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Talk to the Spoon

Posted on December 3, 2013 by Ice Scream Mama

At this moment, I am spooning giant scoops of ice cream from a tub of Edy’s slow churned Rocky Road from my freezer, drowning it in sprinkles and eating it compulsively, my head cradling the phone as I eat.

I am listening to him, but it’s all just words; the same old tortured words of a tortured existence.

Today’s problem of the day has gotten itself pregnant and is now two problems. He has no protection from himself, so there is always the risk of multiplication.

During conversations like these, I am unable to keep the spoon out of my mouth. Luckily his diatribes need no response. He can talk on and on about his suffering with almost no interruption, leaving me free to torture myself.

I see his form, even though he is over the bridge and I am through a tunnel, sitting awkwardly on his bed; his face drooped as low as his body. The cigarette held carelessly in his hands. Smoke floating up past his glazed over eyes; the ashes falling on jeans riddled with the cigarette holes of frustrated days gone by. He might fall asleep like this if he stopped talking. He might fall asleep even if he doesn’t.

My spoon scrapes bottom. My stomach is extended, my heart divided. I reach for the tub again. It calms something out of control inside of me which threatens to explode in these conversations, but with every bite I grow angrier with him and with myself, so instead of being soothed, I boil.

“I want to stop talking,” I hear him say, his voice a cloud over my head.  I want you to as well, I don’t reply. “I know I’m talking too much.” He repeats.

The recognition is brief. It is hard for him to focus on about anything but himself and his pain for anything more than an acknowledgement. Yet, he pauses to ask how I am; which should be considered some kind of progress, even though it’s fleeting and not quite genuine, because I know it is difficult for him.

I could interrupt and fill the space with my noise, but my tongue is numb and I can’t muster the effort to even pretend to be normal tonight. So, on he goes, moving without transition from one problem to another, one pain to the next.

I have heard enough to last ten lifetimes.

Still, he can’t stop talking. I can’t stop spooning. And we both can’t stop hating who we are at this moment.

ice cream spoon

Hurt so good

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You have to read to understand

Posted on November 26, 2013 by Ice Scream Mama

Spoiler alert: This post reveals plot secrets from The Fault in our Stars.

Last night I lost someone dear to me. He was young, not yet 18 but cancer doesn’t always care for age, or for charm or for a life worth living. I spent only a week or so getting to know him, growing to love him. His name was Augustus Waters, a boy fashioned from runaway words and grand gestures, who taught me that there can be an infinity of life in only a few breaths of time, to see the vigorous green of grass, the beauty of a blind man tossing eggs at an ex-girlfriends car, and that the loss of limb doesn’t mean you lose the sparkle in your eyes.

I admit I never actually met Augustus. I only got to know him in my head, a voyeur on a life I wasn’t really a part of, eavesdropping on private conversations and inner thoughts. But I loved him, because really, you don’t have to meet someone for their story to touch or move or change you.

Today, I still think about Augustus because he was so special, but I have new lives to distract me. Lenke and Josef, who met and married before WWII, lost each other and have somehow, through the unexplainable beauty of the universe re-found themselves in the golden years of life.

I am just getting to know them, but soon, they will be rounded out and real enough to hug. I will learn their full story, and I will cherish them as I have Augustus and so many others. Because each book I read is a secret window into another world, with some fascinating people but often with ordinary ones, but always ones who capture my affection and my imagination.

I don’t know where I’d be without the comfort and joy of books. They are a gift in my life that sheltered me when I was young from the shouting in my house and the noises in my head. From the first, my palette was insatiable. Truly, I cannot be without a book. It makes me edgy, not to have a place I can run to and hide or fly or laugh or cry.

I open a book and I open my life. So thank you Madeline L’Engle , Judy Blume, Jonathon Tropper, Herman Hesse, Ayn Rand, Larry McMurtry, Jean M. Auel, V.C. Andrews, Sydney Sheldon, James Michener, Ken Follett, Jane Austen, John Green and so so so many others for creating stories and lives that inspire and engage me; for lifting me up and bringing me down just when I needed them, for making me see the world through someone else’s eyes, challenge my mind and grow my heart.

I know the sun will rise and fall on every life someday. We are just breaths of air, but pages are breaths filled with cinnamon and spice that draw you in and make you want to take their face in your hands and kiss them, whether on each cheek or full on the mouth.

Even when I turn that final page, I carry you all with me.

Augustus has died. Long live Augustus.

fault in stars

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You got to go with Aunt Flo. Or she will destroy you.

Posted on November 19, 2013 by Ice Scream Mama

My Aunt Flo is due to visit tomorrow, and I have to say I’m just a bundle of anxiety. I don’t know why I’m surprised. It’s always like this, even though she comes every month. Still, somehow I’m consistently taken off guard and unprepared for her visit. I fidget nervously. I’m a bit on edge. Nothing seems right and I have to fix everything before she arrives. Everything!

The pictures on the wall have magically all tilted overnight, and there’s cat hair all over the place. It’s also apparently too difficult for anyone to put their cereal bowls in the sink, or manage to reach the hamper with their dirty underwear. Seriously, are those extra two inches just too much?

Don’t they realize the stress I’m under? She’ll be here any minute.

“Is something wrong?” My husband asks, as I straighten the toys up for the kabillenth time, huffing and puffing and deep sighing, tossing toys with gusto into their bins. Stupid Superman figure. His face is so annoying. He makes me sick. I hurl him into the bin.

“What do you mean?” I snap. “Nothing’s wrong. It’s the same old wrong of every day. Why are you badgering me?!”

He looks afraid, and slowly backs away.

“Where is the freaking phone?” I yell to the air. I was holding it a second ago. A second! Oh, it’s still in my hand. My bad.

There’s too much to do. I need something to eat. And it has to be sweet. I need it right now. I head to freezer and take out my ice cream tub and spoon out five scoops to my usual three, then reconsider, and add another scoop.  I shove the container back into the freezer but something is wrong. It doesn’t close properly no matter how much I slam it. I slam it again! It’s not closing! I can not deal with that right now! I need to eat.

I’m consuming my bowl unconsciously; my brain thinking ahead of all the things that need to be done that aren’t done, and all the things wrong that might never be right, when my son comes in and asks for a cup of milk.

I nod, and reach into the fridge, but there is no milk. There is no milk! How did I let that happen? I’m usually so on top of stuff like that. I am a terrible mom. How do I not have milk for my children?

Tears start to well.

“I’ll have juice, mommy.” My son says, sensing my distress. Overwhelmingly grateful for my sensitive child, I hand him a little box of juice and he runs away happy. He’s so good and sweet. I’m so bad and disgusting.

When my husband comes back in, he finds me sobbing, kicking the freezer door trying to close it.

Tentatively, he steps towards me.

“There’s no milk,” I say.

“It’s okay.” He soothes. He’d better not laugh. If he does, I might kick him next.

I take a deep breath to regroup, and find my ice cream.

It’s all Aunt Flo. She’s making me crazy.

Because the only thing worse than waiting for Aunt Flo is when Aunt Flo is late.

nostalgictelevision.blogspot.com

Sometimes, you’ve got to go with the Flo. 

photo credit: nostalgictelevision.blogspot.com

 

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Sometimes, you just got to take a shot

Posted on November 14, 2013 by Ice Scream Mama

“Get your shoes on. We’ve got to go.”

This is the way it has to work. No explanation. No sweet talk. All business.

My three boys casually ignore me, focusing on SpongeBob.  Sometimes, I really want to wring that sponge.

“Ahem!” I say loudly. “Let’s get a move on. Now!”

My “Now” sounds like it looks, all exclamation points, but amazingly, they don’t hear it that way and slowly amble toward their shoes.

“Where are we going?” my oldest asks, but I brush off his question.

“No questions. Time to go.”

My two youngest race out the door.

“So where are we going?” My oldest persists, and because he’s eleven and has showed progress and maturity these past couple of years, I tell him.

“Oh.” He says anxiously, eyes wide.  “Do they know?” He gestures toward the happy faces climbing over each other in the minivan.

I shake my head no.

“Can I tell them?” He asks, eyes glinting.

“Wait till we’re closer. The less crying I have to hear the better.”

He nods happily. We’re in cahoots now.

During the seven minute drive, the secret spreads like a low hum across the car, reaching my youngest as we pull in, his eyes alight with panic. While the other boys wait, I patiently try to coax him from the car.

“Come on,” I plead. “It’s so quick. You didn’t even cry last year.” Uh, except for the half hour preceding it, of course.

He backs away, deeper into the third row.

Realizing negotiation was futile, I not so patiently pick up his flailing, twisting body and carry him. Once inside, he calms some, until the doctor appears smiling, with his Tweety and Sylvester tie and a syringe. It is a semi-creepy combination.

Oldest boy goes and takes it in arm like a pro.

Middle boy goes and barely bats one of his ridiculously long lashes.

Youngest boy… where is youngest boy? Sigh.

I pull him out from under the patient table and talk gently to him as he struggles to pull away. I show him how happy his big brothers are and he kicks at the doctor. I promise him treats when he’s done, but he is like a rabid baby bear covered in butter in my arms.

Finally, I restrain him enough for the three seconds it takes the doctor to insert the needle and it’s over.

My boy takes his time breathing heavily, recovering from his experience. “See, it’s really not that bad,” I coo, petting his curls. “It’s over so fast. You were very brave.”

He looks up, baby brown eyes still moist with tears, and utters two words full of indignation, “Toy store.”

I nod in agreement.

“Then treat!”

The kid may not be good at taking shots, but he’s certainly good at calling them.

Just hold still. This won't hurt a bit.

Just hold still. This won’t hurt a bit.

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What’s really wrong with men

Posted on November 12, 2013 by Ice Scream Mama

My head is cloudy. My body aches. I’m a drippy, stuffy mess, but as mom, there’s no time for that, no time at all. Children must be corralled, lunches made, activities organized. So even though I’d like to lie down, close my eyes and nap, I’m moving and shaking, although the shaking might just be from the chills.

My husband comes downstairs, a look of exhaustion fixed on his face.

“What’s wrong?” I ask, busy doing what needs to be done.

“I can’t breathe,” he says. Can you hand me a tissue?” He looks at me pleadingly, like a little boy.

“Here,” I say annoyed and hand him the tissue box. Can’t I have this sick day? Can’t being sick even be about me?  “Would you like a sticker now?” I ask sarcastically.

“Maybe some juice?” He makes puppy eyes, but at the moment, I just think he’s a dog.

I try to take a deep calming breath but my nose is stuffed, so I just swallow a little mucus and choke, but no one notices. If I wasn’t so weary, I might have something snarky to say. Instead I just hand him a cup of juice, but I do it with a scowl.

Because if he has a cold it seems like pneumonia.

If he’s nauseous, he’s hacking in the bathroom some inhuman sound reserved for dying animals.

If he’s under the weather, it’s a blizzard in Minnesota.

So  while there’s definitely something wrong with my husband, mainly he just sucks at being sick. And if I’m not feeling well, his symptoms somehow worsen. Not that I think he does it consciously, but…

Me- I don’t feel so well.

Him – Me either.

Me – My head hurts.

Him – Mine too. And my throat.

Me – That’s weird.

Him – Yeah, I’m really achy.

Me – Really?

Him – Yeah, In fact, I think I need to lie down. Could you make me soup?”

Apparently, women aren’t allowed to be sick. Ever.

And it’s not just my husband. I’m prepared to throw all men under the bus here. According to women everywhere, men just can’t handle the pain. They wheeze and whine, they moan and complain, they need lollipops and cool compresses, while the wives nurse the baby while standing up, cooking dinner and overseeing homework, all with a 103 temperature, a broken leg and three broken arms. Yeah, three.

It makes me re-think some of the turns of phrase I randomly use without thinking, like “Take it like a man” or “Man up.”

How did these become part of the vernacular? I think ‘Take it like woman’ is more appropriate and from now on I’m telling my boys to ‘Mom up’, because if there’s something we know how to do, it’s suffer.

Don’t bother passing me the tissues, I’ll just get them myself.

sick

Marital Disclaimer: Just to be clear and not because he’s reading this, my husband is very manly. He’s the coach of everything, he kills spiders, climbs ladders, fixes stuff and likes nothing more than chips on the couch and sports on the TV. In fact, my husband can beat up your husband, unless of course he’s sick.

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Meet Prince Charming

Posted on November 7, 2013 by Ice Scream Mama

“I did not eat the chocolate!” My five year old insists, brown smudges decorating his face and hands.

“Are you sure?” I question, my eyes pointing at his conscience, trying to pierce his resolve.

His smile is wide; little white baby teeth dirty with his lie.

“I’m totally sure, mom. Totally!” He brings his face of evidence near mine and even though he smells delicious and looks delicious, I push him back a little. I don’t want chocolate on my shirt. It’s only 8am. I try to wait until at least 9am, once I am out of the house and in public to get stained.

His mouth is sticking to his story but his eyes, as always, twinkle with mischief. They speak the truth. He knows I know. If he knew how to wink, he would.

“So, how did you get all that chocolate on your face,” I ask.

“What chocolate, mommy?” He laughs. “There’s no chocolate on my face.”

“What about your hands.” I say. “What’s that?”

He looks down at the brown stains and jumps up and down with uncontrollable glee. “That’s dirt mommy. I’m very dirty.”

“Well that’s true at least.” I nod. “Now go take your dirty hands into the bathroom and wash them.”

He flashes a smile like Brad Pitt in Thelma and Louise before he sleeps with Thelma and steals all her money, then skips away.

I know the smile well. His two older brothers share the same gift.

Charm.

In less than 10 seconds, he’s back. “Look, I washed my hands.” He says and shoves wet little fingers, still smudged with chocolate in front me to drip on my pants.

“Great.” I say, getting up to retrieve a paper towel. “I think you forgot to dry them.”

He stands in front of me waiting, a smile playing on his lips.

“Yes?” I ask, amused.

“I found something.”

Immediately my brow arches. “Really?”

He runs off, his voice trailing behind him, “And I didn’t take it from your bag.”

He returns with a dollar bill.

“Hmm. Where did you get that?” I ask.

“I don’t know,” He sings, “But I didn’t take it from your bag.”

“That’s good because if I check and see it’s missing, I might think you took it and then you’d be in big trouble.”

A furrow crosses his brow.

“I’ll be right back.” He says and runs off again.

I wash the dishes while I wait, and wonder what was in that stolen contraband he ate this morning.

“I’m hungry.” he says when he returns.

“Well, you didn’t have breakfast. Want cereal?”

“Nope.”

“Eggs.”

“Nope.”

“Pancakes?”

“I want these!” He produces two chocolates from his Halloween bag.

Of course.

“Pleaseeee! I’ll have them with pancakes, eggs and cereal, and then I totally won’t have any more snacks today.” He oversells his smile, his eyes glinting with delight. I can only shake my head, enchanted.

Watch out girls.

I can tell, he's got you already.

I can tell, he’s got you already.

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Hanging by a Thread

Posted on November 5, 2013 by Ice Scream Mama

The last time I remember wearing the skirt was almost 12 years ago. I was not quite three months pregnant with my first child. My husband and I were at a birthday dinner for an old friend. I think it was his 35th. We sat in a u-shaped formation where everyone laughed loudly and talked over one another; dishes of Italian specialties spread across the table on steaming, over full plates.

I picked at my pasta merrily. The waistband of the skirt wrapped snugly against my middle; and for the first time I wasn’t worrying about holding in my stomach, just about holding in our secret. I looked around at all the faces animated in happy excitement; people more like family than friend. My cup was void of wine but I felt drunk on love.

I had worn the skirt before. It was one of those items that seamlessly blended into life outside my closet. I wore it to parties and to meetings at work. I wore it to wakes and showers. As time marched on, I wore it less and less. Yet, on the right occasion it would make an appearance. “Can you believe I’ve had this skirt since before I was married,” I’d say and twirl around, so everyone could see how fabulously practical and cute I was, and how it still fit.

Today, twelve years after my last vivid memory in it, I wore it to a funeral.

I sat in the pew, looking down at my hands, and picked at the threads of the skirt that I had noticed were beginning to fray. So many familiar faces surrounded me, there to pay respects to my step-father’s brother, who died too young after suffering with a long illness. We were all older, sad. We looked more worn; the wrinkles beginning to show and in some cases crease from the wear and tear of everyday living.

I listened to the kind, sorrowful words about a good man from his loved ones left behind. I looked in front of me, where two brothers sat and the third now lay. Tears slipping silently, I tried not to think of the dark reality of life and played with a string on the hem of my skirt, trying to pull it off and instead making it unravel even further.

Life just keeps going.

All of these people here are the faces who had been there through the moments; the big ones like weddings and holidays; the small ones like playing a round of golf and having a good pastrami sandwich. They are a comfort that you wear like a favorite tee shirt.

Or an old skirt.

My step-father’s brother is gone, along with so many others, like my friend whose birthday party I celebrated back then. He died just seven years later.

But the skirt is still with me.

dress

 

 

 

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Shut Up. Yep, that’s what I said.

Posted on October 31, 2013 by Ice Scream Mama

I see the moment so clearly; all of us walking into the restaurant, my friend bickering back and forth with her snarky, then 11 year-old son, her, ultimately, telling him to shut up.

I remember how totally and completely horrified I was. I had babies at the time; sweet little yum yums. I could never imagine speaking to them that way, and I’m sure my judgment showed.

My friend shot me a stern look of reproach. “Just wait.” She warned. “You’ll do it too.”

I nodded, embarrassed for all of us, but I didn’t believe her. We were different, I told myself. I would never. And I didn’t, until the day I did.

I was past the point of frustration and on to exasperation when I snapped at my squabbling 8 and 10 year-old. It just came out. I don’t know how, and my hand quickly flew to my mouth in shame.

They looked at me, momentarily confused, all speech halted.

“Mommy, you said, shut up.” They both giggled.

“I know, I know. I shouldn’t have. I’m sorry.” Bad mommy. Bad, bad mommy.

“You always tell us never to say that.” More giggling.

It’s true. I think saying ‘shut up’ is worse than cursing. My kids regularly amuse themselves by dropping something and loudly exclaiming, “Damn it!” The expression of frustration doesn’t really bother me.  Of course, I don’t encourage it, but it’s those words and phrases with intention to hurt that make me cringe. Words like, “I don’t like you.” Or “You’re stupid.”

Or, “Shut up.”

How did I just say that?

Well, they were obviously driving me insane and I wanted them to shut up. Sigh.

Back at the beginning of my mommy career, I sat quietly on my horse with my perfect child, looking down at the moms of children running wild through the playground, or climbing on top of carts in the supermarket, or manipulating a second or third oreo. Tsk Tsk.

Until all of a sudden, I did things I swore I’d never do like: let my child sleep in my bed, reduce me to tears in Target, make me want to throw them out a window, bribe them with sugar and TV so I could talk on the phone, make three different meals each night, or just give up and give a bowl of cereal, hide in the bathroom, buy expensive gadgets or iPhones…

Well, ha ha ha on me. Because it’s easy to judge, when it’s not your life in the midst of mental meltdown.

While I do my best to exhibit respectful behavior and make the right choices, sometimes I don’t do as I intend, and I learned long ago, never to say never.

Telling them to shut up is certainly not on my highlight reel, but I guess, it happens. Or, it happened. Hopefully, it won’t again. But it might.

I can just hear my friend saying, I told you so. And while I’d like to tell her to shut up, I try not to say those kind of things.

Damn it.

Clearly not winning any parenting awards over here.

Clearly not winning any parenting awards over here.

 

 

 

 

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Getting Lost

Posted on October 29, 2013 by Ice Scream Mama

I was driving home from the gym, my thoughts on other things. Mostly, I was worrying over my last conversation with my father. He had forgotten to secure a ride for his upcoming doctor appointment. He had also forgotten to mail me a letter I had asked for half a dozen times, and he had lost his debit card. Again.

None of this was too out of the ordinary. Worrisome, yes, but it had been going on a long time. Compared with other moments like, forgetting whether he took his medications, that he was smoking before he fell asleep, or to turn off the stove, I couldn’t complain.

Still, it left me, as always, unsettled; wondering if he really shouldn’t be in some type of care facility. I knew he wasn’t capable of living alone, even with the home health aide coming in daily. He knew it as well, but that didn’t stop him from fighting on threat of his life to remain independent.

It was a lose, lose battle for both us, and one so exhausting and old that my brain moved on, remembering that I needed to pick up the dry cleaning and calculating whether I had enough time for the supermarket before school let out. Suddenly, I looked around and realized I didn’t recognize where I was.

I had driven this seven minute route to and from the gym, hundreds of times. How could I possibly not know where I was?  I certainly wasn’t far, ten blocks at most. Yet, it all looked unfamiliar. Did I not take the right turn? There were only three or four turns to take. Where was I?

I panicked, gazing around at the lovely overhanging trees, trying to place my surroundings, and drawing a complete blank.

On instinct, I made a U-turn and headed back in the direction I came. Before I even reached the first intersecting block, I knew exactly where I was. On the right road. Of course.

I turned the car back around again, and almost laughed out loud at my senior moment. I was so distracted, I had lost my bearings on a block I had traveled hundreds of times.

I made the next left and headed the next few blocks till I made another right, traveled five more blocks and pulled in my driveway. Home.

I put the car in park and felt ridiculously relieved and slightly shaken. It was frightening not being able to trust your instincts. It immediately brought me back to my father.

Every day, he loses his train of thought, his focus, his time. Every day we argue about things beyond our control. Because it’s one thing to lose your way, but another to lose yourself.

block

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Freedom is mine… And I’m feeling good.

Posted on October 22, 2013 by Ice Scream Mama

Lately I’ve been waking up around 5:00am.

While, I’m naturally an early riser, this is early even for me. I think middle school has hyped me up a bit. Unconsciously, I worry about my son getting up, if he’s completed everything that needed to be done, if he’s ready for the new school day. Since I can’t fix and do everything for him, I compensate for any potential failings by preparing the perfect lunch. A+ for me.

By 6:30am, two of my three boys are usually awake. It’s the middle-schooler who needs to get up that is still sleeping. I gently shake his warm body until he yells something unintelligible and falls back unconscious. This happens at least three more times at five minute intervals, until finally I turn on the light, rip off the covers and throw clothes on top of his head.

By 7:30am, he’s out the door.

I finish up organizing and feeding my younger two, negotiating with them to put on their socks, brush their teeth, eat their breakfast. Pretty much everything I need to get done for them is a negotiation. Like I would be the one embarrassed if they went to school with their shirt inside out, or in trouble if they didn’t finish their homework, or mortified if the girl they ultimately asked to the prom turned them down because they had no teeth. Okay, fine, I would.

Finally, the bus arrives and I wave, smile and jump up and down manically for the two little faces, one with dark curly hair, the other blonde and straight, pressed to the window watching me in amusement.

By 8:30am, they are officially all off to school, and I am in my house alone for the first time in over ten years.

I thought, being a generally sappy mom, prone to stalking, suffocation and crying lapses, that I would take this transition hard.

There’s no one cracking up while doing goofy dances for VideoStar. There’s no running through the halls, pounding down the stairs, or racing cars across the wood floors. There’s no one fighting over who likes macaroni the most or who can climb a tree highest. There’s nothing but silence.

No children giggling. No children fighting. No children.

It’s…BEAUTIFUL!!!

I am almost shocked at how thrilled I am with this time to myself. I flip the laundry. La la la. I do some exercise. La la la. I run a few errands. I sit at the computer and write! La la halle-freaking-lujah!

I am so content in my bubble with myself that I have actually turned down lunch with friends. Neither, do I have time to shop. I need to revel in the glory of my silent house; my fingers dancing on the keyboard, an ice cream for lunch. Me. Me. Me.

Maybe soon I’ll grow wistful, but right now, there’s a party in my house. And I’m the only one invited.

Busy, busy, busy.

No, you can’t join me.

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