NO ONE Tells You These Things
Recently, Jane took the liberty of adding items to my bedside table. It was really only a matter of time until she took some ownership of the space, as she’s always finding reasons to be in it. First thing in the morning she wants to snuggle and watch cartoons. After dinner she stacks a tower of books on the floor and wants me to read to her in bed.
I always have a stash of books, a glass of water, my glasses, TUMS and hand cream on the bedside table. She’s fascinated by these things. One night after a reading session, she deposited her Dr. Seuss book on top of the table, next to my books, and smiled shyly.
“I put there,” she said.
A few days later she left me a t-shirt she’d used to blow her nose. This week I noticed her Tinkerbell cell phone, a purple sock, and a comic book that came with her Chick-fil-A dinner called Cowborg (this entire piece of literature confuses her and she just calls it “angry cow”).
A few nights later I turned out the lights and settled in. I fell asleep and rolled over. Jane, like the thoughtful two year old terrorist that she is, had carefully deposited her Tinkerbell phone under the covers. Verily I say unto thee ladies… you have never known terror until you roll onto a toy in your sleep and it switches on, and through the dark you hear these words:
“Iridescent! You’re looking sparkly tonight!”
I’d previously finished watching an episode of Hannibal before bed, and Matt was working late. My sleep deprived brain mixed all these components into a scary stew cocktail before I was even conscious enough to analyze what was happening to me. I sat straight up in the dark, lunging away from the pale yellow light of that little demonic piece of plastic.
The Tinkerbell cell phone might be this generations’s Chucky doll.
Here’s the part of the story where I’m a very bad mother. After she left for daycare the next day, I submerged the phone in water. I did not ever want to hear that thing bleat another chipper, horrifying fairy phrase.
“You are glowing with sunshine today!”
“My, I’m impressed by your fairy wisdom!”
I watched the bubbles gurgle to the surface and smiled smugly, knowing the little electric workings of its guts were smoldering into oblivion. Then I took it out, dried it off, and deposited it back onto my side table. There would be no more midnight Tinkerbell horror in my house.
The plan was very clear in my mind.
Jane would come home, pushing the previously chatty buttons on her Tinkerbell cell phone : “It’s bwoken!”
Me, hugging her, seeking to assuage my guilt: “Aw. That’s ok. Let’s go buy you a new cell phone.”
*insert super fun mommy-daughter Target date here*
I went into my closet to put on shoes. I hummed a little tune. I felt no guilt. That’s when a horrible, garbled voice from the bedroom started talking to me.
“The moon above gives us good cheer!”
It sounded as if Tinkerbell was a life long smoker, and had had a baby with Pee-wee Herman. Then they recorded it’s voice, and then slowed it down to the slowest speed possible.
“Theeee fairyyyyy duuuuust is readddddy for harrrrrvest…”
I know when I’ve been beaten, and that hellish piece of Chinese plastic beat me. I ran down the stairs, out the door, into the garage, and off to the safety of work.
They should really tell you about things like this when you take your childbirth classes. No one tells you that one day you’ll try to snuff out Tinkerbell. And then plan to lie to your kid about it. And then Tinkerbell will resurrect herself from the dead and taunt you with her zombie vocal chords.
No one tells you these things.
Writing About “It”
I recently finished watching a video series PBS did with Nora Ephron, and when she said this line, the world around me went into slow motion.
“Someday this will be funny, and you will write about it.”
Don’t you love how that happens? Every once in a blue moon something so small, yet so pivotal, takes place and everything you were doing before gets rerouted and redirected somewhere new.
When I heard her say those words, I teared up. This was partly because I’m still coming off antidepressants and it’s making me a weepy little nut-ball on certain moments of the day. I also teared up out of relief.
I am relieved that finally, after all this time, I can laugh about my postpartum depression.
For a long, long time, I could not laugh about it. And then, all of a sudden, I could.
I have a long standing rule that if I can’t laugh about something, I won’t write about it. It just takes time. With enough time, most things can be funny.
I think some people believe writing is a terribly romantic endeavor. I beg to differ. Writing, for me, is hard. It is hair pulling. I have to sit by myself and be terribly antisocial. I tell anyone around me, “Pretend I’m not here.” Which really stinks, because I like it when people talk to me.
I type for a while, glare at the screen and say something like, “Why can’t you just cooperate with me…words? Huh? Huh?” Basically, I have to be a little bit schizophrenic to do what I do. I’m sure it’s not that way for everyone, but it is for me. And since writing is not this easy, romantic, “lightning just struck my brain” event, I really have to have a carrot in front of my face. I have to bribe myself. The funny stuff is the carrot. If I can make myself chuckle, all that talking to myself and hair pulling is worth it.
So that’s what I’ve been doing. I’ve been putting my postpartum depression experiences on paper. I’m doing all of this through the lens of humor, of course. It’s cathartic. But it also symbolizes, for me, a big shift in my life.
It feels like I can finally close the door and move on.
The Sweetest May
This is the sweetest month. Flowers, bees, late sunsets, herbs on the patio, strawberry pies (from here), twinkle lights in the neighbor’s yard… it’s all so wonderful. I cannot wait for the cicadas and fireflies.
This was my third mother’s day as a mom. I have to say, I don’t really remember the last two. I know that’s awful, but where those days should be in my mind there are only two big, empty spaces. I can, however, remember every detail of the last purchasing meeting I went to. I can remember, in detail, what my high school boyfriend said when he broke up with me. I can remember account numbers, budget totals, and the date of the last time I cleaned the floors in my house. I can remember Jane’s first word (duck) and the first time she walked (at 18 months in our temporary apartment on a cold fall night).
But for some reason I’ve lost every detail of the last two mother’s days. The first one was right after I’d given birth. I didn’t get a card. Or flowers. That much I remember. Last year, I can’t remember at all.
I suspect there’s only so much room in my brain. And I’d like to think that I’ve filled up all those spaces with other more important memories than a commercial holiday packed with Jared commercials. Am I the only one who wants to kick a puppy every time I see one of those chocolate diamond commercials? Or the commercials that feature a necklace with what can only be described as a diamond shard… not even a chip… in the center? Seriously men. Just have your children draw your wife a picture and let her sleep in. No one wants a diamond shard.
I say all that to end up at this point: this was a great Mother’s Day. This one I will remember. I’ll remember because it was the first time Jane did both #1 and #2 in her potty. I’ll remember the way she peered at her poop suspiciously (a sight previously unseen in her entire life because they’re usually safely contained in her diaper). She looked at it, looked at me, looked at it, all the while her forehead was creased in a monstrous frown. She drew up her hands and yelled, “NO TOUCH! It’s yucky!” I will remember because I really want to. These are things I do not want to forget.
Thank goodness for pictures. Thank goodness for a blog.
Voldemort Nose and Thoughts On Transparency
While I was photo-bombing Jane eating cereal this morning, I noticed the top picture and thought, “Cool Voldemort nose bro.” Except all of us ardent Harry Potter fans know a Voldemort nose is not a cool thing at all. So I shall never make that face again as long as I live.
Just kidding. I’m making it right now.
If a lifetime of photos are any evidence at all, I’ve been making strange and inappropriate faces since I was born. It’s one of the reasons I don’t photograph very well. I’m always contorting my face when talking, or laughing, or ducking my head to create a ginormous double chin, or raising my eyebrows and bugging my eyes when someone tells me a good story. This whole big eyes raised eyebrows thing is also one of the reasons I attract lots of crazy people into my life… or so says my mom.
“You and your aunt,” she’ll say, “You’re both too open and transparent. Crazies love that.”
But over the last few years I’ve come to the conclusion that crazy attracts crazy… that’s why crazy people like me. They look at me, note my hyper talking and bugged eyes and say, “Hey, a kindred spirit. Let’s be buds.” And then I make my Voldemort nose face and say, “Cool. Lets.”
It’s really a matter of transparency.
Transparency can be awkward. It’s hard to be at a party, with a room full of women who are all wearing size 2 Ann Taylor and talking about car pools and pilates Then one of them mentions the new moisturizer they bought at the Estee Lauder counter and suddenly you feel it rising up in your throat. “Shut up!” you say to yourself, but it’s too late. A story bursts from your lips about the time your sister bought face cream from Dillard’s, broke out in hives, had bumpy skin and you spent all Christmas vacation calling her Lizard Face. And then she got angry and smeared the cream on your neck and you got the lizard bumps too. And then all the women stand silently, staring at you, wondering what planet you’re from. And then you get nervous and involuntarily make the Voldemort nose face.
This is the story of my life.
I find a lot of things difficult in life. Math, for starters. Making it to church on Sunday morning when Jane is screaming and I spent all week working and all day Saturday cleaning. These things are hurdles for me. I battle against them. But transparency has always been something that happened easily, despite being the non-size 2 dork at the party who tells other wives lizard skin stories. I can’t seem to reign myself in and be dignified and reserved. I make weird faces. I tell weird stories. I talk too much, too long, and too loudly. It’s just who I am, the way it is, for better or worse, richer or poorer, skinny or fat.
I got an email last week asking me what I thought the most important key to successful blogging was. After I finished laughing (because never in a thousand years should anyone come to me for advice on successful blogging… I took down my public comments for goodness sakes), I realized there is one easy answer to this question. Transparency.
Do I always manage that here? Ur. No. There’s a whole other side of my life that I don’t talk about. I probably should. But I don’t. I don’t like making waves. I don’t like making people mad. As much as I’m transparent in my facial expressions and making awkward party conversation with strangers… it’s hard to show the real deal on here.
But. It’s good for blogging. Sometimes it’s OK to stop hiding behind who you think you should be, and just let it go. Sure, some people won’t get it. You’ll get strange stares. Or rude comments. Or critical emails. But all that energy you’ve placed into creating yourself the way you think you should be will be much better served in other areas of your life. You’ll have awkward moments. But you’ll be happy once you let it (whatever it is) all hang out. Pick your nose in public. Pin a Star Wars calender onto the wall at work despite the fact that you’re 35, and a lawyer. Wear broom skirts instead of skinny jeans even though you’ll look like an old hippy because YOU’LL BE SO COMFORTABLE. Talk loudly and passionately when the mood strikes.
Don’t fear who you truly are.
Don’t fear transparency.
Don’t fear the Voldemort nose.
Now if I can just take my own advice…
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