Call in the Professionals

This week I was blackmailed by one child and the other made a statement so painfully honest that I preferred the extortion. It got me thinking about what’s real and what’s pretend around here, and I didn’t mind thinking about it for a change. I think it’s because we are on Deployment Cycle Phase One Million: What You See Is What You Get.

One thing you get with me: I suck at parenting sometimes.

I want to confess that I’m a real sucker for child-parent bargaining. It shows creativity and ingenuity to find the trigger point. Negotiation is all about finding someone else’s pain and then finding a way to remove it. I learned this from Husband. But extortion and blackmail, that’s different.

Enter, the Schwan’s popsicle.

Now I’ve been told there are some people who don’t know what Schwan’s is, and that my friends is a real tragedy. Because if you’ve never consumed a Golden Nugget Bar, well, you just haven’t lived.

If you must know, Schwan’s is an amazing drive-up purveyor of the world’s finest freezer confections. And when I say drive-up, I mean they come to you. Think traditional ice cream truck but add UPS man charm, COSTCO size quantities, ice cream sandwiches so fresh the cookies are still crunchy, and a space-age truck of deep freeze nirvana which is probably capable of preserving your body for future medical advances should the need arise. It’s not the cheapest food available but I justify the purchase because when Gary (yes, we are on a first name basis) comes to my door I order pork chops and asparagus and things. And then I flip hastily to the back of the catalog like the ice cream addict that I am. “I’m not ordering ice cream today, Gary,” I say helplessly. “Yes ma’am,” he responds, pointing out the specials.

One of my kids’ favorites is the caramel apple pop. It’s a flourescent green tube of tartness wrapped around a frozen ribbon of soft sugary caramel. I offer them as bribes whenever rooms have been cleaned and dirty laundry has been deposited in the right place and bathroom messes have been remedied.

Which means one box lasts a really long time around here.

This particular Saturday rooms were cleaned and caramel apple popsicles were distributed. The sucking and slurping sounds of happiness filled my kitchen and I raised an eyebrow as The Kindergartener salvaged a long stripe of bright green drips from his forearm, rescuing my clean floor from certain sticky doom. He chomped down the last bite and announced, “Mom, I want another one.” He opened his toothless grin and formed his green lips into a big “say yes because you love me” smile. I think his teeth were a little green, too. “And you will have another one.” I teased. “Next Saturday.” And I fake-smiled back.

He was not at all impressed by my response. “That’s sarcasm, Mom.” The smile transformed at lightening speed into a pout, and through the furrowed brow I could see that his neurons were firing overtime. He was scheming.

Meanwhile, I was preparing to go brain-dead, a parenting technique that makes my kids crazy. I would keep repeating the same phrase, regardless of the whine, until he gave up. But then he struck mercilessly at the point of weakness:

“Mom, if you don’t give me another popsicle I’m telling Daddy what a horrible job you did while he was gone.”

I stopped chopping the veggies. I looked down at the cutting board, staring at the knife in my hand and wondered how soon he could be shipped to military boarding school. And I stared. Silently.

When I’m completely taken off guard my recent response is uncharacteristic silence. My father used it as a parenting technique and I always believed it was because he was filled with murderous rage, unable to articulate a response for fear of homicidal mania against me, his precious first-born. I know now that he was just as dumbfounded as I am by the things kids say. Brain dead, indeed.

Taking advantage of the silence, the extortioner threatened, “I’m getting a popsicle.”

But Sweet Pea immediately came to my rescue. Or she really didn’t want him to get a second popsicle, which is very possible. She wielded her nearly stripped popsicle stick at The Kindergartener and righteously declared, “Hey! Don’t say that! Look around. She’s doing the best she can!”

“Yeah, I’m ….Wait. What? Hey!” I said. Brilliant. Articulate.

I looked around. We all looked around.

Something unrecognizable and pink was slimed to the front of the cabinet. End of summer flies seeking indoor refuge were buzzing around in the living room, probably after breeding in my garbage disposal. None of them were sticking to the disgusting fly strips hanging haphazardly around the room. I had no clean dish towels. But that didn’t matter because I had no clean dishes to dry, anyway. Speaking of dry, the geranium pots were crispy and looked only slightly better than the lawn. And best of all, I had this lippy kid who I had to bribe to get him to pick his own dirty underwear up off the floor.

“WELL THANKS FOR THE VOTE OF CONFIDENCE!” I shouted back at both of them. Sweet Pea’s last popsicle remnant plopped onto the counter. They stared at me open-mouthed wondering what confidence was and how to vote for it. “Mom, that’s sarcasm again,” came the brave voice of the defiant one. I pointed my knife at him across the counter and shouted back “AWAY WITH YOU” and I banished them to the basement and reached for the corked bottle of wine. As I poured I punctuated the conversation by shouting after them down the stairs, still motioning with the knife in the other hand: “Anyway, too many popsicles will give you lumpy breasts and hairy armpits!” I hoped that covered the deep, secret fears of both children enough to pacify their confectionary cravings yet keep them out of therapy. I’m sure I failed.

And then I plopped down. And I left the mess there.

And I really think this is the difference between the last time Husband came home and this time. A part of me really thinks that it would be fabulous for him to see the house this way. He would particularly enjoy the fly strips and the pink cabinet slime. I mean, I don’t think for a moment he believes that we live in the sanitized home he sees when he comes home. But after being away from it for a year he can’t truly appreciate the effort required to get it that way. Or keep it that way. It just doesn’t seem like it’s worth the effort to create something that isn’t even real. Shouldn’t he see it the way it really is?

So, if it gets cleaned up this time around, well, let’s just say that’s what professionals are for.

But what about me? I’ve got some pink smudge and some useless flystrips hanging around, too. And I’m not that motivated to do anything about it. And a part of me really thinks that it would be fabulous for him to see me this way. An unsanitized train wreck. I’d love to show up in my jeans and flip-flops at the airport and stand there, in the middle of the aisle, as the kids run to hug him. And I’d wait. I’d wait for him come to me. Because after being away from me for a year he can’t truly appreciate the effort required to clean up this mess. Or keep me this way. And it just doesn’t seem like it’s worth the effort to create something that isn’t even real. Shouldn’t he see me the way I really am?

So, if I get cleaned up this time around, well, let’s just say that’s what professionals are for.

Forget this glass of wine. I need another popsicle. I hope I don’t get lumpy breasts and hairy armpits.

Not Today

We’re counting days now instead of months. And I’m not ready for him to come home. I’m just not ready.

I haven’t finished the basement. I haven’t organized the playroom. I haven’t finished the refi. It feels like I haven’t done anything.

It feels like all I’ve done is laundry and dishes and grocery shopping. Over and over. And over.

But I have hugged the kids. Over and over. And over.

And there was the half-marathon. And there was that little writing project that, well, kinda went viral. And there was that nonprofit-thingy.

And other things.

I’m horribly insecure about my failings and yet entrenched in what may be my own stupidity. I’m really dialed in to the well-worn track of my own complicated routine. I’m not ready for him to come here and retrace my steps and attempt to create efficiency out of chaos. I don’t want him to put me on an alternate track, even if it’s better. I don’t want him to tell me I’ve done it wrong while he’s been gone. Even if I have done it wrong. I’m not ready for that.

And I’ve developed bad habits, some he won’t tolerate well. I turn the TV on too loud to drown out the silence, sometimes. I spend too much time on the computer, sometimes. I escape from the kids by disappearing in the bathroom, sometimes. I drink wine with dinner too often. I kick and flip and toss and don’t sleep. I feel antisocial on Fridays at the end of the workweek. I use too much ketchup on the turkey burgers that I keep making even though I’m the only one that likes them. And I’m stupidly late, all the time. Too late. Too often.

And other things.

October 2011: Tabula Rasa

I’m ready to look up past his chin toward his clear blue eyes and know that he remembers the real me. But I’ve changed a little too much for him to find me. I’m ready for him to get off the airplane, hold me in his arms tight, and promise me he’ll never leave for that long again. But he won’t be able to make the promises I want. I’m ready for him to sweep me off my feet and tell me we will live happily ever after. But happily ever after is a lot more work than that.

I’m not ready. Not today.

Universal Truce

"Bullhorn" by Duchamp, Creative Commons/Flikr

The Universe has been speaking to me this weekend, and I don’t think I like what it’s telling me. Not only that, it appears to be coming at me through a cosmic bullhorn, loud and clear. I guess nobody ever likes what The Universe has to say, huh? I mean, if you can’t figure something out for yourself and The Universe actually has to intervene, it must be pretty stinking bad.

By now you know that I’m afflicted with a sickness that involves constant movement and mental activity, even to the point of complete exhaustion and self-inflicted immune system shutdown. I tend to procrastinate just long enough that I am required to work straight through to madness, until I experience the emotional blue screen of death. And yet I continue to be suprised. To the average onlooker this appears to be insanity – repeating my actions and expecting a different result. But to those who don’t see my procrastination, it just appears as if I’m trying to do everything and be everything to everyone. That’s really not it, guys. I swear.

I’m really much more self-absorbed than that.

All I’m trying to do is figure out what it is that I want. That’s all. And this weekend several different people, none of whom know each other, told me (in varying degrees of directness) that I need to figure out what it is that I WANT. Well, okay – alrighty then. So why is that so damn hard?

I’m sure it’s because I don’t want to pick. I’m sure it’s because I’m so very talented. I’m sure it’s because I want ALL of the things that I want, and I want to be the one to do them all myself. All of them.

It couldn’t be because I’m afraid.

See, there are lots of things that are changing. My daily life and my mind are morphing at breakneck speed. My kids are maturing, and relate to me differently than they did just a few months ago. My job is evolving, in a good way. My body is freaking out on me, in a bad way (let’s not even go there). I care about things I never cared about before. My friendships are changing. My interests are not what they once were. My confidence is waning in some areas, expanding in others. My perspectives on pretty heavy subjects are being enriched. I’m growing.

Without Husband.

And I just can’t do that. He’s been here every other time. I remember the day I wanted out of my financial job and contemplated law school, and he was there. He said, “You can do this. You can be a lawyer if you want to. Is that what you want?” And I did. I wanted it. I remember being half way through law school, and realizing that it was hard – harder than I thought. I was not one of those people who was naturally smart. I didn’t always “get it.” I had to work quite hard. I remember the day I sat on the floor and cried, and told him that I had made a huge mistake. He was there, and he didn’t mince words. I thought he was coming in to scoop me off the floor, but he didn’t. He looked at me and he said, ”If it was easy, everyone would do it. You can do it – if you really want to.” And suddently, I did. And then I remember the day we sat parked in our car on a rainy weekend, looking out at the water. I remember when he said he wanted to start a family.

I cried, because I didn’t know what I wanted. I was so gripped by fear, that it came out as anger. I remember being so very afraid. And I remember how he yelled, “I will be there, if you want to! I want to!” And I remember the silence that fell over us, as I cried, and he stared. And I remember hearing the rain, and thinking about how he always knew what he wanted. And then I remember not being scared any more.

So here I am, trying to figure out what I want, but he’s not here. I’m stretching and growing without him. I’m getting over fears without him, and this time, he’s not here. What will happen if he comes back and I’ve changed? What will happen if HE has changed? What if he comes back and I don’t need him to say it anymore? What if I don’t need him to say, “You can do it, if you want to?”

Phhht.

Well, you can forget it. I’m going to stagnate, that much I’ve already decided. I’m going to un-grow.  I’m going to just sit here in the mosquito-infested mud and pretend to be completely oblivious to the blood-sucking stings of change.

I will just refuse to learn something new, that’s all.  I’ll just start caring about idiotic things again like the best waterproof mascara money can buy, and I will focus on that. I’ll be filled with righteous indignation at the condition of my unmanicured toes. I’ll worry about the number of tacos I can order without having to go incognito at the drive through. I will have angry outbursts at Elmo DVD’s and people who suggest that I need to change.

And I’ll just stay right here. Exactly the same. And I’ll wait.

Afterall, that’s what I want. Isn’t it?

Why Kindness Makes Me Want Pie

I am a reformed beauty queen. That’s right. Believe it. All right, come on now. It’s not that implausible.

The most significant thing I have to say about that misadventure is thank GOD there was no real internet presence in 1989. Otherwise my three-story hairdo might be all over the internet, lurking on some cached page of has-beens, or worse yet circulated with viral fervor amongst bored cubicle-dwellers with secret (or not so secret) queen hatred. I feel somewhat redeemed (very, very little) that winning the essay portion of the Miss San Diego competition paid for my first semester of undergrad tuition. I pretty much keep it a secret.

But the lingering reminder that I can’t seem to shake is that I have this eternal list of ”Miss Americas” circulating in my head at all times. This is a cornucopia of rehearsed responses that are just generic enough to still be charming without raising the ire of any sexually-oriented, socio-economic, or culturally-disenfranchised sector of society. In my royal prime, if I was asked any question, chances were I would have one of three answers at the ready. If I was feeling bold, I might even chose the quaternary response just to see if I could get away with it. Boobs could really go a long way back in the day.

“When life gives you lemons, make lemonade.”

This is exactly the kind of idiotic statement that makes me want to vomit on my own shoes. True, it has historic meaning. Dale Carnegie, Father of “How To Win Friends and Influence People” was the true genesis of that concept at a time when Americans were lucky to see a bowl of soup, let alone a fresh citrus fruit. But it has been so battered, sugared and fried by the cliché circuit that it’s little more than an eye-roller these days.

So I was considering pummeling some folks with citrus earlier this month on a couple of occasions, at the hands of well-meaning but oblivious family and friends. They often hand me the bowl of lemons: comments concerning Husband’s departure and absence. These are largely non-military folk who are concerned, but lack understanding. You know the ones.

My favorite by far is the email I received two days after Husband’s departure. It was about a little girl who attended “Bring Your Dad To School Day” alone because her father was at war. You read this touching tale and you anticipate the part where she extolls his heroic deeds, and the pride that swells in her chest when she thinks about his homecoming. Only in this sardonic version, the piece you don’t anticipate is that the father-soldier has DIED IN BATTLE and the little girl is telling the story of the day she’ll see her Angel Daddy in Heaven again.

Uh ………….. Really? Two days after Husband’s departure?

Sadly, I didn’t respond with lemonade. I blame it on my now well-documented taco slash violence phase of the Deployment Cycle. I really let the sender have it. Let me assure you, there was no grace and poise, no canned retort, no charming smile, and no cleavage whatsoever. I ultimately repented, if only to assuage my own guilt, and to her credit the sender of the email apologized profusely. But honestly.

And then there’s my brother, whom we shall call “Uncle Rockstar.” He was a Navy brat like me, so you’d think he would get this stuff. But you know, Rockstars are prone to artistic fits of drama. So upon learning of Husband’s departure, he asked a battery of inane questions without answers like “How will you do it? Aren’t you just dying? Oh sorry. Bad choice of words. But it’s F-ing terrible!” (Uncle Rockstar always throws in a gratuitous F-bomb. In fact, as I write this I’m realizing the potential source of Preschooler’s recent FARKisode). And then, Uncle R whips out the clincher: “I mean, how do you even think about the possibility of your husband dying? What if he doesn’t come back? Have you thought about that? I heard about this one guy who …”

Well, that’s just it guys. We don’t think about it. I mean, we do, sometimes, when it’s very very quiet. But not for long. We can’t. We just can’t. It’s a complete and total waste of hypothetical time.

This is where pie comes in. Isn’t this always where the pie comes in?

I opened a letter today from the local post of the American Legion. Around these parts, Legions are mostly full of old guys, so I think of them as the supporters of the annual rummage sale and the guys who pass out cute little ribbons in front of the old movie theater on Memorial Day. There’s no real active military installation out here in Portland, and largely, people just don’t understand. We know some Reserve and Guard families, but by and large we are a rarely understood breed in the city that provided a springboard for Ralph Nader’s vie for President, followed by one of the largest Obama rallies of his 2008 campaign.

And growing up in a Naval Aviation family, I know EXACTLY what kinds of support and services I’m missing out on as an IA spouse. Husband is an “Independent Augmentee.” That means he got plucked right out of a unit that stays home while he goes away. No wives club. No base. No Exchange or PX. No Commissary. No ombudsman or organized activities nearby. Just me and my two kids.

And, apparently, now, Post 44 of the American Legion. They asked to honor me with a Blue Star Banner. They called me “family.” They asked for ways they could help me, from yard work to babysitting. They want to send Husband mail, and care packages. Care. Packages.

And that sentiment, from someone who understands what it means, that brought a tear to my eye. I know, I know. EVERYTHING makes me cry. But I stood there in my kitchen reading a letter from a woman I had never met, offering to help me. And it touched me.

Why? Because, I have severe irritable soul syndrome over anti-patriots who merge political rhetoric with the sailors and soldiers and marines who support missions. And I have Myocardial InFARKshuns over the thought that Husband’s sacrifices are going to benefit people I will never meet. So when someone who GETS IT sends me a letter calling me “family,” it’s like God, speaking my name out loud.

It makes me not wanna vomit on my shoes anymore.

It makes me wanna take that bowl of lemons and make some freakin’ lemon merengue pie.

Pop Quiz

  

We had a poo/throw up incident. I handled it. I’m not some rookie. I really actually had a stressful week, and I thought I was handling it all very well. 

I was apparently wrong. Very, very wrong indeed. 

One more teeny-weeny little thing happened, and it actually made me crazy. Not garden variety crazy, but actual eye-spinning, 14 days or less in the psych ward insanity crazy. So – congratulations! If you’ve been reading my blog since inception, well, it will give you absolutely no advantage on this Pop Quiz. Participation is mandatory. This is the only test of the semester, and your final grade is based solely on your performance herein. Mark your answers clearly and erase all hesitation marks. We do not allow hesitation of any kind around here. This is motherhood, for crying out loud. 

* Hint: All answers are “C.” 

 

(1) When my preschooler confessed that the likely reason for throwing up was due to his curiosity earlier in the day to find out what “fresh poop” tasted like, I: 

(A) Was horrified and completely grossed out, but still managed to inquire WHOSE poop he ate, causing Preschooler to respond indignantly, “Mom, you think I would eat someone ELSE’s poop!? That would be gross.”

or

(B) Thanked God that Preschooler actually distinguished and/or had a preference for fresh poo versus not fresh poo, then laughed and remembered the lawyer who the secretaries claimed ate “poo flakes” for breakfast, then imagined my Preschooler growing up eating poo flakes, then laughed hysterically, and was then admonished by my Preschooler that it “wasn’t funny.”

or

(C) Both.

  

(2) I was coping. Right up until I found Husband’s abandoned wings, watch, and wedding ring by the bathroom sink. Between the hours of 4 and 8 pm I: 

(A) Cried. The entire time.

or

(B) Washed four days worth of dishes, made zucchini bread in three different shapes and ingredient variations, cleaned fuzzballs out of the children’s closets, made homemade chicken soup while cleaning out the refrigerator, laid out both children’s wardrobes for the entire week, coordinated all babysitting needs for the foreseeable future even though I knew it would change before I got to the next event, completely rewrote the family whiteboard calendar even though I knew it would change before I got to the next event, organized the school snack pantry, scrubbed the living daylights out of the shower, cleaned out the guinea pig cage with one hand while holding my nose with the other, and mowed the lawn in a perfect cross-hatch pattern the likes of which has never been seen, not even at Wrigley Field, and continuously lectured Preschooler about the virtues of not eating your own poo, fresh or not fresh.

or

(C) Both.

  

(3) After the tasks in #2 were complete I: 

(A) Cried some more, but not in front of the kids, especially not while tucking them in for the night and saying prayers, especially not when they told me how much they missed their Daddy, and certainly not when they cried describing how they wanted to just get one little snuggle from him because Skype just isn’t the same as a real hug, and because (poop eating boy added this one) you can’t actually smell really cool toots on there.

or

(B) Retreated to my room and wrote an uber-sappy text message describing how much I missed him, then immediately felt better, but then immediately felt worse, because it would probably make him feel horrible, because there was nothing he could do about it, then realized in horror what I had done, then felt worse, then tried to make up for it by sending a silly/funny message concerning zucchini bread creations, then realized it wasn’t that funny, and then realized that I sounded (and possibly was) completely schizophrenic, and then realized I didn’t care, and then cried.

(C) You guessed it.

The Catalyst that Defined my Weekend.

  

EXTRA CREDIT: True or False? 

After finishing her crying, she checked on the kids. Preschooler, as usual, was still awake. She went in for one last hug. As she left his bedroom he announced in his super sweet sleepy voice, “Mom, you know what? I love you. And if I were a dog I would eat my own puke.”