mom, you can't have sprite when you are sick!
"Well, sometimes people drink it when they are sick to feel better."
To which he very seriously replied, "But not when I'M sick, it's FOH of sugoh!"

Minus the sweet little 3 year old "accent", that is doctrine straight from Grandma's mouth. And apparently mine.

Later, after we got Avee from her friend's house we were driving down the road and I said, "I love you Avee!" and she immediately yelled, "No I NOT!" She just learned this game and given that it's very amusing for me as well, I joined in, "Yes I do!"
"No y'NOT!"
"Yes I do!"
"No y'not do!"
Since she was shaking things up, I thought I would too.
"No I don't!"
"Yesth y'do!"

At which point Bo interrupted urgently with all the force of a wimper he could muster (he really is actually in bad shape) and scolded me, "Mom, you shouldn't say you don't love her, even if you are just joking, those aren't the kind of jokes we have in our family."

He is exactly right. But what's up with an impending illness making him all serious and preachy? Lighten UP dude!

Love Is...

Sitting behind 27 preschoolers during story time at the public library. Seeing your child's impossible-to-keep-up pants resting low in their "normal" position--just enough to share his half moon with all.
And thinking he's the cutest kid within miles.

"I Loved Her First"

Today I was driving in my car
And a song came on the radio
A man was singing about his little girl
That he was now giving away as a bride

“I loved her first” he sang,
About the day that she was born
And tears streamed down my face
As I thought of my own daughter at home

My morning was spent changing and dressing her
And doing her hair fourteen times
Followed by a battle to get buckled in her car seat
Just to hear her wail “no way mom!” two dozen times

Later she wanted me to hold her
But my body ached from the child I carry inside
Nothing I did seem to make her happy
And it was hard not to be annoyed by her whines

But alone in my car an hour later
My tears flowed uncontrollably
So that I had to pull over my car
And let them fall as I sat there alone.

Two short years ago she was the child I carried inside
Who made me too uncomfortable to hold my son
Every night she jabbed my ribs to say hello
Starting early to make her presence known

Then a tiny bundle of pink wrinkly skin
With the most sparse head of red hair
We all fell in love with her immediately
And I didn’t remember my heart before she was in it.

Eye contact, smiling, rolling, giggling, crawling, climbing.
Walking, climbing, singing, talking, signing, climbing.
Giggles, running, greeting, climbing, complaining.
Laughing, hugging, testing, climbing, and she can do it herself.

Every little thing she does, I get to be a witness to.
Kicking a ball, tasting lemons, loving her brother.
Suddenly two years are gone and I sit on the side of the road,
Crying about my two year old becoming an adult bride.

Will I forget to cherish the moments that lead there?
Will I accidentally get caught up in the trivial things,
And forget to notice the woman she’s becoming?
Will remembering I loved her first feel like I missed too much?

They Used to Call Me Fatlip

Today at story time there was a young girl, probably four, who only had one arm. We happened to be sitting right next to her and her mother. She only had about 5 inches from the shoulder on the "missing" arm. I'm 31; I've seen plenty of this in my day. But today, I saw it through my children's eyes and I braced myself for one of Benja's loud and inappropriate questions or one of Avee's loud and obviously sympathetic "ooohhhhhhhhh babies" that comes when she sees something she thinks is an owie. I wished so badly that I knew the "right" thing to say. I distracted Avee as she repeatedly tried to reach for the girl's sleeve and look up it to find the missing arm. Benja never noticed, and I was relieved.

As is pretty much the case with most things in parenting, I'm at a loss for the best approach. I'd like to teach my kids about other children they will encounter who will be different. I'd like to teach them appropriate responses and behaviors. Adults just look the other way or ignore---and kids won't do that.

When I was a newborn, I developed a "fat lip". Quotations because that's what we called it, not because it wasn't really fat. It was huge. It was purplish and for quite some time, the only thing people saw when they looked at me. (Oh, that and the RED HAIR) I grew up being gawked at, made fun of, and questioned all the time. I learned to cope with it. Sometimes it was really hard and other times, it was sort of fun to stand up for myself or be an expert on face deformities. When I was very young my older siblings taught me to say, "I'd rather have a fat lip than a fat head!" when rude people called me Fatlip. I can remember being appalled (if 5 year old children can feel appalled) by adults who would gawk, point, whisper, and sometimes even say, "Did you know you have a fat lip?" SERIOUSLY PEOPLE!!!! To this day, those kinds of reactions from adults, shock me. It may have been more reflective of where I grew up than anything else though.

I grew up. My lip grew down. My parents used this lip as a tool for the forming of my character. I prayed every night, "please bless my lip". I learned to pray for what was best, not for what I wanted. I wanted it zapped, but I rarely prayed for that. I can still remember the night when I went to pray for my lip and realized, my prayer had been answered. I was about 18. It had been unnoticeable for at least 4 years at that point. I still have a bump. I see it when I look in the mirror. No one else does.

There were some people who approached me about it, that I had no problem talking to. They were kind, naturally curious, and non-judgmental. Even kids can perceive that stuff. There were others who just wanted to ask first so they could tell other people. I always knew the difference.

I was thinking about this today, after we saw the girl with only one arm. She knows she's different. She's felt the stares. Maybe she's cried that she can't do some things others can. She probably has already learned to zone out the nosey people around her. But she's also a child who probably likes to talk, and maybe her parents have been able to help her be proud of her differences. If I were her mother, what would I want her experiences around other children to be? Would I want it ignored? Would I want it acknowledged and for her to have a chance to express herself? I don't know. I can't remember what I wanted as a child with a "deformity." I just remember learning to deal with whatever came my way. I always knew when people said nothing, that they really wanted to. And then others who immediately asked about it were rude. But what is the happy medium?

I'd like to know if anyone has any firsthand experience or even passed on wisdom for dealing with situations like today. I know that probably, some awkward conversations will have to happen---but just as a mom who's winging it most of the time, I'd also like be somewhat prepared.

And tomorrow I'm going to tell you about a little boy we encountered whose mother was debilitating him far more than being born with one arm could. You don't want to miss part 2, At McDonald's Playland.

WARNING

If you are unscrupulous and live near me, please stop reading this. We can't afford it.

I spent most of yesterday painting and crackling my dining table. Lots of paint. Fumes. I'd like to think that factored in to the story I'm about to tell.

Last night one of my neighbors pulled up in her car and Bo immediately pounced on her with 50 questions, "What are you doing? Where did you go? What are you eating? Why are you eating in your car?" She was sweet and answered him. When you don't have to live with it, it's kind of cute. Then they moved on to what she was going to do next. He's great with timelines. She said she was going to pick up her boys from football practiced and asked if he wanted to come. Of course he did. The kid knows the routine, he said "But first I need to put on some pants." Yes, it was about 6 pm. Yes, he was outside. No, I don't think there's much cuter than a 3 year old running around in navy blue undies. Yes, I'm low-rent.

Since the poor kid had been cooped up all week, I let him go. She knew we were battling chicken pox, so I figured it was her own choice to take the risk. I went in and got the keys to the car and pulled out his booster seat to put in her car and off they went.

We finished up the table, cleaned up the yard and went inside. Bo came home. I put my kids to bed. Some of them twice.

This morning I took the trash out to the curb and saw something on top of my car that didn't belong. I stepped closer and about fell over.

Do you see what I saw?

Twelve hours they were there.

Not only is this something that should NEVER happen. It is something one should never let the father of one's children know has happened.

And yet, I blog.

The end.