some cheese with my whine

I have discovered that every new stage of life with my son I have met with dread, guilt, and frustration, then later realized that it isn't so bad and what was I so freaked out about? Weaning him, starting solid foods, potty training (this is still a more regular problem than I'd like it to be), giving up naps. Each time I'm filled with anxiety about what will happen (seriously! even something like giving him mushy peas instead of mushy cereal!), then I feel sad about one more milestone that has been crossed forever, then angry that things aren't perfect and are a pain in the ass, and then guilty about my own frustration and lack of perspective and how most other moms can just deal with stuff like this without thinking twice. Or at least, I'd like to think they do. I'd be happy if I could only think twice about something, instead of brooding over it or having a constant ticker-tape of worry under every aspect of my life. It's exhausting and mostly stupid, a real waste of time.

To compound the issue, I am still a recovering boundary-less person. Meaning, it has only been in the last few years that I realized I am allowed to have needs of my own and meet them. I am allowed to say no to things, and say yes to things that make me happy. --An even bigger revelation is that I know now what makes me happy, which I did not before. I merely knew what I felt obliged to do, and hadn't stopped to consider that, due to the hard work and care of my husband, I am blessed to do what I really love to do (artwork) and not worry about making money at it. But it is a daily struggle to keep guilt and condemnation out of the picture, to force myself to not over-analyze things, and not project my own insecurities on the struggles of parenting an only child.

A prime case-study in all of the above is Camp. This winter I decided that part of my depression stemmed from not enough time to think and do my own work, and then I resented the constant "intrusions" of the little person I'm supposed to be nurturing. Having more regular and larger amounts of time to myself really helped me to be present with A when I was taking care of him. I enjoy my time so much more with him when I haven't been wrangling and debating and cajoling and threatening and cleaning up pee and crumbs and talking myself hoarse all day long. Sometimes I'm just sick of hearing myself, and I want more than anything to take a vow of silence or else descend into a tirade of the foulest sailor-blushing words I can think of. But if I can have a few hours to myself on a regular basis, I can be "on" when I need to and let things slide that I don't need to be a control freak over.

So, Camp. I signed A up for an admittedly long camp. It's long days for a little guy, four weeks in all, and we're halfway through the second week. From Wednesday last week till today, I have heard the whined sentence, "butIdonWANNAgotocaaamp" about six hundred fifty times. "I dus' wanna stay home all day forever! I don't ever want to go outside again!"

After the three-hundredth time or so, Guilt arrived in full force. "Maybe they're being mean to him there. Maybe there's a bully he is afraid to talk about. You shouldn't have put such a little kid into such a long program. Maybe you should just take him out, regardless of the expense. He might be scarred for life." I need not enumerate the rest, but there's plenty more where that came from. Most of it is irrational and if I asked A, I wouldn't be able to get a straight answer about it anyway. And the fact is, he's not hurt there, the kids are nice, the teacher is super nice, they get to swim and play games and do crafts and have popsicles. No one is duct-taping him to a chair and forcing him to watch Apocalypse Now while they remove all his toenails. He doesn't want to go because he's not in charge, and he's probably tired since he won't nap anymore, and he has developed a most worrying contrarian streak that has often sent me outside to cool off. And he's started the "Why?" questioning that every mother dreads.

I can say all this now, at 10 PM, since he is in bed and I have my rational mind back. But when I am just waking up and he's all cute and snuggly, or when I am trying not to turn sunscreen application into a chasing game, or when I make the 10-minute drive to camp and every other sentence is "butIdon'tWANNAgotocaaaaamp," it's really easy to snap and say, "TOUGH TOOTIES! QUIT WHINING DAMMIT!" or "TO BLOODY HELL WITH IT ALL, I'LL KEEP YOU HOME IF YOU JUST STOP COMPLAINING FOR GOD'S SAKE." For something that was supposed to supply me with Summer sanity and the chance to do some serious sustained artwork, this has been a real wash. I have spent two of my long days feeling miserable and guilty, and most of the days spending money like it's going out of style (unsuccessful retail therapy). Or sweating in the garden, anticipating the next morning when my abused hands are numb and throbbing.

I had signed up for camp because I thought, well it's expensive, but how much is my sanity worth? I thought, A is always happiest when there are tons of kids around to play with, so this will be great! He's always talking about wanting to swim, and here they're swimming four times a week! What's not to love about this? A lot, seemingly.

A has made one good friend there, such a good friend that today A said he wanted to marry him. And the kid wants to have four sons. I treated the matter lightly at first, reminding him that he wanted to marry Lydia for a while, but he got very serious and the questions got more and more sticky. So instead of asking about popsicle sticks glued to pipe cleaners and what kind of animal you swam like, we instead had a discussion about gay marriage, and how yes I know a girl at camp said it was ok for two guys to get married, but God doesn't want two guys to get married, and sometimes the government says some things are ok and God doesn't, or God wants you to do things the government doesn't care about. It was exhausting. And of course, the response to every explanation was, "Why?" It's an important question, but it loses its luster after you hear it every time you say something. After a while, you suspect (rightly) that he doesn't give a damn about "why" anything, he just wants to put off whatever he's supposed to be doing or likes to watch you squirm and search frantically for explanations. Answering "I don't know," or my favorite, "Because," does not deter the relentless lawyer at the bench. Even the handy sentence from Boundaries with Kids, "I know you're not finished talking but I am finished listening" is fruitless.

Even with the interrogations and the inevitable crankiness of an over-tired camper, I really have enjoyed spending time with A when he comes home. We have built Lego houses, watered plants, played with toys, and have had time for me to read The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe aloud to him. He really enjoys the book, and listens remarkably well, especially when he's lying on his little bed, sucking his thumb and holding his red blankie. He's truly tanked, but it's hard to take a nap when you've been looking forward to playing Legos all day. This monday I went downstairs to start dinner, and things became eerily quiet upstairs. "Oh great," I thought, "He's pooped his pants and is hiding it, or he is chewing on some toy I told him not to put in his mouth." Instead, I found him curled up next to the Lego table, covered by his blankie and completely asleep. D transferred him to his bed without him making a stir, and he went on to sleep 14 hours that night. Tired? Yes, indeed. As am I, as a matter of fact.

happy father's day (which then turns into a political diatribe...)

Today is hot, sunny, and nice out, and D decided to work on the dirt-digging on the side of the house (I swear I didn't ask him to do it on Father's Day!). It's great, bricks lining up nicely, water draining away from the side of the house, and A played with his water table outside in his undies. Sigh. We had blueberry pancakes for lunch, and D's favorite, pizza, is on the menu for dinner. Easy peasy. I am a lucky lady.

My own dad is in Gettysburg, for his mostly-annual get-together of re-enactors for some sort of living history weekend. He is also a glutton for punishment, as he wears a wool uniform in the heat and runs around artillery pieces for skirmishes and such. We certainly have a colorful family. When overgrown cemeteries on lonely hills make you feel nostalgic for family-time, there's something seriously abnormal going on. But the fact is, I do enjoy cemeteries, wondering what people's lives were like and how old they were when they died, what hardships they endured so long ago, what they wore and made and built. My fascination with history can be directly pinned on my parents, and that's a great thing. Somebody has to know what went on in the world, so we don't repeat our mistakes or become arrogant or sloppy. And it helps in this time of hyperventilating haters, who insist that any victory for the opposite party will set our world back forever. Not one president, except maybe Washington or Lincoln, has ever made that much of a mark, for good or bad. What makes our government a good one is that one personality doesn't have the power to forever alter the course of the country. They can inspire, or direct, or cause setbacks or even catastrophes, but the constitution will not be destroyed by one man. Lincoln took far, FAR more power during his Presidency than Bush would dare to try, but since no one knows history, people can perpetuate the belief that Bush is dissolving the constitution with every Halliburton contract. Give me a break. I'm not happy with Bush, not at all, and I'm sad at the state of American life now, but in the grand scheme of things he is a blip. A blip, I say.

Whew. I meant to write about fathers, and here I am getting all hot and bothered about politics. I really enjoyed Obama's speech today, and it's right along the lines of the Juan Williams book I read a couple years ago (Enough: the phony leaders, dead-end movements etc...). I'm interested to see how people react to it. They'll probably say something dumb, no doubt. People really are stupid and do not examine life, bless them. The ones who do examine life are all on anti-depressants. Ahem.

So one amazingly great thing: to celebrate father's day today, I'd like to commend my dad for quitting smoking after about 48 years. I know it's been an uphill struggle, an expensive proposition as well either way, but he has done it. I can't tell you how proud I am, and relieved, and grateful that my dad might be adding daily to his life instead of taking away precious minutes and hours with each burning stick. I know that quitting smoking is more difficult than heroin, and it's easy to backslide and have withdrawal and all these awful things, but he's doing so well and I am so happy for Dad. He's always been awesome, optimistic and honest. Now he can be all those things without having to leave the room every hour for a cigarette. He doesn't smell like himself, but that's something I can get used to as well. I love you Dad!

grateful

"No cameras, Ma'am. This is a secure area, patrolled by heavily armed preschoolers."
This is the last week before A goes to a month-long day camp, for which I am very excited, and a bit nervous. He'll be away from me more consistently than he ever has, and he'll be swimming
almost every day with his camp mates as well. I never really learned to swim, after several attempts over the years. I've got a cobbled-together set of skills that will keep me alive for a short time in deep water, but I often have nightmares of drowning, or A drowning, which is far worse. If I think about that too much it will make me paranoid, and prove once again how neurotic I can be. Not that anyone needs more proof of that.

The thing is, when I was a kid nobody really knew about how incredibly risky everything in life is. Now not a day goes by when there isn't some study out about how something that used to be innocuous has actually claimed hundreds of lives or stunted kids' growth or something. It's enough to make one want to live in a bubble. And then there's the unspoken guilt/pressure of the motherhood culture, where everything must be organic, hand-made farmer's market with wheat germ, or you are feeding your kid nothing but junk. I do feel bad that A doesn't eat vegetables and that I don't enforce the "try-it-now" rule, but he's healthy. He's actually more healthy than any of the other kids I know, which boggles my mind just a little. Must be all those toilet seats he's sucked on.

And that leads to the topic for my post: (toilet seats? shudder. that's another post entirely) I am grateful for so many things today. I am kindof chilly in here, when outside it's 100 degrees with a huge heat index as well. My family is healthy, A has more toys to stimulate his mind than any kid should have, and I don't need to go out and find an unfulfilling job to make ends meet. It feels like magic, how well D manages the finances, when it seems like the rest of the world is in massive debt with no end in sight. I am very very happy about that. It makes buying gas a little less painful.

I'm also happy that Hillary dropped out of the race. I wish she'd dropped out 2 months ago, and graciously talked about how the country has shown it wants to go in a new direction, and how happy she would be to help take them there. Then I would say, hey, VP wouldn't be a bad go for her. Now, I just want her to find a cave and stay there until she learns some humility or changes her name back to Rodham, so I don't have to hear the name "Clinton." Maybe if she finds Osama in the process, we can let her back in the spotlight. Ugh.

Anyway, yeah that's gratitude, in a twisted sort of way.

Things are still really rough for many of my close friends/loved ones. But an unexpected bonus from all the turmoil is getting to see three awesome kids more often; K, D, and L. They are our godchildren, smart and extremely funny, and a true godsend in my only child's world. Yes, I understand, that's why you have other kids, so your kid has a playmate all the time. But you know, this is a heck of a lot better for everyone. Plus, the first 2 years are a wash unless A likes to play "poke-the-baby."When the kids come over, their favorite thing to do is build things with Legos. Since 3 generations' worth of Legos from my childhood are stored in A's room, this is very entertaining indeed. Castle pieces get mixed with space pieces, jungle adventures with monkeys and Robin Hood armies coexist with Egyptian heiroglyphs covered in foliage. And there are the dress-ups. Here's a picture of the youngest, L, in what I like to call the Tina Turner Lion Costume. "ROAR! YOU BETTA BE GOOD TO ME!"I'm also grateful, finally, for my brain-chemistry-altering medication. I have been at various times ambivalent, fearful, nauseated, anxious, and defeated about taking this stuff. And then things started to balance out and I feel better now. It's really hard to describe "better," but that's what it is. I feel melancholy, wistful, pretty regularly, but I'm sure that's an essential part of my makeup and I really would not be myself without it. But the melancholy is not accompanied with fatigue, unexplained emotional outbursts, or what I like to call, "Failure To Deal." I can take care of kids without collapsing into a coma afterward, and though I still have a quick temper, it's not as easy to push to the breaking point. Weather has a lot to do with it too, getting outside to work on the yard, hiking in Harper's Ferry with friends and my boys last weekend, getting some color on my moonstone-hued legs. I just need to remember to count my blessings, so I do not become discontented.On a side note, I haven't done much electronically lately, as I have had much dirt under my fingernails. I've lopped off and pruned about a tree's worth of branches from several of our bushes and the big evergreen, and now they look respectable and light, instead of choked and brooding in a dark mass below the porch. I think there were 11 contractor bags full of debris, including bits and pieces of a string of Christmas lights, which the previous owners neglected to remove from the evergreen. I'd have to climb up into the tree to get the rest, but I like the idea of these guys hanging out and mouldering away. Like a Christmas ghost town.Initially I was merely going to prune the bushes, but then I was possessed and uprooted the brick edging--sometimes literally uprooting inch-thick roots that had cemented the bricks in place. I dug up all the bulbs, separated about fifty daffodil bulbs that have multiplied over the years (only letting 3 or 4 flowers bloom in the process), and replanted them in a nice dispersed way. The roses have been thriving, sticking me full of tiny thorns as I collect bouquets, and even the lamb's ears we transplanted haven't completely died away yet. I haven't managed to kill them somehow, though they are a sad-looking lot. And then I set poor D to work on making an edging to the side of the house, brick like the front, and he's been digging like a hired hand trying to get water to drain away from the house. It's a mess at the moment, but it's really going to look good, and we haven't had to spend much except in pruning tools--and advil for my hands. They hate me. I never thought I'd like gardening, and I still don't love it, but it is rewarding to have the house look nice on the outside for once.