One of those moments

I know I haven't posted in forever and there is probably a lot to catch up on but I just have to put this out there before I forget it and get lost in the drudge work that is motherhood.

Today we had a moment.

If you're a mom you know how rare those moments can be. The kind of moment where you feel like you and your children are in exactly the right place and the right time and you've made all the right decision to get them into that place and they are going to be better people for having been there with you and will look at it years later with joy in their hearts that you were able to give them that one perfect moment. Well, maybe that's all a little much to fit into one moment but that's how good it felt at the time. Let me explain our moment and perhaps you'll understand.

The Tyke woke up on the wrong side of the bed this morning. He was cranky and fussy and went into a tailspin over the slightest thing (I unbuttoned his jammy shirt when he wanted to unbutton his jammy shirt, we didn't have the breakfast he wanted, I didn't wipe the spilled yogurt up quickly enough and he got it on his hands, etc, ad nauseum). By about 9 I was ready to throw him out the window but thought a snuggle on the couch would be more productive at calming him down and pressing the reset button on the whole day. I told him to go upstairs and get his wooly (the wool baby blanket I made him when he was a baby) and we settled onto the couch together, him cuddled around the big belly and me surreptitiously reading my kindle over his head.

This made the Pudding mad. She'd been good all morning but was she getting any attention, NO! If being naughty was what it took to get a snuggle around here that's just what she'd be. You can imagine the rest. I finally sent her up to her room because I didn't want to reward the jealous behavior.

Once I had Ike settled and felt like he was well on his way to reset I went up and cuddled with Pudding for a while. We talked about why mommy needed some time with the Tyke that morning and that it didn't mean that I loved the Pudding less, it just meant that the Tyke needed more at that moment. After a while of this she got over the "I wish he'd never been born!" stuff and asked if he could come and snuggle with us. We called the Tyke upstairs and he crawled in with us and wonder of wonders they lay together and didn't wrestle or fight, they just cuddled with each other and with me. We pet the can, we pet each other, they chatted and for that one blissful moment, we just loved on each other. This was at about 10:30 am, the breakfast dishes weren't done yet, we'd done no school work, the shopping needed to be done and laundry was waiting but for once I'm glad I ignored it all and just attended to my children's emotional needs at that moment.

Be Particular

Several years ago I was walking around in a book store and spotted a book with what looked like several drag queens on the cover. Upon closer inspection I realized that they were simply fantastically dressed women wearing towering red wigs, sequinned dressed and majorette boots. The book was called "The Sweet Potato Queen's Book of Love" by Jill Connor Brown and it's a hoot. She gives several rules to live by in order to make your own life fabulous to the point where it feels totally ok to dress up as previously described. I'm still working on that one.

One of the rules came to me today and made me think of that long ago discarded book. Be Particular. This rule applies to nearly everything in life and I'm incredibly glad I followed it in my choice of midwives for this last pregnancy.

Before we were pregnant with Joel, I checked out a few other options for our birth because we weren't sure we could afford to pay for another homebirth. I went to look at some midwives that practice in a hospital and you can read about my reaction to them here. For those too lazy to follow the link, I didn't like them. They didn't feel personal to me, they didn't greet me with a hug and a cup of tea. But I'm so glad that they didn't because it meant that when everything went south with that pregnancy, I was surrounded by midwives who did greet me with a hug and who knew me and loved me and came with me on the hardest day of my life not as a paid midwife, but just as a friend. She was right there making sure that I had the best care possible and avoided the pain and trauma that was always chasing me. She sat with me while we made our decisions with no judgement, only sympathy. She was the one steadying my hand so I could hold my baby for the first and only time.

I am so grateful I didn't do the financially responsible thing in this case and go with the midwives that our insurance would pay for but who would have dropped me like a hot potato at the first sign of trouble. They would have said "I'm so sorry" just like everyone else does and that would have been nice but then Dilbert and I would have been left alone to transverse the world of high risk obstetrics without an educated guide and friend. I'm so glad that I refused to settle for care that would be good enough and insisted on seeing someone better.
It's important to be particular.

I'm a little more fine

Today is not a good day but it's not bad either. The kids have fought and squealed at each other most of the morning but one of them is napping now and the other is coloring robins upstairs. I'm not the basket case I've been for most of the last few months. I'm not saying I'm better yet but I feel like I've at least achieved some equilibrium again.
Part of the reason for this has been my counselor. She's pretty great. I've only seen her twice so far but just talking about all the stuff that's swirling around in my head seems to help. I've talked to my husband about all this stuff before but somehow it's different with an objective party. She hasn't heard it all before. She didn't live through it. Anyway, it helps. I'm sortof wishing I'd done it sooner.
Another reason I think I'm doing better is that Dilbert and I got away last weekend. We left the kids with my aunt and uncle and stayed at a hotel. You all don't need to know about most of that weekend but we did have the time to really open the flood gates. All the feelings and sadness that we'd been holding back because we're busy or the kids need us or we have to work in the morning was able to be put out there on the table and dealt with. I realized that I'd been assuming the worst of him and he'd been frustrated with me for not being better. Before you all jump all over him for that one you should know that he didn't want to feel this way, but feelings happen weather we want them too or not and this was one that was hard to hear but I'm glad he shared it.
When we left, I promised to give him the benefit of the doubt and he promised to be more patient with me. So far so good. We feel like we're back on the same team again.

I'm fine

"I'm fine." That's what I tell everyone. I almost am sometimes. I can get up in the morning (as well as I ever did) and feed my children and get them to soccer and ballet and sing in the band at Church and do all the things that need doing. I can function.
But not terribly well. My temper is shorter than usual and it was never all that long. I don't play with my kids like I used to and I don't go outside if I can help it. I have rare moments of higher function but I'm not what I used to be. My moods swing like a 13 year olds and I'm just as irrational sometimes.
But worst of all, I don't sleep. I'm writing this at 2:30 this morning because I hate going to bed. I feel like slowing down and stopping for the day is a scary prospect. It takes me forever to fall asleep and for that whole time I have nothing to do but let my mind wander where it will and it always goes to the same place. Joel.
Mother's Day was particularly difficult. I had yet more opportunities to cry in public. I kept thinking "there should be three, I'm supposed to have three." All the songs about faith and drawing strength from the Lord just seemed false to me that day because I didn't feel faithful and I didn't feel strength coming from anywhere.
Mother's day was also confirmation Sunday in our church. All these kids were there making the decision to join the church, follow Jesus and give their lives to Him. The Pastors said prayers over each of them while they were surrounded by their family and mentors. It was beautiful and I cried my eyes out through the whole thing because one of my children will never be given the chance to choose that. His journey is already over and I know that he's with Jesus but he never had the chance to choose and I never had the chance to teach him the way he should go and I'm furious about that.
So I keep avoiding my husband because he needs me to be OK and I don't feel that way yet. I keep yelling at my kids because they are kids and act accordingly. I keep staying up too late because it's easier to distract myself with the lights on. I keep telling everyone I'm fine though I know its not true.

The bottom of the trench

Since this little exercise in navel gazing known as my blog is called in the trenches, I thought I'd use the metaphor a little more tonight.
I am currently residing at the bottom of the trench which, if any of the movies and books I've read about war are to be believed, is where most of the crap and vermin reside.
It's not even that today was all that bad, I just felt badly. I had no excuse for it, the sad just showed up and stayed with me all day. I cleaned my kitchen, fed my children, worked on some sewing, read a book, ate some chocolate, all in an attempt to rid myself of the sad but nothing worked.
By the time Dilbert called me from his car as it sped toward home I was a well concealed wreck. He asked me if I wanted to meet him with the kids at our local gun shop, otherwise known as his happy place. He's been wanting to get one for me for a while now and thanks to the joy of the tax refund and our two little deductions, we sortof have the money for it at the moment. I'm not terribly jazzed about it but I'm not against the idea either so I agreed to meet him and just keep the sad pushed down for the others present.
Then I tried to get the kids ready to leave the house.
They'd gone outside that day but they hadn't actually had any shoes on and Pudding was wearing a shirt that was way too small for her and had to be changed. And Pudding didn't want to change the shirt, then she didn't want to wear those socks, then she didn't want to wear any socks and why couldn't she just go barefoot and why did we have to go anyway and on and on and on. I called Dilbert and told him the outing was off.
Normally I have no issues with stuffing either of my children into the required clothing and frog marching them out the door but today was not a day that I wanted to yell at my children. I don't ever really want to yell at them but today was a day where I didn't have the energy and the will to do battle with them. All my mental energy was used up today in keeping the sad contained and I just didn't have any left over. I felt like I was looking up at the looming battle from the bottom of my little trench and what I needed to do right then was keep myself from drowning, not fight. Survive and live to fight another day.

The last time

I've become addicted to this fabulous show called "Two Fat Ladies." It was a cooking show in England in the late 90's and it features (as you could imagine) two rotund women of a certain age. The show ran from 96 to 99 and featured the voluptuous women cooking in various locals and using lots of local ingredients. Tonight I watched them make (I'm not kidding on any of this) Strawberry breasts, Beef in Pastry, Salmon Mousse, and Swiss Chard with garlic and anchovies. They chortle along together while they cook and quote odd bits of poetry or share funny bits of history about the food they are cooking. At the end of the show they show their guests sitting down to dinner, share a few tips about serving each dish and have a drink somewhere picturesque. Clarissa and Jennifer always seemed the best of friend except when they argue about whether or not someone sat on the raspberries needed for that nights dessert (Pudding, they call it).
I recently read up on them a bit and found out that it was the death of Jennifer that ended the show. As I watched it tonight, I saw them both sitting on an old stone terrace, Clarissa with a glass of something orange and Jennifer with her scotch and cigarette. The sun set behind them as they stretched their sturdy legs in front of them and fully enjoyed their repose after a day spent in the kitchen. The thought occurred to me that if Jennifer were a friend of mine, this is what I would always want to picture her doing before she passed. Drink in her hand, cigarette on her lip and the pride of having done something productive all day glowing about her, sashaying into the long goodnight. It got me thinking about why it is so important for us to think that our loved ones who have passed on had peaceful or beautiful last moments.
So much is made of the last of something before someone dies. A last holiday, a last conversation, a last hug. A dear friend of mine just lost her brother to a very early death and she's been distraught that the last time she talked to him, it was a less than stellar conversation. I want to tell her to not worry about it but we all do.
I religiously say "I Love You" to my husband every morning before he leaves for work simply because he has to drive 11 miles with idiot DC metro drivers and I'm always a bit terrified that he won't make it home. I say "I Love you" every morning so if for some reason he didn't make it home, he would die knowing that I loved him. This is really silly because a hurried statement on his way out the door won't counteract unloving behavior displayed the rest of the day. If I don't love him with my actions during the time he's here, a superstitions sweet nothing isn't going to cut it. As a basketball coach of mine once said, "It's not the shot you missed as the buzzer blew that lost us the game, it was all the missed shots during the rest of the game."
The last minutes do matter but they can't spoil a loving relationship if they are bad and they don't make up for a contentious relationship if they're good. It's the relationship that counts, not the last minute.
For my friend, I want to tell her that her brother knew he was loved but I don't know. I know she tried to love him as best she could. She's just that kind of person, spreading sunshine wherever she goes. I know that at times her brother was difficult and pushed love and help away with both hands but in the time of his death, I know that brings no comfort. All that can really be said now is that she tried, she always tried and at the end of the day, that's all we can do. We do our best to love those around us the best we can and hope that they see the love in our every action. Then it won't matter if a sharp word is exchanged from time to time because at the end, the love is the only thing that lasts.
I don't know if I believe all that stuff about people who have passed on looking down on us from heaven, looking out for us or being cared for by other loved ones who have also passed on. I think that if you're in the presence of an eternal and loving God that singing His praises is about the only thing you'd have time for and the troubles of this world will seem silly and petty. Despite my belief to the contrary, I could see Jennifer up in heaven, on a cloud this time sharing a scotch with the brother of my friend and having a rousing political discussion. I like to think of them watching the sunset and resting from the turmoil of this mortal coil. I like to think that all of his troubles have left him now and he is at peace and feeling loved.

Semantics are everything

I'm going to take a small break from my rather heavy posts about the grief and loss of the past month to share a silly thing that happened yesterday.
The Tyke came into the kitchen sobbing as if his heart were breaking. His hands were behind him on his little bum and he kept saying that his back hurt. Dilbert asked him, "Does your butt hurt too?" The Tyke replied as though he'd been trying to convey something for a very long time and had grown so frustrated that he'd boiled over into anger. "THAT. IS. MY. TUSHIE!!!!!!"
Semantics are very important.