Motherhood Uncensored

Don't call me sweetheart. It's ma'am to you

To be fair, I was completely exhausted and probably a bit hungover after a few days of walking, gambling and boozing in Las Vegas, about to board a red-eye flight home.

I was also still a little riled up from a few ridiculously sexist interactions at CES 2013 that Liz and I had experienced. 

Which is why it's a miracle I didn't go completely male flight attendant who called me "sweetheart" when I tried to get my small, undersized carry-on on the plane. 

And no, it wasn't a nice "sweetheart" or a loving "sweetheart" it was a "Hey, you stupid bitch I'm going to say this because I'm pretending to be nice but I'm actually an asshole" kind of "sweetheart." 

I've flown enough to know that if you've got a fairly small bag, you can bring it down the jetway and the flight attendants at the door should allow you to try to get your bag on if they haven't been notified from the back of the plane if there is absolutely no bin space left. 

This happened on the way to Las Vegas, and the lovely female flight attendant told me to give it a try since she hadn't heard the official word from the back of the plane. 

However, on this flight, the gate agents forced me to tag it, but when I got to the door, I figured it couldn't hurt to try; if I couldn't fit the bag in, I'd walk it back out myself. 

But I couldn't even step onto the plane without this guy basically grabbing the bag out of my hand and forcing me to put it aside for checking. 

"Is there absolutely no space," I asked him. "Because I'd really like to try to bring it on if..." He interrupted me. 

"No, sweetheart. It has a tag. It has to be checked." 

I don't even remember if that's what he said because I was so pissed about him calling me "sweetheart." 

Would he have called a guy "dude?" 

I'm guessing a business traveler, or the like, who might have been treated just as rudely would have at least been afforded a "sir." 

As I put my bag down and entered the plane, I looked him in the eyes and told him "Don't call me sweetheart" as I made my way back to my seat. And surprise, tons of overhead bin space, at which point I asked the flight attendant in the back if I could go get my bag to place it there. 

"Sure!" she said. "Let's make room!" 

Needless to say, I smiled smugly as I walked off the plane and back on again with my bag, the guy again trying to stop me until I interrupted him to say "I found a spot in the back and the flight attendant instructed me to come get my bag, HONEY." 

Which was not a nice "honey" or a loving "honey" but a "screw you asshole" kind of "honey." 

Next time I won't be so nice. 

Turning anxiety into awesome. Or where I star in the next episode of Hoarders.

When you walk around with your ankles shackled by anxiety on a regular basis, your mind can get trapped on a merry-go-round of crazy thoughts. But every now and then I can them, like the persistent one in which I convince myself that I'm going to die young, and turn it into a brilliant idea. 

Now the skin mole check, or whatever that unsexy exam where they mark all your freckles and moles on a paper and then scrape a few off with a razor is called, wasn't necessarily brilliant, but it was a smart idea. And phew, all clear. 

And there is the circus money I've started to stash away, which is really smart, or possibly brilliant if they all decide to major in art history or something.

Yes, so I was inspired by a Matt Damon movie. Shut up. 

No, the actual brilliant idea came about when I saw these pretty "Q" hoop earrings on Etsy when Quinlan was a baby. And I thought since she had such a unique letter, that it might be cool to collect jewelry with it and give them all to her when she was older and wanted to change her name because it was so weird.

KIDS. 

This then turned into a collection of initial necklaces and other fun trinkets for all the girls which I stuff on a regular basis into our fireproof box. 

But then THEN the real brilliance happened thanks to the lovely Courtney who posted a link and photo to a tin can on my Facebook Wall, which generally speaking I HATE when people post things on my wall but it was a can with Quinlan on it. 

No, not her face but her name, because apparently a long time ago there was a Quinlan pretzel company in Pennsylvania and so of course I had to buy the really expensive tin can, which led to a search for other such tin cans, which led to an obsession with finding ALL THE QUINLAN TIN CANS THAT EVER EXISTED, as well as old bar trays, and most recently, weird mugs with pretzel handles. 

This is all I could fit in the photo.

At the time, Drew was really into fire trucks, which he promptly grew out of the second I put a unbelievably challenging fire engine decal on his wall and purchased a whole gaggle of old fire truck toys, particularly old Fisher Price ones, all of which sit gathering dust on his shelf. 

Remember those?  

And while Margot was a bit of challenge, I did a little research and found out that her name means "pearl" so, duh, vintage pearl purses!, stashed haphazardly in a box that sits on a shelf in her closet. 

 

"These are my special purses, right Mama?" she says. 

So far, Bridget is racking up quite a collection of octopus jewelry, which, funny coincidence *I* have a pretty extensive and rapidly growing collection of octupus jewelry (ahem). Poor fourth kid. 

Of course, there's the stories I write here, that they can chuckle at and laugh over, which I might force them to do every year on my birthday, even after I'm gone, while pounding on tin cans, playing with fire trucks, and wearing pearl purses and octopus jewelry. 

Or they can sell everything I bought and go on a fabulous trip somewhere. 

And then at least I can say that all this stupid anxiety was worth it. 

If you're curious: I don't spend tons of hours or money doing this, really. I just search every now and then on Etsy, set a budget that I refuse to go over, then tuck everything away in a safe spot so they can't get into them and toss the $25 vintage fire truck off the 2nd floor deck.

All you need is love

The earliest memory I have of my dad is him choking me up against a wall at a train station. The last time I saw him, he slapped me across the face. 

His memory barely survives anymore, but still haunts me, when I tell the crazy story once every few years to an inquiring mind, or when my mother reminds me how I'm just like him when I clean out her house, the fire in her words fueled by her own childhood and domestic abuse, along with grief for a dead child. 

You can't escape a family like that without damage to your soul, the wounds deepened by devout Christianity that explained it all away as "God's will" then healed and bandaged by therapy, introspection, and Bible burning. 

I got married, divorced, then married again, and four kids later it's a veritable mess in my chest, the hormones and lack of sleep opening my scars, the unresolved issues of my mother, my husband, and me infecting scabbed over cuts. 

And then you sit, in a therapy session for your oldest daughter grasping tissues in your fist sobbing about how you tried so hard to make it different for her, and yet, even though it is different, very very different, she's still got a part of me in her. 

And I can't help but think that maybe, just maybe it wasn't all them after all. And all the time all those fingers I pointed at the crazy father and the complacent mother are turned right back around at me. 

I tried so hard to be different, to be involved and interested, loving and kind, caring and honest, every single thing my parents weren't and still, she feels anxious and pressured to be perfect, just like me.

I won't ever know for sure of course, but I'd like to think that because she's sitting and crying in a therapist's office and not hiding in her closet like me, sobbing and wishing to disappear, that it's not the same. 

Screw that I know, I KNOW it's not the same. 

Fuck you, dysfunction. Fuck you, shame.  

I believe that whatever THIS is right now, which is small and anxiety-related by the way, is containable. I'm standing here with guaze and tape and anticeptic cream, like I wish someone, anyone, had done for me.

My mom didn't call my kids on their birthdays, or at Christmas, even though gifts were sent, in both directions. She's mad at me for the words I wrote to her, the ones that made it clear that I could not carry the burden of her fucked up childhood and marriage. The ones where I told her to get help. 

I didn't even think about it until my husband reminded me because I've grown used to living without parents. 

When my daughter freaks out, when she screams "I'm terrible" when I remind her for the fourth time to set the table in a raised voice, I tell her that our relationship will have its ups and downs, as I move my hand in a wave motion, like a roller coaster. She'll mess up sometimes, and so will I, and that is what makes life so wonderful.

"But my love" I told her, holding up my other hand, "will always be there." 

I will always think she is amazing and awesome. I will always look at her and see joy and light, even though I know it might not feel that way between us at the time. And I will never EVER let the damage my own father and mother caused me to ever change that. 

There will be demons. But they just don't stand a chance here.

I can't wrap her up in a bubble and stick earplugs in her ears. I can't hide her eyes from the outside world. 

But I'm arming her now, with the strongest weapons I can find, the ones I only wish my parents had given to me: love, the kind that is full of wisdom and awareness, empathy and understanding, acceptance and compassion.

True love. 

The older I get, the more I believe that it's really all you need.

2013: Days full of wonder without any mistakes in them. Yet.

Maybe it's because I'm pretty sure I'm an atheist. Or that my husband has been away every single Christmas for the last six years.

But more and more I feel like the New Year is my biggest holiday of the year. 

There's a drive inside me to clean up and clear out the closets, the cabinets, and yes, the cubby holes in my mind (and heart) still carrying the crap from the year before. 

I can't quite say how long they'll all stay so organized and empty, but the possibility that comes with January 1 brings me more hope than December 25 and Baby Jesus ever did. 

My imaginative mind has always conjured up the wildest of fantasies because that's how I survived a fairly unhappy childhood. And as adult, the stories I create in my head, the endless possibilities of awesome and awful help me cope with anxiety that brews beneath the surface. 

But every year I'm shocked and surprised, not just by the sad, scary events, in both my life and in the world, but also by the exciting new opportunities, the jaw-dropping "holy shit I can't believe this is happening" moments, none of which I, the great anxious visionary, could have ever seen coming. 

And this is what makes me hopeful for 2013.

Because if good things are happening that even I haven't imagined, then that leaves lots of room for amazing things. 

May this year be THE year. A fresh, new start. 

Days full of wonder without any mistakes in them. 

Well yet, anyway. 

Happy 2013. 

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