Nice Girls Get Restraining Orders, Too

This post has been a long time coming. It is for my dear friend, J. Who is not naïve and certainly not a fool.  We do not think like them because we are not like them. And we do not want to be like them.

Eleven years ago last month. It was a Sunday night. I had been at Andy’s house but decided to sleep at home that night rather than having to run home early the next morning to shower and dress for work. My apartment was four, adorable rooms on the first floor of a two-family, that I had painstakingly decorated myself. My sanctuary. It was in a college area and within easy walking-distance of nearly everything. An elderly woman was my landlady and my next door neighbors were my sister’s in-laws.

That night, I entered my apartment and - just like in every cheesy detective novel - the house simply “felt funny”. I walked through the living room to the double doors of my bedroom and peered inside, seeing nothing. I retraced my steps and walked through the kitchen, to my bedroom’s other door, flipping on lights as I went. Again, I saw nothing. I stood in front of my closet door and reached for the knob. As I did so, the door opened. In front of me stood my old boyfriend.

His name is S and we had spent several angry, hurtful years together a long time ago. It had ended with me moving out of the apartment we had shared for less than a year, back in with my mother, and within a few months, into my sanctuary. He had been to this apartment before. During the “we can still be friends” foolishness as I tried to take the high road. Eventually, after many fights and threats, and even a call to my father to have him removed, we fizzled out.

So five years later, I stood face to face with him again. He was six years older than me, making him 36 at the time. He looked ages older.; The mileage was taking its toll. I didn’t scream. I simply gasped and backed up through the door and into the kitchen with my hand to my heart. I grabbed the wall phone. He only said, “please don’t”. And for a second, I didn’t. My old, co-dependent self was telling me if he simply went away, it would be enough. I didn’t want to create a scene, or make things bad for him. Then I said “no.” Maybe it was out loud. Maybe it was only to myself. But I dialed 911.

He took off, I think through the dining room window. The police told me to go to a neighbor’s. I had my cell phone and called Andy as I ran next door. My sister’s mother-in-law answered her door immediately. “S was in my closet!” I yelled simultaneously into my cell and to her. She pulled me inside and locked the door. Andy’s previously-sleepy hello turned instantly awake and he told me to stay where I was, he was leaving right away.

The police were there in moments. Andy’s car came bombing down the wrong way of my one-way street what seemed like seconds later. Of course they didn’t find him. I sat with the officer and answered his questions and told my story. It was the first time Andy had heard much of it. My brother, having been notified via my sister, who had received a call from her mother-in-law, also showed up. He conducted his own search and I think it made him feel better to do so. When I talked to my mother, she used words I didn’t even know were in her vocabulary.

Everyone wanted me to sleep at their houses that night. I didn’t want to. This was my home and I wasn’t going anywhere. Of course, Andy stayed the night with me. We didn’t fall asleep for a long, long time. As I was dozing off, I remembered that feeling from when we were young. Of not wanting your arm or leg to hang off of the edge.  Because the monsters under the bed might get you.

The next day, I went to my district court and filed my very first restraining order.

Alone Again (Un)Naturally

Take Two 

Some long-time readers may remember last year's camp debacle in which Gremlin was moved from the camp group containing about 20 of his closest friends and classmates to a group of strangers, due to a clerical error.  This resulted in tears (for both Gremlin and Manic Mommy) and an abrupt end to a week of pre-paid day camp for Grem.

Being a masochist optimist and figuring the PTSD would surely have lessened by now, I signed both Gremlin and HRH up for a week of camp.  I planned ahead this time to ensure they would (a) be together and (b) be with friends. A few weeks ago, Andy and I began introducing the topic.  The boys would be together!  Annabelle, Jack, Sophia, and Abigail would be with them!  It would be different; it would be fun!  I can't understate Gremlin's enthusiasm strongly (weakly?) enough but he didn't say no.

So.  Today was the day!  We arrive at the Boys and Girls Club. Gremlin nearly needs to be physically removed from the vehicle, but is eventually coerced to exit of his own accord. With Gremlin clutching my hand but still moving under his own power, we arrive at the basketball court meeting area where the kids are divided into groups by age.  HRH joins his group with barely a goodbye. As promised, Grem is with Jack and Sophia! 

I introduce Gremlin and myself to the 12 year old counselor and explain Gremlin's reticence due to last year's fiasco.  She is mildly interested but is thrown off course by a very enthusiastic camper eager to tell her all about his trip to Water Country yesterday; "Everyone there was fat!" He's right of course, fat people are drawn water parks much as flies are to roadkill.  "And there were lots of Mexicans!" Awesome, let's check to make sure the altar boy from the Westboro Baptist Church isn't in our group.  He is not!  Amen!

As the milling becomes more focused, Gremlin realizes I'll be departing soon.  I seize upon a happy, playing Jack (a seasoned camper, our next door neighbor, and Gremlin's closest buddy) and ask him how much fun he has at camp.  Response?  "I hate camp!  Camp is stupid!  Annabelle's friend hit me!"  Totally awesome.  I block Gremlin's ears as Jack's mom quickly pulls him away. 

My knight in shining armor arrives in the form of a 13-ish year old junior counselor who came along asking to be Gremlin's buddy, asked to sit next to him in circle, and knows everything about Star Wars.

Gremlin's two armed death grip around my thigh loosens.  I repeat that I love him and I'll be back. That I wouldn't sign him up if I didn't think he'd have fun.  That all I want is for him to try.  And that if he does try...I'll buy him the Lego X-Wing Fighter...and...I...left...



** Full Disclosure; after I (physically) separated from Gremlin, I spoke to one adult counselor then found the director of the program to go into Gremlin's situation in exquisite detail, going so far as to describe his and his big brother's bathing suits for easy identification.  Then I hid behind a door and watched for a while. I gotta be me.

Harsh

Scene:  MM and The Daddy preparing for bed.

Daddy:  Babe, I gotta tell you, in the realm of "harsh" tonight, you cracked me up.

MM: Smiles beatifically. 


The boys have always had their own rooms but given a choice, HRH would rather share space with his brother.  From Mom and Dad's standpoint, HRH camping in Gremlin's room increases the chances of a full night's sleep for everyone.  IT's called a win-win - except the obvious fooling around, blanket disruption, tossing of stuffed animals, and moving of beds (really?) that accompanies shared sleeping space.  So in and out the parents go; cajoling, threatening, ultimately separating. The problem is that Grem actually prefers to sleep by himself so as the instigator, he's got nothing to lose and I've lost hand.

Last night, post-bath, as the boys were engaged in their pre-bedtime ritual of coercion and bribery attempts for co-sleeping, HRH bumped into his bedside lamp, sending it crashing to the floor and breaking the bulb.  I react like a medic on the battlefield.  Clearing the barefoot boys from the scene and going down on hands and knees with a dustpan and brush, then the Dustbuster. Cleaner than it was before 'the incident'.

I then tell the boys that because of the danger of glass, I think that HRH should definitely sleep in Gremlin's room tonight.  This was of course, not the concern. The shake-down had gone on for nearly half an hour and I was simply tired of hearing it.  We tuck in and do God Blesses. 

And I leave them with this warning;  "If there is any fooling around,  the person that started it will be sleeping in HRH's room.  With the glass."

Not a word.  Not a sound.  Straight to sleep.

To Always Remember

Reposted from last year...

My first "I remember where I was" moment occurred when the Challenger exploded just after take-off. It was January 1986. A nor'easter was blowing into Massachusetts and my school closed early to make sure everyone got home safely. A bunch of us rented some movies and headed to my friend, Joe's house to watch. One movie was Thief of Hearts. I can't remember the other one. My friend Michele called her father to tell him where she was. I can remember her saying, 'What?!" and to us, "the shuttle exploded! Turn on the TV!"

There are others now. But seven years ago,

I was sitting in my office in Andover and Andy called me when he got into his office in Cambridge. He commented he'd just heard on the radio that someone had just flown into the World Trade Center. We both thought it was some poor idiot in a Cesna. We both thought it was an accident. We hung up and I ambled into my boss, Lee's office and told her. She tried to get onto CNN.com and couldn't. Then another co-worker ran in to say a second plane had just hit the other tower.

Not an accident. An attack.

We were in a new building and didn't have a TV so all over, small groups of people gathered around small images on computer monitors. Everytime someone managed to get some news, it spread as horrible rumors through the office. As we learned about Flight 93, my friend, June got a panicked, crying call from her college-aged son. His dad was flying back from PA today. Had she heard from him? She had not but later learned, thank God, he was not aboard that flight.

Finally, Lee and I left the building to run to a local Best Buy to get a TV. Going home would take too long. It was in Lee's Jeep that we heard that the first tower had fallen. We saw the second tower fall standing among strangers in front of a big-screen TV in Best Buy.

We spent a longer while at work, eventually leaving to watch the horror unfold from the comfort of our own homes. There, I pleaded with Andy to leave the job he had just started a few weeks before. He worked in Kendall Square, where MIT is located. I was sure if there were more attacks "they" would target the academic centers soon.

He didn't leave until 5:00 and was home in record time. He found me in front of the TV exactly where I had landed when I arrived home hours before. We watched more. We headed to his mom's to wish her a happy birthday - yeah, 9/11 bummer. More TV, bed, God-Bless-America-sex, sleep.

In the morning, we woke up back to the bad dream that was our new reality.

What to Really Expect - Part 2

Child: HRH
Age: 7 weeks

It's 5:00 am on a very chilly January morning. HRH begins to stir in his cradle beside my side of the bed. I reach over and attempt to plug him to catch another few moments of precious sleep. He makes a strange noise. Instantly awake, I flip on the light to find HRH struggling to breathe. I scream Andy awake. He jumps out of bed, into HRH's room across the hall, grabs the snot sucker off the changing table and suctions him, pulling out a nice little booger nugget. HRH begins sucking in air again like a pearl diver returning to the surface.

We bundle up our little prince in at least three layers of fleece over his 'jamas to ward off the pre-dawn chill and drive off to the emergency room. With the dome light on and me in the back seat, monitoring his every breath.

We arrive at the hospital and wait...and wait...and wait. (Have I ever mentioned that the effing emergency room is named after my father in law, who had been chief of emergency surgery until his death?) Eventually the baby is evaluated. Or, rather, we are evaluated.

ER Doc: So you say your son's nose was stuffy.
Us: Yep! And he wasn't breathing!

ER Doc: Do you have the heat on?
Us: Yes, it's set to 9,000. Can't have our precious getting all chilled.

ER Doc: And his cradle? Is it near the heat source?
Us: Yes indeedy! Right next to the radiator. But don't worry. We made sure our newborn baby couldn't reach out and grab it. We're cautious.

ER Doc: And this house that you just moved into six weeks before his birth? Does it have carpeting?
Us: Yep. Nice older (dusty) carpteting. We were going to pull it up but thought we'd leave it til spring to keep the room warmer. Besides, it goes well with the peeling wallpaper.

Baby's Diagnosis: Your child is "stuffy." I'll give you a minute to digest this complicated bit of medical information. Then go buy a humidifier.

Parents Diagnosis: Morons of the overreatcting variety.

(Moron) Manic Mommy: He's hungry. Is it okay if I nurse him?

ER Doc: Blank stare. Did anyone ever mention to you that newborns only breathe through their noses?

Us: Blank stare.

ER Doc: Yeah, they don't learn how to breathe through their mouths until later.

Us (later, to each other, not the doctor): Good fucking tip, don't you think!?

Upshot:
Still take HRH to see his pediatrician that afternoon. Just to be sure. Same diagnosis; parental mania/moronic-ness.
Buy a humidifier the size of a refrigerator (wallpaper is steamed off in a matter of weeks).
Alert every new/expecting parent we ever meet about the mouth-breathing thing.

I May Be in Serious Trouble

To-Worry List

Am I consistent enough?
Am I impatient?
Am I kind enough to myself?
Am I strict enough?
Am I taking myself too seriously?
Am I taking them too seriously?
Am I too hard on myself?
Am I too hard on them?
Am I too strict?
Are they developing friendships the way they should?
Are they happy?
Are they spoiled?
Are they too physical?
Did I read to HRH more than I read to Gremlin?
Do I change their sheets often enough?
Do I expect too little of them?
Do I expect too much from Andy?
Do I expect too much of them?
Do I expect too much of them?
Do I show enough patience?
Do I spend too much time on the computer?
Do I worry too much about how others perceive us?
Do I yell too much?
Do they eat enough vegetables?
Do they fight too much?
Do they have enough alone time with us?
Do they realize how much they are loved?
Do they spend enough time with Daddy?
Do they spend too much time on the computer/video game?
Do they watch too much TV?
Do we have enough rules?
Do we model behavior correctly?
Have I established clear behavioral guidelines?
He doesn't know all his letters, HRH did at this age.
How do I teach them empathy?
Is he too sensitive?
Should I force him to give up the pacifier?
Should I give them chores?
Should I give them vitamins?
Should we teach them more about religion?
What do I do when I reach the end of my rope?
What do their teachers think of me?
Why can't he play independently?
Why can't I admit I need help?
Why do I feel like I've failed if I get help?
Why do other moms seem to have it more together than me?
Why is this so hard?

Now what?

What to Really Expect

For my friend, Jennifer, who is expecting her first child. These are the things that they can't tell you in books. I give you HRH's six-year check up.

The initial aspects of the physical are going pretty well; height - check, weight - check, eyes/ears/nose/mouth -check. The pediatrician has HRH stand up, touch his nose, touch his toes, pull down his pants - wha? What was that last thing?? HRH is awash in shyness and confusion while I'm doing the "Doctors, Mommy and Daddy" privacy song and dance.

Eventually, HRH mans up and pulls down his boxers. The doctor gets enough of a glance to note that everything is where it should be. Aaaand now it's time for three immunizations, a blood test and a urine test.

We got him on the first shot with the sneak attack. For the second and third, I'm half-lying across the exam table with his legs in a scissor hold between mine, while pinning his hands against my body, exposing one bicep as he screaches in my left ear.

Next, we're off to the lab for blood work. HRH is still hyperventilating when he realizes we're not headed to the car and starts running. I catch up, grab him, and drag him into the lab. More pinning, more screaming ensues but eventually 0.001 cc of blood is drawn from his index finger. The tech then hands me a sample cup. Like I could ever coerce him into peeing into it. I give her the 'you gotta be kidding me' look and she agrees that perhaps I can take it with us and get a sample later. Better plan.

By the time I'm carrying my 45 pound 'baby' out of the building, he is literally speaking in tongues. I don't know what he was saying but it was not English. The only thing to comfort and quiet him? A special occasion (Strawberries and Cream Frapuccino) drink from Starbucks. That's my boy.

Motherhood: A full-contact sport.

I Remember

My first "I remember where I was" moment occurred when the Challenger exploded just after take-off. It was January 1986. A nor'easter was blowing into Massachusetts and my school closed early to make sure everyone got home safely. A bunch of us rented some movies and headed to my friend, Joe's house to watch. One movie was Thief of Hearts. I can't remember the other one. My friend Michele called her father to tell him where she was. I can remember her saying, 'What?!" and to us, "the shuttle exploded! Turn on the TV!"

There are others now. But seven years ago,

I was sitting in my office in Andover and Andy called me when he got into his office in Cambridge. He commented he'd just heard on the radio that someone had just flown into the World Trade Center. We both thought it was some poor idiot in a Cesna. We both thought it was an accident. We hung up and I ambled into my boss, Lee's office and told her. She tried to get onto CNN.com and couldn't. Then another co-worker ran in to say a second plane had just hit the other tower.

Not an accident. An attack.

We were in a new building and didn't have a TV so all over, small groups of people gathered around small images on computer monitors. Everytime someone managed to get some news, it spread as horrible rumors through the office. As we learned about Flight 93, my friend, June got a panicked, crying call from her college-aged son. His dad was flying back from PA today. Had she heard from him? She had not but later learned, thank God, he was not aboard that flight.

Finally, Lee and I left the building to run to a local Best Buy to get a TV. Going home would take too long. It was in Lee's Jeep that we heard that the first tower had fallen. We saw the second tower fall standing among strangers in front of a big-screen TV in Best Buy.

We spent a longer while at work, eventually leaving to watch the horror unfold from the comfort of our own homes. There, I pleaded with Andy to leave the job he had just started a few weeks before. He worked in Kendall Square, where MIT is located. I was sure if there were more attacks "they" would target the academic centers soon.

He didn't leave until 5:00 and was home in record time. He found me in front of the TV exactly where I had landed when I arrived home hours before. We watched more. We headed to his mom's to wish her a happy birthday - yeah, 9/11 bummer. More TV, bed, God-Bless-America-sex, sleep.

In the morning, we woke up back to the bad dream that was our new reality.