I dunno. Maybe it’s PMS. Or Estrogen hijacking. Or my lump-hair producing neck. But I’m ... I dunno…
Maybe it’s the uncertainty that makes me want to watch Grey’s Anatomy for a good cry because I feel like MAYBE I want to cry but I don’t have a real reason to.
So maybe watching a delicious McDreamy will make me want to grab some tissue and weep a bit for someone dying on a table diagnosed with some godawful something because at least I know they had a short contract with The Show.
Does anyone know how long their contract is with This Show? No?
So I had my lump looked at today. I like to laugh at things because 1) usually it’s funny and 2) what the hell else am I going to do? So I asked told the technician I haven’t been in for an ultrasound in someplace like this since I had a wand jacked up my va-jay-jay. She laughed awkwardly. I do that: Make people Awkward. It’s a gift. Thank you.
So she looks for my bump and takes picture of my thyroid and keeps telling me it’s ok and nothing “palpable” seems visually bad. This is all fine and good. Except that she can’t say much of anything and I have to wait for my doctor to tell me it’s all fine and good. And really, I KNOW it’s all fine and good but you know that space between knowing and not knowing and worry? I’m there. Like thrust in the middle of knowing I’m fine and knowing a close friend with Thyroid Cancer.
I’m *this* close to going to church on Sunday.
And that is saying a lot.
Or maybe it’s because I’m reading Eat, Pray, Love: that makes me all sort of searchy or something.
Or maybe it’s my lump. Or the fact that a dear friend of mine went through this and found bad news and not good. And maybe I am realizing how hard that must’ve been for her and maybe I’ll appreciate my good news so much more because of it.
Because it will be good news.
My son is nearing two. TWO. Keeping all the “It goes so quickly” and “Next thing you know they’ll be teenagers and never want to be in your presence again” and “She’ll be walking down the isle before you know it” comments at bay, let me just say this:
As it is, I hardly remember LB before she turned two. I was wrapped up in the miscarriage, the move to Seattle, and the pregnancy again (for the record, I cried real tears when I just re-read that last entry I linked. REAL TEARS. If you ever wonder why you blog, read this. This, is why you write down every single detail: So you can read, remember, and cry in the coffee shop while email and work waits for you to remember how happy you are that everything turned out ok in the end.) But I digress…
I remember enjoying her briefly, sandwiched between the PPD and the Miscarriage/New Job/ House Purchasing/ Pregnancy. It wasn’t nearly long enough, I know. I think we had about 4.2 days of real fun together those first two and a half years.
Buddy gets the benefit of all those earlier mistakes. He gets to enjoy a Mom who can appreciate each new milestone. A mom who sometimes can even laugh at the “terrible twos.” (Even if it happens to be after a glass, er, bottle of wine, but whatever. Hey! Look! Yet another great side effect of NOT PREGNANT!)
I know this time is coming to an end, that time where MOM is GOD and the world revolves around me. I know it’s going to happen one day where instead of asking me questions they’ll tell me I know nothing. I know one day, sooner each passing hour, I’ll wonder what the hell happened to my babies. Who are these.. Children?
But for now, I’m going to write every detail of the past and present. So that when that day comes I can point to the posts, the pictures, and the videos and say, “Look! I showed the Internet your JUNK. So don’t tell ME I can’t show up at your Prom to make sure you’re not out in the back smoking pot with your friends.”
Because I love Lotus so much I could squish her face.
You already know this. I’ve said it at least a dozen times. But this is for our children and our grandchildren. One day they will ask the question, “How did you know he was ‘The Right One’?” I will point to this section of our memoirs and say, “Here.”
Kids? listen up.
I’m sure I’ve told you the history of us. How your dad and I dated in High School as insecure young people. I’m sure the love we had in our hearts was real but the maturity of that love was years and years away. My bad poetry and his creative cards are only a snippet of what we would become. Who we really were.
Where we are today.
It wasn’t the six years we spent apart as best friends, or the hour-long phone conversations nearly every night while I lived in Texas that year, or the six plane tickets I purchased to come visit your Dad before we began dating again. It wasn’t the fact that he is the only person I can spend seven days in a row with and still want to be around.
No, it was that time we went roller-blading with your cousin Danielle. That day I knew I’d marry him and have his babies.
Danielle was probably 8 at the time. (The same age your Aunt Kim was when he would give her piggy back rides while waiting for me to be ready for our date in High School.) I was living with your Great Aunt and Uncle while looking for an apartment in Portland, having recently moved back from Texas to be closer to your dad. We took Danielle to the park down the street to let her roller-blade with us. She was so excited, she made your dad a necklace. It was too tight and had a lovely purple star right in the middle that stuck out of his neck nearly choking him. But he wore it all day.
It was while I watched your dad take my cousin around the park on her roller-blades, that star sticking right out of his neck that I knew: I would have his babies. I would have children with this man, my best friend, and one day he would wear the necklace our daughter put on him.
And I was right.
I stepped down off the panel, my legs shaking so much I had a touch of paulsy. I’m pretty sure the sweat on my face could be seen from the back row. I stayed to answer a few questions and meet a new client so the room was nearly empty. I was actually a little relieved that nobody was left to see me taking deep breaths and stepping carefully. One. Two. Three. Breath.
I push thoughts of over-analyzing the panel out of my head and focused on food. I need it. Bad.
The feedback is great. People respond well to watching a complete and utter spaz on stage. I think it’s like a train-wreck. So cliche and so true. Or reading the fail blog. I? Am one Giant Fail Blog.
I start to think back to those times in my life I’ve lived up to my reputation. The sidewalk I tripped on with my arms full of books in college. Twice. The time I broke my friend’s wedding decor the night before the event. The day I spilled red wine on another friend’s white carpet. The wine I spilled at BlogHer (Sorry Guy) and the glass I broke at the SMB Method Party.
I’m the one you can count on to trip. I’m the girl that looks at faces turned expectantly at her waiting for a professional speech and farts. I’m the girl who leans over while teaching a room full of college Sophmores and gives the room a show of her boobs without realizing it.
I’m the girl that pees on a used test and calls her doctor to say she’s pregnant AND her husband while toting her six month old to his work to bawl. And realizes the mistake four hours later.
Yea, I’m that girl.
Not quite as funny as Liz Lemon.
Not as classy as Lucile Ball.
Not as pretty as Bella from Twighlight.
I’m .... just me.
I’m contemplating each of these small moments when I make the connection. I realize and nearly lose my breath: My daughter. My silly, crazy, spaz of a child comes directly from me. How on earth I failed to really connect this is unbelievable to me. How it’s possible I’ve spent the last four years wondering why she is so busy, what I’m going to do with her. DOES SHE NOT SIT STILL. Why she is loud. Why she is active. Why. WHY. WHY me?
Because she is so very me.
There is much I can say about my time at Blissdom, and I will. I will record the events and memories as I am recording 33 years of the most prominent events in my life. This most absolutely is a notable experience for a host of reasons. But tonight, I just want to remind myself one day my daughter is going to step off a podium and wonder what-the-fuck happens to her when she gets in a roomful of people. What. Is. The. Gigantic. Handwaving. All. About? Why oh why do these things always happen to me?
And it will hit her like a two ton brick: It’s in her blood as thick as Elmers. Spazy, freaky, energetic goo.
I hope she accepts herself for it as I’m starting to realizing I’m not as full of grace as my Grandma or born with the gift of holding my tonuge. I’m still realizing I can be loved as the person I am today.
I dance in the grass, my favorite twirlie dress flowing around my young legs. Each blade of grass tickles my toes as it squishes under my feet. I run and leap, awkwardly, in the air. I land and fall, my dress fluttering behind and under me. I get up and do it all again.
I sing to the tree behind our fence. Loudly. Out of tune. To a beat of my own. The lyrics never rhyme but I sing anyway. I sing of stars and sunshine and flowers.
I splash in the pool, watching the water slosh to each side. It’s almost big enough for me to dip my head under the water and count to ten without hitting the walls. I dunk under and start counting. 1. 2. 3. 4. 5. ... My sister comes out to play and I whine. I know there will not be enough room now for dunking and counting. At least she’s always good for splashing.
I pump my legs on the swing, higher higher, reaching until I can see the backyard four houses down. I don’t risk taking my hands of the chain until I can estimate the jump to the ground and I let… go… one.. two.. threee…..
These are memories as real as ice cream and summer and sunshine and backyards.
This weekend my daughter did something amazing: She went to her room and danced by herself. She played with her dolls and sang, loudly and out of tune, all alone.
She grows up and I remember more. I understand both sides of the fence a little better now, though not totally. I think I never will.
I glance in the mirror and I stop dead in my tracks: Who is this? Who is this mom of two? Business Owner? Wife?
I turn and sing, loudly, out of tune, to my own beat and realize one day, all too soon, she will be looking back, too. I hope her memories are just as whimsical.
From my desk, I can hear my husband playing with our kids downstairs. I’m here working, hoping to get somethings done before I head off to a conference where I’m
making an idiot out of myself in front of people
speaking, all professional and stuff. (ish)
I hear them laughing. I hear the faint sound of the TV. I hear a lot of loud wrestling.
I remember Saturday mornings as a child in Houston. Memories of cartoons, bike riding, running around with our neighbor friends.
I grew up on a regular suburbia street in which every fourth house was the same floor plan. There were wood fences separating lives in the back and a long cement sidewalk connecting us in the front. Nearly every house had children and we all knew each other.
I remember playing with the kids out front, running in and out of each-other’s house grabbing Kool-aid or Little Debbie snacks. It was always sunny. Hot, sticky. Sunny.
We played like this every weekend and every day after school. We knew Paul was the annoying little boy and Beth and Anne were the cool kids on the corner. We’d climb fenses defying boundries and sneak in to each other’s backyards. We’d “forage” in the woods behind our neighborhood, trees that would get cut down only ten years later for new developments.
It’s so very different now.
Now we live in a townhouse connected to a million other people but we know none of them. We share walls, not just fences, and still we do not know them. They do not smile at us. There are very few kids, and the kids that are here are kept inside. We’re isolated in a vast community where we all live so close you can see what they’re watching on TV but you do not know their name.
In some ways I very much miss the Saturday mornings of my youth. I miss the freedom to send the children out to play. I miss the constant presents of the sun. Growing up in Seattle in 2009 will be a wildly different childhood for my daughter and son.
It seems to me that the children haven’t changed as much since the seventies: the people have.
Maybe it’s time to remember our own childhoods. To step out from the fence and shake a hand.
And ride your bike in the sun.
*My sister and her friend from across the street, 1988.
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