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Of me, but not mine.

Today is my son's 4th birthday. He was born on 4-14-07 at 4:07. I recite that sequence of numbers to myself like a mantra, trying to make sense of the miracle that is this child. Eliot's favorite television show is Blue's Clues. He loves tractors and all types of farm machinery, from hay mowers to fertilizer sprayers to manure spreaders. He sings along to songs on the radio and likes to recite lines from his favorite picture books in quiet, private moments when he thinks no one is listening. If you ask him, he will tell you that his favorite colors are green and red and blue and purple and yellow, and no, he does NOT want a haircut.

Eliot can be stubborn and even rude at times, demanding "JUICE!" without even looking up from his video games. Sometimes reminders to be polite are met with exasperated yelling: "I SAID please!" As his mother, I tend to praise his strengths and file away his shortcomings as faults of my own, or failures in my parenting. After four years, I still feel as though I have no clue what I'm doing, although I strongly suspect most parents don't.

I see a lot of myself in my son. Like me, Eliot is tender-hearted and free with his emotions. In the middle of playing a game, reading a book, or watching TV, he will often pause for a moment, look at me and sigh, "Mommy, I love you. I just love you one thousand! Is that the biggest number? Because I love you the biggest number." Also like me, Eliot gets frustrated easily. He's a perfectionist. He doesn't want to draw a tractor unless he can draw the PERFECT tractor, and since he can't draw the perfect tractor, he just won't draw at all. He throws down his crayon and crosses his arms defiantly over his chest. If he's struggling with a puzzle piece, he'll take one and smash it into place, like Imma MAKE that sucker fit! Or he'll throw the piece on the floor and stomp away. I have no illusions about this behavior. This he gets straight from me.

Likewise, there are traits of Eliot's that seem to spring directly from his father. I catch him looking in the mirror and admiring his reflection. He knows how to turn on the charm to get exactly what he wants. "Oh Mommy, if you buy me a toy, it will make me so happy!" On a more positive side, like his dad, he loves to be outdoors. He loves animals. He has a lot of energy and he always wants to be doing something.   

I also see elements of his personality that are entirely his own, 100% Eliot. He is so much more than just the sum of Rachel + Eli. He is a whole other human being, with thoughts and emotions and characteristics that belong to him alone. It has been a struggle for me in the past few years to make peace with the fact that though I carried him in my womb and gave birth to this person, Eliot does not belong to me. He may be my son, but he is not my possession. His paths in life will not be mine to determine. They never were.

I suppose all parents must reach a point where they realize this, when they have to let their child go to be whomever he or she is meant to be. Maybe being a divorced parent has just hastened this realization for me. I cannot control what Eliot does when he is in his dad's care. Whether and at what age he learns to shoot a gun, to hunt, I no longer have any say in that. I don't know the shape and tone of his days and weekends spent in a household that is not mine. I don't get to make or enforce the rules there.

This morning, on his 4th birthday, Eliot did not come and crawl in bed with me, and I did not get to whisper "Happy Birthday" to him in a voice hoarse with sleep. He woke at his father's house, with his dad, his step-mom and his half brother. I don't know what time he got up, or what he had for breakfast. I don't know what he's doing right now, as I type these words. This feels like a loss, a loss that wells up in my throat and makes it hard for me to swallow. But I have to remind myself that these moments were never a guarantee. Being Eliot's mom does not entitle me to anything. He is a human being, not a possession to be owned or shared or fought over.

I try to focus on the many moments I do get to share with Eliot, the presence I get to have in his life, the ways in which I get to guide and shape him into the adult he will someday be. All of this is a gift. Nothing has been taken away from me. Everything has been given.

Happy Birthday, little buddy. I feel privileged to be your mom.

Eliot and Mommy 2007

 (Yes, that is an umbrella behind us, and yes, if I had any Photoshop skillz whatsoever, I could have edited it out. Sadly, I do not and can not.)

Eliot, Mommy, and Steven 2011

 

 

 

 

 (photo by Alex Kuhn Photography)

I have a writer's crush on Carolyn Parkhurst.

I haven't written here in forever. I still think often, sometimes longingly, of blogging, but somehow...I never make my way over here...

I've been reading a lot lately. Here's something I started to write about reading. Better a fragment than nothing, I suppose:


Carolyn Parkhurst is my favorite author.

Up until a few years ago, if you'd asked me my favorite author, the question would seem too overwhelming to even answer. There are way too many! How could I possibly choose one?! Do you have any idea how much I read?! But after finishing The Nobodies Album a few nights ago, it's official. Parkhurst is my favorite. Not only does she craft the most engaging novels, filled with stories that swallow me whole, but her sentences are just flat out works of beauty. I can't get through a single page without sighing, "Ooooh, I wish I'd written that! Aaaaahh, yes! Perfect! That is the EXACT perfect way to say that!" When reading one of her books, I turn the last page with a bit of wistful sadness, for I'll never experience that particular narrative in that exact way again. I'll re-read it, for sure, but that's the only-ever first time I will have read it. (Yes, I'm a freak. So what? I like what I like.)

I first discovered the quiet magic that is Carolyn Parkhurst's novels with The Dogs of Babel. I was staying the weekend at my former in-laws' house, and my mother-in-law had just finished reading it. She's a voracious reader and always has a stack of library books sitting at the ready on a cluttered wooden church pew in their dining room. She handed me the book, saying, "Here. If you aren't reading anything right now, try this. I think you'd like it. It's different." (People are always recommending "different" things that I might like. My mother is the best giver of gifts, and she claims her secret to finding just the perfect thing for me is to go into a store and find the most hideous or ridiculous item she can, and then she knows I'm sure to love it. Go figure.)

So Connie handed me the book, and I opened to the first page with only a vague sense of curiosity. It quickly sucked me in. It was one of those books I read and then immediately wanted everyone I know to read.

*****

Yes, I realize that loving me can't be easy.

Here we have (because I'm lazy and haven't written ANYTHING lately), a text message conversation--verbatim, mind you--between my friend Tracy and me. Just so that you know what's going on in my world.

[Tracy was very lately in a play in which she played a character who appears only in Act I and Act V. Thus, this conversation transpired while she was bored backstage, in between Act I and Act V. I was at home sitting on my couch. I don't get out a lot.]

Tracy: "So tired of playing games on my phone."

Me: "Well, we signed our new lease this morning, and in other news, I have a cyst on my butt crack and my whole ass hurts."
Me (again): "And I KNOW you laughed when you read that, damn you. It isn't funny! It hurts!"

Tracy: "OMG. Didn't expect that. That sucks. And I did laugh my ass off! LOL"

Me: "I just know I'm going to have to have asscrack surgery, and it's going to be really embarrassing."
Me (again): "Possibly on the caliber of 'retained tampon' embarrassing." [sidenote: Don't ask. You don't want to know. Also, if you ask, I'm liable to tell you, and then the images will haunt you for the rest of your natural life.]

Tracy: "Is it infected? Can you get to it to put something on it?"
Tracy (again): "I can't believe this is our conversation. lol"

Me: "I think so. I've been making Steven squeeze it to get the puss out and then dump peroxide in it. He loves me."
Me (again): "Hey--YOU said you were bored! lol"

Tracy: "Wow. He sure does. I was going to say peroxide. I wish I had someone to pour peroxide on my butt customer. :("

Me: "I wouldn't make a customer do it. It's pretty personal."

Tracy: "That was supposed to be 'cyst,' not 'customer.'"
Tracy (again): "Yes, I am now entertained."

Me: "I was just going to say, though, yer pretty lucky Steven and I are still together, or YOU'd be over here pouring peroxide on my butt."
Me (again): "Breathe a sigh of relief."

Tracy: "LMAO. You're SO right. Thank you Steven."

[I will stop here, and save you from the rest of the conversation, in which, because Tracy loves me and is a nurse, she asks further questions about the butt cyst and I entertain her by describing it in minute detail--circumference, shape, color, amount and variety of fluid leakage, etc.]

I'm really not sure who is the greater victim here: Me, with my poor ailing butt crack, Tracy, who has to hear me gripe about the details of my poor ailing butt crack, Steven, who has to actively tend to my poor ailing butt crack, or YOU, who are still bravely reading this entire exchange.

Lord, have mercy on us all.

Not your grandmother's grandma.

(These are the remarks I made at my Grammy's funeral on Tuesday.)

Doris Shields was not my grandmother, nor was she my grandma. Those terms imply a much rounder, soft woman of indeterminate age, one who bakes cookies and buys you ugly sweaters that you must pretend to like. A grandma is loved, without a doubt. A grandma will let you cry into her apron, or she may even take you to the circus when it comes to town. But a grandma doesn't ride a motorcycle. She doesn't stand on her head, or tap dance in her underwear, or laugh until she pees her pants. No. That's Grammy. And that's who Doris Shields was. She was Grammy.

Grammy had remedies for every ailment. Blue peppermints to settle your stomach. She carried them in her purse at all times. Aloe plants for burns or scrapes. Once, on a visit to Florida, Elecia developed a mysterious case of hives and Grammy slathered her legs in everything from baking soda to Karo syrup, sure that the next concoction would be the cure.

Grammy would buy anything as long as it was on sale. She was constantly cruising rummage sales and auctions for new treasures. It was always exciting to see what she brought home from a sale, because it could be ANYTHING! Once there were pairs upon pairs of roller skates, and we all skated around the basement. Once there were tap shoes, and we were all sent home with a pair (Mom loved those, I know.) Grammy also never got rid of anything. From toys that used to belong to Mom and Pinky and Marty, to every stitch of clothing any of them ever wore, I swear, she never got rid of anything! This combination made for some great adventures for three little girls who used to spend a week at Gram and Granddad’s house every summer. We would venture up to the attic to play dress up in clothing from various decades—Grammy’s square dancing skirts, party dresses of Mom and Pinky’s from when they were in school, and shoes…oh, the shoes! Lace up boots, cork soled platforms, leather moccasins, sandals, heels…The woman. Had. Shoes.

Other than the attic, our favorite treasure trove at Grammy’s was probably her bedroom vanity, where she kept her makeup, brushes and combs, jewelry, fingernails, wigs. I’ve never been much of a girly girl, but even I delighted in taking her fake fingernails and sticking them over my own nails with the little bits of leftover nail glue that still clung to them. Mom always thought that was gross, but Adriane and Elecia and I knew it was FABULOUS!

Even with as many grandchildren and great grandchildren that Grammy had, she always made each of us feel special. For me, my connection with Gram was the crossword puzzle. During the weeks we spent at their house, Grammy would always let me hang over her shoulder and work the crossword puzzle with her. From the daily newspaper puzzles, to her collection of Dell magazines, we worked endless crosswords together. Grammy was particular about her crossword. There were specific guidelines: it always had to be filled in in ink, you don’t write in an answer until you’ve gotten it confirmed, you begin with 1 across, and you don’t skip randomly through clues, and all letters are to be capitalized except “E.” She always used a lowercase “E” in the crossword. I don’t know why; it was just a rule. Crosswords were a constant, and as I grew older, I got more involved. When I was old enough that my penmanship was deemed passable for filling in the letters, I was thrilled. When I got good enough that I started suggesting answers, I really felt big time. And when I started knowing answers that she didn’t get (usually about pop culture, and then increasingly about literature or some topic I’d recently covered in school), I was over the moon. We got to a point where we could work the crossword competitively. Over the years, our crossword skills crossed over; as I got better, she deteriorated, became rusty, forgetful.

I have so many treasured memories of Grammy and Granddaddy. I couldn’t share them all if we stayed here all day. Picking up shells on the beach in Florida, making noodles in her kitchen in the house in Toledo, playing endless card games (King’s Corners, Hand and Foot, Pinochle), walking and riding bikes, watching the fireworks together in Casey on the Fourth of July, listening to her music boxes, looking at family photos and listening to her tell the stories behind them… I was incredibly lucky to have Grammy in my life. We all were.

I was there in the room with her on Friday, when she died, and all I could think of as she left us was “Thank you.” I kept thinking, “Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.” Thank you for being the Grammy you were. You were a bargain hunting, card playing, tap dancing, motorcycle riding, noodle-making wonder. Thank you for the gift of your presence in my life. I’m so lucky to be your granddaughter.

And thank you to all of you, for giving me the opportunity to share that.

I know EXACTLY what a keyless chuck is.

Last night an incident occurred which made it necessary for me to disassemble the bed frame. (Just bear with me here.) Steven had assured me that he would fix the bed while I was at work today, but when I arrived home, lo and behold (ahem), the mattress was still leaning up against one wall of our hallway, and the box springs was sitting cockeyed, partially on the frame. There were various pieces of hardware strewn about the floor. As it turned out, he had very valiantly made a trip to the hardware store and attempted to fix the bed, only to be stymied by a stubborn piece of an old bolt that would NOT come out of its little hiding hole to be replaced.

So when I walked in the front door, I was met with the still inflated, queen sized, non-matrimonial (that's a whole other story) air mattress that we slept on last night. The still inflated, queen sized, non-matrimonial air mattress that was still occupying the entire expanse of the living room floor. We live in a very small, two bedroom apartment. A very small. Two bedroom. Apartment. Did I mention that it is small? So there is a fully inflated air mattress taking up residence in the living room, a full sized mattress leaning up against the wall of a very short, very narrow hallway, and in the cluttered master bedroom, there is a broken bed frame and a set of box springs.

I am about to have to go pick up my three-yr-old son at daycare. And bring him home to a living room with an inflatable air mattress occupying the entire floor space, a hallway partially blocked by a mattress, and a bedroom with...do I seriously have to explain this again? You get the point. I am not happy.

So, in a rare fit of taking-matters-into-my-own-hands-I-am-woman-hear-me-roar-watch-my-perfectly-efficient-use-of-power-tools fueled energy blast, I decided that rather than trying to fix the frame, I'm just going to take the whole thing apart, cart it out to the garage, and set the box springs and mattress directly on the floor. We're moving in two months anyway; I can deal with this arrangement for two months. Then maybe I'll buy a new and improved, bigger, less likely to break bed frame.  

So first things first, I need to deflate the air mattress and put it and all the extra bedding away. After approximately thirty minutes of wrestling around on the floor with the big hunk of velour-topped plastic, folding and rolling and mashing it this way and that in an attempt to makeitfit back in the stupid bag it came in, it is time for me to go pick up the little dude.

Once home, he immediately wants to play video games, so I figure I still have a chance to get the rest of this pesky problem under control and not have to sleep on the couch tonight. I grab my MY MY (yet another story) new cordless drill and stalk down the hallway to the bedroom. I'm barking like Tim Allen from Home Improvement and I'm ready to use a power tool! After I've removed the first couple of bolts, Eliot wanders down the hall, still partially in his Little Big Planet-induced coma, to see what's going on. Once he discovers what I'm doing in the bedroom, and that it involves tools, the PS3 controller is hastily set aside in favor of the cordless drill. I let him spin it around in the empty holes when I'm not using it.

To make a long story not all that much shorter, let's just say that the frame was successfully taken apart, amid much discussion/explanation of nuts and bolts and washers, and why we don't drill people or the apartment walls, only holes in furniture that are already there.

It was kind of a revelation, getting this task accomplished on my own, and letting Eliot "help." [It was like the antidote to the stunt I pulled last night, wherein I screamed "Girl! I'm a Girl! Giiiiiiiiiirlllll!" to explain to Panepinto why HE needed to be the one to take the trash out at midnight in the freezing cold.] All joking aside, it's important to me that Eliot grow up seeing me as a self-sufficient person, a woman who fixes her own problems rather than waiting for a man to fix them for her. It's important to me that I be that person, and important for me to show that person to my son. As these self-satisfied thoughts were dancing through my mind, I quickly came to the conclusion (and broadcast it as my latest Facebook status) that "I need to periodically use power tools to assemble/disassemble things around the house so that my son will grow up with a full appreciation of what a total badass his momma is."

I figure this tactic will be more suitable than explaining to him why the bed broke in the first place, which, basically, is also because Momma is AWESOME.


Flashback: "Why are you taking the bed apart, Mom?"
"Because it's broken."
"How did it get broken?"
"Well...I think...probably...it just was getting old...or something."

Not every Mommy does.

We've had a rough week here; with sickness and Snowmageddon 2011, Eliot and I have not left the house in three full days. I'm feeling better, but he is still coughing and streaming snot from out his nose. Last night he was up a half a billion times. He'd start talking nonsense, stringing random words together into unintelligible sentences until he'd wake up crying uncontrollably. I keenly remembered the way it was caring for him when he was a newborn infant, and by keenly remembered, I mean my body remembered the movements that it kept making even after I had passed the point of exhaustion. Sitting in the rocking chair, my arms wrapped around his little body, my face pressed into his sweet smelling hair, it's difficult to believe there will come a night when he doesn't call out for me.

At some point in the night, after hours of only fitful resting in my bed, Eliot looked up at me, his cheeks flushed pink with fever and said, "I think I'm ready to go back to my own bed. But if I go, Mom, will you turn on my fan and pull the cover up and tuck me?"

"Of course I will." I said, "That's what Mommies do."

Eliot frowned and shook his head. "Well, not ALL Mommies do."

I smiled at him as I lifted him out of bed and into my arms. "Well then," I told him, "You're just an especially lucky boy, because THIS Mommy always does."

Our conversation made me think of the children's book Love You Forever, where the mom drives across town and sneaks into his house to rock her grown son.

Someone bought this book for my youngest sister Libby when she was a baby, and Mom always thought it was kind of creepy. LOL.

"I'll love you forever
I'll like you for always
As long as I'm living
My baby you'll be."

Then when she is old and sick, he in turn rocks her:

I want to be rocked like that when I am an old woman. And I want my cover pulled up and tucked. But leave my fan off, if you please.