A Little Mushy

When I first started this blogging venture, I wasn't sure what I wanted the project to become.   Did I want to write funny stuff about all the things J and I were screwing up?  Did I want to just keep track of Mabel's doings?  Or maybe I wanted a place where I could get emotional?  Since I never really decided, my blog has been a melange of all those things.  And while I sometimes wish my blog had more of a theme, I'm also glad I have a place where I can just be.  Where I can write sad stuff if I feel sad, and make attempts at humor if I'm feeling jokey.  The blog has become a true reflection of myself as a rookie mom-- because I'm not ONLY going through things that concern Mabel.  In this newer stage of my life, I'm observing a lot, and while I may decide I want Mabel to be able to go back and read all these entries someday, maybe I will decide the contrary-- that the pieces are of me, and that I want her to read only some of the material.  Regardless,  today's blog will be one Mabel should definitely read if she should get the chance.  It's about her dad. 

In 2013, I'm still sorting out, from time to time, thoughts about why my first marriage didn't work out.  Of course I know it was for the best that the marriage broke up.  Of course I couldn't picture myself anywhere but with Mabel and J.  I know that the grueling journey through divorce- ville was worth it.  I was married as a kid more or less, at the age of 24, to my college sweetheart.  Looking back, there were signs that my ex and I were too similar and also too different in all the ways that mattered-- yes, that's a weird dichotomy, but it's true.  And so at age 28, I left the marriage and started over.  Started over when nearly all my friends from college were married and most were starting to have kids.  I moved back in with my parents-- a comforting yet dreadful exercise-- and had to figure out just where the fuck my life was going to go from there.

It doesn't really matter what happened over those three years before I met J, but I did date.  And I did go through the pain of repeated dates and even some relationships not working out.  I lived in a teeny- tiny dollhouse of an apartment in the city when I met J-- by chance, at a bar, in the next state away.  And because no other dating interactions had worked out to that point, I had no reason to believe things would go well with J either.

There were traits about J that I found attractive-- and quickly grew to adore-- from the get- go.  He was funny, which has always been my number- one requirement for a partner.  In our very first conversation, we discovered a mutual love of 80s and 90s comedy movies and our common affinity for quoting them.  He listened when I talked on the night we met-- like really listened.  He remembered stuff later that I had mentioned casually.  And on the eve of our meeting, in a crowded, loud club of a bar with a hotel upstairs, he didn't even try to get me to go up with him.  Yes, it's a taboo topic, but let's face it: in the adult dating world, many people are focused just on hooking up.  They want to get some, and they'll buy you a drink and tell you what you want to hear.  But J told me only that it was nice meeting me, and he'd be in touch.  "Yeah, right,"  I thought-- "I've heard THAT one before."  Later, around 2AM, he texted me: "Have a good rest of your night.  Give you a call tomorrow."  And he did.  A real call.  And that's something else about the dating world-- lots of people won't call you with their actual human voices.

I wasn't sure about J for a bit of time because I could feel myself falling for him, being more drawn to him than anyone in a long, long time, and the thought scared me.  He was from the next state over, a good 2 hours away.  He came from a  divorced family, and since my ex did too-- and I still swear that had an effect on his ability to be in a relationship-- I was terrified.  He was carefree and lax-- the total opposite of me.  Yet, I was so, so drawn.

We had a rocky start.  Lots of factors were at play: the physical distance between us, both being hurt and scarred by a long relationship in the past, and maybe some immaturity on both our parts too.  But through even the times of not seeing each other, we were talking.  I had the summer off the year we met, and I remember J calling me every single day on his lunch hour, and often again at night.  And we would sit on the phone for what felt like 5 minutes but was often a full hour.  I WANTED to hear from him-- every time.  And I still do today.

J and I eventually began seeing each other again, and quickly established a serious relationship.  I'd drive down to CT after work on a Friday, giddily excited the whole time.  On his weekends to come up here, I would await the arrival of the nearly- broken- down red jalopy like a kid on Christmas.  No matter what we did, we had fun.  J loved exploring parts of my world, and I his.  His family was different from mine, but from the start, I could see love and support among them.  He's got step- sisters and step- nephews and a married gay brother; it was far from the boring, nuclear "2.5 kids and a dog" scheme that was my family.  But I adored watching their interactions.  Yes, his parents were divorced, but J had made his peace with it long ago-- as did everyone else in the family, including his parents.  And his family life was full of joys that were apparent to any onlooker.

Now that we are married and have a daughter, it seems like time has flown past like one of those montages they play in sappy romantic movies.  J has become an incredibly loving husband and doting father.  I don't think I could have foreseen that specifically when we first met, but I always, always knew there was something about J that was special.  Gut instinct is a powerful thing.

While I hate Facebook mush and public displays of affection, this is my blog, my space, and so I'm going to take a minute to express why I am so grateful for J.  He is perhaps the most genuine person I have ever met: no airs, nothing put on.  While he himself would say he comes from a different "class of people" from my family, he doesn't mind it.  (And by the way, it's not even really true-- not in any major way.  There is, perhaps, a difference in the educational backgrounds of our parents, and a bit of a working class feel when it comes to J's family, but they are successful people who enjoy life and respect and support each other through whatever. And I certainly do not come from a silver- spoon upbringing by any means!) J would give anyone the shirt off his back-- he's gone out of his way to do countless things for my parents, and never wants recognition.  He grew up learning-- from his strong, inspirational Grampy-- that you should just do nice stuff for others.  J acknowledges the world around him, and works hard at what he does, but he does everything with a smile.  I rarely hear him complain about work.  He is the only person I know who, on a Sunday night when I complain about the coming Monday, says, "I'm actually kinda looking forward to getting back to work tomorrow"  and then explains why.  He more than rolls with the proverbial punches-- he welcomes them and takes them on as challenges.  I suck at that.

J has this way of keenly calming my nerves without insulting me or making me feel like a pathetic worry wart (which I am).  He jokes or gives me a hug or explains things in an optimistic way, but never makes me feel like shit for worrying.  I'm SURE he gets annoyed with me, but still responds to my naggy, annoying texts, and sees me through my most worried/ frustrated moments.  He randomly texts me "I love you" and "I really miss you today" just because.  J doesn't write sappy crap on social media to impress others, but instead says and does meaningful things every day.  If I want to take a nap, even if he was the one who got up early with Mabel, he tells me to lie down and takes her outside to push her around in her car, making lap upon lap in the yard so I can sleep in a quiet house.  If I ask him to grab a few groceries for dinner, he does so without grousing-- and always grabs a few extra things I might like.  If he can do something to make my work day easier-- like picking up Mabel if he's gotten out of work earlier-- he just does it.  He gets up before he needs to every day because I leave so early and Mabel gets up soon after I go.   J is perhaps the best cook I know-- and yet, he never brags.  He just cooks. 

I'm fascinated daily with J as a dad-- not because I thought he couldn't do it, but because little things make me see how much he loves Mabel and how being a great dad is the most important thing to him.  He went through some pretty crappy stuff as a kid, and he's determined not to allow that crappiness for Mabel.  Even in her most melty of meltdowns, J has a calm way of dealing when I am ready to pull out my hair.  He plays with Mabel and tickles her and teaches her as much as he can about animals and the yard and manners and life.  One of my favorite things to do is just watch them be together.  If I am gone, I can rely on J to take care of Mabel perfectly.  He is motherly in his fathering, in the most macho way possible. :)

And as a man, J makes me very proud.  As I said, he's faced adversity-- familially, financially, and otherwise.  He had to put himself through school.  He had to cope with a string of crappy boyfriends his mom would bring home throughout his teen-- most impressionable-- years.  He had to deal with REAL (not self- decided) A.D.D. and difficulties with spelling and mechanics.  And where is he now?  In a great job-- that he earned.  He is aware of his weaknesses (something that's hard for many people) and trudges on, never using them as excuses.  He jokes about them instead-- and still works, works, works to do better.  While I can't put a damn thing together, J can put together furniture and all of Mabel's toys.  He adds numbers and figures dimensions at a speed I simply cannot, and knows more about nature than I could ever conceive of.  Just yesterday, I said I wondered if we would get another storm.  He told me about how the leaves on trees turn up if so, and explained how and why.  He can look at any fish-- any fish at all-- and tell you the type and region.  J fascinates me every day.

There's that old adage that opposites attract.  When my first marriage broke down, I felt that cliche to be a pile of hooey, because my ex and I were opposites in lots of ways.  But what I have learned through my journey in singletown and now marriage is that you have to be opposites in the right areas.  You have to have the same life goals, and you need to want to spend your days doing generally the same types of things.  You have to have the same approach to household living, and you must be on the same page when it comes to communication.  The rest of the stuff?  You can be opposite as all heck.  How else would a Nervous- Nellie and a Laidback Larry ever have fallen in love?  How would a fisherman and  a writer ever have formed a bond?

Mabel, if you ever get the chance, I hope you can read this piece.  You deserve to know the wonderfulness that is Dad.

Mabel on the Mend

I know it's never happened that I've posted twice in a day, but that's the joy of life, right?  The unexpected?

Mabel is recovering from a mean double ear infection.  Last week, on Monday and Tuesday evenings, she wouldn't eat dinner.  I knew this to be out of character for Mabel, but I also figured she may have eaten a lot at day care, as sometimes is the case.  Then, however, came the barfing on Wednesday and Thursday, and the general fatigue and fussiness.  Fatigued is a word that definitely does not describe our usual Mabel, and so off to the pedi office we went.

It didn't take long for Dr. B to see Mabel had an ear infection.  There were no words for the screaming that came from Mabel's lungs when the nurse had to do the rectal temp and give Mabel Ibuprofen in the form of a suppository.  J. held her limbs down, and i tried to console Mabel by rubbing her screaming, reddened face.  "I hate you for not saving me!" she seemed to bellow.  By the end of the appointment, we had a script for an antibiotic and our questions answered.  It's totally true that these doc trips are more traumatizing for the parents.

It's been several days, and Mabel has achieved her come- back- to- life gradually.  I knew things were back to good when yesterday she bitched and moaned because she couldn't eat a diaper, and again because we wouldn't let her stand up on a chair.  Ahh, there's the daring and attitudey little gal- pal we know and love. :)

She has given us more completely ridonkulous reasons she is crying (the Tumblr-- again!), and that, my friends, is the mark of a healthier toddler.  Or at least ours.

This I Believe

It's funny how two worlds are intersecting right now: the adult writing group I'm helping a friend with and my own classes here at work are both working on an exercise called "This I Believe."  (Learn more at http://thisibelieve.org/--- it's a really cool endeavor.)

I wrote this piece to bring to the adult writing group this week.  We are going to share in small groups and critique, which is great because it needs critiquing.  But I felt compelled to paste my piece here.  I hope I can pass onto Mabel the very idea it conveys: that you won't be good at everything, and that's the human experience.  And it's actually quite lovely..

I believe I suck at lots of things.  

When I was ten years old, I signed up for recreational softball.  I was delighted to be on the “pink shirt” team with my neighbors Laura and Katie.  That first season, we practiced a lot at Tilden Field, under the tutelage of three ladies-- well, in retrospect, they were girls, probably not more than 18- years- old.  They’d throw us pitches, and we would see if we could hit.  We often didn’t, and our team was awful.  Correction: abysmal.  My supportive and probably still hopeful dad took me out in the backyard on off days and tried to instill in me some basics for improvement: don’t be afraid of the ball, and wearing your glasses would really help in hitting and catching.  You want me to wear my glasses socially?  Never.  The kindhearted coaches continued to embrace our newbie team’s suckiness, and to accept me as perhaps the player with the highest level of suckitude.  They’d stick me in the outfield, where I was more concerned with watching the gymnastics that kids were doing on the monkey bars, or with chatting with a fellow sucky player who was also in the outfield.  By season’s end, the pink team must have been in last place, but we had fun, and I had been on a team with my dearest friends.  I had competed, and I had always shown up.

In season 2, I, apparently a masochist, showed up again.  This time, I was put on Mr. Waldner’s team, and these girls meant business.  They rarely struck out.  And I rarely even got out on the field-- which was fine.  Keep me hidden.  I am still on the team, and nobody will out me as the worst softball player ever to join the rec league.  I remember listening to “Eternal Flame” by the Bangles on my tape player before getting to practice once, and spending most of my time while riding the pine trying to memorize the lyrics to the song.  I didn’t care a bit about the outcome of the game. By ⅔ of the way into the season, I told my parents I wanted to quit.  The spirit of the nice ladies from the pink team was nowhere to be find on this new, seemingly draconian but really just skilled team of girls.  They were always nice to me, but I was scared.  Scared to let them down.  Scared to be observed as horrifically clumsy when it came to catching and hitting an object in the air.  

I could go on about an array of athletic endeavors from there:  somehow making the JV field hockey team as a freshman in high school but spending the bulk of the little time I got on the field in a complete panic about what I would do should the ball actually come to me.  In gym class, I would bristle when I had to join the rotation on the volleyball court, completely aware that I would never serve the ball correctly let alone spike it.  And there was my adventure with the stringent tennis instructor, Stacey, who came right out and told me that perhaps I’d do better with swimming lessons.

And Stacey was right.  I was better at swimming.  While I only focused during these years on what I sucked at, I ignored what I COULD do: I was one of only two girls in my dance class that could warp my body into what we called “the frog.”  I advanced into the final stage of swim lessons faster than most kids at our neighborhood pool.  And the one thing I never rolled my eyes about in gym class was the physical fitness test-- because I could run.  And I could do all the balance moves well.  And I mastered every step in the aerobics component.  I couldn’t throw or catch a ball, and I wasn’t much at joining a feisty clan of field hockey players in a determined fight in which my ankle might be lobbed off.  I wasn’t aggressive, and I couldn’t be counted on in team sports.  But I could do things.   Things that were fun and gave me satisfaction and even some self- worth.

But back then I never gave myself any credit for the stuff I could do.  I’m so bad at even yard volleyball that when we play at someone’s house, I better stay out of the game and just swim.  They’ll get mad at me for screwing up the game. So afraid to let people down, the ultimate people- pleaser, I became terrified of situations where my lack of skill meant I’d bring others down with me.  It’s probably why the one sport I liked and became good at, and as a result developed confidence in, was track and field.  Sure, track is a team sport.  But I didn’t have to pass the ball to anyone, and I couldn’t be blamed for not putting up enough of a defensive fight in front of the goalie.  

I chuckle because even now, I shy away from playing sports.  We have a seemingly fun softball tournament among some daring faculty at school every June, called the Advil Cup, and I never play.  I cheer from the bleachers and give people water.  But even when people say, “It’s for fun and nobody cares,”  I know it’s not true.  People want to win, and they won’t with me among their ranks.  I’ve accepted my lack of throw- and- catch athleticism.  And I’m glad I figured out I can run and swim and do a round of ballet positions and both right and left over- splits.  (OK, I used to be able to do all those things.)

I suck at lots of things.  And if I hadn’t sucked at them, I’d never have figured out a whole litany of other things that I don’t suck at.  It’s good to know you’re horrible sometimes.  This, I believe.

Plagiarism Part 2

More 'Reasons Mabel Is Crying,' to plagiarize the idea of the Tumblr I referenced a couple entries ago:

- She was walking. (yes, that's all, and walking is something she does all day)
- She wasn't allowed to eat an old orange rind.
- She wasn't allowed to drop the iPad on the floor.
- We wouldn't let her eat a dandelion.
- I was dressing her.
- I didn't allow her to eat baby wipes WHILE I was dressing her.  
- I didn't allow her to go down a slide backwards.
- We left day care.
- I didn't allow her to eat my car key.
- She had to sit down at a restaurant. 

Now that I have read this Tumblr (plugging it again-- it's so good-- see my post "Plagiarizing" for the link), I am starting to hate Mabel's bratty cry a little less.  You know, that fake cry that they use when they're pissed.  Yesterday while she wailed because I was dressing her while she wanted to play with books, I told her, "You're right.  Your life is tough.  Yesterday we had a Vietnam vet at the school talking about atrocities he saw in wartime, but you're absolutely correct that having your PJs put on is worse."  She wasn't amused.

Weirdly, the little tantrums are a developmental milestone.  I just read that little factoid yesterday.  It just seems so frickin' paradoxical to put "milestone" in the same sentence with anything relevant to your blood boiling in annoyance.  What I am finding is that if I laugh about the absurdity of the motivation for the cry, I cope with it better.  This guy started a perfect Tumblr for parental therapy.