In my teens and twenties, the whole monogamy thing escaped me altogether. It’s a shameful thing to admit, I know, but it’s true. I wasn’t a slut, and didn’t guy-hop exactly. In fact, I managed to keep boyfriends, and eventually a starter spouse, for far longer than most. Still, no matter how content I (convinced myself I) was, inevitably I’d encounter someone with whom I shared an entirely spontaneous and irresistibly intoxicating chemistry, and try as I might to honor my pledge, tacit or otherwise, of fidelity, there would come a moment of weakness and opportunity. Or moments, as the case may have been.
It was disturbing, that repetitive failure, and I agonized over what I could at the time only assume was my having been doomed to continue thusly throughout my time on this earth, always intending to stay true to the mores and philosophies I then espoused. That agony led to a chronic and persistent decay of what little self-worth I possessed, until eventually all I had left was a dim memory of my former moral fortitude. Ugly, wretched stuff.
The most perplexing thing was, even during the best times in my primary relationships, I was still prone to those serendipitous encounters. I’d be carrying on with my ordinary business, grocery shopping or working or whatever other things that teeny-twenty-somethings do with their time, and WHAMO! Some guy, some unbelievably articulate, magnetic, critical thinker of a man, some eloquent stranger would meet my eyes with his, and in that moment the crushing certainty of the coming (no pun intended) failure would flood over me with blinding clarity. I couldn’t not proceed. Certainly, it was an exciting thing, but only for the duration of the chase. Without fail, any consummation of those brief unions was... less than earth shattering. It was never the sex. For me, the pursuit buried its barbed claws into my psyche, gathered me into itself and held me fast until the business at hand had reached its inevitable conclusion.
I thought for a long time that the problem was with my choices of partners, and certainly there is some truth in that assessment. What I’ve since learned, is that having had relationships with people who were hopelessly incompatible with me was really immaterial. The problem wasn’t me. The problem wasn’t the men/boys I so poorly selected. The problem was, in fact, not a problem. It was Humanity. Evolution. The inescapable fact that, as a Human, an occupant of the uppermost tier of the Great Apes (if Darwin and his cohorts are to be believed anyway), I am a primate. You are a primate. Every single person to have ever breathed or walked upon this planet, as far back as "Lucy," and even farther still, for untold millennia, the whole of our species and all that preceded us. We are, at least in part, our physiology.
Yes, homo sapiens (allegedly) possess the capacity to chose a single, lifelong mate. It happens. Nevertheless, from a strictly statistical perspective, those cases are the exception. They are the aberrations. Not abominations, but aberrations without question.
I’ve recently had the opportunity to get up close and personal with a little bird called a Carolina Wren. This bird, tiny, dingy brown drab-feathered, visually unremarkable as feathered critters go, actually IS monogamous. The thing tops out at a whopping 3/4oz., and measures about 6" in length with a max wingspan of up to 11". The two most fascinating characteristics about these guys, in my opinion, are their masterful constructions of softly rounded funnel-shaped nests in odd places (ours nested in a stray paper grocery sack atop the shelves that sit in the outdoor alcove where my deep freeze is stored) and their lovely song http://www.birds.cornell.edu/AllAboutBirds/BirdGuide/Carolina_Wren_dtl.htmlsound. To see the things though, they blend right into the woodwork, going about their birdie business essentially unnoticed.
I wondered, after discovering the nest in my house and doing the requisite research to determine whether or not to report the winged thingy to the Bird Police, how it was that so tiny and literally birdbrained a creature benefits from a lifelong bond with another specimen of its species. What advantage does that pairing impart, other than the general safety-in-numbers thing?
Over and over again in the animal kingdom, we see that breeding with multiple partners serves to diversify, and thereby strengthen, the population of virtually all species. More partners means more combinations of DNA, and more combinations means more opportunities for the species to develop new and advantageous gene combinations, giving them a higher probability of being "naturally selected" to live longer and produce more offspring. Why, then, would a bird, this miniature living dinosaur, develop the monogamous lifestyle it practices? To what end?
I can’t begin to come up with a good reason. I mean what, do those extended bird unions yield greater understanding, each bird of the other? Does it bring them closer to each other, afford them the ability to have some sort of avian mind-meld? I don’t get it. Hell, maybe my brain’s just too damned big to determine the reason. Maybe there is no reason. I suppose I’ll ask the Big Guy after my existence in this mortal coil ceases. Who knows?
So a critter with a brain the size of a grain of rice derives some sort of protection from selecting a lifelong mate. How on earth can that possibly be applied as a logical or beneficial arrangement for so complex a species as our own? I don’t advocate some collective societal who’-baggedness, be certain of that! I just... don’t see why it is that sex is so off-limits a thing between consenting adults who are otherwise attached.
Commitment isn’t about sex. It’s about laundry. It’s the conscious and constant decision that the other person’s annoying habits and eccentricities, taken in the greater context of the entire person and the enrichment s/he brings to your life when you couple with him/her.
Commitment is seeing your mate puke, and despite your own inability to view such things without fainting, diving in and gathering her hair back from her forehead and holding a cool moist cloth to her face while she worships at the feet of the great and malevolent porcelain goddess.
It’s what transcends the crushing loneliness of a vacant bed, even when your chosen partner isn’t physically occupying the space beside you.
It’s knowing the other person’s need for coffee in the morning, and then dragging your sleepy ass out of bed before him/her and pouring a cup, adding the cream and sugar in the precise proportions that he/she would do him/herself, tasting it to be certain it’s just right, and then delivering said cup, steaming and warm with love, to your still sleeping partner.
It’s arguing vehemently over the trivial bullshit du jour, getting angry enough to want to flay him open with the evil words that lie in wait to be hurled, dagger like, from your tongue, knowing full well that he deserves such treatment for what he has said/done/implied, and instead gripping the word-weapons in the iron clench of your jaw, allowing not so much as a single one to escape, and then marching up to your offending spouse, wrapping your arms around him tightly, and pressing your head into his chest. Because he’s yours. Because you chose him. Because he is the one and only person in the whole of the universe that you want drive you crazy until you both die.
Without a doubt, sex with that person can break the sound barrier, rend the very fabric of Time and Space. But let’s be honest, shall we? The snotty noses and what’s-for-dinners and honey-did-you-pay-the-mortgages, and when-are-you-going-to-mow-the-goddamned-LAWN-for-chrissakes!?!?es tend to reduce the frequency of those starburst lightning moments.
The chasing of kids, managing of checkbooks, prepping of meals, working of jobs, cleaning of homes, repairing of leaky rooves- those things have an insidiously unavoidable way of worming in between us and our Chosen Ones, so that by the time we actually carve out an hour or two of grown-up time, we’re so exhausted that we’re fortunate to muster the energy to go just through the motions, mechanically reconnecting with our Loves in a way that is horribly insufficient but still necessary because it’s what we have.
My Love and I have identified this vicious process, discussed it at great length and many times over the past ten years. What we have determined, through practice and observation and educated guess and careful recording of results is that the daily minutiae drains us of our life force. The general business of living, especially with the children we spawn and adore and often fantasize about killing (but only momentarily), those things suck us dry.
As though attacked by some omnipresent cosmic vampire, we find ourselves desperate and aching for the psycho spiritual and physical renewal we gain from basking in the glow or our Love’s mere presence, communing in the consummate embrace, our every cell bathing in the neurochemical soup that constitutes the collection of feelings and desires most of us mistakenly label as "love."
And, as anyone familiar with monsters and horror show atrocities will tell you, the vampire’s ultimate cruelty to us is that it robs our Loves likewise, so that each of us feels paralyzed, unable to give that we wish to receive. Neither of us feels able to initiate the cycle, the giving and getting back, the vital circuit that is the flow of electrical and chemical and spiritual and psychic energy, one to the other, returning to the first magnified and then magnified again as it circles back and forth, to and from our Loves, that exponential recharging of the living battery we call the soul.
Frankly, I think the divorce rate in the West would drop dramatically if, by some miracle, we as a civilization decided that SAFE, consensual relations between two people who are married or committed to someone other than the partner in question, were free to
1. Engage as they saw the need to do so in whatever level of intimacy they collectively deemed sufficient
AND
2. Not have to lie about having done so.
The caveats are relatively few: no lying, no deceit, no procreation with anyone other than the spouse/primary mate, and probably for most a few specifics like no co-sleeping with anyone other than Number One. How hard a thing could that possibly be?
I don’t find it so difficult to imagine, save for theVictorian prudishness so common amongst Americans. We deny sex and sexuality in our daily activities, we condemn the needs and wants of the phsysical shell that houses the divine within us as "sins of the flesh," when that flesh is undeniably and inextricably part of the very divinity it contains. And then we drool like rabid dogs as we are willingly and repeatedly bombarded with an unending barrage of photos, videos, and various other media presentations of all things sex, sexy, and sexual. The absurdity of it is maddening.
I believe people cheat almost exclusively for reasons y unrelated to the sex itself or the physical gratification it provides. I think for some, cheating is a way to maintain the separate-and-apartness that they lack, a way to feel like they are in command of their own lives when they might else wise feel overly controlled by a jealous or insecure partner. For others, it’s the excitement factor, the exhilarating fear of indulging in Forbidden Fruit, knowing that if the trespass is discovered, things will be VERY bad, but that the sweetness to be had is superior to any other, if only by virtue of its taboo status. That fear, and more importantly, successfully perpetrating the deception, are highly gratifying activities unto themselves for some. I sometimes hate that this is the case, but it is what it is. No sense in denying it.
Ultimately, however we feel the need to reduce these motivations to whichever base components we think comprise them, people venture outside of their primary relationships in order to be recharged. We’re all just a bunch of organic batteries, and the battery doesn’t care whence comes its source of renewal.
I’m count myself wonderfully fortunate as these things go. When Husband V 2.0 made his appearance in my life, each of had sustained severe damage at the hands of our previous spouses. Both of us had been defied, betrayed, and made to feel worthless and unlovable as a result. Granted, neither he nor I are without fault or responsibility for our own misdeeds, but the betrayal was huge, and we emerged from our respective "starter marriages" as defiled and incomplete people. Somehow, we each found our own way to healing, and after that, to each other.
He is not a jealous fellow, which is even after ten years a bit unnerving at times. Another man can look, address, and even touch me in an overtly flirtatious manner, and my husband looks upon the exchange as he would a handshake. If, on the other hand, anyone dares to insult/threaten/intimidate/disrespect me, the Y chromosome in my Dearest takes control, promptly establishing, in no uncertain terms, that such disregard for his wife will not be tolerated. It’s the strangest combination of traits, but only because it is so rare a thing amongst men in this country, and I’d bet in others too.
Jealousy is a fairly useless sentiment I think. Protectiveness is not only useful, but necessary, a tangible demonstration of a loved one’s placing you in a position of great value and esteem.
We’ve had the discussion, he and I, on countless occasions, about how each of us might feel if the other were to engage in any sort of sexual interaction with another. Our own ground rules are that each of us has veto power of potential interactees (ha ha- I made up a new word), that any, um, interactions are to be conducted with full disclosure to all involved parties (no Fatal Attractions, in other words), and that if at any time either of us feels slighted, the other is to immediately address whichever needs are going unmet.
What’s really interesting is, save for one occasion each of "stepping out" prior to exchanging vows, and despite the, uh, carte blanche privileges each of us possess to explore at will, we’ve not done so. Certainly there have been people to whom we’ve been drawn, and certainly we’d have perhaps made the most of any opportunity to know those people, but at some point, the draw seems to fade, and I realize how unlikely it is that the culmination of my efforts will end in any sort of gratification that even remotely measures up to what I get at home.
Likewise intriguing, each and every time that either of us has had an interest, we’ve disclosed it to the other, and have returned from the external partnership, unrequited or otherwise, recharged, our sexual energies overflowing, the very act of anticipating that most vulnerable of human interactions with another person having served to refuel the soul/battery. That new found store of energy places us in the enviable position of finally having the ability to initiate the aforementioned cycle, and I’ll spare you the gory details by saying only this: the results are Titanic (in the ancient Greco-Roman sense of the word, not the ship).
As it happens, my interest has been very much piqued recently. I don’t know for sure that he "gets" the sincerity in the flirting I do with him, but I suspect that he does. He’s bright in a way that is painfully rare, and we seem to share an eerie number of likes and dislikes. It will be interesting to see where it goes, if it indeed goes anywhere. Obviously, if pursuit of anything beyond the flirt would be damaging in even the smallest way to him or his family, all bets are off. Still, I emerge from the cocoons of the conversations I have with him feeling lighter than air, recharged and renewed, ready to take on... whatever. That is, in itself, entirely acceptable. Anything more than that is gravy.
Friday, April 4, 2008
Sunday, March 16, 2008
DEFCON 5 Nuclear Fuckin' Meltdown, Monkey Style
My three-year-old son has been home with me, rather than in a day care program of any sort, for the past three months. The time with him has been great in many ways, but it has also been mind-numbing in many others, and to call it “frustrating” is a gross understatement. Extreme. That’s what it has been. Frankly, those folks who ski naked or base jump off skyscrapers or hood surf… they know exactly jack shit about Extreme. Extreme is 24/7 existence with a three-year-old at home, a genius 7-yr-old in school, a dog, and a corporate pilot for a husband.
Yeah, hubby travels extensively and for prolonged periods, but it’s not like we get to accompany him. His job often entails its own mind-numbing tedium, like days on end spent in a hotel room in a strange city without any human contact beyond the occasional greeting from Maria, the everpresent Marriott hotel maid. He misses us madly, and I know this. He doesn’t golf or gamble or drink, so he doesn’t have much to do in all those strange cities, and I know he gets incredibly lonely. I have no shortage of sympathy for his situation. But, there are times when I would give anything, a limb a kidney an ovary ANYTHING to have just two days of that tedium. To trade with him. Not just for the rest, but also for the empathy that only comes with walking in the other person’s moccasins. For him, not me.
I get it. I totally get it. I understand his plight, because I make it my business to do so. I understand what he lives because I probe, poke, and pick into his brain at every opportunity. It’s my nature. I have to. What can I say, I love the guy, would die for him if it ever came to it, and I want to understand things from his perspective as much as it’s possible for one to do that about another. I wish I could say with total and complete faith and certainty that he did likewise. Not so. Ok, maybe so at least SOME of the time. Just not nearly as often as I’d like. Or maybe I’m paranoid, ungrateful, spoiled, lame, and don’t see how good I have it. Whatever.
Anyway, enough back story. Let’s get to the meat of my day. We’ll start at the beginning, unhip as that might be in modern prose.
As it does every day, the alarm brayed its unwelcome greeting at 7AM, and I hit the snooze button a time or ten. Finally, when the precise moment had come after which it would be physically and temporally impossible to get my older son ready and off to school without being tardy, I rolled out of bed and woke him up in the drill-sergeant fashion that works best for all of us. He responded with a sleepy protest, then climbed begrudgingly down the ladder from his top bunk, scratching his butt and muttering his disapproval all the while. With firm but brief verbal prompts, he dressed himself, brushed his teeth (for the entire two minutes even!), fed the dog, peed, combed his hair, and splashed his face with cool water to help get the sleep out of his eyes. In that order. Breakfast happens at school this week, so in just twenty minutes, my little soldier was ready to walk out the door. Quite an accomplishment that, even if I do say so myself!
Unlike my ordinary day, my husband was home this morning, having even slept in his very own bed, and had agreed last night to transport the little guy to school on his way in to the office, where he (my husband) was slated to do some training exercises and paperwork at the company’s private hangar before returning for a SECOND night in his own bed. I took it for granted that, since it was an actual possibility for once, I’d not be resented if I returned to my bed, where my t-shirt and saggy underwear clad 3-yr-old still slept soundly, despite his usual habit of awakening at the moment his brother starts brushing his teeth and then doing everything he can dream up to interfere in Ian’s preparation for the school day. It was like a sign from above: little one still asleep, bed still warm, and hubby home, able and willing and even committed to take the elder to school. Hellooooooo, sleep!
Alas, as hubby emerged from the bathroom, I felt his disapproving glance burn into my reclining form, right through the blankets. I looked up, asked if he needed something, reminded him that his coffee (which I’d set up for brewing the previous night and then mixed just the way he likes it in his cup, which I handed him while he was still in bed, just like he does for me with as much regularity as his schedule allows) was on the nightstand, and steered him in the direction of the laundry basket containing his clean underwear. He sighed a little, clearly a bit put off, but I let it go and instead sank into the softness of the bed in hopes of a return to Dreamland.
I heard the engine of his truck fire up, and must have dozed very shortly thereafter, because my next memory is of him tapping me on the shoulder, saying, “Honey, it’s 9AM, don’t you think you should get up?” I was a bit surprised, because I thought I’d understood him to say he was going to go straight to work after depositing our son at school, but apparently he hadn’t dressed for the occasion until after his return home. I told him in a sleep-fogged voice that it wasn’t my intention to get up until I absolutely had to, but at that precise moment, the littler monkey awoke and bounced out of bed and into the bathroom. I fussed groggily at my husband then, saying “He’d still be asleep if you hadn’t turned on every light in the house.” His response came quickly, the tone unmistakably irate, “I’m getting ready to go to work. I think I have the right to turn on the light in my own bedroom.” Ugh.
He finished grooming himself and was headed out the door when I asked him to give me a kiss. He did so, but only after telling me he didn’t think I’d cared to have one, since I was still in bed. Huh? Anyway, off he went.
By this time, the wee one was singing along with Dora in front of the T.V. that his pop had fired up for him, a mere twenty feet from my bed in the adjacent room. Dora and my boy are great pals, and he isn’t one to get up to no good when she’s on, so I felt safe in attempting to resume my doze, which is exactly what I did. A quarter of an hour later, I stirred and asked him if he wanted some cheerios or fruit. He declined. --- I need to mention here, that when my boys are hungry, they say so. When they’re not, they say so. We have intentionally not forced them to eat more or more often than they feel the need to eat, because both my husband and I have battled lifelong overeating issues. It has worked incredibly well for us, and our children have always had robust builds without so much as an ounce of extraneous padding. They’re both big for their ages, tall and muscular. That’s my proof that this wasn’t a neglect situation. If you need more than that, well I can’t help you. --- So, the monkey wasn’t inclined to eat, and I was definitely inclined to sleep a bit more, and Dora was still on, so sleep I did. A bit later, I was awakened when the little guy decided he was indeed ready to eat. Again, I suggested a Clementine, one of his favorite things in the world. He accepted. And then all hell broke loose.
“Mommy, I don’t want the Clementines in the fridge. I want the ones that I put into that jar on the top of the shelves.” Says he.
“Honey, the Clementines would have spoiled if they were left in that jar, so I put them in the fridge. They’re the same clementines.”
“Mom, NO! I want the ones in the JAR!”
“Sweets, let’s see what we can manage.” I slipped on my robe, ran a brush through my well-bedded locks, and headed for the kitchen, monkey in close pursuit.
The Clementine was actually fairly uneventful, and I offered him tortillas with beans (my brunch) as well, which he also declined. No hill.
I went to the couch, swigged some coffee that I’d had to reheat in the microwave in order to make it drinkable- that’s the logical consequence of oversleeping, right? Well worth it!- and finished off my food. Monkey showed up with a half-eaten Clementine a few minutes later, and grinned sweetly as he offered to share it with me. Of course, I accepted the sections he shoved into my mouth, who wouldn’t? We cuddled a bit, and then he went back to his monkey business in the play room. My dad called then, and while we were on the phone, the wee one made another appearance, this time demanding cheese cubes, an unopened bag of which was in plain monkey-view in the fridge. I told him he could have some, but he wanted me to come get them for him, which I did.
“No, Mommy, I don’t want that kind!”
“Huh? It’s the only kind we have. What’s wrong with these?”
“I want the one with the COW on the front.”
I stared hopefully at the front of the bag of cheese, but all that I saw was a faint pastoral view of some western landscape. Hmmmm….
“Oh, sweetie, this does have a cow. It’s just really small because it’s off in the distance. See? It’s a cattle ranch in the picture, where the cows graze on the grass. This little dot right here? It’s a cow. I think. It might also be a well, but my vote is definitely on a cow.” A sense of humor is an absolute requirement in mothering, did I mention that?
“Mom, I want a BIG cow, like the one on the other package.”
“Oh. Well, this one doesn’t have a cow that big. But I’ll draw one for you if you wish. How ‘bout it?” At this point, I proceeded as though all were right with the world, despite my sneaking suspicion that we were on the verge of a major toddler meltdown. I poured some cheese cubes onto the paper plate he had brought to me and then smiled down at him. “Here ya go, love. Cheese cubes. You start in on these and I’ll get right on that cow.”
“No, Mom, I want SEVEN cheese cubes.”
“Yeah, ok. You have seven. And another six. Let’s count them.”
We did. I scooted the offending six to the farthest side of the plate and told him he could ignore them unless he decided he was hungry for more than seven.
He eyed me doubtfully, but took the plate to the table and sat down. I retrieved a black sharpie from the drawer, but just as I was ready to put ink to plastic, he stopped me.
“NOOOOOO! I don’t WANT a black cow! It has to be a BROWN cow.” Oh shit. I breathed deeply, and then, with control and purpose in my voice, said almost too quietly for him to hear--- he has to be quiet to hear me when I do this, see, so it’s all part of my Mommy repertoire--- “Honeybunch. I hear that you want a brown cow. I’m happy to make a cow on here for you. But I have only a black marker, so it’s a black cow or now cow. Your call.”
“AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHH NO COW! I don’t LIKE black cows! I want a BROWN ONE, like on Barnyard!”
My blood pressure unaffected, and my facial expression likewise despite rather intense irritation, I said sweetly and quietly, “Ok then. I’m going to go check my email in my bedroom. Here’s some juice for you.”
He looked at the cup and then wailed, “I want BLUE juice! NOT PINK!!!” Huh??? I don’t buy blue food. Ever! Ah well, I’m chalking it up at that point to low blood sugar and too much Dora. No hill.
“Ok, sweets. No juice then. But here’s the thing. This cup is mine. I’m happy to share it with you if you get thirsty. I’ll just leave it on the table here for you. I’ll come back for some in a minute.” And I departed to my room.
A few minutes passed before he was in my room, screaming about how many cheese cubes he wanted. Seems that he wanted five now, and no other number would suffice, regardless of my most creative attempts at distraction. I asked him where the ones I’d given him were, and he said, “That was too many! If I eat all those, I’ll get a tummy ache. I had to dump them.” Give me strength. Now I was a bit miffed, but didn’t let so much as the slightest hint of that enter my voice.
“Come on, let’s go see.”
The kitchen floor was strewn with eleven cheese cubes. The other two lay on the table.
“Sweetheart, I gave you more than five. You are a very smart boy, and you know that you don’t ever have to eat more than you want. Why didn’t you just eat them and leave the ones you didn’t want?”
Um, FYI, never ask a three-year-old why s/he did anything. It’s what Vinzini from The Princess Bride would call, “A classic blunder.” DOH!
This is where the crazed toddler with bottomed out blood sugar snuck in and took over my darling son’s body while I wasn’t looking. I got kicked, the garbage can was shoved onto the floor, and much screaming and recriminations about tummyaches and me being a NAUGHTY MOMMY ensued. I breathed. I waited. And waited. When we reached what I figured was probably the eye of the storm, I explained that I’d be happy to get more food for him, but that he had to first pick up the cheese and right the trash can, and also apologize for kicking me. I reminded him that it’s fine to kick or hit, as long as the recipient of the strike is an inanimate and soft item. He swore that he “just couldn’t wait” to hit, and I suggested that he would have to figure out a way to either wait or just not do it at all. The eye wall hit then.
Eventually, after being targeted and missed with another kick, I declared that I’d be in my room, where I would lock the door, and that as soon as he was able to be calm enough to speak to me without screaming or hurting, I’d emerge and work with him. He kicked my door for several minutes, cried hysterically, said my name several times, insisted that he didn’t like me and that he felt mad and sad and mad and MAD, and cried some more. I called my husband at work, looking for some suggestions on how to get the kid fed without giving the appearance of caving. My hubby, much to my chagrin, declared my action in having locked the child out of my room “unsafe.” Um, no. I explained to him that at no time was I unable to see my child’s feet, and at no time did I do anything other than give the appearance of having left his vicinity. Daddy was fresh out of ideas and had to go back to work, so off the phone went we.
I left the room, called a friend who has kids, and vented to her whilst sitting on my front stoop, as Hurricane Monkey picked up strength the moment I was again in his sight. He screeched inside, and again I listened intently to him while breathing deeply and repeating to myself that homicide was illegal, unnecessary, and that the whole thing was sure to pass soon. It did. The monkey went to the back door and ran around to the front stoop, grabbed me tight, and hugged me like there was no tomorrow. I reminded him that I was not gone, and that I would never leave him alone, but that sometimes Mommies need time out too. He asked to be picked up, and I hitched him onto my right hip before walking into the kitchen. I spied atop the refrigerator a giganto box of microwave popcorn, like a shining star from heaven, and asked him if he’d like some. And just like that, the storm had passed.
I let him push the popcorn button on the microwave, and while we waited the 1:45 minutes for the word ENJOY to scroll across the digital display of my microwave, I mixed each of us an Emergen-C, just for good measure. He gladly accepted his “vitamin drink,” and gulped it down happily. He then sat at the table, all manners and sweetness, and ate the popcorn I poured onto his paper plate, drank all of the pink juice, and slurped down the five cheese cubes I placed aside the popcorn. Happy times.
Once he was adequately tanked up, we cuddled under a blanket (his idea) on the couch for a few minutes before retiring to my room for a nap. Hubby called and said he’d fetch the elder one from school. Groovy. But then he informed me that the elder boy had asked to have coffee and donuts after school, and so the plan was that he’d pick up the kid and the TWO of them would hit the coffee joint. Um… yeah. I asked if we were going to ALL go, and not getting the hint, he said, “No, just me and Ian.” ACK! Ok, so I napped with the little guy.
Hubby got home two hours later and handed me a bag o’ fresh donuts. He also brought the gallon of milk that I’d requested via text message to his cell phone. I was on the phone at the time he got there with a mutual friend with whom I’d not spoken for some time, so I kissed hubby on the forehead and went to the living room to continue and finish my conversation. When I was finished, I found hubby, asleep in our bed beside the still-snoozing little monkey. I woke the little ‘un as gently as I could, and then nudged him toward the door to his play room, reminding him that his brother was FINALLY home to play with. He wasn’t happy about it. Chapter Two of the Nuclear Freakin’ Meltdown began, far less intense and I suppose really more an aftershock to the Defcon Five Nuclear Meltdown I’d faced alone earlier today, but a force to be reckoned with all the same. Again, I shuttled him out of my room and locked the door, because again he swatted at me.
I then looked expectantly at my darling. When he didn’t open his eyes, even with all the racket my littlest was by that time generating, I nudged him. “Um, honey? A little help? I’ve been at this all day, and I’m wiped. Please?” Nothing. “Um, Shawn? Seriously, I’m not up for more of this right now. You said this afternoon that having him out there like this was ‘not safe,’ but you’re ignoring it. What up?” (I was on the toilet at that point.) He looked at me angrily and said, “I don’t know what to say about it.”
Ok. I love the guy. Last time I checked at least. And he’s a shit sometimes, and so am I. And I know homicide is illegal. “Um, ok. I’m going to go out for a bit.” That’s all I could manage without screaming and mutilating him or me or everyone. I ran a brush through my hair again, brushed my teeth, put on shoes and a pair of non-yoga pants, and informed him that I’d be using his pickup rather than the SUV, so that he would have car seats should he elect to take the boys anywhere while I was gone. I snatched up my laptop from its place beside our bed, stuffed it and the power supply into my satchel, scooped up keys and purse, and left.
Once I got here, “here,” being the local Books By The Billion/Horbuck’s Coffee combo, I sent him a text message telling him where I was and that I’d be awhile. And now I’m listening to my walkman, missing him like mad, mad as hell at him, wishing he’d call and check on me or something, knowing full well that since I’m still this pissed I have no business going home just yet. It’s now 8:51PM, exactly 3 hours and 21 minutes since I left our home. I called him about a half hour after the text message, because he made no reply. He said that he’d indeed received it, but that he didn’t think I needed a reply. GAWD.
Another FYI folks: An angry/hurt/pissy mom/wife ALWAYS needs a reply. A sweet one. An “I love you honey.” An acknowledgement, kind and considerate, even if you don’t feel entirely sincere in those qualities at the moment. We fucking work our asses off, ok? We don’t get a day off. We don’t get a break. The Labor Department would shut the entire lot of us down if ever we fell under their jurisdiction, and I suppose that would lead to some sort of weird Matrix-style kiddie farming or something, because the fact is, parenting is damned near impossibly hard sometimes, and it’s far far more difficult when you’re alone, or even alone a lot. We need vacations. We need breaks. We need to be understood. We need our husbands, the loving, doting, fantastic fathers of our amazing and maddening children, to take the fuck OVER on occasion, to see how things are for us, to recognize that, even if the laundry is piled on the couch and there are cheezey-dos on the bathroom floor, it’s fine because we have STILL put in far more effort, blood, sweat, and tears in a single day than they do, regardless of the difficulty level or suicide rate of their particular vocation. We need to be held, loved, thanked, massaged, coddled. We need to be mothered. We need someone else to come in, take over, and relieve us of our unimaginable burdens, just briefly, just long enough to let us breathe, step back, assess the situation from a different viewpoint, and decide for ourselves, as we will always always always do, that it’s what and where we want to be before we dive headlong right back into the melee that is motherhood.
Yeah, hubby travels extensively and for prolonged periods, but it’s not like we get to accompany him. His job often entails its own mind-numbing tedium, like days on end spent in a hotel room in a strange city without any human contact beyond the occasional greeting from Maria, the everpresent Marriott hotel maid. He misses us madly, and I know this. He doesn’t golf or gamble or drink, so he doesn’t have much to do in all those strange cities, and I know he gets incredibly lonely. I have no shortage of sympathy for his situation. But, there are times when I would give anything, a limb a kidney an ovary ANYTHING to have just two days of that tedium. To trade with him. Not just for the rest, but also for the empathy that only comes with walking in the other person’s moccasins. For him, not me.
I get it. I totally get it. I understand his plight, because I make it my business to do so. I understand what he lives because I probe, poke, and pick into his brain at every opportunity. It’s my nature. I have to. What can I say, I love the guy, would die for him if it ever came to it, and I want to understand things from his perspective as much as it’s possible for one to do that about another. I wish I could say with total and complete faith and certainty that he did likewise. Not so. Ok, maybe so at least SOME of the time. Just not nearly as often as I’d like. Or maybe I’m paranoid, ungrateful, spoiled, lame, and don’t see how good I have it. Whatever.
Anyway, enough back story. Let’s get to the meat of my day. We’ll start at the beginning, unhip as that might be in modern prose.
As it does every day, the alarm brayed its unwelcome greeting at 7AM, and I hit the snooze button a time or ten. Finally, when the precise moment had come after which it would be physically and temporally impossible to get my older son ready and off to school without being tardy, I rolled out of bed and woke him up in the drill-sergeant fashion that works best for all of us. He responded with a sleepy protest, then climbed begrudgingly down the ladder from his top bunk, scratching his butt and muttering his disapproval all the while. With firm but brief verbal prompts, he dressed himself, brushed his teeth (for the entire two minutes even!), fed the dog, peed, combed his hair, and splashed his face with cool water to help get the sleep out of his eyes. In that order. Breakfast happens at school this week, so in just twenty minutes, my little soldier was ready to walk out the door. Quite an accomplishment that, even if I do say so myself!
Unlike my ordinary day, my husband was home this morning, having even slept in his very own bed, and had agreed last night to transport the little guy to school on his way in to the office, where he (my husband) was slated to do some training exercises and paperwork at the company’s private hangar before returning for a SECOND night in his own bed. I took it for granted that, since it was an actual possibility for once, I’d not be resented if I returned to my bed, where my t-shirt and saggy underwear clad 3-yr-old still slept soundly, despite his usual habit of awakening at the moment his brother starts brushing his teeth and then doing everything he can dream up to interfere in Ian’s preparation for the school day. It was like a sign from above: little one still asleep, bed still warm, and hubby home, able and willing and even committed to take the elder to school. Hellooooooo, sleep!
Alas, as hubby emerged from the bathroom, I felt his disapproving glance burn into my reclining form, right through the blankets. I looked up, asked if he needed something, reminded him that his coffee (which I’d set up for brewing the previous night and then mixed just the way he likes it in his cup, which I handed him while he was still in bed, just like he does for me with as much regularity as his schedule allows) was on the nightstand, and steered him in the direction of the laundry basket containing his clean underwear. He sighed a little, clearly a bit put off, but I let it go and instead sank into the softness of the bed in hopes of a return to Dreamland.
I heard the engine of his truck fire up, and must have dozed very shortly thereafter, because my next memory is of him tapping me on the shoulder, saying, “Honey, it’s 9AM, don’t you think you should get up?” I was a bit surprised, because I thought I’d understood him to say he was going to go straight to work after depositing our son at school, but apparently he hadn’t dressed for the occasion until after his return home. I told him in a sleep-fogged voice that it wasn’t my intention to get up until I absolutely had to, but at that precise moment, the littler monkey awoke and bounced out of bed and into the bathroom. I fussed groggily at my husband then, saying “He’d still be asleep if you hadn’t turned on every light in the house.” His response came quickly, the tone unmistakably irate, “I’m getting ready to go to work. I think I have the right to turn on the light in my own bedroom.” Ugh.
He finished grooming himself and was headed out the door when I asked him to give me a kiss. He did so, but only after telling me he didn’t think I’d cared to have one, since I was still in bed. Huh? Anyway, off he went.
By this time, the wee one was singing along with Dora in front of the T.V. that his pop had fired up for him, a mere twenty feet from my bed in the adjacent room. Dora and my boy are great pals, and he isn’t one to get up to no good when she’s on, so I felt safe in attempting to resume my doze, which is exactly what I did. A quarter of an hour later, I stirred and asked him if he wanted some cheerios or fruit. He declined. --- I need to mention here, that when my boys are hungry, they say so. When they’re not, they say so. We have intentionally not forced them to eat more or more often than they feel the need to eat, because both my husband and I have battled lifelong overeating issues. It has worked incredibly well for us, and our children have always had robust builds without so much as an ounce of extraneous padding. They’re both big for their ages, tall and muscular. That’s my proof that this wasn’t a neglect situation. If you need more than that, well I can’t help you. --- So, the monkey wasn’t inclined to eat, and I was definitely inclined to sleep a bit more, and Dora was still on, so sleep I did. A bit later, I was awakened when the little guy decided he was indeed ready to eat. Again, I suggested a Clementine, one of his favorite things in the world. He accepted. And then all hell broke loose.
“Mommy, I don’t want the Clementines in the fridge. I want the ones that I put into that jar on the top of the shelves.” Says he.
“Honey, the Clementines would have spoiled if they were left in that jar, so I put them in the fridge. They’re the same clementines.”
“Mom, NO! I want the ones in the JAR!”
“Sweets, let’s see what we can manage.” I slipped on my robe, ran a brush through my well-bedded locks, and headed for the kitchen, monkey in close pursuit.
The Clementine was actually fairly uneventful, and I offered him tortillas with beans (my brunch) as well, which he also declined. No hill.
I went to the couch, swigged some coffee that I’d had to reheat in the microwave in order to make it drinkable- that’s the logical consequence of oversleeping, right? Well worth it!- and finished off my food. Monkey showed up with a half-eaten Clementine a few minutes later, and grinned sweetly as he offered to share it with me. Of course, I accepted the sections he shoved into my mouth, who wouldn’t? We cuddled a bit, and then he went back to his monkey business in the play room. My dad called then, and while we were on the phone, the wee one made another appearance, this time demanding cheese cubes, an unopened bag of which was in plain monkey-view in the fridge. I told him he could have some, but he wanted me to come get them for him, which I did.
“No, Mommy, I don’t want that kind!”
“Huh? It’s the only kind we have. What’s wrong with these?”
“I want the one with the COW on the front.”
I stared hopefully at the front of the bag of cheese, but all that I saw was a faint pastoral view of some western landscape. Hmmmm….
“Oh, sweetie, this does have a cow. It’s just really small because it’s off in the distance. See? It’s a cattle ranch in the picture, where the cows graze on the grass. This little dot right here? It’s a cow. I think. It might also be a well, but my vote is definitely on a cow.” A sense of humor is an absolute requirement in mothering, did I mention that?
“Mom, I want a BIG cow, like the one on the other package.”
“Oh. Well, this one doesn’t have a cow that big. But I’ll draw one for you if you wish. How ‘bout it?” At this point, I proceeded as though all were right with the world, despite my sneaking suspicion that we were on the verge of a major toddler meltdown. I poured some cheese cubes onto the paper plate he had brought to me and then smiled down at him. “Here ya go, love. Cheese cubes. You start in on these and I’ll get right on that cow.”
“No, Mom, I want SEVEN cheese cubes.”
“Yeah, ok. You have seven. And another six. Let’s count them.”
We did. I scooted the offending six to the farthest side of the plate and told him he could ignore them unless he decided he was hungry for more than seven.
He eyed me doubtfully, but took the plate to the table and sat down. I retrieved a black sharpie from the drawer, but just as I was ready to put ink to plastic, he stopped me.
“NOOOOOO! I don’t WANT a black cow! It has to be a BROWN cow.” Oh shit. I breathed deeply, and then, with control and purpose in my voice, said almost too quietly for him to hear--- he has to be quiet to hear me when I do this, see, so it’s all part of my Mommy repertoire--- “Honeybunch. I hear that you want a brown cow. I’m happy to make a cow on here for you. But I have only a black marker, so it’s a black cow or now cow. Your call.”
“AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHH NO COW! I don’t LIKE black cows! I want a BROWN ONE, like on Barnyard!”
My blood pressure unaffected, and my facial expression likewise despite rather intense irritation, I said sweetly and quietly, “Ok then. I’m going to go check my email in my bedroom. Here’s some juice for you.”
He looked at the cup and then wailed, “I want BLUE juice! NOT PINK!!!” Huh??? I don’t buy blue food. Ever! Ah well, I’m chalking it up at that point to low blood sugar and too much Dora. No hill.
“Ok, sweets. No juice then. But here’s the thing. This cup is mine. I’m happy to share it with you if you get thirsty. I’ll just leave it on the table here for you. I’ll come back for some in a minute.” And I departed to my room.
A few minutes passed before he was in my room, screaming about how many cheese cubes he wanted. Seems that he wanted five now, and no other number would suffice, regardless of my most creative attempts at distraction. I asked him where the ones I’d given him were, and he said, “That was too many! If I eat all those, I’ll get a tummy ache. I had to dump them.” Give me strength. Now I was a bit miffed, but didn’t let so much as the slightest hint of that enter my voice.
“Come on, let’s go see.”
The kitchen floor was strewn with eleven cheese cubes. The other two lay on the table.
“Sweetheart, I gave you more than five. You are a very smart boy, and you know that you don’t ever have to eat more than you want. Why didn’t you just eat them and leave the ones you didn’t want?”
Um, FYI, never ask a three-year-old why s/he did anything. It’s what Vinzini from The Princess Bride would call, “A classic blunder.” DOH!
This is where the crazed toddler with bottomed out blood sugar snuck in and took over my darling son’s body while I wasn’t looking. I got kicked, the garbage can was shoved onto the floor, and much screaming and recriminations about tummyaches and me being a NAUGHTY MOMMY ensued. I breathed. I waited. And waited. When we reached what I figured was probably the eye of the storm, I explained that I’d be happy to get more food for him, but that he had to first pick up the cheese and right the trash can, and also apologize for kicking me. I reminded him that it’s fine to kick or hit, as long as the recipient of the strike is an inanimate and soft item. He swore that he “just couldn’t wait” to hit, and I suggested that he would have to figure out a way to either wait or just not do it at all. The eye wall hit then.
Eventually, after being targeted and missed with another kick, I declared that I’d be in my room, where I would lock the door, and that as soon as he was able to be calm enough to speak to me without screaming or hurting, I’d emerge and work with him. He kicked my door for several minutes, cried hysterically, said my name several times, insisted that he didn’t like me and that he felt mad and sad and mad and MAD, and cried some more. I called my husband at work, looking for some suggestions on how to get the kid fed without giving the appearance of caving. My hubby, much to my chagrin, declared my action in having locked the child out of my room “unsafe.” Um, no. I explained to him that at no time was I unable to see my child’s feet, and at no time did I do anything other than give the appearance of having left his vicinity. Daddy was fresh out of ideas and had to go back to work, so off the phone went we.
I left the room, called a friend who has kids, and vented to her whilst sitting on my front stoop, as Hurricane Monkey picked up strength the moment I was again in his sight. He screeched inside, and again I listened intently to him while breathing deeply and repeating to myself that homicide was illegal, unnecessary, and that the whole thing was sure to pass soon. It did. The monkey went to the back door and ran around to the front stoop, grabbed me tight, and hugged me like there was no tomorrow. I reminded him that I was not gone, and that I would never leave him alone, but that sometimes Mommies need time out too. He asked to be picked up, and I hitched him onto my right hip before walking into the kitchen. I spied atop the refrigerator a giganto box of microwave popcorn, like a shining star from heaven, and asked him if he’d like some. And just like that, the storm had passed.
I let him push the popcorn button on the microwave, and while we waited the 1:45 minutes for the word ENJOY to scroll across the digital display of my microwave, I mixed each of us an Emergen-C, just for good measure. He gladly accepted his “vitamin drink,” and gulped it down happily. He then sat at the table, all manners and sweetness, and ate the popcorn I poured onto his paper plate, drank all of the pink juice, and slurped down the five cheese cubes I placed aside the popcorn. Happy times.
Once he was adequately tanked up, we cuddled under a blanket (his idea) on the couch for a few minutes before retiring to my room for a nap. Hubby called and said he’d fetch the elder one from school. Groovy. But then he informed me that the elder boy had asked to have coffee and donuts after school, and so the plan was that he’d pick up the kid and the TWO of them would hit the coffee joint. Um… yeah. I asked if we were going to ALL go, and not getting the hint, he said, “No, just me and Ian.” ACK! Ok, so I napped with the little guy.
Hubby got home two hours later and handed me a bag o’ fresh donuts. He also brought the gallon of milk that I’d requested via text message to his cell phone. I was on the phone at the time he got there with a mutual friend with whom I’d not spoken for some time, so I kissed hubby on the forehead and went to the living room to continue and finish my conversation. When I was finished, I found hubby, asleep in our bed beside the still-snoozing little monkey. I woke the little ‘un as gently as I could, and then nudged him toward the door to his play room, reminding him that his brother was FINALLY home to play with. He wasn’t happy about it. Chapter Two of the Nuclear Freakin’ Meltdown began, far less intense and I suppose really more an aftershock to the Defcon Five Nuclear Meltdown I’d faced alone earlier today, but a force to be reckoned with all the same. Again, I shuttled him out of my room and locked the door, because again he swatted at me.
I then looked expectantly at my darling. When he didn’t open his eyes, even with all the racket my littlest was by that time generating, I nudged him. “Um, honey? A little help? I’ve been at this all day, and I’m wiped. Please?” Nothing. “Um, Shawn? Seriously, I’m not up for more of this right now. You said this afternoon that having him out there like this was ‘not safe,’ but you’re ignoring it. What up?” (I was on the toilet at that point.) He looked at me angrily and said, “I don’t know what to say about it.”
Ok. I love the guy. Last time I checked at least. And he’s a shit sometimes, and so am I. And I know homicide is illegal. “Um, ok. I’m going to go out for a bit.” That’s all I could manage without screaming and mutilating him or me or everyone. I ran a brush through my hair again, brushed my teeth, put on shoes and a pair of non-yoga pants, and informed him that I’d be using his pickup rather than the SUV, so that he would have car seats should he elect to take the boys anywhere while I was gone. I snatched up my laptop from its place beside our bed, stuffed it and the power supply into my satchel, scooped up keys and purse, and left.
Once I got here, “here,” being the local Books By The Billion/Horbuck’s Coffee combo, I sent him a text message telling him where I was and that I’d be awhile. And now I’m listening to my walkman, missing him like mad, mad as hell at him, wishing he’d call and check on me or something, knowing full well that since I’m still this pissed I have no business going home just yet. It’s now 8:51PM, exactly 3 hours and 21 minutes since I left our home. I called him about a half hour after the text message, because he made no reply. He said that he’d indeed received it, but that he didn’t think I needed a reply. GAWD.
Another FYI folks: An angry/hurt/pissy mom/wife ALWAYS needs a reply. A sweet one. An “I love you honey.” An acknowledgement, kind and considerate, even if you don’t feel entirely sincere in those qualities at the moment. We fucking work our asses off, ok? We don’t get a day off. We don’t get a break. The Labor Department would shut the entire lot of us down if ever we fell under their jurisdiction, and I suppose that would lead to some sort of weird Matrix-style kiddie farming or something, because the fact is, parenting is damned near impossibly hard sometimes, and it’s far far more difficult when you’re alone, or even alone a lot. We need vacations. We need breaks. We need to be understood. We need our husbands, the loving, doting, fantastic fathers of our amazing and maddening children, to take the fuck OVER on occasion, to see how things are for us, to recognize that, even if the laundry is piled on the couch and there are cheezey-dos on the bathroom floor, it’s fine because we have STILL put in far more effort, blood, sweat, and tears in a single day than they do, regardless of the difficulty level or suicide rate of their particular vocation. We need to be held, loved, thanked, massaged, coddled. We need to be mothered. We need someone else to come in, take over, and relieve us of our unimaginable burdens, just briefly, just long enough to let us breathe, step back, assess the situation from a different viewpoint, and decide for ourselves, as we will always always always do, that it’s what and where we want to be before we dive headlong right back into the melee that is motherhood.
Monday, February 11, 2008
Grief and Grievance
Happy freakin' new year.
On the twenty-fourth of January, one of my 7-year old son's classmates, a precious, kind, darling little girl we've known for the entire 4 years he's been in school, was killed in a car accident on her ride to school. She had loosened her seatbelt for a moment, in order to retrieve a dropped book for her little sister, when a 21 year old fuckwad with no insurance, no license, no license plate, no registration, and no fucking seatbelt decided that, gnarly rainy weather be damned, no passing zone aside, he was in far too much of a hurry to wait, and so passed four cars before slamming head-on into my friend's van. Mom was severely injured and spent three weeks in trauma ICU. Little sister survived, but sustained a crushed leg, and spent a week in ICU, then another in a regular room before being sent home. Mom is still in the hospital, where she will likely remain for at least another month. My son's friend is dead. The fuckwad is in a coma. If there is justice in the universe, the fuckwad's coma is one that has his conscious mind trapped in some nightmare hell from which he can't escape.
My son has proven yet again how well adjusted and generally sane he is. He conducts periodic "belt checks," every time we ride in the car now, and each of us complies with enthusiasm. Every day, every moment, is precious, and he has learned that at an incredibly tender age. Life goes on anyway, another essential fact of our existence with which he's now intimately acquainted.
Got a call tonight from my sister, with whom I've begun, after thirty years, an entirely new and entirely sisterly relationship. Seems our male half-sibling is in a nasty pinch, and thought I might have some bit of information to help him out of it. I relayed what I have through my sister. For the second time in all my life, I really truly hope I'm wrong about him. But, then, I suppose the fact that I WANT to be wrong is all the evidence I need to know that I'm not. Ugly, that.
Heard also today from an extremely close friend out of state. He's one of my seven. Oh, and I had My Seven waaaaaay before the damned cell phone company ripped off my idea, but who's counting (me). His brother died a few years ago this weekend, and he mourns the loss again. His story is far too personal to get into here, but suffice to say I can only imagine that what he witnessed with his brother's death is far beyond anything I can imagine. Also, I am happy for him, in a sad kind of way. He had a very good brother, with whom he bonded and whom he loved, and who loved him. I envy him the happy memories, and I am consoled by the knowledge that he has them.
I think I've finally reached the acceptance phase of grieving the loss of my own brother. He's not technically dead, but he will be one day, most likely by his own hand. This pains me in ways I don't like to ponder much, but it is something removed from me too. I am not now, nor have I ever been, responsible for his poor choices. I hope for him that he'll manage to change, to metamorpose into some semblance of actual health some day, but I know with stomach-churning certainty that this is nearly impossible. I have managed to let go of the need to ascribe malicious intent to him, even though it's probably unnecessary to do so. Ultimately, whether intentional or not, the damage he has wreaked in my life and the lives of so many of the people who have tried to love him is the same. A stomped toe hurts as much if it's stomped accidentally as if it's stomped intentionally. Simple as that.
Still, I dream from time to time that he's been miraculously transformed, cured of all that ails his body and soul, into a compassionate, kind, human being. That we talk to each other, and actually exchange ideas, rather than engaging in the emotional gangrene that was our only way to relate to each other, back before the day nearly five years ago when all communication between us came to an abrupt halt. I dream that he telephones me, talks to me about regret and remorse, and having finally seen the error of his malignant ways.
He exudes life in those dreams, and health and sanity and happiness, and I am content, just for the brevity of dreamtime, better than not at all, with the knowledge that he might actually have a chance of living. Happily. And then I awake, and no phone calls have been received, and I know they never will be. Or that if they are, they'll be yet another ruse, the next step in the manipulative and self-serving isolation that is, has always been, and will continue to be his existence until the moment he draws his last breath. The moment that, based on his present physical and mental states, is likely just around the corner. And then my question becomes, how in the world can I attend a funeral for my only brother, five-years cold in the mental tomb I excavated for him myself?
On the twenty-fourth of January, one of my 7-year old son's classmates, a precious, kind, darling little girl we've known for the entire 4 years he's been in school, was killed in a car accident on her ride to school. She had loosened her seatbelt for a moment, in order to retrieve a dropped book for her little sister, when a 21 year old fuckwad with no insurance, no license, no license plate, no registration, and no fucking seatbelt decided that, gnarly rainy weather be damned, no passing zone aside, he was in far too much of a hurry to wait, and so passed four cars before slamming head-on into my friend's van. Mom was severely injured and spent three weeks in trauma ICU. Little sister survived, but sustained a crushed leg, and spent a week in ICU, then another in a regular room before being sent home. Mom is still in the hospital, where she will likely remain for at least another month. My son's friend is dead. The fuckwad is in a coma. If there is justice in the universe, the fuckwad's coma is one that has his conscious mind trapped in some nightmare hell from which he can't escape.
My son has proven yet again how well adjusted and generally sane he is. He conducts periodic "belt checks," every time we ride in the car now, and each of us complies with enthusiasm. Every day, every moment, is precious, and he has learned that at an incredibly tender age. Life goes on anyway, another essential fact of our existence with which he's now intimately acquainted.
Got a call tonight from my sister, with whom I've begun, after thirty years, an entirely new and entirely sisterly relationship. Seems our male half-sibling is in a nasty pinch, and thought I might have some bit of information to help him out of it. I relayed what I have through my sister. For the second time in all my life, I really truly hope I'm wrong about him. But, then, I suppose the fact that I WANT to be wrong is all the evidence I need to know that I'm not. Ugly, that.
Heard also today from an extremely close friend out of state. He's one of my seven. Oh, and I had My Seven waaaaaay before the damned cell phone company ripped off my idea, but who's counting (me). His brother died a few years ago this weekend, and he mourns the loss again. His story is far too personal to get into here, but suffice to say I can only imagine that what he witnessed with his brother's death is far beyond anything I can imagine. Also, I am happy for him, in a sad kind of way. He had a very good brother, with whom he bonded and whom he loved, and who loved him. I envy him the happy memories, and I am consoled by the knowledge that he has them.
I think I've finally reached the acceptance phase of grieving the loss of my own brother. He's not technically dead, but he will be one day, most likely by his own hand. This pains me in ways I don't like to ponder much, but it is something removed from me too. I am not now, nor have I ever been, responsible for his poor choices. I hope for him that he'll manage to change, to metamorpose into some semblance of actual health some day, but I know with stomach-churning certainty that this is nearly impossible. I have managed to let go of the need to ascribe malicious intent to him, even though it's probably unnecessary to do so. Ultimately, whether intentional or not, the damage he has wreaked in my life and the lives of so many of the people who have tried to love him is the same. A stomped toe hurts as much if it's stomped accidentally as if it's stomped intentionally. Simple as that.
Still, I dream from time to time that he's been miraculously transformed, cured of all that ails his body and soul, into a compassionate, kind, human being. That we talk to each other, and actually exchange ideas, rather than engaging in the emotional gangrene that was our only way to relate to each other, back before the day nearly five years ago when all communication between us came to an abrupt halt. I dream that he telephones me, talks to me about regret and remorse, and having finally seen the error of his malignant ways.
He exudes life in those dreams, and health and sanity and happiness, and I am content, just for the brevity of dreamtime, better than not at all, with the knowledge that he might actually have a chance of living. Happily. And then I awake, and no phone calls have been received, and I know they never will be. Or that if they are, they'll be yet another ruse, the next step in the manipulative and self-serving isolation that is, has always been, and will continue to be his existence until the moment he draws his last breath. The moment that, based on his present physical and mental states, is likely just around the corner. And then my question becomes, how in the world can I attend a funeral for my only brother, five-years cold in the mental tomb I excavated for him myself?
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