Cusp of Crazy Archives - What Now and Why

The Finality of If Only

March 27, 2013 by Arnebya 37 Comments

I’ve known for a long time, but I pretend that it’s not true. I’m not having any more children. And it hurts. It is a physical ache, virtually unexplainable as to how all-body-and-mind encompassing it can feel. Until now, it hasn’t been a continued knowledge, though; it’s been an occasional realization of “damn” followed by a sigh and unwelcome resignation. I’ll get an email from Target about its baby sale. I won’t need those things. I’ll see a pregnant woman in A Pea in the Pod. I’ll never need to buy those clothes again (I should also go inside and tell her $250 is way too much for maternity jeans.)

Zaid’s birth scared the hell out of us. I think that plays a role in why my husband doesn’t want more (well, that and that we’re old(er), there’d be a 13 year age gap between the first and fourth, there’s no money, there’s no time, and there’s no space (but I’m not even fully using that bottom dresser drawer so bam!, I gots a bed if that’s his only issue.)) This is not to say that if I truly wanted to have another I couldn’t simply commandeer his penis and make it happen. What? It means grab/seize, right? Not confiscate. That’d be Lorena Bobbittish. Why do I remember her name?

There’s also this.

It’s crazy. Sometimes, I can feel movement in my stomach. Sure, it’s only gas or hunger, but oh, if I let my thoughts go there, it is a baby. I am creating another small human with the appropriate number of limbs, fingers, and toes. I am creating another person born of the love that my husband and I have for one another, another person for his or her siblings to look forward to, to love, and to potentially detest, fight with, and attempt to set on fire. It is at times a palpable, breath stopping realization that I am not pregnant. The IUD is doing its job effectively. Bitch.

I see infants and I stare. That could be me. I could be that pregnant woman. Originally, I’d given my husband 35 as a cut-off for children. “I don’t want to be pregnant after 35.” Um, what the hell was I thinking when I said this? Now, at 39, I have never wanted anything so much in my life. I can taste the frozen pizza I was addicted to while pregnant with Z. If I close my eyes tightly enough and stretch my arms around my middle I can imagine a growing belly, a tiny person filling my arms yet again.

I look at pregnant women and vacillate between congratulations and get away from me, bitch. Congratulations on this new journey, this new life. Get away from me, bitch; I hate you and your beautifully extending belly, your waddle, your sheer happiness at looking forward to decorating a nursery. I’m not going to knock you out and remove the baby from your womb. Gosh; don’t be silly. Yes, I’ve thought about it YOU ARE SO JUDGEMENTAL.

If only. If only there was money for a fourth. If only there was space for a fourth. If only there were time for a fourth.

It amazes me, this realization that the world keeps on going. In the midst of my paralyzing depression when I fully, truly, gave in to my third being my last, there was an overwhelming emptiness, an open space that I cannot, will not fill. Yet, the world continues. People all around me will continue to parent and have babies. Technology will continue to make things like the awesome Dropcam. I’ll never need a Dropcam. Some friends’ children will start to have babies soon. I will forever be left as the woman with three, of which none is a baby any longer.

Z is a big boy. He tells me so all the time. He doesn’t “need” me to do things for him. He is not a baby. My last baby is no longer a baby.

I will never sniff a newborn’s head again.

I will never soothe an infant to sleep again.

I will never bathe a baby and fear that I am going to drop it upside down on the hard tile floor again.

I will never buy tiny clothes, socks, or shoes again.

I will never need the newest gadget, toy, walker, stroller, car seat, sleep aid again.

I will never hold out my arms as a child learns to walk again.

I will never have breasts as abundant as when I was breastfeeding again.

I will never feed a baby mashed avocado again.

I will never need to think of creative ways to notify of a pregnancy again.

I will never need to send thank you cards for baby shower gifts again.

I will never confidently decipher toddlerspeak again.

I will never feel a baby move inside me again.

I will never look like this again.

And yet.

I get to watch my children learn new things, read new books, master new skills. Fuck you, decimals.

I get to have real conversations, not those borne of unintelligible words. Or Dora.

I get to watch something that is not animated.

I will never have a human exit my body again, in a way that requires stitches ANYWHERE.

I will never have to carry a diaper bag everywhere again.

I get to paint nails, read Judy Blume, and play with monster trucks in the mud.

I get to run in the rain and convince all three to do it with me.

I get to listen to music that is not included on the favorite nursery rhymes CD.

I will never run into a child’s room in the middle of the night afraid that he/she has been abducted, is not breathing, or has been placed in the washing machine. I will still go to just watch them sleep, though.

I have three perfectly healthy children.

I am going to enjoy them.

But. If only.

Filed Under: Awesome Mama, Cusp of Crazy Tagged With: last child, marriage, parenting, pregnancy

Sometimes

February 28, 2013 by Arnebya 20 Comments

Sometimes, I watch “Shrek” or “Megamind” or “Finding Nemo” or All The Cartoons Or Movies For Kids even when the kids aren’t home. And I laugh. And then I use lines from the movies regularly. In regular conversation. With adults. Olo.

Sometimes, I hate when people write in sentence fragments so much that I’ll stop reading. And then I do it too.

Sometimes, at work meetings, I have silly thoughts while trying to listen. It’s hard not to giggle.

Sometimes, I eat so much while cooking that I’m not hungry by the time dinner is ready.

Sometimes, I obsess about how I’ll pay for college for my kids.

Sometimes, I wish we had a toaster. We don’t have a toaster.

Sometimes, I look at single parents and marvel. My husband and I have each other and there are still sometimes no clean socks, school project due dates are missed, dental appointments go by without anyone remembering until three days after, and there are many nights of last minute wondering about what’s for dinner.

Sometimes, I want something to happen. I don’t want something bad to happen, just something…different, something that will alter the Wake Up – Grudgingly, Commute to Work, Be Bored at Work, Commute Home, Make Dinner, Help with Homework, Be An Overlordish Tyrant During Showers, Put Kids to Bed, Pass Out routine that is my EVERY DAMN DAY.

Sometimes, I wish I was afflicted with whatever made Jim Carrey be honest in “Yes Man”. For instance, I want to tell people who open-mouth yawn that they’re disgusting. Also, when did you get your tonsils out?

Sometimes, I eat cheese without crackers.

Sometimes, the sheer nastiness of public restrooms both amazes and confuses me. Who are these women who leave remnants of their business in the toilet, on the seat, ON THE FLOOR?

Sometimes, I remind the girls about their chores but then I do them because I’m the mom and I should be able to run this house myself. Also, I don’t leave shit stuck to the dishes when I do them.

Sometimes, I leave my bank card at home accidentally and have no money for the subway (or lunch, but I’m used to not eating.) Some faregates are larger than others to accommodate wheelchairs, strollers, or bikes. I am thin enough to walk straight through. If that’s not an option, I am thin and fast enough to simply walk through behind another person. A paying person. I am not proud of this, but I admit to having done it. More than twice.

Sometimes, I tell my kids not to do stuff that I did at their age and I feel like the biggest hypocrite.

Sometimes, the best advice I have for my children is “Don’t fuck up because you’ll make me look bad to my mother.”

Sometimes, I think something bad must have happened in my childhood. I have no memory prior to age 5.

Sometimes, I wish everyone knew that there is no m in valentine, no kinny in kindergarten, no s in (daylight) saving time, and no s in (Groundhog) Day.

Sometimes, I want to correct people who say income coming in or 3:00 a.m. in the morning.

Sometimes, I think there is a demon under my bed and if I put my feet down to get out it’ll grab me. This demon is also in my bathroom mirror and probably behind the shower curtain.

Sometimes, even though I know everyone is asleep, if I get in the shower or go in the basement to wash or dry clothes, I always hear someone calling me, someone crying, was that the doorbell? At midnight?

This week, for The Spin Cycle, Gretchen very nicely chose my random Sometimes thoughts (There are two before this one, here and here.) If you aren’t reading Gretchen’s blog, Second Blooming, you’re missing out on funny, quirky, cute, normalcy (you don’t get much of normal here, so please visit Gretchen. Her family is charming, her stories are great, and she writes well. What else do you need?)

Filed Under: Cusp of Crazy, Random Life Experiences

Sometimes

February 9, 2013 by Arnebya 30 Comments

Sometimes, I want to ask an official at the gas, water, or electric company to switch houses with me so each can see how preposterous the bills are: gas — still cold; water — when was the last time I showered?; electric — ain’t nothing on!

Sometimes, I eavesdrop on my neighbors.

Sometimes, I put on makeup when I have nowhere to go.

Sometimes, I wear the same black pants three times a week. They’re black. I have several pair that look the same, so I’m not sure why you’re making that face.

Sometimes, I forget to buy deodorant, use his, then at random points during my work day, look around to find out why he’s there BECAUSE I SMELL HIM.

Sometimes, my friends save me more often than they will ever realize or I’ll ever be able to convince them is true.

Sometimes, I people watch and make up stories for their life (like the girl in linen pants in winter. Maybe her jealous roommate cut up all her Banana Republic 100% wool, fully lined pants.)

Sometimes, even though I know it’s wrong and I’d never do it, I don’t think negatively about people, down on their luck, who get credit cards/accounts in their child’s name.

Sometimes, I drink my breakfast.

Sometimes, I pray so hard to hit the lottery so that I can take care of family and friends, but damn, I’d be an awesome philanthropist.

Sometimes, I think I’ll eventually learn to swim but then I remember I AM FUCKING SCARED OF THE WATER.

Sometimes, I look at where my garden would be and I wonder where the vegetables are. I have to remind myself that I ain’t planted nothin’.

Sometimes, when I read status updates on Facebook, I want to say SHUT UP.

Sometimes I wish there was a specific date one had to reach in order to get pregnant. Like, a switch in our bodies that just didn’t allow it until a minimum of 25.

Sometimes, I want to go back to school for a PhD.

Sometimes, when I get bills for my student loans, I want to write Return to Sender Because Recession, Bitches.

Sometimes, when bill collectors call, I speak Spanish. When a Spanish speaking rep gets on, I speak English.

Sometimes, when bill collectors call, I let them talk to the boy. He has lots to say about his butt.

Sometimes, I have Brussels sprouts for breakfast.

Sometimes, I wonder about all the scary movies I’ve purposely not seen because hello, I’ve already seen The Exorcist.

Sometimes, I want to upgrade my phone but can’t convince myself the amount is worth it.

Sometimes, I hate having to choose a lower priced item that ultimately proves to be lower quality but — LOWER PRICE.

Sometimes, I get angry about the amount of information about my life that others can access (example: requesting a credit report and Equifax asks if I have a cousin with the last name of ________. WHAT? I haven’t talked to her in 8 years. How is that person even connected to me credit-wise?)

Sometimes I say I’m done with something that I know is not good for me, and well, no.

Filed Under: Cusp of Crazy

If My Baby Falls Down the Stairs, Don’t Call the People (even though it’d be my fault.)

February 6, 2013 by Arnebya 14 Comments

This boy. He runs and jumps and propels himself through doorways at a speed I am still not used to. The girls, as I’ve said before, could not have been more docile unless I’d smoked way more crack. The girls were laid back; you get my point. This boy. He climbs and reaches and pulls and pushes and lunges. He falls a lot. My nerves are shaky. Maybe it’s from the heroin.

My nerves are so bad that he can climb onto a step stool and I am at the ready to catch him if he missteps. In my mind, he will misstep. And what kind of mother am I if I’m in the kitchen sneaking another two or eight cookies that I told him were all gone when he falls? I’ll be the mother you all condemn because he won’t just fall. That one time that I’m not right beside or behind or within two steps’ reach will be the one time he falls, knocks over a chair that catapults him sideways so that he hits his head on the edge of the too-sharp table, and knocks himself out. And you thought I was such a good mother.

I have gotten better, though. He’s three. I let him fall when he defies me and climbs onto the back of the sofa, then flies down, wearing a cape, calling himself IncrediSpiderBatman. He laughs and does it again. I let him fall when he is running so hard, so hard, so fast, so fast and then his shoes are untied, his chasing sister is upon him and down they go. He laughs and says you can’t get me. I let him fall when his Gangnam style goes awry. I even let him fall when he hops between two dining room chairs and the space between them continues to grow. I let him. I sometimes give him Band-Aids for the imaginary knee scrapes.

And yet. There is one area that I am still all coming off the methadone shaky: stairs.

And it gets better. I’m not just scared of his falling down the stairs, but of the girls, my husband, and myself. I am so paranoid about the stairs that I sometimes count them if it’s late and the lights are off, just so that I know when I’m at the bottom. Sometimes, I miscount and all it takes is me to miss that last step and I’MA DIE. The last time this happened, my husband casually looked at me, one eyebrow arched, “You okay?”

“No. I fell and I just barely kept myself from hitting my forehead on the doorknob, giving myself a severe concussion.” He walked away. Look, y’all. I can’t underestimate a potential concussion. If I die and the findings show I could have been saved with immediate medical attention, look at him because he probably thought I was faking lying on the floor outside of the tub.

When I first had him (OK, each of them) I used to have nightmares about falling down the stairs while holding the baby, LANDING ON THE BABY. Way to go, brain.

I try not to do it, but when he’s near the top of the stairs and he’s running, I grab him. Or, more accurately, I reach out to him like I’m going to grab him but I catch myself, not wanting to scare him. He moves more the other direction anyway, to avoid me, and then his foot gets too close to the top stair. AND THEN MY HEART STOPS BECAUSE HEAD FIRST. ON THE HARDWOOD. HEAD OVER FEET OVER HEAD.

I’m going to be the reason he falls head first down the stairs and needs to go to the emergency room on a Friday night. Do you know what the ER looks like on Friday nights? That’s just selfish.