Frantic

I get frantic. It's what I do. I think, unfortunately, it's just how I am.

I get all jittery inside: like a pinball machine. Or, better: one of those bouncy balls my kids get out of coin machines. You know the kind...a tiny, rainbow-patterned swirl of rubber boing!-ing around all over the place. Your kid bounces it "just once," and then it's gone...each time it hits a surface--the wall, a kitchen counter, the TV table--it seems to gain more speed...and pretty soon it's going in so many different directions, you can't keep up with it. Until, someone finally wrangles it into containment. That is usually one of my little boys, pouncing on it, throwing his whole body onto that little extra-bouncy bouncing ball, as he giggles so loudly and uncontrollably that it makes the "It's-going-to-break-something!"-situation worthwhile.

Yep, that's me. The bouncy ball.

I'm working on the containment part.



Good. Bad. It doesn't matter. I get like this as much (possibly more) with Good Stuff, as I do with Bad. But the Good Stuff...it can be minor, silly, stupid stuff that really...really...does not need all this frantic, frenetic, bouncing energy.

My kids' pre-k graduations.
A Mother's Day show.
My favorite band's concert.
A vacation.

C'mon. I mean, these are all really awesome things. But I suspect that maybe, just maybe, I would enjoy them even more if I calmed down a bit.

And it's not like a logical thing. It's not like "Oh, I'm frantic inside because I forgot and did not get the tickets for the show." or "Oh, I'm only this frantic because there is a traffic jam and I may not make it to see my 4-year-old looking incredibly cute as he wears a teeny tiny cap and gown and walks down the aisle to the graduation march."

No, no.
I wish.

'Cause, really, then maybe it would make more sense. Like, I could actually explain why I'm all jittery inside. Then my friends and my husband may not think I was totally crazy. (Truth is, I don't care too much about that, but I do know that I am, in fact, a bit crazy, and it does, actually, drive me totally crazy.)

No, it's not logical. Sometimes, I don't even realize I'm all bouncy inside. And then, when I do--because I notice my face feels hot, or because my heart is racing, or I'm talking waaaaay too fast--I pause and ask myself "Why?" I check in to see what it is, exactly, that I have missed or forgotten to do or is still pending that has put me into this State Of Emergency Feeling.

And, the answer?
Usually?
Nothing.
Not.
A.
Thing.

'Cause here's the thing about me, too: I'm not just frantic. I'm Type A. ("Diligent" my therapist once called it, thank you very much.) And diligent people tend to get shit done in a timely and organized manner. So diligent people don't usually forget to buy the tickets. Diligent people take into account possible traffic jams when calculating the time it takes to arrive to a destination. Diligent people don't usually have a valid reason to be frantic for a big (good) event.

So.

At least I'm checking in on the bouncy ball frantic feeling, right? At least I'm asking myself what's going on? At least I'm catching myself and becoming aware and noticing the ball boing!-ing all over the place on my mental surfaces?

And so.

The containment part...

I'm working on it.

I had not been too successful in the past. I would either dismiss any accusations of unnecessary crazy, or defensively claim "That's just how I am!" (and secretly wonder, "Why aren't you like that too?").

"I can't help it." I would say, in fact.

"I can't help it"?!?

Really?  I really said/thought/believed that? Really?

Yes.

(Disclaimer: And sometimes, I still do.) But mostly, I have realized that more important than actually being able to "help it," is wanting to.

I want to help it.
I want to calm myself down.
I don't want to be in a nearly perpetual state of emergency and claim that it's my intensity or my passion or my writer's head.
I have realized that, for me, at least, there is no glamour or glory in this.

I used to like drama and all that. It made me feel, I suspect, important. Like: I must be pretty important and my life must be pretty important if I make this fill-in-the-blank THIS big a deal.

But who the hell wants to live like that?

Not me.
Not anymore.

I'm so much more into mellow, now.

(Another disclaimer: I'm not saying I am mellow--at least not most of the time--but I do like mellow.)

I have come to realize that I can enjoy Good Stuff just as much and get through Bad Stuff even better if I am mellow. Calm. Present.

So I attempt to contain the bouncy balls these days.

I breathe. A lot.
I talk to myself (in the good way). A lot.

I am not always successful. I have realized, too, that this really is "just how I am," but there is no judgment or beating myself up for being frantic. And although there are more times now than ever before that I can, in fact, pounce on it, throw my whole body onto that little extra-bouncy bouncing ball and stop it, there are also those times when the ball keeps going...gaining speed as it hits that damn kitchen counter or that living room wall.

But it's okay. because like my little boys, I will keep chasing after it as it keeps boing!-ing around, and I'll make sure to remind myself to giggle loudly and uncontrollably along the way, so that it's all worthwhile.

What if...

just once

I allowed it all to be

whatever it is

if I didn't obsess

over every last detail

if I settled for

less than perfection

wouldn't that imperfection

be

perfection

after all?

"You take after your Mommy." Is this a good thing?

It can be heartbreaking when you realize your child takes after you...has inherited your worst traits, the ones you have to work every damn day to repress.

I think for the most part, people would describe me as bold, adventurous, a bit in-your-face. All of that is, in fact, true. But I've said it before: I'm really just a big chicken. I'm scared. A lot. Often. I get anxious about things. I worry. I fret. I over-analyze. When I want to try something new, I think about all the things that could go wrong.

And then I do it anyway.

See? There is the repression. It can be exhausting, spending so much of your time trying to go against your nature (or, possibly, nurture, since my parents spent most of my childhood trying to protect me from the world and most of my adult life trying to protect me from myself).

I don't want my child to grow up like this. I don't want him to have to live life, often, afraid or worried or anxious. I want him to be like his Dad: balls to the wall (as he'd say...sorry), no worries, just get out there and do it. All of it. Any of it.

But as Ben is growing up, I am realizing more and more that he is more and more like me. And I hate that. I hate that he thinks before he leaps (literally). I hate that he worries about being the slowest on his soccer team. I hate that he absolutely refused--the fear evident on his little face--to go down the slides at his own birthday party.

Over the last few days he has developed a new anxiety: peeing in his underwear. Mind you, this kid has been potty trained for a year or so. He has been sleeping through the night with no issues for months. Now, all of a sudden, out of nowhere, he is obsessing over going to the bathroom...constantly. (Yes, we took him to the doctor.) We have tried both ends of the spectrum: from paying close attention and discussing it to all-out nonchalance and ignoring. But last night, after almost an hour of constant trips to the bathroom, we had to step in. We tried to explain he was "empty." We tried to be soothing. We tried to be intimidating. In the end, we had to give him an ultimatum ("choice" as we, parents, call it): either you go to bed now as is, or you go to bed with pull-ups on. He went to bed...after several minutes of a full-blown panic attack. To see his little face so out of control, so frightened by his own anxieties...it was heartbreaking...and remarkably familiar.

"He takes after you, Liz."

I hear it often.

He is stubborn, strong-willed, verbal, and a thinker. He loves the spotlight, likes to make people laugh, and can negotiate you into thinking it was your idea. He likes order, routine, and rules. And when he has an idea he likes, good luck trying to change it.

It can be hard to see yourself in your child. It's like yet another reminder, everyday, of how important it is to be brave. Bold. Free. Because now that I'm a mom, I don't just want that for myself. I want it for him, too.

Mother Of The Year...Not

See my crown? It was made out of pipe cleaners, green tulle, and plastic beads. Ben made it in school for Mother's Day. Not so sure I deserved it.... In fact, at one point last week, I was sure all of my Mother's Day gifts were going to be returned.

In a single 24-hour period I managed to miss Ben's Mother's Day luncheon at school AND drop Aidan Kai on his head. Yup. Mother of the Year. Let me explain...

I dropped Ben off at school on Thursday morning and read a sign on the classroom door that said that the kids would be making lunch for their moms, and any moms who could not attend at 11:30 were to pick up their packed lunches from the school frig at the end of the day. Obviously, I read this and understood it. I am repeating it here. I also repeated it to my husband at work later that day. So why...can someone please tell me...did I not actually, apparently, process this information enough to actually attend the luncheon?!? I did not miss the luncheon because I could not get out of work. I did not miss the luncheon because I did not know about it. I missed the luncheon because my head is always so damn filled up with to-do's, responsibilities, stuff, dreams, fantasies about sleeping, Weight Watcher points, and general miscellaneous noise, that I knew the information and yet did not know the information.

My husband just stared at me blankly, a puzzled look on his face, and asked, "If it was today, why didn't you go?" I could have gone. In fact, it was one of those days at work that would've been perfect for me to have taken my lunch at that time. I just stared at him, and as the realization set in, the tears immediately started. I missed my son's first school Mother's Day luncheon! I missed it! For no reason! What if I was the only mother not there? What if my little boy was the only one sitting at the table without his mommy? What the hell is wrong with me? You have to understand; this is so not like me. I am one of those people who writes everything down: I have a planner and I actually carry it around and use it; I keep post-its around to remind me of upcoming events and errands. I am organized! Reliable! Responsible! I am anally retentive, damn it! Anally retentive mothers do not miss Mother's Day events!

But I did.

And I was absolutely devastated. It did not matter that, when he got home from school and handed me my packed lunch (a sandwich with mustard, cheese, turkey, carrots, lettuce, and peanut butter) and my crown, he did not mention any special school activity. It did not matter that, apparently, most of the other moms did not attend either. It did not matter that he did not even notice I was missing. Because I missed it. I missed an opportunity--the first opportunity--to sit with my son at his itty-bitty little pre-k table and make lunch together and share pretzels and juice and see him in his school setting with his friends and his teacher. I was heartbroken. Even, if he did not notice a thing. So heartbroken, in fact, that I spent half of my day crying (not teary...we're talking bawling) and the other half trying to make up for it by eating the aforementioned sandwich, roughhousing and wrestling with him all afternoon (not usually my choice of play), and letting him watch TV during dinner. I think the hardest part for me is that it was solely and completely my fault, and I missed it for absolutely no good reason other than I was not paying attention.

I dropped the ball.

And a mere 12 hours later, I dropped the baby. Yep. Again, because I was not paying attention.

I was trying to take Aidan Kai's "Today-I'm-9-months-old" picture, but he kept throwing himself forward on the sofa in an attempt to crawl. So, brilliant mother that I am these days...I think: "I know! I'll give him a toy so he is entertained and sits still for my very important picture!" Except I totally miss the obvious: if I need to give him a toy so he stops trying to lunge himself off the sofa, why would I think that he would stop doing exactly that while I get him a toy? The second I turn away, I hear a loud "Thump" and turn to see an empty sofa. In that millisecond, I actually think to myself "Please, oh please, tell me he did not fall off the sofa." But where the hell did I think he could have gone?!? Poor thing had tossed himself headfirst between the coffee table and sofa and was lying there, face up, with a look of complete shock and terror. I don't know who started crying first: him or me.

"That's it!" I yelled to my husband, as I rocked and swayed and shushed and checked for broken bones, concussions, and blood. "That's it! Return my gifts! Revoke my Mommy Card! I am not worthy!" (I'd like to be able to say that this is just for humor's sake, but no, I really did say all of that. And, I believed it.)

The thing is, I never thought I'd be Soft. I never thought motherhood would turn me into one of those ridiculous, sniveling, pansy saps who is oh-so-heartbroken about "trivial" parenting stuff. Yeah, apparently, when you're a mom, some of it doesn't feel trivial at all, and even those of us who think we're one of the Tough Ones turn into mush when we feel like we've let them down...when we feel like we dropped our guard (and the baby) and didn't quite meet our own self-imposed standards. Fortunately, no one gave my sons (or my husband) a copy of this list of standards, so they all still deem me worthy of being the Queen. And thus, I shall keep my crown.

A follow-up to yesterday's post...

...less than 12 hours later.

How many toys does one 3-year-old need?

I don't know what came over me. You know how, every once in a while, you have a sudden urge to clean out your closet or reorganize your drawers? Well, I kinda got that urge this morning...but towards Ben's toys. And I don't mean I organized a bit. I don't mean I picked up here and there. I don't mean I got rid of a couple of things. No, I went through every single toy he has. I sorted them by categories. I put all those God forsaken attachment pieces and figurines in ziploc bags. I resorted every one of his books. Wait. There's more. I (don't laugh) went through every single marker he has (okay, you can laugh). I actually sat at his little kiddie table and took the time to open every single marker, test it very officially on a scrap piece of paper, recap it, and either deem it worthy of staying in the marker box or toss it in the garbage. I know. I'm a dork. I'm also a bit Type A. Just a bit. Okay, maybe more than a bit. And although I have not looked in my friends' children's closets, I KNOW that they, too, have all had days where things get so cluttered, so out of control that they literally can not shut the closet any longer. That's how it had gotten in Ben's room, anyway. And so for a few weeks I had pretended it didn't bother me...this fact that the closet door would have to stay permanently opened because there were giant balls and Hot Wheels tracks jutting out. I pretended it didn't get under my skin when, everytime he wanted to play with something, we could not find the pieces required because some were in his infamous closet, others in the family room bins, and others still under the sofa. And let me say this: Ben's a pretty tidy kid. You see, much to my extremely laid back husband's chagrin, Ben seems to have inherited some of my Type A quirks. And for the most part, we do require him to clean up after himself. But there is just so much Stuff. And the Stuff all comes with More Stuff. Toys are no longer one-piece items. You no longer buy, for example, a Pirate Ship. No, the Pirate Ship comes with 32 pirates, 6 treasure chests, 23 swords of various sizes, and 61 random pieces of crap that you can attach and unattach for, supposedly, "hours and hours of fun." As anally retentive as I can be, this means that I need to buy ziploc bags in bulk.

I've done this a couple times before, but each time it had been A Project. I would sit down with Ben and tell him how we were going to organize his toys, how we were going to pick some out to donate to needy children, how we were going to critically think about the best ways to sort them all. It was going to be not only a cleaning up activity, but a Life Lesson. Yeah. Ha. You all with children are not only laughing now, you're pointing too. So today it was not a project but a Covert Operation. I did it...behind his back. That's right. It took me a couple of years, but I caught on. I sorted, tossed, donated...all without distractions, all without "Hey, let's play this!", all without "But I need that!" And then I hid the garbage bags and when he got home presented him with the "great news" that all his toys had been organized and put away so he "could find them easier and play so much more!"

And you wanna hear the funniest part about all this? I actually enjoyed it. I did. It felt good to sort, to organize, to toss. I felt accomplished. This is what parenting can do to you...turn a person with a master's degree into someone who feels successful after sorting Matchbox cars, Legos, and fireman figurines.