After a bizarre 17-day stretch of Justin being either off or home from day shifts in time to tuck Ella in, we are on day 2 of a 9-day stretch of swing shifts (we only see Justin at lunch before Ella's nap).
Whenever we have more than four days in a row of any one type of shift, we get into enough of a rhythm that the transition to another type is rocky. Ella whines more, needs extra hugs and kisses, kicks and screams and pushes more. I know all of this and try to take it in stride.
So tonight, between our prayers of the day and the Lord's Prayer, she thrashed about a bit, whimpered, crawled into a ball with her head buried into the couch cushions next to me, then said, "I'm sad. I miss my daddy."
"I know, Love. I miss him, too. It's hard not to have him here for dinner and night-nights. He works so hard. But you know what? We're lucky because we get to see him in the daytime! A lot of kids don't get to see their daddies in the daytime, and we get to have lunch with him and sometimes go fun places with him. Like today, he got to come with us to your doctor appointment. Lots of daddies don't get to do that, but we get to do that together. Now let's say the Lord's Prayer and go night-nights."
She started thrashing about again, but we couldn't keep talking about it, so I started saying it without her, figuring she'd join in or at least just relax. She covered my mouth, "Don't say it!"
"We always say the Lord's Prayer together. We're going to say it." I know if I just skipped it, she'd decide as she crawled into bed that it was imperative to pick up where the record skipped, back on the couch, for prayers.
"No." She covered my mouth with her tiny hand.
I moved away and started singing it. Singing is how I've always gotten us through rough patches--since she first came home to live with us. I made up a song for getting her into the car seat and stroller, a song for getting dressed, a song for bathing and putting on lotion; now she knows all the words and asks for the songs or sings with us.
Right around "...thy will be done..." we settled into reciting it together.
Finally, we were ready to walk down the hallway to bed, past all of the family photos, which she has taken to stopping at to say, "Night, night, Mommy'n'Daddy... Grandma'n'Grandpa, etc."
"I have to do some work on the frames, so the pictures of Mommy and Daddy are in here, OK? You can say goodnight in here."
Meltdown.
"I want to say night-night!"
"You can still say goodnight! They're just in here, instead of in the hallway. It's OK. See! Look!"
We were literally ten feet away from their usual spot, which is around the corner. I just took them off so that I could work on them while she slept and not make any noise.
"I want to say night-night in the hallway!"
"Really? You can't just say goodnight in here? The other pictures are still in the hallway. It's just those two of Mommy and Daddy that are in here."
Sobbing.
"You want me to put them back up?" This is so not worth arguing about or standing on principle over. What's the principle? I'm changing things up on you when you're already upset about the change of not seeing Daddy at bedtime or in the morning? Because I didn't think it would be that big of a deal and I was wrong and you're two?
"Yeaaaaaaaaah!"
"OK. I have to put this stuff down." When Justin's not here, I have to carry her water and her pillow down the hallway, and sometimes her, too, so I'm loaded up. "Do you want to come with me? Do you want to see? They're all still up there. It's just these two."
She sits on the couch and sniffles, "I need a Kleenex!"
"They're right there next to you. Get one; I'll be right back."
I came back after hanging the photos and she wasn't in the living room. I heard the kitchen trashcan lid snap into position, and she turned the corner, smiling when she saw me. I knelt down and she ran, crashing into my arms.
We finished our routine--night-nights to everyone in the pictures in the hallway ("Why you not hang those two up?" "The paintings of me and Uncle Neil when we were kids? We don't need those ones. You don't say night-night to those ones. The ones of me and Daddy are up."), songs in the rocking chair, hugs at the bed, more songs, just one more song, one more hug, one more kiss, "I didn't get my hug!" one more song, one more kiss, "Bye-bye! I love you!"
We were running almost on schedule; I had all these plans for laundry and dishes and picking stuff up and writing stuff down once she fell asleep. I miss him, too, and the quaint Americana feeling there is about having dinner together and tucking her in together and watching TV together, but swing shifts mean more time to write, and watch political commentary instead of playoffs of sports we don't otherwise follow, and read.
But then, after all that everything, I just need a minute to recover. Maybe a glass of wine. Someone to tell all of this to before the feeling wears off and before the "new" old routine starts again tomorrow morning. So here I am. Forty-five minutes later, with nothing but a blog entry to show for it.
Monday, May 06, 2013
Friday, April 12, 2013
"going to work"
"Where's Daddy?"
"At work."
"Mommy go to work?"
I paused and breathed.
"No, Mommy doesn't go to work. I used to go to work. I used to be a teacher, like Miss Susan. But now I don't go to work and teach other kids, I take care of you."
"Yay!" She scrunched up her hands and raised them both in a cheer, flashing her crinkle-nose smile and everything.
It made me so happy. It felt so affirming. I felt like I had made the right decision. At that very moment, I knew that I was in the right place in the world.
A little part of me, when I was pausing and breathing, felt this flare-up of feminist hackles, but it just wasn't where I was.
I was talking to my little girl. She's two. It was almost bedtime and she was wondering where her daddy was. If I would go, too. She just needed to hear that no, I would not be going to "work." (I do wonder what she pictures in her mind's eye when we say Daddy's at work.) She just needed to hear that I would be staying with her. That she would not be left alone.
There would be another time for feminist teachings.
At that same moment, though, when my heart felt so full because my daughter was happy that I could stay at home to take care of her, I knew that I couldn't rely on her sweet face--the relief, the smile, the joy--to make this work feel right. I know that there will be times--there already are times--when it definitely does not feel like she is thrilled that I am with her.
This was not one of them.
"At work."
"Mommy go to work?"
I paused and breathed.
"No, Mommy doesn't go to work. I used to go to work. I used to be a teacher, like Miss Susan. But now I don't go to work and teach other kids, I take care of you."
"Yay!" She scrunched up her hands and raised them both in a cheer, flashing her crinkle-nose smile and everything.
It made me so happy. It felt so affirming. I felt like I had made the right decision. At that very moment, I knew that I was in the right place in the world.
A little part of me, when I was pausing and breathing, felt this flare-up of feminist hackles, but it just wasn't where I was.
I was talking to my little girl. She's two. It was almost bedtime and she was wondering where her daddy was. If I would go, too. She just needed to hear that no, I would not be going to "work." (I do wonder what she pictures in her mind's eye when we say Daddy's at work.) She just needed to hear that I would be staying with her. That she would not be left alone.
There would be another time for feminist teachings.
At that same moment, though, when my heart felt so full because my daughter was happy that I could stay at home to take care of her, I knew that I couldn't rely on her sweet face--the relief, the smile, the joy--to make this work feel right. I know that there will be times--there already are times--when it definitely does not feel like she is thrilled that I am with her.
This was not one of them.
Saturday, March 23, 2013
The First Night
After she put the sheet and the quilt on her new toddler bed, Ella picked up her blankie, unfolded it and struggled to arrange it to her liking.
It used to be folded in half and hung over the now missing crib rail, just like in the baby furniture catalogs.
"Do you want help?" I asked.
"Yes." I could hear the frustration in her voice.
I folded it in half and spread it at the foot of her quilt.
"No! Up there!"
"But we used to hang it on the railing, right here. If we spread it out over the quilt we won't be able to see the pretty flowers."
She climbed onto the bed. Thinking she was getting in a better position to help me arrange the blankie at the foot of the bed, I refolded it and laid it there.
She began to panic and then lay down the way she usually sleeps.
"No!" she was crying.
It struck me.
"You still get to sleep with your blankie! Don't worry! Do you want to try lying down under the covers?"
"Yeah," she agreed in that way crying people do when they are being calmed.
She got off the bed and I folded her sheets back, like turn down service in a hotel. She crawled in. "Get all comfy!" I encouraged as I always do. Then, I covered her and laid the blankie over her quilt and rubbed her back as usual.
"Is that better? See, you still get to sleep with your blankie, even in a big-girl bed."
She smiled, got out of the bed and left the room. As she was leaving, I said, "Hey, you have to make your bed before you leave the room!" But she was gone, and I was happy to arrange my baby's bedding all by myself, like I used to do for her crib.
Throughout the evening, she would say, "I'm tired. I want to sleep."
"OK. Do you want to go to sleep right now? No dinner?"
She'd go on with what she was doing.
Later, "I'm tired. I want to sleep."
"Are you just saying that because you want to sleep in your big-girl bed?"
"Yes." We giggled and smiled at the cuteness, and she giggled back.
When it came time for bed, after our prayers and saying goodnight to the grandparents and friends in our wedding photos down the hallway, and wishing on a star, she went straight for her crib. I mean bed.
"Hey! We still have to do songs in the rocking chair!"
She stopped, turned, and walked over to it. When her lullabies were through, I picked her up, knowing I didn't have to carry her the few steps to her crib, I mean bed,but still wanting to hold her. Still wanting those arms around my neck and that weight of her body, still wanting my hug.
I put her down.
She climbed in and we saw her huge, beautiful, dimpled smile.
Two more lullabies. I didn't take them up-tempo as I sometimes do; I lingered over the notes I could reasonably hold.
"Good night! We love you!" We exited, stopping at the door as we must, so that she can lift her head and peek at us, blow us a kiss and say, "Bye-bye! I love you!"
Back in the living room, we hugged tight. Justin started to walk to his computer at the dining table, but I stayed, standing at the window, looking through the courtyard and through the hallway window, staring at her door. Waiting for it to open. He said something like, "She'll be fine. We'll hear her through the baby monitor..." I held up my hand to stop him, just wanting to be left alone as I usually am after I tuck her in when he's at work. He left, and I stared. Tears trickled down my cheeks.
When I finally went into the dining room, he looked at my teary face and joined me on the couch. I started to sob against his chest. "She doesn't need me anymore!"
He consoled, "That's silly. She still needs you to say prayers with her, and sing her songs, and give her water--and even though I hand her the cup and my hand is right there to take it back, she has to give it to you. She still needs you."
"But she's so big now. It's going by so fast!"
"I know."
The baby monitor was silent. She slept. I wrote my blog. He checked the basketball scores and played a video game and watched a little TV. We drank wine. We went to bed.
"Do we have to switch sides?" His Marine Corps instinct to protect against intruders if he's awoken abruptly can be scary.
"No, I trained myself that if I wake up to this," and he tapped my arm gently and repeatedly, "it's Ella."
She woke only once, about 2:30 a.m., making some struggling noises that escalated slightly. Justin went in; he always does if he is at home, since if I do it she is more likely to want me to pick her up, to hold her, to begin her day. "Covers!" I heard her say, as she would if they were bunched up against the crib wall. We're trying to teach her to re-cover herself, but it's a tough skill to master.
He reported back: They were on the floor, she was still in bed. She repositioned herself on her tummy in her usual spot in the crib... bed... and went back to sleep.
I woke up at 7 a.m., peacefully, while they still slept.
She's up! It's 8:37! Gotta go.
It used to be folded in half and hung over the now missing crib rail, just like in the baby furniture catalogs.
"Do you want help?" I asked.
"Yes." I could hear the frustration in her voice.
I folded it in half and spread it at the foot of her quilt.
"No! Up there!"
"But we used to hang it on the railing, right here. If we spread it out over the quilt we won't be able to see the pretty flowers."
She climbed onto the bed. Thinking she was getting in a better position to help me arrange the blankie at the foot of the bed, I refolded it and laid it there.
She began to panic and then lay down the way she usually sleeps.
"No!" she was crying.
It struck me.
"You still get to sleep with your blankie! Don't worry! Do you want to try lying down under the covers?"
"Yeah," she agreed in that way crying people do when they are being calmed.
She got off the bed and I folded her sheets back, like turn down service in a hotel. She crawled in. "Get all comfy!" I encouraged as I always do. Then, I covered her and laid the blankie over her quilt and rubbed her back as usual.
"Is that better? See, you still get to sleep with your blankie, even in a big-girl bed."
She smiled, got out of the bed and left the room. As she was leaving, I said, "Hey, you have to make your bed before you leave the room!" But she was gone, and I was happy to arrange my baby's bedding all by myself, like I used to do for her crib.
Throughout the evening, she would say, "I'm tired. I want to sleep."
"OK. Do you want to go to sleep right now? No dinner?"
She'd go on with what she was doing.
Later, "I'm tired. I want to sleep."
"Are you just saying that because you want to sleep in your big-girl bed?"
"Yes." We giggled and smiled at the cuteness, and she giggled back.
When it came time for bed, after our prayers and saying goodnight to the grandparents and friends in our wedding photos down the hallway, and wishing on a star, she went straight for her crib. I mean bed.
"Hey! We still have to do songs in the rocking chair!"
She stopped, turned, and walked over to it. When her lullabies were through, I picked her up, knowing I didn't have to carry her the few steps to her crib, I mean bed,but still wanting to hold her. Still wanting those arms around my neck and that weight of her body, still wanting my hug.
I put her down.
She climbed in and we saw her huge, beautiful, dimpled smile.
Two more lullabies. I didn't take them up-tempo as I sometimes do; I lingered over the notes I could reasonably hold.
"Good night! We love you!" We exited, stopping at the door as we must, so that she can lift her head and peek at us, blow us a kiss and say, "Bye-bye! I love you!"
Back in the living room, we hugged tight. Justin started to walk to his computer at the dining table, but I stayed, standing at the window, looking through the courtyard and through the hallway window, staring at her door. Waiting for it to open. He said something like, "She'll be fine. We'll hear her through the baby monitor..." I held up my hand to stop him, just wanting to be left alone as I usually am after I tuck her in when he's at work. He left, and I stared. Tears trickled down my cheeks.
When I finally went into the dining room, he looked at my teary face and joined me on the couch. I started to sob against his chest. "She doesn't need me anymore!"
He consoled, "That's silly. She still needs you to say prayers with her, and sing her songs, and give her water--and even though I hand her the cup and my hand is right there to take it back, she has to give it to you. She still needs you."
"But she's so big now. It's going by so fast!"
"I know."
The baby monitor was silent. She slept. I wrote my blog. He checked the basketball scores and played a video game and watched a little TV. We drank wine. We went to bed.
"Do we have to switch sides?" His Marine Corps instinct to protect against intruders if he's awoken abruptly can be scary.
"No, I trained myself that if I wake up to this," and he tapped my arm gently and repeatedly, "it's Ella."
She woke only once, about 2:30 a.m., making some struggling noises that escalated slightly. Justin went in; he always does if he is at home, since if I do it she is more likely to want me to pick her up, to hold her, to begin her day. "Covers!" I heard her say, as she would if they were bunched up against the crib wall. We're trying to teach her to re-cover herself, but it's a tough skill to master.
He reported back: They were on the floor, she was still in bed. She repositioned herself on her tummy in her usual spot in the crib... bed... and went back to sleep.
I woke up at 7 a.m., peacefully, while they still slept.
She's up! It's 8:37! Gotta go.
Friday, March 22, 2013
"I'm getting bigger, but not too big."
We didn't give her any warning. We knew as soon as we mentioned it, we would have to do it right away.
That's what she's like now.
We don't look forward to anything. In so far as, she never knows something exciting is coming soon. It just happens, within hours or even just minutes of when she hears about it.
It is our new policy.
Ever since the zoo.
In February, we had a mini-vacay to San Diego, to see some friends who were visiting from Arizona. In our naive excitement, we told Ella we were going to the San Diego Zoo when we planned it weeks before going.
The night before, she was crying, "I want to go to the zoo!"
"We can't go right now. We have to go to sleep first. The zoo isn't even open! The animals are sleeping! They have to sleep. We aren't allowed to see them until the morning, when it's sunny again."
Then, in the morning, "You have to drink your milk first. The animals aren't even ready for us to come over yet. They still have to eat their breakfast and brush their teeth and get ready. We still have to drive there, and it takes a long time."
So we didn't warn her.
We didn't discuss it.
Justin and I talked about it, but not with her. Ella cannot fit into a pack-n'play or hotel "crib" anymore. She does not sleep with us in our bed--she thinks we are a jungle gym and climbs all over us, poking us, seeing if her finger fits in our noses or ears or mouths, playing peek-a-boo... Ella is almost 39" tall and weighs 30 lbs. It's getting too hard for 65" me to lift her over the crib wall--her feet crash into the rail. Ella tries to climb into her crib each night, but as she hinges her leg over the rail, I pick her up, telling her, "Silly! People don't climb into their cribs!" I figure if she learns to climb in, she'll realize she can climb out, too.
Today, as she goofed around with us before letting us her lift her out of the crib after her nap, I tapped on its wall and looked as Justin.
"Are you working tomorrow night?"
"Yes. But then I have a night off and it's your parent's anniversary party, and then I work for the rest of the month."
"OK." I tapped again. "Tonight?"
"Are you sure?"
"The only reason I want to do it is that we can't go anywhere until she'll sleep in a bed."
I took Ella potty while Justin secretly got the directions off the floor of the crib to make sure we weren't missing any parts. Then, I told her we had to talk to her and brought her into her room.
"Do you think you're ready to take this wall off and sleep in a bed? Or do you want to wait and do it later?"
"Yes, wait and do it later."
We asked again.
"I'm ready now!"
"OK. But if we take it off, you have to sleep in your bed. You have to stay in bed until Mommy and Daddy come to get you." I didn't even want to mention the possibility of wandering around the house unattended.
Justin and I have to switch sides of the bed. He still has Marine Corps instincts--you can't sneak up on him while he's sleeping without having a reasonable expectation that he will instinctively try to defend himself. I should sleep on the side closer to the bedroom door.
After Ella helped us by getting the sheets from her dresser, I prepared to make the bed. We put the mattress cover and fitted sheet on together, and then I put the mattress back on the frame.
"There is no side wall. I can do it by myself," she told me as she looked straight into my eyes while holding the sheet.
I wanted to object, but couldn't figure out why, so I said, "That's true," and put down the quilt and picked up the cell phone video camera.
She was never as cute as when she said that, but eventually, the bed was made--with a tiny bit of coaching when she started to get really frustrated that the sheet wasn't straight.
That's what she's like now.
We don't look forward to anything. In so far as, she never knows something exciting is coming soon. It just happens, within hours or even just minutes of when she hears about it.
It is our new policy.
Ever since the zoo.
In February, we had a mini-vacay to San Diego, to see some friends who were visiting from Arizona. In our naive excitement, we told Ella we were going to the San Diego Zoo when we planned it weeks before going.
The night before, she was crying, "I want to go to the zoo!"
"We can't go right now. We have to go to sleep first. The zoo isn't even open! The animals are sleeping! They have to sleep. We aren't allowed to see them until the morning, when it's sunny again."
Then, in the morning, "You have to drink your milk first. The animals aren't even ready for us to come over yet. They still have to eat their breakfast and brush their teeth and get ready. We still have to drive there, and it takes a long time."
So we didn't warn her.
We didn't discuss it.
Justin and I talked about it, but not with her. Ella cannot fit into a pack-n'play or hotel "crib" anymore. She does not sleep with us in our bed--she thinks we are a jungle gym and climbs all over us, poking us, seeing if her finger fits in our noses or ears or mouths, playing peek-a-boo... Ella is almost 39" tall and weighs 30 lbs. It's getting too hard for 65" me to lift her over the crib wall--her feet crash into the rail. Ella tries to climb into her crib each night, but as she hinges her leg over the rail, I pick her up, telling her, "Silly! People don't climb into their cribs!" I figure if she learns to climb in, she'll realize she can climb out, too.
Today, as she goofed around with us before letting us her lift her out of the crib after her nap, I tapped on its wall and looked as Justin.
"Are you working tomorrow night?"
"Yes. But then I have a night off and it's your parent's anniversary party, and then I work for the rest of the month."
"OK." I tapped again. "Tonight?"
"Are you sure?"
"The only reason I want to do it is that we can't go anywhere until she'll sleep in a bed."
I took Ella potty while Justin secretly got the directions off the floor of the crib to make sure we weren't missing any parts. Then, I told her we had to talk to her and brought her into her room.
"Do you think you're ready to take this wall off and sleep in a bed? Or do you want to wait and do it later?"
"Yes, wait and do it later."
We asked again.
"I'm ready now!"
"OK. But if we take it off, you have to sleep in your bed. You have to stay in bed until Mommy and Daddy come to get you." I didn't even want to mention the possibility of wandering around the house unattended.
Justin and I have to switch sides of the bed. He still has Marine Corps instincts--you can't sneak up on him while he's sleeping without having a reasonable expectation that he will instinctively try to defend himself. I should sleep on the side closer to the bedroom door.
After Ella helped us by getting the sheets from her dresser, I prepared to make the bed. We put the mattress cover and fitted sheet on together, and then I put the mattress back on the frame.
"There is no side wall. I can do it by myself," she told me as she looked straight into my eyes while holding the sheet.
I wanted to object, but couldn't figure out why, so I said, "That's true," and put down the quilt and picked up the cell phone video camera.
She was never as cute as when she said that, but eventually, the bed was made--with a tiny bit of coaching when she started to get really frustrated that the sheet wasn't straight.
Sunday, December 16, 2012
We are not talking about it
Since the shooting at Sandy Hook Elementary School, I have attended two holiday parties for children.
At neither party did I hear the shooting mentioned.
As a former journalist, anytime there is a big news story I wish I were on the job. This time, I am so beyond grateful not to be investigating and reporting on this incident.
On Facebook, however, most of my friends, many of whom are parents, are posting about it. They are conveying sympathy, heartbreak, fear, anger, despair, and opinions about gun violence and the President's reaction and brief speech on the matter. (Most are touched by his tears, one says he politicized it when "the bodies of the children weren't even out of the school." So there's that.)
But we cannot talk about it.
It can't be that real. If we speak of it, it will grow to be real and true, and I do not know how or where we would go from there.
I saw the breaking news on Facebook Friday morning. I knew I couldn't turn on MSNBC (my source for thoughtful companionship on long days without other adult contact) for the rest of the day. Ella can never know this happened. At least not while she is a child. She must always feel safe at school. She must always feel safe everywhere. (When the Oregon mall shooting news broke just days earlier, I turned the TV off and left it that way. Imagine if my girl thought malls were where people get killed?)
On Friday, I allowed myself to watch the video of President Obama's statement while Ella napped.
On Saturday, as Justin and Ella cooked dinner in the kitchen, I paused for two minutes on my walk through the living room and saw Brian Williams and Ann Curry speaking with America and each other about the families beginning to identify their children through photographs, so that they could be spared seeing their bodies so ruined. Their eyes were teary. I turned it off, unable to breathe smoothly.
This cannot be real.
On the radio, one psychologist-commentator's voice cracked and remained shaky as he spoke of parents having to take car seats out of cars and presents out from under the tree. (I could listen to news because Ella was not in the car with me.)
I am beginning to believe the denial stage of grief is where I have been. I have been of the mind that I had to remain serene and even festive for my baby Ella. I have been succeeding because it is true. She cannot have any part of this reality. But maybe it's not just me doing my job as a mother, maybe it's me grieving my heavy grief.
If so, then what's next?
Denial. Anger. Bargaining. Depression. Acceptance.
I wanted to go to church this morning, knowing it would be addressed at least in prayer. I knew if I heard that message the floodgates would open. (Ella and Justin have both been sick, and Justin had to go to work, so I couldn't go.) I've been reading Anne Lamott's responses to the shooting on Facebook. Her last entry mentions that 48 hours later, the emotions of the experience are shifting. I kind of wish I were able to grieve with the nation, deeply and focused and obsessed. I don't want to miss it. But I also know that I could easily get stuck in grief--most likely in the depression stage. So I guess I'll hold onto denial.
After all, this cannot be real.
At neither party did I hear the shooting mentioned.
As a former journalist, anytime there is a big news story I wish I were on the job. This time, I am so beyond grateful not to be investigating and reporting on this incident.
On Facebook, however, most of my friends, many of whom are parents, are posting about it. They are conveying sympathy, heartbreak, fear, anger, despair, and opinions about gun violence and the President's reaction and brief speech on the matter. (Most are touched by his tears, one says he politicized it when "the bodies of the children weren't even out of the school." So there's that.)
But we cannot talk about it.
It can't be that real. If we speak of it, it will grow to be real and true, and I do not know how or where we would go from there.
I saw the breaking news on Facebook Friday morning. I knew I couldn't turn on MSNBC (my source for thoughtful companionship on long days without other adult contact) for the rest of the day. Ella can never know this happened. At least not while she is a child. She must always feel safe at school. She must always feel safe everywhere. (When the Oregon mall shooting news broke just days earlier, I turned the TV off and left it that way. Imagine if my girl thought malls were where people get killed?)
On Friday, I allowed myself to watch the video of President Obama's statement while Ella napped.
On Saturday, as Justin and Ella cooked dinner in the kitchen, I paused for two minutes on my walk through the living room and saw Brian Williams and Ann Curry speaking with America and each other about the families beginning to identify their children through photographs, so that they could be spared seeing their bodies so ruined. Their eyes were teary. I turned it off, unable to breathe smoothly.
This cannot be real.
On the radio, one psychologist-commentator's voice cracked and remained shaky as he spoke of parents having to take car seats out of cars and presents out from under the tree. (I could listen to news because Ella was not in the car with me.)
I am beginning to believe the denial stage of grief is where I have been. I have been of the mind that I had to remain serene and even festive for my baby Ella. I have been succeeding because it is true. She cannot have any part of this reality. But maybe it's not just me doing my job as a mother, maybe it's me grieving my heavy grief.
If so, then what's next?
Denial. Anger. Bargaining. Depression. Acceptance.
I wanted to go to church this morning, knowing it would be addressed at least in prayer. I knew if I heard that message the floodgates would open. (Ella and Justin have both been sick, and Justin had to go to work, so I couldn't go.) I've been reading Anne Lamott's responses to the shooting on Facebook. Her last entry mentions that 48 hours later, the emotions of the experience are shifting. I kind of wish I were able to grieve with the nation, deeply and focused and obsessed. I don't want to miss it. But I also know that I could easily get stuck in grief--most likely in the depression stage. So I guess I'll hold onto denial.
After all, this cannot be real.
Thursday, November 22, 2012
Those are Daddy's Toes
Ella was putting her light-up sneakers on the shoe rack when she noticed something different.
"That?" she asked, staring.
"That's Daddy's toes. You know how Daddy's foot has a boo-boo? And he doesn't have any toes on one of them? Those are his pretend toes that help him balance." I was sitting on the chair next to the shoe rack, leaning over the arm talking to her.
"You can touch them," I said.
Her hand darted out and she let her fingers graze the top of the toes before she pulled back and looked up at me with those "I did it!" eyes.
We smiled at each other. I picked up the prosthetic (technically an orthotic) and showed it to her. "See? Those are like toes--" and I started to turn it over.
"Under!" She commanded, wanting to see the bottom.
"And the bottom is hard, to help Daddy balance. This goes in his shoe, so it makes it like he has toes."
She nodded in that serious way that preschoolers nod when they are learning something big.
She's started to really pay attention to Justin's amputation. She's getting braver about touching it--the darker skin graft on the top, the callouses, and the parts that are still soft, regular skin. We want her to be comfortable with it, not scared or disgusted or embarrassed. Not any of those feelings that can be associated with differences--disabilities. We haven't forced any situations or information, so she's seen Justin's stump as much as any kid sees their dad's bare feet. For more than a year, she didn't really notice. And then she did. Until today, when Justin left his toes on the shoe rack, I don't think she's ever seen his prosthetic--it's always in his shoe.
"Do you want to hold it?"
She took it from my hands and examined it in hers.
"Do you want to stand on it, like Daddy does?"
She looked happy and curious and intrigued and proud all at once. I put it on the floor. She held my hand for balance and lifted her left foot onto the prosthetic. I scooted her heel back into position, marveling at the size of both her foot and his.
I told her I wanted to take her picture to send it to Daddy, so when she saw my phone she said, "Cheese!" even as she looked down at me pointing the camera at her toes.
"That?" she asked, staring.
"That's Daddy's toes. You know how Daddy's foot has a boo-boo? And he doesn't have any toes on one of them? Those are his pretend toes that help him balance." I was sitting on the chair next to the shoe rack, leaning over the arm talking to her.
"You can touch them," I said.
Her hand darted out and she let her fingers graze the top of the toes before she pulled back and looked up at me with those "I did it!" eyes.
We smiled at each other. I picked up the prosthetic (technically an orthotic) and showed it to her. "See? Those are like toes--" and I started to turn it over.
"Under!" She commanded, wanting to see the bottom.
"And the bottom is hard, to help Daddy balance. This goes in his shoe, so it makes it like he has toes."
She nodded in that serious way that preschoolers nod when they are learning something big.
She's started to really pay attention to Justin's amputation. She's getting braver about touching it--the darker skin graft on the top, the callouses, and the parts that are still soft, regular skin. We want her to be comfortable with it, not scared or disgusted or embarrassed. Not any of those feelings that can be associated with differences--disabilities. We haven't forced any situations or information, so she's seen Justin's stump as much as any kid sees their dad's bare feet. For more than a year, she didn't really notice. And then she did. Until today, when Justin left his toes on the shoe rack, I don't think she's ever seen his prosthetic--it's always in his shoe.
"Do you want to hold it?"
She took it from my hands and examined it in hers.
"Do you want to stand on it, like Daddy does?"
She looked happy and curious and intrigued and proud all at once. I put it on the floor. She held my hand for balance and lifted her left foot onto the prosthetic. I scooted her heel back into position, marveling at the size of both her foot and his.
I told her I wanted to take her picture to send it to Daddy, so when she saw my phone she said, "Cheese!" even as she looked down at me pointing the camera at her toes.
Sunday, October 21, 2012
Mommy-Ella Days!
"Justin's going to be out of town this weekend and next," I told my friend. "The funny thing is, we're so used to him being gone that we're not even really going to notice."
I quickly added that I wasn't trying to sound sorry for myself. It's just funny because when some women say their husband is going to be gone for a couple of nights on business they sound slightly panicked and downtrodden over the prospect of being on their own for a bit. I was saying it with a touch of pride--"No biggie, I've got this."
What's even funnier, to me at least, is that I'm actually having so much more fun with him out of town than I do on our usual Mommy-Ella days and it really is pretty much the exact same schedule as usual.
Justin left before 6 a.m., so when Ella woke up I was the only one home to take care of her. (Usually, Justin's home, but he's sleeping because he works a lot of swing shifts, so I do the daily routine without him.) She and I hung out all day, just the two of us, and then when she woke up from her nap I drove up to LA so that we could have dinner with him. (Usually, Justin leaves for work around 4:30, so sometimes she doesn't see him for more than thirty minutes when she gets home from preschool and he wakes up to see her before her nap. Often, he leaves before she wakes up from her nap. She and I do the nighttime routine, then he gets home around 3 or 4 a.m. and goes to sleep.)
I realized that the reason I feel so thrilled about him being out of town is that I get to sleep without him waking me up in the middle of the night because he's finally home from work.
Glorious!
To celebrate, Ella and I made pancakes for breakfast. Luckily, we found Daddy's recipe on a slip of paper in a cookbook. The Blueberry Oatmeal Pancake recipe. Ella helped me by "reading" the recipe (her favorite new word of the day) so that we could gather all of the ingredients and equipment necessary. She's big enough now to stand on a chair and help me scoop, measure, and pour the ingredients into the bowls. She even helped me hold the hand mixer. (Relax, Grandma, she just had one hand on my hand.)These are all things she first did with her daddy, who loves to cook.
After breakfast, we did the dishes. She puts the cutlery into the dishwasher for me. Today, I figured out that I can put it on the dishwasher door and let her take her time, rather than handing each fork to her individually, which gets rather tedious. We did laundry. She helps me sort. We still have that big box she's been using as a boat, so she sorted while floating. (I handed her articles of clothing and said "pink" or "blue" as appropriate, so that she could toss the clothes into the right basket. For almost every single piece of clothing, she'd double check, saying, "That one?" Obviously, it was nothing but delightful to confirm every. single. decision. she. made.)
Somehow those two chores and getting us both washed up and dressed for the day brought us to lunchtime. For which she requested bread. I laughed at her and told her she could have bread if it were part of a turkey cheese sandwich, and that she had to eat the cheese and the turkey. (She's taken to saying, "I don't like it," and trying to give back whatever it is she doesn't want. We've gotten her to leave it on her plate instead of handing it to us or putting it on the place mat. She's still willing to try anything, and her "I don't like that" is sometimes so obviously just a test of her ability to reject something, that we just tell her to put it on her plate and then later she forgets she doesn't like it and she eats it. Plus, it changes every day. Loves it, loves it, loves it, doesn't like it, likes it, loves it... I can't keep up, so I just keep giving everything to her. As long as she's growing and eating a relatively decent variety of stuff during the week, I'm not going to worry.)
When Ella took her nap I managed to write the previous blog post and do more laundry, and then we drove up to a hotel next to LAX where Justin is taking a review course for the Oral Board Examination that he has to take next weekend in Chicago.
I'd been telling Ella all day that we were going to visit Daddy at a hotel. When he called at lunch to check-in he told us about the pond with the fish, ducks, and turtles, which increased the anticipation. Then, she woke up from her nap ever so slightly grouchy and it took us forever to get on the road. Justin called us at 5:37 when he was done for the day, and we weren't quite on the freeway yet. He sounded so disappointed that we weren't there already, and I was so frustrated that it was so hard to get out of the house. I'd hoped to get there early to surprise him.
I was supposed to call Justin when we got onto the 105, but there was a police car driving a couple of cars behind me in the carpool lane, so I was totally distracted. Are you supposed to exit the carpool lane illegally if way back there somewhere there is a cop car? It seemed best to stay in my lane, especially since he wasn't that close. When I finally was able to exit the carpool lane, the lights got closer.
"Ella, look at the police car!" It flew by, and I saw the writing on the doors. "Bomb Squad. Lovely."
Then, we saw the airport--sure enough, with a bunch of blazing lights clustered at one of the terminals. My thought: "Fantastic. I can't believe I'm following a Bomb Squad car to the airport. I wonder what's going on. I should put on a local FM station, instead of this XM country station. Hmm... well, I guess I'll just keep going. At least we'll all be together. Oh geez. The hotel really is across the freeway from the airport. At least no one we know is flying... oh. Wait. Mom and Dad's plane just landed. Good grief." Incidentally, Bluetooth voice activation dialing is a wonderful feature, but it doesn't work if your passenger won't stop talking. I called Justin when we were parked outside the hotel, dialing my iPhone the relatively old-fashioned way. Meanwhile, Ella was saying, "Hotel? In hotel? Out! Out! Seat belt off!" I let him drive to the restaurant.
We ate dinner, went into the hotel lobby to see the pond with the
koi, ducks, and turtles, and into the hotel room to brush her teeth,
change her into her pajamas, read Good Night Moon, and say prayers
together. Justin walked us to the car and kissed us goodbye, and when he
closed the door she said, "Where's Daddy?" Again. I can't tell you how
many times I told her Daddy was in Los Angeles today.
So what is it that made this day feel so much better and different than all the other days I spend mostly alone with Ella? Maybe it was just the idea that it was different. Maybe it was seeing Justin wearing a shirt and tie instead of scrubs when he left the house. Maybe it was the idea of a business trip. Maybe it was the impression that doing it all alone everyday is a drag, but doing it all alone for that one weekend that my husband was away on business sounds like an accomplishment.
I don't know. I'd just like to bottle this attitude and use it on a regular basis.
I quickly added that I wasn't trying to sound sorry for myself. It's just funny because when some women say their husband is going to be gone for a couple of nights on business they sound slightly panicked and downtrodden over the prospect of being on their own for a bit. I was saying it with a touch of pride--"No biggie, I've got this."
What's even funnier, to me at least, is that I'm actually having so much more fun with him out of town than I do on our usual Mommy-Ella days and it really is pretty much the exact same schedule as usual.
Justin left before 6 a.m., so when Ella woke up I was the only one home to take care of her. (Usually, Justin's home, but he's sleeping because he works a lot of swing shifts, so I do the daily routine without him.) She and I hung out all day, just the two of us, and then when she woke up from her nap I drove up to LA so that we could have dinner with him. (Usually, Justin leaves for work around 4:30, so sometimes she doesn't see him for more than thirty minutes when she gets home from preschool and he wakes up to see her before her nap. Often, he leaves before she wakes up from her nap. She and I do the nighttime routine, then he gets home around 3 or 4 a.m. and goes to sleep.)
I realized that the reason I feel so thrilled about him being out of town is that I get to sleep without him waking me up in the middle of the night because he's finally home from work.
Glorious!
To celebrate, Ella and I made pancakes for breakfast. Luckily, we found Daddy's recipe on a slip of paper in a cookbook. The Blueberry Oatmeal Pancake recipe. Ella helped me by "reading" the recipe (her favorite new word of the day) so that we could gather all of the ingredients and equipment necessary. She's big enough now to stand on a chair and help me scoop, measure, and pour the ingredients into the bowls. She even helped me hold the hand mixer. (Relax, Grandma, she just had one hand on my hand.)These are all things she first did with her daddy, who loves to cook.
 |
| Justin took this picture on Oct. 6, 2012, the first time I ever cooked with Ella standing on the chair to help me. We made waffles for breakfast that day--a Daddy-Mommy-Ella Day. |
Somehow those two chores and getting us both washed up and dressed for the day brought us to lunchtime. For which she requested bread. I laughed at her and told her she could have bread if it were part of a turkey cheese sandwich, and that she had to eat the cheese and the turkey. (She's taken to saying, "I don't like it," and trying to give back whatever it is she doesn't want. We've gotten her to leave it on her plate instead of handing it to us or putting it on the place mat. She's still willing to try anything, and her "I don't like that" is sometimes so obviously just a test of her ability to reject something, that we just tell her to put it on her plate and then later she forgets she doesn't like it and she eats it. Plus, it changes every day. Loves it, loves it, loves it, doesn't like it, likes it, loves it... I can't keep up, so I just keep giving everything to her. As long as she's growing and eating a relatively decent variety of stuff during the week, I'm not going to worry.)
 |
| We sent this picture to Daddy, with a note for him to notice the happy girl, the clean kitchen, the washed dishes, the healthy lunch. |
I'd been telling Ella all day that we were going to visit Daddy at a hotel. When he called at lunch to check-in he told us about the pond with the fish, ducks, and turtles, which increased the anticipation. Then, she woke up from her nap ever so slightly grouchy and it took us forever to get on the road. Justin called us at 5:37 when he was done for the day, and we weren't quite on the freeway yet. He sounded so disappointed that we weren't there already, and I was so frustrated that it was so hard to get out of the house. I'd hoped to get there early to surprise him.
I was supposed to call Justin when we got onto the 105, but there was a police car driving a couple of cars behind me in the carpool lane, so I was totally distracted. Are you supposed to exit the carpool lane illegally if way back there somewhere there is a cop car? It seemed best to stay in my lane, especially since he wasn't that close. When I finally was able to exit the carpool lane, the lights got closer.
"Ella, look at the police car!" It flew by, and I saw the writing on the doors. "Bomb Squad. Lovely."
Then, we saw the airport--sure enough, with a bunch of blazing lights clustered at one of the terminals. My thought: "Fantastic. I can't believe I'm following a Bomb Squad car to the airport. I wonder what's going on. I should put on a local FM station, instead of this XM country station. Hmm... well, I guess I'll just keep going. At least we'll all be together. Oh geez. The hotel really is across the freeway from the airport. At least no one we know is flying... oh. Wait. Mom and Dad's plane just landed. Good grief." Incidentally, Bluetooth voice activation dialing is a wonderful feature, but it doesn't work if your passenger won't stop talking. I called Justin when we were parked outside the hotel, dialing my iPhone the relatively old-fashioned way. Meanwhile, Ella was saying, "Hotel? In hotel? Out! Out! Seat belt off!" I let him drive to the restaurant.
 |
| Ella was so excited to see her daddy that she kept scooting in to sit closer to her. She couldn't stop smiling. She was giggling. She was sharing her crayons with him and looking so adoringly at him while they colored the children's menu together. Farm Stand, by the way, is an excellent restaurant in downtown El Segundo. I'm kind of surprised that in three years of living in Redondo Beach we never discovered that town. It's always just been a place to drive through on the way to the airport. |
 |
| See the fish? See the duck? See the turtles? I love it when we get to see the glimmer of "I do see it!" cross her face. |
So what is it that made this day feel so much better and different than all the other days I spend mostly alone with Ella? Maybe it was just the idea that it was different. Maybe it was seeing Justin wearing a shirt and tie instead of scrubs when he left the house. Maybe it was the idea of a business trip. Maybe it was the impression that doing it all alone everyday is a drag, but doing it all alone for that one weekend that my husband was away on business sounds like an accomplishment.
I don't know. I'd just like to bottle this attitude and use it on a regular basis.
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