May 30, 2006
I don't want to alienate my husband.
On the other hand... last week CD complained about the amount of housework I've been doing since I stopped working.
I was stunned.
Because he was, like, serious.
I'm going through a life crisis, redefining my understanding of my world, and you're complaining about the laundry?!
First of all, both of us lean more towards Oscar than Felix. And I have always done more housework than CD. Always, even when he was a stay-at-home dad (which I used to complain bitterly about and then I just hired someone to help.)
I was clear when I told him of my plans to stop workig for a while that I wouldn't not be playing Suzy Homemaker. I told him so right infront of a therapist. And he nodded like he understand and respected my need for some time to repair and take care of me.
Clearly, though, the monster that is his expectations would not be denied.
He brings up "those 5 hours a day when you're doing nothing".
Because, you know, these hours between dropping Bear off at school and picking him up - when not frittered away with errands, dishes, part-time work - should be spent ... vacuuming??
And hey, I have been doing more. Organizing long neglected cabinets and drawers. Decorating. Scrubbing. Just not enough by his scorekeeping.
I want to take him by the shoulders and shout into his brain. That we just started working as a team again.
But I am a grown-up. (Sometimes.)
So I breathe deep and point at the Hoover. Honey, if the rug ain't clean enough for you - then you have all the power in the world to change it.
But no....
Instead, I feel myself being inelegantly shoved in the direction of what he expects of a housewife.
And I thought I only had my own neurosis to untangle.
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May 15, 2006
Here was the rule: Don't pull the string.
Because, as my mother informed me, the entire sweater would unravel if you did. You'd be left standing there like a cartoon character buck naked from the waist up except for maybe the monogram letters hanging around your training bra and a pile of thread at your feet.
Also? You'd look like Betty Boop.
Meanwhile, back in reality.
The OT Specialist lady whose name means Happy (As Bear likes to say) informed us that he has a mild large-motor sensory integration disorder (still no clue what the means), a possible vision thing (referral to pedaitic opthamoligist here), and? Bear is truly non-dominant. You know, ambidextrous. Texas gold, my friend.
Except? Not.
It means double the work for my kid, whose fine motor on both hands is at about 3 years old instead of his true age of 5.5. Because he's been learning everything on both sides. For that, he will get OT therapy and a lot of it. But it is good news because he will get all the help he needs now instead of later.
But that's not all.
Included with the Ginsu knives and the dashing set of referral sheets (in Blue!) came one for allergies. So today we hiked over to the pediatrician's to check it out.
Man, do I ever suck as a mother.
Turns out that Bear's entire back of the nose-and-throat-and-ear areas are a hive of swollen and detracted and, well, I don't know the fancy term for it all. He's got allergies, right here in River City. He's got stuff to pump up his nose and other stuff to swallow.The pediatrician shook her head and said "You didn't notice?"
"Well, he's more tired than usual lately," I said (feeling like a moron).
But wait - one more thing. There is a fine sprinkling of bumps on his cheeks and hands and legs. Because he's also allergic toour laundry detergent. Tide, if you're wondering.
After she left the room to get more prescription sheets, I picked Bear up and he clung to me like a baby octopus. "Sorry, kiddo," I whispered.
"For what?"
"I didn't know you were sick," I told him, resting my cheek in the hollow of his neck as I rocked him back and forth.
"It's ok," he whispered back. "I didn't know too."
I stood there, my purse fat with referrals and information. And feeling like there must be a pile of string at my feet from a simple tug.
And then I bought him an ice cream cone to make it all better.
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May 11, 2006
Laptop bag over one shoulder, kid on my hip, hair highlighted, cell phone buzzing.
Only... not anymore.
Me & Bear, Karate Tournament, 2/06
There's a great Princess Bride quote;. "Hello, my name is Inigo Montoya. You killed my father. Prepare to die." I've always wondered how Inigo would introduce himself if there had been a sequel, once the guy who murdered his father had died.
CD & Bear, Minneapolis, 2/06
How do I introduce myself now? As simply the 'Mommy'? or 'Wife & Mommy'? These two males, are they my identity anchor now?
"What now? Who am I?" have been the questions that would pop into my head over and over as the roller coaster of the past few weeks has ripped me along for the ride.
If I thought life after a full-time job would give me a field of breathing room, I was seriously deluded.
I hosted a bridal shower for my firend Laura. I tackled a mountain of paperwork that came with becoming ex-employee. I discovered from a reporter that the nice neighbor across the street is an ex-Catholic Priest and a pedophile. I had my son tested for ADD.
Painted a bedroom. I returned to the Cathedral for the first time since I resigned, and took Communion. I reconnected with my husband after 5 years of growing apart. Attended a race. A Karate tournament. Visited with my father and stepmother. Made about 70 frillion pipe cleaner animals. I lost my mind. Cried my way through an economy bundle of tissues. Got my hair streaked with magenta. Contemplated a tatoo. Prayed.
Wallowed in self-pity even after I kept thinking I was "over it". Spent some serious sessions with a therapist.
St. Jame's Cathedral, Chicago, Easter/06
Did a bagazillion errands. A small desktop publishing project. Decorated the bedroom. Cooked. Cleaned. Spent countless hours with my son.
Bear, Lincoln's Monument in Grant Park, Chicago, 3/06
And something I didn't do...
Write.
The longest break I've taken in my journalling since I was 13 years old.
I didn't mean to. There were some technical problems. But mostly, there were spirit problems. As in, the spirit wasn't willing.
I would get up and look at the computer or at the notebook on the desk. And I wouldn't start.
Just... wouldn't start.
"Who" and"What" questions wrestling in my mind. My fingers still.
There's been no sunbeam moment that solved anything.
I hope that I'm forgiven for disappearing.
Now that I found my start.
Sunshine, Chicago, 4/06
Hello. My name is Elizabeth Blair York.
I used to be a corporate mommy.
This is my journal.
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