It Could Be Worse (Thanks, Lolo) I am Letting My Light Shine

Posted on September 17, 2013 by kellyinrepeat

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How the hell is it already Monday night again? When my kids were really young, three of them under five, life felt like a time warp. Sure, I was exhausted, but the pace of my exhaustion was that of biology class. Endless.

I remember back then when I was teaching, one of my student’s parents agreed with me that little kids are exhausting, but she said, “You know when I had to quit my job? I had to quit once they all hit middle school.” At the time I thought she was being dramatic. Only now, with two teenagers and one pre-teen, does the toddler of our group make parenting seem easy. The pace is now much more like art class, time slipping away before I know it. Actually, it is more like gym class (however,  when I took gym I used to hide in the closet during laps. Don’t tell anyone. I used to make my face sweaty with water and show up huffing and puffing at the end so I still got an A).

I honestly do not know how to manage all of this and am wishing I had a hiding closet now or, like in the shot of Q and Greta above, could just spend a month buried in down blankets next to my sleeping dog. I had to make four appointments today and none of them could be made after work hours. How an orthodontist gets away with “no appointments after three,” is beyond me. I keep taking off of work for appointments and pretty soon HR is going to think I either have a drug problem or am spending an hour a week at the spa. I also just can’t seem to keep track of it all. I have now officially called William’s pediatrician six times to confirm the time of his appointment this Friday. I feel like apologizing to the receptionist. “I am really not an idiot and I do know what a calendar is, but I have 100 students, 5 preps, 4 kids, 2 AP classes, and I AM NOT EATING ANY SUGAR.”

Add to that list the pressure of having a group show in November and the hamster in my wheel starts to vomit. I asked Susie today what we should title our show and she said, “Lucky,” because if we actually pull this off we will be lucky. Then she texted “I want a giant cheeseburger with ketchup and mustard. ON BREAD.” Susie is not eating sugar either. So maybe that will have to be our title, “Sugar Free and on the Edge.” The only good thing about sans sugar is that I feel good physically (which, if you know me or followed my Camel Key blog, you know is a miracle). I continue to lose about a pound a week and the hives have completely vanished. I am in the habit of eating almonds, apple slices, and an ounce of cheese for lunch, and all that chewing prevents me from grinding my teeth in nervous anticipation for the rest of the day.

It really is all the piddly shit that stresses me out, like how I came home to see that Greta ate a box of chocolate cookies and then peed all over the floor, or how I went to great lengths to make this Pinterest spinach chicken thing for dinner and then William just wanted noodles and Sean said it tasted like camel piss. Did Lizzie remember to bring Kleenex for her cold on her class trip? Did John get William to Kohl’s for the photo shoot okay? Who do I have to pick up from practice? Where did that sample for my design class go? These little things just weave themselves into a day that is already filled with a list of musts, and between the two things, I am just drowning.

The worst thing that happened today is that while I was making the camel piss, Quinn was playing in his sandbox. I can see him from the window and we have a locked fence around our house. This is our typical routine. I cook. He plays in sand. I put the baking dish in the oven and glanced out the window and Quinn was gone. Greta was gone. I walked out on the deck and noticed that the gate was wide open. I screamed. Screamed, screamed. Both Sean and Will flew out of the house, long legs moving so fast that they resembled pinwheels, and they were shouting, “QUINN!”  It would take less than sixty seconds for Quinn to waddle down the driveway and get smashed by a bus. Sean found Greta, blocks away. Quinn, it turns out, was in the locked garage, holding a beach ball. He had pushed a brick up to the fence and unlocked the gate to let Greta run free.

I feel like today was a message from Lolo, who always told me, told everybody, “It could be worse.” She said that so much that we all teased her about it. So even though everything is piling up and crushing me, I have to just stop. Breathe in. Count blessings. One day at a time, sister. One day at a time.

That momma, the one who warned me of the pace of these years . . . I noticed via Facebook that her daughter got married last weekend. Pictures of her kids, two of whom I had as students, flashed on my feed and I paused, just knowing that the space in between chasing kids (to volleyball, to doctors, to birthday parties, to conferences, to rehearsal) to being one of their guests (at their weddings, at their home, at their jobs) is precious space. It is space we rarely have time to honor until it is gone.

Turns out that Luke did get a pretty good part in the musical. Yay. Hurrah. Even though that means more chasing (“Oh, mom, there is this mandatory meeting for parents tomorrow night.”) I am delighted for him and so proud. I was proud to watch Lizzie make the winning point at her volleyball game last week and super proud of how William is handing missing so much school for his modeling gig (which, by the way, anyone want to drive him to Elgin next week?). . . So a busy time, yes. Exciting, yes. Worrisome, yes. Anxiety filled, yes. It is also a time filled with energy and possibility.

Luke, in Godspell, sings, “Light of the World.” The plus side to this is that it is a big number and the lyrics are a constant reminder for me to “let my light shine” and that I have “got to stay bright to be the light of the world.” The downside of this is that, in listening to Luke belt it out every two minutes, the song is constantly stuck in my head and as I am racing around I keep hearing, “you are the salt of the earth, you are the salt of the earth,” and I feel like I should be dancing, but really I am just trying to find time to pee in between classes.

In Googling the lyrics to the song so that I knew what comes after the salt part, I stumbled across the biblical passage, Matthew 5:14-16, “You are the light of the world. A town built on a hill cannot be hidden. 15 Neither do people light a lamp and put it under a bowl. Instead they put it on its stand, and it gives light to everyone in the house. 16 In the same way, let your light shine before others, that they may see your good deeds and glorify your Father in heaven.” 

So today, even though, Quinn played Houdini and Sean hated my dinner and I could not make any appointments after three and I had to call the pediatrician yet one more time, and all I wanted to do tonight was to crawl into bed with Greta and fall into a deep bear slumber, I had to write because, well, it is the only way I really know of to let my sugar-free light shine.

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Rules, Wisdom, and Worry

Posted on September 11, 2013 by kellyinrepeat

“To keep alive that enthusiasm is the secret of real guidance, and it will not prove a difficult task, provided that the attitude towards the child’s acts be that of respect, calm, and waiting, and provided that he be left free in his movements and experiences.”

– Maria Montessori

Recently a friend of mine had a pregnancy that was filled with worry. The details are not really important, but I watched her navigate that pregnancy, those unpredictable ultrasound appointments, with the kind of grace and strength that only a mother really has. The baby, her new son, is fine. Perfect in every way. 

This got me thinking about how we, as parents, begin to worry from the very start.  My mom once had a colleague who after having one child decided she simply could not have more because she could not worry that much about another human being ever again. One was plenty. 

I was holding newborn William on my maternity leave on September 11, 2001. In fact, I was home with two babies then. Lizzie was only fourteen months old. That morning I walked Luke to school and I was pushing the double stroller back home when another mother asked me if I had seen the news yet. She explained to me about the plane hitting the tower and I remember running with the stroller, all the way home, wanting to call my dad to see if he had yet heard from my brother, who just the week before, had shot a photo assignment for Morgan Stanley on top of the World Trade Center. 

When my dad picked up the phone he immediately said that Chris was okay, but then the second plane hit and my dad said, “Oh, no. Nick. Oh, Nick, Nick, Nick.” His nephew, my cousin, had just enlisted in the marines a few months earlier. When it was clear that the airplanes were no accident, but an act of terrorism, we knew that Nick would be leaving for war.

This brings me back to worry. We worried for Chris, for Nick. Nick’s momma stopped sleeping for more than a year. I worried about my babies and about what kind of world I had brought them into and the guilt I felt for their existence was measurable. As it turns out, Nick, thankfully, came home. Our other cousin, David, not even a decade later, did not. He died suddenly, in a car crash, and each time I really think about that and I think about his mom, my aunt, I am filled with two things: hot, heavy, throat lump tears and an incredible amount of admiration for the way his momma has received his passing. It has been with the grace and strength that only a parent knows. 

As a mom, I have to continually remind myself that I cannot control or manipulate or operate in somebody else’s soul space. Even if it is my child, I cannot control their choices, their fate, their path. If there was an ultrasound that could tell me my child’s destiny, I would opt out of knowing. I don’t even know if I believe in destiny or if I am convinced that we are all capable of breaking the glass ceiling of destiny or if what I believe about these things even matters at all. I do know that I like that Montessori quote above. It reminds me that to give my children the space to live their own lives, to make choices that I might not want them to make (please, please do not enlist. please, please do not do drugs. please, please do not marry an asshole. please, please do not become a politician), I have to do what Montessori says and leave them to be free in their experiences and respond to their choices patiently, calmly, and with the utmost respect. 

There is not a day that goes by when I don’t feel empathetic or worried about something my child did or said or experienced. Today, Luke, who has been so looking forward to trying out for the school musical, who was so prepared and confidant, blew his audition tonight. He got in the car, his whole body knew it, knew he didn’t meet the bar . . . he didn’t want to talk about it and did not want questions. It was really hard to be calm and patient. It was really hard not to want to fix it. Last week, Lizzie lost her volleyball position. William skateboarded down a giant hill without wearing a helmet. Quinn can now unlock the front door and escape. There is something every minute of every day. They don’t tell you that at your ultrasounds. 

My mom has a mentor, her painting MFA teacher Timothy App, who taught her that there are really only four things that are necessary for success. I hang these four rules in my classroom: Show up, work hard, pay attention, and tell the truth. Recently, my curriculum boss added, “and do no harm.” I think that after everything I have been thinking about today, I will have to add my own four: Don’t worry, Be Patient, Keep Calm, and Take Risks.” Nick, my marine cousin, he did all of these things. He still does. David, my cousin who died tragically, he too, did all of these things. I think that is a sign of really good parenting. 

Luke’s Facebook post tonight said, “feeling low, bad audition.” I commented, “No such thing as coincidence, Luke. The universe is bigger than you are. Trust that there is a reason behind all decisions and of it does not go your way, it just means something bigger and more wonderful is out there. You show up, you pay attention, you work hard, you tell the truth, you do no harm, and the universe follows. No decision defines us. Use any decision as fuel. Showing up = greatness and bravery and all things fantastic.”

The thing is that Montessori wrote that doing and saying these things “would not prove a difficult task.” Rarely do I disagree with Maria, but I will tell you this. Guiding a child, loving a child . . . it is all risk. And none of it is easy. 

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In 28 Minutes My Weekend Ends

Posted on September 9, 2013 by kellyinrepeat

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This is how Greta sleeps. I have no idea how she breathes. We were all tucked in tonight when I knew that I had either wet my pants, or she had. Yup, Greta is getting older. Peeing on me, it seems, is how she is handling her geriatric years. So now here we are. I am up. Freshly bathed. There are twenty-eight minutes left until it is Monday again. Jesus. 

The weekend, in review:

Friday night: Drank water while I watched William play his first volleyball game of the season. They lost by two points, but it was still kind of thrilling because last year, I am pretty sure they never even made it to double digits. Came home, watched an episode of The Good Wife (or at least the part Lizzie rewound to show me, “Mom, watch this. She is about to kick his ass”). Lizzie would be a great trial attorney. Is it weird that when I think that I also think, “Oh, yuck. Don’t be a lawyer. So much boring reading . . .” How come when I think about Lizzie being a lawyer I worry about how she might also be able to be a mom? I do not do that with the boys.

Saturday: Six A.M. wake up call to drive Luke to Waukesha to do some volunteer work for Healing Hearts. We had coffee with my Aunt Sue first and then they went off to work while I wandered through the farmers market along the river. Farmers markets are my most favorite of all places. I bought lettuce and a cucumber and ten dollars worth of really tart apples. I could have just stayed there all morning, watching the farmers unload their goods, stack up vegetables, handmade soaps, bright flowers . . . I feel happiest when I surround myself with people who also make things with their hands. Perhaps at the next faculty meeting, we should all make paper fans or something. 

Came home, did laundry, got distracted my how dirty the toilet was. Washed toilet. Took Lizzie and her friend Anna to watch her eighth grade volleyball team play a double hitter in Germantown. It stormed like mad and the lights in the gym went out, causing twenty thirteen year old girls to scream, the air conditioner to go out, and me to sigh at the thirty minute delay. I am pretty sure I walked Quinn to the bathroom about forty times during the delay alone. 

So after three hours of volleyball we went to Culver’s drive thru so that Lizzie could eat something before she fainted. I ate a chicken strip and I will warn you right now that if you forego all sugar for four months and then eat a fast food chicken tender, prepare yourself for a killer headache and a long afternoon in the bathroom. 

Between things, I somehow dropped William off in Waukesha at a friend’s house (I know, Sue, you are thinking, “But wait, I picked him up in Waukesha for you,”) and then stopped at Brookfield Square to get my free sample of Aveda hairspray, which I only did because, well, it was free, and I had a good parking spot. While there, I tried on a pair of really cute and comfortable shoes, but when I looked in that little mirror where you can only see your ankles, the first word that came to mind was “hobbit.” 

I returned home and closed my eyes for exactly seven minutes while Quinn napped. Sean volunteered to stay home, so Luke and I drove to New Berlin to see Jobs. I tried to take Luke’s picture, eating his popcorn, but he told me to stop documenting every second of his existence. I left, super inspired, and kind of in love with Ashton Kutcher, who really did a fine job playing Jobs. 

Left movie and thought I might meet Adrianne for a drink at Tosa Fest, but it was getting late and parking was tricky and I found it difficult to drive through drunk crowds after just seeing such a quiet film, so I left and met her for coffee in the morning instead. 

That brings us to Sunday, which has been relatively uneventful. Groceries, drove Dad to train station, battery light in car went on (but off again later… is that okay?), more laundry, homework help, printer out of ink again (fuck, Epson, really, you only sell my ink online?), Target run, baked cookies and cute little banana muffins (which smelled good, but I cannot eat), dinner, gin drinking (out of vodka), and the long struggle to put Quinn to bed after he took a four hour nap during dinner. He fell asleep. Then the dog peed on me. 

In between all of the chasing and watching of volleys, I started to think about my show and paintings have started to take shape in my head. I asked Sean if I could use his studio to paint in and he said I could use the bathroom space only. These will be very small paintings. 

That is okay. They can capture all of the things I forgot to write about, like how I thought Greta ran away, but really she was hiding under the deck, getting sick. The painting won’t literally show this, but will begin a conversation about dying and love and about feeling that happens when one crawls into bed next to a snoring toddler and a wheezing dog. That white noise lulls me to sleep each night and it is in that white noise that I begin to imagine and dream and push myself to dream bigger. It is in that space, even when it is interrupted by dog pee, that I know I am an artist. 

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Hello, Me (and Screw You, Ghita)

Posted on September 5, 2013 by kellyinrepeat

Noel treated me to a manicure for her wedding and tonight, two weeks later, I picked all the gel away from my nails, and as soon as I did, my hands looked like mine again. It got me thinking about this AFS student that attended my high school back in the 80’s. He was from Germany and everybody loved him and all the girls had crushes on him, even me. 

I had piano lessons with him for one period a day. This is funny to me because I do not play piano. I took lessons for eight years, but I guarantee you that I cannot read a note or play anything except for Unchained Melody because Lolo loved that song and I used to play it for her and she would sing along, quietly, sporadically, and definitely off key. In fact, the only plus that ever came from taking piano was that when the DJ played Unchained Melody at Noel’s wedding, I could feel my grandma with me, hovering over our Noel, loving her from whatever it is we call heaven. 

Anway, Ghita and I had piano together and the only thing I remember about it is that he commented on my painted nails and said that European women would never do such an ugly thing to their hands, and he shook his head at my ugliness. Other than my wedding day, where I got a french manicure (french is European, yes?), I have not painted my nails since that day. 

So for two weeks now I have been walking around with these long fancy nails. Nails that are totally unproductive. It is hard to type. I certainly cannot paint or draw or even open a can of diced tomatoes. I tried to open a box of clay at school today and practically tore my ring finger off in the process. I remember my grade school friend’s mom looking right at me when I was eleven years old and saying, “There are two kinds of hands in this world. Hands that work and hands that sit. Only lazy people bother with fingernail polish.” 

I have been staring at these foreign nails now for weeks and they made me think about all the things I believe about myself that are likely untrue.

My hands are aging. A lot. My left pinky is turning in from arthritis, the wrinkles in my fingers are deepening. They are no longer young hands. Sean always tells me I have man hands. “Gerbil hands,” he says, and it is true that I do not really have long, artist fingers like my kids do, like my husband does…

What I have noticed, however, is that I have the hands of a writer. My pinkies are turning inwards because of how close A lies next to S on the keyboard. I will tell you something else about my hands. They have cradeled each of my babies soft new heads. They have wrapped countless gifts. They have delivered flowers, cut down weeds (well, not really), changed diapers, mopped up puke, and tonight, at five thirty, they held Lizzie as she sobbed about volleyball practice. They held her and held her until all of her fear and anger and humiliation went away. I am not sure if that is how European women do it, but if you ask me, it definitely was not ugly.

Tonight, when I got out of the bath, I walked into Lizzie’s room and borrowed her sparkly white nail polish. I took time to paint all ten fingers, paying attention to the shape of each one. This week, these nails will remind me that it took hugging a thirteen year old girl to erase what an eighteen year old boy said to me twenty-five years ago. This week, they will remind me, as I teach all new students, that one simple sentence can sink deep into someone else’s consciousness without us even knowing it.

This week, these nails will look like me again. 

 

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One Down. I Should Be Yelling I Love You.

Posted on September 4, 2013 by kellyinrepeat

I guess it is good that I threw Quinn’s party, made a cake, and opened gifts before this morning because when I woke up today, on the actual DAY of this birth, I forgot.

I was up until four this morning and then woke up twenty minutes late and started rushing all over the place when I heard Sean say to Quinn, who had already been awake for a good fifteen minutes, “Happy Birthday.”

Sean! Sean who does not know any of our birthdays, except for Luke’s (because I guess 4/27 is some kind of engine) is the one who remembered. Ah, well. I guess that is why there are two of us.

I also forgot my lunch today and left my first day of classes completely starving because I am about 110% sure that there is nothing in a school cafeteria line that is not filled with sugar and yeast.

It’s always hard, the first day, to get a sense of how the year is going to go. Last year was a really difficult one, so difficult that I seriously debated not returning. The only reason I did, really, was because of Luke. Even though Martina told me (http://martinaschmidt.com) that Luke’s soul would find his own way, I still could not leave him at school without me.

Today reaffirmed that decision for me.

First of all, I like the actual teaching part of school. I am good at it. It’s a job where I know that I am giving back and in that sense it is rewarding. At Noel’s wedding  I ran into a student from 1996, who I barely recognized, and he told me that I was the best teacher he ever had and that he still thinks about me and is currently working on his MFA in printmaking. It’s little things like that where I know I have left a trace of a mark on someone’s spirit that makes teaching rewarding. As for the politics of it all? Blah. I would teach in a bubble if I could.

Quinn fell asleep (more like passed out cold) by seven tonight (full of spaghetti and dirt and clad in his new Thomas the Train underpants) and I laid next to him in my bed, and Luke came up to sit with us.

It was a hard day for Luke. Because he is older and because he has friends who know how to read, I guess I need to respect the fact that I cannot blab all about him on the internet (whereas Quinn, well, I can tell you what his poop was like tonight if you are interested). I will say this though:

One of the reasons that I continue to teach is that each day I know there is at least one kid in my class like Luke. One kid who feels lost or stupid or not good enough. One kid who tries really hard and wants it all, but feels invisible. One kid whose talents lie outside of traditional school walls and are currently knotted up in a lump in their stomach.  I can make that one kid feel noticed, feel important, feel smart, and  then, I guess, the rest of the bullshit is okay. For the teachers who have done that for Luke, for the Mr. Grennier’s of the world, know that our lives are richer and saner because of you.

I know there are parents out there who have never experienced a “Luke.” They just think that school is all about effort and trying hard and applying oneself. If you are a parent like that and school has been easy for your child, than yay you. It is nice. Really. I love that William is next to me and is researching the periodic table all on his own at age twelve, and that Lizzie is documenting abstract photography and reading The Lovely Bones. They work really hard and they are self motivated, but still, school, for them, the game of school, makes sense and is relatively easy.

But I know tonight that there are other parents out there, who like me, have already shed their first school year tear. You are exhausted and it is only September 3rd, and the worry in you, if it were measurable, would fill every cart in the grocery store parking lot. The wants we have for our children are heavy wants.

I know this for sure. You might bang your head against the wall for eight years with flash cards and parent conferences, but in the end, Martina is right. Their souls will take care of themselves. Until their souls kick in, be their advocate, yes, but mostly be their landing place. There are tough nights ahead, but we have the first one down.

When I want to cry about the struggle of school, I listen to Hardly Speaking a Word by Lori McKenna, and then I remember that the momma who wrote this has been there too. There are many of us.

 

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Omne Trium Perfectum (everything that comes in threes is perfect)

Posted on September 3, 2013 by kellyinrepeat

“Out of difficulties grow miracles.” – Jean de la Bruyere

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Quinn, you are three on the third!

Happy golden birthday, or as we called it in my family growing up, happy magic birthday. 

I wasn’t going to rehash the whole micro-preemie thing again today, but as I started to write this post (one that was going to recap all the joys of your party yesterday) you crawled up on my lap and saw the photos of you in the incubator. I guess you had not  seen them before today. “I have so many owies, Momma,” you said with a sigh. I was surprised that you knew you were looking at yourself. 

“Do you remember that time?” I asked gently, but my eyes were teary and in my head I kept saying “Please say no, please say no.”

“Yeah.” Your eyes welled too. I am not lying. They really did. You remember. 

“You are better now though, honey. You are big and strong and amazing.”

“Look at that one! Mighty Quinn in a box,” you pointed to the incubator. 

“Yes, but now you are home.” 

“Yep.” You continued to stare at the screen and I played the entire iPhoto library of your transformation so that you could see how many people visited you and how many people held you and how many people cheered you on. At the end of photographs, you said, “I want my Nuk and I want swiss cheese,” two comfort items for you on opposite ends of the spectrum…

I do not know if I will ever be able to stop telling the story of your miracle or if I will ever be able to not mention it in your birthday letters. I hope that you will ultimately not see those four months as your identity, but as proof that you are capable of continued magic. 

At your naming ceremony I told everyone that about how we pasted the title Mighty Quinn on your incubator and how the nurses and doctors would smile in support because you were the smallest baby there, but you were the one with the word “mighty” advertising your strength. Lizzie sang Mighty Quinn to you every single day and I told our friends that I knew the song was really about an Eskimo, but that for me, the lyrics “come all without, come all within” meant to come without expectation, without blame, without guilt, and with, instead, hope and prayer and love. It is true that we “have not seen nothing like the Mighty Quinn.” 

Yesterday you stayed awake for thirteen hours in a row, whooping it up at your celebration. When you woke this morning, you said, “Can we go to my party again?” I am so grateful and so happy to celebrate this day with you, Quinn, and I am absolutely smitten with your giggle, your belly laugh, your big eyes that widen with each question, and all three of your dimples. The deepest one, the dip in your chin, will always remind me of your birth. It is the only thing I saw as they rolled you away from me and I saw it as a promise.

I have my first day of classes on this birthday and I am kind of bummed about that, but then I started thinking of all of the times I was sad in the NICU and I turned to my friends and blog followers and asked them to do things for me (on days that your eyes were to be examined, I asked them to eat carrots. If you lost weight, I would ask them to eat cheeseburgers) so  I am hoping that for your birthday, everyone who reads this post, especially the community of folks who followed your NICU blog, will find a space in their day to hum or blast or sing “The Mighty Quinn.”

Or maybe, dear reader, you will plan on singing it and then you will forget and then you will think it is okay because how will I know if you did it anyway, but then you will walk into a coffee shop or a diner or a bookstore or you will be trying something on in a dressing room and there it will be, playing on the radio. If that happens to you, know that it is a giant thank you from me and from Quinn. 

When you hear it, delight in recognition of miracles.

 

 

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Antepartum

Posted on August 30, 2013 by kellyinrepeat

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Tonight, Quinn, you are snoring next to me, just shy of three, not quite ready for your birthday letter, but inspiring me all the same. Today is the anniversary of the day I was put on hospitalized bed rest. 

The energy of hospitals shifts at night, and the daytime clatter of cafeteria trays, chatty nurses and visitors, switches to a dull yellow buzz, illustrated by that one gleaming florescent light that shines, constantly, above the bed. The proof of my own visitors (drawings from the other children, photos of fat Chinese babies from Mrs. Brys, wrappers from sweet treats) became my only company after eight o’clock.  

There is an intimacy between the nurses and women on the antepartum unit. Women who are simply waiting. Waiting for good news or bad, alone with their pregnant stomachs and it is the nurses who we look to for any hint that the outcome of our waiting might not be the news we are wishing for. 

I have never been in a confessional booth, but I imagine that it feels the way it feels late at night, when the nurse puts the fetal monitor on your too-small-yet-wait-not-now belly and listens for a heartbeat, which just might not come. It is like waiting in the ER, but the emergency is inside of you and all you can do is be still. The heartbeat, when it comes, is like counting rosary beads, every tap, a prayer. 

When I waited for Quinn, I imagined he was a girl (all those ultrasounds and I never asked) and I chanted to him and talked to him and asked him endlessly to please stay. I would stare at the white board in front of me, where, upon arrival I wrote in green marker, “All things are possible.” I watched every single season of Weeds on Netflix and I would laugh and hope that my laughter reached my baby. Each box of the calendar seemed to be a mile wide and I set my eyes on October 13th, Lolo’s birthday, but we did not even make it to Christopher’s birthday. 

Your birthday was my darkest day. I was so helplessly sick and when the team of specialists rolled you away from me, I did not know if I would see you again. I did not call anyone or answer calls until late in the afternoon the next day. I remained in critical condition and I remember thinking about how the Mary Group (http://www.themarygroup.com) told me that we have three windows of opportunity to die and I knew that the window was open for me. To be honest, I hesitated, before shutting it. 

After an emergency c-section, one returns to the antepartum wing, belly flatter, baby gone. You were in another part of the hospital, in a clear incubator … it is a place in the hospital where that dull yellow buzz never fades, but gets louder with each passing minute. 

As for my room, nurses came in to show me how to pump milk, to walk me to the bathroom, to help me shower. With the element of wonder gone from the room, the energy shifts to a simple “matter of fact” vibe, all of us fully aware that I only had three days before I would have to walk down the hall, out the door, to the parking lot, without you. 

It is just about midnight now. You, dear, sweet boy, are making a noise that reminds me of the late night hospital buzz, but this time, the sound is not a threat or an annoyance, but a reminder to me that it was not only me who had the opportunity to go out that window.

It’s okay that you hesitated too.

 

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My Extra Rib

Posted on August 30, 2013 by kellyinrepeat

I have been back at work for two days now, no students yet, just the overwhelming amount of things to take in and prepare and adjust to. Two days of charts and data and new faces (29 new staff in our building). I remarked to a colleague that I have had a headache since last night, my first in months, and she replied, “It is from all the jaw clenching.” Sigh.

So I was feeling beside myself and exhausted and completely over my head when I pulled into the Montessori parking lot at 5:15 to pick up the kids from practice. Ms. Darlene, a toddler teacher who was amazingly supportive and wonderful during the whole Quinn ordeal, was just leaving the building as I pulled up.

I was sweaty (my room is hotter than the deepest levels of hell) and teary (I kind of flipped out on a few folks) and just feeling like giving up, second guessing myself, wondering if maybe I should not have signed a contract, wondering if maybe I should just be a mom and hope that health insurance finds its way to us. I was just dreaming of applying for a part time job at Starbucks when Ms. Darlene walked over to my open window.

There are very few people in the world that, when they call me sweetheart or honey, it is not annoying, but welcoming . . . Ms. Darlene is one of those people. She just says a deep, soft, “Aw, Hi Sugar,” and I want to crawl up on her lap and go to sleep. In fact, I wish the voice in my head sounded like her.

She asked me about Quinn and was excited to hear about how amazingly well he is doing and I told her about how my patience is being tested because I am trying to teach him to dress himself, which takes forever. I told her about school, and I know I looked pale and exhausted. About Quinn she said, “Girl, that is how you just know there is someone upstairs taking care of everything, orchestrating it all,” and about me, she said, “Honey, that is why God gave us the extra rib. He just knew we could do it.”

Of all the things people have said in attempts to inspire me these past few days, knowing that I have an extra rib is the only thing that gives me hope. I imagine it in the shape of a handle, something for me grasp onto when the real me starts to slip beneath the cracks.

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Lost and Found

Posted on August 27, 2013 by kellyinrepeat

I got my first Birchbox in the mail today. This is such a good invention; little presents of samples delivered every month in the prettiest of boxes. I am thinking that I should have checked the box, though, that said, “I do not want fragrance samples,” because the one they sent this month smells like powdered old lady corpse. 

I cannot wear perfume to school anyway. It mixes with the smell of school, which if you teach at a school, you know what I mean. School smells like microwaved bandaids and teenagers. Add perfume to that and well, it’s like those people who spray cologne in the dirty faculty bathroom. You can’t polish a turd, Sean would say. 

Quinn, apparently is hyper aware of this shift in our routine, and he has started to rebel by shitting on the floor. Poor Luke watched him one day last week, when I had to be with William all day at a photo shoot. Quinn peed all over the place and thought it was hysterical. I have stayed home and remained low key for a few days and that seems to have corrected the problem. Though he did, today, tell me that he washed all my money and “put it in the potty.” If anyone wants some really shiny quarters, I am your gal. 

The boy turns three on my first day of classes, which is terrible timing. Luckily, he will be with Aunt Shirley and Uncle John and they will celebrate. He has changed his mind about which kind of cake he wants about forty times now. First he wanted a ballerina (no idea he even knew what a ballerina was) and now he is stuck on a Greta (our dog) cake (and her mom). I have no idea who Greta’s mom is, so I might just turn her into a ballerina. He asked if I would bring him flowers on his birthday. Um, I guess. Jesus kid, way to be specific. 

Between Quinn ramblings (Mom, how do you play with Buddha? Mom, how do people sing? Mom, how do people dance? Mom, if you go dancing, can I come?) I haven’t been doing much of anything (though today I found out I was going to have a show in November, which put me into a slight panic and so I got out all this drawing stuff and tried to work, but then Quinn drew on top of it and laid his waffle in my gesso). 

I guess I always think that I am not doing much of anything at all, which is kind of depressing, especially when the only thing I can recall doing is scrolling through my Instagram feed, so maybe it is important that I just make a list of at least ten things that I did this week . . . a kind of affirmation that I am good enough:

1. I watched Noel marry James. John made a beautiful dad speech and he got teary, which was so lovely that I will think of that moment again and again for years to come. Watching a wedding probably does not sound all that productive on my end, but keep in mind, I had a toddler with me. If you have never taken a toddler to a wedding, you can practice by lassoing wild pigs. 

2. I took William to an all day shoot for which he will be the “face” inside of picture frames sold throughout the nation. This freaks me out a little. I imagine his face in plastic shopping bags, in car trunks, in gift wrapped present boxes. I imagine someone opening the frame and crumpling up his face to and throwing him in the garbage. Ick. Stop. It will be fine. No one pays attention anyway  (except that I have seen those movies and tv shows where the character keeps the photo in the frame for some weird reason…)

3. I went to dine at Wolf Peach and learned that Haley does not like tomatoes and that my brother does not like scallops. How do you not like scallops? How did I not know this? At the restaurant my mom had strawberry rhubarb beer. To date, this has been the saddest thing to pass up, now that I am sugar free. 

4. I bought two new photo apps. 

5. I made the best chicken korma in the land, except that I forgot to add the tiny potatoes. 

6. I went on a rebellious shopping spree for Lizzie, who is under strict orders from school to not wear short shorts. Legs, I guess, are sexy and sexy is bad. Sigh. Seriously, it is not like she went to school with camel toe. 

7. I baked banana bread with chocolate chips, and blueberry muffins. They lasted less than a day, which is good because it is hard to smell banana bread and not be able to eat it. 

8. I cuddled, in the dark, with Luke and Haley, Sean, William, Lizzie, and Greta and we (at the girls’ pleading) watched The Notebook for the zillionth time. Nothing sexier in the world than Ryan Gosling saying, “It’s still not over!” The Notebook is my good bad movie. 

9. I learned that Scott Avett is a painter. Could I possibly like him more? What’s next? He loves pie? 

10. I watched half of the Philip Glass documentary (again) with Sean and we were both reminded of New York and of being young and about all the possibilities that exist and we both sighed heavy, late night sighs, knowing that we both have more work to do, a quest that is harder now (because of children and an aching house, obligations and silly things like overdue water bills) and in someways easier…because we know who we are. 

Maybe it is in that knowingness, that full awareness of self, that we both know there are big, good changes coming…that our lives are going to be huge and limitless and that all that is required of us is to leap. Philip Glass and top ten lists are the kinds of things we need to witness in order to remind ourselves that we are not lost. 

 

 

 

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Whatever, 3 x 3

Posted on August 22, 2013 by kellyinrepeat

ImageSo it has been five hours since my last post. My life since then:

  • Met friend, drank iced coffee in the blazing heat, while she let me brainstorm lofty ideas while I got a sunburn.
  • Ran into former colleague and friend who had preemie twin boys exactly a year after I had preemie twins. Yay, preemie mommies. 
  • Went to dermatologist for a consult and she ended up cutting out a giant cyst out of my skull (it looked like a chickpea, but whiter) and even though the knife and stitches did not really hurt, I was shaking the whole time. She also took a razor blade and swiped off the annoying mole on my chin. I cannot imagine her job being mine. Ever. In fact, the idea of scraping a mole off of a strangers face is so gross to me that when I think about it, I feel vomit at the back of my throat. The doctor also pointed out, nicely, and without any forehead movement, all of the places I was aging and suggested botox and fillers. Um, we are from different planets. By the way, Noel, I will have a bloody skull and a bandage of my face for your wedding. However, I will still be nice and wrinkly. 
  • Purchased $174 of groceries without blinking an eye while my boy shorts underpants fell to my knees. 
  • Picked up William from his first day of school. All he said was, “I am hungry.” When I asked about the rest of his day he said that it was fine and that he did not want to talk about it, except that he liked the new Spanish teacher. 
  • Unpacked groceries. Folded laundry.
  • Fielded four calls from William’s agent and had mild panic fest over how I am going to drive him to all of these shoots while I am working. Speaking of which, damn, I forgot to send his comp cards in.
  • Corrected misspelling on Noel’s wedding program. Lucky, by the way, is not spelled lukcy. #fail
  • Opened email to discover my children’s book illustration was not selected for 3×3 magazine. This was majorly disappointing news because I love this book. My response to the jurors who vetoed me is simply to post a few of my favorite illustrations from this book on this post and to tell all of you to spread the word so many times that the Avett Brothers hear all about it and they buy it and then they hire me to do the cover work for their next CD, which I will hope to have time to do, but might be too busy because by then my book will have been picked up by Random House and I might have a book tour.

 The book is called Waiting for You and it was written for a friend who was seeking a book for someone who was using a surrogate and could not find any great children’s book about surrogacy. It is a story about all the things families do while they wait for their child to arrive, no matter whose belly it pops out of. This is a book that is close to my heart and even though it is self published and even though there is a glaring typo (out loud, I know, is two words) and even though it’s not on a fancy must read New York Times bestseller list and even though the jurors at 3×3 think I suck,  I think you should read it to your sweet babes before they sleep. If you don’t believe me, preview it here and then say an audible aw:http://www.lulu.com/shop/kelly-frederick-mizer/waiting-for-you/ebook/product-18476542.html 

But even if you don’t look it up and even if Scott Avett never reads it and even if I never get to meet Oprah or Ellen or Deepak, I still want to share some of my favorite images with you. So, whatever, 3×3. I will do it myself. 

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