Confessions of a Serial Swooper

Maybe it’s the pre-holiday madness.  Maybe it’s the fact that winter, my very least favorite time of year, is looming.  I don’t know.  Whatever the reason, I’m a little cranky lately.  And there are a number of things that are

totally

ticking

me

off.

1.  Idiots Complaining About TSA Pat-Downs.

Really?  Keep in mind that these people are only faced with said pat-down because they have chosen not to go through the new full-body security scanner.   Come on, crazies.  Get with the program.  If you elect not to go through the scanner than you should be subjected to whatever is required so that security is 100% sure you aren’t taking down a plane.   TSA agents aren’t looking to get off on feeling your inner thigh.  They’re looking to save your life.  So, if you want to complain about pat-down techniques then you may not complain when the woman in line behind you tapes explosives under her breasts and strolls onto your plane because the agent didn’t want to embarrass her with a hand-swipe under her boobs.

Or, maybe we can talk the airlines into flying one security-free flight a day.  No check-points, no scanners, no pat-downs.  And then all you nut-jobs who bitch about security can feel free just to climb right on board.

You have a nice flight.  Hope you make it.

_____

2.  Haiti

Yup.  I know.  Probably ruffling a few feathers with this one.  But, let’s look at what’s been happening in Haiti.  So, there was an earthquake.  A horrible, horrible earthquake that devastated and already terribly depressed, poor nation.  A nightmare, no doubt.  And I, for one, was busy texting “Yele Haiti” with Wyclef Jean and praying for the helpless victims of nature’s wrath.  I know that, as a country, the United States (and many others) raised a lot of money to help Haiti start to rebuild.  I’m sure it wasn’t anywhere near what that country really needed (and continue to need).  But, I’m also proud of the fact that the United States was a leader in helping a virtually helpless nation.

Fast forward to a few weeks ago when there was threat of Hurricane Tomas heading towards Haiti.  More than a million Haitians were living in tent cities at the base of a mountain in Port-au-Prince.  Had the hurricane continued on its forecasted path, mudslides would surely have resulted in thousands of deaths.  So, in goes the American Red Cross and the United Nations to help evacuate people to safe shelters — offering refuge from a very dangerous situation.  But, fearing looting of their minimal possessions and refusing to be “displaced” from the tents they now called home, most citizens refused to leave.  When pressed by the UN or the Red Cross, violence erupted.  In the end, mere hundreds actually left their tents and sought shelter elsewhere.  Thankfully, the hurricane spared Haiti the worst of its force.

But, what would have happened if it didn’t?  Would we feel responsible for helping again?

Cholera grips the nation of Haiti today.  But, sadly, representatives from the UN and from Oxfam can’t  get into the country in recent days because of dangerous rioting, fires and threats of violence.  Many Haitians firmly believe it was the United Nations who brought the disease to the island and they resent the outside presence.  The UN, consequently, was forced to cancel flights carrying tons of desperately needed soap and medical supplies because they are unable to land safely.  Oxfam suspended water chlorination projects and the W.H.O. had to cease on-the-ground training of medical staff.  The UN World Food Program warehouse was burned down and looted.

So, when cholera devastates a country whose people won’t allow us to provide soap, clean water and trained doctors, must we all get back to work sending money for their aid?  Will George Clooney hop back on live tv for an hour-long telethon with images of death, destruction and helplessness?

Can a nation still be called “helpless” when help has been offered and rebuked?

Is it still our duty?

_____

3. On a lighter note.

Mark Sanchez, Rex Ryan and the stupid New York Jets.

Stop making me think you’re going to lose and then pull out another win.  It’s annoying.  Quit it.

_____

4.  Skating with the Stars?

Really?   The good news is, if Bethenny Frankel is their A-List celebrity, there’s no way we’ll have to suffer through a Season Two.

_____

But On the Up Side.

On the up side, my dearest friend from childhood is coming to visit me tomorrow with her wonderful husband and beautiful new baby.  I can’t wait to see them all.   She lives a million miles away in Montana and it seems like we don’t connect nearly often enough.  But, she is (and always has been) that kind of a friend where, when we’re together, it feels like no time has passed at all.  She can make me laugh like no other but she’d offer a shoulder to cry on as quickly as a she’d offer a smile.

So, give me a friend like that, and I’ll gladly suffer the TSA fools, political frustrations and Bethenny Frankel on Ice.

But, do I still have to watch the stupid Jets?

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Hand him to me.

What?

Hand the baby to me.

No, I don’t…

Really.  You need to give him to me and just go lie down for a while.

So, I did.

As she looked steadily into my wild, panicked, devastated eyes, I handed my mother-in-law my tiny, baby boy.  My crying, unhappy baby.  My miserable, colicky, life-changing, impossible-to-please, horrible, nasty baby.  My baby who, at least at that moment, I couldn’t be around for one second longer.   Shouldn’t be around for one second longer.  And she knew it.

I gave her my baby.   And then, alone (very, very alone) I went upstairs.

I lay in my bed and, through my silent tears, listened.   I listened as she spoke to him quietly.  As she paced the house soothing him.

Predictably, he responded to her calm and slowly….slowly…slowly…he stopped shrieking and became the contented child I didn’t know at all.  The contented, happy child I clearly didn’t deserve.

Because she, unlike me, was a Mom.  She knew how to be a real Mom.

And, all I knew was how to be afraid.

Afraid that Husband and I had made the biggest mistake of our lives in having this child.

Afraid that this child, who clearly hated me, was slowly succeeding in ensuring the feeling was mutual.

Afraid that, in the most important undertaking of my life (of anyone’s life), I was nothing but a failure.

I was failing my baby.   And, he knew it.   The little bastard knew it.

__________

In hindsight, of course, it all looks so clear.  My sickness.  Postpartum depression.  My OCD personality devastated by complete lack of control after childbirth.  I was a mess.  But, I was lucky to have help from my mother-in-law and from my own mother (not to mention my incredibly patient Husband) as we all muddled through it without any professional help.  Without recognizing overtly that I was, in fact, not “right”.

When the baby was about two weeks old, his pediatrician told me not to worry.  That the colic would likely not last beyond six weeks.   That he’d be alright.

Six weeks?

It sounded like an eternity.  Another month of this?

He’ll be alright?  What about me?

I was pretty sure we’d both never make it.

__________

Today, when friends ask me (real friends, at least) to wax poetic about all the joys they can expect of their impending motherhood, I’m usually honest.  Because, let’s face it, most people aren’t honest.

It’s really, really hard.  Really hard.  Don’t be afraid if you don’t feel the way you think you should be feeling.  Don’t be afraid to ask for help.  Don’t be afraid to admit it sucks sometimes.  Call me.  I’ll understand.  I understand that sometimes it isn’t one bit easy.

But, I also understand that babies are the single greatest blessing (and I don’t use that word easily) ever given to any of us.  And that parenthood is, ultimately, worth every struggle, every tear, every feeling of utter failure.

Because, one day, he’ll fall asleep snuggled up atop your heart and you’ll feel his silky hair brushing against your chin.

And then, not too long after, he’ll give a happy, crooked smile at the sight of your face.

And, one day, he’ll look up at you and he’ll call you “Mommy”.  And you’ll feel the depth of what that title means.

And you can’t possibly imagine how you ever lived without him.

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Those familiar with my Facebook status updates, will already know that Little Brother’s been under the weather.   It’s uncanny, actually, because my kids have an unbelievable knack for getting sick on their birthday.  You all probably have great pictures of your kids blowing out candles with their little eyes wide saucers of delight.  Not me.  Most of my birthday photos are rosy-cheeked fevered boys with glassy eyes and a runny nose.  It’s horrible actually.

Anyway, the birthday was Monday so, predictably, Little Brother started acting weird on Sunday afternoon.

Me to Husband:  He’s totally getting sick, I know it.

Husband:  Stop.  He’s fine.  You’re making too big a deal of it.

Wrong.

Anyway.  Long story short we had a day of runny nose and fever, followed by a birthday of lethargy and fever, followed by a day of all three, followed by a day of non-stop coughing.

Notice I said “days of” those things.

The night?

Oh, the nights.

The first few nights, my job was to administer Tylenol and Motrin to keep the fever down.  Often, Little Brother would wake crying and I’d rush into his room, medicine in hand, to soothe and comfort until he fell asleep again.  Which meant a half hour or so of lost sleep three or four times a night.  But, at least we were accomplishing something.

But, as is always the case with my kids, they’re sort of into the medicine idea for the first few days.  By the third night they’re totally cranky little bastards who are completely pissed off that they’re sick.

So last night, Little Brother’s fever had broken but he was coughing up a storm in his bed.   His sleep was restless and, knowing his last dose of cough syrup was more than four hours ago, I decided to head into his room with a new dose.

I picture myself a little Florence Nightingale.

Little Brother?  Who was actually finally asleep when I came in and woke him up for medicine?

He thought I was more like Annie Wilkes.

Somehow I forgot the old “never wake a sleeping baby” mantra.   It didn’t turn out well for either of us.  It was a loooooong night.

Is it nap time yet?

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October 25, 2010

Dear Little Brother,

It’s hard to know where to start in writing a letter to you in honor of your third birthday.  There’s so much I want you to know about how special you are to us and how proud we are of you (and your brother) each and every day.

I’ll start with telling you that Daddy and I are somewhat selfish people (surprise!).  We always knew we wanted to have a family together but we also knew that having a baby was going to seriously alter our relationships with things we thought we cared deeply about —  like our sleep, our social life and our one-on-one relationship with each other.   So, when your big brother was born in 2004 (and sure enough, things changed), he lit up our lives with happiness and love.  But, we weren’t all that sure there would be another baby to follow.

Don’t get me wrong.  We never once regretted giving those things up to start a family.  But, it wasn’t easy.  Your big brother was colicky, I had a bout with postpartum depression, broke my foot and things were a bit of a mess for a while.   We pulled through it, of course, and by the time we moved to Vermont your brother was six months old, I was a happy Mommy (and a walking Mommy) again and our life as a family of three settled into a wonderful little routine.

Your grandparents (Marnie and Jeff) had just one child — me.   And while there are hundreds of stereo-types and psychological studies about lonely, spoiled only children, I never once felt cheated out of a sibling.   I had many friends and a busy social life.  I never felt lonely and I certainly never felt spoiled (does anyone?).    So, to me, the idea of having just one child was perfectly acceptable.

Your other grandparents (Grammie and Grampy) had two children — Daddy and Uncle “Mickey”.  Daddy and Mickey enjoyed life as brothers to the fullest.  They had (and still have) an eternal playmate in one another as they grew up with backyard games, team sports and the ever-present sibling rivalries.

I respected the bond they shared.  I loved the stories they shared about growing up together.  I loved that, in my marriage to your Dad, I gained a brother for myself.

But, I never envied them.

I never felt I needed a sibling of my own.

So, therefore, I never felt that your Big Brother needed one either.

Then Grampy died.

And, it was horrible and unexpected and so so sad.

We shed so many tears and, although four years have passed, I think your Grammie and Daddy and Uncle Mickey sometimes feel as though Grampy was with us just yesterday.  He was a wonderful man.

Suddenly, there was so much to do.  So much to think about.   So much grief and so many memories.  So many details to handle and support to give.

Your Daddy and your Uncle were amazing.  They found their way through those first dark days of rushing back home to Grammie, planning services, greeting friends and I can’t imagine how they got through it.  I’ll never know for sure.

But, I do know this.

They did it together.

At the most painful time in their lives, they got through it (and continue to get through it) by leaning on each other.  When Daddy was sad, Mickey was strong.  When Mickey was sad, there was Daddy by his side.

And, suddenly, I looked at siblings differently.  I looked at family differently.

Grampy died on October 21, 2006.

You, my sweet boy, were born on October 25, 2007.

Your big brother welcomed you with open arms.

It’s truly impossible to imagine we ever could have lived without you.

__________

This morning, as you slept in a little, your Big Brother was up at his usual 6 am.  He emerged from his room, enjoyed the breakfast I left out for him, watched a little Curious George and drew you a picture.  He slipped it into an envelope, tucked it under your door and waited for you to discover it.

You loved it.

Happy Birthday, sweet Little Brother.

We love you more than words can say.

xoxo,

Mom

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Growing up in Vermont, there were some pretty basic footwear requirements.  A good pair of flip-flops and tennis sneakers for the spring and summer.  A pair of hiking boots for the fall.  A good pair of rubber boots for mud season (which is, in Vermont, a season in itself).  And in the winter?

These.

The classic LL Bean boot.  Loved them.  (And readers may recall one of the greatest insults EVER to come from the snarky mouth of my brother-in-law that included an LL Bean reference.)

So.  I picked up Yankee Magazine today.  I loooove Yankee Magazine.  Flipping through this month’s issue, I came across an article that included ten tips for carving turkey. (I read six out loud before Husband asked me to stop. Apparently, he has it all figured out.) I came across a piece on the best winter strolls and was simultaneously delighted and disappointed to read that my own town’s Christmas Stroll was one of three listed in Massachusetts.  (Like parking isn’t hard enough.)

Then…

This.

A new Manolo Blahnik.

Really.  I kid you not.  Look ’em up yourself.

Good lord.   I mean, is there any chance people will actually buy these?

I’m so out of touch.

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I don’t get kids fashion today.  Don’t get it.

We all know about the pants thing.   Pull up your pants, son.  I don’t need to see your underwear.

(Although, those of you who grew up in the 80s might recall that gender-neutral fashion trend of wearing boxer shorts that hung down below your athletic shorts.  Preferably styled with a pair of Sambas.  Remember that?)

Anyway, the latest fashion trend that’s making me crazy (crazier?) today is the baseball hat thing.  Whatever happened to the cute kid in the worn baseball cap positioned straight on his head?  The kid with the nicely bent brim that framed their cute face perfectly?

(I have no idea who these kids are, by the way.  Found this picture on internet. But aren’t they wholesome and cute?  Yes.)

There’s really not much better than a well-worn, well-shaped, well-loved baseball hat.   This one belonged to some freaky Kevin Sorbo-obsessed Hercules fan.

The hat-wearing fan’s prayers were answered when he got up close and personal enough with Sorbo to ask for an autograph.  On the hat.  Here it is:

“Stop Sweating On Me!”  — Kevin Sorbo

Anyway, despite his questionable obsession with all things Kevin Sorbo, I actually have more respect for that baseball hat-wearing guy than I do for this guy.

Um, yeah, peace out, dude.  Now, put your hat on straight.

And what happened to the brims?  No one bends brims anymore!    You can be a geek (sorry, guys)…

or a rapper…

or an ACTUAL baseball player…

…and no one bends their brims.

But, you want to know what’s even lamer?  Do you know it’s considered cool today to leave the stickers and price tag on your hat?  I kid you not.

I’m glad someone pointed out to me today that this was a new trend.  Because I would totally go up to that kid and, thinking I was being helpful, reach up and remove the sticker.

You’re welcome.

Sigh.

I actually think that baseball hats reflect the slow disintegration of our society today.

Hear me out.

I love a man in a good baseball cap.

— A well-worn baseball cap shows me that its wearer has loyalty.   He doesn’t toss the old hat aside because it’s aging a little.  A good man appreciates the memories formed when man and hat were each a little younger.   And, he looks forward to making new memories together.

— A baseball cap positioned straight on the head shows the man has a serious side.  No adolescent hijinks here.   He’s got nothing to prove.

— And, price tags?  Name brand labels?  I think not.  Peel ’em off.   A tag-less hat shows confidence.  No need to brag.

So, I may be the lamest Mom in the world, but I’m bending brims, removing stickers and placing my boys’ hats on straight.

Hopefully, they won’t get beaten up on the playground.

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Got an email this morning from Travelzoo, an online newsletter I subscribe to that sends out some really great travel offers.

Now, I’m no travel agent but don’t you think $29 is a little steep to fly one way from Boston to Boston?

__________

From: Travelzoo

Date: October 5, 2010 8:18:21 AM EDT

To: serialswooper@mac.com

Subject: NEWSFLASH: JetBlue Announces 1-Day Sale from Boston; Fares $29-$139

From the Travelzoo Newsdesk:

BOSTON–OCTOBER 5, 2010– This morning, as part of a one-day
sale, JetBlue cut fares from Boston for travel through mid-
December.

Sample nonstop fares from Boston (each way):
– Boston … $29
– Baltimore … $39
– Washington, D.C. … $44
– Chicago … $69
– Bermuda … $79
– Phoenix … $109
– Las Vegas … $139

These fares are valid through Dec. 15, however Nov. 23-30 is
blacked out. This sale ends 11:59 p.m. ET tonight.

JetBlue flights feature leather seating, unlimited snacks
and 36 channels of free DirecTV. Plus, the first checked bag
is free on all JetBlue flights.

__________

But, maybe that’s just me.

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There are those moments in life that stay with you forever.  Those moments where you can look back and know precisely where you were, what you were thinking and how you felt “when you knew.”  A million years ago, I wrote here about how Husband and I once discussed where we were when OJ Simpson was rolling down I-405 in Al Cowlings’ white Bronco (we won’t be discussing that again).  Depending on your age, you may also remember where you were when Prince Charles and Lady Diana wed and then, tragically, where you were when you learned of her death in a tunnel in Paris.   And, of course…you remember September 11th.

But, then there are also those personal moments that are woven into the fabric of your memory.  Happy memories like your first kiss.   Your wedding day.  You baby’s first words.  And, sad memories like the death of a loved one.  The words you wish you could take back.

I started this blog in September of last year (with a blog about a trip to Dunkin’ Donuts) so that I could capture some memories that I may have otherwise forgotten.  Many of the entries since then have been silly, random slices of daily family life but a few served as a way for me to work through something difficult.

Tomorrow, Husband and I celebrate 8 years of marriage.  I remember our first kiss (outside a bar in Boston).  I remember when he met my parents (he got carded at dinner) and I remember when he asked me to be his wife.   But, will I always remember how I felt?

Anyway, in my usually verbose way, I’m trying to let you know that (now and then) I’m going to try to do a blog that explores some “When Did You Know?” memories.  Because, to me, it’s more important to record and remember the moment when I knew I’d met my future Husband (or when I knew I was suffering postpartum depression or when I knew I was pregnant) than it is to remember the name Dodi Fayed or stupid “Kato” Kaelin.

No?

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Husband and I had a little disagreement last night.  In short, I felt that he was walking around pretending he was helping when really he was…well…walking around pretending.  He disagreed.  I escalated things (maybe a wee bit).  He disagreed a little more vehemently.  And then I ultimately ended the “discussion” by taking a half of an onion that was in my hand and winging it across the room towards him as he stood at the sink.  In a highly satisfying result, the onion bounced off and exploded nicely into ten or so messy onion bits as I turned and huffed out of the kitchen to put Little Brother to bed.

A little later, as I’m reading in Little Brother’s bedroom, I heard Big Brother wander into the kitchen and ask Husband of my whereabouts.

“She’s putting your brother to bed.”

“Oh.”

Pause.

“Hey, Dad?”

“Yeah?”

“What’s that stuff on the floor?”

“Oh, those are onions.  Your mother was just throwing onions at me.”

Marriage.

Throwing onions.

I mean, come on.  There’s humor in it, no?

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I hate bullies.  It’s all I can do not to walk up to the little 5-year old punk that doesn’t let Little Brother up the ladder to the slide and shove him off the jungle gym.  I can barely contain myself when some mental midget thinks he’s “all that” and decides to taunt the little girl with glasses.  I want to give ’em a firm talking to and a time-out that lasts until he’s twelve.

But, I say that (and I mean that) knowing that I may have not always been the kindest of children.  Like everyone, I fell victim to the desire to be “cool” and sometimes being cool meant not treating everyone the same, fair way.

My freshman year at boarding school (a mecca of hormones and popularity struggles), there was a senior girl who was clearly not cool.  She was a straight-A student.  She was pale.  She has two first names (like Janie Sue or Betty Ann, you know?) and she was neat as a pin.

She was also never anything but nice.

But, my friend and I were dying to be cool.   And, consequently, one day we were not very nice to our two-named dorm prefect.

Not surprisingly, she did a lot of laundry.  Neatly folded, ironed, pressed and perfect, her clothes weren’t brand name but they were nothing if not taken care of.  She was in the laundry room of our dorm all the time, it seemed.  Washing, folding and probably enjoying the order of things.

Until she lost a white sock.

One white sock.

In the laundry.

So, frustrated by the loss of one white sock, she posted a note on our dorm bulletin board that read:

LOST

ONE WHITE SOCK

Between the hours of 5 and 6:30 pm

October 4

IF FOUND, RETURN TO XXXX

Seriously?  I mean, come on.  How many socks get lost in the laundry every year?  Especially in a prep school dormitory where we all tossed our things and, often, forgot about them in the dryer for days on end.

But, she was stressed.

Lost.  One white sock.

We couldn’t resist.  My friend and I went to our room and made our own sign.  We posted it under the cover of darkness next to her note.

LOST

SEVENTY-TWO WHITE SOCKS

Any Day, All Day

Any Month

IF FOUND, RETURN TO ANY ONE OF THE MANY STUDENTS

WHO LOSE SOCKS EVERY. SINGLE. DAY.

We thought we were hilarious.  When we got back to our dorm the next morning after classes, our note was still there.  Hers was gone.

I feel terribly about it.  Still.  Today.

What a bitchy thing to do.

Twenty-four years later, I still feel like a schmuck about that note.

And she’s not reading (of course) but I wish she knew I hate that I wrote that stupid note.  And that I’m not that kind of a person.

So, maybe that’s why, when I see Little Jenny tease Little Julie on the playground, I want to step in and shake her.  I want to tell her to cut it out.   That, sure, she may feel pretty cool acting that way now (as her friends giggle at Julie’s expense).  But, it’s just not right.

And, when she’s a thirty-nine year old parent, she’ll be praying to god no one treats her child the way she once treated someone else.

_____

Along the same lines, I’ve discovered a hilarious blog called Passive Aggressive Notes that cracks me up almost daily.  People can be  so ridiculous.

Here’s one of yesterday’s gems.

__________

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