Dadders

Gee WHIZ a lot has happened since my last post. The three people who read this already know all this, but what the hell--might as well put it here for posterity.
FIRST (and, realistically, the only thing I'll write about today): My dad had a heart attack. That was a crazy time, people. I recognize there is a lot I don't know about a lot of things; but I was completely CLUELESS about heart attacks. It seemed to me that everyone knows someone who knows someone who has had a heart attack, survived and is pretty much fine, right? (Okay, I might have been the only one who felt this way.) I had no idea that it takes about 4 minutes for the brain to start dying (medical professionals, please correct all my bullshit science), and it was very, VERY likely that if my dad survived the heart attack he would have severe brain damage that would result in him spending the rest of his days in a nursing home. WHAT?! If you'd asked me 3 months ago about possible long-term effects of a heart attack, that wouldn't have crossed my mind. But I'm getting ahead of myself.
Before I knew my dad had a heart attack, I watched him collapse in the last 100 yards of a half marathon we were completing together. He was a couple hundred feet ahead of me, and I could barely see because of the monsoon-like conditions (seriously, streets flooded and officials shut down the race before some people could finish). I saw someone ahead of me collapse, and my thought process went like this: Oh no, someone fell. I bet they were dehydrated. . .Huh, they're not getting up. . .Um, I guess it COULD be Dad. . .Holyfuckingshit, is it Dad?!
By that point I had reached him, and the first thing I saw were his shorts and jacket. Somehow that was what shocked me most--more than seeing his ashen face and his lifeless body. How could this possibly be my Dad? My Dad who had trained so hard and who is so freakishly, annoyingly diligent about what he eats! He was seizing and his face was gray. Such a bizarre and surreal experience. People say to me, "You must have been so scared!" and I was. But really it was one of those experiences I've heard people in the therapy biz refer to as "schizing" or "splitting". It was like my mind split into several compartments. The first was very matter-of-fact: Very calmly I thought, "Dad is dying. I'm watching him die. I'm going to have to call Mom and tell her Dad is dead." I cried quietly as I watched the paramedics, but in an unexplainable way I felt very calm. Another part of my brain (which for some reason wasn't openly displaying itself) was incredibly sad, helpless and panicked.
Thank God (or the universe, or serendipity, or whatever it was) we were at a place in the race in which people were around us. Unbelievably, my dad was getting amazing care right there in the middle of the street. I later learned that a spectator (who happened to be a nurse practitioner) was just a feet from my dad when he fell and was the first to begin CPR. An ambulance was a dozen feet away. The EMT crew had an ER physician on board that day who was training them to begin hypothermia treatment during transport to the hospital.
Our luck (or, again, whatever it was) is simply unbelievable to me. It gives me chills. Literally five minutes earlier we were jogging in a neighborhood, and no one was around. We actually considered the possibility that we had gotten turned around and were no longer on course. But, no, the ridiculously awful weather kept potential participants and spectators indoors. We didn't have our cell phones (they would have weighed us down, people!), so I couldn't have called anyone. If his heart had stopped ten minutes later, we would have been driving home; and as you can tell by this post's first paragraph, I certainly wouldn't have known what to do.
A few excruciating days followed as we waited to see if my Dad would come out okay from his treatment-induced coma. Our family and friends were absolutely amazing during this time--right there by our sides (and on the phone, and over the Internet), helping out with everything. And then early the morning of April 18th, we got a call from his nurse that he was awake. We zoomed to the hospital and there he was--groggy and weak, but talking, and smiling and recognizing us. This was absolutely one of the happiest days of my life.
It's been just over two months, and my Dad is back home, working full time, just started jogging again as part of his cardiac rehab. Simply amazing. We are so, SO lucky.
But this blog is about bitching, people, not gratitude. So here comes the complaining. During this whole experience I developed a fantasy of how my dad would turn out: He would make a full physical and mental recovery (of course), but he would also awaken with a new philosophy on life. Dad would decide that since life is so unpredictable and precious he now wanted to spend as much time as possible with his friends and family, so he would retire and he and my mom would move closer to me. He would let go of all grudges and judgments and just love and accept everyone for who they are and what they can offer. He would be peaceful, and content, and happy, and joyous, and wise, but not dogmatic. Sort of like a living, breathing "Life is Good" shirt.
But that didn't happen. Instead my Dad is. . .well, my Dad. He's exactly the way he was 1 minute before his heart attack. Judgmental, rigid, stubborn, a touch homophobic and a bit self-centered. (He's also funny, kind, generous and hilariously absent-minded). But I'm starting to realize (slowly, begrudgingly and thanks entirely to Tripp) that this is okay. Not only IS it okay, but it needs to be okay because I don't have a choice in the matter. Such a cliche, but I can't control anyone else--a lesson I apparently need to learn over and over. My Dad is my Dad, and I am eternally, immeasurably, overwhelmingly thankful to everyone and everything that contributed to his recovery and to the fact that I can call him on the phone today and tell him what a turd he's being. And as for all that guru, mountain top, peace and love shit? Well, I guess that will have to be what I aspire to. I love you, Dad.

Raindrops on Roses and Whiskers on Kittens

This site is mostly dedicated to kvetching; but it would be dishonest and depressing if it was completely filled with my (mostly pointless) rants and complaints. So, here is a list (in no particular order) of things I am soooo grateful for:
1. Sam thinks I'm hilarious and laughs at me all the time. He also loves to be kissed, tickled, hugged and all-around manhandled,
2. Today's weather is absolutely 100% perfect. Sixty-two degrees, sunny, no humidity. It's UNBELIEVABLY BEAUTIFUL,
3. Henry had an appointment with an ENT today, and they can do his ear surgery NEXT WEEK! (We were going to have to wait a month at the first place.) ALSO, Henry was an absolute angel at the appointment, despite the whole thing taking a lot longer than we had planned and a gazillion people putting all kinds of medical devices in his ears. I almost cried I was so proud of him,
4. Tripp. Just everything about him,
5. Grandma Margie. As is the case with most people, the things that drive me nuts about her are also the things I love most about her. Case in point, her obsession with my children: While that can have some annoying fallout, her interactions with Henry and Sam are some of the sweetest, cutest, loveliest, most beautiful treasures of my life,
6. It's spring and there are big, beautiful dogwoods in bloom all over the place,
7. All of our wonderful, amazing friends who offered so much support and love during my virtual freak-out last week,
8. Chocolate and good coffee,
9. My recumbent bike,
10. Everything else. We have a roof over our heads, access to good health care, food, clean water, and the people we love are healthy and happy most of the time.
I am truly, truly blessed.
I'm about to make myself vomit, so I'll be back to bitching soon.

The Will of a 2 Year-Old vs. The Determination of a Mommy

Is it just me or are 2 year-olds unbelievably strong-willed? I know, I know, everyone says, oh yeah, that's a 2 year-old blahblahblah; but I can't believe their little brains are capable of the maniacal power games that Henry seems to play.
Picture it, nap time today: Henry spent two hours (this is not an exaggeration) jumping out of bed, running down the hall, and then standing in front of me jumping up and down, shrieking, grabbing toilet paper, flushing toilets, and doing anything else he could in what I can only assume were attempts to rile me up. In true "Supernanny" form (I'm a devotee), I did not engage. I ignored for a while (which usually, eventually, works--in that Henry gets tired/bored and eventually just goes to sleep). In the past week, my next step has been to lock him in his room--something I was initially against (what do I do when he can break out? And isn't the point to get him to learn the rules?). But several friends told me this worked for them, so I tried it. However, my little devil learned how to break the baby lock in less than a week. I locked him in today, hoping that he wouldn't bother fiddling with it; and by the time I was down the hall he was running after me, lock in hand. Finally, I began to silently escort him back to his bed. Again, I did not engage: After I put him back in bed the first time, I said "It's time for rest, honey." The next 247 times, I kept silent and made no eye contact. I even tried to make the walk back to his room as boring as possible--walking slowly and quietly so Henry couldn't run. But this went on for two hours, people. TWO HOURS. Henry never got upset, pitched a fit, or cried. He was completely content the entire time.
I find this kind of thing so difficult. As a parent, you start questioning yourself--at least I do. Am I doing the right thing? Is this ever going to work? Even if it works today, am I going to have to start all over with this tomorrow, and the next day, and the next day? It's especially hard when you're alone or (most difficult) when you're with someone who does not support you. My mother, God bless her, is thoroughly, completely, head over heels infatuated with my children; and as a result refuses to enforce anything resembling a rule. She also questions me (that's putting it mildly; it's really more like an active criticism at best and a complete tantrum at worst) when I'm attempting to set limits with Henry. So, when I'm with Grandma Margie, it usually goes something like this:

Me: Henry, it's time for bed.
Henry: Wah!
Grandma Margie (to me): Are you sure he has to go to bed now? He didn't eat enough dinner. He's been sick! This is a new environment! He's excited to see his grandma! Can I go in there and talk to him? The fan is running in his room, and it's keeping him awake! The room is too warm! The room is too cold! Do you think I should go in there and sing to him? He doesn't like the color of the room! Don't you think I should go sit with him? I'm going to go sit with him.

This continues until I either give in or tell her (usually loudly) to STOP, in which case the whole thing starts again within a minute if Henry is continuing to complain. The point is, when you're a new parent (again, at least for me) and you've never done this before, and you're trying to raise your kids right, it really sucks when other adults aren't supporting you.
Anyway, I'm proud of myself today because I stayed calm (deep breathing helps), did not engage, and kept repeating to myself, "I WILL out will this two-year old!" Eventually, Henry got tired and instead of popping up and running down the hall after I put him in bed, he got up at a regular human rate and walked down the hall. Silently celebrating a chink in his armor, I carried him back to bed; and he immediately started to get back up. I put my hand on his belly and quietly said, "We don't have to do this, honey. You can relax. It's okay. It's time to rest now, but we'll play later." He went to sleep.
I'm fucking exhausted but proud of myself.

Pity Party, Interrupted

Just put Henry to bed. He snuggled up to me, put my hands on his cheeks and fell asleep while I quietly sobbed. Like I said to my friend who recently revealed she has a bun in the oven, motherhood is messy and complicated. But ultimately, you just love these damn kids so much it hurts.

Too Exhausted to Think of a Title

It's been a shitty week. Four trips to the pediatrician's office, a visit to the ER, a hospital admission (complete with a blood draw that took a four-point restraint), three misdiagnoses, a horrendous rash, a five day fever, and all sorts of antibiotics and antihistamines later, Henry is finally back to baseline. He was supposed to have tubes put in his ears this week, but that was canceled because of all the other medical insanity happening with him. We're so bummed about the tubes because it could be the answer to all of Henry's problems (constant sickness, lack of language skills, incredibly low frustration tolerance-even for a two year old); and it took weeks to schedule the surgery the first time. Now, we're back to square one. On top of it all, at his post-hospitalization check up yesterday his pediatrician brought up in the gentlest way possible that she'd like to refer him to their developmental specialist because "even if he's on the spectrum. . ." Oh, Jesus. My mind went into overload and switched off. One of my biggest fears is that Henry will be "on the spectrum", as in the Autistic spectrum, as in he will have a life-long, incurable condition that will (among other things) cause him to have difficulty connecting with people. I've worked professionally with people on the spectrum, and I realize it's completely my hang-up, but I have had so much trouble with the people I've met who have had these diagnoses. Connecting with people, finding common ground, empathizing (and being empathized WITH) is so meaningful for me. It's meaningful for everyone, I realize; but this is my blog so I'm talking about me. From the time he was in utero I've been scared shitless that my kid will be autistic.
Anyway, for the past two days, I've been trying to over-compensate for the horrible week Henry has had by doing fun things with him. Yesterday, I took him to an indoor playground; today took him to get cupcakes with a mommy and me group. At both these child-friendly events, Henry had complete meltdowns. Yesterday, after the initial freak-out he sort of kept it in check and just sat on the floor moaning while we waited in line to pay. However, this did not keep a busybody old lady from making a snide comment about my parenting. This has happened probably a dozen times-strangers (almost always old ladies) forcing completely unsolicited parenting advice on me, expressing outrage, or making sarcastic, nasty comments about how I'm dealing with my kid. I hate old ladies and I hope they all die in fires. No, I don't; but it felt good to write that.
Today, mid-walk to the cupcake party Henry collapsed in the street and literally began kicking and screaming. As I was holding Sam (and Henry is 40 pounds) it was physically impossible for me to carry Henry, so I essentially dragged him to the curb like a giant bag filled with wiggling, screeching kittens. A mom from the group saw me and smiled breezily as she gently shepherded her children into the yard where everyone was meeting. "Do you need help?" she asked and didn't wait for my response, just happily slid on her sunglasses and followed her children. I continued to drag Henry closer to the yard, watching a half dozen other moms contentedly chat while their children happily played together, all of them completely oblivious to me and the human tornado at my feet. I got down to Henry's level (a Supernanny suggestion) and firmly said, "Henry, you need to calm down and walk with mommy to our friends, or we're going home." This appeared to make a 0% difference in his attitude, so I said, "Okay, we're going." Frustrated and determined, I struggled to pick him up (still holding Sam, mind you), and fortunately my dear friend Liz showed up and helped me carry a still kicking and screaming Henry to the car.
Basically what I'm saying is, I'm spent. I don't even know what this post is supposed to be about. It was going to be about how old, bitchy ladies who think they know what's best for me and my kids had better step off. But I'm too tired to even get into that. I'm just worn down. And I long for the support of people who understand me, and empathize with me, and get what I'm going through, and can/will say, "I've been there." As in, "I've been in plenty of social situations where I was the only mom with a lunatic toddler, and I've felt embarrassed, and sad, and exhausted, and worried, and fed the hell up."
Honestly, I'm probably going to have to find a support group for parents whose kids are " on the spectrum."

Holy F-ing S!

I'm a parent of two kids. How was that allowed to happen? More later, but I think a description of my current appearance will suffice to describe how it's going: Currently in my underwear, with damp hair, teeth haven't been brushed in days, a fussy 12 pound baby strapped to my chest (his head precariously dangling over the edge of the inappropriately attached Maya wrap; so my left arm is constantly raised to hold said head), running around maniacally trying to find shoes, pack baby items, arouse 2 year old from nap, soothe 2 year old after waking from nap, put children in car relatively unscathed (me, not them--they fight it), and get out of the house so I can only arrive 15 minutes late to my doctor's appointment.
HELLO, motherhood!

Updates

Sheesh, I last wrote in September? What a slacker I've been. Here's the quick and dirty: We haven't sold our house yet. After a brief burst of inspiration to sell it myself (and being tantalized and tormented for months by a seemingly kind and benign but truly deceptive and maniacal retired couple who only wore track suits in our presence), I completely lost steam and became dejected/certain this place was never going to sell; and while we're on the subject (here is where I snowball into my angst-cycle) we can't afford to buy a bigger house, we can't afford to move, we don't know where we want to live, what if Tripp gets a new job and we have to relocate two days after we move, we're going to be poor, and what's the point?
After weeks of this, I finally got fed up driving myself crazy. Call it Taoism, the Secret, or a reference to the old Alcoholics Anonymous saying, "Let go and let God", I'm giving it up to the universe. So, we hired a Realtor, she's going to try to sell it, and if it sells, great. If it doesn't, fine. In the meantime, I've decided I'm going to do the things I love: Namely, hang out with my family and friends and enjoy my life. Sometimes I need to get over myself and remember I'm, literally, the gabillionth person in the world to have more than one kid; and most people in the world are lucky to have a roof over their heads. . .let alone a relatively new, well-functioning roof attached to a lovely little home in an assisted living community.

Wait. . .Two Year Olds are Destructive?

As noted in earlier posts, our ultimate goal for this year is to sell our current house for the smallest loss possible and move into a larger house so we have room for Baby 2 (from here on, referred to as SS for "Sammy Sweetheart") and the grandparents who will God-willing stay and help us as we make the adjustment from a 3 to a 4-person household (adjustment is scheduled to be complete when Henry turns thirty-nine or I'm dead, whichever comes last). Anyway, as you might imagine, BEFORE we can do any of this, we must make our current home presentable; and there begins the first problem. I always heard about two year-olds being mischievous and temperamental; and now that I own one I want to empathize with everyone who has had one and let everyone else know: IT'S SO TRUE. Henry is a personified hurricane, moving through our house in a path of destruction. Before 9 am today, Henry had: emptied the kitchen pantry, emptied the full kitchen garbage can and spread its contents across the floor, upended two hampers of dirty clothes, torn an entire new roll of toilet paper to shreds (Tripp and I foolishly thought we were past this phase and began storing the toilet paper rolls close to the toilets--MISTAKE), and repeatedly pulled clothing hanging in closets from hangers. All of this while I was in the room with him or in the next room. It feels hopeless to try to keep the house clean, and I'm struggling not to go down the rabbit hole of despair: Is this completely pointless? We're never going to be able to keep our home clean enough to show to company, let alone potential buyers.
Think it's time to take a lesson from Sesame Street's Mrs. Sparklenose: Do fairies say never? SOMETIMES!
But this isn't going to be one of them.

Newsflash: Having No Money Sucks

Four months pregnant with Lil' Bean and having trouble getting a handle on this. On the one hand, I'm super excited for this newest addition to our family. I think of how Henry has changed our lives for the better, and it's awe-inspiring. Now there's another little person on the way to mix things up again. I'm so excited and feel so lucky. Okay, enough mush, onto the bitching.
I'm scared shitless, people. SCARED. Henry had a full on nuclear meltdown at Panera Bread earlier this week when I wouldn't let him run through the restaurant and open all the doors. I'm talking screaming, limbs-flailing, head-banging, full-body writhing, rolling on the floor the entire three minutes during which I ordered and waited while the staff triple-teamed filling it in order to get us the hell out of there asap. Fortunately, the place was mostly empty, but the few patrons (all adults with no children present) each gave me a tight smile/eyebrow raise as if to indicate, "Would you please DO SOMETHING about that?" All I could think was, "What am I going to do with two? I can barely physically contain the one I have (a 35 pound almost two year-old is surprisingly strong)."
We live in a two bedroom house which is already about to bust at the seams. Now Lil' BowWow is on his way (I'm certain it's a boy), and we're faced with the timeless question, "Where are we going to put him?" Clearly, the most logical answer is to move, but then the other big question, "Where?" There are several areas in Roanoke that I like; but frankly, we can't afford to live in any of them. And do we buy or rent? Can we even sell the house we're in? Then there's childcare. We have a sweet deal with an awesome sitter who Henry loves now; but I've avoided asking her how she feels about watching a newborn in addition to Henry because I'm pretty sure she's not crazy about the idea. Also, childcare (even the sweet deal we have now) is expensive! Can I afford to work part-time when I'm paying so much for childcare? I really want my mother to quit her job and come live with us a few days/week; but she works and needs the money, and we can't afford to pay her a comparable amount. In times when I feel a lack of control (such as now) I tend to want to focus on little things I can control. Decorating Henry and the baby's rooms when we finally do move is my immediate instinct. But I'm trying not to do that because we don't have any freaking money and we're looking for a house! (I'm sure the fact that in the last month we replaced a wonky washer/dryer and had to shell out several thousand dollars to resurface our driveway is playing into my desire NOT to spend money). So, basically, I'm reminded on many levels that having no money sucks. I'm sure no one can relate to this. Sarcasm, the lowest form of humor, is my defense mechanism. Share your stories of poverty and help me feel better, please.

Home Shopping

I love real estate, people. Seriously. Growing up, on any given weekend my Mom and I would go to open houses and take note of what we liked and didn't. Instead of doodling, I often visit one of the big real estate web-sites: homes, realestate, zillow, trulia, etc. and window shop, see what's out there. No joke, I do that for fun. But now that we're gearing up for Baby 2 and we live in a rather small house that feels like it's shrinking, we're under the gun so to speak to find another dwelling. What was once fun has become incredibly stressful; and I want nothing more than to avoid the whole thing. Adding kids to the mix complicates it. And adding the whole, "we might be here a while" thing is something I'm totally unfamiliar with. Since age 21, I've never lived in a place longer than 2 years. Until now. Knowing that we'll probably be somewhere short-term allows a certain amount of freedom: Who really cares if the neighbors are cooking meth when we'll be gone in a few months? Now we're talking about potentially living in a place long-term and having two kids we're responsible for who we want to go to a good school and have safe places to play and people to play with. Being responsible is a buzz kill. I miss the meth heads.