Chrysanthemums

One of the occupational hazards of blogging is that I rarely polish my writing. I write, publish, obsess over comments, and move on. 

I started this blog to develop my writing skills, but I'm neglecting the most important part of the process--revision. Thus,  I will periodically  revisit posts from the early days, and revise them. 

Feel free to go along on the ride. I can almost promise these are new to most of you. 

You can click the title to see the original work, if you are so moved. 

Calvert Memorial Hospital  (originally published November 12, 2008)

I picked up a bouquet of chrysanthemums on my way to the hospital. Such happy plants, like a bonfire on a stem. I'm seeing my friend Joanne, and her day-old son. I am returning to Calvert Memorial Hospital.

When Joanne visited me at the hospital, two months earlier, she brought sunflowers. She placed them on the table, told me I looked skinny, and cooed over my newborn son, Joel. This is what best friends do.

She gazed at Joel, sleeping in his isolate. His chest moved up and down, a frenzy of respiration. She paused, selecting each word, "Do you think he's breathing a little quickly?"

I replied, "I think it's newborn stuff. He's just different from his brother. He's so tired. He's not interested in eating, and he seems angry at life." I swallowed, added, "I'm not sure I like him yet. Is that a terrible thing to say?"

She laughed, patted her own pregnant belly, and said, "I'm sure he'll perk up." She gazed again and his sleeping figure, set her mouth into a smile, and kissed me goodbye.

That night, it was determined that Joel was in respiratory distress. He was airlifted to the NICU at Johns Hopkins, where he spent the next eight days of his life. Paul and I loaded up the bouquet of sunflowers, the knitted blankets, and the hospital onesie removed by the nurses.

I smelled that onesie, and knew what it meant to be torn in half.  

A month later, Joanne and I met up at the playground. Owen and her son played, as Joel slept in my sling.

"I knew I should have said something," she said. "I was sure something was wrong." She blinked, once, twice, and sighed deeply. "I am so sorry."

I turned to her, "It is not your fault. There were doctors. Nurses. People saw him all day long. Nobody said anything. Sometimes these things just....happen." I sniffed his soft red hair. "Besides....he's fine now. No problems at all. I even like him a lot these days."

She smiled softly, resting her hand softly on her belly. We watched our big boys play.

And now, I clutch the chrysanthemums, as I  walk down the hallway of Calvert Memorial Hospital. I walk past the nursery, where they placed the C-PAP on Joel's nose and mouth. I walk past the bench where I called my mother at three AM. I smell that soap, and stand in the hallway until I no longer feel the need to cry.

Then, I walk into Joanne's room,  and place the flowers on the table. I tell my friend that she looks skinny and that her son is gorgeous. Because he is. Because she is.

His breathing is normal, and all is well. No ghosts here. Not in this room. Only love. Only beginnings.

I return home, and walk into Joel's nursery. I watch his slow, deep breaths and whisper, "Thank You. Thank You. Thank You."

Red Writing Hood: Quite the Conversation Piece

This week's Red Writing Hood writing challenge was to begin a work of short fiction with an identical cold open ( in bold below). This took me in a different direction than I expected. 

As always, your thoughts and feedback are welcome. 

 
Quite the Conversation Piece

An art opening at a lavish downtown gallery. A car crashes through the plate glass window. The driver's door opens, and an eight-year-old girl steps out.

Olivia turns to her companion and murmurs,  "This old chestnut." She sips her wine, continues, "You tell me, Bernard. A commentary on the actualization of feminine power?" 

"Perhaps," he says, "But that's been done, and done better. I mean, a broken window? If it was a broken glass ceiling, it would be a cliche, yet a bit of a lark, at least." He gazes at his empty glass, "What does it take to get a refill around here?"

"Oh, Darling, the waiters are all attending to the girl," she says, gazing at another installation, a mobile made from rusty forks. "World hunger, very good," she murmurs. "Put a sticker on that one." She turns to her husband,  "Bernard? Are you even listening?" 

He gazes towards the entryway. The glass, splattered across the bamboo floor is almost  jewel-like. Deliciously dangerous. An homage to Pollack, perhaps? 

He faces Olivia, "So sorry, Darling. I am simply enchanted by that girl's performance." He stares once more at his empty cup. "Although I wish somebody had clued in the help. How much?"

She sighs, twisting her earrings. "How much what, Darling?

"The piece. The girl. She's got the crying thing down. Very authentic. I like the wailing. I like the blood. I especially like the broken glass. Quite the conversation piece, don't you think?"

She lifts an eyebrow. "You can't be serious." She stares at the girl, presently shaking in the arms of the bartender.  "I mean, are you sure the shattered glass is included? Where would we put it?"

She considers the geometry of their home. It could go in the sun room. There is lots of light, and good, solid, soundproof doors. Yes. That would work. She smiles and purrs,  "I thought you said this was 'done and done better.'"

"You know as well as I do that good art can be surprising. Please, Darling. For me." He clasps her elbow, whispers, "You can have the World Hunger forks, but let me have this piece. I am begging you."

She nods briefly, and wags a finger towards the scene, "Well, go on then."

She watches as Bernard strides past the ocean of shards, past the emergency technicians and places a sticker on the girl's forehead. 

"We'll take it," he says. "And when you have a minute, please refill my glass."

I Hear That Roller-Blading is All The Rage Now

I have decided to watch all three seasons of Mad Men via my public library. I love public libraries.

I have heard nothing but good things about the show, and in my trademark better-late-than-never approach to Pop Culture (see: Lady Gaga, Lost, The Hunger Games trilogy, and  Twitter), I am about three years behind the curve.

So, SHUSH with your secret spoiler information, Oh Jaded, Wise Ones. I don't wanna hear it.

I am off to re-read my Women's Studies textbooks and call my mother.

On behalf of the sisterhood, Feminists, thank you for creating a world with a lot less sexist bullshit.

And while I'm at it?  Thanks, Doctors, for no longer smoking during examinations. 

Finally,  I saw this, and  I could not be happier. 

Delighted and Complete

I heard the door crack, followed by the soft-puttering of my oldest's feet. It's our daily ritual...I pull the covers over my head, while he straddles my torso and bounces.

It's a bit unorthodox, but it works for us.

He looked to the empty side of the bed, and amped it up to eleven: "Where's Daddy! I want Daddy!"

I grumbled, "Owen, you know where Daddy is. He's at work." I could tell by his tightly clenched fists and the particular timbre of his whine that he wasn't letting go of this one easily.

Sure enough, he barreled on,  "Why does he have to work?  He's my favorite guy. Let's get in the car right now and go get him."

"Yes Owen," I replied, "Let's load up you and your brother,  and drive to downtown DC at seven fifteen. We can then buy a security clearance from a local vendor and sneak into his office. Maybe we can download some files or call Yemen.*"

"Great!" he yelled. Sarcasm is lost on a four year old.

Trying a different approach, I said, "We can't see Daddy until later. But we can do fun things together. Maybe go to the park? Play with play-dough?"

He crossed his hands and said, "I don't want to do that. Mommy is boring. I want Daddy."

Dagger. In my heart. His twisting technique was quite advanced for his age.

"Well, Owen, " I said, "You're just stuck with me."

***
Intellectually, I know that familiarity breeds contempt. Because Paul is gone for much of the day, he is special. Besides, I get it. Paul is that kind of dad.

When it's raining, Paul  takes Owen out to splash in the puddles. Every evening, Paul and Owen play catch in the backyard. In between throws, when Owen declares he needs a "little rest," my boy will sit in his father's lap, and they click together like two Legos.

Yesterday, Paul and Owen were talking about college. I heard him say, "You can go anywhere you like, as long as you work hard and try your very best."

I would have added "Except Arizona State," because I like to amuse myself.

Paul, however, wasn't about getting the self-serving laugh. He listened to his son, as he bounced ideas around, catching and releasing the words with a practiced ease.

Owen glowed.

***
I know that Owen loves me very much. I know he enjoys my company.

I also know that when Paul's side of the bed is empty, Owen feels a loss. A loss that I cannot fill, because I am not Daddy.

On good days, I understand that this is the way of things, and that Owen blows smoke with increasing, attention-seeking frequency.

On less secure days, I worry that my lack of essential Dudeness will cause my boys to pull away. Or, worse yet, I fear that they will prefer Paul, not because I lack the proverbial "package," but because I lack the parenting package.

Yet, even if I am boring, I still did something right. I chose their Daddy. I chose the man who allows the boys to tell their stories, as he listens, delighted and complete.

I thought this was a good fit for Shell's Pour Your Heart Out meme. Go check out other heartfelt entries.

*As far as I know, Paul has no business with Yemen. I think his most exotic business dealings are in  Ft. Worth.

The Secret Life of Boobies

August is National Breast-Feeding Awareness Month.

Don't worry, loyal readers, I'm not going to list the benefits of breastfeeding because it's really, really boring unless you are actually doing it. Sorry. It is. 

If you want to read about the awesomeness of boobs, go here or here or here. Or just watch re-runs of The Girls Next Door.

Don't think, however, that I would let this month go by without my own thoughtful spin on the topic. I speak, of course, of the hidden underbelly of the breastfeeding industry....The Breast Feeding Support Group. 


I attended a breast-feeding support group when Owen was a newborn. It was the social event of my week.

Yes, I realize how sad that appears in print, but it is the truth. I brushed my teeth. I put on a shirt that didn't smell like shit, curdled milk, or vomit. The idea of talking to other adults...other mothers....was exhilarating.

I mean, for awhile, I  felt like I was morphing into a cow. I needed this.

The support group was run out of the hospital by the lactation nurse, Nurse Veronica. A soft voiced woman, Nurse Veronica reinforced for us, again and again, the wonders of breastfeeding. She answered all of our nervous little newborn questions, never once appearing bored or laughing in our faces. She was a kind soul.


I learned that specific types of people chose to attend a breast feeding support group. I'll share them now as a public service for those yet to experience such joys:

The Kool-Aid Drinker
The Kool-Aid Drinker would not actually drink Kool-Aid, preferring a mixture of fenugreek tea and rice milk. The Kool-Aid drinker believed in breastfeeding on demand until the child could parallel park. This is fine and well, but the Kool Aid drinker took it a step further by announcing, "Anybody who would feed their child formula is a child abuser as far as I'm concerned."

Even Nurse Veronica has issues with the Kool-Aid Drinker.

The Socially Desperate One
The Socially Desperate One tried to take her two-week old child to kid stuff---the playground, story time at the library, Music Together. Why? She needed to see people. A natural extrovert, being inside with a (albeit adorable) bag of flesh was maddening.

Clearly, she had not discovered social media, so out and about she went. 

Yet, she recognized those looks of pity. She knew that her baby could not support his own head, and he certainly was not riveted by the Shaky Eggs at the library. All the baby did was sleep and eat. She felt a bit...needy. Desperate. Alone.

She found her social home at breast feeding support.

The Socially Desperate One was known to feed her baby bottles of formula on the sly, because he was not really so into the breastfeeding. She'll nodded her head and listened to Nurse Veronica's studies, all the while thinking, This is the price I pay for adult conversation.

Eventually, she gave herself away by inviting everybody to happy hour. Since she was the only one drinking a pitcher of margaritas guilt-free, the formula was out of the carton, so to speak.

The One We Hate
Because it's a bunch of women in one room, there was a lot of unnecessary comparison and unspoken competition. Luckily, there was one woman who, through no fault of her own, earned our mutual disdain.

The one we hate lost all her baby weight. Her daughter slept through the night at three weeks. She had a booming veterinary practice, breastfed effortlessly, made homemade babyfood out of her own garden, and looked like Jennifer Garner.


When she got a clogged milk duct, we were secretly happy. We're not proud of this fact.

Over time, I started to find myself in another category: The Creepy Old Guy Hanging out At High School Parties. 


When Owen began to sit up, eat his own solid foods, and make motions to crawl, I realized that I had overstayed my welcome. Owen looked like a baby verson of The Rock next to the newborn Ryan Seacreasts, He was big, he could hold up his own head, and he had a tooth. It was just time.

I left Nurse Veronica and her soft sensible advice behind me.

Thankfully, the happy hour girl continued to take my calls.

It would be awesome if I had  a really cleaver way to end this post, but alas, I fear that like my breasts, the well has run dry.

What Remains

The red dress club did a number on me with this week's Red Writing Hood challenge.

The idea is to write a descriptive piece that takes place in either a shower or over a meal.

The kicker? No personal pronouns.

Dude, this was haaaaaaaaaard.

If you are a new reader, in "real life" I am pretty funny and not quite so deep. Thanks for stopping by.

As always, suggestions, comments, and advice are welcome!

What Remains

Sitting on the bench in this chrome and glass coccon. Normally, a sanctuary. Today, a laboratory.

Yes. The water is hot, because any feeling is a good feeling. Pain means something has remained.

No hospital grade cakes of soap today. Rather, Egyptian cotton washcloths and  citrus body wash from last spring's visit to Canyon Ranch.  From before.

Each strand of hair, long and shroud-like, gets a benediction. Tender strokes and soft lavender suds. Rinse and repeat. And repeat. And repeat. Glorious and red, yet already a faded sunset.What will remain?

Scrubbing. Like Lady Macbeth, Out, Out, Damn Medical Adhesive. The marks, these sticky obscenities. They claimed this steamy sanctuary. Out. Begone. 

Finally, the moment. The Doctor had said after the surgery, Got it all. It could run, but it couldn't hide.

The Doctor talked like a cowboy, facing off Cancer in a shoot-out. This was strangely comforting.


Trembling fingers rub the precise black stitches, and caress the familiar rise and fall---now a concave phantom. Tomorrow, a fight. Today, a lament.


Tears intermingle with the pounding hot water, soundlessly working their way to the drain.

Give it some time to heal, The Doctor said. It will be more beautiful than ever before. Nothing is more beautiful than what remains.

"I Can Do Hard Things"

Sitting at the kitchen table, attempting to drink a few gallons of coffee (because Insomnia is a Callous Bitch),  I heard my oldest caterwauling, "HELP! Mommy! I can't do it!"

I took another sip, braced myself, and then felt my ears melt down the sides of my head.

My son may be a masculine little dude, but he can squeal with the best of them.

I eventually walked into the bedroom. Owen was on the floor, attempting to wrestle out of his pajama top. One arm was dangling freely, but he had managed to twist the other arm into a straitjacket-worthy knot.  His face was red, and he had clearly shut down. 

I attempted to walk him through the motions of taking off his shirt. I would like to say that I had the patience of an occupational therapist, or the empathy of a preschool teacher, but I didn't. My voice cut through the room as I groaned, "Just bend your elbow, Owen! You're making this harder than it is!"

Naturally, this only added to his perceived stress, and he responded, "This is TOO HARD!"

I heard my mother's voice come out of my mouth and I said, "Sweetie. You can do hard things."

***
I've been doing some editing work recently which discusses self-efficacy, which is the belief that one is capable--that one can do hard things. Although the work in question involved teaching and education, I naturally transferred the information to my present situation.

How do I make efficacious children? How do I teach my sons that they can do hard things?

This is not the same thing as the "everybody gets a trophy" mentality of self-esteem. When people have high self-efficacy, they believe in their capabilities, because they have experienced success. Success, thus, builds success.

If I do not help create efficacious children, I have not done my job as a parent. I feel that strongly about it.

***
As a child, I was classified as "gifted" and placed in special programs for reading and language. Now that I've been a teacher, I recognize that I was probably not gifted at all, just verbal.

Nevertheless, I was taught from an early age that I was smart and capable and special. I could do hard things without even trying.

So, not surprisingly, the first time I had to try anything, I had no coping skills. I remember as clear as day, sitting in math class. The teacher was explaining a concept and as she talked, I felt my heart race, my palms grow sweaty---all of the classic signs of panic. I sat at my desk, rubbing my eraser back and forth along the desk until it was nothing but rubbery ash.

Tears pricked my eyes. "Stupid," I mumbled to myself. "This is stupid. I hate math."

This belief stayed with me for about thirty years. It shaped my career pathway, and my life choices. Just the other day, I turned down a part-time job teaching GED classes, because I didn't feel confident enough to teach basic algebra.

The fact of the matter is, I never was successful at math because I didn't believe I could do it.

I didn't even try.

I needed to be taught how to try hard things. 

***
When I see the boys retreat into learned helplessness or rage at me in frustration, I need to remember that self-efficacy is nurtured, not assumed. I did some research, and I am going to try to develop self-efficacy in the following ways:

Provide Kids with Reasonable Responsibilities

The boys are fully capable of picking up their toys, putting their dirty clothes in the washing machine, and clearing their plates. I hold them to it.

When my oldest wants to earn extra money, I have him vacuum the carpet or mop my floor. He also shakes out rugs, dusts, and cleans the sliding glass door.

I'll hire him out for the right price.

Model Problem-Solving

When learned helplessness rears its ugly head, I sit with them and break the tasks down into steps. Admittedly, I get testy more often than I should, as demonstrated by the Great Shirt Freakoutgate of This Morning. 

Yet, more often than not, I resist the urge to do the hard things for my kids, and I try to model ways that they can solve their problems.

I encourage  them to ask for their own ketchup at restaurants. I ask them how they will wash their hands in public restrooms when they can't reach the sink.

I hope I keep this resolve when it comes to the science fair projects and three-dimensional dioramas in their future.

Allow Kids to Make Decisions


I firmly believe that you don't let kids make all the decisions. The boys eat what I make them, or they don't eat. We don't discuss going the gym, because my need to run is more important than their need to make a six-foot Lego tower. However, we do include the boys in low-stake decision making. Do you want a grilled cheese or macaroni? Do you want to wear your Crocs or your shoes? Do you want to go up the stairs right side up or upside down?

Right now, it's the little things. But I believe it all matters.