My arrival home from the hospital was a day of flurried activity and expectation. I hadn't seen my boys since the night before my surgery. After 3 and a half days in the hospital, I was done and wanted my own house, my own kitchen, and my own bed. Getting home went ok except that the ride home in the car was enough to exhaust me. Everybody was fetching and carrying and asking me if I was ok or if I needed anything. The attention was nice, but I was really looking forward to being home and trying to find a short-term routine that would leave me feeling more like a person and less like a patient.
Night fell and I was looking forward to being back in my own bed. When I announced that I'd like to go to bed, it set off a parade of people. Such a bedtime spectacle hasn't been seen since the court of Louis XIV. Both of my parents, my two oldest children, and my husband all jockied for position. I assured everybody that I'd be fine, but my father insisted on spotting me up the stairs. My husband turned the bed down and began arranging pillows. The kids carried up my iPad and iPhone. Somebody fetched a glass of water.
Eventually, I was able to lie down in a relaxing fog of pain medication and unwind enough that I thought I might sleep. It was very nice indeed to be back in my own bed. It may not fold into all sorts of positions, but the mattress didn't make a crinkly plastic noise and it didn't smell like hospital. And best of all, I knew that nobody was going to wake me up at 2:30 to take my vitals or stick me in the belly with blood thinning medication.
Sleep finally came followed by aching pain and a pressing need to go the bathroom. I opened my eyes. Oh, the irony. It was 2:30. Using my hands on my right leg, I was able to swing myself sideways to reach my crutches. Already this was feeling like a lot more work than I was up for. I took a deep breath and stood up. I was a little wobbly from sleep and medication. I took a minute to make sure I was going to be steady enough to walk. So far so good. I had to maneuver through two doorways to get to the toilet, but I manged to do that without falling over. My eyes were growing more accustomed to the dark and I was doing ok. I had a vague memory that this used to be a lot easier.
What to do with my crutches, how to sit down without it hurting, all of these things that suddenly had to be figured out. I the dark. At 2:30. I managed all of that and then disaster struck. No toilet paper. Now, this isn't a new experience. I've often spoken of having the worst paper karma on the planet. The paper is ALWAYS out when I'm around. And it's not just at my house. Public restrooms, other people's homes, everywhere I go if there is paper and I need it, it's gone. And now the paper karma had struck again at 2:30 in the morning. I calculate what has to be done. I need to get up, get into our walk-in closet, pray that there aren't piles of clothes on the floor, shut the door, reach up on the shelf, get toilet paper and somehow get it and myself back to where I was now. Not going to happen.
None of my other creative solutions to the problem seemed very appealing. And so, with something akin to shame, I call out to my husband. It takes a few times before I hear him stir. "What is it, baby?" he asks. "I"m out of toilet paper". A brief silence and a whoosh of air that is the closest he usually gets to laughing. "Really?" he says, not unkindly, as he gets up. "What is with you and toilet paper?". I decline to point out that he could have checked it before I got home from the hospital to ensure this didn't happen, but I decided not to. And here is really the limit of my vulnerability. Not only do I have to wake up my husband in the middle of night, but I have to actually be nice about it.
Sunday, June 17, 2012
Peter Parker
Last night, my husband left me and our 3-year old daughter at home while he went to get house supplies. (as I expected, this trip also yielded a great many non-essentials that he decided he wanted such as an air filter and a new set of knives, but that's a topic for another blog).
Being left at home on crutches with a busy and stubborn 3-year old wasn't something I relished, but it was better than making him schlep her to the store. So I assured him it would be ok and that I could call a neighbor if for some reason things got out of hand. Our delightfully intelligent daughter is the bossy type, given to very loud temper tantrums (complete with head-banging) if things don't go her way so I decided to avoid potential disaster by simply doing whatever she wanted.
It was early evening in the summer and she wanted to go outside. I'm always careful these days to make sure that she's in front of me when we're moving about. I learned this lesson on my first day home when I nearly fell because my left crutch didn't move when I expected it to. Looking down, I found that she had a hold of it to "help" me. Thanks darling. After you.
Outside we went, her leading the way and turning around at regular intervals to make sure I was still coming. "You're slow, Mommy" she said. Yes, indeed I am. Don't remind me. It was the time of evening when birds are making their last furious efforts to find something to eat and a place to roost. It seemed they were everywhere overhead calling to one another and flitting from tree to tree. We spent some time pointing them out. One particularly large robin landed on the grass and eyed us warily before poking around in the grass. "There's a Robin!!" my daughter exclaimed. "Yep, what do you think he's doing?", I asked "he's just hanging out", she replied. Fair enough. So were we.
Next she wanted me to go into her play house. I explained that there was no way I could fold myself in there as I had in the past, but I was willing to sit next to the house and play with her. I winced and waited for the tantrum. Instead, she readily agreed and even pulled the patio chair closer as I hobbled over. "Give me your phone", she barks, one pale little hand outstretched and the other on her hip. Reluctantly, I gave it up while she explained that she was going to put it inside the house "for safekeeping". She puttered around the house for a while, making me food, taking me to school, etc. All those domestic things with which she's so familiar.
Then she wanted to return to the back steps. "I'm Peter Parker" she announced, "And you're Aunt Mae". Apparently my daughter has been watching Spider Man with her younger brother. She then took off across the expanse of lawn, little legs pumping, to show me how fast she is. Birds and domestic affairs were forgotten while she showed off her prowess in such feats at running, forward rolls, jumping off the wall of the flower beds, and kicking bad guys (many of these activities seemed to be better suited to Spider Man than his alter-ego, but I remembered the head banging and decided to keep such thoughts to myself).
Least you think that this blog entry is about the adorable antics of my youngest child, let me get to the point. I've realized over the last 11 days that life can go at a variety of paces.My typical pace is full speed ahead with hands full and head planning what I'm going to do next. My new pace is a hell of a lot slower. I carry nothing unless it can fit in my little fanny pack. I have done exactly two household chores since I got home from the hospital. I tried to make my bed but eventually gave up. So this day, caring for my daughter meant sitting on the back steps and exclaiming my appreciation for her running speed, her jumping height, and her forward rolling excellence. There was really nothing else I could do. And in that time I learned that that's really all Jarrah wanted from me. My attention. She doesn't care if my bed is made or the kitchen is messy. She doesn't mind that my office desk looks like a tornado hit it or that my bathroom mirror is splattered and dusty. She wants to be Peter Parker and she wants me to be Aunt Mae. And so Peter and Aunt Mae enjoyed the summer evening. We watched planes fly overhead and listed to the birds as they engaged in their conversations. I may be slow, but in that moment, I was everything my daughter needed. And that was enough.
Being left at home on crutches with a busy and stubborn 3-year old wasn't something I relished, but it was better than making him schlep her to the store. So I assured him it would be ok and that I could call a neighbor if for some reason things got out of hand. Our delightfully intelligent daughter is the bossy type, given to very loud temper tantrums (complete with head-banging) if things don't go her way so I decided to avoid potential disaster by simply doing whatever she wanted.
It was early evening in the summer and she wanted to go outside. I'm always careful these days to make sure that she's in front of me when we're moving about. I learned this lesson on my first day home when I nearly fell because my left crutch didn't move when I expected it to. Looking down, I found that she had a hold of it to "help" me. Thanks darling. After you.
Outside we went, her leading the way and turning around at regular intervals to make sure I was still coming. "You're slow, Mommy" she said. Yes, indeed I am. Don't remind me. It was the time of evening when birds are making their last furious efforts to find something to eat and a place to roost. It seemed they were everywhere overhead calling to one another and flitting from tree to tree. We spent some time pointing them out. One particularly large robin landed on the grass and eyed us warily before poking around in the grass. "There's a Robin!!" my daughter exclaimed. "Yep, what do you think he's doing?", I asked "he's just hanging out", she replied. Fair enough. So were we.
Next she wanted me to go into her play house. I explained that there was no way I could fold myself in there as I had in the past, but I was willing to sit next to the house and play with her. I winced and waited for the tantrum. Instead, she readily agreed and even pulled the patio chair closer as I hobbled over. "Give me your phone", she barks, one pale little hand outstretched and the other on her hip. Reluctantly, I gave it up while she explained that she was going to put it inside the house "for safekeeping". She puttered around the house for a while, making me food, taking me to school, etc. All those domestic things with which she's so familiar.
Then she wanted to return to the back steps. "I'm Peter Parker" she announced, "And you're Aunt Mae". Apparently my daughter has been watching Spider Man with her younger brother. She then took off across the expanse of lawn, little legs pumping, to show me how fast she is. Birds and domestic affairs were forgotten while she showed off her prowess in such feats at running, forward rolls, jumping off the wall of the flower beds, and kicking bad guys (many of these activities seemed to be better suited to Spider Man than his alter-ego, but I remembered the head banging and decided to keep such thoughts to myself).
Least you think that this blog entry is about the adorable antics of my youngest child, let me get to the point. I've realized over the last 11 days that life can go at a variety of paces.My typical pace is full speed ahead with hands full and head planning what I'm going to do next. My new pace is a hell of a lot slower. I carry nothing unless it can fit in my little fanny pack. I have done exactly two household chores since I got home from the hospital. I tried to make my bed but eventually gave up. So this day, caring for my daughter meant sitting on the back steps and exclaiming my appreciation for her running speed, her jumping height, and her forward rolling excellence. There was really nothing else I could do. And in that time I learned that that's really all Jarrah wanted from me. My attention. She doesn't care if my bed is made or the kitchen is messy. She doesn't mind that my office desk looks like a tornado hit it or that my bathroom mirror is splattered and dusty. She wants to be Peter Parker and she wants me to be Aunt Mae. And so Peter and Aunt Mae enjoyed the summer evening. We watched planes fly overhead and listed to the birds as they engaged in their conversations. I may be slow, but in that moment, I was everything my daughter needed. And that was enough.
Sunday, June 3, 2012
(Wo)man down
When I was 15, my mother had to have arthroscopic knee surgery. Nothing major, they just went in and cleaned up some loose cartilage and she had to rest up for a few days. It was a very odd and unsettling experience to have my mother unable to do all her usual activities. Even the family dog could sense it as he ensconced himself at the foot of the bed and didn't move for three days. At the time, my father was a hotel executive in charge of the entertainment department at a hotel/casino in Atlantic City. Here was a man who was used to negotiating multi-million dollar contracts with the likes of Frank Sinatra, Joan Rivers, Dom DeLuise, and Tom Jones. And yet, he was completely out of his depth when it came to running the house. My 8-year old sister and I sent him to wait in the car during the one grocery trip we were brave enough to venture on.
Several years ago, a woman in our church died suddenly. She wasn't a very young woman, probably in her early 70s, but her sudden death surprised and saddened all who knew her. At her funeral, her shaken husband referred to her as the "quarterback of the family". This seemed strange to me at the time given that the family consisted of three grown children who lived out of state and who had children of their own. And yet, as my own family has grown, I've learned that it doesn't matter how far afield the children go, the woman remains the hub around which the children and even the grandchildren revolve.
For millenia, women have been coping without their men. Sometimes for short periods, sometimes for long ones, and sometimes forever. But cope they do. Between going off to war, or dying in an industrial accident, or simply getting sick and tired of the daily grind and heading for the hills, the men disappear. Even as recently as 200 years ago, it wasn't uncommon for a widower to remarry before his late wife's corpse was even cold. Somebody had to run the house, right?
I was born at the tail end of the tumultous 1960s when women were fighting for their right to work at the same jobs as men, earn the same money as men, smoke like men, and die of heart attacks and stress like men. And many of those goals have been realized. Women now make up very close to half the work force. And yet, some things have not changed. Pick a man you know who has children and ask what size shoes one of the children wears. Betcha he can't tell you.
So despite making nearly as much money as my husband, I have a second full time job as the quarterback of this house. This isn't a simpe house, either. We have a blended family of five children. Three of my biological children spend half time with their father and my husband's son spends half time with his mother. And they are often not on the same schedule. And we have a 3 year old together who is a full time job just by herself! There is cross country practice, and dance class, riding lessons and boy scouts, there are four different school schedules, daycare, church activities. And it all lives in my head. Sure, you could poll each member of the family besides me and you could probably piece it all together. But it would be a lot more efficient to simply ask me. However, in 48 hours I'll be in a hospital bed and not available to answer anybody's questions. They are all going to have to cope -- ALL BY THEMSELVES.
You might say "oh, it'll be good for them". And I have no doubt that is true. Several people have said that it'll be good for ME; that I'll learn patience and and how to leave things to others. Want to know something? I don't want to leave things to others!!!! I like doing this shit. Most days. I can say with certitude that I get a great deal of satisfaction from doing it. It's my accomplishment. It's my sense of self. The house revolves around me and I like it that way. And it's about to go away.
What about my other full time job? It's interesting to me that I don't worry about that aspect of my life at all. I love what I do at work and I'm good at it. But I've also got an amazing staff and I've put one of them in charge and if anything needs doing he and the rest of the folks in the office will do it. I haven't lost a wink of sleep over it. After all, my job is important, but it's absolutely not as important as making sure that the towels are put away in the linen closet correctly (for those of who you may not know, towels go in the linen closet sorted by color and placed such that the bump part of the fold is facing toward the open door such that you've got a nice rounded look to the pile -- go look at how they put them away at Bed Bath and Beyond).
My house is going to go to hell. I just know it. And worst of all, I'm going to have to sit and watch it go to hell. I travel a lot for my job. And I don't worry about the house when I'm away. They can all manage without me for a few days and honestly when I'm in Washington DC (or washing-the-sea as my 3-year old calls it), I'm too busy to worry about what goes on at home. My husband always makes sure the kitchen is clean when I get home and then I take care of whatever has fallen apart in my absence. I also send copious numbers of text messages to make sure that he doesn't forget to take his son to Scouts.
Starting Tuesday, the quarterback is going down. I suppose there is some comfort in knowing when it's going to happen. I've prepared well. I've written notes. I've put things on the calendar. I've cleaned the house to within an inch of its life. I will have to learn to cope with giving orders from the sidelines. With calling plays and hoping that they are executed correctly. I will have to be forgiving, of myself and of my poor husband who can take any electronic gadget apart and fix it but who cannot seem to remember that our daughter likes to dip her finger in the milk before you put the lid on the sippy cup. I don't know why, she just does. It's one of the plays in the playbook.
And then I come to the end of my long and complicated thinking on this issue. What if the house DOESN'T fall apart? What if they all manage quite well without me? That's even more distressing. So I'll see how things work out. I have a feeling that no amount of planning is going to prepare me and my family for what is to come. We'll have to work it out together.
Several years ago, a woman in our church died suddenly. She wasn't a very young woman, probably in her early 70s, but her sudden death surprised and saddened all who knew her. At her funeral, her shaken husband referred to her as the "quarterback of the family". This seemed strange to me at the time given that the family consisted of three grown children who lived out of state and who had children of their own. And yet, as my own family has grown, I've learned that it doesn't matter how far afield the children go, the woman remains the hub around which the children and even the grandchildren revolve.
For millenia, women have been coping without their men. Sometimes for short periods, sometimes for long ones, and sometimes forever. But cope they do. Between going off to war, or dying in an industrial accident, or simply getting sick and tired of the daily grind and heading for the hills, the men disappear. Even as recently as 200 years ago, it wasn't uncommon for a widower to remarry before his late wife's corpse was even cold. Somebody had to run the house, right?
I was born at the tail end of the tumultous 1960s when women were fighting for their right to work at the same jobs as men, earn the same money as men, smoke like men, and die of heart attacks and stress like men. And many of those goals have been realized. Women now make up very close to half the work force. And yet, some things have not changed. Pick a man you know who has children and ask what size shoes one of the children wears. Betcha he can't tell you.
So despite making nearly as much money as my husband, I have a second full time job as the quarterback of this house. This isn't a simpe house, either. We have a blended family of five children. Three of my biological children spend half time with their father and my husband's son spends half time with his mother. And they are often not on the same schedule. And we have a 3 year old together who is a full time job just by herself! There is cross country practice, and dance class, riding lessons and boy scouts, there are four different school schedules, daycare, church activities. And it all lives in my head. Sure, you could poll each member of the family besides me and you could probably piece it all together. But it would be a lot more efficient to simply ask me. However, in 48 hours I'll be in a hospital bed and not available to answer anybody's questions. They are all going to have to cope -- ALL BY THEMSELVES.
You might say "oh, it'll be good for them". And I have no doubt that is true. Several people have said that it'll be good for ME; that I'll learn patience and and how to leave things to others. Want to know something? I don't want to leave things to others!!!! I like doing this shit. Most days. I can say with certitude that I get a great deal of satisfaction from doing it. It's my accomplishment. It's my sense of self. The house revolves around me and I like it that way. And it's about to go away.
What about my other full time job? It's interesting to me that I don't worry about that aspect of my life at all. I love what I do at work and I'm good at it. But I've also got an amazing staff and I've put one of them in charge and if anything needs doing he and the rest of the folks in the office will do it. I haven't lost a wink of sleep over it. After all, my job is important, but it's absolutely not as important as making sure that the towels are put away in the linen closet correctly (for those of who you may not know, towels go in the linen closet sorted by color and placed such that the bump part of the fold is facing toward the open door such that you've got a nice rounded look to the pile -- go look at how they put them away at Bed Bath and Beyond).
My house is going to go to hell. I just know it. And worst of all, I'm going to have to sit and watch it go to hell. I travel a lot for my job. And I don't worry about the house when I'm away. They can all manage without me for a few days and honestly when I'm in Washington DC (or washing-the-sea as my 3-year old calls it), I'm too busy to worry about what goes on at home. My husband always makes sure the kitchen is clean when I get home and then I take care of whatever has fallen apart in my absence. I also send copious numbers of text messages to make sure that he doesn't forget to take his son to Scouts.
Starting Tuesday, the quarterback is going down. I suppose there is some comfort in knowing when it's going to happen. I've prepared well. I've written notes. I've put things on the calendar. I've cleaned the house to within an inch of its life. I will have to learn to cope with giving orders from the sidelines. With calling plays and hoping that they are executed correctly. I will have to be forgiving, of myself and of my poor husband who can take any electronic gadget apart and fix it but who cannot seem to remember that our daughter likes to dip her finger in the milk before you put the lid on the sippy cup. I don't know why, she just does. It's one of the plays in the playbook.
And then I come to the end of my long and complicated thinking on this issue. What if the house DOESN'T fall apart? What if they all manage quite well without me? That's even more distressing. So I'll see how things work out. I have a feeling that no amount of planning is going to prepare me and my family for what is to come. We'll have to work it out together.
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