Bad dreams

Saturday morning, an unhappy Cara crawled into bed with me, "Mommy, I had a bad dream..." With her growing vocabulary, her descriptions of her dreams is getting really interesting. She crawled up in bed with me, I listened and reassured her that it was just a dream, and she fell back to sleep. Well, some sort of strange role reversal must have happened. Cara's dream had been full of bad guys and good guys, dialogue and even jail cells. Then, I closed my eyes and came face to face with a monster. Your classic running from the long snouted, snarling, horned, monster dream. Quite typically, at the climactic moment, I jumped and woke myself up. Cara rolled over, ready to talk again, and it was my turn to share a bad dream. There we were, 8:00 in the morning, talking about our nightmares. But there was no, "Don't worry, mommy, it's not real." No reassurances or distractions from thinking about it. She wanted to know what happened next. Did the monster eat her and Adia? Did I kill the monster? Maybe there were other monsters with him?

What happened next was that I woke up and realized I had been dreaming. It was all just a bad dream. Reality was snuggled up next to me, with her head on my shoulder and so much stronger than the monsters beneath my bed.

(forgive the Indigo Girl's lyric theft)

sleep and my priorities

My yawning is out of control this week. I’ve decided that either I’m not getting enough oxygen, or I’m not getting enough sleep. I do need to get back into my regular practice of yoga – with the deep abdominal breathing, but the lack of sleep is probably more likely to be the culprit.

How many 3 and 4 year olds do you know that still take 3 hour naps? My children do. They are smart strategists. Since I have gone back to work, they have figured out that the only time they really get to spend with me is in the evenings. So, they sleep all afternoon, knowing that if they wake up at 5:30, I am not likely to force them into bed a mere 2 ½ hours later. Even on those nights when I feel desperately exhausted, and I encourage them to run laps around the coffee table, the schedule stays the same. By the time we have completed or lengthy bedtime ritual, including whatever new excuses they have come up with to stall the process, it is after 10:00. There are still dishes to be washed, clothes folded and put away, toys cluttering the floor, bills to be paid, and that relaxing, alone time I have been craving all day. Sleep has fallen the bottom of my priority list. There is not enough time for sleep anymore. (YAWN) There I go again...

What about "Breakfast at Tiffany's"?

Ok, so maybe giving your kids coffee ice cream before bed is not such a good idea. In an attempt to quit drinking coffee, I have been buying coffee ice cream to treat myself for such firm resolve. (No, I don't want to know how close it is to the real thing. To me, it's not coffee, it's ice cream.) Of course, I couldn't hide it from the girls. They haven't touched the chocolate ice cream since. And now I"m wondering if it's a sign that they are going to be future coffee drinkers (with lots of cream and sugar - just like mommy) when they like to wait until the ice cream is completely melted and room temperature before eating it?

We watched "Breakfast at Tiffany's" last night. It seemed somehow appropriate, the decadence of drippy, melting, coffee ice cream, while watching Audrey Hepburn munch pastries outside of Tiffany's. Bedtime could wait. Then, after the movie, after the effects of the coffee ice cream had worn off, two sleepy little girls crawled into bed, the strains of "Moon River" still floating in their heads.

"I want a baby brother"

"Mommy I want a baby brother," Cara said to me last night.

We were sitting around the table eating dinner, or trying to at least. Instead of eating, the girls were distract me with every topic of conversation possible. Well, Cara was. Adia was just making silly noises and faces to make me laugh. Eventually, they brought up the usual, "Mommy, why aren't you and Daddy married anymore?"

"But, I want you to be together," Adia protested. "You don't have to fight."

It's a reoccuring discussion we have about once a week. It is not even that they like us in the same room together. Sunday, when Drew dropped the kids off, they practically herded him out the door. And, they actually really like my boyfriend. They think he's great and talk about him all the time (which I'm sure their Dad loves). There are no tears about it anymore, but now that they can carry on a conversation, they want to know about everything. As much as they have adjusted to going back and forth every week, they understandably would prefer if they could have both of their parents under one roof at the same time. In addition to that, they are also entering the "Why" stage.

I will say that last night, I think I came up with one of my best illustrative explanations yet. I asked them to think about the puzzles that they play with, and how sometimes, some of the pieces fit together and others don't. I told them that their Dad and I were like 2 puzzle pieces that you tried to put together, but they didn't fit. Then they asked me who I was going to marry next, when I was getting married again. I tried to impress upon them the importance of being careful, being sure about who you plan to marry. Not rushing and making a mistake, like I did before. Although, I made sure they knew they were not a mistake. That no matter what happened, even if me and Daddy didn't love each other anymore, we would always love them. That seemed to be enough for them, for the time being.

Cara smiled and said, "Well, when I'm 5, you can get married to somebody else and have a baby brother for me."

Adia chimed in, "And one for me too!"

When she is 5, Cara is going to be able to do everything. When she is 5, she is going to be an artist. When she turns 5, She is going to marry Cole (her "boyfriend"). After all, 5 years old is all grown up. Thankfully, after that, she dropped the baby brother bit. Then, it was back to complaining about how she didn't want to eat the food on her plate...

Magic and Fairytales

“There is no such thing as magic,” I found myself telling my 4 year old, Cara, on the way home from a movie tonight. Of course, all of this needs to be put into context.

I had taken them to see a fairy-tale type movie - complete with princesses, ogres, elves, and (of course) magic. On the way home, Cara started doing her push-mommy’s-buttons-guilt-trip thing, which quickly (as she knew it would) cast a shadow over what had otherwise been an enjoyable evening. I think it must be a control thing. Oh, yeah, and maybe she’s a little mad at me for no longer being married to her dad… But, that is another issue entirely.

We had just been talking about the non-existence of monsters with her younger sister, Adia (who is 3 years old). Ok, so I was still a little disgruntled, and admittedly, hurt (sometimes it’s just too damn hard to be the grown-up and pretend nothing touches you). I was trying to convince Adia that there were no such thing as monsters.

“Monsters are just pretend,” I insisted, with the occasional, “Yeah” thrown in from the peanut gallery.

Then, Cara interjected, “Mommy, why is there magic in my blanket?” And, that was where this all started...

I remember when I was pregnant with Cara, I bought two of the thickest books I could find, just FULL of fairy tales. I emphasized to Drew (the now ex-husband) the importance of an open and imaginative mind. Of course, I was still full of hopes and ideals. I was going to find out how to be the BEST mom ever. I would do everything in my power to ensure I gave birth to the most brilliant and healthy children, and I would give them the most diversely well-rounded environment. Tack onto that a few other unrealistically ideal expectations, and anyone could see I was headed for mountains of disappointment. My children actually have been perfect - perfectly beautiful, exceptionally intelligent and intuitive, and full of good health. It is me, myself, who turned out to be the disappointment. No big surprise, but also an entirely different issue.

Ok, back to magic. Monsters... Magic... Blankets? Yes, magical blankets. That one came back to bite me.

It all started when I went back to work. Cara started “acting out” (as THEY call it). Besides being completely uncooperative, she did not want to sleep in her bed at night, and certainly not alone. One of her favorite lines was, “I’m scared when I'm sleeping. I’m scared of my bed.” So, I had the brilliant idea to tell her that there was magic in her blanket, thinking that it would foster a safe feeling – like, mommy set this blanket to watch over you, always (mm-hmm, even she didn’t buy it). While pregnant with Adia, I had helped my mom sew Cara a quilt to ease her move to a big girl bed. I explained this to her, and I told her that we had sewn the blanket with love and put magic in it to keep her safe. Cara finds a way to disagree with everything or create a complication to it. After that, I often heard her say that the magic in her blanket was bothering her, and she created a whole new set of excuses for not sleeping in her bed, based on that.

Lesson 1: magic is not always good.

Now, returning to being in the car and on the way home from the movie. Cara is being disagreeable. I am feeling injured. We establish and agree together that there are no monsters anywhere, not for real. Then, she asks about the magic in her blanket. I explained the reason again.

“Well, I don’t want a magic blanket,” she declares.

“Ok,” I tell her, exasperated, “there is no such thing as magic. I just meant that the love we put into that blanket can make you feel safe. Magic isn’t real. Monster’s aren’t real. It’s just all pretend!”

(And... BAM!!! Right into that glass bubble of innocence. Big Mommy points for that one.)

We turn the corner. We are nearly home. I am gritting my teeth, willing her not to say one more negative thing. I’m afraid of what else I might say. Luckily, although they always seem to be listening when I wish they wouldn't, they are not really paying attention to me right now. Cara has already moved on to the next thing.

“I don’t want love to be in my blanket,” she mutters.

I sigh with exasperation and tell her, “Cara, that's all there is. Love is the only thing there is that is good in this world, the only magic.” Wondering to myself, as I say these words, how much of their love I have lost.

So, here I am, bereft of personal dreams and full of compromised ideals, trying to grow in my children what I lack. But, I think, or I now realize, that they already have it. And in forcing them to hold onto it, to consciously think of it, rather than be as children naturally are, I could very well crush it. That was the warning that came screaming out at me tonight.

Lesson 2: Let not your bitterness dirty the water of someone else’s well.

Putting the girls to bed, they asked me for the song I always sing to them, “Somewhere Over the Rainbow.” I sang so softly, tonight, barely able to get through the words.

“…if happy, little bluebirds fly above the rainbow, why, oh why, can’t I?”

Mondays

There is this song, "I Don't Like Mondays." I love that song. I hate Mondays. "I wanna shoot the whole day down, down, down, shoot it all down..." Today it’s Monday, and all of yesterday and today came together in a big blur. I wish I could wipe the day clean and start over again, then I could be prepared for everything that went awry, that just slipped off track.

Sunday night, I got the girls back from their Dad’s house. Note to self: Never offer to pick the kids up from Drew’s place again. As tortuous as Cara’s tearful and resentful goodbye is to her Dad when he drops them off, it is that much worse pulling her away from his house and enduring the 15-20 minute ride home. I felt like a terrible person, taking the poor child away from her father. At the same time, I am deeply injured by the idea that she could love him more than – or even as much as – me. After all, I keep thinking, he didn’t give birth to her. He didn’t house her in his body for over 9 months, and then push her out into the world using every ounce of strength in his body. When did milk ever flow from his breasts to sustain life? (and, for a moment, I feel almost goddess like when I think of women this way – with the ability to house and sustain life…) Does that mean nothing anymore?

After an exhausting evening of appeasing my Mommy-guilt by trying to make up for every minute, hour, day, and night I have to spend away from them, I stay up nearly the entire evening working on a project for work. After cleaning the kitchen. After putting the clothes away. After taking a rushed shower and deciding that, once again, I do not have enough time to shave my legs. There is not time to complete the day, before the next one begins. So, today, I am still trying to finish with yesterday and nothing is going right. Loose ends, losing ends, losing it.
No, I don’t like Mondays.

What's wrong with me

I think that the moment children are born, there is fused an invisible chord that connects their mother to them. We are bound by that, eternally, but it can be damaged. It can be severed. A child can twist it, tug and pull on it, break it, or even rip your heart out with it. Maybe I am being a little dramatic, but it really feels that way sometimes. At four years old, my oldest daughter has already learned how to manipulate. Like a puppet, she jerks my heart around on a string.

My mom, who just came into town, pointed that out to me the other night. Cara was working herself into her usual obstinate “I refusal to cooperate in any way, shape, or form” frenzy, when my Mom turned accusingly to me. “What has happened to you, you didn’t used to be like this?! Take control of your child, take control of your life,” she threw out at me. I threw my hands up, frustrated and resigned, and she took over for me. She knows that since I hardly see the girls anymore, I hate to be the bad guy during the few hours I have with them at night. “I just don’t know what’s wrong with you. When you are here, you’re not really here. You’re not really anywhere…” she told me.

I could not really disagree with her. I felt that way, spread so thin that I am never really entirely present in any part of my life. As a divorced single parent, you have to play every role. Not only are you still responsible for all the things you did before, but the entire other half of things are now also needing your attention. I am comforted by the knowledge that at least I have a family to give me some emotionally support, and I can take the criticisms and everything else that comes with that. I cannot imagine how difficult it is for single-mothers who are truly alone. At least my ex-husband is not a “dead beat dad,” and he actually is an involved father, although I sometime resent it more than I appreciate it. But, I am here. If it sometimes doesn’t seem like it, it’s because I am trying to figure all of this out and still find time to eat, sleep, and breathe.

Working Mom Regrets

I can’t believe I’ve had children with this man, I thought to myself as we walked down the sidewalk. The four of us, nearly a family, except that we weren’t. We had actually just signed and filed the divorce papers a few weeks ago. I watched the top of Adia’s curly head and looked at Cara’s newly painted toenails poking of her sandals, while I pretend to listen to their father. Drew was talking animatedly about some new idea for a show he planned to pitch to a local radio station. He was always excited about something new. I tried not to let that thought lead me into bitter territory. I had promised myself I would not be angry today. I had wanted to see the kids, so I had determined to endure his irritating conversation for an hour. At least he had been accommodating enough to bring them to me on my lunch break, even though it was the start of his weekend with them. The girls were subdued, and I wondered how they must feel when they are with the two of us. It was obvious that there was nothing left between us, nothing but our children, and I wondered again at how I had ever had the desire to have a family with this man. Then, I felt Adia’s soft little hand in mine, and I quieted the thought. I couldn’t imagine a world without them in it.

The downtown library was just across the street from the building I worked in. We walked in the double doors, and there were moms and children everywhere. Pushing strollers with sandals on, reminding me that I was not part of that world anymore. I tugged self-consciously at my suit jack and slipped it off my shoulders. I work full time now and mommy on the side. I am not sure if I will ever be able to reconcile myself with the guilt I feel at leaving my kids every day, especially since they also spend weekends away at their dad’s house. I miss our mornings together, snuggling on the couch, drinking chocolate milk and watching “The Wiggles.” I miss lunches on the back porch and trips to the park. Washing sticky fingers and kissing boo-boos. I am not even sure how much Adia weighs now or how many inches Cara has grown, but every week they seem to outgrow something else. That reminded me, I still needed to get that basket of their clean clothes put away. I am just always so tired when I get home, and dinner needs to be made, the girls fed and bathed. Dishes need to be washed, and toys put away... There is just not enough time anymore.