Not The Bathwater, Just The Baby

I had to call my girlfriend yesterday because I was on the verge of throwing the baby out the window. Like, I actually comtemplated all of the ramifications of giving her a swift kick on her cute little tushy, out the sliding doors, over the balcony. Okay, not really; I'm being dramatic, but it was a difficult day, to say the least.

Bryony and I had both had a late night the night before due to a trip out of town, a malfunctioning car, and my getting lost on the way home (which is a totally different blog post). Needless to say, she didn't get to sleep that night until around 10pm, so yesterday morning she was not the happiest child to be around. She made Stewie Griffin seem absolutely cuddly.
So where to begin with the all-day meltdown-temper-tantrum-atomic-bomb that was my daughter yesterday? Well, I got out of bed (skipping my very coveted shower, mind you) in time to take her to the baby sing-a-long at the local library. Just as we were rounding the corner and could see all the parents and kids waiting for the story room to be opened, Bryony let loose. I don't even know why she got upset (Didn't want to hold my hand? Was trying to run someplace she shouldn't? Realized Oprah is going to be off the air in just a few months and couldn't deal?). She threw herself down on the ground--her usual M.O.--and screamed until I picked her up, kicking and crying(her, not me). I tried to lift her in the air, which usually makes her laugh, but this time only infuriated her. I tried to cuddle with her but she smacked me in the face. I got upset and scolded her which only made her scream even louder. And then, she instantaneously stopped crying, saw some puzzles she wanted to play with and slid out of my arms, and down to the ground to play. It was overwhelming and embarassing and exhausting for me all at once; I had become the mother that I usually look sideways at for having that kid. Now, that kid was mine.
Sing-a-long went well at first, but Bryony started to get busy, no longer wanting to participate but rather to explore parts of the room she shouldn't. Like her daddy, she loves electronics, and she can entertain herself for hours on end pushing the magical buttons on a CD player that make lights shine and music play (not to mention make the CD loader pop up!). I tried to gently take her away from the CD player in the room but that instigated a mother-baby fight (baby was winning, by the way, while mother was crawling into that shameful hole that all parents need to hide out in when their kids are misbehaving). Upon deciding that we were likely not going to be able to stay for the socializing part at the end of the hour, I started packing up our stuff to go, while Bryony converted into a hellion and ran ramshod throughout the library, yanking random books and VHS cassettes off of shelves as she passed. Meanwhile, I was trying to carry bags, clean up her mess and still keep up with her before she made a bigger mess of things or was hauled off in baby handcuffs by a police officer, considering the police station is part of the library building complex. I kept my head down to ignore the disapproving glances of the library staff as Bryony ran out into the main (Shhhh! Quiet!) part of the library.

After finally getting her in my arms and walking to the car (where she decided to be ever-so-cute by kissing my arm and shoving her finger up her nose to prove how adorable she is), we drove home. Once inside, the full explosiveness of her sleep-deprived soul came out. I spent hours running after a baby who has learned to scale shelves so that she can press buttons--the ON/OFF button on the TV, volume and channel controls, the DVD player, etc.--unceasingly. And since our apartment came fully furnished (and is not meant to have babies here) we can't install all of the drawer/cabinet locks that we normally would because of damage to the surfaces. So, that means having to keep an ever-present eye on our holy terror as she grabs bottles, cans, paper and cardboard set aside for recycling and decorates the living room floor. It means making sure she doesn't pick up the landline phone in the bedroom to dial Israel. And, it also means looking in every possible nook or cranny for that set of keys or wallet that you left on the nightstand because the only thing you see in its place is her toy hammer. Which, of course means that your keys or wallet or whatever must be in her toybox...but no, that would be too easy. Let's try the oven broiler instead!

With every one of Bryony's antics yesterday came a corresponding "No!" from me, which made her bottom lip poke out dramatically, tremble, and then she cried crocodile tears, which I knew were fake because she was half-laughing at herself. That made me want to laugh because she was so darned cute, but it also made me angry because I felt she wasn't taking the discipline process seriously enough. Once she decided she would rather laugh at her mama rather than cry, she walked over, stuck her finger up her nostril and pinched my breast. Ouch. Then she laughed.

She went down for a nap at some point, which is usually the cure for the common tantrum. But not yesterday. Yesterday, she woke up as cranky--if not moreso--than she went to bed. I was also cranky from lack of sleep, but between speaking to a friend I'd been playing phone tag with for several weeks, and needing to clean up the kitchen, I didn't have time to nap while she was sleeping. I guess I was a little resentful of that fact, too, which made me even less patient with her when she woke up tearful and pouty.

I finally did the only sane and rational thing I could think of. I called my friend Emily, who has a daughter one month younger than Bryony. She laughed as I recounted the events of the day and expressed the totally irrational desire to toss baby out the window. She assured me she'd had one of those days TWICE in the last week and it was perfectly normal. It was nice to hear someone empathize with the situation. I told her how when we were going through our birth class together, our midwife told the class that "one day, your baby will drive you so crazy that you will understand how people kill their kids." I remember being so repulsed and had thought, "no way! Not me!" at the idea of understanding how someone could murder their kid. And I just want to be clear, I still cannot understand how anyone could FOLLOW THROUGH with killing their child. Just seeing Bryony with a bruise on her eyelid from where the cabinet door hit her makes me cringe; I could never purposely do her harm. However, I can understand the feelings of just wanting your kid to go away for awhile, to just have them out of your sight so you can be left alone, devoid of any parental responsibility. As I told Emily, while I would never do it, sometimes I just want to put Bryony in her crib, grab my car keys and drive off to be by myself for awhile. Sometimes I just need a break.

The day ended on a high note as Bryony ate a good dinner (a rare feat for my child) and then happily sat in the jogging stroller as we took a few spins around the complex. Bedtime came late again because I had allowed Her Royal Terror-ness to have a late-afternoon nap (partly because it meant I'd have a chance to rest up from the day's drama), so I was left wondering what kind of child I'd wake up to today.

As they say, today is a whole new day, and it was like I had a whole new child. She actually smiled at me most of the day. We played endlessly. She ate her lunch and her dinner without much complaint. We played some more, cuddled, bonded and had an overall fun day. And then she tweaked my nipple and picked her nose.

Around The World

You might have noticed that I've been tinkering with my blog layout in the last couple days (and since Blogspot doesn't allow you to "keep" the old layout for previous posts, if you don't recall what it looked like, let's just say it was quite a bit different from this one). While goofing around, I came across a button labeled "Stats," only to discover that it actually gives you some descriptive statistics for who (and how many) has been viewing the blog over the last week, month, and the entire time it has been in existence. I couldn't help but be astounded by some of the results here, and thought it worth posting. Now, I should mention that just by going to blogspot.com, you can randomly view pages that are registered with the site. I'm assuming that many of my "audience members" fit into this category, although there is something very romantic about the idea of people in China, Norway and Iraq anxiously awaiting the latest post that I'll make to the blog. *Laugh* Yeah, right.




The geographical stats for the past month:

United States 365
Australia 18
China 10
Canada 8
Germany 4
Switzerland 2
United Kingdom 2
Ireland 2
Serbia 2
Iraq 1

And for "all time":

United States 874
Australia 20
Canada 13
China 13
Germany 4
United Kingdom 3
Switzerland 2
Ireland 2
Norway 2
Serbia 2

Dog Days of Summer

It's been another summer, another dog, another summer of caring for a dog. Only instead of Shabbi, this time it's Kika.

Our little furry girl is now 15 1/2 years old, already a year older than Shabbi lived to, and her age is catching up with her. She is nearly at the point that Shabbi was when we said our final farewells to her--unable to walk, incontinent and generally unable to participate in life around her. The biggest difference, however, is that while Shabbi was also completely racked by the injustices of dementia, Kika is very much aware. She still recognizes us, lifting her head when Adam walks through the door in the evening, barking for someone to look in on her when we've left her in a room by herself. She's still got her druthers, even if her legs are so atrophied she can't even stand up on her own anymore.

As we watch her decline (or now, seemingly plateau at a general state of lethargy), we assume the frustrating burdens of caring for a geriatric dog--changing her diapers, cleaning up accidents, rearranging her position on the floor so she can reach her food and water bowls, holding her up so she can relieve herself. It kinda sucks, and on more than one occasion we've had "the talk"; the one where we contemplate how much longer we'll let her go on this way. It's not just the inconvenience to us that we think about, but also the sanitary and hygienic implications for Bryony, who crawls on the same floors where Kika's accidents occur. We also wonder what kind of life Kika is having now. Is she in pain? Is she enjoying life at all? Is it worth it to her to keep going? They say that a dog will let you know when it's time to say good-bye. Shabbi did. She started yelping in pain one night, and no amount of moving, massaging or comforting her alleviated her pain, and so we knew. Kika's musculature is non-existent, her joints pop out of joint from time to time, and she has slight sores caused from immobility. And yet, despite all this, she still seems to be in tuned to her world; even the veterinarian was impressed by her willingness to interact with the staff, her responsiveness to human affection, and her desire to eat and drink. We've taken her on our weekend getaways and she seems alert and attentive to the sights and people around us. We think she's telling us that it's not yet time.

As hard as it was to say good-bye to Shabbi (and it was probably the most difficult decision I have ever had to make and carry through on), there was some modicum of comfort in knowing that we were ending her pain, and that her senility shielded her from the sadness of leaving us. As much as her dementia had been a source of frustration for us in the last year of her life, it was a calming hand of comfort in her final moments as she slipped into darkness. Ads and I have both expressed how difficult the decision to let Kika go will be, considering how aware she still is. The thought of letting her go, and Kika knowing what we are doing, is a paralyzing fear. Will she think we are abandoning her? Will she know that it is her final moment and will she feel betrayed? It would almost be easier if she slipped into senility in her final hours so that our guilt could be alleviated, as awful as that sounds.

In the meantime, life goes on as normal. Our reality now is to enjoy every minute of our time with Kika as our days with her grow increasingly fewer.

On This Day...

...we still remember.

A River Runs Through It

The highlight of our time here in Texas has been getting to travel to the much cooler parts of the state, such as Austin, San Antonio and Dallas. Each city has its own character--Austin is very youthful and liberal with both a major university and the state capitol located there; San Antonio is a nice tourist town, complete with the Alamo and an underground river that cuts right through the city, flanked by great restaurants and bars; Dallas is the playground for the urban professional with loads of upscale bars, restaurants and clubs to ease the hectic lifestyles of busy city dwellers.

Here are some pix from our trip to San Antonio recently. So far, I think it's my favorite city in Texas, although we'll be heading to Houston at some point, so who knows...?

Tie A Yellow Ribbon

Keeping with the ceremonial "end of combat operations in Iraq" events (aka Operation "New Dawn") of late, I thought it appropriate to share some feelings I've had over the last few years regarding attitudes I've encountered about military service. I realize that this post is potentially a hot button item, and I might piss more than a few people off, but well, that's what I do best, so here goes.

Obviously, I am part of a military family. Actually, I always have been. My father was an Army officer for the better part of my childhood, and I dated and married a man who was enlisted Navy for 19 years, and for the last two has been an Army officer. Now, whether I consider myself an "Army wife" is a whole other story, but that's a completely different blog post...
I will be completely upfront here, in saying that Adam's and my sacrifices due to the current wars have been relatively minimal. We have only had two separations due to deployments, the first of which put Ads in a non-combat zone for five months in 2003, and the second mobilizing him for over 6 months to Iraq, where he carried out administrative and legal duties in a fairly safe office setting (although his office building was shaken by mortar shells on a daily basis). While I always feared for his safety during the deployment to Iraq, we were able to speak almost everyday, and he was able to assure me that he was not "in theater" (in the combat zone) like many servicemembers, and was comparatively safe. Moreover, Adam not only returned from each deployment unscathed, physically and emotionally...more importantly, he came home to me alive.

That said, being in the service (and from my perspective, being married to someone in the service) can be really hard. The knowledge that months-long deployments are on the horizon; the bureaucracy of the military being such that many decisions are not yours to make, but are made for you; the lack of stability for active duty personnel who can expect reassignments (aka moves) at least every two to three years, if not more frequently. But, it's a job, one that people take for various reasons, and most service members are proud of what they do.
I have been surprised by how some of my liberal-leaning friends question the motive behind Adam's service, as if he (or I) should have to explain why he chose to be in the military. Over the years, several people have come at me with, "I just don't get it...why is he in the military anyway?" or "He left one branch to join another?? Why would he ever stay in the military if he didn't have to?" It boggles my mind that the civilian sector of America (that includes me, by the way) can complain endlessly about long work days, boring tasks and annoying bosses, and yet nobody questions why they chose their line of work. Yet, when Adam or I mentions the frustrations associated with being in the military, the immediate response by many people seems to be "Why don't you just get out?" The Left has long been accused of being unsupportive of our service members (which, to be fair, was the case during the Vietnam War, but in recent times the tone has changed to "Against the War, but Support the Troops!"). But, to some extent amongst my own friends, I don't see the support. Many liberal friends box all servicemembers (and their families) into one category--conservative, narrow-minded, uneducated and uninformed about the world. Forget the fact that our military comprises people from every state in the nation, from all different ethnic backgrounds, all religions and all party affiliations. Our folks in uniform (and their spouses) have associates, bachelors, Masters, PhDs, JDs, MDs, and DVMs, to name a few. Just because they serve (and might have different viewpoints about the world or politics or the war) it doesn't mean they "just don't know any better." It's interesting that these friends seem to think that since Adam is educated and knowledgeable that he shouldn't feel a need to serve; perhaps military service is just for the poor unfortunate souls whose financial or educational vacuum prevents them from doing anything else? Funny, but in many ways, to me these friends are the ones who seem sheltered and a little naive. It's one thing to work your 8-5 job, come home, cook dinner, watch tv and go to bed. It's quite another to be in a combat situation for fifteen consecutive months, or to be the spouse at home who is holding down the fort and simultaneously worrying about your soldier overseas. Let me be frank; I am by no means trying to play the martyr here. My life, while challenging on occasion, is not even comparable to the lives of many military families. But I will say that I have come to see one- and two-week separations from Adam as small potatoes compared to what we've been through in the past.

People choose this life for many reasons--money, opportunity, a way out of a bad life, family history of military service, pride--but I think it's pretty ugly to imply that the motives are based solely on misinformation or misguided machismo. The general attitude that some of my leftist friends exude is that being part of the military is inherently bad. While I'm no gung-ho military person myself, I'm quite sure that working to secure and defend one's nation (and we have a long history of veterans who have done this very thing over the decades) is no worse than many, many other professions.

And, being the equal-opportunity critic that I am, I have to speak of my conservative friends, too. Even before the war began, I felt like there was a huge uproar from many friends on the right to "go over there and kick some ass!" Listen, I lived in New York City on September 11, 2001. I had a view of the burning Manhattan skyline and I watched as the towers fell. I feared for many friends' lives and I held a dear friend who walked the thirteen miles from Manhattan, over the Queensboro bridge, to Flushing that day. I watched Adam call into the New York Naval Militia to see what he could do to help, and I saw his face as he told me what it was like to serve at Ground Zero while smoke, human remains and debris permeated the air. Trust me. I got it. But it felt like the immediate zeal for revenge had no calculated thought behind it. As my boss hung up posters around the office of eagles carrying U.S. flags over silhouttes of the Twin Towers with titles like "Going to Kick Some Ass", my heart sank. I knew we were entering a time of war; I knew we HAD to. But it's like people forgot that war claims casualties on both sides, far more than were lost in the World Trade Center. The zeal that people had about impending war seemed to be a misguided sense of domination. How could people be excited about the idea of entering into a time of war? Did folks really think that a war with insurgents was going to be quick and easy? How could people not predict the reality that we're currently facing, eight years later?
Throughout the eight-plus years of the war, I can't count how many people have lectured me about how good the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan have been (despite the lack of WMDs in Iraq that supposedly justified our invasion there). People who have never had to sacrifice a day in their lives to support it. Never served a deployment, never been separated from family, never worried about not coming home (or having a loved one not come home). One pro-war friend even suggested signing up to go into the military "once things settle down a bit over there." If the war should be fought, why wasn't this friend willing to enter the fray during the most dangerous of times? Another friend who is an adamant supporter of the war, and who served previously during peacetime said he'd "thought about re-enlisting to help out now that we're in a time of war, but I've got kids now, and I just can't see being separated from them." So, it's okay to just let other people leave their families behind to go fight the war that he supports? It's really hard for me to hear people tell me how righteous these wars are when they have nothing invested in it. Ted Koppel, former host of "Nightline" did an op-ed piece on this very issue last month, entitled "Burdens of War Unevenly Shared in U.S.". He expressed his concern that most Americans, whether they support the war or not, are not shouldering the burdens of it, either financially or otherwise. I agree. In this country, more people are concerned with what the Kardashians and The Real Housewives are doing than they are with the sacrifices of their fellow citizens. For most people, Veterans' Day and Memorial Day are just holidays off from work to pull out the grill and have a cookout. For those who have served or the families that have lost a loved one, the days mean so much more. Look, I'm not expecting everyone to enlist and serve in the military, but I guess that it's really hard for me to swallow conservative, pro-war rhetoric from someone who doesn't have to sacrifice for the very issue they're espousing.

So...what am I really saying here? Hey, I'm a bleeding heart liberal who is against war in most cases. I have even had some preconceptions of my own about who servicemembers and their families are, prejudices that I am constantly learning are ridiculous the longer I'm immersed in the military community. But I strongly support our troops. Whether or not you believe that they are overseas "fighting for our freedom," the truth is that they are voluntarily putting their lives on the line on our behalf, and on behalf of our nation, something most of us are not willing to do. Their spouses and children are shouldering the hardships of life without a loved one for several months at a time, several deployments over. Or, at the very worst, they will have to deal with the loss of a loved one for good.

So, perhaps the next time a list of names of those killed in action comes across your television screen, don't flip to the next channel; read each and every name, because those people who died in service to their nation deserve at least that much. And the next time you see someone in uniform, don't make any assumptions. Don't assume s/he is only serving because of ignorance or lack of education. Don't assume that s/he is a gun-toting, testosterone-filled bully who just wants to see some action. But also, don't assume that they are a proponent of this war, and happy to be deployed, away from their family, for the umpteenth time. Maybe they are just a regular person, working their job, doing what they have to do. And maybe you could just thank him/her for their service.

Our force is a diverse collective of many honorable people. Toss your assumptions to the wayside.

Once Upon A Mattress

The evening Bryony and I arrived back in Michigan, as is tradition, I decided to take her next door to visit Mrs. G. (or Abuela G. as we've started to affectionately call her since B.'s birth). I noticed, however, that her car wasn't parked in the driveway, so we hung out at our house for an hour or so. Finally, I heard the sound of a car pulling up next door, so I gathered B. up and we made our way over. Instead of Mrs. G., however, I found her son Frank coming out of the front door; he often stops by to check on his mother and to do maintenance on the house and yard. I was happy to see him and we greeted each other enthusiastically, but then his tone took a more serious note as he asked, "Lauren, did you put a bed in my mother's house last night?"
I had no idea what he was talking about, and told him so. "Frank, I've only been in town for an hour. Why did you think I put a bed in her house?"
Frank seemed a little confused himself. "To be honest, Lauren, I don't know what I'm talking about! My mother is at the casino today with some relatives, and she called me a bit hysterical two hours ago to say that last night she found a bed in her house. She kept saying that she put it outside, but Lauren, I've walked all over the house and looked in the front and backyards and there is no bed here!"
I was floored. It sounded really weird to me. Why would Mrs. G. think that someone had put a bed in her house? And if someone really did, where was it? Frank was worried. "All I can think is that maybe someone delivered a bed and put it on the front porch, and then this morning they realized they got the address wrong and they came back for it, because there is no bed here."
I really wanted him to be right about this theory. Otherwise, something much more disturbing was going on. Like, perhaps Mrs. G. was starting to lose it. Frank had thought of that, too. "I've heard of these things happening to older people, where maybe they dream about something but then their minds make them think that it really happened. I don't know, Lauren, maybe it's time to start looking at the retirement home for my mom again." My heart was starting to break into little pieces. Could my favorite neighbor really be starting to lose her faculties so soon after we left? And, could it be the lack of stimulation from our daily visits that was causing her mind to falter? I hoped against hope that Frank was wrong.

I decided to sit with Frank and his girlfriend at the house until Mrs. G. came home; I wanted to greet her now that we were back in town, but more importantly, I wanted to know that she was all right. A half hour later, her car pulled into the driveway, and she and two relatives got out. Frank quickly told me that he was going to talk to his mother in the back room so that she wouldn't be embarassed about her mistake in front of a room of people. I nodded absently. This was not going to be good.
As soon as Mrs. G. walked through the door, she looked at Frank (totally not noticing B. and me) and frantically asked, "Did you get it?"
My heart sagged, as did Frank's face. "I don't know what you're talking about, Mom. There's no bed here!" There was exasperation and pleading in his voice.
Mrs. G. shook her head, frustrated. "I'm telling you, it was here last night and I put it outside!" We all looked outside for the invisible bed.
Frank threw up his hands. "Mom, I'm telling you, there's no bed here! I looked all over the house and I couldn't find--"
Mrs. G. cut him off, "I told you it flew out onto the front porch!"

Flew?

Frank's girlfriend started laughing. "I told you she was saying bat, not bed!"
Mrs. G., confused, just looked at us. "Yes, that's what I've been saying all along. A bat was in the house last night and I put it out on the porch!"
We all started laughing. Because of the absurdity of the mistake, because Mrs. G. still had her druthers, because her son couldn't decipher his own mother's Mexican accent. We laughed and laughed, and then laughed some more. Mrs. G. explained her confusion the night before when Frank started suggesting that perhaps his brother had brought the "bed" over to temporarily store it; why would her youngest son bring a bat to her house to store? Frank laughed as he recounted his conversation with his younger brother about the mysterious bed and whether he had indeed brought it over to store at their mother's house? Frank kept saying, "I wondered how someone could have dropped a bed off at your house at 10pm without you knowing it because you're still awake at 10 at night!" We all laughed a bit more.

A few days later, Bryony and I went next door to visit Mrs. G. again. After a pleasant evening visit, I took the little girl home to get ready for bed. About 20 minutes after she was happily in sleepland, my cell phone rang. It was Mrs. G. calling; I assumed I had left something behind that she wanted me to go retrieve. When I answered the phone, she said, "Lauren, there's another bed in my house..."

Let's just say that this time, I knew all I had to do was open the door and let "the bed" fly out.