The Fish Pond

Shards

I wanted to tell you about so much.

I wanted to tell you how last week, Monday night, Nemo fell out of our bed, where he has been sleeping with us since he outgrew the bassinet. I was down here reading blogs doing dishes when BigDaddyFish appeared, got a drink, and went back upstairs, through our bedroom to the loft, where his computer is. Two minutes later the sickening crash/thud and the screaming. Oh, the screaming. We both ran to him, held him, rocked him, rubbed his back, and soothed and comforted him until he calmed down, but he continued to do that "Wah!" baby cussing thing at us for a good hour after. Sunday I put his crib together, where it sits in the middle of our room, at the foot of our bed, where there is little room to walk around it to get in the bed.

I wanted to tell you that BDF has taken some positive steps in trying to fix the hating the job problem that he has, but I can't tell you details yet.

I wanted to tell you that we went down to the National Building Museum on Saturday, BDF, Nemo, and me, and how when we got there we discovered there was a huge event called The Big Draw going on, because a new exhibit featuring the work of David Macaulay opened that day, and he was there signing books and they had all kinds of drawing classes for kids and we didn't know because we are dense parents and too stupid to check the web site before we went and Trout loves to draw and would have loved it and we felt like shit. But I got to see the Green House exhibit before it closed and we got a couple of books that will help us build our dream Green house in the future.

I wanted to tell you Nemo has started crawling, this adorable sort of crawling where, instead of "walking" on his knees, he rises up on his toes, kind of like he's in Downward Facing Dog yoga position, and then steps forward, then drops to his knees. He has also learned how to sit up himself.

I wanted to tell you how Trout went to Mad Science camp all day all last week with all manner of new knowledge and love of science.

I wanted to tell you how Sunny has had some sort of potty regression, and is peeing and pooping all over the house. Sunday afternoon she came down and looked at us and said, "Well, I just peed on Little Man's bed, on his pillow." For whatever reason Little Man had come down and told us "Mom, Dad, I kinda, um, just peed in my pants." He slept on a sleeping bag on the floor on Sunday night. I am truly sick of other people's body fluids, and, um, other stuff.

But I can't. Because I have to tell you about a plate.

I have alluded to some of the marital problems that BDF and I are having, and they will continue to be allusions, but they do continue. They are not helped at all by the postpartum depression that I am suffering. Monday night, BDF and I had a monstrous fight. He tends to be antisocial in the best of circumstances, and when stressed he retreats, and at one point during the fight he told me he just didn't want to talk to me anymore.

So I retreated to the basement.

I sat, in the laundry room, crying, thinking, spacing, for more than an hour. I thought about cutting myself, something I've never done before and I have no idea why I was thinking about that, but I was, but I decided not to because I couldn't figure out where on my body I could do it where no one else would see, and I didn't want my daughters, or sons, either, but mostly my daughters, to ever see their Mom that way, so I didn't do it.

After a while BDF came down and invited me upstairs to talk, so I came back up and we talked. But it was bad timing and we were both still too upset about stupid shit we said to each other earlier in the evening, so we said some more stupid shit, some spectacular stupid shit, and I blew. Just exploded.

My brain was bursting, my heart breaking, shattering. I had to get the rage out before my heart literally broke. I ran down to our kitchen, where I wanted to grab a chair and throw it through the sliding glass door, but I didn't want to scare the kids that way, so I ran to the cabinet. I grabbed a stack of Corelle plates. One by one, I smashed them into the hardwood floor.

For plates that are supposed to be difficult to break, they exploded in dramatic, spectacular fashion, tiny shards of glass flying everywhere. Bam! Smash! One, two, three, four. Then I smashed Trout's special plate.

I smashed Trout's plate.

She has her own plate. She picked it out herself at the Corning outlet.

I sat on the floor, in my nightshirt and underwear, surrounded by thousands, maybe millions, of tiny shards of glass, barefoot, bleeding in a couple of places where shrapnel flew up and hit me, and sobbed. What the hell had I done?

I smashed Trout's plate.

And I broke my own heart, all over again.

I wailed until I couldn't wail anymore. I hated myself.

Then I picked myself up, made my way through the minefield of broken glass, grabbed the broom and dustpan, and cleaned it all up. I found slivers of glass everywhere, in my houseplants, on the counters, embedded in the side of the trash can. I swept, I vacuumed, and I wept.

I went to bed at 4 am. I got up at 7:30, and I vacuumed and cleaned some more. I didn't want my babies cutting their feet when they came in for breakfast.

Trout got up before anyone else. Oddly enough, she and Little Man had slept through the entire carnage of the night before. I confessed what I had done.

I explained that I wasn't mad at her, and I loved her beyond reason, and I cried some more as I told her I am sorry. So very, very sorry. And you know what she said?

"That's okay, Mommy, we can get a new one. It's okay, Mommy."

Her forgiveness broke my heart into shards once again.

Yesterday morning, I called my OB to get a referral to a new therapist. Last night, I saw her. She did her official diagnosis. Postpartum depression. She says she can help me. She can help me help myself.

Because I never, never want my children to have their hearts broken into shards because of me.

Sunny Says

As I was giving her some grape flavored ibuprofen for a fever "It's like lots of purple hugs, Mommy."

Struggle

It has been a rough last few days around here. Little Man got better by Friday night, but then Saturday afternoon the girls came down with it, Trout got a secondary infection and needed antibiotics, then Monday and Tuesday the baby had the fever bug and he's been grouchy and crying and puking. Our 4 year old diswasher bit the dust and we took four days to find a new one we agree on, including all day on Sunday when we were supposed to have been going to the Building Museum, washing all the dishes by hand in the interim, using paper as much as possible. The old one had been fixed 5 times. In 4 years. We ended up getting this one. Yesterday. When BDF took off work for the second day this week. And he has no leave.

On Monday I took Trout to the doctor, and we weighed her and she had dropped 3.5 pounds since December. For her, this is a huge problem. She is 7.5 years old, she weighed 38 pounds on Monday. She is an unbelievably picky eater, and it has been getting worse and worse, and believe it or not I think part of my campaign to get them to eat healthier is backfiring, because she's eating more fruits and veggies, but they aren't exactly high in calories. Plus she has switched from drinking a lot of milk to drinking a lot of water. I weighed her this morning and she weighed 41 on our bathroom scale, which isn't that accurate, but I'm willing to take it and assume that she was dehydrated because of the sickness.  We've discussed things with her and both BDF and I and the doctor told her she needs to eat more and needs to eat a wider variety of foods.

I feel like I have failed her. She told me she doesn't like to eat. She doesn't want to take the time it takes to eat. BDF is a little like that, and he was picky as a kid, too. I feel like I haven't done my job to show her how eating can be a fun and enjoyable process. I want her to enjoy mealtimes, not feel like mealtime is a chore. I really really want to declutter my kitchen and table so that we can eat our meals together at the table, which we usually don't do. BDF gets home too late, usually around bedtime, and I don't really like sitting down at the table to eat. But she needs me to do it, and I want to do that for her.

I'm tired. I'm also depressed. BigDaddyFish and I are having a tough time right now. He hates his job and ends up taking his frustration at all of that on us by being worse than his normally grouchy self. Combine that with my own depression and feeling of being overwhelmed by the constant needs of four little people and it's a powder keg waiting for a spark. It doesn't take much for it to blow.

We're trying to work it out, and I'm working on trying to figure myself out and fix some of my own issues. But the timing of everything is atrocious.

I may not be on here much the next few days or so. I need a bit of time to try and get my head together and take care of my family, catch up on the house, work on my grandfather's estate, and do some other writing to honor other commitments that I've made. When I come back, I'll take some time to reflect on my year in blogging (I completely missed my blogiversary last month). Maybe it'll help me find me again.

Sunny Says, R-rated version

Sunny's language skills have always dramatically surpassed where she should be for her age. People do a double-take because there is this teeny tiny little thing, petite in all ways, with beautiful blond curls kissed with a touch of red and light brown eyes. Her hair is still wispy and thin, just as fine as the day she was born. Then she opens her mouth, and no can quite figure out how old she is.

Her gift for language and saying some rather adult things has been the source of all kinds of funny moments in this house. About a week ago she woke up at night and wanted BigDaddyFish to read her a book. He had to go to the bathroom first, and when he got back she was laying down on his pillow, sound asleep. I said something about "Guess she couldn't wait for her book" and she said "I'm not sleeping, I'm just resting my head" and sat up for her book.

Yesterday, she was playing around the house, and she came into the kitchen and said "I found this fuckin' damn backpack."

"Excuse me, Sunny, what did you say?"

"I found this fuckin' damn backpack."

I've been telling BDF for a while now that he had to stop using the F-bomb within earshot of the kids. Maybe he'll actually start doing it now.

And as for the damn? Off to wash my own mouth out with soap.

Let's Apply a Little Logic, Please

May 31, 2007

Parents of Trout Fishfamily

Dear Parent/Guardian:

As you are probably aware, regular attendance at school is necessary for a student to achieve his/her potential. In many cases, students are absent or tardy due to illness or some other legitimate reason.  Usually, these absences are brief (one day or two) and students are able to complete missed work within a short time after they return to school.

Your child, Trout, has been tardy 7 of the 21 school days (33%) during the month of March and tardy 3 of the 15 school days (20%) in April. This is a total of 28 days out of the 148 days (18%) of the school year through April. This is cause for concern as we feel it may adversely affect your child's school achievement. Please make a sincere effort to work with us in improving Trout's timely arrival at school.

Please call me at blahblahblah, yours truly, Trout's principal.

So! Now comes the logic exercise. This letter arrived in the mail yesterday. School ends on the 14th. A prize to whoever can point out the highest number of logic problems with this letter, and another prize for whoever comes up with the best explanation as to why Trout is frequently late. I'll post the truth, as well as the resolution, on Monday.

I Love Trader Joe's, and Other Stuff

Today Nemo and I went to Trader Joe's. I tend not to go very often because it's a little bit of a haul, in the next town over, about a 30 minute drive in heavy traffic, but I was missing their chocolate chip cookies and frozen tamales (a great last-minute dinner for BDF when he comes in late, most days), so Nemo and I put it on our errand list while Little Man and Sunny were at the sitter. I hate taking them with me to the store, because frankly the gimmees drive me crazy and Little Man runs all over the store and makes me a nervous wreck, so I was glad to do it without their "help."

We did all our shopping with Nemo happily snoozing in the Mei Tai for most of it - he woke up only in the checkout line.  He went absolutely bat shit crazy over the balloons, and since we brought home that bright purple thing he gets whiny and nuts if it leaves his sight. It's funny because he's never shown this kind of interest in anything except food and my boobs, which, I guess, are really the same thing.

As we were leaving, I happened to overhear one of the clerks talking to a woman in front of the store. The woman was probably in her late sixties or early seventies, fairly frail, and apparently she didn't have enough money to buy her groceries, or her credit card was declined, or something. She was apologizing, the clerk was also apologizing, and then the clerk said "Well, I didn't want you to be without your food, so here are your groceries." Either the clerk or the store gave the woman her groceries without her paying for them. Good food, good prices, and most importantly, good people. Please patronize one if you have them near you.

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This morning I was changing Nemo's diaper, and I happened to look over at his bouncy seat and there, sitting oh so unpretty, was a dark brown, semi-hard turd. The horrible thing is that it didn't get there today, and I have my doubts about yesterday, too, and I can't for the life of me imagine how in the hell it wasn't noticed before this morning. At least the bouncy seat cover is both machine washable and dryable.

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We are big space fans here, and the shuttle Atlantis is scheduled to launch tomorrow evening for a trip to the International Space Station. Yesterday I mentioned briefly that "Hey, wouldn't it be fun if we hopped on the train and headed down there tomorrow?" One day I will learn not to do that. BigDaddyFish then got that look in his eye, and started checking fares and going a little crazy. Somehow this morphed from a quick little family trip (that wasn't even realistic - Trout has a Girl Scout thing on Saturday) to him taking the opportunity to take Trout and Little Man on a plane and just the 3 of them going down while Sunny goes to Camp Auntie at my SIL's and Nemo and I get to have a bonding weekend and I can get the kitchen table cleaned off (long story). He had me checking airfares, which of course at this late date are insane, and thinking, seriously, about a trip that would have cost more than $1000 and made Trout miss her GS thing and mess up next week's schedule in spades. I said I'd rather stay home here and watch it on our new 42" plasma and have a little party of it and still keep our schedule. He was badgering me about it and I said I'd think about it.

Little Man was sitting on the couch all wrapped up in a blanket, and I brushed against him to get to something else and noticed that his cheek was on fire. I ran him upstairs, took his temperature and:

103.7 degrees.

He's upstairs sleeping. We're not going anywhere.

Pretending Indifference

I got a 1410 on my SAT’s. That doesn’t really mean much, or even matter in the grand scheme of things. But in my junior year of high school, it seemed like a big deal. I got my scores, and after the shock wore off, I went straight to my dad.

“Dad!” I said. “Look at this! I got a 1410 on my SAT’s! 700 in the math section, and 710 in the verbal!”

He took the sheet I was holding out to him and looked it over. “Nice job,” he said, turning back to his newspaper.

I was crushed. Nice job? In that flat tone of voice, as if he were saying, “We need milk,” or “Time for school.” But while I was a bit dismayed at his lack of enthusiasm, I couldn’t say I was surprised. What had I expected, after all? That he would suddenly show interest in my life after 16 years of ignoring it?

A few weeks after that, he was in the hospital again. Oh, didn’t I mention? This was in the last months of his battle with cancer. He went back to the hospital, this time for a number of weeks. As it would turn out, he wouldn’t leave the hospital at all – this was his last trip.

I continued going to school whenever I could, and visited at the hospital the rest of the time. The staff at school were very understanding, because they knew all about my situation. You see, my dad worked at my high school. No, that doesn’t quite convey the depth of his importance. My dad was my high school. You didn’t go to that school without knowing my dad, and you certainly didn’t work there without conversing with him regularly. So when I walked through the office in those days, halls were silent. Looks were exchanged. Whispers followed in a trail behind me. That was just how it was.

One day I was talking to the principal’s secretary in the office. My SAT scores came up, and she exclaimed, “Oh, I heard! Your father was in here as soon as you got the scores, telling anyone who would listen. He was so proud! You should’ve heard him going on and on about how well you’d done and how you were going to go to a great colle-”

I stopped her. “Wait,” I said. “My dad said that? About me?!”

“Sure,” she replied. “He’s always in here bragging about your latest accomplishments.”

I couldn’t believe it. All these years, and I’d never realized. He did care. He just showed it to everyone but me. I didn’t know what to feel. And when I went to the hospital that afternoon, I didn’t quite know what to say either. I just held his hand, and when he asked what was wrong, I said I had a lot on my mind.

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Seven years later, when J. and I first started planning our wedding, we started by choosing a potential date and then checking with the VIPs to see if everyone could make it. One of the VIPs was R., the Dance Mentor Extraordinaire, from whom I (and many others) learned to dance. I wanted him to play a special role in the wedding.

One day, after class, I asked him if he was busy that weekend. He said no, and asked why. So I told him: “I think J. and I will be getting married then, and I was hoping you were available, because I was wondering if you would walk me down the aisle and give me away.”

Complete silence – he just stared. Nervous now, I hastened to add, “You don’t have to. I mean, you can say no, that’s fine, I just…”

“No, I… I just wasn’t… I mean…” He fumbled for his words, finally coming out with, “Isn’t that sort of the father’s job?”

I hadn’t realized he didn’t know. So I nodded and said, “Usually, yes. But my father passed away when I was sixteen.”

“Oh, I see,” he replied. “Well, yes, I can do that. Thanks.” And that was it. He just shut down and became his usual, professional self again. I suddenly felt bad, like I’d manipulated him into doing something he didn’t want to do. I figured there was more than a year until the wedding, though – we’d figure something out.

The next week I was at a party at Lady M’s, chatting with a friend. She’d just come back from a wedding the previous day; also in attendance had been Dance Mentor Extraordinaire.

She suddenly interrupted her current small talk to shout, “Oh! By the way, I heard you asked R. to walk you down the aisle!”

“Yes, I did,” I said. “How’d you hear?”

“From him,” she told me, patting my arm. “Goodness, you should have seen him at the wedding yesterday, strutting around all proud and telling everyone how you’d asked him to walk you down the aisle and wasn’t that just the greatest honor ever. I swear, he must’ve told every single guest in attendance all about it. I think it’s just great.”

I sat there in shock, listening to her. I hadn’t realized it meant anything to him, and yet there he was, apparently beaming with pride as he shared the story of my asking with anyone who would listen.

And I thought to myself, You know, I really couldn’t have chosen anyone more perfect to stand in for Dad.

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This post was written by Lara David as a part of the June Blog Exchange about Dads/Fathers. Lara is a 20-something writing her way through life one day at a time, constantly discovering that the more she learns, the less she really knows. She loves new friends, so follow along with the ups and downs of her life lessons at Life: The Ongoing Education. Plus, FishyGirl is writing over there today, so go visit and leave a friendly word or two.

Yes, We Need to Go On A Date

One of the toughest things I've had to deal with since my kids have come along is keeping my relationship with BigDaddyFish on an even keel.  We are two intensely opinionated, passionate, assertive personalities, both oldest children, both with above average intelligence.  We both like to do things our own way.  Nothing has caused us to butt heads more than our opinions on child rearing, and housekeeping now that the kids are here to mess things up for us.

Some time for just us is in order.  Unfortunately, two things that parents of four kids under the age of 8 are short on are time and money.  More so the time.  We rarely get a chance to talk much about anything until the kids are in bed, and by then I'm so exhausted most of the time, and lacking in me time, that I basically read for a few minutes and pass out.  BigDaddyFish veges in front of the computer games he's addicted to.  This is no way to run a relationship, and our marriage is suffering.  It's gotten worse with each kid we've added to the family, and is at a new low at this point.

We take each other for granted.  We bark orders at each other.  We treat each other like the other one is one of the kids, if we're in a kind mood, and like they are a dog, if we're not.  We're grouchy.  We snipe at one another constantly.  Misunderstanding and resentment abound.  This is not the example we want to be setting for our children.

One day I was channel surfing and happened to catch Dr. Phil giving some poor clod hell about how he was treating his wife.  Something he said has stuck in my mind.  He asked the guy "If some stranger was walking down the street and came over and started talking to your wife the way you have been talking to her, would you tolerate that?  No, you would not.  So what gives you the right to treat her that way yourself?"  I try to be mindful of this when dealing with BigDaddyFish (and the collorary of if I wouldn't want someone saying certain things to my kids, then I shouldn't, either), but when sleep and me time is in short supply and fuses are even shorter, we're bound to lose it again and again.

When we get to this point, we know it's time for us to reconnect, to get out and play miniature golf, go to the movies, go to the damn building museum, or whatever.  Something just for us.

This post has been brought to you by the folks at e-Harmony marriage and the Parentbloggers.  They're teaming up to give some lucky blogger a night on the town with their significant other.  Check them out here, you still have a few minutes to squeak out your own post for a shot at it, too.  Because we all need it.