Breaking Ice & Making Nice

These Are My Confessions

I confess...

...that our family is basically living out of laundry baskets and the dishwasher right now. Okay, fine, who am I kidding. We live out of the drying machine and wash kitchenware on demand.

I confess...

...that most nights, writing an email to the CDR to update him on our day feels like a burden, and reading his emails feels quite the same. I don't care about the chiefs on your boat, and I don't care to tell you about the long, hard day I've had. I care about finding a clean pair of pajamas and crawling into my bed.

I confess...

...that I like having that bed all to myself.

I confess...

...that, although I consider myself to be a highly capable, strong, and self-sufficient woman, I really do not like setting mouse traps at night and disposing of dead mice in the morning.

I confess...

...that I do not like talking to the CDR on the phone when he pulls into port for a few days. I know he longs to hear my voice, and talk with the boys, but the emotional setback we experience - tears, loss of appetite, nightmares, potty training regression, angry outbursts and tantrums - almost tempts me to say, "Please don't call."

I confess...

...that at least once a week, I am so tired that I let Mo watch an episode of Thomas & Friends in my bedroom instead of reading him bedtime stories.

I confess...

...that I have taken to referring to Facebook as "my second husband."

I confess...

...that I am having my annual physical this afternoon and asking for a low dose of anti-depressant. It's time.

I confess...

...that this afternoon, I held a good friend's four-day-old baby girl, and I had absolutely no maternal yearnings. I'm all done shoving babies out of my bajenka, thank you very much.

I confess...

...that I should be working right now, but working from home doesn't work so well for me.

I confess...

...that while I preach self-acceptance and contentment with who you are and what you have, I sometimes envy my girlfriends who are uber-crafty, super-foodie, wonder-moms who live on 4-5 hours of sleep. Why can't I be more like them?

I confess...

...that every day, I give thanks for the friendship of those women, and so many more, who take me as I am, sad slacker mom and all. I'd send you a home-baked pie and a hand-stamped card, but I think I'll go take a nap instead.

I Have a Saving Grace

Tonight was book club night. In typical procrastinator fashion, I picked up the book on Monday, then crammed to finish the book today, reading for 90 minutes this afternoon as the kids napped, and then as Mo read "Freight Train" and "The Foot Book" beside me while I rushed through the last 25 pages.

Our babysitter arrived a little late this evening, so I jumped in the car, plugged in the address to the GPS, and drove safely-but-quickly toward our host's house. I missed my big turn into her neighborhood, but thanked God for my GPS, because it immediately re-routed me.

Ten minutes later, I cursed the GPS to hell for sending me into the other side of her neighborhood, straight into an imposing black gate with a large "private property / no trespassing" sign" attached. So I turned around and raced back down the hill toward my original turn. Finally, almost 30 minutes late, I pulled in behind the mass of cars, ran down the driveway, rang the bell, and exclaimed breathlessly as a woman answered the door, "I'm so sorry I'm late! Has book club started yet?"

A brief pause, a blank stare, then... "Book club? I think you may be at the wrong house."

"...Oh," I stammered. "Um, do you by chance know where Corri lives?"

After the kindly woman glanced through her neighborhood directory, I learned that the house up the hill was actually my target. So I doubled back, but felt an impending sense of dread settle on my shoulders as I trudged up the empty driveway toward the dark house. One ring, two rings of the doorbell... Nothing.

I pulled out my cell phone and called information, then gave them the name of the only person from book club whose last name and town I could remember. A few seconds later, I was leaving a message on her answering machine.

"Liz? Hi, this is Christine. I'm trying to get to book club and I'm confused, because I think I'm at the right house but no one..."

"Christine?" She picked up mid-message.

"Liz?"

"Honey, I may be wrong, but I'm pretty sure book club is next weekend."

And that's when I lost it.

"F*&#!" I cursed, then, "Sorry, Liz." (This book club is a group of women from my church.) The tears began to fall, hard and fast, and I couldn't speak.

"Christine, here's what I want you to do. I want you to drive back down to the mall, and I'll meet you there in 30 minutes. Can you make it?"

I managed to eek out a pathetic, whimpering "yes" through my tears.

Twenty minutes later, I had calmed myself enough to drive, wiped away the twin mascara rivers that wound randomly down my cheeks, and tucked into an upscale baby store to buy this luxurious picnic blanket I've been eyeing for more than a year.

Then I met Liz. She walked me into a restaurant, and told me to order the most delicious girly drink on the menu. For almost two hours, I poured out my heart, welcomed in a new friendship, and sucked down a Pomegranate Martini.

When I climbed back into the minivan, I looked up and whispered, "Thank you, thank you, thank you."

I have a saving grace. Her name is Liz.

"I marry you again"

So you may not be as into poetry as I am, and that's okay. But here's the thing: If you're not a "poetry person" but you are married, I think you may like "Marry Me," a senryu sequence by Veronica Patterson.

(I am not enough of a poetry person to know what that is, so I'll tell you what I learned: Senryu is a Japanese form, like haiku, but it is about people instead of nature.)

I found this poem today in my local paper... Okay, it was actually yesterday's paper. I'm always behind.

Anyway, "Marry Me" is part of the American Life in Poetry series, a program of the Poetry Foundation. I hope you like it.

And tonight, when you go to bed, marry your beloved again... if only because you can.

http://www.americanlifeinpoetry.org/columns/172.html

The Juicing Room

"She has to be squeezed immediately before she explodes."      --Gene Wilder as Willy Wonka

One of my favorite scenes from the 1971 Roald Dahl adapation, Willy Wonka & the Chocolate Factory**, is the infamous "Violet, you're turning Violet, Violet!" scene, when Violet Beauregarde impulsively snags a piece of fancy new chewing gum from Willy Wonka's "revolutionary, non-pollutionary mechanical wonder" and promptly turns into a giant blueberry. Wonka whistles to the Oompa-Loompas, who roll Violet off to the juicing room before she explodes.

These days I feel quite a lot like Violet the Giant Blueberry Girl. With the CDR gone until mid-October, and the boys acting out as a result, and me watching So You Think You Can Dance? over and over on my TiVo because I'm bored and lonely, the emotions start welling up inside me until I feel like I'm about to explode.

Under normal circumstances, the CDR is my juicing room, so to speak. He is a compassionate, attentive listener, and he (usually) knows when to give advice and when to just shut up and hold me while I cry.

Before he left, my husband encouraged me to write him anytime, about anything, without worrying about how it might make him feel. He wanted to continue being my juicing room, even from so far away. A noble request, to be sure, but I'm not sure it's the healthiest choice for either of us.

Why? First, my emotions are more volatile than ever, and therefore hard to express via email. I am 100 percent extrovert, and living alone in a community where I don't have many friends. I don't like small children, yet I cohabitate with and solo-parent a preschooler and a toddler. Turns out these personality traits make for an explosive combination in a long-term deployment situation.

Second, what is the point of bemoaning my existence to a person who cannot do anything about it? What I really need, in my lowest moments, is to be held. And writing a message to the person from whom I want holding, but who cannot give it to me, makes a really bad situation even worse.

Third, the CDR is in a high-pressure environment on his ship and has a gazillion other concerns to address on any given day. I know how sensitive he is, and how guilty he still feels about this unexpected assignment, so I don't want to make his life miserable when he has so many other critical responsibilities.

On the other hand (isn't there always another damn hand?), I know that keeping my true emotions at bay is only going to make the situation worse for me, and for the boys. They have already heard more crying, and seen more sippy-cups thrown across the kitchen, in the past week than they have heard or seen in their entire little lives.

I also know that the CDR is not completely useless in such a circumstance. I believe in the power of prayer, and I know that my husband prays faithfully for me while he is underway. By letting him into my heart, even within the constraints of Arial 12 in his Outlook Inbox, he can pray more specifically for my day-to-day needs.

Okay, fine. Even from the Arctic, my husband should still be my juicing room. But I truly believe that I cannot share everything with him because that just wouldn't be fair. Anything I write can easily be misconstrued, and his tendency to worry could hinder the CDR's ability to effectively lead his crew.

So, every time I write my husband an email, I now think about the blueberry balance:

How much should I share, and how much should I keep inside, in order to support the CDR in his mission while keeping myself from exploding all over the children?

**Some movies should never be re-made, Tim Burton, thank you very much.

From the Mind of Mo, Vol. 2

This afternoon, while driving home from the grocery store, Mo suddenly announced that the brow was raised and the boat was out in the ocean.

"Yes, Mo," I replied, "that's true. Daddy's ship has raised the brow and sailed into the ocean."

"No, Mama," Mo corrected me. "MY ship raised the brow and went out in the ocean."

"Oh," I said. "Your ship?"

"Yes, I have to go work on a ship just like Daddy so I can make lots of money. Then we can buy lots of clothes..." (he paused thoughtfully) "...and new toys..." (another pause) "...and food."

"Mo, that's really nice of you, " I told him. "But if you go out on a ship, I'd really miss you, just like I really miss Daddy."

"Mama, it's okay. I won't be gone long. I'll make lots of money really, really fast."

I couldn't bear to tell him that, despite the many perks, military pay just isn't that great. But before I could decide on a more appropriate answer, he continued.

"Mama, I'm hungry. Can I please have a yogurt when we get home?"

Sure, Mo. You can have any flavor you want, even my favorite French Vanilla Bean. You are the family Sugar Daddy, after all.

One of Those Days

Today has been "one of those days." The boys woke up at 6:15 this morning (ugh) but in very good spirits, so we made pancakes for breakfast and played basketball in the garage while I reorganized some stuff. While Kel took his morning nap, Mo played Zingo on our bedroom floor while I took a shower. For the first week of solo parenting, it was a great morning, really.

Then we packed up and went to Newcastle Beach Park, a lovely and large park on Lake Washington, for a Fourth of July picnic. We had fun but it was REALLY hard to keep track of the boys all by myself. Mo was riding his tricycle along the path, which runs along the perimeter of the park. And Kel was totally hooked on the playground equipment. I was convinced that as Mo rode past the parking lot, I would turn my back and focus on Kel only to have someone grab Mo and run (I've already lost him in a shopping mall and let him fall into a pool because I turned my back to wipe Kel's nose - I assure you, my fear is based in reality). Needless to say, I was a little stressed and quite relieved to go home for naptime.

That was the beginning of the end. Mo wanted to nap on the rug just inside the garage; I was too tired to argue or try to figure out his logic. Five minutes later, he came upstairs to announce that he had an accident (both types). Lovely. He refused to nap after that, and was therefore cranky the rest of the day. He had a total meltdown when I suggested that we have a mini-bagel and cream cheese for snacktime (NO! I WANT A MINI-BAGEL AND CREAM CHEESE FOR BREAKFAST! NOT SNACK! . . . Mom, I'm hungry).

Dinner didn't get any easier. Kel decided that the small space just between my ankles was the perfect spot to take up temporary residence as I boiled the noodles, warmed the sauce, and cooked the meatballs. He also decided that the best noise to make while wrapped around my legs was an alternating dinosaur roar and fire engine siren. Ninety-nine percent of the time, I'm in favor of kids in the kitchen. Tonight, I was ready to put up our old tension-mount doggy gates to keep them out. Out. OUT.

Midway through dinner, Mo went running upstairs to go potty. Then he came back downstairs and wanted to snuggle. Five minutes later (anyone catching this theme?), he had another accident, worse than the first. Double the lovely. I hadn't finished dinner yet, but I didn't eat anything more. I started to get angry, but we've been dealing with this issue for awhile - conveniently enough, Mo's potty training regresses just after the CDR comes home and just after he departs. Coincidence? I think not. So I can't really "get up in his grill" about the accidents, because I have them, too... Although mine take the form of random emotional breakdowns and three extra pounds on the scale from all the ice cream I'm eating.

We finally made it through bathtime and the bedtime routine. Then we snuggled up on my bed to watch an episode of Thomas the Tank Engine for our Friday Family Date Night. Fortunately, both boys went to bed easily and fell asleep quickly.

So tonight I decided to relax and set up my Facebook profile. That website is fun fun fun! I immediately connected with a friend and fellow Coast Guard wife, then discovered that an old high school friend has some incriminating high school photos of me posted on his profile. Yuck yuck yuck. (But again, fun fun fun.)

The fireworks are exploding now in my town, but I'm uninterested. I could watch them on TV, I suppose, but I'd rather watch a Tivo-ed episode of "The Next Food Network Star." Or just watch last week's episode of "So You Think You Can Dance" (again).

Whichever I choose, it will likely be accompanied by some more of my favorite ice cream (Tillamook Creamery's "Udderly Chocolate" - white chocolate and milk chocolate swirled with chocolate chunks). It's been one of those days. Someone hide that bathroom scale!

And Then We Danced

The CDR is gone again, this time for a four-month sojourn into the Arctic Circle. Shortly before he left, we hired a babysitter and went out for our last date night.

First stop: Indian food. When both of us are home, the CDR and I cook up some pretty tasty quasi-gourmet food, but we've not yet enticed the kids with our favorite ethnic cuisines like Thai, Indian, and Moroccan. So we ordered Chicken Tikka Masala and Lamb Saag, without skimping on the spice factor. It was delicious!

It was also nice to have a conversation without constant interruption or distraction. We've never had a problem with finding a topic to talk about, and we're not the kind of parents that constantly talk about our kids even when we are without them. So we covered a LOT of ground in our brief meal - among the various topics were the situation in Zimbabwe, the upcoming presidential election, the CDR's recent officer evaluation report (stellar, by the way), my grand plan for raising thousands of dollars for arts education this year, and how much is enough when it comes to charitable giving.

After we'd sated our stomachs, we headed over to the mall and the CDR played personal shopper in my quest to find a dress for a wedding that I'm going to this weekend. Now, you may think that this does NOT sound like the ideal date night for a typical guy, and you're probably right. But the CDR is no typical guy. This is a guy who sewed his own kilt. His own tuxedo. This is a guy who perfectly alters my clothes - for free! Call him a geek, if you will (he certainly would), but this man comes in quite handy when you're looking for a great outfit. And the best part of bringing my husband, personal shopper extraordinaire, is the magic moment.

What is the magic moment? It's the moment when my husband's eyes light up as I come around the corner of the dressing room, and I just know I've found a keeper. On this night, it was a strapless floral sheath dress from Ann Taylor Loft:

The CDR's eyes sparkled as he saw me in this dress. He reached for my hand, drew me in close to his body, and then we danced. We fell into a gentle one-step, two-step, rock-step as a bluesy, romantic ballad played throughout the store. As we slowly glided across the floor, we sensed a few of the sales associates nudging each other and pointing in our direction. One of them walked up as the song ended and said, "I think this one's a keeper."

She's right. This one is my husband, my love, my dearest friend and my great inspiration. He is, among so many other things, definitely a keeper.

The Transition Phase

When I was pregnant with my first son, Mo, I scoffed at all the horror stories I heard about the "transition phase" of labor. It couldn't really be that bad, I thought. These women are just being dramatic because childbirth is such an emotional, life-changing experience... right?

Wrong. So very wrong. During my transition phase, I remember flinging the words, "Don't you dare touch me!" and "Just get away from me!" toward my dear husband in scathing rapid-fire succession. I remember laughing derisively at nurses who asked me to lie still, when they were just trying to ensure Mo's well-being. And, with perfect clarity, I recall the OB who gently informed me that it was too late for drugs and reminded me that just 15 minutes earlier, I had politely asked all healthcare professionals in my vicinity to stop offering me drugs (I was bound and determined to go natural).

Having the CDR home for six weeks between two long phases of deployment feels like that transition phase.

The first few days of his return were so much fun for the kids - trips to the Aquarium, hugs in abundance, and lots of laughter and family snuggles. Then our preschooler, Mo, started to fall apart. In a matter of hours, he degraded from our normally well-behaved, patient, and verbal child into a hitting, spitting, kicking, tantrum-throwing terror on two feet. Our toddler, Kel, disintegrates into screams and tears every time I walk out of the room. He's also been waking up two and three times a night.

The first few days of the CDR's return were also romantic for the two of us. We so enjoyed having face-to-face conversations at dinner, cooking meals together, sitting next to each other at church, sleeping next to each other in our bed, and snuggling on the couch watching all our favorite TV season finales. Now, we're snipping at each other, arguing over how to handle the kids' seemingly infinite misbehavior, and in consistent disagreement about the CDR's work-life balance during his brief time at home.

When I can see the big picture, I know that this is just a phase. A rough and rocky, exhausting and emotional one, to be sure, but definitely temporary. To be honest, I already feel ready to say goodbye again, mostly because I know it brings me that much closer to having him home for good. But I'm also ready for him to leave because we're at that turning point where the CDR wants to be more involved in decision-making about the boys, but I don't want to change our family's lifestyle for 20 days, only to go right back to what we were doing before he came home.

Then again, I am sitting here typing this long-delayed post because the CDR is upstairs bathing the boys and putting them to bed. And he did take the boys out this morning to Home Depot so I could attend a board meeting for work. So, maybe I'm not quite ready for him to leave. It is nice to have a partner in parenthood, even for just a few days.

Boy Troubles

Who knew that as a 30-year-old, married mother of two, I would have boy troubles?

And yet, the Breaking Ice Department of Homeland Security raised the ex-boyfriend threat level today to orange.

Turns out that my high school sweetheart, J, is coming to Seattle this weekend to stand up in a college friend's wedding... which is happening at a church 1/2 mile from my office, and he's likely staying at a hotel just 1/2 mile in the other direction.

I also happen to work on the campus of Seattle Center, one of the city's primary tourist attractions.

Compared to every other day, where he lives in the Midwest, I live in the Pacific Northwest, and the chances of a run-in are infinitesimal, today and tomorrow have a high likelihood for inadvertent reunion.

And I am SO not looking forward to that.

Allow me to enlighten you with a little backstory:

J was one of my very best friends in high school. I clearly remember the moment when, sitting on his parents' couch late one summer night, I decided to kiss him, and therefore permanently alter the dynamic of our friendship. We dated for one year, and I unashamedly declare it remains one of the best years of my life. If J had asked me to marry him that summer after I graduated from high school, I would have said yes. I was in love.

But J was not. Just as quickly as my dreams of a romantic, pre-college summer with my boyfriend began, they ended. He broke up with me because he wanted to enjoy his senior year of high school without the substantial commitment of a long-distance romance.

That summer, J and I would occasionally rendezvous to reminisce about the past (read: we played strip poker in my mother's basement and made out in the crawlspace of his parents' split-level). Turns out, he was also making out with one of my best girlfriends, who had recently broken up with her high school boyfriend, a couple with whom we frequently double-dated. When that dalliance was revealed, J decided to pretend that I do not exist, a ruse that continues to this day.

Exhibit A: Between my junior and senior year of college, I walked into a friend's family room with two other girlfriends. J, who was already in the room, jumped up and bear-hugged both of my friends. Then he sat down and refused to acknowledge my presence for the rest of the evening.

Exhibit B: Shortly after I married and J became engaged, we ran into each other at our childhood church. I went up to say hello; but J barely made eye contact with the CDR or me, and quickly left the lobby. As we headed home that morning, my husband commented, "I have never seen someone dislike another person the way he obviously dislikes you."

Here's the thing: In no way do I pine for this boy, or wish that I had ended up with him. I am so thrilled with my life, and especially with my husband and children. But I am conflicted.

One part of me is tempted to hole up here in my office because I do not want to suffer the hurt that inevitably comes with running into a person whom I trusted with my heart, and called my "best friend;" but who now pretends that I am a useless waste of space.

Another part of me wants to strut my cute spring outfit and beautifully highlighted hair across Seattle Center in the hopes of running into him, just to see if I'm someone he can't afford to ignore any more.

I tend to side with the third, more mature part of me. She wants to blend the hurt young girl with the brazen thirty-something woman by running into another member of the wedding party (and former classmate) who can later say, "J, you'll never believe who I ran into today! And she looks great!"

I think I'll take a walk toward Starbucks and buy myself an iced latte.

Side Note: That girlfriend who also made out with J in our pre-college summer? She apologized for what happened as soon as she realized that I was still in the picture, and she remains to this day one of my very best friends and confidantes. She is a woman that every woman would love to know.

Running on Empty

Two day ago, I planned a party for more than 150 people at a beautiful antique Belgian circus tent in downtown Seattle. I welcomed a wide variety of guests, from elementary school teachers to state senators, and the evening was a resounding success. From Thursday to Monday, I ran on a steady stream of espresso and adrenaline, and now...

Now, I am exhausted.

Today is my first full day back in mom-mode; and, while it feels really good to make three healthy meals, and spend time on the floor playing trains with my boys, I cannot motivate myself to do much more than that.

Actually, that's not true. At night, after the kids are in bed, I can motivate myself to open the bottle of Pinot Noir and pour myself a glass, then toss a few dark chocolate M&Ms into a bowl and head downstairs to sit in front of the television. I have even folded a piece of laundry or two.

But here's the thing: The CDR comes home one week from Saturday, and there are so many things that I intended to do around the house while he was gone. There are so many pounds still taking up contended residence in my midsection that I meant to lose while he was gone. There are so many errands that I planned to run while he was gone.

And now, when push is coming dangerously close to shove, I still can't get myself motivated to prepare for his return.

Sometimes I feel guilty about that. I am, after all, a Type-A, detail-oriented perfectionist with a fairly strong record for meeting deadlines. And I really like making people happy.

Other times, I think, "Hey! I've held down a part-time job, cared for two small children and a dog, and kept a somewhat orderly house. I think that's pretty darn good!" Have I mentioned I'm also lazy and fairly indifferent about clutter and mess?

I think the truth of the matter lies somewhere in the middle. My house does not have to be all Martha-Stewart-perfect for the CDR's homecoming, but I should at least clean up the dirty dishes and change the sheets on our bed. The kids and I do not have to be perfectly groomed and dressed, but I should probably give the kids a bath and shave my legs the night before he comes home. And, at least for the duration of this afternoon's naptime, I'll catch up on General Hospital while I put my abdominal muscles to work.