Sibling Rivalry

Dear Peabody,

Today, your brother felt you kick for the first time. The look on his face was precious, priceless, and so full of awe.  Someday, when both of you have driven each other nuts and you think you hate each other, I'll remind you both of this day.  He has so much love to give you, sweet girl.

Love,

Mama

Role Reversal

For those of you who don't know, in our family, the woman works outside the home and the man doesn't.

You wouldn't believe how many people (and not only men, but educated, independent women who should know better), have said "but what does he DO??" with looks almost of horror on their faces when I mention that I'm the one who has a job, and D doesn't.  That would never, ever, EVER happen if I were a man and said that my wife stays home with our son. Or if it did, people would be expecting me to say that my wife scrapbooks or something useful like that. Even if people aren't surprised, I still get semi-sarcastic remarks about how I must wear the pants in our relationship. Which is so untrue it's laughable.  Few and far between are those who accept the situation at face value, and even more rarely do I hear: "Oh, we wish we could do that in our family."

I'm not sure which is the worse chauvinistic attitude: the attitude that if he's at home, he clearly does nothing worthwhile, or the attitude that I'm the woman, and therefore need him to "prove" that he can care for me financially, so that I in my turn can stay home and be much more productive than he ever could.

My husband made almost as much in his first year as an engineer as I will make in three years as a resident. And he didn't have to stack up an additional four years of debt to do it.  But he did have to be gone all the time,  leaving me with a terrible work schedule and the social calendar of a school-aged child to deal with on my own, not to mention the house and the yard and the cars and all of the other things that grown-ups have to think about.  When his company asked him to go out on the road again or else, we had to do what was best for our family, not what was best for our bank account.  

We had always planned to do this, it just happened sooner than we had anticipated. After all, my husband's job was not something he enjoyed.  And while he could see himself enjoying other jobs within the field, those jobs weren't the ones that were hiring.  Meanwhile, I love what I do. I can't imagine doing anything else. So why should he have to work just because he's the man? His ego doesn't need it, and my fragile womanhood doesn't need the reminder that he's perfectly capable of "taking care" of me.  Who would it be unfair to if he were the one working at a job that he hated, while I stayed away from a job I love?

As for wearing the pants in the relationship, there is no doubt in my mind who does. People who know us think that I do because I'm the loud, bossy, temperamental one, while he's the calm, quiet one.  But just because he spoils me by letting me act like a princess doesn't mean that I make the final decisions.  I rely on him wholeheartedly, which he enjoys because he likes to take care of me and which gives me that taken-care-of feeling, both of which we apparently need to fulfill our cultural gender roles.  We question each other's opinions almost constantly, but if one of us is asking the other for help with a decision, I can almost guarantee that it's me asking him. 

Now let's talk about that business about "what does he do all day?" Well, people, I don't know if you've ever tried taking care of A FREAKING FAMILY by yourself, but most of the people I know can't even take care of themselves very well.  And yes, I'm irritated, and therefore talking about you.  He manages our finances, cooks AND cleans, does the laundry, shuttles E to his various activities, helps with homework, mows the yard, attends school functions, gardens, does the grocery shopping, and generally keeps our life (and vehicles) running smoothly.  All of those duties that don't seem very time consuming until you realize you've been working all day and now, not only do you not have any food in your refrigerator, but you don't have gas in your car to make it to the store, and even if you did, you don't have any clean shirts to wear out of the house.

When I stopped having to worry about all of those things, my stress level decreased dramatically.  I became a better wife and mother, and probably a better person over all.  I'm more able to relax when I get home, without having to think about how the kitchen looks or whether my son has finished his spelling homework.

And obviously, the best outcome, and the one that fueled our decision to have a single-income family in the first place, has been that D has really gotten the chance to be a parent, and E has had a parent who can be there for him all the time.  When this baby girl (finally) comes along, she's going to have the same privilege. And somehow I don't think our kids will care whether they have a mom or a dad at home with them.

They'll just care that someone is there.

Subliminal Messages

Dear Peabody,

Your brother announced today that it's weird to think of me having another person inside of me. We then proceeded to call you an alien, a parasite and a tumor. It's true. You'll understand some day. E will explain it to you.

E is making a playlist for you. I explained to him how you will be able to hear more and more of the outside world the older you get.  So he's keeping track of all the songs he loves so he can share them with you while you're still cooking.  He became very serious at one point during our discussion of music and was obviously concentrating on something. He then said "It's weird to think of languages. Peabody can hear us, but she or he has no idea what we're saying." We decided that you'll figure it out eventually, with a little bit of help.

So listen up, Tater Tot. The world's waiting for you.

Love,

Mama

Reawakening

No, I haven't died. I'm just pregnant. First trimester woes plus a miserable rotation took me off the face of the internet world for a little while. So I'll start filling in the blanks now that I'm feeling more like a person and less like a bloated sack of nauseated heartburn. You're welcome.

Girls Versus Boys

So we had the big 16-week ultrasound today at my doctor's office. The nurse spent approximately 20 minutes of my 25 minute visit trying to get little Wiggle Worm-in utero to hold still and uncross his/her legs long enough for us to get a peek. After all of that maneuvering, we're fairly certain it's a....GIRL! Yay! A girl! What the heck am I gonna do with a girl?! I've only taken care of the male version of children, I don't know what to do with females!

My entire circle of family and friends were already convinced that this child was a girl. For his/her own sake, I hope the ultrasound glimpse was right, because if not, there are too many jokes already readily apparent.

My poor son was the only one (besides me) who was holding out a little bit of hope that it was a boy. Obviously boys always want brothers, and since he already has a half-sister, he thought maybe he'd get something different this time ;-).

I told him today and then, aware that he was slightly disappointed (it's ok, Peabody, your older brother adores the heck out of you regardless of whether you're a boy or a girl...), I assured him that he would get along just fine with a sister (evidence in fact: D and his 3 sisters are very close). I then reminded him that I had wanted him to be a girl, a joke that I say all the time and apparently he thought was really just a joke, because he said: "Really??" Rather horrified, he was. I said "Yep. But God told me, 'nope, you're having a boy, and you're going to name him E and he's going to be full of mischief but he'll give you the sweetest kisses."

E thought for a moment and then said "I think it's neat that God tells you how to do things. How does he do that?"  I said, "What do you mean?"  He said, "Well,  you know, God told you how to tuck me in and things."

Where would I be without you, God?

Quickening

Dear Peabody,

Tonight I felt you move for the first time. Some people think that babies aren't supposed to make their presence known for a while longer. I guess you're ahead of the curve, kiddo. Or maybe I'm just so eager to meet you that I'm more attuned to those tiny bubbles and flutters, because they mean you're growing and getting closer and closer to actually being here. Pretty soon I won't be the only one who can feel when you're kicking around in there. If you're anything like your brother, you will keep me awake all night stretching out and exploring the boundaries of your little world.  Have fun swimming, tiny one.

Kisses,

Mama

Street cred

E: I drew a horse for Kayley today, but then she ruined its reputation by coloring it with markers.

Ode

You gave me a golden day

I met you as the bells rang your freedom

your face at the doors was full of joy

at my unexpected presence

There were only a few steps to take

and the world was glorious

the sun had deigned to grace us 

with an autumnal glow at the heart of winter

so you and I walked instead

We might have been in Oz

you led me by such bright pathways

you dazzled me with laughter

your being demanding exuberance

and all my concentration, all my focus

on your hand in mine

We skipped along the cemented streets

where strangers could distantly observe

only the reflection of this affection

while poetry danced in every sweet angle of your face

I so easily forget the wonder you are

when I'm separate from you for a week, day, moment

and then you smile

fascinate me anew

I could spend my life reaching

for understanding of what I've been given

Your love is so far beyond

what my heart can grasp

So THAT'S how she does it

E and I were having a discussion about his piano teacher the other day, specifically on how he needs to speak up when he is addressing her or answering her questions, because she's (just giving a rough estimate here...) 120 years old and can't hear him when he mumbles. I explained that he also needs to give a firm answer and look at her when he speaks, both because of the hearing thing and because he needs to show her respect because she is his elder.

To which he responded, "She's not my elder. She's someone's elder, but she's not mine!"

I then had to elaborate a bit on the strict definition... "...and that means she's my elder, too.  And Noni and Poppa's."

"<gasp> She's Noni's elder, too?"

"Yes, son, Ms Piano Teacher's probably <insert not-so-highly-inflated-number> years old! How old do you think Noni is?!"

"Well, I know she's old. I just thought I kept her looking young with all our sword-fighting."

I then laughed so hard that he told me "Mom, you're laughing so loudly the eagles will hear you."

Which didn't help.

Talk To Me

My mother is the type of super-woman who wrangles Christmas letters every year, a gargantuan task that I cannot even contemplate. For years, I've looked forward to reading the quirky, unique things she decides to incorporate into her cards.  Every Christmas, I also enjoy reading about the lives of various friends and relatives, and exclaiming over pictures where the children always seem to be at least 5 years older than I think they can possibly be.

My mom and I had a discussion the other day about this particular mode of communication.  She mentioned that her mother, in turn, always jokes about friends who send her Christmas letters, since she says "why would I need this, I know everything that's happened in their lives because we write to each other all year!"  My nana engages in such detailed and frequent written communication that she has stayed in contact with friends over almost seven decades.  But my parents' generation lost the art of letter-writing.  They turned more to occasional phone calls and the yearly letters to keep up with the turning of seasons.

In my generation, even the Christmas letter has fallen by the wayside.  And it's because forms of social networking such as Facebook and Twitter (even MySpace, if anyone uses it any more?) have kept us in such close awareness of each others' lives.  Should we ever think: "I wonder what so-and-so has been up to lately", an instant update is available at our fingertips, in way more intimate detail than we could ever need.  For instance, I'm thinking of some recent statuses proclaiming the extent of cervical dilation ladies are experiencing as they enter the labor process.  I mean, come on, what's next, a live video feed? NO ONE NEEDS TO KNOW THAT.

Sometimes, though, the amount of closeness we achieve via the Internet inhibits us from practicing true relationships.  I know exactly what my best friend from high school was thinking last night as she watched that movie, but I don't truly know how she felt.  I know the public broadcast version of everyone's days, thoughts and dreams, and yet the secrets and depths to the actual person I am friends with are lost.  I am betrayed into laziness by the false reality of a virtual friendship, and more extensive communication seems more effort than it is worth.  And even the minuscule effort I make  (i.e. turning my search engine to a profile...) seems Herculean in comparison to actually dialing a number.

As a whole, people make the same New Year's resolutions year after year: drink less, stop smoking, lose weight, laugh more. This year, in particular, I have heard a lot of people saying they are going to make more of an effort to spend time with their family and friends, try being with them a little more frequently.  I made a similar resolution, but to simply be more involved with the day-to-day realities of my loved ones' lives.

Even if it means I have to write a letter to my Nana.

Welcome Home

We just celebrated the baptism of our niece, LM, who is 3 months old.  My sister-in-law and her husband asked D & I to stand as godparents, a role that we are so proud to have. She was baptized in the church where D & I grew up, the same place we were married. She was wearing a traditional baptismal gown, all white and lacy, the kind that makes all the females in the room exclaim "Oh, how cuuuuuuute!" She solemnly examined our faces as our family affirmed an ancient set of beliefs, and her parents promised to guide and nurture her. Not a peep escaped her as the priest blessed her tiny head with the holy water. And tears were in my eyes as we officially welcomed her into our faith.

I'm a sucker for pomp and circumstance.

Just think how bad I'll be if she ever gets married...

Case In Point

Tonight, I was bringing E a very small drink of water, and was standing on his bunkbed ladder watching him drink it when he said "Do I have to drink the whole thing now?" and gave me a look. A look like I was putting him through some strange mother-son hazing ritual and forcing him to drink a giant glass of water right before he went to sleep, in order to torture both of us with the inevitable soggy outcome...

"I'm just waiting here to tuck you in!" I exclaimed, "Unless you no longer need my tuck ins!" (and at this point, because he is well-trained, he protested, but I persisted:) "In which case, I guess you no longer need a mother!"

"But that's not the only reason you need a mother!"

"Oh, ok," I relented, "so what are these other reasons?"

"To take care of you.  And to love you."

How is that amount of sweetness possible?

Prayer

Several years ago, before E came along, my mother told me that while my siblings and I were small, she would pray every day just to live.  Just to be around long enough for us to be (mostly...) grown up.  And that every day beyond that would be icing on the cake.  And when I was young, I thought "wow, that's morbid" and understood her only from a very clinical perspective: of course my mother would want to live to see me grow up.  That's only natural, after all.

I have E now. And now I know how it feels to worry that I will die suddenly in a car accident or in a plane crash or of cancer, and leave my small son behind.  Granted, he'd be more than adequately cared for, more than adequately loved. But it wouldn't be by me.  And that's the fear that keeps me awake sometimes.  It's the constant, dragging fear that sends me shivering from a close call on an icy patch of road, or shuddering in horror from a story about a mother of five dying unexpectedly from some rare disease.

My life is lived, and it's been lived pretty darn heartily.  If I were all that I had to worry about, it wouldn't be so bad to die.

But there's one small boy, one person that I was meant to take of. And Someone obviously thought I was the best person for the job.

And so, like my mother before me, and like mothers for centuries, all I ask is that I live until He doesn't need me any more. And hopefully by that point, he won't need me any more.

Je Regrette

I wish I had taken more video of E when he was little.

I just found a video of him a year ago at his birthday and his voice was so freaking cute.  Today, he still sounds like a little kid, but he's swiftly losing his baby voice and pretty soon all traces of that baby will be gone.  I have lots of recordings from when he was an actual infant and toddler, because he was always cooing and dancing and doing goofy things.  His memorable times are harder to catch now, not because he's less cute, but because he's moving at a much faster speed than he used to.  I'm left in the dust, gasping at how quickly time is passing, and wanting to hold onto each second for just a little bit longer than the clock will allow.

So if I ever have another child, maybe the first thing I should do is buy a high-quality, compact video camera.

Or just leave lots of room on my fancy smart phone.

Consistently Impressive Vocabulary

I got the rare joy of picking my son up from school today.

While we were walking to the car, he was chattering away (as he is usually doing.  I've never known him to be at a loss for words...) and I happened to piece together the fact that the kids in his class were teasing him by calling him "Elvis."

When queried why, he replied: "Because I put gel in my hair. And I just put it all over. I have no consistent way of doing it."

D will kill me for telling this story...

E was outside playing with his friend Squeaks (not his real name, but I like to preserve some semblance of anonymity on this blog, and the kid has a high squeaky/raspy voice, so that's how he shall be dubbed from now on) earlier today when suddenly he came storming inside, slammed the front door, and stomped up the stairs to his bedroom muttering under his breath.  Being a mother, and therefore easily quailed by such tactics, I tentatively called "E?" but received no answer.

When he had cooled down enough to grace the downstairs mortals with his presence again, I asked him if he'd had a disagreement with Squeaks. "Well, yes," he replied, grumpy again, "I got mad at him because I told him that I'd gotten a new haircut today and he didn't even say 'nice haircut'!"

Suffice it to say that I had to try very hard not to laugh.

And D didn't think it was that funny.  Since he's been on the other end of that particular conversation once or twice.

Bookworm

You have no idea how often I still look exactly like this, nose in a book, spoon poised halfway to my mouth.  Cereal almost necessitates a good book.  At least this is a good thing to have run in the family, I suppose.

The Husband and the Wife

An...acquaintance...of mine sent me this the other day, and I laughed so hard reading it that it just had to be shared.  It has been edited very slightly for the sake of certain involved parties, but the spirit of the thing has been preserved.  Enjoy!
   




       ...I set off for Different Town. We decided to eat Chinese... At first I told the Husband to pick up the order, and I would meet him at the B & B [place where we stay when we're in Different Town]. Then I realized that if it were the Husband, HE would have picked up the food on the way in and brought it 'home'. I was merely accustomed to being spoiled as a "lady" and not out and around after dark if I could help it (my thoughtful husband's behest).  So I called him back, said I would pick up the food, chatted with Mrs. Chinese Restaurant Owner and exclaimed over her children (now quite good-looking, both of them), then set off home with a bag of aromatic lo mein, honey chicken and rice and a large [supposedly] Diet Pepsi.  (It turned out to be a Dr. Pepper, fuel on the fire, fuel on the fire.) I arrived to a darkened B & B with sounds of banjo music mixing in with announcer calls most consistent with Fight Night.  I entered the kitchen side, food in hand, and was greeted by my loving husband who had leapt up from his sofa, put down his banjo, and come to relieve me of the food the moment he heard my [dulcet] tones inquiring as to his whereabouts. This is the point at which disaster struck.
      I made Wife Mistakes Numbers 1 and 2: 1)Making assumptions (in this case, making the assumption that he would realize I was hauling in stuff from my car) and 2)Expecting understanding without clarification (in this case, expecting he would realize that just like the other 52 times or so that I've arrived at the B & B I would, indeed, have various gear, food and sundries to haul into the edifice). 
     I returned to the car to pile even more (and heavier) articles into my arms.  I turned around, no husband was in sight. Well, he's just putting the food up a bit slowly, perhaps. I entered the kitchen to be greeted with an almost identical situation: darkness with echoes of banjo music and announcer quips. I proceeded to shuffle my feet somewhat noisily. Ah. Almost instant results. The Man comes out before I've completely traversed the floor to relieve me of my burdens.  "Is there more?" he asks, innocently.  Of course there's more.  I've taken on his tendency to travel with not just clothing, but books, electrical gear, musical instruments and food, as well as anything that strikes my fancy as I glance through the house one last time before setting the alarm (this is when the kitchen sink makes it into the car....). I am now quite perturbed. It's past 8, I'm hungry, thirsty and tired and have more gear to unpack. I turned to make yet another trip to the car.  10 feet became 20, 30 pounds became 60, in my irritation.
     Unfortunately, Mrs. B&B Owner's very carefully timed lights are not timed for darkness. As I stepped out into darkness, I forgot the 1" drop from stoop to driveway, lost my balance, fell onto my right knee and left palm, scraping both. As I writhed in temporary pain, the Husband called out, "Are you all right?"  I writhed a little longer, granted mostly for effect and [righteous] consolation. It was not to be. As I picked myself up, having ascertained I'd received only the most minimal of injuries and even less consolation from my fight-night-distracted husband, I replied in what I thought was a voice laced and dripping with irony, "Oh, I can handle the rest of it by myself."  Remember the Wife Mistakes above? He took me at my word and I ended up hauling in my heavy suitcase by myself. (Never mind that I had earlier hauled it to the car and loaded it myself, a more difficult task. My status as a trophy wife was, at this moment, precarious and endangered!!)  This time when I entered, there was no activity whatsoever in the kitchen. Why should there be? The Husband had served himself and speedily returned to watching his fight. And then he wondered why I was mad the rest of the evening.

To add insult to injury, I went to church the next evening and the readings were too appropriate:
  
 "Wrath and anger are hateful things,
      Yet the sinner hugs them tight."

The only saving grace was that the Husband had gotten called in and wasn't there to nudge me in the ribs....

Neurotic Love

First, for some background.  I spend a large portion of my day writing.  With a pen.  Electronic medical records be darned, this hospital is still largely paper-run.  Hence the writing.  Throughout the course of last year, I spent a large part of my time trying out new pens.  It took me a long time, but I finally discovered the perfect pen.  It was difficult, because I'm left-handed, so most pens leave gross-looking smudges on the side of my hand, and very unprofessional-looking smears on my notes.  And I hate pens that "skip". I don't know what the real term for it is, but it's what happens when all of a sudden you're in the middle of a note, going 100 miles an hour because as soon as you get this note done, you can finally put your feet up for a few seconds and maybe even eat something for the first time in 12 hours and by GOSH your bladder is screaming for mercy, and your pen decides that it will only spit ink out for half of that word you just wrote, and for maybe 1/4 of the next one, and when you finally admit that your writing is no longer legible, pick the pen up off the paper to carefully scrutinize the amount of ink in the barrel, shake it vigorously, and possibly even lick the tip (because, you know, that always work, right?), it decides to work just fine until maybe 2 lines later, when the whole cycle repeats.  I can't take that.  I have a short fuse.  So anyway, I finally found the right pen.  It's the Pentel Energel Liquid Gel Ink Metal Tip 0.7mm ball pen, and unfortunately it's only sold at Staples.  I promise.  I've looked.  So don't tell me where you think I can find them unless you KNOW.

I'm done.  On to the point...

I always call my husband as I'm leaving work.  For one thing, it's pleasant to hear his voice after a long day without it, and for another, it gives him warning so he can have dinner ready (and yes, if our roles were reversed, everyone would be up in arms about how chauvinistic that sounds, but honestly, we both just like to eat dinner as early as we can, and we don't like dinner to be cold, so don't get your boxers in a twist).  Today, I called my husband to tell him that I'd be home in 20, and as usual, started rambling about my day, and his day, and what was on the horizon that we needed to keep in mind, and what the lady in the car next to me was doing, etc. etc. Yes, I talk a lot.  Right as I was turning into our neighborhood, I said, "oh, and we need to run to Staples at some point, because I'm almost out of pens." He, being well aware of the trials and tribulations I had suffered before finding true love in pen-form,  replied in an appropriate and suitably interested-sounding way and I hung up the phone right before I pulled into our garage. I walked into the house, and happened to see, on the dining table:

He knows what I need before I even know I need it.  And when what I need are pen refills, he knows that too.

Genetics

I asked E yesterday what sort of children he'd like to have (yes, he's going to have all sorts of strange ideas about the choices he'll have when he's all growed up...) and he said "well, they'll look like a mix between you and Lulu [my sister]."  And that would be a lucky little girl.

I'm kidding.

Kind of.

Then I asked "What about the boys? Won't you have any boys? I did, after all." And he said "They'll look like D and Baba [my brother]."

He's so sweet, I think I'll keep him.