Wherewithal

I Like Your Tattoo

My husband said I was flirting last night, but I contend it was nervousness. And the Valium drip.

I had to go to the emergency room last night at 11 p.m. because of a back injury. The whole debaucle began last Sunday, when I woke up with a nagging pull in my back, the result of which, I assumed, was from sleeping wrong. I went about my business, ie., the rearing of the children, and even took them on an early morning supermarket trip for breakfast food. There was fruit to be had, some eggs, milk and some Corn Chex, but really, the Krispy Kreme doughnuts were decorated in Halloween fashion, what is a mother to do?

So I got home, the back was still bothering me a bit. I went to the loo, and my daughter followed me in, demanding in her Carly-speak that she wanted her toothbrush. I went to reach for it, and fell to my knees in an exquisite burst of agony. Phil had to come carry me to bed, because I couldn't walk. I had to take a shower later in the day just so I could pee (I know, I know, get it out of your system), because I could not. sit. down. Not in a million years. And not if you paid me a million dollars. I couldn't do it.

Monday, I could walk, but could do little else. Tuesday, I walked more, and could sit, gingerly, on the toilet. Wednesday evening, it seemed to be loosening up just enough so I could feel somewhat normal, even though I could not pick anything up, and could not bend from the waist.

It progressed a little further Thursday, to the point where I oculd use leverage to get the kids out of and into the car seats. By Friday, the three of us were sick and tired of being cooped up in the house, particularly since it had been in the 70s and sunny all week. So I figured, I'll take them to the zoo. I won't bring the double stroller, because I knew I couldn't push it up the rolling hills on the property. But I also figured, I wouldn't need the stroller, since the two wards needed and wanted to go outside and run around.

Everything was working beautifully, until the last half hour, when Carly demonstrated in the way only a 17-month-old can, that you cannot make her do ANYTHING, not even walk, no, not when she doesn't want to. She was tired, and every time I asked her to come along, she would cry, attempt a few steps, trip, fall, cry again, ask to be picked up, then try again, trip, and cry. The other mothers were looking at me with scowls aplenty, as though I was a Monster for forcing my babe to stumble along when all she wanted was mommy.

So I picked her up and tried carrying her for awhile up the hill to the refreshment stand. Anyone who knows the Oakland Zoo knows it is a sprawling, lovely property. Sprawling, I say. The refreshment stand was a good quarter-mile away. This seems like nothing, until you throw in its incline, a 26-pound girl who is clinging to you every time you make motions to put her down again, and a mysterious back injury that is likely torn ligaments.

No amount of cajoling would get the girl off my hip. She grabbed fists of shirt and clamped her legs around me whenever I mentioned she would have to start walking again. She buried her face in my shoulder and said "Mommy." She didn't understand, nor did she care, that her free ride was shuffling up a hill with daggers in her lower back.

We got a snack and went on a train ride, both of them needing my help to bridge the gap between train and platform, which meant I lifted them up with my right arm. And did I mention the injury is on the right side of my back?

When we got home, I managed to get Carly out of her seat, left Kane sleeping in his, and started dinner. The back was stiffening exponentially every time I carefully tried to maneuver around the kitchen - read - I walked around and bent down like I had a gigantic poker stuck up my bum.

Renee, thankfully, came to play with the kids and put them to bed. I had to crawl to the bathroom, and squat over the loo while hanging on for dear life to a towel rack and the seat. I crawled back, taking ten minutes to travel forty feet and hurl myself up s-l-o-w-l-y onto the bed.

Phil came home early at 10:30 p.m., and I told him I had been trying to get out of bed for the past two hours to perform yet another Herculean journey to the bathroom. He decided to lift me up, and lo, the effing pain. I had put my arms around his shoulders, and he hoisted me up, but when he did that, my back stretched, and all the ligaments screeched like they were on a rack. I dug my fingernails into his back, screaming in a voice I have never heard from my person: "NO! NO! NO! PUT ME DOWN!!!!" and he scrambled to get my legs back onto the bed.

After that, I had muscle spasms for a half hour, each more fantastic than the last, each promising to rip my back off and away from my body. After the third such spasm, my leg muscles, too, wanted to burst from the skin that was holding them in. I gripped the bed board and yelled like an animal, which made both the kids wake and sob, wondering what was going on. Phil called 911, running to and from the kids' bedrooms and ours. I couldn't speak; I screamed and sobbed for him to comfort them, and the spasms came every 30 seconds. Phil was impatiently counseling the 911 operator to get through her questions; all I could hear was him repeating: "Yes, she's conscious! Yes, I'm staying with her! What? What? NO, give me data! What do you mean!? Please, quit saying 'sir,' 'sir,' 'sir,' and just tell me what you need! What else do you need from me?! Yes, she's in a lot of pain! Yes, she's conscious!" The 911 operator hung up on him, which I thought strange, since I know there are people freakng out all the time on them. Yes, I actually had presence of mind to think this, in the twenty or so seconds I had between the waves of excruciating pain. I also had presence of mind to hiss at Phil to bring to the hospital a new pair of pants, since I had bled through the ones I was wearing. (Yes, on top of everything, I had the added bonus of my period, but couldn't, at that point, even crawl to the bathroom to change myself. Therefore, I had some spotted pants on, on top of the humiliation of writhing in pain in front of total strangers.) Kane and Carly were sobbing and both came to the edge of my bed to see me, so I tried to wipe away tears, but I had a hard time, since my hands were surgically fused to the bed posts behind my head. My heart was breaking, but then, so was the rest of my body, it seemed.

I have a pretty high threshold of pain, by the way. I'm not a puss, in that regard. I eschewed Vicadin afte my c-sections, I've broken all but my big toes and barely made an elephant trumpet. I've had various aliments and injuries, and never, ever, was it like this. When the paramedics arrived, I was shaking all over, and they immediatly asked if I was cold. It was 73 degrees in the house, and no, I wasn't; my body was violently shaking from the spasms.

The guys were both youngish; probably my age or so. They said the way I was, they'd have to give me a Valium drip before they would even think of moving me. They called the doctor to ok it, then took my blood pressure and my pulse. They stuck a needle with a feed into my right wrist, and let the sweet, sweet passe drug of choice for bored suburban folks everywhere flow through my veins.

Phil said that, as soon as I started to relax, I was asking the guy nearest me about his tattoo, a nice black dragon motif that ran up his arm. He said:" Man, it was like I didn't even exist." I said: "Well, he was making me feel better, so I was trying to make nice and show some interest in him." Phil replied he was going to quit work and get a job driving an ambulance for $8 an hour. "And some tattoos, damnit," he added with a wink.

They slipped a board underneath me and carried me outside to the waiting ambulance, which, I assume, was flahsing its lights, because all our neighbors were watching, at that point. I didn't know it, but I heard from the paramedics Rod was asking if everything was all right, and Greg came over to ask if we wanted anything picked up at the farmer's market the next day.

The ride over was me staring at the flourescent spots in the truck's ceiling and thanking merciful pharmaceutical companies for creating elixirs. I apologized for being a rather lame emergency, being a mundane back injury, but he said it was better than the trip they had just before, which was two shootings.

Once I got to the hospital, I was wheeled into ER and given a room, where they took information down, and a doctor came by to tell me I needed to see a doctor first thing Monday morning. She would be able to give me drugs to relax my muscles and ease the pain, but she couldn't take an MRI or x-rays to see if it was or wasn't muscular. Not in their ken, she explained. My fleeting thought was that, um, it's a hospital we're in, right? You have those machines, right? But then, I thought that perhaps the shooting victims needed more attention, so I kept my mouth shut.

A few minutes after the doctor showed, a male nurse and Phil had to help me to the bathroom across the hall to give a urine sample, and I couldn't sit. The pain of getting up and putting weight on my feet, caused the nurse to give me a shot of morphine, which helped quell the shakes I had gotten again from the muscular protest.

Phil had to go home so he could relieve Holly, who was sweet enough to drop everything at her home and come stay with our kids from 11 p.m. to 1:30 a.m. I was discharged minutes after he left, so I had them call me a cab, and stood in the waiting room with about a dozen other people, one with a mask on, one in a wheelchair, and a few others who looked like they were just waiting for someone else who was in one of the examining rooms. There were three UC Berkeley girls snoozing there sharing a big hospital blanket, two hugely obese people, one son and one mother, playing cards, one Peter Jackson lookalike who was pretty darm chipper, considering how late it was and considering he was on crutches. There were some people leaning on one another for sleep, their faces not quite relaxing even as they dozed.

I got in the cab, sat on only one cheek, and got home without incident. I took a shower and flopped into bed aroun 2:20 a.m., still loose enough from the meds to only twinge a bit as I tried to lay down.\

The meds are making me loopy now, so I'll continue this tomorrow.

Apologia To My Offspring

I know I haven't been as fun, lately.

I have to let go of any last strands I hold for regular sleep. And I have to just figure out on a daily basis where the loophole of time is to take you out somewhere fun each day.

There. That's it for the apologizing.

Now, let's keep all five people reading this thing up to speed on you two.

Kane: 34 months this week. Did I mention six cavities? Yeah, we're not going down that whole guilt-choked path. Instead, let's just say you are very healthy, despite the oral affliction. Tall, clear-eyed, inquisitive, wonderful, loving, maddening. You are testing limits every day. You sneak, a perfectly normal behavior to try and control something in your universe, since everyone tells you what to do all day. You try and sneak snacks out of the cupboard (which, if you read above, will never happen again, on my watch), you try and sneak Play-Doh down the stairs, you sneak behind chairs to push a load into your diapers (may this reach you at an adolscent age - the words, not the behavior, dear god). But you love to be listened to, to be hugged, to be acknowledged. You are also starting to get a small sense of fraternal glee from taunting your sister. You are primitive in your niggling, a fledgling, compared with the predator I expect you will become in future years. I caught you today trying to tickle and poke your sister in CompUSA, which she was having none of. You were sitting in the large section of the grocery cart, andshe was strapped into the front basket, so you could needle her for several minutes undetected before I figured out why she was yawping and squirming to get out of the basket. On the flip side, you are also starting to glean satisfaction from playing with her; you each laugh and try and wrestle with your hands in your car seats, you run together up and down the halls, her chasing after you, and sometimes, you both like to sit in her crib and read stories quietly, both your binkies making their methodical cluck-cluck sounds.

You love preschool, and ask to go on days you don't have it. You also love to get picked up by me, which makes me feel good, but I am astonished at how much you have changed, socially, with your peers since you started. Before, you would hardly acknowledge another toddler's existence, and now, you talk to them in school, at parks, at play areas. You try and engage them in play dialogue. It's amazing to watch. And you are Full Sentence Boy, now, no two-word commands from you; you have learned complex demands.

You are still not getting enough sleep, and it shows every afternoon, when you have a meltdown over something small. You don't throw tantrums, but you cry and get upset. It breaks my heart, still, but, you know, mommy doesn't have enough sleep, either, and so I have developed a bit of a callous to it, mainly because I usually feel like crying around mid-afternoon, too.

You are a boisterous singer, and love to ask me to do the same.

You will not fall asleep unless I am laying down on the floor next to you at night. I have to tell you three stories, usually involving Thomas, Spongebob, Dora, Diego, Kane, trains, trucks, animals, and fish. Sometimes, I grow weary of this, but usually, I find it restful to be next to you and empty out my day into the dark room. You finally said, out of the blue, "I love you, Mommy." this month, and you erased a thousand bad days from my lifetime with that. You cannot fall asleep unless I say it to you each night, and I keep on saying it in my head, even after I hear your breath falling into the regular pattern of sleep.

Carly: You are 17 months. You are what they call a "livewire," spitfire," "busy." You are into EVERYTHING, and would prefer to examine something inside the house, rather than watch a cartoon. You want to know how everything works, and how you can master it. This includes how you can defy the laws of physics and climb that which cannot be scaled. And then, how you can dance on top of it in a demented Flashdance two-step. You want to open up anything that can be opened. You are mastering stairs this month, and, true to toddler form, you are OCDing on walking up and down, up and down, as much as you can.

You are beyond verbal. You are already startng to put out two-word sentences. You mimic everything that's said to you. Your latest words and phrases are "special," "DVD," "See you later!," and "Be right there!" You also love to sing, and I can hear you trying to get all the words to certain songs like the theme to Bob the Builder, D is For Drums and Old MacDonald, and Head, Shoulders, Knees and Toes.

You are loud and have no problem demanding that your brother get his damned hands off the toy you are playing with. Because he is in that phase of thinking whatever toy you have must be better than whatever he's playing with, I usually let you do your thing, unless he asks nicely to play with it. You'll usually give it up on your own, if you sense he is trying ot be nice about it. I love that you have that quality in you. I hope it never goes away.

You are enchanting, because you are so expressive and loving. Despite your exasperating tendancy to approach deadly objects and situations with a jubilant giggle, you have the power to melt even the most hardened disciplinarian with your facial expressions, and your desire to please people. You always try and remember "please" and "thank you," and always come for hugs and kisses, or you plop on one's lap and lean back with a little sigh. You put your head on my shoulder when I pick you up, and anything you do after that is pretty much forgiven.

If You See My Cerebral Cortex, Tell It I Love It.

Fffffwwwwwwwah.

I was feeling a bit up and up last week. I'm not sure why, exactly, since nothing happened in a milestone manner; I just felt like I had started to get a grip on clutter and organization and releasing myself into the schedule du jour that the children have thrust at me.

But yesterday, I fussed beyond disgruntlement. I whipped out a Hissy Fit. In silence, I admit, but my seething was pure and untamed, I tell you.

It started with my discovery in the book parenting fiasco that is mine. I realized I had two weeks to get my shite together for October's deadline, and I had a stack of catalogues, just moldering in my daughter's closet. Why her closet, you ask? Because I don't have any space to sort my papers. I don't even have a bureau. Nay, a drawer. I use my daughter's closet as my own. Yes, I am aware that this set-up should get really interesting in a few years. But her space is mine, albeit on borrowed time.

Well, so there is my garment issue, but then, I have no plane on which to set any papers, laptop, or printer so I can print out these damn book order forms that need to be handed out, say, a week ago. And hey, lookie there, I don't even have a printer that works, anymore, because the one I did have - the one that sat on the floor in the playroom/office area - was a casualty to the children, who used it for mundane trial-and-error and various pretend-time experiments.

Fussy, fussy, fussy.

So I railroaded a half-asleep Phil, asking him to please clear some space in his gaming area so I can have a semi-safe haven for my machines. Him, being the sweet baboo he is, agreed wholeheartedly, even going so far as to say he is going to transform the remaining gaming area into his half of a home office. Wish us luck, because the monkeys sure can climb.

Today, I thought I was re-establishing myself into some semblance of cerebral activity, when I escorted my son to the dentist for his first visit. I had Renee until 11:30 a.m., which I thought would be no problem, since his appointment was at 10.

You see where this is going. At 11:25 p.m., we had tried, and failed, to get a full set of x-rays from the scared little boo, had stained and then brushed his teeth, and were still waiting to see the dentist proper. He finally rushed in after I told the assistant we had to leave, and he looked in Kane's mouth, poked around with his metal torture pincer, and declared Kane had six cavities "that I can see."

SIX cavities!?!?!? What the fu--

Six. That he can see. We'll know more after we knock Kane out next visit and take x-rays, and possibly begin fillings. His habit of snacking like a bird all day long is the apparent culprit; Dr. Braces Guy (I forget his name now, because, if you read the title of this post, I don't have any BRAINS LEFT) said if he grazes all day, the mouth has no opportunity to get rid of the particles of food from the last snacking, so it just builds on his teeth. Doesn't matter he brushes (okay, I brush for him) twice daily. It'll happen with kids, he said. Jaysus. But hey, Kane had no plaque. Take that bone and chew on it awhile, Mrs. Tagami.

So, we get out of there at 11:35, with me carrying Kane up a hill to the car and then speeding home to relieve Renee, who goes to her second job. Then I feed the kids, let them roam, and interview a landscaper who has graciously accepted a challenge to tackle our mess of a yard.

We go to the park and hit CompUSA for a new printer, and then I hit Trader Joe's to get fruit and dinner. I am in Emeryville, and feel I am missing something, some sort of errand, but I brush it off, feeling good about getting food and a machine to print out the bastardly book orders.

The bland variety of euphoria that was mine, all mine, vanished around 7 p.m. tonight, when I got a call from a guy at this place IN EMERYVILLE called "The Dinner Source." They were working with our school on a fundraiser (surprise, surprise) wherein you purchase a prepared (admittedly, gourmet-ish) entree, pick it up on an assigned date, bring it home, and pop it in the oven for warming. My two entrees to help Kane's school were roast pork loin with Fuji apples and a ginger orange chicken plate. Guess when my pickup date was?

I need a drink.

Artifice, Inc.

You know, it occurs to me, after I watch the video below yet again, that my daughter is breathtaking. My son is, too, no doubt, but as I took a shower tonight, I was saddled with the weight of a future discussion I know I will have to have with her, not him.

It started tonight when I was dabbling with a couple of nail polish shades on my toes. I had a dark claret with gold flecks in it, and I had a wicked fuschia which I decided will probably not do for the wedding we have to attend this weekend, as it will be populated by septugenarians on up, the groom included. I could make a statement, I suppose, but I don't have it in me, since I know no one attending this shindig, and I have no desire to shock and annoy, much. At least, not with my toes.

But painting one and then another toe different colors to see which one of them grew on me led me to a stream of consciousness thing as I lathered my hair under the faucet. I thought of what a pain in the arse it is to paint one's nails, and do I even feel like doing it, since Phil has said he prefers no polish (I mean, who am I doing it for, at this point, and that's another stream of consciousness conversation I'm not having right now), and OHMYGOD - there will come a day when my daughter will look at my painted nails (if I even get to it - I have been polish-less for weeks, now, a record for me since I have been, 18 or so) and ask if she can do hers. Her nails. Her perfect, untouched nails. And I thought of how I see little girls, barely out of toddler stage (and some not even out of it) who have their miniscule nails dyed in a garish attempt to emulate - what?! Mom? The girls on Nickolodeon? Big sisters? Or EVERY SINGLE WOMAN who is flashed before them in commercials, on magazine covers, in movies, television shows, and, in a demented "trickle-down theory" fashion, on every woman on the street who is buying into the whole beauty business.

Which led me to an imaginary conversation I would be having with her, in which I would tell her she is breathtaking, so beautiful, and I'm not saying that as a mom, but as a woman who has been a willing participant in the beauty-by-artifice-obsessed culture that is ours. And I imagined her maybe taking it while she was young (as long as I didn't polish my nails ever again), but when she hit the tween years, I imagined there would be trouble, since I'm not about to give up my makeup. Such a hypocrite am I. How would I explain to her that she didn't need any of it, that she was better than any of it, and if she wanted to enhance something here or there (I'm not talking plastic surgery; I meant mascara or lip gloss), that's one thing, but going out of one's way to transform a face into something unrecognizable is completely ludicrous. How would I explain to her that she didn't need to anything, but her mother felt ugly without doing something to her face each day? Listen, I know I'm not ugly, so please don't send me a pick-me-up comment, but I also know that I can't shake the insecurities that I grew up with. What I want more than anything is to foster an environment for my kids in which they feel strong and secure with themselves. Where they don't feel like they have to invent a persona for themselves to hide behind in order to feel protected. So I imagined I had this conversation with her, and then I imagined I didn't have to have it, because she would already be strong enough to feel good about herself without it.

It's not going to stop her from wanting to paint her nails at a creepy Jon Benet kind of age, though. I'm aware of that.

P.S. I took the nail polish off my two toe nails after I got out of the shower. Eff the wedding guests; they get nudity below the ankle.

Phil's New Hobby is Vlogging

 

He's attached to the camera, these days. Usually, it's for politicos, but yesterday, it was for these two jokers, aged 33 months and 16 months, respectively.

What the ?@#(*&#$ Was I Thinking?

Dear Lord,

What, in thy alleged omnipotence, wast thou thinking when thou didst compel me to volunteer to be a book parent at my son's preschool?

A book parent?!?

I thought it would be fun, lord. I thought it might be a way for me to participate positively in thy grand scheme and yea, allow me to humbly submerge myself in the school's most holy community.

I am sitting here, lord, with six catalogues from the likes of Scholastic, Firefly and I don't even want to see what else. Lo, they have the heft and weight of the tablets from your sermon on the mount.

Did I displease you in some way? Have I offended thee? What hast I done to deserve this prison sentence? And I'm not counting that thing from Halloween 1987, either. I think I said enough "Hail Mary"'s for that pennance, my big friend.

I get it; this is a test, right? I mean, I volunteer, I get this pre-k literary yoke around my neck, and I discover after the fact that the school's circle of mommies is impenetrable, and so, I am doing this in the dark, with no hope of finding solace with a fellow female parent who may, say, want to grab a cup of coffee with me after I drop my son off to the land of finger paints and swings. I see where this is going.

Fine, you. I will perform this task cheerfully. I will distribute flyers, keep tabs on errant book orders, and collect checks with a permanent grin on my face. Oh, I will do it. Even if I have to call on the man downstairs. You wait. I will outsell the region in the Clifford the Big Red Dog lift-the-flap series, you wait and see.