Today, when dropping Maddie off at daycare:
"Mama, do dead people sleep?"
"I think they do, sweetie."
"Do dead people eat?"
"I think they eat their favorite food whenever they want. What do you think Daddy is eating?"
"PIZZA!"
"He did love pizza."
"I miss Daddy."
"Me, too, baby, me too."
"Here, Mama. Here is a kiss for you [kiss] and a kiss for Daddy [kiss] and a hug for you [hug] and a hug for Daddy [hug]!"
And with that, she ran off to play.
30 September 2009
28 September 2009
Toddler Grief
There's no better or worse in death. I've wondered sometimes if it's "better" to lose a spouse to a wretched, prolonged illness (thus giving you the chance to say goodbye and get your affairs in order [what a strange expression]) or to a sudden, unexpected incident (thus sparing you from being witness to the suffering, but not giving you any time to ready yourself, as if you even can, for what's to come). The bottom line is that your spouse is dead, and it sucks not matter how it happens.
Being an adult, I've at least had some kind of method for managing The Suck since John died. I call friends, go to therapy, eat and drink too much, throw stuff at the wall, and so on and so forth. I have made, and continue to make, some healthy choices in how I handle my grief and some terrible choices. But I have awareness and, thus, choices to make
Maddie and Riley were nine months old when John died. They were babies, practically infants. As "luck" (cruel fate? ironic geographical placement?) would have it, the house where John died was easy walking distance from an established center for child and family bereavement, the Children's Room. I looked into their programs shortly after John died, but their services are intended for kids aged 3+. I didn't do much research into what kind of impact loss of a parent has on infants, but I watched, and I wondered. As I struggled to deal with my own grief, my lack of understanding of how Maddie and Riley might be grieving was easy enough to push to the side. I worried more about how I would eventually need to explain John's absence and the concept of death and less about how to manage the emotions of a grief-stricken toddler.
I have never shied away from talking about John with Maddie and Riley. I like to be honest, and they deserve to know as much about their dad as I can give them since they were too young to build many (any?) memories before he died. Plus, I like to talk about him. I think about him all the time and I like to remember him. I refer to John as Daddy, and Maddie and Riley can identify him in pictures. They can recount certain stories about him. They have infequently asked where he is, and I've answered vaguely, but truthfully, with things like, "I'm not really sure," or "He's dead." While I'm all about honesty, I'm also all about giving three-year-olds information on a need-to-know basis, so I've never pushed the inquiries about where John is or what it means to be dead. They ask, I tell. If they don't ask, I'm not offering.
I'm convinced that Maddie has her own memories of John, although I think that Riley's memories are just a pastiche of images and stories that I've given to him. In both cases, I've been surprised that, given the highly inquisitive and extremely verbal nature of both of them, neither Maddie or Riley has ever pushed me for an explanation of what dead means, or where John is. I've head them say, "Daddy died" in a relatively matter-of-fact way that I assumed came from a lack of real understanding of the idea of death. They've just been parroting back words that I've said to them.
But the pieces are starting to come together. Our nanny takes Maddie and Riley to the library once or twice a week, and we've read a few books this summer about kids who have a pet who dies. The twins are three now, and are getting more emotionally mature every day. Our preschool is aware that John is dead, and I've given the director and teachers permission to talk freely about the subject should it come up. But much like the shock of death itself, nothing could prepare me for the moment when one of my children actually understood what had happend to her father.
To be honest, I can't even remember how we started talking about it. Somehow, during story time on the couch, Riley said, "My daddy did die?"
"Yes," I replied.
Maddie's immediately turned her gaze to me. "My daddy is dead?" she asked, eyes brimming with tears, lip quivering.
"Yes, sweetie, he's dead."
"All dead, or just a little dead? Dead forever? Is he in a box? Is he in the dirt?" The questions came faster than I could answer them.
"I'M SO SAD!" she declared, and grabbed me, crying. "I'm a little bit dead, I'm so sad! Why is he dead?"
In true toddler fashion, moments into her outburst, her attention was grabbed by something else, and she moved on. But the idea that John was "forever dead" came up a few more times during our evening, and Maddie's bedtime banter alternated between how excited she was to get M&M's (her choice) as a treat for giving up her binky to how it could not possibly be true that John was, in fact, dead. Forever.
Riley was a pretty silent partner in all of this, although when I said that I was not sure where John was, his reply was, "He's helping kids!" If he's doing anything, that's probably it, so I found that to be pretty perceptive. At one point, I had both kids on my lap and we were all crying, the first time we've cried about John together. Must remember to add that first to the baby books.
I don't know how toddlers grieve, how kids who may or may not really remember their deceased parent grieve, how to answer the questions they have and will continue to have. But they are three now, the age at which grief support seems to begin, and as more geographical fate would have it, we now live within easy access of the Dougy Center, another pioneer in child bereavement. I think it's time for me to call. I'm not good at asking for help, but this is something I'm happy to admit that I can't do alone. But I want to do this with Maddie and Riley and I want for us to help each other. I want to remember John, and I want to help Maddie and Riley remember John. I want the twins to know how to be sad, and to learn how sad and happy can coexist.
Being an adult, I've at least had some kind of method for managing The Suck since John died. I call friends, go to therapy, eat and drink too much, throw stuff at the wall, and so on and so forth. I have made, and continue to make, some healthy choices in how I handle my grief and some terrible choices. But I have awareness and, thus, choices to make
Maddie and Riley were nine months old when John died. They were babies, practically infants. As "luck" (cruel fate? ironic geographical placement?) would have it, the house where John died was easy walking distance from an established center for child and family bereavement, the Children's Room. I looked into their programs shortly after John died, but their services are intended for kids aged 3+. I didn't do much research into what kind of impact loss of a parent has on infants, but I watched, and I wondered. As I struggled to deal with my own grief, my lack of understanding of how Maddie and Riley might be grieving was easy enough to push to the side. I worried more about how I would eventually need to explain John's absence and the concept of death and less about how to manage the emotions of a grief-stricken toddler.
I have never shied away from talking about John with Maddie and Riley. I like to be honest, and they deserve to know as much about their dad as I can give them since they were too young to build many (any?) memories before he died. Plus, I like to talk about him. I think about him all the time and I like to remember him. I refer to John as Daddy, and Maddie and Riley can identify him in pictures. They can recount certain stories about him. They have infequently asked where he is, and I've answered vaguely, but truthfully, with things like, "I'm not really sure," or "He's dead." While I'm all about honesty, I'm also all about giving three-year-olds information on a need-to-know basis, so I've never pushed the inquiries about where John is or what it means to be dead. They ask, I tell. If they don't ask, I'm not offering.
I'm convinced that Maddie has her own memories of John, although I think that Riley's memories are just a pastiche of images and stories that I've given to him. In both cases, I've been surprised that, given the highly inquisitive and extremely verbal nature of both of them, neither Maddie or Riley has ever pushed me for an explanation of what dead means, or where John is. I've head them say, "Daddy died" in a relatively matter-of-fact way that I assumed came from a lack of real understanding of the idea of death. They've just been parroting back words that I've said to them.
But the pieces are starting to come together. Our nanny takes Maddie and Riley to the library once or twice a week, and we've read a few books this summer about kids who have a pet who dies. The twins are three now, and are getting more emotionally mature every day. Our preschool is aware that John is dead, and I've given the director and teachers permission to talk freely about the subject should it come up. But much like the shock of death itself, nothing could prepare me for the moment when one of my children actually understood what had happend to her father.
To be honest, I can't even remember how we started talking about it. Somehow, during story time on the couch, Riley said, "My daddy did die?"
"Yes," I replied.
Maddie's immediately turned her gaze to me. "My daddy is dead?" she asked, eyes brimming with tears, lip quivering.
"Yes, sweetie, he's dead."
"All dead, or just a little dead? Dead forever? Is he in a box? Is he in the dirt?" The questions came faster than I could answer them.
"I'M SO SAD!" she declared, and grabbed me, crying. "I'm a little bit dead, I'm so sad! Why is he dead?"
In true toddler fashion, moments into her outburst, her attention was grabbed by something else, and she moved on. But the idea that John was "forever dead" came up a few more times during our evening, and Maddie's bedtime banter alternated between how excited she was to get M&M's (her choice) as a treat for giving up her binky to how it could not possibly be true that John was, in fact, dead. Forever.
Riley was a pretty silent partner in all of this, although when I said that I was not sure where John was, his reply was, "He's helping kids!" If he's doing anything, that's probably it, so I found that to be pretty perceptive. At one point, I had both kids on my lap and we were all crying, the first time we've cried about John together. Must remember to add that first to the baby books.
I don't know how toddlers grieve, how kids who may or may not really remember their deceased parent grieve, how to answer the questions they have and will continue to have. But they are three now, the age at which grief support seems to begin, and as more geographical fate would have it, we now live within easy access of the Dougy Center, another pioneer in child bereavement. I think it's time for me to call. I'm not good at asking for help, but this is something I'm happy to admit that I can't do alone. But I want to do this with Maddie and Riley and I want for us to help each other. I want to remember John, and I want to help Maddie and Riley remember John. I want the twins to know how to be sad, and to learn how sad and happy can coexist.
25 September 2009
Easier, but Not Easy
Last Sunday, I took Maddie and Riley to a birthday party for the four-year-old daughter of some friends. It was a totally low-key affair: kids running around at a park, snacks spread out on a picnic table, candles stuck in a donut, a book exchange in lieu of presents.
We had fun. Maddie and Riley worked the snack table, conquered the slide, showed off their big-kid swing skills, and generally made merry. We overstayed our welcome by about 15 minutes, thus descending into TFE (Total Fucking Exhaustion) and making for a tantrummy exit, but otherwise, it was a lovely morning.
And yet. When I got home, I felt awful. I had a headache. I wanted to cry. I did cry. I was angry and bitter and generally glum. It was not pretty.
For about two years after John died—so until fairly recently, in fact—I avoided events like kids' birthday parties and other weekend outings with couples + kids. Playdates with a mom or dad friend and their kid or kids? Great. But events with couples out in full force, balancing the load that is childcare + socializing: no thanks. Inevitably, at those events, I would spend all my time chasing after Maddie and Riley, none of my time relaxing, and a lot of my time feeling jealous and resentful of the couples who took turns visiting and being on kid duty. It just wasn't worth it, so mostly I found reasons not to go.
At some point, the tide turned. I felt more settled in my role as a single mom, I was more at peace with John's death, and Maddie and Riley were more independent. The kids enjoyed parties more, thus I enjoyed parties more. Spending time with couples was no longer a searing reminder of what I didn't have, but a fun time to connect with friends and have more hands on deck.
I was thus blindsided by the feelings that were stirred up by last weekend's party. I'd been excited about going and we all had fun. But as has happened to me many times over the past two and a half years, grief got the best of me. I should know by now that I don't "get over" certain grief-related feelings. They ebb and flow. They fade into the background for a time. They abate, then resurface.
I think what brought the feelings of jealousy and inadequacy to the forefront for me last weekend was a set of emotions that I've struggled with since moving back to Portland. I'm in this place, with these people, doing things that John and I planned to do together. I feel a sense of calm and fulfillment leading the life I have been wanting to live and had planned on living, but man-oh-man do I wish I were doing it with John. As I build my new life here, I am surrounded more and more often by people who didn't know John at all or knew him only incidentally, and this is another twist of the knife. The pain deepens when such people are friends I know John would have so enjoyed, couples or individuals who would have understood and appreciated John's humor. The parents of last weekend's birthday girl are just those type of folks, and as much as I am enjoying getting to spend more time with them and build a social life that includes their company, it pains me that they were deprived of knowing John.
Throughout the party, the birthday girl's father was achingly kind to me, introducing me to other guests, helping me coax Riley back to happy after he tripped over a tree root, carrying around jackets and coffees and assorted other kid stuff for me. Gary is a genuinely caring person, so this was not out of the norm for him, but every time he helped me, every bit of his kindness reminded me of John's kindness and John's caring nature. The whole event made made me miss John all the more.
I'm headed to the beach this weekend with my family: my mom, my stepdad, my dad, the kids (of course). This, too, will be one of those bittersweet times, so wonderful to have my family around, so hard not to have John there. Thanks to the passage of time, I'm almost certain the joy will outweigh the sorrow. But wow, I'm surprised by how much the welcome act of being happy can make me miss him.
We had fun. Maddie and Riley worked the snack table, conquered the slide, showed off their big-kid swing skills, and generally made merry. We overstayed our welcome by about 15 minutes, thus descending into TFE (Total Fucking Exhaustion) and making for a tantrummy exit, but otherwise, it was a lovely morning.
And yet. When I got home, I felt awful. I had a headache. I wanted to cry. I did cry. I was angry and bitter and generally glum. It was not pretty.
For about two years after John died—so until fairly recently, in fact—I avoided events like kids' birthday parties and other weekend outings with couples + kids. Playdates with a mom or dad friend and their kid or kids? Great. But events with couples out in full force, balancing the load that is childcare + socializing: no thanks. Inevitably, at those events, I would spend all my time chasing after Maddie and Riley, none of my time relaxing, and a lot of my time feeling jealous and resentful of the couples who took turns visiting and being on kid duty. It just wasn't worth it, so mostly I found reasons not to go.
At some point, the tide turned. I felt more settled in my role as a single mom, I was more at peace with John's death, and Maddie and Riley were more independent. The kids enjoyed parties more, thus I enjoyed parties more. Spending time with couples was no longer a searing reminder of what I didn't have, but a fun time to connect with friends and have more hands on deck.
I was thus blindsided by the feelings that were stirred up by last weekend's party. I'd been excited about going and we all had fun. But as has happened to me many times over the past two and a half years, grief got the best of me. I should know by now that I don't "get over" certain grief-related feelings. They ebb and flow. They fade into the background for a time. They abate, then resurface.
I think what brought the feelings of jealousy and inadequacy to the forefront for me last weekend was a set of emotions that I've struggled with since moving back to Portland. I'm in this place, with these people, doing things that John and I planned to do together. I feel a sense of calm and fulfillment leading the life I have been wanting to live and had planned on living, but man-oh-man do I wish I were doing it with John. As I build my new life here, I am surrounded more and more often by people who didn't know John at all or knew him only incidentally, and this is another twist of the knife. The pain deepens when such people are friends I know John would have so enjoyed, couples or individuals who would have understood and appreciated John's humor. The parents of last weekend's birthday girl are just those type of folks, and as much as I am enjoying getting to spend more time with them and build a social life that includes their company, it pains me that they were deprived of knowing John.
Throughout the party, the birthday girl's father was achingly kind to me, introducing me to other guests, helping me coax Riley back to happy after he tripped over a tree root, carrying around jackets and coffees and assorted other kid stuff for me. Gary is a genuinely caring person, so this was not out of the norm for him, but every time he helped me, every bit of his kindness reminded me of John's kindness and John's caring nature. The whole event made made me miss John all the more.
I'm headed to the beach this weekend with my family: my mom, my stepdad, my dad, the kids (of course). This, too, will be one of those bittersweet times, so wonderful to have my family around, so hard not to have John there. Thanks to the passage of time, I'm almost certain the joy will outweigh the sorrow. But wow, I'm surprised by how much the welcome act of being happy can make me miss him.
17 September 2009
Old Habits
If you're friends with me on Facebook, you may have seen my post from last night offering up Maddie for free to anyone interested in a three year old. I jest, of course, but it's true that Maddie has been rather challenging lately. She's going through lots of transitions, plus I hear the age of three is prone to emotional maelstroms, so it is what it is and I'm doing my best to remain calm in the face of the fact that in Maddie's mind, right now nothing is ever the right thing.
But here's my problem. We'll get through a morning like we had today (a time out for hitting Mama, another time out for slamming doors in anger, generalized whining and no-saying, etc.), and all I can think is, "Wow, after all that, I deserve a bagel!" Or a donut, or a waffle or a muffin or an egg sandwich or any other manner of bad-for-me treat. In the evenings, it's "Wow, after all that I deserve a bunch of chips or a big bowl of ice cream or . . . " The list goes on an on.
Rewarding myself with food is a deeply ingrained habit for me, and one that's really, really hard to break. But since there's a direct correlation between food rewards (lots lately) and how my pants fit (quite poorly, if at all), I need to rein it in.
In concert with getting the food rewards under control, I just need to start eating better. I've been blathering on about this for months without actually making any changes. Mostly I've just been lazy, but I've also been unsure about what I want to do. I had contemplated going back to Weight Watchers, but the measuring and the points and the weekly weigh-ins make me feel tired and defeated before I've even begun, despite the fact that I had great success on the program in the past. What I really want to do is focus on general healthy eating: lots of fruits and veggies, whole grains, minimal processed food, reasonable portions, no evening snacking. I'm exercising regularly, so that part is in place.
When I was in grade school, my parents followed the Fit for Life eating plan fairly strictly for quite some time. I linked to the Quackwatch page about the program because I agree that the "scientific" basis is complete bunk. But the program does focus on fresh, healthy eating and the second half of the book has meal plans and menus for a month or so worth of eating. It's with that planning that I need a lot of help, so I think using that book and their menus as a base could help to get me on track. So mom:if you're reading, can I borrow your copy of Fit for Life? Thanks. And so, I shall try to start eating better.
As for the food as rewards? Food just tastes so good! And it's so easy to eat a cookie to feel better after the kids go to bed, or to stop for a muffin on the way in to work. Finding quick rewards that aren't food is not easy, and I'm telling you: I need something to look forward to in the evenings. Wow. Ideas?
But here's my problem. We'll get through a morning like we had today (a time out for hitting Mama, another time out for slamming doors in anger, generalized whining and no-saying, etc.), and all I can think is, "Wow, after all that, I deserve a bagel!" Or a donut, or a waffle or a muffin or an egg sandwich or any other manner of bad-for-me treat. In the evenings, it's "Wow, after all that I deserve a bunch of chips or a big bowl of ice cream or . . . " The list goes on an on.
Rewarding myself with food is a deeply ingrained habit for me, and one that's really, really hard to break. But since there's a direct correlation between food rewards (lots lately) and how my pants fit (quite poorly, if at all), I need to rein it in.
In concert with getting the food rewards under control, I just need to start eating better. I've been blathering on about this for months without actually making any changes. Mostly I've just been lazy, but I've also been unsure about what I want to do. I had contemplated going back to Weight Watchers, but the measuring and the points and the weekly weigh-ins make me feel tired and defeated before I've even begun, despite the fact that I had great success on the program in the past. What I really want to do is focus on general healthy eating: lots of fruits and veggies, whole grains, minimal processed food, reasonable portions, no evening snacking. I'm exercising regularly, so that part is in place.
When I was in grade school, my parents followed the Fit for Life eating plan fairly strictly for quite some time. I linked to the Quackwatch page about the program because I agree that the "scientific" basis is complete bunk. But the program does focus on fresh, healthy eating and the second half of the book has meal plans and menus for a month or so worth of eating. It's with that planning that I need a lot of help, so I think using that book and their menus as a base could help to get me on track. So mom:if you're reading, can I borrow your copy of Fit for Life? Thanks. And so, I shall try to start eating better.
As for the food as rewards? Food just tastes so good! And it's so easy to eat a cookie to feel better after the kids go to bed, or to stop for a muffin on the way in to work. Finding quick rewards that aren't food is not easy, and I'm telling you: I need something to look forward to in the evenings. Wow. Ideas?
16 September 2009
Going Without
The house I lived in while I served in the Peace Corps had running water and electricity. Most of the time. It was a cement block house with a tin roof and cement floors, featuring a western bathroom and "modern" kitchen and bare bulbs throughout. So much for the romantic vision of a mud hut with a thatched roof, but I can't say as I minded the modern conveniences.
Except when they didn't work. I had plenty of Peace Corps friends who never had running water or electricity, and this who learned to live without such luxuries fairly quickly. They had rain barrels and lanterns and a schedule that was based on the rising and setting of the sun. Part of their routine was fetching water or part of their budget was paying a local kid to do so for them. It doesn't take a genius to figure out how to wash dishes and take a bath with a system of buckets and cups. Doing without running water and electricity just became part of their experience, and, in time, just a part of life.
My water and electric service were frequently interrupted. The town would run out of fuel for the generator, or the generator would break, or a storm would knock out the power or countless other events would transpire to make my house dark and dry. There was never any warning and never any sense of how long the outages would last. A friend of mine lived next to the generator and could sometimes get information from the workers there about service interruptions, but even the town employees didn't usually have complete or accurate information to pass along. And so, in the middle of doing laundry or while trying to grade papers at night, I'd suddenly find myself without a way to rinse the soap from my clothes or needing to stumble through the house for the flashlights, candles, and matches.
The obvious solution to this was to be better prepared. There was no reason for me not to have a rain barrel to collect water for just these situations (well, other than that keeping mosquitoes from breeding in rain barrels is not easy, even with good covers), and I could have purchased some good kerosene lamps to have for when the power went out. But I confess that I felt somehow entitled to my water and electric. It was supposed to work, I felt. Life in Africa was already fraught with difficulty, and I felt I deserved to be spared some of that trial by the presence of water and electric in my life.
John died when the twins were nine months old, and before that he was in the process of dying. I liken my single-parenthood to the situation of my Peace Corps friends who never had running water and electricity to begin with. Not having those luxuries was just a fact of life. They can remember what it was like to live in another place, at another time, with those things (among other conveniences), but in the moment, they adapt and move forward and mostly just take the lack at face value. So it is for me. Oh, do I ever remember how wonderful it was to have John around and oh, how often do I wish he were still here, but he's not. And so I have created a life and a routine and a flow that is based upon the lack of a spouse. My coping mechanisms aren't always the best (Single Parenting: I Guess Poor Parenting Is Better Than None at All), and when I have an extra pair of hands around, it gives me a taste of what I'm missing—much like our occasional Peace Corps training weekends in "luxury" (it was the third world) hotels did for my colleagues who lived without much luxury day-to-day.
I will occasionally get e-mails from friends who have kids but whose spouse is away for an extended period of time. They are lovely e-mails that are usually filled with a newly deepened empathy for my spouse-less situation and an admiration for what I do to manage the logistics of single parenting. These messages often contain the sentence, "This is so hard!" I'd be the first person to agree that being a single parent is hard, but in all fairness, I think it's harder to be a part-time single parent than to do what I do. These friends with spouses who travel or are deployed in the military or who go take care of infirm family members are like I was in the Peace Corps. When you regularly have a support person in your life—or regularly rely on running water and electric—their sudden absence shifts your entire routine. For those used to have a spouse around it's not just a logistical shift of figuring out how to do it all on your own, but an emotional sea change for the kids and the adults. It creates a whole new family dynamic and a whole new rhythm, and it's something you can't really plan for because until it happens, it's hard to know just how it will feel.
For my friends who are going it alone right now, I'm sorry your water and electric are off. I hope they come back on soon. At least you probably have good information about when service will be restored. Until then, know that you're doing a good job at a very difficult job. Hats off.
Except when they didn't work. I had plenty of Peace Corps friends who never had running water or electricity, and this who learned to live without such luxuries fairly quickly. They had rain barrels and lanterns and a schedule that was based on the rising and setting of the sun. Part of their routine was fetching water or part of their budget was paying a local kid to do so for them. It doesn't take a genius to figure out how to wash dishes and take a bath with a system of buckets and cups. Doing without running water and electricity just became part of their experience, and, in time, just a part of life.
My water and electric service were frequently interrupted. The town would run out of fuel for the generator, or the generator would break, or a storm would knock out the power or countless other events would transpire to make my house dark and dry. There was never any warning and never any sense of how long the outages would last. A friend of mine lived next to the generator and could sometimes get information from the workers there about service interruptions, but even the town employees didn't usually have complete or accurate information to pass along. And so, in the middle of doing laundry or while trying to grade papers at night, I'd suddenly find myself without a way to rinse the soap from my clothes or needing to stumble through the house for the flashlights, candles, and matches.
The obvious solution to this was to be better prepared. There was no reason for me not to have a rain barrel to collect water for just these situations (well, other than that keeping mosquitoes from breeding in rain barrels is not easy, even with good covers), and I could have purchased some good kerosene lamps to have for when the power went out. But I confess that I felt somehow entitled to my water and electric. It was supposed to work, I felt. Life in Africa was already fraught with difficulty, and I felt I deserved to be spared some of that trial by the presence of water and electric in my life.
John died when the twins were nine months old, and before that he was in the process of dying. I liken my single-parenthood to the situation of my Peace Corps friends who never had running water and electricity to begin with. Not having those luxuries was just a fact of life. They can remember what it was like to live in another place, at another time, with those things (among other conveniences), but in the moment, they adapt and move forward and mostly just take the lack at face value. So it is for me. Oh, do I ever remember how wonderful it was to have John around and oh, how often do I wish he were still here, but he's not. And so I have created a life and a routine and a flow that is based upon the lack of a spouse. My coping mechanisms aren't always the best (Single Parenting: I Guess Poor Parenting Is Better Than None at All), and when I have an extra pair of hands around, it gives me a taste of what I'm missing—much like our occasional Peace Corps training weekends in "luxury" (it was the third world) hotels did for my colleagues who lived without much luxury day-to-day.
I will occasionally get e-mails from friends who have kids but whose spouse is away for an extended period of time. They are lovely e-mails that are usually filled with a newly deepened empathy for my spouse-less situation and an admiration for what I do to manage the logistics of single parenting. These messages often contain the sentence, "This is so hard!" I'd be the first person to agree that being a single parent is hard, but in all fairness, I think it's harder to be a part-time single parent than to do what I do. These friends with spouses who travel or are deployed in the military or who go take care of infirm family members are like I was in the Peace Corps. When you regularly have a support person in your life—or regularly rely on running water and electric—their sudden absence shifts your entire routine. For those used to have a spouse around it's not just a logistical shift of figuring out how to do it all on your own, but an emotional sea change for the kids and the adults. It creates a whole new family dynamic and a whole new rhythm, and it's something you can't really plan for because until it happens, it's hard to know just how it will feel.
For my friends who are going it alone right now, I'm sorry your water and electric are off. I hope they come back on soon. At least you probably have good information about when service will be restored. Until then, know that you're doing a good job at a very difficult job. Hats off.
11 September 2009
[none]
I think about John every day, of course. I think about grief every day, too, sometimes as an abstract concept and sometimes in direct relation to how much it still hurts that John is gone.
Today, eight years after the 9/11 terrorist attacks, I've had grief in general and my own loss on my mind more than usual. John's death was, of course, not related in any way to what happened on 9/11/01. But throughout the day, as I would think of John, I would also think of how many people became widows or widowers, how many people lost children, parents, husbands, wives, partners, sons, daughters . . . friends, loved ones. People die every day. People experience loss every second. But to experience so much loss, in such a cruel way, in what amounts to an instant, that is rare and almost incomprehensible.
I was struck this year by how little seems to have been done this year to remember those who died on 9/11. I don't recall mention of it on NPR as I drove in this morning. I confess that it was not at the forefront of my mind this morning, not until Maddie and Riley asked me if I would read them a story before I left. They chose a library book I'd never read to them before, one they'd picked out while with our nanny. It was the story of a little girl whose dog dies. It was a well done book (wish I could remember the name, and it went back to the library today, darn), truthful without being scary or overwhelming, not at all pandering, not motivated by fear. After reading the book, Maddie, a girl who has emotional maturity that most adults will never attain, was very clingy. She didn't want to give her nanny—who she loves—a hug, she wanted me to carry her out to the car to say goodbye, she wanted to go with me to work, she wanted to snuggle me. She happened to be holding a stuffed puppy, one of her many plush companions.
"Are you worried that pink puppy might get sick?" I asked. She'd been peppering me with questions about why the dog in the story got sick, why it couldn't walk anymore, why it slept all the time.
"Yes," she replied, holding her puppy closer.
"Pink puppy is not going to get sick, Love. Stuffed animals don't get sick like that. They don't die."
That seemed to reassure her, at least enough that she let go of me so that I could climb in the car, and gave me a smile and wave through the window when I rolled it down as I pulled away.
The conversation did spark something that made me remember that it was 9/11. And it made me think of John. And loss. And grief. And how the pain may fade, but it never truly goes away.
Today, eight years after the 9/11 terrorist attacks, I've had grief in general and my own loss on my mind more than usual. John's death was, of course, not related in any way to what happened on 9/11/01. But throughout the day, as I would think of John, I would also think of how many people became widows or widowers, how many people lost children, parents, husbands, wives, partners, sons, daughters . . . friends, loved ones. People die every day. People experience loss every second. But to experience so much loss, in such a cruel way, in what amounts to an instant, that is rare and almost incomprehensible.
I was struck this year by how little seems to have been done this year to remember those who died on 9/11. I don't recall mention of it on NPR as I drove in this morning. I confess that it was not at the forefront of my mind this morning, not until Maddie and Riley asked me if I would read them a story before I left. They chose a library book I'd never read to them before, one they'd picked out while with our nanny. It was the story of a little girl whose dog dies. It was a well done book (wish I could remember the name, and it went back to the library today, darn), truthful without being scary or overwhelming, not at all pandering, not motivated by fear. After reading the book, Maddie, a girl who has emotional maturity that most adults will never attain, was very clingy. She didn't want to give her nanny—who she loves—a hug, she wanted me to carry her out to the car to say goodbye, she wanted to go with me to work, she wanted to snuggle me. She happened to be holding a stuffed puppy, one of her many plush companions.
"Are you worried that pink puppy might get sick?" I asked. She'd been peppering me with questions about why the dog in the story got sick, why it couldn't walk anymore, why it slept all the time.
"Yes," she replied, holding her puppy closer.
"Pink puppy is not going to get sick, Love. Stuffed animals don't get sick like that. They don't die."
That seemed to reassure her, at least enough that she let go of me so that I could climb in the car, and gave me a smile and wave through the window when I rolled it down as I pulled away.
The conversation did spark something that made me remember that it was 9/11. And it made me think of John. And loss. And grief. And how the pain may fade, but it never truly goes away.
09 September 2009
Preschooled
Two days of preschool down.
The first day went off without a hitch. Here we are, ready to get in the car and head out:
As you can see, Maddie is pretty damn excited. Both Maddie and Riley insisted on wearing their big kid backpacks, which really are adult sized, which is especially comical in Maddie's case because she actually wears it on her back and even with the straps as short as they go, it pretty much hangs down to her ankles. Riley mostly just drags his on the ground. That look that Riley has, the "Me? I'm going to preschool? Me? Really?" look, the one that is a mix of excitement and disbelief tinged with a bit of skepticism is the look he wore most of the morning. As for me, the look I wear is one of pride and fear, with a hint of annoyance about the fact that at breakfast Maddie whined, "Riley's foot touched my tights! Now they are smelly!" and thus her tights had to be changed. The annoyance is both with her for feeling like they needed to be changed and with myself for giving in.
Dropping the kids off went fine. We had visited the school for open houses a couple of times, and they walked in like they owned the place. We actually arrived so promptly that the door was not yet unlocked. Maddie and Riley did this until a teacher took pity on us:
Poor Maddie and Riley. They are destined to be the first kids dropped off every day (so that I have a minute chance of getting to work on time) and the last kids picked up (and even to be the last parent there, I actually have to leave work early).
At pickup, both Maddie and Riley were happy to see me, but did not have an air of desperation. They were praised by their teachers for being cheerful and cooperative, and for knowing the routine around things like Group Nap on a Mat and other daycare-type endeavors which are old hat for them and new to most of the other children. They ate a good lunch. Maddie pronounced that snack was her favorite part of the day. Riley successfully used the potty numerous times. I had drawings to take home and reports of the day's activities. I had feared utter exhaustion from a day of All Things New, but spirits were high and moods were good, so we supped at a local pub. Riley ate noodles with butter and cheese. Maddie ate some noodles and most of her Ba's cabbage/potato/sausage soup.
Today's morning routine was smooth. Riley did say, "Mama, today I will go to work with you. We'll pick up Maddie later," but he was not upset or worried. I think he was just seeing how I'd react ("I'd love to take you to work, sweetie, but everyone at preschool would miss you so much!") Today's pickup, however, was more like what I expected yesterday. The kids were again happy, but not desperate, to see me. Maddie was minorly miffed about a situation with her milk cup, but we recovered. I was informed that their nap had been brief. We made it to the car, and from then on out, it was one of those evenings when unicorns and rainbows and kittens and ice cream and all other manner of good things could have poured from the heavens and it still would have been All Wrong. We made it through, and I put the kids in bed at 7:30 instead of their usual 8:00. they were asleep almost instantly.
It's not surprising, really, that the exhaustion hit tonight. There's the cumulative effect of so! much! stimulation! during the day, plus new kids, new routine, new everything. And yesterday was all about being carried through by adrenaline. But even with the whining and tantrum-throwing and foot-stomping and needing to be carried and coddled of tonight, I'm so proud of both Maddie and Riley. We've been through a bunch of transitions since June. We moved across the country. We lived for a month with my mom and stepdad. We left a daycare that was like family to us and got a nanny. We moved into a new house. We made the switch to big-kid beds. Riley is potty-trained. And now, preschool. Maddie and Riley have handled it all like champs, sometimes better than I have.
I didn't think I was all that sentimental or stressed out or an emotion of any extreme around the kids starting preschool, but I have been utterly exhausted for the past couple of weeks. The past couple of days, though, not so much. Preschool is the last of the big transitions for a while, I hope. The last of the known big transitions. I know that life could throw us a curveball or two, but I'm hoping beyond hope that this fall marks the beginning of a period of relative calm in our house. May I not be asking too much.
The first day went off without a hitch. Here we are, ready to get in the car and head out:
As you can see, Maddie is pretty damn excited. Both Maddie and Riley insisted on wearing their big kid backpacks, which really are adult sized, which is especially comical in Maddie's case because she actually wears it on her back and even with the straps as short as they go, it pretty much hangs down to her ankles. Riley mostly just drags his on the ground. That look that Riley has, the "Me? I'm going to preschool? Me? Really?" look, the one that is a mix of excitement and disbelief tinged with a bit of skepticism is the look he wore most of the morning. As for me, the look I wear is one of pride and fear, with a hint of annoyance about the fact that at breakfast Maddie whined, "Riley's foot touched my tights! Now they are smelly!" and thus her tights had to be changed. The annoyance is both with her for feeling like they needed to be changed and with myself for giving in.
Dropping the kids off went fine. We had visited the school for open houses a couple of times, and they walked in like they owned the place. We actually arrived so promptly that the door was not yet unlocked. Maddie and Riley did this until a teacher took pity on us:
Poor Maddie and Riley. They are destined to be the first kids dropped off every day (so that I have a minute chance of getting to work on time) and the last kids picked up (and even to be the last parent there, I actually have to leave work early).
At pickup, both Maddie and Riley were happy to see me, but did not have an air of desperation. They were praised by their teachers for being cheerful and cooperative, and for knowing the routine around things like Group Nap on a Mat and other daycare-type endeavors which are old hat for them and new to most of the other children. They ate a good lunch. Maddie pronounced that snack was her favorite part of the day. Riley successfully used the potty numerous times. I had drawings to take home and reports of the day's activities. I had feared utter exhaustion from a day of All Things New, but spirits were high and moods were good, so we supped at a local pub. Riley ate noodles with butter and cheese. Maddie ate some noodles and most of her Ba's cabbage/potato/sausage soup.
Today's morning routine was smooth. Riley did say, "Mama, today I will go to work with you. We'll pick up Maddie later," but he was not upset or worried. I think he was just seeing how I'd react ("I'd love to take you to work, sweetie, but everyone at preschool would miss you so much!") Today's pickup, however, was more like what I expected yesterday. The kids were again happy, but not desperate, to see me. Maddie was minorly miffed about a situation with her milk cup, but we recovered. I was informed that their nap had been brief. We made it to the car, and from then on out, it was one of those evenings when unicorns and rainbows and kittens and ice cream and all other manner of good things could have poured from the heavens and it still would have been All Wrong. We made it through, and I put the kids in bed at 7:30 instead of their usual 8:00. they were asleep almost instantly.
It's not surprising, really, that the exhaustion hit tonight. There's the cumulative effect of so! much! stimulation! during the day, plus new kids, new routine, new everything. And yesterday was all about being carried through by adrenaline. But even with the whining and tantrum-throwing and foot-stomping and needing to be carried and coddled of tonight, I'm so proud of both Maddie and Riley. We've been through a bunch of transitions since June. We moved across the country. We lived for a month with my mom and stepdad. We left a daycare that was like family to us and got a nanny. We moved into a new house. We made the switch to big-kid beds. Riley is potty-trained. And now, preschool. Maddie and Riley have handled it all like champs, sometimes better than I have.
I didn't think I was all that sentimental or stressed out or an emotion of any extreme around the kids starting preschool, but I have been utterly exhausted for the past couple of weeks. The past couple of days, though, not so much. Preschool is the last of the big transitions for a while, I hope. The last of the known big transitions. I know that life could throw us a curveball or two, but I'm hoping beyond hope that this fall marks the beginning of a period of relative calm in our house. May I not be asking too much.
04 September 2009
Is this what it's like to get older?
Last weekend, while the twins were napping on Sunday afternoon, I decided to do some cleaning. That was all well and that was all good, but every time I bent over to pick something up off the floor, I was struck with what I guess is reflux: a burning, unpleasant sensation in my throat.
Ugh.
Mind you, I carried twins to term without so much as a whiff of reflux or heartburn. I love spicy food and eat it all the time and I'd never so much as reached for a Tums. This was the first time I'd ever had this sensation, and I'm sure that there are many of you who know firsthand that it's not pleasant.
It was cured easily enough by a glass of milk, but it's plagued me throughout the week off and on. I'm starting to think that it's coffee. I've gotten pretty bad with the coffee habit, drinking at least two big cups a day, sometimes more. And I've been drinking soda most weekdays, too, sometimes diet, sometimes regular. Would that aggravate it? Bleargh.
So there's that, the icky reflux-y thing. Then there's my weight. Coffee and soda notwithstanding, my eating habits of late have been pretty good. Lots of fresh fruit and veggies, not too much ice cream, overall better in general than I've done in years. Plus I've been running multiple times per week, which is the first regular exercise I've gotten in a few years. Why, then, do I weigh more than I've ever weighed except during pregnancy? I weigh three pounds more than I did when I joined Weight Watchers back in 2004, and a full 12 pounds more than I did when I got pregnant.
I'm lucky in that I've never had to work all that hard to keep my weight in the healthy range. I've never been super thin, but I've never really been seriously overweight, either. I don't monitor my weight closely, as I can tell by the way my clothes fit how things are going. When the waistbands feel tight, I control my portions better, rein in the snacking, and everything gets back to the way it should be.
This time around, though, I've been doing what I need to do by eating better and exercising more, and my pants still don't want to button. I'm starting to think that I need to rejoin Weight Watchers and really make myself accountable for everything I'm eating. I've been measuring my portions of cereal, making sure I don't sit in front of the TV with a package of cookies, choosing an apple instead of chips . . . but it's not working. It's just not. And then the reflux! I feel old and chubby.
Like most (all?) women, I struggle with body image. I firmly believe that the most important thing of all is to be healthy, and that healthy comes in a lot of different sizes. The size I am now is healthy, but yet I'm confess that I'm not happy with it, which in turn makes me feel some kind of bad or guilty for being wanting to be a smaller size of healthy. I want to enjoy food--the last thing I want to be is the person who orders, to paraphrase Margaret Cho, her "life on the side." But I also want my skinny jeans to fit. Frankly, part of the issue is that I don't want to spend money on new clothes. But really, I just want to be smaller.
And I don't want to have reflux.
To add to the healthier eating + more exercise effort to make myself feel prettier, I finally booked a haircut for a week from tomorrow. I have not had my hair cut in almost four months. I look like the shaggy dog. I have long hair with some layers; the shortest layers are just past my chin. My hair is thick and straight, but not flat-and-shiny straight, more unruly-and-tangly straight. Anyone have ideas for a brilliant haircut? I'm willing to wash most mornings and blow dry, but that's about the extent of the effort that I'll make. Losing length is fine, but I need to be able to put it up in a ponytail when I run. Suggestions appreciated.
Ugh.
Mind you, I carried twins to term without so much as a whiff of reflux or heartburn. I love spicy food and eat it all the time and I'd never so much as reached for a Tums. This was the first time I'd ever had this sensation, and I'm sure that there are many of you who know firsthand that it's not pleasant.
It was cured easily enough by a glass of milk, but it's plagued me throughout the week off and on. I'm starting to think that it's coffee. I've gotten pretty bad with the coffee habit, drinking at least two big cups a day, sometimes more. And I've been drinking soda most weekdays, too, sometimes diet, sometimes regular. Would that aggravate it? Bleargh.
So there's that, the icky reflux-y thing. Then there's my weight. Coffee and soda notwithstanding, my eating habits of late have been pretty good. Lots of fresh fruit and veggies, not too much ice cream, overall better in general than I've done in years. Plus I've been running multiple times per week, which is the first regular exercise I've gotten in a few years. Why, then, do I weigh more than I've ever weighed except during pregnancy? I weigh three pounds more than I did when I joined Weight Watchers back in 2004, and a full 12 pounds more than I did when I got pregnant.
I'm lucky in that I've never had to work all that hard to keep my weight in the healthy range. I've never been super thin, but I've never really been seriously overweight, either. I don't monitor my weight closely, as I can tell by the way my clothes fit how things are going. When the waistbands feel tight, I control my portions better, rein in the snacking, and everything gets back to the way it should be.
This time around, though, I've been doing what I need to do by eating better and exercising more, and my pants still don't want to button. I'm starting to think that I need to rejoin Weight Watchers and really make myself accountable for everything I'm eating. I've been measuring my portions of cereal, making sure I don't sit in front of the TV with a package of cookies, choosing an apple instead of chips . . . but it's not working. It's just not. And then the reflux! I feel old and chubby.
Like most (all?) women, I struggle with body image. I firmly believe that the most important thing of all is to be healthy, and that healthy comes in a lot of different sizes. The size I am now is healthy, but yet I'm confess that I'm not happy with it, which in turn makes me feel some kind of bad or guilty for being wanting to be a smaller size of healthy. I want to enjoy food--the last thing I want to be is the person who orders, to paraphrase Margaret Cho, her "life on the side." But I also want my skinny jeans to fit. Frankly, part of the issue is that I don't want to spend money on new clothes. But really, I just want to be smaller.
And I don't want to have reflux.
To add to the healthier eating + more exercise effort to make myself feel prettier, I finally booked a haircut for a week from tomorrow. I have not had my hair cut in almost four months. I look like the shaggy dog. I have long hair with some layers; the shortest layers are just past my chin. My hair is thick and straight, but not flat-and-shiny straight, more unruly-and-tangly straight. Anyone have ideas for a brilliant haircut? I'm willing to wash most mornings and blow dry, but that's about the extent of the effort that I'll make. Losing length is fine, but I need to be able to put it up in a ponytail when I run. Suggestions appreciated.
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