My Swirling Vortex of Entropy

Why bother?

For mother’s day one year my mother and father decided to give me a Glamour Shots portrait session. My mom, my sister and I went to the studio, got all dolled up and had our portraits taken. It was really fun. We were able to view the proofs on a computer, and I left feeling very pretty.

I’m not sure what kind of a reaction I was expecting when I walked in the door at home – but I’m pretty sure that having The Man burst out laughing wasn’t it. “Whoa!” He said – “you look – uh – different” More laughter. Niiiiice! ... Whatever dude – WHATEVA!

So, as I’m reeling from the less than ego affirming reaction I received from The Man I hear The (preschool aged) Recliner running up the stairs.

“Mommy! You’re home!” He takes one look at me and then stops dead in his tracks. His eyes fly wide open and he takes about three steps backward. His hands shoot up to his cheeks a la McCauley Culkin in Home Alone and he says:

“Go wash your hair and face mommy – you’re scaring me!”

Yeah, I musta looked HAWT!

Or NAWT?!?

Worth Fighting For?

The Recliner has informed us that he refuses to participate in his high school commencement exercise. He doesn’t want to sit through a boring ceremony. He’s NOT gonna wear that DRESS THING!

I have mixed emotions about this. I don’t really want to sit through a boring ceremony either. But – It’s what you do, right? His grandparents and great grandparent are a little disappointed. So in deference to the feelings of others who love this boy I am considering demanding that he participate in the big event. And yet when I consider the source I am not surprised. This is the child of a man who refused to walk the stage when he graduated from medical school with highest honors. The Man said – “Walking the stage does not make me a doctor. I’ve earned the title without the ceremony.”

The precedent has been set. Graduation ceremonies are optional.

Okay – I’ll live.

Any thoughts? Is his participation worth insisting upon?

Portrait of a Teenage Girl

She doesn't need me - - - She's snuggling with the Cinderella comforter we bought her for her third birthday.
"I'm HUNGRY!" - - - "I can't eat that, I'll get FAT!"
"I am NOT being RUDE! I'm just PISSED OFF at you!"
"I don't wanna go in there ALONE!" - - - "MOM! My friends might see!"
"My sleep/wake cycle is NOT screwed up. I can stay awake ALL NIGHT! I just get tired during the day!"
"Leave me alone!" - - - "Will you take me and Ashley to the mall?"
"I HATE BOYS!!!" - - - "He's HOT!"
"The Recliner SUCKS!" - - - "Why won't he ever let me hang out with him?"
"The Recliner is mean to me when you aren't here" - - - "Wait 'til my big brother hears what you said you JERK!"

Ahhhh!

"I do love her so" - - - "She's driving me NUTS!"

Sweet, Sweet Revenge

Like sunshine to vampires are dancing parents to teenagers.

Parents: Want to watch your teens writhe in agony?
Follow this simple recipe:

1. Take one classic rock CD. May I suggest something by KISS?

2. Turn the home sound system up to an eardrum melting decibel level. Teens are naturally curious creatures. They WILL come to find out what’s going on.

3. Laugh, smile and act happy. Teenagers find this behavior from parents particularly disturbing.

4. Dance like fools to “I Was Made For Loving You”. The screams for mercy will almost drown out the music.

5. Now, for the coup de grace: Slow dance to “Beth” and kiss each other as the song is ending. You should now find a pile of ashes and empty clothing where your teenager used to be.

.\/. Did you hear it? .\/.

"SLAM!"

Did you hear it? Did you hear the howling and gnashing of teeth? Did you know that I’m a rotten mother? Did you know that we have a miserable home and that we’ve never been happy?

I wasn’t aware of the depth of my failure until informed of such by the goddess of all knowledge – 15 year old Banshee Girl. She NEVER gets to do anything. We ALWAYS ruin her fun. We’ve NEVER been fair, not one day, EVER! We only brought her into this world to be our slave. As we were awaiting her birth we were making a list of household chores for her to do. All she ever does is pick up dog poop and shovel the driveway, because we don’t allow her to do anything else. EVER, EVER, EVER! She hates her life. HATES it!

1. She needs a new cell phone because hers doesn’t work.

I say it works well enough to send and receive 10,000 text messages some months. Calculate that out people – 10,029 messages divided by 31 days. That equals about 324 messages per day. IF Banshee Girl is awake 12 hours a day that is 27 text messages per waking hour. Divide 60 minutes by 27 messages. That means that Banshee Girl is sending or receiving a text message every 2.2 minutes that she is awake – on her STUPID cell phone that DOESN’T work.

I say save your money then chickie la la – cause Mommy ain’t buying that load o’ …

2. She is SO lonely. We forced her to home school and she HATES it.

I say remember all those mornings you didn’t want to get out of bed to go to school in the dark and the snow? Remember BEGGING me to sign you up for home school?
I say remember coming up with new best friends who sport orange Mohawks and blue Liberty Spikes for hair?
I say remember getting caught with cigarette breath?
I say a mom’s gotta do what a mom’s gotta do. You’re home schooling. Get OVER it!

3. Everything I cook is exactly the same and she never gets hot food.

I say come to dinner when you are called and you won’t have to dig your plate out of the fridge.

4. She has NO CLOTHES!!

I say why then can I not walk into your bathroom without getting jeans, tops, and thong underwear tangled around my ankles?
I say then who’s laundry am I folding?

I say I love you Banshee Girl – with all my heart and it HURTS me when you hurt. It makes me cry to hear that you blame me for all your unhappiness. I try … and I know that right now it’s my job to guide you through these years of self centered teenage misery. But Banshee Girl – I miss you. I miss your company in the kitchen when I make dinner. I miss your conversation at the grocery store while I shop. I miss ballet lessons. I miss swim team practice. What I wouldn’t give to have someone beg me for fruit snacks, or animal crackers. I’d love to get exhausted listening to you endlessly chattering from the back seat of the minivan we used to own. I want a hug, a smile, or simply eye contact. I’m dyin’ here. Please don’t hate me so. PLEASE!

The Birth of Princess Tutu Pink aka Banshee Girl

Birth Story Carnival

Frankly, I’m disappointed in all the space devoted to pregnancy horror stories in magazines for expectant mothers. I don’t think it possible that I am the only woman who’s had an easy pregnancy, labor and delivery. However, one might get that impression. It seems that women who don’t end up suffering terribly during pregnancy and those of us who don’t almost die giving birth are thought less worthy of listening to than women who have traumatic birthing experiences. So often when a group is together discussing the births of their children the conversation ends up turning into a contest. A contest that's winner is the woman with the most difficult pregnancy and the most painful and complicated delivery. I can’t tell you the number of times my contribution to these discussions of pregnancy and childbirth is dismissed with a shrug and a “you were lucky, but listen to what happened to me (my sister, my cousin, my friend, the woman I work with, etc.)!”

Well maybe I was lucky, but listen to what happened to me anyway, please. My first child had been delivered by planned C section due to breach presentation three years earlier. I had a pleasant first pregnancy, very easy recovery from the C section, and many positive memories of the birth of my son. I was almost hoping to avoid a vaginal delivery again this time. After nine months of another perfectly healthy pregnancy I entered the hospital on a Friday morning. My only symptoms were a bit of bleeding. I was almost one week overdue, and very Very VERY eager to be done with this pregnancy. I wasn’t extremely uncomfortable or huge. I’d only gained 24 pounds, but I was tired of being pregnant. Any excuse at all to report in to the hospital was welcome. Once there the staff monitored my condition. I was told that I’d probably be going home soon. Labor was not imminent. The bleeding wasn’t the type to be worried about this late in a pregnancy. To say I was disappointed would be an understatement. Nevertheless, because my uterine measurement was very small (and maybe even as an attempt to get me to quit pouting) the doctor ordered an ultrasound before she would send me home. During this ultrasound the technician found that there was very little amniotic fluid left surrounding my baby. That was cause for concern, and just the excuse I was looking for to beg the doctor to induce labor. Actually induction was the doctor’s idea, but I was willing to try it. I was thrilled is more like it. Now, I’d like to digress a moment. I am not one of those women who is able to be philosophical about the pain involved in childbirth. I can make a big deal out of a stubbed toe or a paper cut. Realistically I became so worried about the pain that I was a grouch the last few months of my pregnancy. Maybe I’d read one too may articles about some woman’s unendurable anguish during delivery. Nor am I one of those women who appear at first glance to be built for having babies. I am 5 foot tall, and weigh 102 pounds. So I was excited to have labor induced simply for the sheer relief of having it all over with. Saturday morning at 6:00 a.m. I was hooked up to a pitocin IV. Labor was intense but completely bearable. I used some breathing techniques, picked a different flower on the wallpaper to focus upon for each contraction, and had my husband rub my lower back. I did end up questioning if the contractions would become even more forceful. When pain medication was offered I accepted some. However, I didn’t end up needing the epidural that I’d planned to “insist” upon being given. I was a lot more comfortable than I had ever expected to be. In what seemed like no time at all I was dilated to ten. Before the nurse went to call my doctor she had me practice pushing a few times. She said I was a real champ. I was surviving! I wasn’t miserable! I felt powerful, and capable, and my baby was almost here! A few more pushes and the doctor said “the next one will be it if you really bear down.” Even when it seemed as if the contraction was ebbing I could feel how close the baby was and so I kept pushing. A few seconds later my daughter was born. I looked at the clock and it was only 11:00 a.m.! I AM a champ I thought. After I’d examined the blanket full of perfection lying on my tummy I asked the doctor how badly I’d ripped. (Several friends of mine had graphically described suffering a third degree tear in spite of having had an episiotomy. I was afraid of that too.) My doctor looked surprised and said, “you didn’t tear at all. The episiotomy did the job.” How thrilling! I was no mere champ. I was WONDER WOMAN!! After a few stitches to repair the episiotomy the nurses asked me if I could scoot my bottom back so they would be able to reassemble the end of the birthing room bed. I said “I can do ANYTHING!” They looked at each other and laughed. “Some women end up feeling like that” one of them said. I went home the next afternoon. That very day I took my three year old son and new daughter with me to go pick up a prescription at the drug store while my husband did some yard work.

I strongly believe in validating the emotions of couples who are disappointed in what transpired in the delivery room. It is perfectly legitimate to feel sad when things don’t go as planned. Furthermore, it is true that discussing a frightening and traumatic experience can be therapeutic. However, childbirth CAN be a magnificent event, and there are women who have an easy time of it. We do a disservice to all when we talk as if "real women" truly go through agony bringing their children into the world. It is upsetting to see panic appear on the face of a pregnant woman who is listening to conversation about how much somebody suffered during childbirth. I remember myself not feeling reassured at all with the famous line “but it was all worth it when I saw my baby.” There has been more than enough glorification of the war stories of pregnancy. Lets not forget that it is perfectly possible, although not mandatory, to end up being a champ.

As women, lets attempt to encourage mothers to be rather than scare the socks off them.

Thanks for “listening".

Kids, Sports, and Broken Hearts

Before Banshee Girl morphed into Banshee Girl she was Princess Tutu Pink. Princess Tutu Pink was a promising ballerina in the making. She attended a well-respected and terribly serious ballet school downtown. Her classes met several times each week. I loved to watch her participate. I couldn’t NOT stay and peer through the door as she’d plie, tendu, and tombe, pas de barre, glissade, grande jete. I loved seeing her little body learning to move so gracefully. Once she left the studio she was more likely than any of her friends to skin a knee or bump her head – but when she was at the barre – she was poetry. Listening to her learn to play the French horn was a similar experience. She was one of the only 5th graders ever invited to play a solo at the grade school band concert. That honor was almost exclusively offered to 6th graders. Yeah! I thought it was cool. Then there was the swimming. Oh my goodness – that girl was fast. And tough. We jokingly called her Helga the Swimming Beast. Our family shared some very happy moments poolside. The thrill of victory!!!

Shortly after she began swimming, Princess Tutu Pink was diagnosed with a terminal case of puberty, the progression of which was almost violently rapid. Sadly, Princess Tutu Pink succumbed, and is no longer with us. There is a little headstone in my heart with her name on it. I miss Princess Tutu Pink. She was a very special little girl. Banshee Girl came to live in the body that Princess Tutu Pink used to inhabit. Under the reign of Banshee Girl the body grew boobs (big ones), and hips, and a surly attitude to boot. There is no more ballet, French horn, or swimming. Those artful and worthy endeavors have been replaced with World of Warcraft and an endless recitation of my failings and shortcomings. A few torturously tiny tidbits of kindness are thrown in here and there to keep me helplessly loving her. It’s almost cruel. There are times when I wish I could give up hoping Banshee Girl will come around and be my Princess again. But I can’t. I guess that’s a good thing. It is painful, but all together fitting and proper.

And The Recliner. Poor boy. With his psoriasis and the accompanying arthritis he was never an athletic child. But he tried. He played soccer, and took karate lessons, and even joined a wrestling team. He was truly enjoying the wrestling lessons and practice sessions. He met some nice boys, and the other parents were a fun group of adults. Then it happened. His very first meet. The boys were paired up and the matches began. The recliner and a bigger kid – a loss. The Recliner and a kid about his size – a loss. The Recliner and a kid significantly smaller than he – a loss. The agony of defeat.

Dejected, The Recliner sits down at the edge of the mat. He looks across the gym at me, and I saw it happen. He became a little befuddled. The bewilderment matured and metastasized. Disappointment and shame spread throughout his body. He looked mortified. I watched him realize that even though wrestling was fun – he was not good at it. His quivering lip and brimming eyes sent me a virtual text message – “Mom, I suck at this, and I’m so embarrassed!” Up until that point he had not recognized his lack of skill. Men who had simply wanted him to enjoy the sport had coached him with kindness and encouragement. From across the room I watched my tall, gangly, 10 year old boy’s heart break. And mine crumbled to pieces in an act of solidarity.

Ouch. Ouch. Ouch.

What to do, and Why

I found this list of chores I had assigned to Banshee Girl when she was younger. It made me laugh.

Task - Reason

DAILY

Shower - so you don’t stink
Hang up towel - so it doesn’t stink
Get dressed - because it’s the law, you can’t run around naked
Eat breakfast - because you get mean when you are hungry
Brush teeth in the morning - so you don’t stink from the mouth
Make bed - because even Eve told her kids to make their beds
Pick up room - because it bugs your Dad if you don’t

Homework - so you can get a good job and move out some day

Unload/load dishwasher - so we don’t get sick from eating off of dirty dishes
Wipe table and chairs - so we don’t walk around with crumbs on our butts
Dry dishes - because they ruin the cupboard shelves if you put them away wet
Take out garbage - so it doesn’t stink
Sweep floor/wipe spots - because we have two dogs, two cats and two kids ... ‘nuff said.

Dog care - because you promised before we got them
Cat care - because you promised before we got them

Brush and floss teeth before bed - so you don’t stink from the mouth , remember?

WEEKLY

Scrub tub - ‘cause if you don’t it gets funky
Clean mirror - because if you don’t it gets funky too
Scrub sink - see above
Clean toilet - because you pee and poop in it for heaven’s sake!
Wash floor - as before, because we have two dogs, two cats and two kids ... ‘nuff said.

Dust 1st floor - old dust congeals to form grime, which is much more difficult to eliminate.
Vacuum first floor - fur is for pets, not floors
Vacuum stairs - because all the pet hair collects in the creases, ewww!

Powder room - the following chores are assigned simply because I’m a control mongering meanie pants.
Sink - see above
Toilet - see above
Mirror - see above

Banshee Girl and her Belly Button

When Banshee Girl was 12 she began a disturbing metamorphosis. Until then, she had been a very compliant and eager to please child. Always seeking opportunities to score brownie points she was easily manipulated into doing chores. When The Recliner would refuse to do his share I could count on Banshee Girl.

Banshee Girl - “But Mom, The Recliner isn’t helping”.
Me - “Well then you’ll get all the credit”.
Banshee Girl, with a big smile - “Okay”!

Cruel, eh? Well pay back - she is a witch. At 12 years old it finally dawned on Banshee girl that “all the credit” was worth exactly - squat. She was my tool no longer. If The Recliner wasn’t sharing in her misery, even cold hard cash couldn’t get her to pitch in around the house without a fight.

My Pretty Pink Princess quit ballet lessons and gave up the French horn. She started dressing in black with chains for accessories and developed a disquieting fascination with vampires and skulls. My heart was being sliced to ribbons daily. It seemed as if we were making a new and horrific discovery about our formerly completely adorable little girl weekly. You could almost hear the whirlwind howl as she spun out of control.

One day, when Banshee Girl was in a rare good mood I took the opportunity to sneak in a hug. Physical contact with my Empress of Emo was becoming very rare and I missed my cuddle bug. Oh how I miss(ed) her. So I hugged her. Tight. And she yelped “Ouch”!

“What’s wrong?” I ask.
“My tummy button hurts,” says Banshee girl
“Let me see” I reply.

AHHHHHHHH!

Her belly button looked awful. A sinister looking black scab sat crouched in the middle of an angry red welt.

“What HAPPENED”? I screech.

Banshee Girl gets that look on her face. The look that says “I’m trying to think up a good story here - please hold a moment”. I call it the spinning icon look. You can almost see the little hourglass turning or the multicolored pinwheel (for us Mac users) in her eyes.

This is the story she came up with -

“Well, I was mending a shirt and accidentally rolled over on the needle”.

Oh Puleease!!!
Yeah sure Pinocchio-ette. Watch out for the growing nose. Do you need a fire extinguisher for those pants girl? ‘Cause they on FIRE!

Calmly I say - “No, stop right there and back up - tell me the truth - did you try to pierce your own belly button?”

Banshee Girl bursts into tears “Yeah - and I put a safety pin in it for a couple days but now it hurts ... really bad!”

They don’t put this stuff in the “What to Expect...” books folks.

Post Script: Banshee Girl’s belly button healed up very nicely with the help of some antibiotics. Color is slowly being added back into her wardrobe and she is no longer the Czarina of Chains and Rivets. I’m still holding my breath though.

Fine - An Army of One - but MY One? Yikes!

The Recliner informed me the other day that he plans to meet with an Army recruiter.

Whoa!

We have a long and proud history of military service on my side of our family. My grandfather was a colonel in the Army. My uncle, a colonel in the Air Force, deployed twice to Iraq. The Man served in the Air Force for several years when the kids were small. I have 4 cousins actively serving right now - at least one in Iraq. Support our troops is more than just a slogan to me. Those troops include people I love.

So it isn’t the Army, or even the military in general that gives me pause -

It’s the fact that this guy is now old enough to enlist.

And part of me just wants him to keep doing this.

He's 18 now and he thinks that the Army may help him to become the man he wants to be.

I want that for him too. But is it okay if the whole idea is just a little scary?