Tuesday Night

I may have just received the most excellent compliment of my entire life. My eldest, loveliest child said to me a little while ago: "Mama, I love hearing your voice. It makes me feel so safe."

This, after listening to me talk to her little sister about how it's OK if we diverge from a plan, take another way, make a different choice. That in doing so we don't get in trouble, we find ourselves.

The whole parenting thing really has its perks.

As I lie here in the dark with the littlest elf, Penelope by my side, the older, most delicious one is in the kitchen making Penelope's lunch for camp tomorrow and my dreamy, baby boy is asleep on his bedroom floor.

"Wanna get in the bed, baby?" I asked him after I had finished tonight's rendition of "Mother Says Goodnight To All Things".
"No."
"You sure?"
"Shhhhhh. Stop it."

So there he is. For now. I'll go in later and snuggle him into his pillow and watch him curl up like a potato bug when his body hits the coolness of his soft, soft sheets.

And here I am, blissed right the hell out to next week.

If I ever get a super power (like a for real, comic book, JJ Abrams blockbuster style one) I want it to be the ability for me to stop and soak in moments like this for long enough that I create change in my body on a cellular level. Long enough to form new synapses and pathways of self-respect and confidence. Long enough to love myself enough to make it real when I re-start time and wait, ever so patiently for the next magical moment with my crazy, wonderful children.

July 2, 2013

A chick of the most excellent variety told me today that my wedding story blog post was one of her most favorite pieces I've ever written; I'm going to counter that sentiment with my husband being the most excellent piece I've ever had.

Today is my 15th wedding anniversary. And while I know that in terms of the universe, that is a mere 10,000,000,000th of a millisecond (probably). But it terms of my life, it is everything. Everything.

I fell in love with this man as I was falling out of love with another. In the dark days of that break-up, I would construct elaborate and wonderful fantasies of me with the man that became my husband.

In my imaginings, he lived in LA, far away from NY and my mean and horrible, cheating bastard of a boyfriend. He had an apartment in the hills with floor to ceiling windows that offered panoramic views of the city below. He would hold me while I cried. Watch me drink myself to sleep and keep vigil till I stirred again. He drew me warm baths and made exquisite love to my broken spirt and nursed my love for him out of my bone marrow.

The reality? He held back. He watched from a distance. He was a gentleman and never got too close until he did. Until we kissed in Battery Park on a park bench (after many, many port wines at the Red Bench). Until we walked home clutching each other like we shared a lung and couldn't breathe any other way. Until we said goodbye that night and I told him (I remember the words, the mood, the atmosphere in his apartment like it was yesterday) that he was my heaven.

And then he gave me an incredible gift; the most beautiful necklace. He gave it to me after he told my split-secondly-ex-boyfriend (who also happened to be one of his very best friends in the world) that we were in love. He told him first before anyone else found out. He didn't ask for permission, he spoke the truth.

Six months later we were married. And we remain thusly. And gloriously and magically. And REALLY.

One night (afternoon?) after the latest round of ridiculously, incredible sex I said to him: "I can picture our fights right now; loud, passionate and intense." Uhm... yep. The fights burn more calories than my trips to the gym and sex... keeps... coming (to use a pretty great pun).

He was there to pull his children into the oxygen breathing world. He was there to wait it out till I could reasonably and comfortably and confidently get back in the saddle after I gave birth.

He was broken and held together with tears and snot and love when we got Lincoln's diagnosis.

He frets almost uncontrollably over the maturity of his first-born; her physical and emotional safety unmatched in his heart.

He KNOWS his children and he navigates their intricacies like an orchestra conductor.

And he loves me.

Broken and weird and strange and unwrapped, me.

I would be lost. I would go on, but I would wander and have no touchstone. The years have not all been bliss; but they have been ours and my charmed life would not exist without him.

Happy Anniversary, baby.

Warning: Nothing but griping here

Yesterday was not a good day. Yesterday I had difficulty managing the emotions and personalities of the people around me and that difficulty made for a fairly traumatic evening of arguing and tears and frustration.

Today, as I attempt to tease out exactly what was wrong with yesterday, a few things keep forcing themselves to the front of the line (and I'm going to make a list):

1. I was not listened to. I was asking for help from my managers and I did not get it (though I was repeatedly told I would)
2. I have co-workers who do their best to avoid work, causing more work for everyone else
3. Human beings (for the most part) will not endure even the slightest bit of pain or discomfort (emotional or physical) if they can help it

I am a nurse; a nurse in Labor & Delivery. My patients are all pregnant or very, very new mothers. It is life on the line at my job. It is serious as a fucking heart-attack except the one having the heart attack is also in labor. Do you know what I'm saying? I hate forced drama when humor isn't my goal but I need to express the extreme nature of my job! A job I do not take for granted, that I am very good at and that can not be treated like any other job that doesn't involve a shit load of blood (and shit) and about a bajillion potential complications.

Yesterday while we were short staffed by short sightedness I asked for help and I was met with  mostly tender, downturned mouths and eyes and sympathetic head-shaking.

I don't have print deadlines or cases to file or projects to document or conference calls to arrange or editing to do or any other really potentially fucking stressful duties during the day.

I HAVE TO KEEP MOTHERS AND BABIES ALIVE. I hate to draw a line in the sand and sound all ass-holey, but for fuckssake... For fuckssake, I can't be expected to do it alone and when the bosses are out to lunch (or leave early for Nurses Week Celebrations- oh the irony!) or co-workers disappear.

This is not a fun post to write. It's whiny. It's a bummer. it's also a bummer to feel that the people around you at your very important job have difficulty engaging. To watch caring people sit comfortably in their administrative roles while you wave frantically from your sinking ship. Weird how they seem to wave back, strange smiles on their faces.

This thing we do, this feel no pain thing. It's quite an insidious beast and we all use it so much so seamlessly that it's become as automatic as breathing. All the while extending its tendrils deeper and deeper into our psyches.

Patients don't want to feel pain. Nurses don't want to work hard and managers don't want to get involved. It's a cynical day here at Chez OBrien's L&D remote office. I may have had enough.

Something I heard last night on NPR has been with me for the last 12 hours or so. Paraphrasing here: "The world now means that sometimes we have to shut down a whole city, don't give a damn about the economic impact and just get the job done."

I get it and I'm ok with it. I was "stuck" in NYC after 9/11 and it made perfect, logical sense that Boston was locked down, too.

What I don't get and what I don't want is for it to sound like some horrific hardship that this is our new normal (I dread the news today, but I'm drawn to it just the same). What I do want is for the last 36 hours in Boston to come across as: "Yeah, bitches! We will close down a whole fucking city LIKE THAT, and we will rock the shit out of it and you can all suck it!"

I  know pretty much next to nothing about these types of operations; no inside workings of the FBI or law enforcement in general, but my gut is telling me that the responders and their commanders in Boston need to be hailed and lauded and studied for the next time.

There will be a next time. There's just so much hate and so much access to information and materials that can be used to kill people. Evolution isn't always positive.

Finding Focus

Lincoln was up at 6:30 this morning. My au pair starts at 7. This is what you would call a "First world, white lady" problem.

I have a lot of these. I need my roots dyed. I need tree work done on my property. I need interior design work done. I'm out of organic apples. I have to get more wine. I need to have three more appointments to finish work on a root canal. I don't have a pair of black, every day boots or a black purse.

I need to pay for my kid's day camp, my property taxes and the fee for my NEW au pair. Ruby's 13th birthday is coming up and I have to pay the deposits on all the reservations I made.

I've got to find new psychotherapists for my daughters because for varying reasons, the ones they have aren't effective.

I mean, am I fucking serious?

As I type on my macbook air, my kid playing with his ipad in the background, my other two kids lounging on the couch downstairs as they watch the flatscreen TV, am I really finding things to complain about?

Yup.

I know I am living a charmed life. My children are alive and here on earth with me. My husband loves me and thinks I am as amazing as I wish I was. We both have jobs. We have friends...

So why the stresses and worries? Why can't I materialize any number of the patients I take care of every single day who have NOTHING in moments like these. The women who are addicts, living on a wing and a prayer, who have no family, no support, bad teeth, terrible health, violent spouses/parents/friends? The ones who know they won't be taking their babies home. The ones who don't know where their next meal will come from when they leave the hospital.

Gratefulness is a gift that I think I have. But the trappings of the life I am living prevent me from truly realizing it as often as I should. Perspective is hard to have when you can't see farther than the back of your own head; when life is so filled with things to do, we can't refocus our vision on things outside of ourselves.

I try. I really do. But right now I have to fill out camp forms and finish my coffee (with half and half and agave syrup) and put Lincoln's ipad on the charger and, and, and, and...

My Cup Runneth Over (with wine, of course)

The great thing about life is that you never know when it's gonna whisk you off your feet and make sweet, sweet love to you.

I feel like I resist talking about the good stuff all the time because I don't want to come off as some fucking Pollyanna (which I am not). Sometimes I think that if I write down all the good, then I will lose my edge. Total bullshit, I know.

So. Anyway, the other night, after Penelope NAILED her opening performance as Cogsworth in Beauty and the Beast, we were weaving and wading through the pretty incredible crowd in the lobby signing autographs, when she looks up at me and says: "Mama, this is the BEST day of my life!" She was holding one of my hands in her two tiny ones and her eyes were sparkling out of her skull. It was a parenting moment I wanted to bottle up and take secret whiffs out of for the rest of my days.

I'm not gonna lie, hot husband and I had serious, serious doubts that she was going to be able to do it, to follow through and get on the damn stage, remember her cues, her lines, not faint, not fidget, not cry, not run off (or freeze) in absolute panic. I had 10mg of Inderal ready if I thought she'd need it.  I feel like my two other children disappeared during the last weeks of rehearsal. All eyes, energies, tactical plans were keenly focused on Penelope and her opening night.

And, well, that's when that stud, the universe, came in all smoldering and ready for action and laid. Shit. Down.

That little girl soared, she was electric and gracious and PROUD. And her mama is still rolling in the post-coital bliss.

I've thought for a long time that as the guardians of special children, we need to exploit their gifts and in dong so, see their deficits fade.

This can be tricky territory out in the world of IEP's and transition meetings and appropriate settings.  For the most part, the world wants our kids "table ready" and not stimming and hooting and whizzing and whoooing and crying and yelling and swearing. They want them to have clean fingernails all the time and be toilet trained before they go to school and be really good at wiping their own butts. You think I don't want that shit? But, that's just not my reality all of the time. I mean, I get some of those things some of the time. So instead I focus on what my children are really, really good at all the time. It's amazing what that little paradigm shift will do for you.

Penelope is a mimic. An awe inspiring mimic. She copies popular culture to a "T". Her emotional range is very well suited for the stage and her loosey-goosey, tiny frame makes her a fascinating figure to watch. Helllooooo! ACTING. A.C.T.I.N.G. I am totally hitching my wagon to that little girl's star.

Fragile X can kiss my sweet ass this weekend. 

Trying it on

So, you know, it wasn't a tumor... it was what I thought it was (what my rational brain thought it was, that is).

And I know this is nuts and in no way am I being flippant, but it was kind of fun thinking it *was* a tumor. Fun because I don't act like that. I don't hang my insecurities out to dry. They're not emblazoned on my t-shirts and hats, not baked into my chocolate chip cookies. That shit is hidden way. Usually.

But the other day, the day when my tooth and jaw hurt so much I wanted to crawl under the desk and make a nice, loving home with the dust balls and paperclips and paper scraps, I voiced my pain: Literally.

I was afraid of the pain and I wasn't afraid to say so. The creepy-crawlies came out of my gray matter to play and I led them right to the amusement park and gave them free passes. I was worried and I said so. It hurt and I said so. And about halfway through my "feelings parade", I started to feel different. I started to feel good, like a person who can talk about her icky bits outside of her bedroom and her therapist's office (and the this website). I felt connected to the people around me in a way that was very, very different than I had experienced before.

Maybe the pain helped break down my defenses? I mean, that's got to be it, right? Anyway, whatever it was, it was AWESOME.

And by 9:30 the next morning, when my horrific cavity/nerve infection/tooth pain was *properly* diagnosed, I was ready to hear the news. And I was ready for novocaine and drills and news about root-canals and tooth reconstruction.

I'm not about to say that this new suit of mine totally fits. I don't think I've suddenly morphed into  a person who shares too much. But I do think there's been a shift. I think I'm beginning to see, that for me, it's OK to loosen the fuck up sometimes; to unbutton a few buttons. To be a little bit more human.