It's been a long, cold winter my friends.
Never quite recovered from Christmas. We went out to South Carolina and stayed with Paul's parents. While I was relieved that a KKK squadron did not meet us at the airport when our flight arrived, I was welcomed by worse when we finally made it to the house:
Zorro. The 100 lb. evil Ukrainian mop of a cat.
He fixed me with an amused look in his eyes the minute I stepped in the door.
I tried to look away but the power of his stare seemed to burn my throat. My eyes. My everything. Soon I learned the the heat was allergies...the worse I'd ever experienced. No longer will I roll my eyes when people whine about debilatating allergies. Now I know. Drugs were powerless to the strength of Zorro.
It didn't help that Zorro was out to get me. Once, I found him all cozied up inside my purse. He reacted to my screams with the same cool amused look in his eyes as the first time we met. He wouldn't budge and someone had to pick him up and out.
I was sequestered the majority of the time in the little room upstairs, with an air purifier on one side, a fan on the other. Every once in a while I peeked down to see what everyone was up to. As soon as I saw the furball, I'd slip back into my room, itchy tail between my legs.
When we finally got home (two days early), we had to take a shuttle home when our ride never materialized and the airport closed.
"See! I told you no one would pick us up!" Eli said. Over and over. and over.
I'll stop here because the mere memory is making my neck break out.
In all fairness, the kids had a blast hanging out with their many cousins. Savvy cried when she had to finally disengage from hug after hug after hug. And yeah, I felt like an ass. An itchy, miserable, drippy ass.
Savvy's 5th bday party kicked off Spring. Finally. Spring.
It was a Barbie themed party, and I got all creative and bought gold and silver beaded necklaces, and feather boas in varying shades of pink and purple to use instead of streamers. I think the result looked more like burlesque, strip joint (Oops...I-just-stripped-and-my-boa-landed-over-there-big-boy sort of thing) than Barbie. Nobody seemed to notice any of it any way.
...and so a toast! To Spring and the shedding of jackets and rainboots and nightmares of Zorro's eyes.
Ching!Ching!
Thursday, April 14, 2011
Saturday, November 20, 2010
Avatar-bound
Watched Avatar tonight.
The main character in the movie, Jake, is participating in some kind of top military project where he penetrates a virtual world for the mission. I don't know a lot more than that about the plot...wasn't really interested until the part where...
Jake is assigned an Avatar (this hybrid human, animal alien entity) that would enable him to penetrate this other "world." Jake is wheelchair bound, and his Avatar can walk, run, leap.
My Avatar would be able to see without glasses or contacts.
My Avatar would not get depressed
or compare herself to other mothers
and then get more depressed.
My Avatar could sit through a mind-numbing, soul killing, Thanksgiving-week ruining, meeting and walk out, unscathed.
My Avatar's daughter would look up at her: "Play with me, mommy?" And my Avatar would smile and nod and reach out her hand to her, every. time. They'd disappear into the rainbow.
My Avatar's son would never tell her he wished she weren't his mommy
and she'd never fail her husband
or sister
or mother.
or herself.
At the end of the movie, after the war between the "sky people" (humans) and the Avatars, Jake's soul is transferred from his human body to his Avatar's.
Of course he chooses the virtual world, right? I mean... he could WALK now.
It's only a matter a time before we really could escape permanently into a virtual world.
Sometimes I think the real reality has lost it's worth.
The main character in the movie, Jake, is participating in some kind of top military project where he penetrates a virtual world for the mission. I don't know a lot more than that about the plot...wasn't really interested until the part where...
Jake is assigned an Avatar (this hybrid human, animal alien entity) that would enable him to penetrate this other "world." Jake is wheelchair bound, and his Avatar can walk, run, leap.
My Avatar would be able to see without glasses or contacts.
My Avatar would not get depressed
or compare herself to other mothers
and then get more depressed.
My Avatar could sit through a mind-numbing, soul killing, Thanksgiving-week ruining, meeting and walk out, unscathed.
My Avatar's daughter would look up at her: "Play with me, mommy?" And my Avatar would smile and nod and reach out her hand to her, every. time. They'd disappear into the rainbow.
My Avatar's son would never tell her he wished she weren't his mommy
and she'd never fail her husband
or sister
or mother.
or herself.
At the end of the movie, after the war between the "sky people" (humans) and the Avatars, Jake's soul is transferred from his human body to his Avatar's.
Of course he chooses the virtual world, right? I mean... he could WALK now.
It's only a matter a time before we really could escape permanently into a virtual world.
Sometimes I think the real reality has lost it's worth.
Sunday, November 14, 2010
The first half of my creative writing class (which started in September), is now over and the next half is about to begin next week. It was a big class: 28 students, when usually it ends up being a core group of 15-20.
Among the highlights was the student who came to class loaded on those caffeinated alcohol drinks that are the rage apparently. I finally managed to get her escorted out of my room and into the main office...only she somehow (in her state) kept escaping the counselor and the security guards, and finding her way back to my classroom where she'd bang the door, demanding to get back in. First she said she'd left her stuff there. When I finally opened the door, she stood in front of the class, wobbling, pointing a finger in my face. "You're a BAAAAAD Lady," she said, before sliding onto the floor.
After like the third time she came back, I gave up and tossed the poems I was still trying to read.
"OK," I sighed, "I was gonna ignore it and go on but let's talk about what just happened..." Teenagers being teenagers, some said they thought it was funny. But most sat shuddering in their seats. There were several who had just finished stints in rehab, jail, even. Those students said there was nothing funny about it, and it served as a stark (broad daylight) reminder of how stupid they look when intoxicated like that.
And then there was what I now refer to as "The Factioning." I've taught the class for so long and this is one of the few times this has happened. I vaguely noticed the two groups forming as the class progressed, but it's natural for people to gravitate to people with whom they are more compatible with, in high school and IN LIFE. I didn't give it another thought until I got a call from the counselor. The two groups had gotten in an argument which had escalated and had all ended up in the counseling office.
Later, one of the students told me she wanted to drop the class. She said that what I'd said about the class was not true. It was NOT a safe place to be honest and free to write what you want, and not be judged. The argument she'd gotten into had revolved largely around stuff she had read in class. The opposing group had done just that: judged her by her stories.
It is the most important thing I try to drill into the students (and myself): treat the writing as just that: the writing. Once it is on paper, it is just a story, subject to faulty memory. DON'T JUDGE THE PERSON, JUDGE THE WRITING. If they can grasp this complex concept, then they could gain enough distance to write the hard stuff, the deep stuff of the heart, the REAL and ultimately, most touching stuff effectively. As for me, I have to remember this concept so that I can read their work and not fall apart. So that I can cope with such hard core stuff and continue to do this. It's worked for the most part, for the 8 years I've been teaching the class.
No one had ever said to me that it was not true. That really, there could be no such thing as this safe bubble I'd tried to create. It was hard to hear and I had no idea how to handle it.
A good friend who also teaches writing told me, "There are bone heads every where! Boneheads in high schools and boneheads in 'advanced' workshops! Boneheads in life!'"
It was a good reminder to get off it! Why would I think my class would be so flawless? I decided all I could do is be honest with the students, as I ask them to be in their writing.
Thanks, Chi.
And so the second part of the class starts this week. Hopefully I can find a way to save some of my creative energy to write another blog before January, when the second half of the class ends...
Among the highlights was the student who came to class loaded on those caffeinated alcohol drinks that are the rage apparently. I finally managed to get her escorted out of my room and into the main office...only she somehow (in her state) kept escaping the counselor and the security guards, and finding her way back to my classroom where she'd bang the door, demanding to get back in. First she said she'd left her stuff there. When I finally opened the door, she stood in front of the class, wobbling, pointing a finger in my face. "You're a BAAAAAD Lady," she said, before sliding onto the floor.
After like the third time she came back, I gave up and tossed the poems I was still trying to read.
"OK," I sighed, "I was gonna ignore it and go on but let's talk about what just happened..." Teenagers being teenagers, some said they thought it was funny. But most sat shuddering in their seats. There were several who had just finished stints in rehab, jail, even. Those students said there was nothing funny about it, and it served as a stark (broad daylight) reminder of how stupid they look when intoxicated like that.
And then there was what I now refer to as "The Factioning." I've taught the class for so long and this is one of the few times this has happened. I vaguely noticed the two groups forming as the class progressed, but it's natural for people to gravitate to people with whom they are more compatible with, in high school and IN LIFE. I didn't give it another thought until I got a call from the counselor. The two groups had gotten in an argument which had escalated and had all ended up in the counseling office.
Later, one of the students told me she wanted to drop the class. She said that what I'd said about the class was not true. It was NOT a safe place to be honest and free to write what you want, and not be judged. The argument she'd gotten into had revolved largely around stuff she had read in class. The opposing group had done just that: judged her by her stories.
It is the most important thing I try to drill into the students (and myself): treat the writing as just that: the writing. Once it is on paper, it is just a story, subject to faulty memory. DON'T JUDGE THE PERSON, JUDGE THE WRITING. If they can grasp this complex concept, then they could gain enough distance to write the hard stuff, the deep stuff of the heart, the REAL and ultimately, most touching stuff effectively. As for me, I have to remember this concept so that I can read their work and not fall apart. So that I can cope with such hard core stuff and continue to do this. It's worked for the most part, for the 8 years I've been teaching the class.
No one had ever said to me that it was not true. That really, there could be no such thing as this safe bubble I'd tried to create. It was hard to hear and I had no idea how to handle it.
A good friend who also teaches writing told me, "There are bone heads every where! Boneheads in high schools and boneheads in 'advanced' workshops! Boneheads in life!'"
It was a good reminder to get off it! Why would I think my class would be so flawless? I decided all I could do is be honest with the students, as I ask them to be in their writing.
Thanks, Chi.
And so the second part of the class starts this week. Hopefully I can find a way to save some of my creative energy to write another blog before January, when the second half of the class ends...
Sunday, September 12, 2010
Just Enough
Just enough so their stomachs don't growl
Just enough for him to tell the truth when he tells teacher he did his reading
Just enough so that they don't look at my sandaled toes and cringe
Just enough so that my hair and my smell don't scream "homeless lady."
Just enough so that my friends know I love them.
Just enough so that Savvy will someday have something good to say about her mommy when sitting around talking to her girlfriends
Just enough so that they walk into their classrooms clean, even though most times wrinkled
Just enough so that they remember the holidays at home
Just enough so they know I'm serious
Just enough so that they know I'm not always serious
Just enough so that I don't get called into the boss' office--again
Just enough so that I can still fit into my clothes
Just enough so my husband knows he now calms me throughout my day
Just enough to remember to ask my mom about the first night of her new class
Just enough so that she knows she'll always have big sister to fly home to
Just enough to keep the lids on
the jackets zipped
dreaming eye lids kissed
Just enough sleep
Just enough late nights to hear the house breathe
Just enough late nights to hear myself breathe.
I hope
when all is said and done
it will end up that
it was just enough.
Just enough for him to tell the truth when he tells teacher he did his reading
Just enough so that they don't look at my sandaled toes and cringe
Just enough so that my hair and my smell don't scream "homeless lady."
Just enough so that my friends know I love them.
Just enough so that Savvy will someday have something good to say about her mommy when sitting around talking to her girlfriends
Just enough so that they walk into their classrooms clean, even though most times wrinkled
Just enough so that they remember the holidays at home
Just enough so they know I'm serious
Just enough so that they know I'm not always serious
Just enough so that I don't get called into the boss' office--again
Just enough so that I can still fit into my clothes
Just enough so my husband knows he now calms me throughout my day
Just enough to remember to ask my mom about the first night of her new class
Just enough so that she knows she'll always have big sister to fly home to
Just enough to keep the lids on
the jackets zipped
dreaming eye lids kissed
Just enough sleep
Just enough late nights to hear the house breathe
Just enough late nights to hear myself breathe.
I hope
when all is said and done
it will end up that
it was just enough.
Sunday, August 22, 2010
10 G's For Some Double D's
"So did you finally decide what you're gonna do with the money?" I asked when she walked into my classroom.
It was the same question I'd asked her countless times in the last two years. The other teachers and I had had fun trying to guess what she'd decide to do with the $10,000 she'd be inheriting on her 18th birthday from her deceased father.
We'd made sure she had our input.
"College?" one of us had suggested.
"Savings?"
"I know, a trust fund for Nikki! She's only two, by the time she's 18 interest will accrue and..."
We had all learned to expect her 16 (and then 17) year-old eye roll.
"Nope. A car! A month long cruise! Another car!" she'd counter.
Finally, her birthday was a few weeks away.
"Guess," she said.
"The Land Cruiser?"
"Nope."
"The cruise..."
"Nope, give up?" she asked. I said I did because it was obvious she wanted me to.
She drew in a long dramatic breath. "A boob job and a tummy tuck."
"Ha!" Typical of her sense of humor, I thought.
She seemed confused at my response.
She wasn't joking.
"But...you just had a baby. You're 18!!! I-I-It'll all bounce back!" I stuttered.
"Nope, nope. I've tried everything. Sit-ups, diets. I want to look like a normal teenager again. I'm sick of my belly ring jiggling way after the rest of me has stopped moving," she said with a set jaw.
"But you're not a normal teenager. You're the mom of beautiful Nikki..." I said with a sigh. Because of course, she wasn't listening. She had whipped out a stack of brochures and I found myself staring at a bunch of glossy before and after pictures of boob jobs and tummy tucks.
"See, these are the ones I'm getting: The Teardrop Shaped Ones," she said, as if we were chit-chatting about earrings. "Oh, and I'm getting double D's," she added.
I called her mom.
"Oh, yeah, so she told you, huh? Were you shocked?" she chuckled. "I think it's a smart decision. It's like an investment," her mom explained. "A car will eventually go out of style, with a trip all you have left is pictures...but I told her, 'if you look good, mija, you could get a man. A good one.' And then she and Nikki won't have to worry about nothing."
Soon after, the newly minted 18 year-old walked into the classroom with her tear-drops threatening to burst out of a stretchy tank top...one that stopped in the nick of time to show off the taut new navel. She had apparently had enough bling left over for a new belly ring...and a tan.
"Wow," I said.
"I know, huh? You can't even tell I had a baby," she beamed. "I think my dad would be proud."
It was the same question I'd asked her countless times in the last two years. The other teachers and I had had fun trying to guess what she'd decide to do with the $10,000 she'd be inheriting on her 18th birthday from her deceased father.
We'd made sure she had our input.
"College?" one of us had suggested.
"Savings?"
"I know, a trust fund for Nikki! She's only two, by the time she's 18 interest will accrue and..."
We had all learned to expect her 16 (and then 17) year-old eye roll.
"Nope. A car! A month long cruise! Another car!" she'd counter.
Finally, her birthday was a few weeks away.
"Guess," she said.
"The Land Cruiser?"
"Nope."
"The cruise..."
"Nope, give up?" she asked. I said I did because it was obvious she wanted me to.
She drew in a long dramatic breath. "A boob job and a tummy tuck."
"Ha!" Typical of her sense of humor, I thought.
She seemed confused at my response.
She wasn't joking.
"But...you just had a baby. You're 18!!! I-I-It'll all bounce back!" I stuttered.
"Nope, nope. I've tried everything. Sit-ups, diets. I want to look like a normal teenager again. I'm sick of my belly ring jiggling way after the rest of me has stopped moving," she said with a set jaw.
"But you're not a normal teenager. You're the mom of beautiful Nikki..." I said with a sigh. Because of course, she wasn't listening. She had whipped out a stack of brochures and I found myself staring at a bunch of glossy before and after pictures of boob jobs and tummy tucks.
"See, these are the ones I'm getting: The Teardrop Shaped Ones," she said, as if we were chit-chatting about earrings. "Oh, and I'm getting double D's," she added.
I called her mom.
"Oh, yeah, so she told you, huh? Were you shocked?" she chuckled. "I think it's a smart decision. It's like an investment," her mom explained. "A car will eventually go out of style, with a trip all you have left is pictures...but I told her, 'if you look good, mija, you could get a man. A good one.' And then she and Nikki won't have to worry about nothing."
Soon after, the newly minted 18 year-old walked into the classroom with her tear-drops threatening to burst out of a stretchy tank top...one that stopped in the nick of time to show off the taut new navel. She had apparently had enough bling left over for a new belly ring...and a tan.
"Wow," I said.
"I know, huh? You can't even tell I had a baby," she beamed. "I think my dad would be proud."
Friday, August 20, 2010
A Night. Tie-dyed Skies.
We decided to take an evening walk. It was still at least 90 degrees outside, but shades of pink had started to tie-dye across the desert sky and there was at least a breeze.
Paul and my dad walked way ahead of us, while my mom and I walked with the kids.
"Just let them walk ahead," I said, "we won't get lost." I shouldn't, since we were staying at the same time-share in Palm Springs that we'd been coming to when I was still breast feeding Eli under a towel by the pool. People look at me like I'm crazy when I tell them we go to Palm Springs in August, when the temperature could easily topple over 110 degrees. But it's off season and cheaper, and hey, you just make it work.
The place is built around a gulf course, with rolling grassy hills and lakes where ducks shimmy around in.
On the walk back to our rooms the kids started to whine. The breeze had stopped and suddenly it was hotter than hell.
"Carry me!" Savvy whined.
"How come she only gets to be carried?" Eli. He'd plopped down on a curb and said he was walking no further. His legs were sweating, he said.
My mom leaned over and whispered something in their ears. Suddenly the three of them took off running. By the time the rest of us reached the pool area, they had already stripped down to their bathing suits and dripped over to us by the gate: "Ha!Ha! We got in the pool and now we don't have to go to bed at bedtime!" Eli nanni-nanni-nannied, jumping back into the pool.
My mom looked at me with her signature innocent shrug and bewildered eyes. "I don't know...they just got in..."
It was 8:30 and the pool was aglow with white lights under the stars. Occasionally a breeze would blow and tiny white lights twinkled in the swaying palm trees.
It was dive-in movie night, a staff person announced. A pool full of people cheered as this theater-size blow up movie screen was erected right at the edge of the pool. Just like that we were watching, "The Tooth Fairy" from the water!
Paul had gone off to the adult pool, where it was quiet and the pina coladas flowed. He asked if I wanted to join him. "The kids are with your parents," he said.
I looked over at the kids and my parents. My dad and Eli were out in the middle of the pool where Eli (who had quickly gotten bored with the movie) was trying over and over to achieve a perfect flip in the water, the skin on his tummy stretched taut over his ribcage with every try. "Watch, grandpa! Watch what I can do!"
My mom and I sat at the edge of the pool, where Savvy was performing one of her "princess dances" for us on the top step. My mom had gotten the giggles when Savvy tried to twirl and fell backwards into the water.
"Stop laughing, grandma...or I won't dance. any. more," she said, missing another step as she tried to stomp...and toppling into the water again.
I love to see my mom laugh like that. Totally uninhibited throaty laughter that leads to snorts. The kind of laughter that gives my dad his cue: "Stop, Stella, you're gonna pee."
I thought of all the family vacations we'd taken when we were little. I remember thinking that it was worth all the stress of getting there, because soon I'd get to see my mom laugh like that and watch my dad make her laugh even harder. Seemed like so many lifetimes had gone by. Why did everything have to get so hard? There had been so many scars since...licked wounds, broken hearts. It's a testament to what a family could survive, forgive, I guess. Because there we were...a family vacation just like when I was little, only with my husband and two kids. Ha! It was surreal. I squeezed my eyes tight. It was one of those moments you just can't plan and all you can do is try and brand it in your brain, engrave it in your heart.
"Nah, I think I'll stay here," I told Paul. I had pictures to take.
Paul and my dad walked way ahead of us, while my mom and I walked with the kids.
"Just let them walk ahead," I said, "we won't get lost." I shouldn't, since we were staying at the same time-share in Palm Springs that we'd been coming to when I was still breast feeding Eli under a towel by the pool. People look at me like I'm crazy when I tell them we go to Palm Springs in August, when the temperature could easily topple over 110 degrees. But it's off season and cheaper, and hey, you just make it work.
The place is built around a gulf course, with rolling grassy hills and lakes where ducks shimmy around in.
On the walk back to our rooms the kids started to whine. The breeze had stopped and suddenly it was hotter than hell.
"Carry me!" Savvy whined.
"How come she only gets to be carried?" Eli. He'd plopped down on a curb and said he was walking no further. His legs were sweating, he said.
My mom leaned over and whispered something in their ears. Suddenly the three of them took off running. By the time the rest of us reached the pool area, they had already stripped down to their bathing suits and dripped over to us by the gate: "Ha!Ha! We got in the pool and now we don't have to go to bed at bedtime!" Eli nanni-nanni-nannied, jumping back into the pool.
My mom looked at me with her signature innocent shrug and bewildered eyes. "I don't know...they just got in..."
It was 8:30 and the pool was aglow with white lights under the stars. Occasionally a breeze would blow and tiny white lights twinkled in the swaying palm trees.
It was dive-in movie night, a staff person announced. A pool full of people cheered as this theater-size blow up movie screen was erected right at the edge of the pool. Just like that we were watching, "The Tooth Fairy" from the water!
Paul had gone off to the adult pool, where it was quiet and the pina coladas flowed. He asked if I wanted to join him. "The kids are with your parents," he said.
I looked over at the kids and my parents. My dad and Eli were out in the middle of the pool where Eli (who had quickly gotten bored with the movie) was trying over and over to achieve a perfect flip in the water, the skin on his tummy stretched taut over his ribcage with every try. "Watch, grandpa! Watch what I can do!"
My mom and I sat at the edge of the pool, where Savvy was performing one of her "princess dances" for us on the top step. My mom had gotten the giggles when Savvy tried to twirl and fell backwards into the water.
"Stop laughing, grandma...or I won't dance. any. more," she said, missing another step as she tried to stomp...and toppling into the water again.
I love to see my mom laugh like that. Totally uninhibited throaty laughter that leads to snorts. The kind of laughter that gives my dad his cue: "Stop, Stella, you're gonna pee."
I thought of all the family vacations we'd taken when we were little. I remember thinking that it was worth all the stress of getting there, because soon I'd get to see my mom laugh like that and watch my dad make her laugh even harder. Seemed like so many lifetimes had gone by. Why did everything have to get so hard? There had been so many scars since...licked wounds, broken hearts. It's a testament to what a family could survive, forgive, I guess. Because there we were...a family vacation just like when I was little, only with my husband and two kids. Ha! It was surreal. I squeezed my eyes tight. It was one of those moments you just can't plan and all you can do is try and brand it in your brain, engrave it in your heart.
"Nah, I think I'll stay here," I told Paul. I had pictures to take.
Sunday, August 15, 2010
Zumba, Kids: Revisited
It was a week ago today when I started to panic.
It was the start of the much feared Three Weeks With the Kids.
A routine was going to be my saving grace, I decided. Sunday night I sat down and drew up a behavior chart (complete with key of what every color meant...stole this from a 1st grade teacher), a schedule...
And still....the panic at the thought of being alone with the kids. With my own kids.
But it wasn't the first time I'd felt that fear. It's been there since the very first night I was alone with Eli in that hospital room, only hours after he was born. I'll never forget the instant the door clicked, and the icy silence that followed. All day there had been people. People bringing me flowers, food. People holding the baby, taking pictures.
And then there were no more people. And I looked over at my new baby, and he looked over at me, and who knows who looked more terrified.
From that night in the hospital on, I have felt the terror grip me whenever I've alone with them.
I am only a little more confident now than I was then, but only because one day I realized what I was afraid of: me.
Not just: what if I don't know what to do.
More: What if someday I just...can't...just don't.
What this looks like is me opening the front door and running down the street, pulling at my hair, shrieking.
The good news is that work is over and I have returned to Zumba. Thursday night I moved up one row in the class...was in the second to last row. It's clear I may get those crazy dance steps long before I master the kid thing.
Once again, I witnessed the phenomena of the hottest chicks in the class: The Front Row Dancers, turn into pumpkins, (A.k.a moms) when they picked up their kids from childcare. The hotter the dancer, the crazier her kids were, it seemed. Coincidence? Of course not! We are all, I think, whispering the same thing to ourselves in class: 'Dance, momma, dance, and everything'll be alright...'
I started thinking about how Zumba is so much more than nostalgia for the clubbing days.
Zumba is The Dance Class for the Rest of Us.
It was like when I ran...(well, participated)...in a half-marathon last year. Just as I was about to quit, when I thought I'd reached down down and found nothing left to keep me going, I told myself: 'remember all those times you were picked last for the kickball team? When you weren't asked to dance at the stupid 6th grade dance? ...and the mother of all remember when's: the time you told everybody you'd failed PE on purpose because you didn't want to mess up your hair, when really you just could not think of failing at yet another sport? Well, don't be a weak ass! Run!'
I managed to hobble across the finish line. I'd like to to think The Rest of Us were redeemed.
And I can't quit now. Second week Alone With the Kids starts tomorrow. When I reach down down and feel like I could find nothing more to keep me going, I hope I remember to take a deep breath and: 'remember that first night in the hospital room, and I thought I couldn't...?'
It was the start of the much feared Three Weeks With the Kids.
A routine was going to be my saving grace, I decided. Sunday night I sat down and drew up a behavior chart (complete with key of what every color meant...stole this from a 1st grade teacher), a schedule...
And still....the panic at the thought of being alone with the kids. With my own kids.
But it wasn't the first time I'd felt that fear. It's been there since the very first night I was alone with Eli in that hospital room, only hours after he was born. I'll never forget the instant the door clicked, and the icy silence that followed. All day there had been people. People bringing me flowers, food. People holding the baby, taking pictures.
And then there were no more people. And I looked over at my new baby, and he looked over at me, and who knows who looked more terrified.
From that night in the hospital on, I have felt the terror grip me whenever I've alone with them.
I am only a little more confident now than I was then, but only because one day I realized what I was afraid of: me.
Not just: what if I don't know what to do.
More: What if someday I just...can't...just don't.
What this looks like is me opening the front door and running down the street, pulling at my hair, shrieking.
The good news is that work is over and I have returned to Zumba. Thursday night I moved up one row in the class...was in the second to last row. It's clear I may get those crazy dance steps long before I master the kid thing.
Once again, I witnessed the phenomena of the hottest chicks in the class: The Front Row Dancers, turn into pumpkins, (A.k.a moms) when they picked up their kids from childcare. The hotter the dancer, the crazier her kids were, it seemed. Coincidence? Of course not! We are all, I think, whispering the same thing to ourselves in class: 'Dance, momma, dance, and everything'll be alright...'
I started thinking about how Zumba is so much more than nostalgia for the clubbing days.
Zumba is The Dance Class for the Rest of Us.
It was like when I ran...(well, participated)...in a half-marathon last year. Just as I was about to quit, when I thought I'd reached down down and found nothing left to keep me going, I told myself: 'remember all those times you were picked last for the kickball team? When you weren't asked to dance at the stupid 6th grade dance? ...and the mother of all remember when's: the time you told everybody you'd failed PE on purpose because you didn't want to mess up your hair, when really you just could not think of failing at yet another sport? Well, don't be a weak ass! Run!'
I managed to hobble across the finish line. I'd like to to think The Rest of Us were redeemed.
And I can't quit now. Second week Alone With the Kids starts tomorrow. When I reach down down and feel like I could find nothing more to keep me going, I hope I remember to take a deep breath and: 'remember that first night in the hospital room, and I thought I couldn't...?'
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