Tale of Woe, Part: Present Day

Friday night, after a long week of pure grumpiness on Lance's part which resulted in a week of avoidance on my part, we finally had a conversation.

Yes, a wine-fueled conversation, but hey, whatever it takes, right?

We talked, and argued, and talked, and I think we even laughed once. I won't say we solved all of our problems--I'm not even sure we solved any of our problems--but it was nice to say the things we'd each been thinking out loud finally.

Discovery:

Truth: Lance is extremely stressed out about his work. The sales are not coming easily anymore, and this is a change he has not handled well.
Truth: I am extremely UN-empathetic to his plight. In my mind, having to work a little harder than you are used to is no reason to pout and throw a tantrum.

Truth: Lance does a really good job, at Cisco, as a salesman; and at home, as a father.
Truth: I don't give him nearly enough credit for that.

Fact: Lance needs deserves strokes from me. When he is feeling down, he doesn't need me to roll my eyes and tell him to suck it up, he needs me to pat his back and tell him he's doing a good job.
Fact:It is almost impossible for me to do that for him. I am just barely holding on to my decision to forgive him, and to not hold any of last year against him. Asking me to go above and beyond that is not fair.


That was Friday. Saturday and Sunday were good days, spent mostly in the company of friends, at the beach, at the neighbors house, lots of summery drinks and barbecues and laughter and friends. Lance and I do great with other people around. It's when it's just the two of us that things get dicey.

Monday night, I am making dinner*, the kids are playing. Lance walks in from work.
Me: Hey babe. How are you?
Lance: grumble mumble mutter Hey
Me: Looking up, watching him open up his computer and glare at his email.
Me: Another great day at the office?
Lance: What? mutter grumble
Me: making dinner
Me:Big sigh. Bad day?
Lance: Yes. Okay? Mondays are just not that great for me these days, okay?
Me: making dinner, not making eye contact

Eventually, the kids come in to eat; Lance and I decide to feed them first instead of sitting down to a family meal. We disagree over the crispiness of the bacon. He makes snide comments about Vivian's leotard (we had suspended her classes this summer since we were traveling so much but she started up again yesterday. Lance thinks it's a waste of money.) I sigh a lot and say to the kids, "Let's hurry up and drink all our milk guys, Daddy's in a bad mood and I don't want to make him madder!"

After dinner, baths & bedtime I escape upstairs while he turns on Sportscenter downstairs.

*dinner being leftover pasta and BLT's, which is all I can rustle from the pantry. We have no money for groceries until the next payday, which is not until Friday.

So yeah. What would you call that: two steps forward, one step back?
Or is that backwards?


I know I need to do better.

State of the Union, Part Deux

Where was I? Oh yes, the lovely 13 week miscarriage after months of debilitating morning sickness. Let's skip over the horrific part, the appointment with no heartbeat, the call from the genetic counselor days later cheerfully letting me know that my CVS results came back "perfect, everything looks great!", the D&C at the under-construction hospital that was delayed by 3 hours because my OB had an emergency difficult delivery, the waiting on a cot in a hospital gown and nothing else in what amounted to a hallway, staring at the other knee-replacement patients, the nurse who actually asked me if the surgery was elective--yes, skip all that. It sucked.

What was Lance doing during all this?, you might wonder. Actually, it is at this point that he finally took off the evil selfish passive-aggressive hat he'd been wearing and put on his knight in shining armour suit. He was very apologetic, he was very supportive, he took care of me, he tried to make me laugh, he cried with me, and he insisted that we try again. At first, I welcomed this. I needed someone to lean on, and it felt good to have him on my side again.

Our 9 year anniversary was October 3rd, and I remember our dinner out. We had a fabulous time, talking about everything, the miscarriage and when we might start trying again included. We laughed and drank too much wine and it felt very intimate and right.

But it didn't last, and I suppose that is mostly my fault. I didn't really trust him, and once I started feeling better, once I didn't need his support so much anymore, then the trust issues came up again. Also, resentment, for putting me through hell and for what? So I started pulling away a bit. We stopped talking about babies, we stopped talking about most things. I started gearing up for the holidays and I'd wake up feeling resentful but instead of talking about it I'd just let it smoulder all day. We were having sex, and that was still good, but we weren't talking about it, again. I wasn't paying much attention either, as I felt ambivalent about baby-making sex: I still wanted a baby, desperately, but I was also terrified.

Then, miraculously, December 23rd, I got a positive pregnancy test. I was in complete shock. It hadn't even occurred to me that I might be pregnant that cycle, I was sure we hadn't timed intercourse correctly. But there it was.

I wrapped up the test in Christmas paper and handed it to him that night after the kids were in bed.
"What's this?"
"What do you think?" I ask, smiling, thinking that surely he can guess from the shape of the package.
"I don't know."
"Well, open it."
Slowly, he tears off the paper, then says, "Jesus, you are incredible."He laughs a little, drily, so it sounds almost like a cough.
"What do you mean?"
"I mean, Jesus! I can't believe it." That dry laugh again.
"But it's good, right?"
"I guess. . . shit."
"Why are you swearing?"
"I don't know."
"I love you, babe."
"You know you can't drink at Christmas now, right?" He turns to look at me for the first time and he is not frowning, but not smiling either. His face looks tight and I can't decide if he is teasing me or being intentionally cruel.
"I know, don't worry." I decide it is just nervous excitement and kiss him on the cheek, escape up the stairs.

This pregnancy is easier than the last: I am not so sick that I can't sleep, I am able to perform simple tasks like boiling a hot dog without gagging. But I am exhausted, like never before. I nap every afternoon with Vivian, leaving Isaac to roam the house alone, playing hour after hour of video games on the computer that I do not have the strength to supervise and god knows what else. Once again, I escape up to my bed the moment Lance is home from work. I sleep easily 12 hours each night plus an hour or more nap during the day and still I feel tired, groggy, heavy, dull as I shuttle the kids to gymnastics or karate.

(You may notice here that pregnancy and I do not mix well. I freely admit that I fail spectacularly at pregnancy, and not just because I miscarry all the time. Also because I can barely function, I am completely undone physically by pregnancy. Some women breeze through it, glow and look beautiful and happy; I do not. I suffer, mightily, and I do not suffer alone. I make sure to drag everyone else along with me.)

Still, things are better. Lance and I are not talking a lot, but there are smiles, the occasional joke or kiss on the cheek. We still separate to our respective corners every day--me in the bed upstairs, Lance downstairs watching ESPN--but when he crawls into bed later he'll kiss me. When I stumble back into bed after my 5th trip to the bathroom and notice him there I drag my finger over his arm, or pat his back heavily before drifting back into deep slumber.

I actually think if that baby had survived, if I was still pregnant right now, we'd both be happy, we'd be anticipating to his birth equally. But of course he didn't, and so now we are in a different place altogether.

Hmm. I'm getting bored of this story. Aren't you? Good thing there are so many Blogher posts to read instead. I'm almost finished though. We're already up to, say, February, 2008. I'll do the rest later . .

Ugly is as ugly does

Originally I planned to write this from Lance's point of view. Or, at very least, I intended to show his side of the story. Obviously, it hasn't worked out that way so far. But I do want to be honest here, or as honest as I know how to be. I want to admit my own culpability, I want to own my part of the fallout. So here's a few things that may not be clear.

1. I am not a talker. I don't like to talk, especially about myself, especially about important things. My natural default is to claim everything is fine and change the subject. (Remember?) So, in the beginning, when Lance and I were "trying" to get pregnant, it was very easy for me to not discuss the elephant in the room. Yes, it was unfair for him to have repeated unsafe sex with me for months and then punish me when a pregnancy resulted, but also, I'm not an idiot. I knew what we were doing, and I knew he didn't really want a baby, I just decided to ignore that. I wanted the baby and I let the sex be his answer, instead of all the comments he was making about not wanting a third. So then it's not really fair of me to be surprised or hurt when he reacts exactly the way I knew he would.

2. Right about the same time all this was happening, we moved back into our house. We did an extensive remodel in 2006. Our mortgage doubles. Power and water bills go up by about 1/3. Lance works in sales for Cisco, and sometime that summer, they redid his compensation plan. His 'goal' is set much higher than it had been in 2006 and for the first time in a few years he is facing making less money than he did the year before. (As it turns out, he makes about 25% less in 2007. 2008 is worse.). The financial strain is great. I know this (I am the one who manages the money in our household), yet I refuse to consider its implications for our family. I refuse to accept that adding a third child will undoubtedly strain our budget to the extreme.

3. Remember how I said I'm not a talker? Well, after our Big Fight, I stopped talking altogether. I said nothing to him. Not good morning, not how was your day, not thanks for taking the kids, not wow, this morning sickness is kicking my butt. I went about my days, (spent mostly in bed) and absolutely ignored his presence. Some of that was unintentional, some of it was simply a result of feeling so sick that even talking took too much effort. Some of it was because I didn't want to hear anything he had to say. I didn't want to hear the word abortion again. But it was also intentional, it was also me punishing him for not being the husband I wanted him to be. And it got to be a habit. Ignoring him, feeling annoyed by him, wishing he were someone else. Then before I even realized what was happening I forgot how to be nice to him. I have not been nice.

If Lance were writing this story, he'd probably have about 10 more points here to add, times when I acted immaturely, where I shut down or shut him out, when I expected him to read my mind and punished him when he read it wrong. I am not the victim here. I am a fully invested participant and I want to make that clear to you--and to me. Lance may not be the husband I wanted, but I am certainly not the wife he envisioned either.

The one thing that has somehow remained constant: I still love him. He still loves me. Even when I was so busy hating him I couldn't even say his name without rolling my eyes, even then, I still loved him. I want to make this work, and he does too.

And so we keep keeping on.

I'll return to the story tomorrow maybe. I can't believe I'm only up to September 2007.

State of the Union

So, Lance. I haven't written much about Lance, because it's been so . . . difficult. It's such a long story, and it's complicated, and I don't know where to start. Well, here:

****
Christmas 2006

We are at Lance's best friend's house for dinner when we get the news: the newly married couple (you may remember their wedding), are pregnant, due in August.

Later, Lance turns to me, whispers,"I feel kind of inspired, don't you? Maybe we should do that, too."

"You mean---What? Really? Yes! Totally! Absolutely! We have to!" I am positively giddy, and fresh tears of joy prick the back of my eyelids. Never in a thousand years did I imagine he would agree to try for three.

The next day I make the appointment to have my IUD removed, and by late February, it is done.

****
We are driving to Disneyland, following Lance's best friend and his pregnant wife, plus another couple with two kids whom we all know.

"We'll have to get a new car", I say casually, glancing back at the kids in our Lexus SUV. "I don't think we can fit an infant car seat between their two." I am testing him, waiting to see if he is serious.

"The lease is up in a year I think, plus I need to sell my car. We'll figure it out."

I don't meet his eyes, afraid he will see the excitement in my eyes, afraid to scare him out of it. But I still can't quite believe it, so I add, "Wow, three. I don't know, I always thought two or four was better. Three was tough for me growing up. Should we have four?" Here I giggle, to let him know I am joking, to give him an out.

He doesn't answer, so I press on. "But I'm so old already, I just turned 37. God, I'd be 40 by then!"

And he says, "We could always adopt the fourth". I sneak a glance at him, sure that he is joking, but he is looking straight ahead, he is not smiling, he seems to be serious.


****
May 2007
We have been 'trying' for a few months. I put trying in quotes because it is unlike the trying we did before we conceived Isaac. We don't talk about it. I don't tell him my fertile times or give any indication that I hope the sex we are having might end in a baby. It seems very one-sided; the trying is all on my side. His side is just enjoying the sex. I don't want to rock the boat, I'm still terrified that the wrong move on my part will halt our efforts in their tracks, so I just go along, quietly.

Occasionally he makes comments that puzzle me: We clean out the garage, and he piles the old strollers together saying, "We should give this stuff to Alex." I don't answer, afraid of what he is saying, but that night we make love as usual and he doesn't pull out.

At dinner when my parents are in town I spill the beans that my best friend is recently pregnant with her 3rd. My parents are thrilled for her and my dad asks, "What about you two, would you ever consider a third?"
"No way", Lance says, emphatically. I reach over, rub my hands through his hair and smile, then say, "Well, you never know. Right, babe?" He doesn't answer.

June 2007
Earlier in the day Lance has again commented something to the effect of wanting only two kids. And yet here we are, in the evening, about to make love--about to make a baby. I stop what I'm doing, sit up.
"What are we doing? What is this? I don't understand you."
"What?"
"Why do you say things about not wanting a baby and then come home and have sex with me?"
"What else am I supposed to do?"
"What do you mean?"
"Well, you are giving me no choice. Either we have this baby or you resent me forever, right?"
"But I thought you wanted a baby."
"I never wanted another baby!"
This quickly degenerates into a shouting match with nothing resolved. A week later, we have sex again. No mention is made of babies or contraceptives.

July 2007
I am in Delaware with the kids, visiting my family. Lance is in California. I have a feeling that I am pregnant, but I have had this feeling for at least 3 months before and I have been wrong. And now I am terrified--if I am pregnant, Lance will freak out. That is a given. I try to avoid alcohol in the off chance that I am, but I'm with my family--we are a family that enjoys cocktail hour--and it is impossible to decline. My period is two days late. Finally I break down and buy a pregnancy test. I have to know, I have to stop drinking if it is true.
Two lines. My heart beats rapidly in my chest, I feel light-headed. I sit on the bathroom floor, holding the test in my hand, not sure what to think. I am ecstatic. I am terrified. I can't breathe. Quietly, quickly I run out to the hall and grab the phone, sneak back to the bathroom. I dial my best friend, the one who is also pregnant with #3.
"Susanna!" I am whispering because I don't want anyone in my parents' house to hear, but also because my voice is not working properly.
"I'm pregnant."
"What? Amy? Are you okay? I can't hear you."
"I'm pregnant"
She screams in joy and laughs, "Oh my god! I'm so glad! Yay! Oh my god! I can't talk I'm so happy!"
I smile for the first time and laugh, too, nervously. But she is so full of hope I can feel the terror subsiding and I start to consider the baby. The baby that I have been wanting so much. A baby! Those teeny tiny toes! And gummy grins! And sweet sweet smelling heads!

I make it through dinner with my family somehow, put the kids to bed, retire to my room. Now I am terrified again because I have to call Lance. I know his reaction will not be what I want. But surely once he gets over the shock he will be alright. He had to know this was going to happen eventually.

"I have some news".
"What?"
"I'm pregnant."
"What?"
"I'm pregnant."
(Long Pause)
"Are you there?"
(Pause)
"Lance? Hello?"
"Yes. Yes, I'm here."
"Um, what do you think?"
"What do I think? Hmm, well, I think this is the biggest mistake of my life."
"Come on, babe, it's not that bad. It will be fun. You love babies, too, remember? And it will be easy this time, we know what to do!"
"I have to go, I have to hang up."
"Lance--
he hangs up the phone.

August 2007
I am sick. So sick I can barely raise my head off my pillow. Food is disgusting, yet it is the only thing that makes me feel better. I stuff chips into my mouth constantly, chips and cookies and processed foods. I carry heated frozen pizzas to my bedroom and eat them while lying down. Every time I get up, I gag. I wake in the night, the nausea so bad I feel like I am on a sailboat. I eat bowls of cereal throughout the night, and I feel slightly better, enough to fall asleep for another hour. In the morning, I cannot look at Lance or the children. Their smell makes me gag. I am green and drawn, I need to eat something but everything sounds foul. There is a metallic taste in my mouth that will not go away. Twice, I forget to feed the kids breakfast before taking them to school. But I don't care. I just need to lie down. I drop them off, stop at McDonald's for french fries, come home to my bed.
It is the worst morning sickness of my life. This is my 6th pregnancy.

Because I am so sick, Lance and I barely talk. We have said maybe 100 words to each other since I announced my pregnancy. But I don't care. I am just trying to survive. Weekends and evenings, he takes the kids, without any prompting from me, to the beach, to the park, to his parents' house. Anywhere, away from the house, where I lie in bed, stuffing my craw with nachos and Popsicles.
"He's okay", I tell my friend Susanna, "he keeps taking the kids for me, I don't even have to ask him, it's actually kind of sweet".
Except it's not sweet, not really. Because he can barely look at me, and I know, on some level, he is taking the kids not to give me a break, not because he knows how terrible I feel, but because he needs to get out of the house too. My illness makes it impossible for him to pretend this isn't happening. He hates me.

Finally, one morning. He is working from home for some reason. The kids are in school. I come down to the kitchen to forage for some chocolate chips or macaroni and cheese. I don't remember how it starts, but it does. The biggest argument fight of our marriage. I am moody and irritable, I feel like shit and I spew: what is the matter with him, why can't he be happy, why is he acting like this is so terrible? He is not the one who feels like shit, he is not the one who can't sleep, what is his fucking excuse?
It is during this argument that the word abortion is thrown around, (though he completely denies it now) and I remember saying shouting "Well you better decide if you want to abort this baby now because I'm not doing it after 10 weeks!" "Thank you", he answers quietly, "thank you for considering that option."
I am 8-1/2 weeks pregnant. I call him all kinds of bad names, stalk back upstairs, cry on the bed for hours. Then stop, because I feel too terrible to concentrate on him and what he is thinking. I can only concentrate on feeling better.
For the next few weeks, again, we hardly speak. I don't care.

September 2007
We are in Canada, vacationing with my family. I am feeling slightly better, though I still have days where the effort of speaking to anyone seems impossible. Nothing tastes good, but at least I do not feel like I have to be in bed all the time. My family is annoyed, slightly, that I am not my usual self--they don't get to see me very often, and they want to have fun with me. But I am not drinking, I go to bed early, I take naps, I don't smile that much. I am annoying to be around. I can't water ski, I can't jump off Whiskey Rock, I can't participate as much as I'd like to, or as much as they'd like me to.
I can't help it. I do my best. I remind myself and everyone else that in April there will be a baby to show for it all. (I am due April Fool's Day, a sign if I ever knew one.) Lance and I don't talk much. I read a lot. The kids have a ball with their cousins, and I am grateful that they at least, are having fun. I am sure things will turn around for Lance and I once I feel better, once the baby comes, once he gets used to the idea. In the meantime, I shut him out, afraid of what he will say if we do talk. I wait until it gets better.

September 20th, 2007
We are back in L.A. I am 13 weeks pregnant, I am feeling much better. I had a CVS the week before and should have the results in a few days. I go in for my monthly OB appt.

No heartbeat.

Okay, I'll tell the rest later. Now you can see why I put off writing this for so long. It takes forever! And it is not a happy story. Actually, I'm not sure if this is making me feel better or worse. But thanks for listening, regardless.

Short

His relief is palpable. It enters the room before he does, a balloon that expands, filling up all the livable space, slowly pushing me out. So I slink away, holding my grief around me like armour, sharp edges that I scrape against his soft bubble of happiness. It does not pop, and I head to the bedroom where I can be alone with my pain.

His happiness cuts me like nothing else. Yet hurting him brings me no relief either.

My marriage is crumbling around me and I do nothing to stop it. I sit here and watch the pieces drop to the floor, make no effort to pick them up and patch the hole, and occasionally take my own swing at it, to hurry up the process.

Love, Actually.

I'm not sure I ever told you, but Dr. Bite Me is out. You guys were right, and I should have listened to you in the first place. Did I ever tell you about Marriage Counseling: Session Three? Dr. Bite Me threw out this nugget of wisdom: "Well, if Lance wants to surf for 5 hours every day of your vacation, I think that is a non-negotiable. You want to let him do that, whether you think it's reasonable or not." Yeah, even Lance agreed that perhaps Dr. Bite Me did not have both of our interests equally at heart, after that. Not to mention, although occasionally Dr Bite Me did offer some good insight, he spent a lot of time talking himself, and I don't feel like paying good money to listen to some 50 year old misogynist pontificate. Know what I mean?

So. You were right. Now I just have to find someone else. (Lazy, lazy . . .)

You know what else? Things are much better, with Lance and I. I've been thinking about us lately, and the truth is, we've been through a lot, these past two and a half years. First, Vivian. I have alluded before to how difficult things were once she was born, and I'll repeat myself here. When Vivian was born, Isaac was a complete and utter maniac. I was totally unprepared to handle him and a newborn, especially a newborn so unlike the only other one I'd ever known (Isaac, who as an infant was a perfect angel). It was at least 3 months of utter hell, as I struggled and failed to be a good mother to both children, only getting slightly better when I gave up trying to be good and settled for at-least-I-didn't-kill-them-today. I did not handle those months with anything resembling grace, and I will say here that Lance didn't either. I felt like a failure all day long and he felt like a failure every evening, but at least he had work to escape to, and escape he did. To work, to ski vacations, to football games, anywhere but here. The resentment started there, I think.

Then, Vivian turned one, and at her birthday party that year, the whole nasty brother-in-law thing exploded. Just when we had gotten a handle on parenting two kids, we had something else to argue about. Something else that upset both of us, in different ways. That upset the people we loved, and we were powerless to stop it. The day after Vivian's birthday was Isaac first surgery, the one we thought would be so simple, the one before we had an accurate diagnoses. That one-two punch has been very difficult to navigate, and I don't think either one of us has shown any exceptional maturity or dignity in doing so.

I have been holding onto that resentment, the I-didn't-sign-up- for-this-parenting-thing-alone, the your-brother-is-an-ass-and-you-don't-do- anything-about-it, the why-the-fuck-is-this-happening-to-our-son-and-why- can't-you-make-it-better, the I-am-doing-everything-and-you-suck feelings-- and holding tight, for years. Clenching my jaw, tasting bile, steeling my eyes--that's how tight I've been holding on. I'm not sure why, except to say that I am a (perhaps deeply) flawed person.

But at least I finally realized what I was doing, and also realized how much it wasn't helping. I think at one point I felt that being angry at Lance was helping me in some way--at least when I was angry with him I didn't have to be sad, or blame myself, or bang my head against the wall. Anger, resentment, jealousy: all these emotions were infinitely better than actually dealing with the problems at hand. Giving up the anger would mean I'd have to let him in, admit how vulnerable and lost I felt, and I couldn't do that.

Now, things are better. The kids are in school 4 mornings a week. We haven't seen nasty boy in almost a year. Isaac's health still sucks, and it will still be an issue for years to come, but we are both trying to talk about it more, trying to accept it. And I have let go of all that crap. It was getting heavy, and my arms were tired.

It's not as if this happened quickly--I didn't wake up one morning and say, "oh! I know what the problem is in my marriage!" In fact, I couldn't pinpoint anything, any one moment or event that made a difference. Lance has adjusted his attitude too somehow, and I'm sure I have nothing to do with that. We just both seem to be swimming back towards each other now, instead of treading water at different ends of the pool, occasionally splashing water in each other's faces.

But I will say this: what a relief, to be able to smile when Lance comes home from work. How nice it is to call him--not with chores or accusations, but a simple question--do you want to go to the beach for dinner tonight?, followed by a quick and heartfelt "I love you".

No, it's not all gravy again, not yet. I am not a strong swimmer after all, and anyway, my arms were already tired from carting all that emotion around. (Fun with metaphors!) But it's getting better, and for that I am grateful. They always say that marriage is hard work, but for a long time I didn't believe that. Oh sure, sometimes Lance annoyed the crap out of me, but hard? Even in the midst of all the shit that went on these last few years, I don't think I would have admitted it was hard. I actually thought I was holding it all together, until a few months ago. But it is hard, and not because living with someone else is hard. It's hard because you have to be completely honest with yourself, you have to push through all your own bullshit, you have to call yourself when you're being a twit, and you have to mean it.

That's hard.

And totally worth it.



(No, not a flattering photo, but it seems apt, somehow.)

Love Letter

"Happy Anniversary, Amy!

8 years . . .wow! Who'd a thunk? Challenging as it seems at times, I wouldn't change it for the world. I love you. I love our family. I love our scenario and am excited for the future! Let's keep strong and prosper together for another 8 (and then some) years. I love you.

Lance"




(Speaks for itself, no?)

Hawaii is Heaven

First of all, I need to plug our little hotel in Maui. The Mauian is surprisingly affordable (Hawaii is tres, tres* expensive), steps from the beach, and completely clean and comfortable. Each small "studio" holds a queen bed, a daybed, a bathroom, kitchenette and balcony or deck. No TVs or telephones or anything remotely fancy, but it was clean. And did I mention? Steps from the beach. They held a continental Hawaiian breakfast every morning in the great room, which also boasted a bookshelf full of guilty beach reading, and a TV, if you just had to have your Sportscenter fix. Many of the people who were staying there had been coming for twenty-plus years, and some who had brought their children years before were now bringing grandchildren. The vibe of the place is completely down-home and friendly, and I loved it. If you're looking for pampering, this is not the place for you, but for us it was perfect. I would stay there again in a heartbeat.

My in-laws stayed next door, at a fancier resort (though still not ultra-fancy--probably two steps up from The Mauian. It seemed very nice, too.) The truth is, in Hawaii, you tend to spend a lot of time on the beach, or in the ocean--so the rooms don't really matter that much. I'd go with the $200 cheaper place per night everytime, especially as the two hotels share the same (spectacular) beach.

Isaac loved the pool of course, but most of all he loved the kids that were also staying there or next door. Lauren, Kelsey, Matthew, Gavin: he was never happier than when running across the green with anyone of them. He also braved the ocean several times, getting tumbled once or twice yet hopping up with a smile on his face. Vivian, of course, stayed as far from the surf as possible, but she played happily enough in the sand, several yards away.


I won't bore you with a million details of Maui--it was all good, and there's not much more I can say about it. We wore out our mouth muscles smiling, drank Mai Tai after Mai Tai, soaked up the sun and explored a teeny bit. I read several books--nothing worthwhile, but enjoyable all the same. Lance's brother and his wife (the nice ones) were their usual easy-going selves, my in-laws were on their best behavior, and Lance and I didn't even fight that much.

We stayed in Maui four days, and then headed off to Kauai for a week. More on that to come.



*Anyone know how to do those little accent thingys?



In other news, I visited a good friend today (my old roommate, from the San Francisco days) whose wife had a baby while we were in Hawaii. Ah, newborns! I couldn't help tearing up, just touching his teeny tiny toes. And his soft downy head. And the silly mewing noises he made. Is there anything sweeter than a newborn? Both parents are head over heels gaga over their son (1st baby) which is really special to see, too. Remember that? When you just can't stop staring at this baby you've created? When the miracle is so fresh and all your emotions are so ripe and overwhelming? Ah.
Most of all, though, I was struck by how in awe the parents were of each other. At different times during our visit, I was alone with each of them, and they both had nothing but nice things to say about each other. "She is such a good mom, Aim. I just . . . I just can't even believe how well she handles everything . .." "Alex has been so amazing. He does laundry, he cooks, he changes diapers, he is so involved, and he wants to be. I am just so glad that he's the one I married."

Today is my 8 year wedding anniversary to Lance. As I sat there today, holding that perfect infant and listening to my two friends overflow with love, I remembered feeling the same way. Feeling so positively blessed to have him in my life. Feeling like the luckiest person on the planet. How we got from there to here--a place where arguing comes more naturally than loving--I'm not really sure. But I need to do some work to find my way back. And it starts tonight. Hawaii was a good start, and now the real work begins.

Moving is hell

Why? Oh, I'll tell you.

1. No matter how many boxes you beg, borrow and steal, you always need more. Usually at the very end of the day, when you just can't face going out to forage for more. That means moving into the new swanky apartment building carrying your things in black Hefty bags. Classy.
2. The paper you wrap all your breakables in makes your hands black with newsprint, and leaves smudges on all the dishes you unwrap at the new place.
3. Trying to figure out which items go into deep storage for 6-9 months and which items you will need at the apartment makes your brain implode, and causes you to pack the box of Lance's sweaters into the pod, and bring two sleeping bags with you to the new apartment.
4. Trying to fit all your belongings into a smallish storage container and smallish UHaul truck requires much forethought--much more than you give it, which means you must move things out of the storage container and re-pack, several times.
5. Although the garage sale nets a surprising $600 (!!); haggling with strangers over your crap for 6 hours is no fun ("I won't take less than $5! . . . Alright, just give me a $1. Or, fine!--Jesus! Fifty cents!").
6. Keeping the kids entertained and out of danger while you make trip after ever-fucking-lasting trip to the car, to the apartment, back to the house, is impossible. (Fortunately, the ever-brilliant Heidi helped out for much of the afternoon.)
7. What is one supposed to eat when all the food is packed in boxes?
8. Selling your refridgerator for $130 is a pretty good deal, since it came with the house, but selling it on Friday, 24 hours before you get into the new apartment, is not so smart. Coolers do not make good freezers. Soggy chicken nuggets, anyone?
9. The nice men you pick up from the Home Depot lot will definitely ease much of the pain of moving, but when they break your dining room table in half, there's not much you can do about it. I'm afraid they're not exactly insured.
10. Although the nice day laborers do most of the heavy lifting, there is still much carrying and stretching and pulling, which means your already fragile back will ache well into your Hawaiian vacation. (Vivian's new favorite whine? "My back hurts, Mama!")
11. Why does it always happen that your apartment is the absolute farthest away from the elevator?
12. When your husband leaves at 3:30pm, to go to the football game, the babysitter he hired is a help, but doesn't do a whole lot to alleviate the resentment you feel burning away your stomach lining as you survey the apartment, drowning in boxes.
13. Especially when, the next day, he actually gets annoyed at you, for being resentful.
14. When, at 7:30pm on moving day, the kids are finally asleep (on an air mattress and the pack n' play) and you have unpacked most of the kitchen, so you decide to rest for the evening, you turn on the TV only to find that although cable guy spent 40 minutes there setting it up, there is no reception. The phone is not hooked up, and your cell phone is dead, no charger to be found.
15. So, you decide to take a hot shower instead--but there is no hot water. And no phone with which to call the emergency maintenance number, nor access to the computer to find such a number. As there is no light by which to read a book--a book which you wouldn't be able to locate amongst the boxes anyway, this puts you in bed at 8pm, dirty, sweaty and pissed off.

See? Hell.

(Fortunately, that hell was followed quickly by the Hawaiian vacation from heaven, so it's all good.)

I just would like to know

Where in my job description it says: "remove maggot infestation from trash cans".

Because I really didn't see that one coming. I would have taken a picture so you could appreciate the true horror, but I couldn't aim the camera without hurling.

Also? Clearly, Lance is not the better spouse, since his last merry words to me, as he skipped off to work this morning, were "Have fun with the maggots!" Not to mention, he spent the whole day Saturday (as in 6:30am until naptime) surfing and called this fair trade for the 3 hours I spent out with the girls Friday night.


Post Script: Probably not a good idea to ask your wife, while you are eating a dinner of fried rice, "So, how'd it go with the maggots today?"

True story.

Further evidence that Lance is the better spouse (not that you needed any)

Actual text from email conversation.

Friend K to Amy: "Drinks or dinner? Anyone? Impromptu girls night? Shout out if you're in."

Amy to Lance: "Can you watch the kids?"

Lance to Amy: "This Friday? Are you crazy??? You think you can just tell me on a Wednesday you're gonna be out and leaving me with the kids on a Friday night?????
:) Yes, honey, of course. Have fun. Get drunk. Raise your skirt.
Party Hearty."

Brilliant, isn't he? In two paragraphs he manages to expose me for the nagging bitch I am while simaltaneously describing himself as the magnanimous giving partner.

Now you're all nodding your heads, thinking to yourself, "Of course. They are going to therapy for Lance's sake. Poor man. "

But I'm on to him.

(And--yay!--I'm going out tonight with grown-ups!)

Tip #4

If you are making candied walnuts and have the sugar in the pan over low heat, as the recipe directs, but after what seems like a very long time the sugar is not melting, do not turn up the heat and then pop into the office to check blogs "for a second".

Billowing black smoke all over the house and bubbly black tar in the pan will not taste good in your salad.

The smoke detector at my neighbor's house went off, and while I can't be sure that the blackened sugar was the cause, I have a feeling.

___________________________________________________________________
(Imagine a segue here)

It is possible (and I know this will come as a shock to you) that my last post may have been a wee bit dramatic.

Thing is, therapy is hard. I don't like talking about myself, I don't like hearing all the things that I'm doing wrong, I don't like having to adjust to Lance's "style" of communicating, I don't like feeling judged. So perhaps I am projecting some of my discomfort onto Dr. Bite Me.

Actually, the funny (yeah, it's a laugh riot, Amy) thing is this: Lance and I have actually been getting along much better lately. Some of that has to do with the fact that Vivian is in school and this gives me the freedom to take a shit when I want for the first time in 3-1/2 years. Some of that has to do with the little attitude adjustment* I gave myself a few weeks ago. Some of it (maybe) has to do with therapy.

I'm not entirely sure that Dr. Bite Me is the perfect counselor, but Lance seems to like him, and I am lazy, and also that "make do with what you have and don't complain" upbringing dies hard, so we'll probably stick with him.

*Can't tell, can you?

Marriage Counseling: Session Two

Annoying: that Lance has been positively gleeful all week, looking forward to our next meeting with Dr. Bite Me .

Annoying: that Dr. Bite Me drones on and on and on past our allotted time, making me late to pick up the kids from pre-school.

More Annoying: that whenever we go see Dr. Bite Me I am so nervous (hate the talking about myself, doncha know) that I am absolutely rank with pit stank by the time we leave.

Most Annoying: that even though this visit went decidedly more in my favor I still left feeling vaguely violated, like someone had given me a pelvic exam in my sleep.

Marriage counseling: Session One

Okay, let's get this out of the way: Lance totally won today.

Lance! Lance won! How is that possible? I was so sure that we'd be leaving our session today with the counselor sympathetically patting my shoulder and commiserating about what a tough road I have to hoe (road to hoe? is that right? what does that even mean?*) with Lance as my husband.

Instead, I got this: "Well, Amy, I'm not saying you shouldn't be annoyed. You can be annoyed. But you should also be aware that in this way, you are actually trying to control what he's saying." ME? Control LANCE? WTF? It is my contention that Lance is the control freak in our relationship!

Fucking quack.

I feel compelled to add this, though: Even while he was ever so (NOT) gently calling me a controlling bitch, he admitted that I was "clinically correct." Ha! As in, "actually, it's true that you are clinically correct, that his way of communicating here is not entirely honest and that we may have to take a bit longer to get to the meat of what he is saying, but that's his style, and that's okay. He's not changing his style, even though you have indicated your annoyance with it three different times in this session."

I'm giving myself a point or two for that, I don't care what anybody says. I was clinically correct! That means I am smart! And that's all I need to know.

*Wait! Now I get it: Row to hoe! You know, like the farmers, hoeing their rows. (it's starting to sound dirty now, isn't it?)

Whoa. You people are smart. Really, really smart.

When I wrote that first post about feeling resentful and angry in my marriage, I got a lot of comments from new people. For whatever reason (solidarity?), that post encouraged lurkers to come out and be seen for a quick minute, and I love that. Not just because I got to "meet" some more of you, but also because you had some awesome things to say. My more regular readers had incredible insight, too, and now it becomes obvious why blogging has become such a big part of my life: you help me make sense of my world. I know, I know--that sounds so fucking hokey, but I don't know what else to say, because it's true.

And it wasn't just that post. No, the revelations and support and insight continued after I wrote the second post. I hardly need counseling anymore, since I have all of you to set me straight. (Don't worry, we're still going to counseling. Lance does not reap the benefit of your brains, after all.)

So, thank you. I am completely impressed. And forever grateful.

P.S. I linked a bunch of your comments above, but I wanted to link to every single one. Seriously, everything you guys had to say helped unbelievably, and I do not mean to qualify the comments by linking some and not others.

I can't handle the truth

So you know how I was bitching and moaning the other day because Lance gets to do whatever he wants and I'm just a slave taking care of every last thing? It's not really like that. Sometimes it may feel like that, but it's not actually like that.

Really, whenever Lance goes out with friends, or is gone for whatever reason in the normal "after work" hours, he makes it up to me by giving me a night off. This generally means that the next night he'll handle all the kid duties while I blog to my hearts' content in the other room. The time last week when he went out to see some stupid band for two nights in a row? He arranged for a babysitter one of those nights and called her to make sure I'd have something fun to do (we went out to dinner with Trent, which was fabulous).

As a matter of course, on the weekends and evenings after work, he takes the kids to playgrounds or to the beach or for walks, giving me needed down time. When we go out to dinner, etc, he knows what we need in the diaper bag, and he gets it together much of the time. (No, not most of the time, but still.) Usually, he makes dinner reservations for us and arranges for the babysitter. Every now and then, he comes home from work early and sends me out for a pedicure. He rarely works later than 5:30. He is always in charge of baths, is equal partners in the going to bed routine, cleans up the dishes every night, picks up toys, and so on. It is not as if he is playing video games or watching TV while I'm slaving away. (Except when he's surfing. And honestly? He hardly ever surfs anymore.)

So you see? There is really no reason for me to feel so resentful. He is doing all I can ask of him--he is doing more than many husbands I'm told, so I should feel grateful. Some days I do. But some days I still feel angry.

I emailed with Phantom a little bit after that last post, and in writing to her I think I may have stumbled onto a nugget of truth: my feelings of resentment don't feel valid, because Lance does help out so much. So instead of communicating to him that I need some more help or whatever it is, I just get bitter inside. I sigh passive-aggressively and slam things around and insist that nothing's wrong. I can't admit why I'm upset because part of me doesn't believe I have a right to be upset.

Then, I was e-mailing Mommygoth about the same thing, and I stumbled on this nugget: it is not that I feel alone in my resentment of my husband. I think that many women feel this same way (to a lesser degree, of course--most women do not, presumably, have to resort to marriage counseling, but then again, I could be wrong); I think that feeling this way is a symptom of motherhood. I honestly believe that being a mother is hard, hard work. Harder than any 9 to 5 job. I hear all the other mothers out there singing that song, and I join right in. I feel justified in my resentment. Who cares how much Lance helps, this shit is hard.

Right, the complete opposite of my previous truth. My feelings of resentment are not valid; my feelings of resentment are justified. Which is it?

Finally, I was talking to my good friend Susanna, and she reiterated to me that my feelings ARE valid. "Just look at all the comments you got on that post," she said. "Obviously you struck a chord with other moms out there," said she. She is right, of course. Just as all of you who left such inspiring, reflective comments on that post are right. It is no wonder we are all resentful. But then again, since Lance is such a stellar husband and father (isn't he?), maybe I should be able to harness that resentment a little better.

I'm not sure where all this leaves me. Except in the need of some counseling, immediatement.

Tell me something, though. How much does your partner help out? Is Lance doing more than his share? Is that even relevant to my feelings, and should it be? And if my feelings ARE justified even if Lance is doing all he can, what, exactly, am I supposed to do about them?

Drama

First things first: the pacifier seems to be a thing of the past. It's taking Vivian a bit longer than usual to fall asleep, but that's it. I can handle an extra 20 minutes of playing around in the crib. And Isaac slept until 7 this morning and no doubt would have slept longer if his sister had not awoken at 6:45 demanding, "Up! I want to get up, Mommy! Mommy!!"

If that's your best shot, Mommy jinx, I'm all over it.

(I realize this is beyond stupid and I will pay the price later but I'm feeling especially reckless right now. )

Another thing I'm feeling right now? Confused. Confused about my relationship with Lance, confused about who I am and what I want and why I seem to be so fucking unhappy all the time, even though I'm also actually thrilled quite often too. See? Confusion.

People have been writing about motherhood, and how it can be lonely and frustrating at times. I feel it, too. And my husband bears the brunt of those feelings. I am bitter and resentful. After all, Lance gets to have his same old life except with two extra little morsels to munch on when he comes home from work. He goes to work, just like he always did, and eats lunch in nice restaurants that use cloth napkins, talks and jokes with his colleagues all day, runs around being useful and accomplishing things and getting strokes from his boss and a paycheck every two weeks. Just like before the kids, except that now he has the added bonus of Isaac and Vivian. Not to mention a slave, I mean wife, who runs all the errands and does a myriad of things that he used to do before.

Yeah, so when he comes home he has to give the kids a bath, or take them for a walk, but is that really so hard? I mean, is it? REALLY?? So hard that he needs to go skiing with his buddies for 10 days? So hard that he needs to go out with friends two nights in a row to see a band that really, really dates him?

Meanwhile, my life is completely, totally, irrevocably changed. I don't do ANYTHING without first considering the kids. And I don't mean in an Uber Mommy oh-let-me-do-that-for-you way; I mean in a two-and-three-year-olds-aren't-even-close-to-being-independent way. I don't ever go anywhere without planning. I can't get my fucking hair cut or go to the doctor without scheduling a time that Isaac is in school, and my mother in law is available to babysit, at a time when traffic won't be an issue, and a day when my doctor or the hair salon is available.

And I know these are old, tired complaints. Most of you are mothers, you know exactly what I'm talking about. You know why I sometimes feel bitter or pissy. Why I wish I had some really important, high paying job so I could do that instead of be home with the kids.

The thing is, some days, it's incredible. Some days I look at my kids and they are so fucking beautiful and sweet and charming and edible and I think "I am so lucky to have this time with them." I think, "My god, what would I do without them?" Then my heart explodes into a million tiny, warm bubbles of goodness that dissipate into my bloodstream and turn my whole body into a quivering lump of ecstasy, not unlike an especially luxurious orgasm. Some days, the weather is gorgeous, and we go to the beach and the sand isn't too hot and there are enough light green shovels ("I don't want the blue one, Mommy!!!") for everybody and I get to sit there, in the sun, on a beach chair and watch my children play. I am thrilled in those moments. In all those moments of the day, I am smiling, I am grateful, I am content.

So what, exactly, am I so bitter and resentful about? Why can't I focus on the good stuff and be grateful for these two wonderful beings that have made my life six thousand times better than I ever imagined? Why do I persist in feeling bitter, and resentful, and put upon and OHMYGOD IF I HAVE TO WIPE THE SNOT OFF ONE MORE NOSE TODAY I WILL ABSOLUTELY DIE.

Obviously, as often as I have my moments of bliss with the kids, I also have days where the spilled soy yogurt is followed by the broken lamp and followed by a head-butting 3 year old and a hitting two year old and 6,547 time-outs before nine o'clock in the morning. Days where the frustration level in the house is pushing way into the red zone and my parenting skills are maybe not something I would necessarily be proud of.

Then 5:30 rolls around and Lance waltzes in and says something innocent like "What did you do today?" or "It's hot, why isn't the fan on?" and suddenly I'm in bitch mode, stalking around picking up toys and laundry or slamming open the fridgerator door muttering things like "Oh, god knows I don't have anything to do except eat chocolate and watch Oprah" loud enough for him to hear. Just like that, I'm pissed off for the next whatever--sometimes 10 minutes, sometimes an hour-- depending on when something happens to diffuse my mood, and I can't even tell what that will be until it occurs. And even as this is happening, even as I'm storming around making dinner loudly while insisting to Lance that "nothing's wrong, FORGET IT" , I can see myself doing it--it's as if I'm standing outside of my body watching, and I'm saying to myself "Don't do this, don't be such a bitch. Just let it go, let's have a good evening"--but I can't stop. All the resentments of the day, all the frustrations and the loneliness --all of it bubbles up in me and I hit Lance over the head with it, over and over, trying to make myself feel better.

Of course I love him. Just like I have the great moments with the kids, I have great moments with him, too. I don't fear for our marriage. But lately things that I used to find charming are just annoying. Lately when he offers to watch the kids so I can go out with friends I don't feel grateful. Lately, all the things he does around the house (and I know it doesn't seem like it from this post, but the truth is, he helps out a ton at home) don't endear him to me. Lately even some surprisingly good sex doesn't fix everything, not like it used to.

So, we are going to see a marriage counselor. (Of course, since I can't do anything without planning for the children (see above) we have to wait until August, when Vivian is in school (!). And making the appointment is just one more fucking thing for me to do.) Still, should be interesting, folks, and you'll be the first to hear all about it.

Date Night

My in-laws live a mere 8 miles from us, so they frequently take the kids when we need a break. However, they live in the valley, which means we have to drive 6 miles on the 405 freeway to get to their house. The 405 freeway must be the most congested freeway in the country. During rush hour, it can take 2 hours to drive those 6 miles.

As a result, we have to plan our babysitting adventures in advance. If Lance and I want to go out to dinner, I need to get the kids over to my in-laws' house before 2pm (in time for their naps and before rush hour starts). We generally let them spend the night, and then I pick them up around 9:30 or 10am, after the morning rush has passed. The kids are with their grandparents for almost 24 hours, which is great for me, though it does also mean that we don't ask for this service too often. It probably happens about once every two months, sometimes during the week, sometimes on the weekend. (We do have a babysitter to call in the event that the in-laws can't do it.)

Last night was one of those nights. A friend had emailed me a flyer about a benefit for a pre-schooler who had recently been diagnosed with a rare kind of cancer. A restaurant offered to donate all its profits Tuesday night to the the family. Rare night out for Lance and I plus a good cause--it seemed like a win-win to me, especially when my in-laws agreed to take the kids.

Lance and I so rarely spend quality time together without the kids these days, you'd think that any date night would be fabulous. Somehow, it doesn't always work out that way. We argue, or have trouble connecting. We drink too much or bring up the wrong topics. Somebody orders the wrong entree, the wine is too expensive, I forget my wallet. Or I don't know, the sky is blue and somehow it ruins the evening. I'm not saying that happens every date night, but it does happen, and more frequently than it seems like it should.

Yesterday after I dropped off the kids, I came home to a beautifully clean house thanks to Lucrecia, our life-saving house-keeper. I had the entire afternoon free, and I spent it reading blogs, finishing a novel (good!), laying in the yard, and fixing some chicken salad with the leftovers from the night before. So peaceful and easy, so pleasant. Around 4:30 I took a relaxing shower, then blew my hair dry and put on an outfit I haven't worn in a year or so. On a whim, I put on a pair of heels I haven't worn since the wedding I bought them for 3 years ago. (I have a bad back, and only wear heels at special occasions, maybe once or twice a year).

Lance came home shortly thereafter, and his face lit up when he saw me.

"Why are you so smiley?" I asked him.

"It's not often I come home to a quiet house, my wife all dressed up and looking relaxed and refreshed, with no kids running around."

That's how the whole evening went. We were thrilled to be with each other. We laughed and talked easily, we didn't think about the kids at all. The food was fine--not fantastic, but it didn't even matter. There was a kind of electricity between us that hasn't been there in ages. We were eager to get home for "other activities", but we also wanted to keep talking forever. It felt like an actual date, the kind you have before you get married. It felt incredibly nice.

I wish all our date nights turned out as well. Having the afternoon to myself really helped. Being able to get myself ready without refereeing the kids' arguments, fixing their dinner, & being sure the babysitter had everything she needed helped too. Often by the time we get in the car, I'm already resenting Lance for not helping me in the exact way that I want him to, so it was nice to feel nothing but anticipation for a change. Also, the combination of heels plus the color I got at the beach this weekend made me feel surprisingly sexy and confident. To top it off, it's summer, and summer always makes me happy.

What a perfect evening!

Annoying.

That in the time it takes my pretty pretty husband to shave and shower, I have gotten myself dressed, changed Vivian's diaper and dressed her, helped Isaac pee and dressed him, made both of their breakfasts and helped them eat, brushed their teeth and gotten them into their carseats.


More Annoying:

When he says, "Oh, do you need some help?", AFTER all the aforementioned tasks have been completed.

I don't know why I hate Mondays

Actually, I do. Monday is not a school day*. Monday the laundry has been piling up for at least 3 days. Monday the house is littered with matchbox toys, crayons, dirty socks, old beer bottles, half-empty beach bags, sand, opened mail, and everything else that has accumulated over the weekend. Monday we are out of soy milk, or bread, or eggs, or something else that requires at least a short trip to the store.

Monday is also the day that Lance too depressed to be much help, too short of temper to have a worthwhile conversation with, too tired to pay much attention to the rugrats.

I'm not at my best on Mondays, either, especially after I've spent the whole goddamned day cleaning up, shopping, doing laundry and mothering in between. Sometimes I think gratefully about how much harder Monday would be if I had to go to work, but then I think: wouldn't it be nice to go to work today and get a break from the kids, talk to some adults, not worry about all this never-ending household minutiae? 'Course, then you have to come home and deal with it, so . . .I suppose that's why Mondays suck all around.

Yesterday was made even more annoying by the required trip to the doctor due to a strange rash that showed up all over Vivian's arms and legs, and also manifested itself as a cold sore on her tongue and a blister on her foot. (Not hand foot and mouth disease, just some random bacterial infection, thanks.) By the time evening rolled around and the kids were fed and in bed and Lance and I ate dinner (an eggplant and lamb recipe that turned out well, surprisingly), I was done. Toast. As was Lance. A ridiculous argument about a potential trip back East followed, and both of us sniffed off to bed without more than a cursory peck on the check.

SUCKAGE.

Today is Tuesday, and the livin's easy, as they say. Well, at least, the weather's nice. I took the kids and my mother-in-law back to the kid's museum where they ran themselves ragged in the streams and climbing structures. We're home, the kids are snoring and I've got some time to finish the laundry and possibly relax in the yard for a bit. If the weather holds, we're heading to the beach for dinner, which does wonders to slay the Monday beast.

Hoping your Monday was better than mine . . .

*This week is spring break at Isaac's school, which makes Monday that much worse: I have no relief in site. Spring break shall be known as the Worst Week of the Year from here on out.