UPDATE TO Mrs. Flinger October 16, 2015
Because the Universe has a wicked sense of humor, after this delcaration, my blog threw up all over my last upgrade.
So I'm starting over using Craft. Turning 40 and kid entering Jr High next year, sometimes it's just time for a change. These archives will still exist in the way the last child goes off to college and their room is the same for 20 years, but it's just time to move forward.
Discombobulated thoughts on death Jan 06, 2007
A cluttered kitchen. A woman sitting at her built-in desk at the counter with a growing belly and smashed peas on her shirt. Toys are strewn about. The TV is on the Discovery Channel and the husband watches toddler throw bits of puzzle in between theories of evolution and shows of Ancient Egypt.
The Half-Witted-Almost-Congruent Thought Process
Yesterday we attended a funeral for Mr. Flinger’s Grandpa. In my life I’ve lost all three Grandparents. I’ve been grandparent-less now for three years. Mr. Flinger, though, has been mostly grandparent-less for a week and that realization is never easy.
We were able to take part in the celebration of a man’s life of 84 years. We gathered with family, some we see often and some we’ve never met or haven’t seen in many many years. LB ran around with her second cousin and laughter rang through the room amidst the tears and heavy sadness. A few of us are pregnant and discussions turned from death to birth and the circle of life evidently continues on.
It’s hard not to place yourself thirty or forty years in the future, either at your parent’s funeral or even your own. It’s hard to sit there and hear words spoken of a man you knew and talked to recently and realize you will never ever talk to him again. That no-one will. It’s hard not to kick yourself for what you say to your own Mom and Dad and remember how you completely lost your shit just putting them on a plane to Texas, let alone see them pass in to death.
I remember my mom saying once that the transition from being a daughter to being the Mom was the hardest thing she can remember in her life. Knowing she doesn’t have a Mom of her own, that someone you want to call when you feel sick or lonely, was the worst pain imaginable. I often think of this and shove those nagging thoughts that one day I will be the one who is the end of the line. One day I will be The Mom. One day it will end with me.
I’m successful at pushing those thoughts away until I sit in a funeral and watch a son realize he is The Dad. He is It. There is no other line of Dad ahead of him. And you watch that realization pass over his face and you feel the clunk of his heart and you see your husband transplant himself to the same place and you die a little on the inside. Because you’re human.
It’s times like this that I kick myself for even complaining about traveling to see family. During the holiday week and even this trip down south, LB cried every hour on the hour in the hotel room, didn’t nap, woke up coughing and/or throwing up and we all slept about four hours total each night. The ride is even worse and the entire trip is plastered in cranky, tired uncomfortable-ness. My poor mom had to sleep on the couch in our tiny two bedroom condo and be subjected to the Flinger schedule while she was here. But when you’re sitting at a funeral for a family member, you remember how selfish you really are and how sacrifices are made to see family because they are just that: Family. And that when they go, you never get the chance to complain about driving so far or sleeping on the couch or that gawddaham traffic. That luxury is gone the day they go and you never know when that day is.
Like the playground whore that I am Jan 04, 2007
We dropped off Oma today. Just let me tell you, Internet, that if you ever take your Mom to the airport with your toddler and you know you can’t go far because of security and you’re pregnant and hormonal and lonely, just get out of the damn car and go in with her anyway. Saying goodbye in the street with the taxis and baggage carriers all over the place will not give you any closure and you’ll probably start bawling before you hit the freeway. And not stop until you get home 45 minutes later.
I had this intense feeling of alone again once we dropped her off. Just, alone. A-L-O-N-E. I know that I’m not a single mom but a work day is not 8 hours and a SAHM does not just work from 9-5. It’s the long minutes between the long hours and the realization that before too long I will be outnumbered most days of the week. I need to grow more arms, more eyes, more hands to carry things and prevent toddler from running in to the street while holding her bag, my purse, and the oh-so-important coffee. It was so nice having another person to help when she threw a fit or to affirm she’s a busy and hard two year old.
Instead of facing an empty house with just LB and myself, I decided to take her to the indoor park area. Yes, we have indoor park areas because like all the movies and TV shows say, it really does rain nine months a year here. Most days I pack LB up and take a towel to wipe off the slides and let her play out in the drizzle anyway, but today with the snow/rain mix coming down on the windshield and me barely able to see out of my teary eyes, I decided we both needed some milk and a scone and an indoor play day.
I was at the indoor park for about ten minutes when one of the moms I saw in Starbucks ran up after her one year old. We ended up chatting while three of her five (!!!!) kids ran around randomly tumbling and sliding and LB crawled through tunnels. Eventually a third mom joined us and we chatted in between chasing toddlers, breaking up fights, and yelling “You go DOWN the slide!! No! DOWN!”
I liked them. I didn’t just like them because MY GOD THERE IS SOMEONE TO TALK TO but because they were real women with real opinions, able to voice where they are at in life and laugh about how they got there. One of the moms has a just-turned-two year old and is due in June. I glanced down at my swollen belly and her very tiny budding belly and couldn’t decide if I wanted to hate her for being so lovely and thin and barely showing or if I wanted to hug her for being in the same place in life as we are.
I refrained from both. I’m really showing signs of maturity now.
Just as we entered the “how much we pay in taxes versus the benefits we get” discussion my lovely fair and dainty daughter runs up and grabs her ass, “POOOOPPPPIINNNGGG!!!!” I smile, turn a little red and tell them it was lovely chatting but I probably need to fix my kid’s crappy pants.
While getting LB’s shoes and coat on I curse myself for not at least asking their names. I curse my child for having to crap and I curse my own insecurity that I couldn’t just be honest, ‘HI! We just moved here and we have no friends. Wanna be ours?” It sounds pathetic but it’s worked before.
As we headed toward the door I saw the two women chatting as they both got their kids ready. I sucked in a deep breath and headed over. I didn’t use the line, “Hi! I’m lonely and pathetic and need friends,” but I did say “Can I give y’all my number? We just moved here and are always looking for people to play with.” It went well, numbers and emails got tossed around and the pregnant mom said there’s another indoor play area not too far that I’ve never heard of. I prevented myself from saying, “See ya there tomorrow!” and instead said it sounded great and perhaps we can do that soon.
Funnily enough, having a possible playdate made changing my daughter’s poo in the Starbucks bathroom without wipes a little less irritating. I even laughed as she wiggled her bottom and said, “SALSA!” when she danced in the hallway. Everything is just a little brighter and starting to feel a little better, one playground whoring out at a time.
Forget Cankles, I get a feck Jan 02, 2007
We recently ventured downtown to take some pictures with Oma. It was fun, for the most part, to pretend to be tourist in the city we live in. It was fun, that is, until I’d view a picture we took and realize I look fat. I have a very round face now. I actually don’t weigh that much more than I did just a few weeks ago. I weigh less than I did with LB at this point and I’m able to wear my same pants I couldn’t get over my hips for 6 months post partum before. So why the puffy round face?
It’s my feck and I get it every pregnancy.
You know how some people bloat up in their ankles and get the stylish and oh-so-posh ankles that blend into their calves? You know how everyone lovingly refers to that as cankles? I have a face that bloats up and blends in with my neck. I get a feck.
I’ve taken time to give you a visual history of the feck. If you notice in the illustration here I have a picture of myself at 23 weeks pregnant with LB (notice the prominent neck/face combination) as well as 2 and 3 weeks post partum. You’ll see the belly has not deflated much at 2 weeks post partum but the face is much less round. The feck actually left about 1 week after giving birth.
And it appeared almost immediately this time around.
There’s this rumor that some people find pregnancy sexy and irrisistable. They find pregnant women beautfiul and glowing. Someone out there actually has pregnant lady fetishes. I, for one, am not one of those people and have set up a daily list of things to do:
#1 Repeat ten times daily: “I am not fat I’m pregnant.” Helpful if repeating loudly and in public.
Don’t be shocked if you’re wondering around Seattle and you hear a crazy lady yelling, “I’m not fat, I’m pregnant!” It’s just me and my feck trying to feel good about ourselves.
When your babysitter shows up with her own bucket of chocolatini…. Jan 01, 2007
Obviously you still high tail it out to dinner and wish her luck with the toddler and her bucket o’ alcohol yelling, “Medicine for her cold is in the bathroom and her PJ’s are on the floor in her room” as the door hits you in the ass on the way out.
We had a great time. LB was still alive when we got home and Oma was only *slightly* tipsy. Then we all brought in the new year like only the lamest people on earth can:
That’s right, it’s two minutes to midnight and Mr. Flinger and Oma are both on the computer. Moi? Well, I was NOT, thankyouverymuch. I was watching poor Dick Clark on the New Year’s Rockin’ Eve. Like that’s better.
I hope yours was great and that you did something besides IM each other and go to bed at 12:30. Gawd.