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Parenting Moments I now Miss that Totally Annoyed Me at the Time

Posted on April 18, 2013 by Ice Scream Mama

Every morning, so early my eyes couldn’t focus, I would stand downstairs in the kitchen, preparing very specific lunch and snack requests for my kids for the day. On auto-pilot I would put up the water for fresh pasta (Parmesan in a Ziplock bag on the side) or Annie’s Macaroni and cheese shells. Yellow only. Don’t even think about elbows. There were other annoying necessities, such as slicing grapes, not only so that they wouldn’t be choking hazards, but also because the bruised ends which attached to the vine, offended them. The crusts on any sandwich must be banished, and hard boiled eggs must be void of any remnants of yellow. Any.

As mommy, there were so many particulars that needed tending to simply get through a day responsibly and with the least amount of tantrums. “Not the blue bowl!!! The red!”  But now that we’re a bit older, a lot of these peculiarities or young needs have faded away. And now, believe it or not, I kind of miss them. Well, some of them…

The 3am Wanderer – It wasn’t a routine thing. I was always pretty strong about keeping my bed, uh, I mean mine and my husband’s bed, off limits, but there were times, of course, when I would wake to find a child’s foot kicking me in the back, or an arm over my face. So annoying. So warm and sweet and delicious. And annoying.

The Tickle Back – For years, I couldn’t leave my middle child’s room without going through an elaborate ritual. “Tickle back, Mommy! Do it harder… softer… No, this way… You forgot arms… Sorry, you didn’t do that well. Try again!  It was an arduous test to pass every night before I was released to my own rewards of ice cream and Housewives. These days, I am literally dismissed. “You can go now, Mommy.”

The Bus Stop – The bus stop is on my corner and I am the corner house, so it’s not exactly a schlepp. Still, many a day, I stood there, sometimes freezing, sometimes corralling a younger sib or worrying because I left someone in front of the TV. I’d wait impatiently to hear those screechy breaks on the corner before ours. But now, my 5th and 2nd graders are perfectly capable and happy to walk the 10 feet to the curb themselves. I watch from the doorway, but they rarely look back.

Play! – “Mommy, let’s play Pokemon/lego/dinosaur battle!” Really? Do we have to? Apparently, we always did. So we’d sit on the floor and set up 100 figures and then “pshew pshew” shoot and fly them across the floor at each other. “What are you gonna do?!” My kid would ask desperately, as I tried to sneak a peek at the open newspaper next to us. “Uh, I’m gonna thunder punch?” I’d say, without enthusiasm. My bad attitude was never noted, as long as I came up with something. “Revolving kick!” He’d boom back energetically, clearly to make me look bad in front of my ‘men’. Not that it mattered. His figures would always spin round and round, throwing mine across the room.
These days the only thing the boys want to battle with me over is their playing time on iTouch, Computer or Wii.

The Butt Wipe – Yeah, I know. Who’d miss that, right? And while I might not actually miss the physical wiping, I definitely do miss the build-up. “Mom! I need to poop!” Followed by, “Done! Done! DONE!!” And then there are all those fascinating positions for optimal wiping. Okay, TMI, but, now my little boys just go on their own. Done. At least they still regularly forget to lift the seat and I wind up sitting on pee. Sigh. It’s the little things.

Mommy Don’t Go! – Oh the drama! Oh the tears! But boys, mommy is only going out for a little. Mommy needs wine and therapy, I mean friends. Cue clinging and snotting and hanging on legs. On occasion, a child could be physically ripped wailing from my body as I ran out the door, only to be seen as a desperate little face banging on the window. They couldn’t bear to part with me. Now they stare at the TV as I yell loudly, “BYE!” and they (sometimes) look up and bless me with a smile. Oh where have all the good times gone!!??!

All the older moms always say, you’ll miss these days when they’re gone. I look around. There are toys and crap everywhere, laundry piled high. I bitch about it constantly. Will I miss this mess? I consider my house, devoid of the clutter, neat and perfect (come on, it’s a hypothetical fantasy!), and immediately, I know I will.  Because when it’s gone, they’re gone.

I’m going to try to remember that the next time I’m dragging my kid out of bed to wake up.

*My youngest just forced me into having a Battle of the Skylander Figures. Taking #4 off the list immediately. Bleh!

The dreaded battlefield. It kills me every time.

The dreaded battlefield. It kills me every time.

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The Brother in the Middle. #Imsorry

Posted on April 16, 2013 by Ice Scream Mama

He was soft now, but he used to be wild.

Back before he moved to this new place, this new family, this new life.  Back when he was just a six year-old, with energy as untamed as his hair and freckles that danced happily across his face; but never touched the stitches in his chin from falling off the back of a bike, and the ones by his lip, for falling off a chair, and ones on his head, where a crazy lady hit him with a broom for sneaking into her yard.

His smile ran wide and mischievous, dashing through the streets of Brooklyn, without boundaries. Because it was home. Because it was safe. Because his parents were in the middle of a divorce and we were barely out of the free-living 70’s.

He had grandparents who’d walk over with a banana and a hug, and a block that watched over him with a smile.

But now he was in the suburbs with two step-brothers who sandwiched him on both ends – one a year older and one, two years younger. His new brothers, just as lost and scared as he, with the infiltration of two new siblings and a new mom in their home, space, lives; tossed him out, instead of taking him in. They were so young. We all were.

At eleven, I was the oldest and the only girl, finding my way in a dark new maze at the worst time in a young girl’s growing life.  Outside, was the jungle filled with mean girls and aggressive boys competing for dominance. Inside, where we  lived, was the lion’s den.

The union was not good from the beginning. The husband and wife struggled in their new marriage. The children struggled in their new family. But the fighting was still there, a constant, familiar background noise, with a stronger male lead.

We four little heads often lined the top of the stairs, listening to the voices below, filled with anger, mistrust and disappointment. It was when we were closest, sharing in the uncertainty, waiting for the end of them, of us. When the voices came too close, we scattered in fear, afraid to be caught snooping, even if they could probably be heard from across the street. We knew, getting caught would bring more anger instead of less.

I did nothing to help my brother or ease his transition, because as difficult as mine, or our new brothers was, his was worse.

From every hand, fingers pointed at him. 

So, he trudged through each day, slowly losing his spark.

This was not his home. Not a safe place.

The houses here were bigger and more spaced apart. The neighborhood kids, not so neighborly.

He gained some weight.

He lost his smile.

They called him Sloth.

He was soft now, but in a few years when he grew older, he would be wild again.

Back when he was wild, in a good way

 

 

 

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My Writing Process. But first, I Need to Flip the Laundry.

Posted on April 11, 2013 by Ice Scream Mama

I’ve been meaning to write this essay about how I write my essays. You know, the ‘process’. All writers have their own individual approach to writing. Some just sit down and bang it out. Some bang and then sit down and write. We all have our own way. No judgment.

So I had the idea, but I couldn’t figure out how to best structure it. I mulled it over a bit, and then put it on the back burner. A few days later, I picked it back up and tossed it around. Then I did what I usually do at this point, which is, to continue dragging my feet, literally, and go for a run.

Often, I come up with a lot of my ideas while running. With nothing but time to kill, it’s the perfect opportunity to brainstorm. So I plod along plotting my stories, constructing brilliant first lines and clever turns of phrase.

When I mercifully stagger back to my door, I head straight for my dining room chair, aka my work seat, where, with sweat dripping on the keypad, I quickly get down my thoughts, before they are incinerated by my awesome calorie burn. After this initial burst, I go up for a shower, and let my ideas stew in the hot water for at least 10 solid steaming minutes.

Back at the computer, the screen and I stare each other down. Where am I going with this idea? I wonder. Will this work? I write another sentence or two, then feel an overwhelming urge to check my emails. When I come up with nothing, I move on to Facebook and Twitter.

Back to the essay. I re-read. Delete a line and rewrite. Add another line. I sit back and assess. It’s not bad.

I feel the urge for a snack.

No. I need to focus. Write another line. Hmm… should I get some frozen yogurt? Or maybe an apple with peanut butter? Focus! Soup?

I can’t stand it. I’ll be right back.

I go for chocolate and peanut butter yogurt with a medley of toppings. I’m making cones and dipping them as I type. I’m in such a happy, satisfied place. I write a few more lines.

Oh, I’m in the groove now and knock out a whole paragraph. It’s good. Woo. I’m exhausted, I need a break.

Check email.

Check Facebook.

Check Twitter.

Make a phone call.

Go back and re-read what I’ve written. Decent open. Entertaining middle. Tweak. Tweak.

Get up for more sprinkles. What? I need more sprinkles. It’s part of my process.

Just a few more lines and I’m done.

I’m antsy. I need to pee.

I’m almost finished. So close. Tweak. Tweak. Twitter.

I just need the right ending.

Check email.

Re-read.

Make another cone.

Oh, I’ve got it!

Check Facebook.

It’s perfect.

Hang on. I’ll be right back…

Busy, busy, busy.

Quiet. I’m working.

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Sorry, There are no Buns Left in this Oven. Check Down the Street.

Posted on April 9, 2013 by Ice Scream Mama

For years, since my last son was born, my head and heart still pounded loudly in my ears.  “I want another baby!” They screamed. As I neared the age where another baby would be almost impossible, the pounding grew louder, drowning out all reason.

When my husband, the logical one, whose biological clock was not ticking in panicked booms, found me sniffing my children’s old newborn clothes, he threw some cold water on my baby fever. Repeatedly, he pulled me, okay, dragged me, by my flattened, no longer lactating boobs, back from the ledge of the baby cliff as I tried to dive off ‘unprotected’. (Wink wink)

“No more.” He’d reprimand, as I clutched baby booties and took to sucking on an old binky for comfort.

Slowly, I emerged from the procreation cocoon and began to appreciate my family as it was. That we were, and are, in a really good place. That there were good reasons to quit while we were ahead.

  1. We are old and tired.
  2. We sleep at night.
  3. We can tell the kids to go away – and OMG – they do!

Although knowing and accepting I’m done, do not always co-exist in my sappy, emotional psyche. Maybe because admitting that my fertility days are over, would mean I’m older (see bullet point 1) and that I’ll never again be pregnant (I loved being pregnant. Sigh.), or have all of those cute, little baby things (Wait…I hate the crap I have.). It means I’m moving on to the next stage. (Uh, menopause? Grandma? Hmm, let’s just take the decade and not label it.)

But then my sister-in-law had a baby (yeah yeah, my brother-in-law too). After nine months of expanding (actually 9 ½ in her case), and then a few hours contracting, my sister-in-law (yes, him too) has a beautiful, new baby boy.

I took one look at this fresh, bundle of delicious, and felt my old eggs start to sizzle inside. “Ohhh” I thought, holding his warm weight in my arms. “Ahhh” I sighed, sucking in his sweet baby smell.

Ohhh Ahhh has the perfect little face. He will wear the cutest clothes and is so little and sweet. Can I have him? Please? Mmmmm. The smell of new baby is a fountain of youth. Ohhh, I miss baby cuddling. I gaze into the sweet face of possibilities and see the future… Giggles and eating of feet, lulling to sleep, green peas on the face and a soft mouth saying Mama…. Clinging to my legs when I want to go out to dinner, or walk from the kitchen to the living room, or go to the bathroom alone for just one freaking moment. Screaming “I want a COOKIE!” and “Poopie in the pants!”  Crying for ices, crying for attention, crying for a blue crayon instead of a red one. Waaaa. Waaaaa. “Mommy gimme! Gimme!”

Nooooooo!

I gently hand him back.

It turns out, I’m thrilled to be the aunt, but it’s official, I’m done.

ooh, my ovaries are hurting.

ooh, my ovaries are hurting.

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Let’s All Drink to the Real Housewives of BRAVO

Posted on April 5, 2013 by Ice Scream Mama

I wish I would drink more.

I blame BRAVO.

It may just be the rose-colored, knock-off Gucci sunglasses I’m looking through, but it seems all The Real Housewives (not to be confused with real housewives) seem to be skinny and glamorous and drinking at every occasion.

It’s lunch by the pool. Gauzy, translucent cover-ups. And wine.

Spa party? Egyptian cotton towels. And wine.

Dinner party? Cocktail dresses. And wine.

Tea party?  Long, sundresses. And wine.

Oh no. We suspect so and so has a drinking problem. Designer jeans with strong intervention blazer. And wine, for everyone but so and so, at least until the next dinner party.

Drinking seems to be their reward at the end of a good day or the beginning of a good day. Or bad day. Or any day. I get it. We all need our happy place, but when I look to treat myself, I head straight to the freezer and pull out a tub of ice cream.

Ah, my friend, through good times and bad, you are there. Unfortunately, so are the five extra pounds that accompany you. I certainly don’t see any  Housewives deep spooning a tub of Rocky Road. Most are waifs, saving their tiny bodies and huge mouths for trash talk and bottles of chardonnay.

So, I decided to take a lesson from the lovely ladies of BRAVO. Whether I like it or not, I would drink more so I can look and be more fabulous. Sometimes you just have to suck it up, or actually down, in this case.

I figured I’d start right out of the morning gate. No coffee for me. I’ll take a tall Bloody Mary, thank you. Mmm. Not bad. It made me want to actually sit down, something I never do. I even started flipping through a magazine to check out the over-the-top fashions I will soon be sporting instead of my old gym clothes. I was so into my new morning revelry that I neglected to check the clock. Crap! We just missed the bus, and I forgot to even wake the kids. Plus, now I can’t drive them to school. Damn you, BRAVO, where is my limo??!

The next time I tried my experiment was at the school social. I put on a long, pretty dress and big Kyle of RHBH earrings, and even though I was stuck doing my own hair and make-up, I decided to kick off the evening with a glass of wine to get myself in the mood. And it worked! I was sipping and singing while getting ready. So fun! Although before we left my husband did ask if I let our 5 year-old apply my makeup. Hmm. What could he mean by that? Eh, whatever, where’s my glass?

By the time we reached the party, I was two- three solid glasses in. The minute the valet opened my door to help me out, a wave of nauseous struck and left me clinging to him, quite inappropriately. “Bravo!” I slurred and gave his stunned face a pat. My husband gently put me back in the car and drove us back home. The drive of  shame.

Maybe I was going about this wrong. All the BRAVO fun and fabulous happens when the gals get together. That’s it! So I invited my neighborhood Peeps over for some “Whine and Wine”.  Come on, every good gathering needs a great theme! Shout out to the Bunco party!

We settled the kiddies in the playroom. Oh yeah, there are kids. We’re freaking real housewives! We can’t just leave them at home alone while we drink. Now that would be totally irresponsible. So I pop open a bottle. Okay, I twist off the top to get the party started.

We chat and drink and eat too many chips, but then, Jill’s kid threw a truck at Ann’s kid’s head. Stirred with a little Malbec, it had the makings of some exciting drama. I sat up Housewife straight, with my back arched, my eyes wide and my bra-enhanced chest out. I was wearing a low cut dress a la Housewives, so I wasn’t kidding about my chest being out. I was wishing I had served white so that when Jill threw a glass at Ann it wouldn’t stain my carpet, but my wishing was all in vain. Ann was fine, and the whole thing was brushed aside. Boooring.

Well, my experiment was a surgically enhanced bust. I was no BRAVO Housewife. The wine didn’t make my life more glamorous, it actually made me less glamorous. Case in point, when I looked in the mirror after we got home from the school social that I never attended, I saw I was wearing blue sparkle eye shadow and red lipstick. Uh, ew. I don’t even wear makeup! And drinking certainly didn’t make me thinner. In fact I gained three pounds, probably because I was eating more since I was drinking and didn’t care. Plus, no one wears to the floor dresses with full on cleavage and giant earrings to random events. I kind of looked like an idiot.

I think I need ice cream.

I blame BRAVO.

 

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One…Two… Three! Get Out Of The Pool!

Posted on April 3, 2013 by Ice Scream Mama

I was taking my time, shuffling through my suitcase, trying to figure out my strategy. Two of my three boys and my husband were already at the hotel pool for some night swimming. My middle son, Michael, and I were milking it. He hadn’t decided if he wanted to have a stomach ache, and I hadn’t figured out how to get out of going to the pool.

I usually never even bring a suit, since I have a general dislike of all things water – pools, beaches, my body in a bathing suit. But, for some reason, on the same mini-vacation where I had forgotten to get a pedicure or bring a razor, I had shoved a suit in my bag last minute. Once Michael declared himself fit to swim, I had to make a choice – to wear or not to wear. After some mental tennis, I decided against the suit, instead throwing on a cover-up dress to give the illusion of pool ready, without showing any reality.

Once there, I immediately remembered why I hate indoor pools; the chemical smell, the contrived heat, my children playing in a tank of wet doom. I could never find any true comfort, just an agitated impatience. I sat next to my husband and checked my phone. It was already after 8pm. That was the gift of night swimming. It didn’t last too long.

We rotated our eyes from boy to boy to boy; one a good swimmer, one decent and one new. It was monkey in the middle. One. Two. Three. One – My oldest, playing with a blue ball in the middle of the pool; pushing it under water, then watching it shoot up out of the water and retrieving it. Two – Just a bobbing blonde head and orange goggles, doggie paddling toward the far edge. Three – Right in front of us by the stairs, practicing his swimming.

“Mommy, watch this!” he squealed, his dark curls matted against his head, his dark eyes alight with excitement. Dramatically, he climbed up two of the steps, readying himself, and with one mischievous look back at me, jumped.

That’s when the lights went out.  Complete and utter darkness engulfed the pool area.

I stood, both immediately and in slow motion, surrounded by blackness and the unreal echo of water and people freaking out. Mute and drowning in fear, I reached for my husband. My worst nightmare was this second. My children were in that pool. We needed to jump in. Now.

But before we could, the lights flicked back on.

My heart pounded wildly, and my head whipped around. One – Still in the center of the pool. Two – Hanging on to the edge. Three – On the steps.

The whole thing lasted maybe five seconds. Probably less. I took a deep breath, relief filling my lungs. Then, finding my voice, screamed for my kids to get out of the water.

I knew going to the pool was a mistake.

When I'm on duty, there's only daytime swimming

Yup, you’re cute. Nope, not coming in.

 

 

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Intimidated by the police? Guilty.

Posted on March 28, 2013 by Ice Scream Mama

Recently, we were the subjects of bank fraud. After wasting time on the phone with the bank, and then even more time at the bank, generating basically no information, our next step was to file a police report. Time to head… ‘Downtown’. Da Da Dummmm! 

It’s intimidating just pulling into a police station. The police cars in the lot. The institutional brick building. The big sign that screams Police. I walked through the heavy double doors and up to the bullet proof window like I was being called to the teacher’s desks after passing notes. There were two officers sitting there, who didn’t even look up. That is, until I accidentally banged my head on the glass. Turns out, there was no window, just a glass wall.

Ow.

I looked around and noticed the men looking at me.

“Can I help you?” one asked.

“Uh, uh…” I stammered. Oh my God! I was in the principal’s office. I didn’t do it!! “I, uh, need to file a police report.”

I watched a tall man in uniform stand up and then disappear. Where’d he go?

Suddenly, a door to the side of me opened, and an unsmiling face ordered, “Come with me.”

OMG I didn’t do it!!! 

I could only nod and obey.

The officer led me to a room, where he told me to sit and wait. Alone, I looked around. There were trophies on shelves, a flag, some commemoration plaques. In the corner, cardboard boxes were stacked in a disorderly fashion. I started tapping my fingers on the long wood table.

What was taking so long? I checked my phone. I tapped. I checked. I tapped. I checked.

I had a thought and my neck snapped around. Were there cameras? Were they…. watching me??

Just then, another officer walked in. He was younger and shorter, but with the same serious expression. Apparently, there was no smiling in law enforcement. That was probably the first thing you learn at the academy.

He sat down, pulled out a pen and paper, and got to business. “So tell me what happened.”

“Well, there were at least four accounts opened fraudulently where they transferred money out from our accounts..”

“How much money was stolen?”

“Well none technically be…”

“Wait, wait. Hold up.” He interrupted and sat back in his chair, assessing me cooly. “You said they transferred  monies.”

Uh, easy Blue. Did he think I was playing him? Was I about to take the rap?? OMG! I was going DOWN!

I collected myself and explained, slowly. “They transferred the money out of the accounts, but they were still pending when my husband alerted the bank, so I don’t believe any money was actually stolen.”

He nodded and went back to writing. Whew. He didn’t crack me, but from then on, I carefully stuck to the script, revealing only pertinent (that’s police for important) information.

He finished up the report and pushed it my way for approval. I scanned his words. “It’s good.” I said. It was over, but unfortunately my relief translated into small talk when I noticed his sign off, PO Newman.

“Po?” I asked innocently. “Is that your name?”

He came one breath short of snorting with derision. “Police officer.” He said, the idiot remained unspoken, but it was as loud as a bull horn.

I walked out and got into my car totally annoyed. Take yourself a little seriously officer? Sheesh. I was feeling rebellious when I decided to leave the parking lot without wearing my seat belt. Oh yeah, I would. You don’t intimidate me PO!

I pulled out of my spot, feeling wild and free. I put the car into drive and was heading off into the sunset, when I heard him yelling. “Hey!”

Gulp.

I looked back and there he was, standing on the steps motioning to me. Oh my GOD! He knows!! I’m so busted!!  I’m ready to come out with my hands up!  I opened the door and tentatively stuck my head out. “Uh. Yeah?”

He walked over to the car and handed me a copy of the report. “You forgot this.”

“Oh, uh, thanks.”

No return smile.

I immediately strapped myself and in and pulled away. Whew. I made out. A weight lifted as I drove down toward home, but for some reason, I kept looking in my rear view mirror for those spinning lights.

 

Anyone got a nail file?

Anyone got a nail file? (That’s icescreammama for I need a manicure.)

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Why I let my son take a ‘day off’ each week.

Posted on March 26, 2013 by Ice Scream Mama

“Is it Thursday yet, mommy?” My five year-old asked, looking fetchingly into my eyes.

“Uh no, honey. It’s Monday. You know that.”

“Can I take a day off of school today?” More wide-eyed hopefulness.

“Sweetie, we’ve just come off the weekend. You take your day off on Thursday.”

“How long till Thursday?”

I sighed. “You know the days of the week. You figure it out.”

It was time for the bait and switch. “Hey, let’s go check out that new cereal you picked out in the supermarket the other day.”

“Yeah!” He exclaimed. “I wanna mix the Trix and the Mini-Wheats and the Honey Nut Cheerios!” His curls bounced as he skipped toward the kitchen. Mission accomplished.

It’s the same every week. In fact, almost every day. Julius enjoys pre-school, but obviously, he’d rather be home, which is why I let him have a day off each week. It doesn’t bother me. After this year, he’s in Kindergarten and there are no more weekly ‘days off’. I like hanging out with him, and Pre-school, while important, is not as important as hanging out together.

At least to me.

“What? Another day off?” His teacher says almost every Friday when we go back to school. She smiles at Julius, but looks at me like I’ve just fed him bugs. “I should give you a spanking,” She jokes.

Yeah. Not funny.

My mother and husband also take a page from her book.

Husband – “You are such a sucker.”

Mother – “I don’t think it’s a good idea. You’re not setting a good example for what his responsibilities are regarding school.”

Even some of the other school moms raise a brow.

To all of them I say a big wet, “PPPPPFFFTTTTHHH!”

Am I missing something? For the life of me, I can’t figure out what the problem is. I let my nursery kid take a day off to spend with his mommy each week, and everyone has something to say about that. Since when is quality time with your child open to negative scrutiny. Pre-school is just that. Pre School. They are not learning academics; they focus on socialization and structure. It’s preparation. It’s laying the foundation. It’s not a mandatory. It’s just become the popular norm.

My son knows what ‘clean up’ time is. He knows how to build blocks with another child without throwing them. He can sit in a circle and participate. He knows his ABC’s, 123’s and all that. He’s got Pre-K down.

This is the last hoorah for me and my baby, while he’s still – okay not really, but let me pretend for this last year – a baby. There’s plenty of time for  classrooms, and not enough time for ice cream and playing with Mommy.

So on Thursday, when he looks at me with his big brown eyes and asks, “Mommy is today my day off?”

I’ll nod yes, happily. Because I love our days off just as much as he does.

ice cream share

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Congratulations! You have a girl! Nah, just kidding.

Posted on March 22, 2013 by Ice Scream Mama

His tie was the kind you find on crazy people. Or comedians. Turns out he was both. Except he was also one of the OB/GYN’s in my practice. We were supposed to rotate through all the doctors, since technically, you never knew who would be on call when you went into labor. Somehow, I didn’t get around to meeting Dr. Biden until I was 7 months pregnant.

“Hey there.” He said, sliding his stool in between my open legs. “How’s my girl doing?”

My husband and I exchanged a glance. We had never met this doctor, and he was looking at my vagina. He couldn’t be talking to my vagina, could he? That might qualify as inappropriate.

Wait. Maybe he meant the baby? But we had decided not to find out the sex. We were big into the surprise, no matter how much it irked my grandmother.

“Excuse me,” I interrupted. “Are we having a girl? We don’t know the sex.”

He dramatically rolled his stool away from my open legs and snapped off his rubber gloves. I closed up shop, and sat up, looking at him expectantly.

“Oh, I don’t know.” He shrugged, “But that’s all I deliver.”

What was he saying? My husband and I looked at him apprehensively.

“Yep. I got two girls at home, and that’s all I deliver.”

Was I in the psych ward? I couldn’t stop staring at his Sylvester and Tweetie tie. Someone was definitely a bit Looney Tunes.

“Okay,” I braved cautiously and slowly. “So… what if I have a boy?”

“He does it.” He pointed to my husband.

“Me?” Howard asked, appalled. You couldn’t take Howard’s pulse, without him getting woozy.

“Yup, you.” He stood up to leave.  “Got any other kids?”

“One. A boy.” I answered automatically, still confused and distressed by this entire encounter.

“What’s her name?”  He asked, with half his body out the door.

“It’s a boy.” I repeated. “His name is Tyler.”

“Well, she’s going to be a big sister soon!” Wide crazy grin, and he’s out.

“What the hell was that?” I asked my husband.

“That was crazy.” Howard concurred.

“Do you think he was just covering up for accidentally telling us the sex of the baby?”

“Definitely possible.”

“I really hope he’s not on call when I deliver.”

“Copy that.”

March 22, 10:30am.

I got to the hospital already 7cm dilated. Howard ran thru 3 red lights to get us there, which is so impressive for my by the book attorney husband. If I wasn’t about to have a baby, I might just be turned on.

Through major contractions, I struggled to answer the questions required from a nurse who was as impassive as I was aflame. While I grit my teeth and writhed in pain, she apathetically repeated her unanswered question. “Allergies?”

Before I could scream my answer, a new question from a new voice interrupted.

“How’s my girl?” I heard, taking my pain to a whole new level.

My doctor had arrived.

“If you think you’re in pain,” He joked. “Try being shot three times.”

WTF? My face must have been quite the contortion of agony and horrified bewilderment.

“Oh yeah,” he continued, moving to lift his shirt, “want to see my scars?”

“No!” me, my husband and several of the nurses shouted simultaneously.

“Ignore him.” One of the nurses said to us, “He’s always messing around.”

“How bout you and I mess around?” Dr. Biden said suggestively and I think my amazement actually momentarily overrode my contraction.

It went like that for bit, one inappropriate comment after another. We were assured multiple times by the nurses that he was in fact a real doctor. And a good one. When the time came, my baby was out in three pushes.

On the last, I saw the doctor pull back from my body and motion to my husband. “Come here, now.”

My husband, already woozy from just being in the vicinity of a bleeding person, looked as if he were going to pass out. He shook his head.

“Come on, someone has to.”  Dr. Biden pulled away from my body further, and there was a beat of panic in the room.

Shakily, Howard moved in, seemingly at the last moment, and brought our baby out into this world. With the help of a nurse, he placed our newborn on my stomach.

“Congratulations! You have a girl!” Dr. Biden announced.

“We have a girl.” I thought, full of emotion and joy.

“Uh, no we don’t.” My husband’s voice interrupted my baby is out of my vagina euphoria. I snapped back to crazy, hormonal new mom.

“What the hell do I have!!!???”

“I’m looking at penis here.” Howard said and we both looked at the doctor wearing his best ‘who me’ face.

“What? I told you, I only deliver girls.”

Happy birthday, my feisty, green-eyed boy with the mischievous smile and fetching charm.  You could put the sun out of business, the way you light up a room and warm my heart. You have been the happiest surprise right from the start.

*When I went back to the office at 6 weeks, I heard Dr. Biden was out on medical leave. I’m betting on psychiatric.

DCF 1.0

Can you stand that gorgeous face?!

Can you stand that gorgeous face?!

 

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Just a bad day

Posted on March 20, 2013 by Ice Scream Mama

I’m cold.

I know it’s officially Spring, but the air is still crisp, and with the up and down temperatures this winter, my body has never adapted. I feel almost naked, and I hunker down in my coat as the wind whips my face. I have a ‘thing’ at the school that I’m in no mood for.  Just getting to the car leaves me chilled to the bone. Lately, I’ve been wondering if I’m going to have to do the Florida migration in a couple of years. My body really hates the cold.

I left the house annoyed and unhappy. I had a bad day and it leaked into my night. It was a repeat of the night before and possibly the one before that. It comes like that, in waves, and sometimes I just can’t shake it; my dark mood wrapped as tightly around my neck as my grey wool scarf. I don’t know why the things that I usually casually brush off won’t budge, like my shovel in wet, heavy snow. I don’t know why I let it all settle, deep in my gut. How can I feel so heavy, yet so empty?

It could have been the boys, just being boys, fighting, teasing, playing too rough. And me, being overwhelmed.

Or, it could have been the never-ending laundry, pile of dishes and errands. And me, being overwhelmed.

Or it could have been my depressed, dysfunctional, disabled father throwing his burden on my back, needing more and more of my energy and assistance. And me, being overwhelmed.

It could just be my nature. I’m prone to deep thinking, and it is not always my friend. There’s so much to appreciate and yet, life is death. It’s a cold slap of reality that I never fully realized till my mid to late thirties. And now, I’ve never felt so keenly aware of how vapor thin life is. How delicate. How a strong gust of wind can push someone over the edge, just like that.

I arrive at the school and watch the people walking past. Some walk purposefully, others stroll arm in arm with a spouses or friends. I close my eyes and rest my head back against the seat. The radio is talking news, talking weather, talking sports. It’s as soothing as a sound machine set to waterfall. I don’t want to get out of the safety of the car. I don’t want to put on a happy face.

But I know I will. I always do.

I shiver and pull my coat tightly around me. It’s really not even that bad out. They’re predicting milder temperatures tomorrow. I hope so. I really can’t wait to feel the sun.

 

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