Cake
I can never quite figure out if it is okay to be angry or not.
I am blessed, no question. Three gorgeous kids, a safe place to live, a kind husband, and we never want for anything.
But sometimes it is hard, really hard. Sometimes I observe other families going through life, enjoying their kids. It never occurs to them that they are fortunate that their kids are not in pain. That their kids can learn without a struggle. That they have time for everything.
They never wake up and wonder, is this the day? Is this the day my breathtaking, magical child falls down and is never quite the same?
I have to remind myself that God is good. Sometimes in the face of contradictory evidence.
Baker Baker
Baking a cake
Make me a day
Make me whole again
And I wonder
What's in a day
What's in your cake this time?
Self pity is just that, a pit, a quagmire. I stick a toe in to test the water and I am lost, pulled under by the muck. I have to keep moving. Keep focused on what is beautiful, so I don't miss it. I just don't want to miss it.
Friday, February 20, 2004
Saturday, February 14, 2004
A Nice Place to Visit
We take Jude to therapy. Occupational therapy to help him be calm and learn life skills. Speech therapy to teach Jude to have a conversation instead of speaking in his TV program code that only makes sense to us. Behavioral therapy to help him be more 'organized.'
I am all for therapy, really. Jude has come a long way in just a few years. It has helped us to help Jude. But there are times when I look at my son, and I wonder what it is like in there behind his eyes.
It is not as if Jude has no imagination, and the only time his brain is working is when he interacts in a way that makes sense to us. I am convinced that there is a whole world in there, a magical place that he created since our world is so hard for him to decipher. We spend so much time working to get Jude to understand and act appropriately. I just wish he could tell me what he is thinking.
I know a few of the rules and bylaws of Judeland. Wheels and transportation are everything. Patterns are important, too, and the color red is all over the place. Shaving cream and hairballs are outlawed, and hair clippers are the stuff horror films are made of.
I like to think it is pretty in there, and it must be fun, otherwise it wouldn't be so darn hard to get Jude to come out. I like to visit, but my visa only lasts so long, and then I am deported. I guess I need to learn more about the language and the culture.
Today is Valentine's Day. A few of our friends' kids gave Jude Valentines. I was pleased they remembered Jude, but Valentines are not big in Judeland.
Early this afternoon my husband brought me a bouquet of flowers garnished with a plastic heart on a stick. Jude gasped when he saw this, and took the wand out. He waved it around, and closed one eye to look at it through the other. Laughing softly, he did a dance with the wand, holding it up in the sunlight streaming through the window.
I sat on the floor and watched, wishing I could see what is so fascinating about the plastic decoration. I wish for just one moment I could see things through my son's eyes, see what he sees that make ordinary things beautiful.
"Hey," I say to my son. "Can I come visit today?" He turns and gives me a grin. "I promise not to stay too long," I whisper as he climbs into my lap. He holds the heart up to my eye so I can check it out. I kiss him on the forehead, and I'm off, for a little vacation in the Land of Jude.
Thursday, February 05, 2004
I should be cleaning up. There are diapers on the floor and coffee cups with the dregs of my morning fix in them are sitting around, silently accusing me of domestic inadequacy.
I spent the morning watching Eden trying to roll over. This is a Big Deal. My four year old has developmental delays so I am watching Eden like a hawk. I know Eden has a bleeding disorder like my oldest. Who cares. Seriously. Bruises and swelling are a picnic compared to wondering if you will ever have a conversation with your child. Ever.
I walk a fine line. I don't want to just survive my days. It is hectic to be sure. Crazy even. I wonder if we were all 'healthy' and 'normal' (define these, please) would my days be stress free and peaceful? Probably, having nothing to compare it to, I would feel harried and unappreciated.
I do think I have a more intense appreciation for those little moments. The other day when Jude woke up he looked at me in the eyes and said 'I miss you.' He expressed an emotion. My friends are patient as I tell the story again and again, tears in my eyes. He missed me. The fact that it is wonderful and sad, too, is not lost on me.
There is a commercial on TV right now, for a learning center, where a boy hands his mother his report card, as a birthday gift, and as she starts to cry, so do I. My usual cranky cynicism is out the window. The baby is four months old now so I can't blame it on hormones. I recognize what it means to watch my child bravely struggle to master skills that come as easy as hair growth and breathing to the rest of us. At the age of two, three four years old Jude was facing his fears and working like a dog to be a part of a world with rules he could not begin to understand. Kids should not have to work hard. They should be eating popsicles and watching cartoons.
So, I walk a fine line between trying to keep things 'normal' and savoring each moment like chocolate. Feeling cheated because I can't read Jude a story and thinking I wouldn't trade the moment where he sings 'the wheels on the bus' (he did, he really did) for all the normal milestones in the world. Life is such mixture of triumph and sadness. I just don't want to miss it because I am cleaning and cooking and wishing our lives were like everyone else's.
I spent the morning watching Eden trying to roll over. This is a Big Deal. My four year old has developmental delays so I am watching Eden like a hawk. I know Eden has a bleeding disorder like my oldest. Who cares. Seriously. Bruises and swelling are a picnic compared to wondering if you will ever have a conversation with your child. Ever.
I walk a fine line. I don't want to just survive my days. It is hectic to be sure. Crazy even. I wonder if we were all 'healthy' and 'normal' (define these, please) would my days be stress free and peaceful? Probably, having nothing to compare it to, I would feel harried and unappreciated.
I do think I have a more intense appreciation for those little moments. The other day when Jude woke up he looked at me in the eyes and said 'I miss you.' He expressed an emotion. My friends are patient as I tell the story again and again, tears in my eyes. He missed me. The fact that it is wonderful and sad, too, is not lost on me.
There is a commercial on TV right now, for a learning center, where a boy hands his mother his report card, as a birthday gift, and as she starts to cry, so do I. My usual cranky cynicism is out the window. The baby is four months old now so I can't blame it on hormones. I recognize what it means to watch my child bravely struggle to master skills that come as easy as hair growth and breathing to the rest of us. At the age of two, three four years old Jude was facing his fears and working like a dog to be a part of a world with rules he could not begin to understand. Kids should not have to work hard. They should be eating popsicles and watching cartoons.
So, I walk a fine line between trying to keep things 'normal' and savoring each moment like chocolate. Feeling cheated because I can't read Jude a story and thinking I wouldn't trade the moment where he sings 'the wheels on the bus' (he did, he really did) for all the normal milestones in the world. Life is such mixture of triumph and sadness. I just don't want to miss it because I am cleaning and cooking and wishing our lives were like everyone else's.
Tuesday, February 03, 2004
The Penelope Tree
It is hard to be reverent about dead hamsters. There is something so dark and funny and macabre about their stiff little bodies; recently chubby and furry, stupidly plodding away at their wheels convinced they are getting somewhere. But I look past this sad, comical carrion to my five-year old’s big wet eyes and know a certain amount of decorum is in order.
He is dictating a letter, to put inside the baggie that will be the hamster’s coffin. "Here lies Penelope," he says, his voice (and my heart) breaking. "She was a sweet, good hamster. Rest in Peace." He learned this from a mock funeral for a dead bird found during recess at preschool. He also learned that worms eat dead bodies. This information upset him and has been a theme is his colorings, imaginings and dreams lately, and I know he is thinking of it now.
“Sage,” I say gently. "Worms can’t eat through plastic." I avoid my husbands’ disapproving stare. I kiss Sage on the forehead. "Daddy will put you to bed." Mike and I are going out to bury Penelope.
Mike is standing in the hallway waiting. He and I exchange pained expressions, trying not to cry or laugh. As we walk towards the elevator the door opens and Sage calls out: “Did you double bag her?’
"Yes," I say, in a solemn tone. But that is it. Mike's nose makes a noise behind me. We are giggling as we get on the elevator and by the time we reach the lobby we are leaning against the walls, howling.
Why is death so funny? I recall laughing at the funeral home when my father died. The funeral director must have thought my sister and I had murdered Daddy. I can’t remember what had set us off but it was so hard to stop. All that emotion has to come out somehow, like a burst container in the microwave. It oozes out the cracks whether you want it to or not.
Mike and I walk to the park. It is cool and foggy. I have brought the gardening tools I use to plant marigolds in my window box every mother’s day. I start to dig but my hand gets tired so Mike finishes the hole. I want it to be deep so no dogs dig up Poor Penelope. Mike comments that there should be lightening and I should be standing over him with a lantern. That almost gets us going again, but I resist the urge and try to be somber, for Sage’s sake.
We put a stick in the dirt to mark the grave, and notice that an unmarked police car is making its second pass. That is our cue to head home.
When I get in I go into Sage’s room and quietly climb into his bed with him. I can hear Jude snoring in the bunk above us. Sage sniffles and I turn and embrace him, smelling his warm hair. I love his hair, it smells and feels exactly like this scratchy green sweater I had in junior high.
"Why don’t we think about good things that Penelope did?" I whisper. Sage recounts her many escape attempts and the way her behind looked when she ran around in her little plastic play ball.
After a minute I realize he has fallen asleep and I lie there thinking about things can be sad and funny and terrible and good all at the same time. If I had my way my children would never hurt, never shed one tear. I hope my son learned from his experience with pet death that love is worth it, that removing your heart from its protective plastic wrapping means it will get scorched and bruised and left out in the rain, but oh God it is worth it, to love, just to quietly and fiercely and joyfully love.
Yesterday Sage and I walked to the place in the park where Penelope lies. What I hadn’t realized that night was that we buried her under this fabulous tree, very old and knotty and twisted. The stick was still there, after all this time. Except for a few beer cans it was just as we left it.
"Are you glad we came to see it?" I asked, worried that we might have resurrected the pain of poor Penelope’s demise.
"Yeah," said Sage. And I could tell he was. We walked home, holding hands and swinging our arms, and talking about What Hamsters Do in Heaven.
It is hard to be reverent about dead hamsters. There is something so dark and funny and macabre about their stiff little bodies; recently chubby and furry, stupidly plodding away at their wheels convinced they are getting somewhere. But I look past this sad, comical carrion to my five-year old’s big wet eyes and know a certain amount of decorum is in order.
He is dictating a letter, to put inside the baggie that will be the hamster’s coffin. "Here lies Penelope," he says, his voice (and my heart) breaking. "She was a sweet, good hamster. Rest in Peace." He learned this from a mock funeral for a dead bird found during recess at preschool. He also learned that worms eat dead bodies. This information upset him and has been a theme is his colorings, imaginings and dreams lately, and I know he is thinking of it now.
“Sage,” I say gently. "Worms can’t eat through plastic." I avoid my husbands’ disapproving stare. I kiss Sage on the forehead. "Daddy will put you to bed." Mike and I are going out to bury Penelope.
Mike is standing in the hallway waiting. He and I exchange pained expressions, trying not to cry or laugh. As we walk towards the elevator the door opens and Sage calls out: “Did you double bag her?’
"Yes," I say, in a solemn tone. But that is it. Mike's nose makes a noise behind me. We are giggling as we get on the elevator and by the time we reach the lobby we are leaning against the walls, howling.
Why is death so funny? I recall laughing at the funeral home when my father died. The funeral director must have thought my sister and I had murdered Daddy. I can’t remember what had set us off but it was so hard to stop. All that emotion has to come out somehow, like a burst container in the microwave. It oozes out the cracks whether you want it to or not.
Mike and I walk to the park. It is cool and foggy. I have brought the gardening tools I use to plant marigolds in my window box every mother’s day. I start to dig but my hand gets tired so Mike finishes the hole. I want it to be deep so no dogs dig up Poor Penelope. Mike comments that there should be lightening and I should be standing over him with a lantern. That almost gets us going again, but I resist the urge and try to be somber, for Sage’s sake.
We put a stick in the dirt to mark the grave, and notice that an unmarked police car is making its second pass. That is our cue to head home.
When I get in I go into Sage’s room and quietly climb into his bed with him. I can hear Jude snoring in the bunk above us. Sage sniffles and I turn and embrace him, smelling his warm hair. I love his hair, it smells and feels exactly like this scratchy green sweater I had in junior high.
"Why don’t we think about good things that Penelope did?" I whisper. Sage recounts her many escape attempts and the way her behind looked when she ran around in her little plastic play ball.
After a minute I realize he has fallen asleep and I lie there thinking about things can be sad and funny and terrible and good all at the same time. If I had my way my children would never hurt, never shed one tear. I hope my son learned from his experience with pet death that love is worth it, that removing your heart from its protective plastic wrapping means it will get scorched and bruised and left out in the rain, but oh God it is worth it, to love, just to quietly and fiercely and joyfully love.
Yesterday Sage and I walked to the place in the park where Penelope lies. What I hadn’t realized that night was that we buried her under this fabulous tree, very old and knotty and twisted. The stick was still there, after all this time. Except for a few beer cans it was just as we left it.
"Are you glad we came to see it?" I asked, worried that we might have resurrected the pain of poor Penelope’s demise.
"Yeah," said Sage. And I could tell he was. We walked home, holding hands and swinging our arms, and talking about What Hamsters Do in Heaven.
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