I often feel like I'm not a great parent. I yell too much. I spend too much time doing life-stuff rather than playing with Maddie and Riley. I'm impatient. They don't eat enough veggies. I let them watch a Dora video every night. I take out my work and life-related frustrations on them. I get mad when they spill milk. There are lots of times that I'm worn out, stressed out, and just don't love being a mom the way I feel like I'm supposed to love being a mom.
I know I do the best I can. Maddie and Riley are clothed and fed and loved. I'm too hard on myself, as most parents are. I'm a perfectionist, but that's my battle to fight, not the kids'. I love Maddie and Riley fiercely and even when I can barely put one foot in front of the other and make it through the day, I'm glad I have them.
The adage that you can't miss what you don't/didn't have is complete hogwash. When John was first diagnosed with cancer, the immediate grief I dealt with was for the life we were losing, the things we weren't going to get to do, the experiences we weren't going to have together. It's possible that our married life together would have been awful and we would have ended up unhappy and divorced, but I have to believe that even if that had been our ultimate fate, there would have been at least *some* good times first, and I miss and mourn those times daily.
I feel the same way about parenting. By the time the twins were born, John was pretty sick. He dedicated all his available energy to being a good dad, and he was. But he needed a lot of sleep and he didn't have a lot of energy. And then he died. And I miss him so much. Part of that involves missing what it's like to function in a two-parent household where no family member suffers from a terminal illness. That structure would not make me a perfect parent—no such thing—but I am certain that it would make me a better parent.
I don't want more kids. I can barely handle the kids I have now. But sometimes I want to experience what it's like to have one newborn instead of a pair, and what it's like to experience infancy with a fully present, healthy partner. I want a do-over on mothering during infancy and early toddlerhood. I want a chance to do it on my terms.
I don't want that chance enough to do it on my own. Ha! Lunacy. (Although I've got two embryos on ice back in Boston . . . ) And, perhaps oddly, these days I am pretty much not interested in being in a serious relationship and/or getting remarried. I'd love to go on a date—good conversation, nice dinner, maybe a movie—but I'm at a point with Maddie and Riley where there's a lot I like about single parenting. It's nice to be the one who makes all the decisions about where we go, what we do, what we eat, what's OK and what's not OK. Sometimes I wish I had someone to discuss these things with, but often I like the flexibility that comes from being the sole decision-maker (in conjunction with the whims and rather strong desires of two toddlers, of course). We're not lacking for social opportunities. And while I'd love to share the burdens of running a house, or be able to go running before work while the kids are still sleeping, or slip out for an errand once they're in bed at night, that's not a reason to find a husband.
What this means, of course, is that I'm going to meet my next spouse while I'm out running errands after work today. I may not believe that you can't miss what you don't have, but I do believe that as soon as you say never, it comes back to bite you in the ass. And I am headed downtown after work, very close to the infamous Department of Transportation . . . I guess it's always best to keep an open mind.
31 July 2009
29 July 2009
The Hometown Feel
Last week, I went out to dinner with some friends who were in town from the Twin Cities. We tried a place near my house called Por Que No. It was amazing. I loved the food—I've been scheming about ways to get back there to eat again ever since. I also loved the atmosphere. The place is small, casual, hot, and crowded. Folk art covers the walls. You order at the counter and then wait for your food to be brought to you. Margaritas come in pint glasses. Water, salsa, and silverware are self-service. It's casual and comfortable and homey. It's totally Portland.
I love to eat and I love all kinds of dining from the most casual to the most formal. John and I did a lot of upscale dining when we were together; eating out was far and away our biggest entertainment budget item. I appreciate white-glove service and fancy food. But the truth is that I grew up in this town where even fine dining has a casual tinge and where the juxtaposition of amazing food in a low-key setting is keenly appreciated. Ultimately, that's the vibe that feels most comfortable to me. Sitting at Por Que No, eating tacos, reminsicing with good friends . . . somehow the ambience of that event was a distilltion of why Portland is home to me. It was a snapshot of what makes Portland Portland, why I wanted to come home.
I love to eat and I love all kinds of dining from the most casual to the most formal. John and I did a lot of upscale dining when we were together; eating out was far and away our biggest entertainment budget item. I appreciate white-glove service and fancy food. But the truth is that I grew up in this town where even fine dining has a casual tinge and where the juxtaposition of amazing food in a low-key setting is keenly appreciated. Ultimately, that's the vibe that feels most comfortable to me. Sitting at Por Que No, eating tacos, reminsicing with good friends . . . somehow the ambience of that event was a distilltion of why Portland is home to me. It was a snapshot of what makes Portland Portland, why I wanted to come home.
21 July 2009
Princess Stacey
When John died, the best gift I received was from my mom's sisters, who pitched in to give me the gift of cleaning. They both—although it was really one in particular—paid for my house to be cleaned twice a month. It was heavenly. It gave me the gift of time, and, even better, it took a load off my mind. I never had to think about housekeeping. If I noticed that something needed cleaning, I could either choose to clean it or know that I only had to live with it for x amount of time before it would be taken care of. It was unbelievably freeing.
But all good things must come to an end. My aunt is feeling the strain of the current financial markets just like we all are, and she can no longer keep funding my cleaning lady. Boo-hoo, woe is me, right? I know.
So last night I sucked it up and cleaned my own house. Some of my own house. The bathroom and the kitchen parts. Woo, boy, cleaning is no more fun than I remember it being! Plus the dust I stirred up gave me a wicked allergy attack. Post-cleaning, I was forced to curl up on my couch with ice cream and watch trashy TV.
Here's the thing about cleaning: it's not so much the cleaning itself that's irksome, although Swiffering my floors is not the first way I'd choose to spend my time. What I really find annoying about cleaning is the brainspace it takes up. While I don't spend much time during my day thinking about cleaning, per se, I do expend a good deal of brainpower on life scheduling, of which cleaning is one component. Breaking down the tasks that make up keeping a house tidy and fitting those tasks into available time in the cycles of days, weeks, and months is not easy, especially when I also have to fit in work and doctor's appointments and grocery shopping and time with friends and cooking and laundry and etc. etc. etc. Putting together the puzzle of life's events is exhausting, especially when I'm soley responsible for both the scheduling and the execution. It was lovely to be able to take one element of that scheduling process off of my plate for a good long while. My plan is to give myself a just reward when my condo in Boston sells by using some of the money I will no longer be spending on that mortgage to finance a housekeeper here in Portland.
So while we're on the subject of scheduling of life events, I'm curious about the experience of married folk. In my personal experience and from what I've discussed with friends, this task of Life Scheduling falls almost exclusively to the woman (in heterosexual couples; haven't really discussed this with my gay/lesbian friends). I was always the one keeping track of when we needed to be where, when we last washed the sheets on the bed, whether or not we had flour in the pantry, and when one was due for a dental cleaning. I considered my marriage one where John and I were on equal footing, and I'm not a proponent of divvying up labor in some kind of tit-for-tat, strictly 50/50 kind of way. But I do think that this Life Scheduling task is underappreciated, time consuming, and thankless. Even if you have a master calendar or some other kind of big-picture system for keeping track of things, I find that there's one person in a couple who ends up as the de facto Family Brain Trust. In my marriage, that person was me, and I confess that there were times that I resented the role. I shared that resentment with John, but we never found a good workaround.
Have others found this to be true? Have you found solutions to the problem? I'll file away creative solutions in the event that I should ever get remarried.
But all good things must come to an end. My aunt is feeling the strain of the current financial markets just like we all are, and she can no longer keep funding my cleaning lady. Boo-hoo, woe is me, right? I know.
So last night I sucked it up and cleaned my own house. Some of my own house. The bathroom and the kitchen parts. Woo, boy, cleaning is no more fun than I remember it being! Plus the dust I stirred up gave me a wicked allergy attack. Post-cleaning, I was forced to curl up on my couch with ice cream and watch trashy TV.
Here's the thing about cleaning: it's not so much the cleaning itself that's irksome, although Swiffering my floors is not the first way I'd choose to spend my time. What I really find annoying about cleaning is the brainspace it takes up. While I don't spend much time during my day thinking about cleaning, per se, I do expend a good deal of brainpower on life scheduling, of which cleaning is one component. Breaking down the tasks that make up keeping a house tidy and fitting those tasks into available time in the cycles of days, weeks, and months is not easy, especially when I also have to fit in work and doctor's appointments and grocery shopping and time with friends and cooking and laundry and etc. etc. etc. Putting together the puzzle of life's events is exhausting, especially when I'm soley responsible for both the scheduling and the execution. It was lovely to be able to take one element of that scheduling process off of my plate for a good long while. My plan is to give myself a just reward when my condo in Boston sells by using some of the money I will no longer be spending on that mortgage to finance a housekeeper here in Portland.
So while we're on the subject of scheduling of life events, I'm curious about the experience of married folk. In my personal experience and from what I've discussed with friends, this task of Life Scheduling falls almost exclusively to the woman (in heterosexual couples; haven't really discussed this with my gay/lesbian friends). I was always the one keeping track of when we needed to be where, when we last washed the sheets on the bed, whether or not we had flour in the pantry, and when one was due for a dental cleaning. I considered my marriage one where John and I were on equal footing, and I'm not a proponent of divvying up labor in some kind of tit-for-tat, strictly 50/50 kind of way. But I do think that this Life Scheduling task is underappreciated, time consuming, and thankless. Even if you have a master calendar or some other kind of big-picture system for keeping track of things, I find that there's one person in a couple who ends up as the de facto Family Brain Trust. In my marriage, that person was me, and I confess that there were times that I resented the role. I shared that resentment with John, but we never found a good workaround.
Have others found this to be true? Have you found solutions to the problem? I'll file away creative solutions in the event that I should ever get remarried.
15 July 2009
Identity Crisis
Today is one of those days for which I'd like a do-over. I won't enumerate the various frustrations and annoyances, the behaviors I wish I'd changed, the actions I regret taking, the moments I lacked patience, but they are there. Ugh.
Unrelated to my desire for a do-over is some blogging-related angst. I've had this blog for almost four years now, and over the past few months, it's been a struggle for me to find things to say. Once I moved out of my condo, leaving the space in which I'd started blogging, things stopped clicking. Plenty of blog-worthy stuff was going on; I've never, for example, written much about what it was like to share a home with another single parent, and there's been no dearth of bloggable kid stuff going on, not to mention the details of my move. But leaving my Boston condo and making the decision to start shedding my old cancer-infested life seems to have taken the bloom off the blogging rose for me.
What's funny is that I sorely miss having blogging be a regular habit. I miss the creative outlet. I miss framing events in my life as blog posts as they unfold. The framework in which I fit my life, though, has changed, and I'm struggling to define the new perspective enough to support my posts.
When I started blogging, I was a mother-to-be and a widow-to-be, and those two lenses colored everything I did, said, wrote. Then I became a mother, and then a widow, and those have been the roles that have defined me over these past few years. Clearly, I am still a mother, and I'm finding that as Maddie and Riley get older, it's a role in which I feel more comfort and enjoyment than I did during the emotional tumult that was their infancy. But while I do often write about parenting and kid antics, I've never thought of myself as a mommy blogger. For me, the mommy blogging has been mostly incidental, a way to document Maddie and Riley's life, but not the real reason I blog.
It's the grief that's been the soul of blogging for me, first the anticipatory grief of living with a terminally ill spouse, then the real grief of John's death and the related mourning of the life we didn't get to have together. Clearly, I'm still a widow. And losing a spouse, losing a child, losing a parent, losing anyone close to you, it's something that you never forget or get over. I'm finding, though, that my grief no longer defines me the way it once did. The years of John's illness and the time between his death and when I decided to sell are home are starting to feel like scenes out of a movie. I'm more grounded in the present and less focused on the past.
I'm neither happier, nor more sad, and I'm still grieving. But I'm also working at a fantastic, challenging new job, living in a gorgeous home, and back in a city to which I've always wanted to return. In general, I'm more relaxed and patient than I've been in a long, long time (my need for a do-over today notwithstanding). The time I had with John and living through his illness and death have fundamentally changed me, and I feel like I'm just now at the point where I can start to figure out exactly how.
I have no plans to stop blogging, and I sure hope that this self-indulgent navel-gazing helps to get me back in the saddle. So much has happened that I haven't told here. Help me. Where should I begin?
Unrelated to my desire for a do-over is some blogging-related angst. I've had this blog for almost four years now, and over the past few months, it's been a struggle for me to find things to say. Once I moved out of my condo, leaving the space in which I'd started blogging, things stopped clicking. Plenty of blog-worthy stuff was going on; I've never, for example, written much about what it was like to share a home with another single parent, and there's been no dearth of bloggable kid stuff going on, not to mention the details of my move. But leaving my Boston condo and making the decision to start shedding my old cancer-infested life seems to have taken the bloom off the blogging rose for me.
What's funny is that I sorely miss having blogging be a regular habit. I miss the creative outlet. I miss framing events in my life as blog posts as they unfold. The framework in which I fit my life, though, has changed, and I'm struggling to define the new perspective enough to support my posts.
When I started blogging, I was a mother-to-be and a widow-to-be, and those two lenses colored everything I did, said, wrote. Then I became a mother, and then a widow, and those have been the roles that have defined me over these past few years. Clearly, I am still a mother, and I'm finding that as Maddie and Riley get older, it's a role in which I feel more comfort and enjoyment than I did during the emotional tumult that was their infancy. But while I do often write about parenting and kid antics, I've never thought of myself as a mommy blogger. For me, the mommy blogging has been mostly incidental, a way to document Maddie and Riley's life, but not the real reason I blog.
It's the grief that's been the soul of blogging for me, first the anticipatory grief of living with a terminally ill spouse, then the real grief of John's death and the related mourning of the life we didn't get to have together. Clearly, I'm still a widow. And losing a spouse, losing a child, losing a parent, losing anyone close to you, it's something that you never forget or get over. I'm finding, though, that my grief no longer defines me the way it once did. The years of John's illness and the time between his death and when I decided to sell are home are starting to feel like scenes out of a movie. I'm more grounded in the present and less focused on the past.
I'm neither happier, nor more sad, and I'm still grieving. But I'm also working at a fantastic, challenging new job, living in a gorgeous home, and back in a city to which I've always wanted to return. In general, I'm more relaxed and patient than I've been in a long, long time (my need for a do-over today notwithstanding). The time I had with John and living through his illness and death have fundamentally changed me, and I feel like I'm just now at the point where I can start to figure out exactly how.
I have no plans to stop blogging, and I sure hope that this self-indulgent navel-gazing helps to get me back in the saddle. So much has happened that I haven't told here. Help me. Where should I begin?
10 July 2009
Urgency
It was bound to happen sometime. It turns out that sometime was yesterday morning.
Maddie, Riley, and I were fully immersed in the morning rush. I was showered and dressed, Maddie was half-dressed and still with crazy bedhead, and Riley was bumbling around in his usual Riley fashion, clad in usual Riley garb of a frilly pink Curious George nightgown. I coaxed Riley over for a diaper change. As I was leaning in to fasten the new diaper's tabs, Riley rolled over to grab a book that was just out of his reach. In doing so, he rolled over an array of Lego-type building toys, hitting one at just the wrong angle with his elbow.
Ouch.
He became hysterical. "MY ARM!" he wailed. "MY ELBOW!" he sobbed. I hugged and consoled. I kissed. He and I agreed that elbows require lots of kisses, so I kissed some more. He did not calm down at all. As many of you know, Riley is somewhat prone to dramatics, and it's always hard for me to tell when he's playing things up or when they are legitimate. When he was still quite worked up ten minutes in, I started to get annoyed. Yeah, sure, it's not at all funny to mangle the funny bone, but how much damage can a Lego do? (Please note the famous last words.)
Another ten minutes later, Riley was still seriously worked up and I was starting to get annoyed that he couldn't just move on, angry at myself for not being able to console him, frustrated that our morning plans were totally derailed, and worried that something might actually really be wrong. After throwing a bit of a fit myself, I finally offered Riley two choices: let me change him into his shorts and T-shirt, or go to Urgent Care to find out what was wrong with his arm.
My doctor-fearing drama queen chose Urgent Care. You could have knocked me over with a feather.
By this time, the nanny had arrived, so Maddie stayed home to play with Iryna while I lugged nightgown-clad Riley to Urgent Care. As luck would have it, we live only about a mile from one of our health-care provider's main facilities, the office from which I'd planned to choose Maddie and Riley's pediatrician. The triage nurse at Urgent Care booked us an appoitnment with one of the pedis who had an opening, and we walked right into that. It was all very efficient, the model of how HMO medicine should work. Lucky us.
Diagnosis? Dislocated radius. The doc adjusted it, gave Riley some ibuprofen, and sent us on our way with his pager number noted on a card should Riley still be favoring the arm later in the day (more foreshadowing).
When I got home, Iryna told me that Riley had been OK but leery of using the arm or having it touched. So I called the doc. Back to the office we went, this time for x-rays. Once again, it was all very efficient; we got the x-rays right away, no wait (the kids thought the x-ray experience was really cool), and we hand-carried them up to the doc for him to examine. Diagnosis this time? Nada. X-rays were clear. But, just to be safe, the doc called down to the cast room and had us stop by there for a splint and sling, which Riley will wear until Sunday.
All in all, it was about the best Urgent Care experience one could imagine. And it was great to have a trial run on a pediatrician; choosing a primary care doc from a long list of candidates with no real information is always dautning, and we had such a good experience with this doctor that I designated him as the twins' primary physician on the spot. Not only was he kind and gentle and thorough with Riley, but (a) he as twins of his own and (b) his wife died when his older kids were fairly young, under 10. So he's been there, done that on this widowed-single-parent thing. Of all the pediatricians in the Portland area, it's a nice coincidence that he's the one was saw yestearday.
Riley: Walking Wounded Edition
Maddie, Riley, and I were fully immersed in the morning rush. I was showered and dressed, Maddie was half-dressed and still with crazy bedhead, and Riley was bumbling around in his usual Riley fashion, clad in usual Riley garb of a frilly pink Curious George nightgown. I coaxed Riley over for a diaper change. As I was leaning in to fasten the new diaper's tabs, Riley rolled over to grab a book that was just out of his reach. In doing so, he rolled over an array of Lego-type building toys, hitting one at just the wrong angle with his elbow.
Ouch.
He became hysterical. "MY ARM!" he wailed. "MY ELBOW!" he sobbed. I hugged and consoled. I kissed. He and I agreed that elbows require lots of kisses, so I kissed some more. He did not calm down at all. As many of you know, Riley is somewhat prone to dramatics, and it's always hard for me to tell when he's playing things up or when they are legitimate. When he was still quite worked up ten minutes in, I started to get annoyed. Yeah, sure, it's not at all funny to mangle the funny bone, but how much damage can a Lego do? (Please note the famous last words.)
Another ten minutes later, Riley was still seriously worked up and I was starting to get annoyed that he couldn't just move on, angry at myself for not being able to console him, frustrated that our morning plans were totally derailed, and worried that something might actually really be wrong. After throwing a bit of a fit myself, I finally offered Riley two choices: let me change him into his shorts and T-shirt, or go to Urgent Care to find out what was wrong with his arm.
My doctor-fearing drama queen chose Urgent Care. You could have knocked me over with a feather.
By this time, the nanny had arrived, so Maddie stayed home to play with Iryna while I lugged nightgown-clad Riley to Urgent Care. As luck would have it, we live only about a mile from one of our health-care provider's main facilities, the office from which I'd planned to choose Maddie and Riley's pediatrician. The triage nurse at Urgent Care booked us an appoitnment with one of the pedis who had an opening, and we walked right into that. It was all very efficient, the model of how HMO medicine should work. Lucky us.
Diagnosis? Dislocated radius. The doc adjusted it, gave Riley some ibuprofen, and sent us on our way with his pager number noted on a card should Riley still be favoring the arm later in the day (more foreshadowing).
When I got home, Iryna told me that Riley had been OK but leery of using the arm or having it touched. So I called the doc. Back to the office we went, this time for x-rays. Once again, it was all very efficient; we got the x-rays right away, no wait (the kids thought the x-ray experience was really cool), and we hand-carried them up to the doc for him to examine. Diagnosis this time? Nada. X-rays were clear. But, just to be safe, the doc called down to the cast room and had us stop by there for a splint and sling, which Riley will wear until Sunday.
All in all, it was about the best Urgent Care experience one could imagine. And it was great to have a trial run on a pediatrician; choosing a primary care doc from a long list of candidates with no real information is always dautning, and we had such a good experience with this doctor that I designated him as the twins' primary physician on the spot. Not only was he kind and gentle and thorough with Riley, but (a) he as twins of his own and (b) his wife died when his older kids were fairly young, under 10. So he's been there, done that on this widowed-single-parent thing. Of all the pediatricians in the Portland area, it's a nice coincidence that he's the one was saw yestearday.
Riley: Walking Wounded Edition
07 July 2009
Shiny and New
Yesterday, Monday, July 6, 2009.
Left new house (rental, but still) in new car (silver Mazda5) to drive to new (it still counts as new, right?) job. Welcome to my new Portland life.
More to come when I'm not in meetings all day and unpacking all night.
Left new house (rental, but still) in new car (silver Mazda5) to drive to new (it still counts as new, right?) job. Welcome to my new Portland life.
More to come when I'm not in meetings all day and unpacking all night.
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