Easy Roads

I still remember when my babies were in my arms nursing how they would look at me and reach their little hand up to stroke my cheek.  It made me feel like everything was right in the world.  I’d turn off the Law & Order marathon, put down the burrito, prop myself up against some comfy pillows and just enjoy the time doing something natural, simple and easy.

Except, getting to that point wasn't.  First, I almost missed the boat on the father of my children.  I didn’t want to get married young (by my standards, not Appalachian).  The Professor put up with years of dating, breaking up, living together in sin, and in therapy.  I finally did agree to be a child bride.  I was 28.

Then, the Professor was ready to start a family, again years before I was.  I had just hit my stride in my career and didn’t want to slow down.  He was worried we might run into trouble conceiving (Had he seen my hips?), having read somewhere it could take up to two years to get pregnant “naturally.”  I bought the logic, thinking we could avoid pressure if we got started early.  At any rate, I figured baby making might be more fun if it wasn’t a pre-scheduled activity, like a Body Pump class at the gym.  I got pregnant the first month off of birth control.  I was 30.

In between my two babies, I had a pregnancy that didn’t make it.  I carried our middle son for six months.  I’ve come to understand that miscarriages and terminations are part of motherhood.  We’ve come a long way from having children to help out on the farm, and making a few extra “just in case.”  We now know exactly why we can or can’t, will or won’t conceive, carry and deliver.  Scientific progress doesn’t make it easier.  I grieved heavily over the loss.  I was 34.

Charming Baby came along soon thereafter, thanks to ovulation testing kits.  There is nothing less romantic than telling a man he has to do it immediately when he gets home from his business trip because you’ve released an egg.  Conceiving wasn’t the part that was rough, though.  After a successful (albeit nauseous) pregnancy, my OB-GYN advised me to induce early.  My first baby was 10 lbs. 14 oz. at birth and while it was wonderful that I could actually push out an 11 lb. baby, it wasn’t advisable.  Where First Born Prince had been big and beautiful and pink, Charming Baby, who was forced out before he was ready, was thin and yellow and just looked like he wasn’t fully baked.  He was jittery and had jaundice.  I was mad at myself for listening to ill advice.  I was 35.

Some women make it look easy.  They have twins, with no household help, and casually nurse their infants, one after the other, without you even noticing.  Others act like feeding their one little baby is a military exercise and everyone should stop talking, round up burp cloths and stand at attention until the last gas bubble is gone.  I like to think I have had enough challenges achieving the title “mother” that I am not smug or unsympathetic.  But I am keenly aware of how extremely fortunate I am.  I hit the mommy jackpot with two strong healthy boys and am in the sweet spot of my journey.  I am 43.

Ice Queen

In a perfect Texas twang, the voice on the other end of the line instructs me, “Now just hold on a minute.  A truck is drivin’ by and I can’t hear ye.”

I wait and then continue to tell the salesman that the ice maker I want from him makes the clear, square kind of cubes. 

“Y’ all don’t like the cresent-shaped ones?  I’ve got one of those.”

He then tells me to hold again.

“Another truck?”

“No, are you old enough to know who Marlon Brando is?”

“Sure, yeah.”

“Well, I am watchin’ “Mutiny on the Bounty” and my favorite part is comin’ up.”

“Oh, really?”  I try to be nice.  I want my ice maker before summer.

“Here it is.  The part when the captain slaps the first mate.”

I’ve been exchanging phone calls with Alan from Texas for a few months.  I need a special custom ice maker to replace the broken one we have.  It’s a fussy, special size, costs-an-arm and-a-leg number, but I found this broker who you can get a factory second from for less than half retail.  We already have a door panel that matches our other appliances, so it doesn’t matter if there is cosmetic damage.  I am sure he already thinks I am a fruity and nutty Californian who is willing to pay extra time and money for square, clear ice, so I guess I can steer my thoughts about this factory seconds salesman slash Marlon Brandon fan in another direction.

“Tell me about it, Alan.”

Did you get what you wanted?

“Valentine's Day:  When the cynics criticize the romantics for the over-commercialization of the holiday and the romantics criticize the cynics for lack of belief in love and we take the time to step back and realize how lucky we are to have people we love who love us, no matter whether or not we are in a relationship. We celebrate the bonds between us that we wouldn't be able to live without.”

--Sydney Roslin

I caught an ad for a Valentine's Day special from the massage studio I like:

“Add 30 minutes of foot reflexology to your massage for only $30!”

The Professor interrupted my daydream of having my arches worked.

“So, I’m heading over to Costco.  Are flowers for Valentine’s Day okay?”

“Yes, of course.”

He brings me flowers from Costco every time he goes.  I REALLY appreciate that.  I also do not think he needs to prove anything to me on Valentine’s Day.  BUT he did ask AND my feet were already tingling in anticipation of what I really wanted.  I grabbed the ad and walked down the hall to his office.

“I hope this doesn’t come across as rude, but I actually don’t want flowers from Costco for Valentine’s Day.  I want foot reflexology.”

His eyes lit up.  God love him, all he wants to do is get it right.

“Great.  Perfect.  Give me the name of the place and I’ll handle it.”

I used to resent having to dictate what I wanted, feeling unromantic and piggish and bossy.  I prefer to think of myself as loving and generous and easy-going.

And that’s exactly how I’ll be tomorrow after my massage with 30 minutes added-on of foot reflexology.

Sweet Surprises

 

There is a mentally-disabled man, Peter, who works at the grocery store near us.  I don’t go to Vons very often anymore but used to be a regular there when the kids were younger.  Peter would always come over to our cart when I had Charming Baby with me.  He'd usually share something personal with me like, “I’m going to the Greek Festival.  I’m Greek.”  I was never sure how the conversations would go.  He didn’t make eye contact, asked a lot of questions, and sometimes followed me around while I shopped.  He seemed like a happy kid trapped in a man's body.

I saw Peter again today for the first time in over two years. I was cruising through the produce section when I heard his friendly, familiar voice.

“HI!”

“Hi, Peter.”  I didn’t think he would remember me.

“Where is your son?”

“He’s at school.” Unbelievable.  The clerks with all their faculties don’t remember me from one week to the next.

“Oh.”  He was quiet for a minute.  “How is he?”

“He’s great.  He likes school.  Thanks for asking.”

“Whitney Houston died.”

“Yes, I know.”

“It’s sad.”

“Yes, it is, but at least we have her beautiful music to remember her by," I replied, wondering if he was trying to make conversation or if he was really sad about losing Whitney Houston. 

“Okay, bye!”  He said loudly and began to walk away.

I must have turned my back to him when I reached for the bag of grapes.  I was trying to multi-task, already late to go pick up First Born Prince at the orthodontist.  I didn’t mean to cut him off.

“Good-bye, Peter!"  I yelled after him.

I thought about what a sweet soul he is and how it really was nice seeing him. Can't say that about everyone you run into.

He's a Lover

 Just when I was beginning to take myself too seriously, a Post-It note appeared on my desk, slapped there by a sticky, slightly pudgy hand with dirty fingernails:

I Love you, Mom.  P.S. Cme and tok to me.

Charming Baby had been trying to get my attention for a while and I hadn’t clued in yet.

“Sam, give me five minutes and I’ll wrap up what I’m doing.”

“Okay, I’ll be down in my room."  

"Waiting.”  He sang out.

My youngest son is the one who I thought was my fighter.  So impervious he was to cooperation as a three-year old, I took “Redirecting Children’s Behavior,” a parenting class that focuses on logical consequences instead of threats and punishments.  Twice.  I had to find a way to stop myself from pinning the child down and forcing sunscreen onto his red, defiant face.  Or, worse, avoid tackling him in public spaces and wrestling the kicking maniac into his stroller.

Up until a few years ago I was certain he would be the one who would leave me, run off to a university far away, never call or text, sleep his way through his twenties with women I’d rather not dine with, and then end up marrying some girl who had an unfortunate nickname for him like, “Sexy Sammy.”

Something happened along the way.  He blossomed into a lover.  He likes to sing.  And dance.  And cuddle.  He likes to comfort himself when he’s falling asleep by running his fingers through my hair.  When we are sitting across from each other in a crowded place, I’ll look up and catch him staring at me and he’ll mouth, I LOVE YOU.” 

The most tender part of it is that he has learned to articulate exactly what he wants and ask for it in a positive way.  He is light years ahead of me.  I still bark like a salty sea captain when I am not getting what I want.  I try to be patient and I work very hard to model polite behavior, but I am no lover.  I thought I was going to pass my hard-earned, deep-creased frown line down to my baby.  Turns out I was just waiting for him to come along and teach me how to soften it.

Time Bandits

“The following classrooms do not have anyone signed up for Teacher Relief tomorrow…” 

I scanned the e-mail sent from the school for the list.  Glaring at me like my mother catching me French kissing a boy on the porch, was my son’s teacher’s name.  I hadn’t signed up beforehand because I had scheduled myself as writing this week.  I couldn’t stand the guilt.  I immediately decided I would go in to staple flip books and sharpen pencils.

As luck would have it, I woke up this morning with a huge brainstorm and was frustrated I couldn’t sit down and explore my thoughts.  Hemmingway was able to write the great American novel because when he got out of bed with a hot idea, he could pour himself a cup of coffee, light a cigarette, and write until he had dug deep enough to feel satisfied.  I, on the other hand, had to make breakfasts, pack lunches, shuttle blood relatives to school, AND, now, kiss away a few hours of my time.  Gratis.

Then, I was thrown a bone.   The Professor offered to take the boys to the basketball game this afternoon.  (Our public high school was playing the top team in the county.)  Instead of homework, play dates and doling out snacks, I suddenly found myself with two free (quiet) hours.

I was at a crossroad.  Sort of like when bathing suit season is around the corner and every fucking corn chip is a crossroad.  I had an empty afternoon in the middle of the week.  What was I going to do with it?  Straighten up the house.  Catch up on e-mail. Return phone calls.  Schedule the handyman.  File Aetna claims.  No.  No.  No.  No.  And hell no.  Pour myself a glass of wine and write.  Now we’re getting somewhere.

It was pure chance that I got my two hours back today.  I realize novels aren’t written by being squeezed in on a to-do list.  Time to beef up my watch dog skills and guard myself against the time bandits!