Plymouth 2013, Day 2: The Wedding Part I

The hotel we stayed in had an indoor pool. A pool of any type is KEY in keeping my boy centered (and exhausted) while we're away. PJ loves it, too. Her Fragile X has made her a born "rehearser". The kid tries and tries and tries and tries till whatever she set out to do, is done perfectly. Right now she's trying to nail down her back-stroke and the butterfly (both of which she taught herself).

So after a hilarious early morning run to the Dunkin down the street from the hotel (Why so funny you ask?  While me and Link and P. are eating our bagels and donuts and cappuccinos with extra shots of expresso, burly dude after burly dude comes in and orders iced-blueberry-mocha-lattes with extra cream and three splendas and double chocolate coolattas with whipped cream. Who are these men?!? These are men who are not afraid to be associated with fancy coffees, that's who! These are Massachusetts men! I was so wishing my grumpy, sleeping, leggy Ruby was there so she could share in the madness with me) we suited up and headed to the pool.

If you have never experienced the jhoooshing, and wheeeeshes and mmmmmmmms of a twisting and tensing and smiling and spitting 5 year old Fragile X boy, than you have not yet been in the face of pure joy. The kid LOVES the water. And while PJ zoomed again and again and again down the pirate ship themed slide and flailed majestically across the deep end tightening up her dolphin kick, Link and I stood at the edge of the pool for what seemed like 10 million years jumping in and out and in and out of the pool's shallow side.

Time flew and before I knew it, we had grab Ruby and Mimi and eat up some lunch before the pre-wedding crunch of GETTING READY was upon us.

The easiest thing to do was to hit the hotel's restaurant. That goddamned place! Because as soon as we walked in, Link started fussing. Whining, squirming. I feel like there should be a world-wide Fragile X task force that reports to a centralized website on restaurants around the globe so we f'n know in ADVANCE that a place has crappy energy/vibes/atmosphere! Good thing there is wine. And that is all I can say about that.

So, yeah. Our hotel rooms were madness by the time we got back from lunch. All available cousins were primping and preening and teeming about. It was hectic. Link was running in and out of rooms and into the hallway. PJ was crying off and on about letting/not letting anyone help her with her hair/make-up. Ruby was pissed in general. Beautiful and pissed. I had no time for a shower after it was all said and done just a high-school-style-leg-shave-on-the-edge-of-the-tub. I don't even think I washed my face. Mean Ruby did my hair (beautifully) and we left. At 3. The wedding was supposed to start at 3.

It was 5 minutes from the hotel, if that. But I made sure we'd be extra late by missing the road. Twice.
When we arrived we flew into the venue and smack dab into the bride who was about to make her entrance. Classy.

Like a tornado, we careened towards some seats that happened to be RIGHT IN FRONT. Link, nap-free Link, was in my lap and about as relaxed as a greased octopus.

You know that part of a wedding ceremony when the officiant asks if there's anyone who thinks the couple should not be married? Well, this wedding's version went something like: Are we ready to witness the marriage of these two people? To which Lincoln Anthony Sgueglia promptly (and loudly replied) "NO!"  His beloved status within the family saved his blond ass from a mutiny, I am sure.

10 minutes later, he was asleep in Mimi's arms in a quiet, cozy part of the venue and remained thusly till his devastatingly handsome father (soaked from a 3 hour motor cycle ride in the rain) FINALLY arrived and calmed my heart and soul like an Alka Seltzer of love.

Plymouth 2013. Day 1, Part II

Stephen, Billy, Cathy, Peter, Maggie, Billy, Matt, Jimmy, Jim, Mary, Mary, Philip, Richard, Chris, Joey, Shawna, Grace, Marie, PJ, Paige, Collin, Joe, Gail, Lori, Noel, Leah, Karen, Michael, Tommy, Joe Joe, Dan, Abby, Madeline, Don.
And that's not the boyfriends, girlfriends, husbands, wives, friends whose names I can't recall right now.

These people were the army that showed up to form a phalanx of love and acceptance and joy around my family.

Some of them I hadn't seen in over 15 years, some of them I'd never met; yet here they were: Happy, fun, funny and as in love with my baby as I needed them to be. Without asking, without a question of doubt, they trusted and shepherded my boy that night.

They let him push their baby on a 10 minute walk across town in the dark (duh. yes. with help). They scooped him up and showed him all the painted pictures of sea creatures in the very, very loud restaurant we ended up in. And it bears mentioning that one of the cavalry who carried him around that first night, my cousin Billy, is not your average dude. Not in looks or psyche or approach to life. Billy (William O'Keefe) is a wildly talented painter and musician who lives on the streets in Cambridge, MA. He has an inarticulate mass of orange hair, the color of pumpkin flesh that lives by its own laws on top of his head. He's thin, bony. His face pale and chiseled. He smells of oil paints and cigarettes and Lincoln adores him. Explain that.

The answer is: FAMILY.

They shared their food and their laps and their water. Their laughs and dance moves and utter fucking love of life.

Lincoln fell asleep that first night in the arms of our sweet Mimi and we took turns carrying him back to the hotel with some of my cousins and the lovely Ruby.

And the next morning he woke up kissing my face and asking for "eat" and water and his iPad as my gorgeous cousin, Lori, in the next bed was saying the most wonderful things about him and his magical personality.

24 hours in and I was ALL IN. I never wanted to leave.

Plymouth: July 2013, Part I

In bed, sipping coffee. Kids are gone, house is quiet(ish) except for the occasional and adorable monologues by the hot husband at foot of the bed. Outside my window there is a squirrel sleeping on a tree-branch; allegedly already exhausted from the heat.

I'm procrastinating a little. Buncha stuff to do. Post weekend away stuff: Unpack, do laundry, organize the overnight bags, clean the puke up from the back of the car...

Let me back up a bit, k?

Day 1

The ride to Plymouth on Friday to see my family for a long-over due reunion/wedding was pretty f'n great. I was open minded, packed lots of snacks, water, apple computer products and accessories, Toy Story paraphernalia, minions, you know, the usual. There were no urinary tract emergencies, expended crying jags, extended crying just some annoying bouts of unwanted sisterly physical contact. I was feeling lucky.

Excitement was at a fever pitch when we got to the hotel (my kids love hotels, like unnaturally so. And the vibe out immediately on the ambiance & the possibility of room service and unlimited down pillows).  And I was caught up in it, too. Link was so good and so happy go lucky that I took it for granted he would remain so.

Fast forward 30 minutes and we're sitting in the little tavern inside the hotel waiting on some grub and mah boy is tweaking. A little at first, just some background whining and fidgeting which I thought would be quelled by the crayons and paper the servers brought us. Nope. Within minutes, things were worse and me and Mimi and Ruby and PJ were all in it. Each one of us offering our own brand of comfort but nothing worked. Even when his food arrived he was still randomly screeching, hitting me and crying. I knew he needed to eat, so I didn't want to leave. I poured another glass of wine from the bottle I ordered and dug in deep with my baby.

Eventually, his brain received the signal that glucose was flowing, that the hunger pangs were gone and his thirsty, thirsty self had more water available than he could possibly need. He ate. The girls and Mimi ate. I picked at their plates and had glass #3 of my Chilean Sauvignon Blanc at the ready.

Ruby, who although had been an insufferable jerk to her little sister the whole day, was ready and able to scoop up baby boy and carry him back up to our room as I settled the bill. Fragile P, took up Lincoln's real estate in my lap and seemed to relax, too. The unknown and Penelope are not friends and this trip could be potentially nerve-wracking for her. Because even though she was familiar with the town (we'd been to Plymouth a few times before) and some of my relatives, there was still a whole lot of mystery in her mind. Having me to herself for a moment was like a little alka seltzer for her sweet self.

When we were all reunited upstairs, it was time to suit up the young'uns to take a dip in the hotel pool. We had two adjoining rooms so I didn't always know where everyone was and I lost track of Ruby for a minute. When I found her, she was crying in one of the bathrooms. Ruby is taller than me and is built more like a woman than I am, so physically comforting her can be a little awkward for me. Like my arms don't go all the way around, I can't kiss the top of her head with out standing on my tip toes. But when I did hug her, she melted and cried harder.

"Why do people have to stare at him like that, mom?"

Ah, "other people". Those fuckers and their self-control and typically functioning brains.

Apparently on their way back to the room, Ruby had the unpleasant experience of seeing people see her brother. And when that happens, it feels awful. It feels like I-will-get-my-flamethrower-and-scorch-you-judgmental-bastards-to-the-hell-you-came-from.

"Aw, Rube, don't worry babe. In a few hours there will be an entire ARMY of family around our baby."

And as usual, I couldn't have been more right.

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.