Tuesday, October 23, 2018

The One Who Made Me a Mother

October 26th is Devon's 18th birthday.  He took 25 hours to enter this world and would have taken longer if the doctor hadn't said "Time for a c-section."  Devon made me a mother and Tony a father, and although we were both so young, we gave ourselves and each other grace while we learned how to be parents.

Devon is a remarkable young man.  I'm sure there are things he has done that would make my hair even curlier, but I was once a teenager (and a wild one at that.)  However, most of the things he has done have been confessed to me.  He comes to me and feels comfortable telling me things, and that aspect of our relationship means more to me than any wild teenage thing he has ever done.  He has a healthy respect for women, communication, and patience.  His relationship with Trent is playful and loving.  He and Layla may fight frequently, but that is normal, and I have no doubt he would be in her corner in a second if she needed him. 

He has his father's work ethic and sense of responsibility.  He also has his father's concern for my emotions.  He does chores without being asked most of the time.  He is true to his word.  He is a good friend.

It hit me today that after the 26th, he could move out if he wanted to, and the tears came.  I don't know how my first child will be 18 in three days.  It is cliche to ask where the time has gone, but seriously, where has the time gone?

He must register for selective service.  I will make sure he registers to vote.

We all know we love our kids, but there seems to be a switch for me at this time.  I'm going from loving my kid to loving my adult son.  He will leave the nest relatively soon.  His room will become a catch-all room, and I will not hear his potty mouth while he plays video games.  I will not hear his alarm going off for 20 minutes in the morning.  I won't have to buy a gallon of milk every other day, and I won't get to say "You are having milk with that?"  I won't have his friends around my table feeling comfortable talking to me about their own lives or pretending to like my jokes.   He may still live here another two years, but I'm acutely aware of how fast time is passing.

This is not the hardest thing I've faced as a mother, but it is surely emotional.  I contribute to the man he is becoming, and he contributes to the woman and mother I strive to be.

Sunday, April 8, 2018

My Side of the Bed and Its Nightstand

In four days, it will be a year since my brother's suicide.  I feel as though I've written every drop of grief out of it, but there is always more.  As the day approaches, my mood has understandably fallen.  I'm staying in bed during the weekends and crying more.  I torture myself with songs that will be forever associated with a year ago.

I once wrote a blog about The Babadook movie, in which grief takes the form of a monster and stalks a mother and child.  My own babadook haunted one section of my couch and my side of the bed.  The monster has thankfully left my couch but returns to my bed often.  Yesterday, I noticed something else about my side of the bed.  The nightstand is overflowing with stuff - books, a lamp, my eye glasses, a bowl of nail polishes, a canvas basket of junk with no other place, and two other items that are perpetual concrete representations of my life as it is now.

The first item is a large plastic mixing bowl, which has been there for a few years now.  It is Trent's vomit bowl.  He sleeps with me every night, and I never know when he will vomit.  It is reflux, post nasal drip, and the weird predisposition to get an upset stomach in the middle of the night.  So I keep a bowl nearby and when I awaken from the sound of him swallowing hard, I turn on the lamp and grab the bowl.  Making it to the toilet will likely never happen.

The second item is a box of kleenex.  Before Chad, I did not keep kleenex next to my bed unless I had a cold.  Even during depressive episodes, I made do without it, instead just bringing a few pieces of toilet paper with me to bed.  Chad's suicide, however, has made it a permanent fixture.  Poetically, it sits in Trent's vomit bowl, which sits on top of the canvas basket full of junk.  I have to replace the box every other month.   This is more poignant in my head than I can put into words.  While the babadook is a figurative representation of my grief, the kleenex is a physical one.  That it needs to be replaced is an analogy of the cycle of grief.  Even as others feel it is past time for me to stop needing the kleenex,  it is not that simple.  Time does lessen the acuteness, and maybe the box will need replacing less often, but for now, it is necessary.

I am going to try to stop writing about Chad.  I feel myself becoming stuck and writing about it seems to no longer provide catharsis.  These things are always so hard to end when hope is running low.     

Saturday, January 27, 2018

Last Words

"Well, text or call if you need anything." 

He replied with a thumb up. 

The next morning, I messaged, "How are you today?" but he never saw it.  His last words were in a handwritten note of which I keep a photo in my phone, which is not at all smart as I forget it is there. Whenever I spend time clearing excess photos, it jumps out at me like a monster, frightening me and bringing darkness.  Also, my phone could break.

I have already written a blog about the things I would have said if I had known, but today I became fixated on the last words we say to people at the end of conversations.  We fight with our spouse and passive aggressively text "ttyl" or say "whatever" and walk away.  Or we say even worse things with no passivity, only aggression.  We get so frustrated with our children that we yell "go to your room!" then marinate in our anger for hours.  We have coworkers that we like tremendously but treat badly because we are so stressed with work and deadlines.  We forget to say "I forgive you", "Hey, you did a good job today", or a simple "thank you."

I'm not saying every conversation has to end with "I love you" and this echoes a Garth Brooks song, but what if there isn't a tomorrow?  What would you want your last words to be, either spoken by you or spoken to you?

Although "I love you" would have been better, I am thankful the last words I sent to him were to reach out to me.  

Saturday, January 20, 2018

Down syndome and Moving Forward

I got the trend Ds tattoo of the three arrows facing forward symbolizing the three chromosomes and progress.  It means something great to me, but it also brought pain.

I admitted to my husband today that although I would never take Down syndrome from Trent, I would be lying if said I am not exhausted.  The polite words of "How sweet, you will have a baby forever" when he was born are starting to feel like a curse.  He isn't a baby; he is a 9 year old boy, but in so many ways, he is like a toddler.  And no one, no matter how awesome the toddler years are, wants a toddler for 9 years.  I.AM.EXHAUSTED. 

And I will be judged for being exhausted.  We are not supposed to hate any part of this journey.  We are supposed to be the chosen few mothers.  Most days, I love the club I'm in, but some days, especially lately, I'm ready to have a child instead of a toddler.  I won't even hope for the 9 year old  child.

Currently, I'm trying to teach him how to work the controller of the playstation to watch Netflix or his DVDs.  No matter how much many ways I try to teach it, it just isn't sinking in.  This is a first world problem for sure, but it still hurts in ways I can't explain. 

I am exhausted with diapers, with temper tantrums, with not knowing if he has outgrown his shoes because he doesn't tell me, with not understanding much of what he says. 

He is an amazing kid so full of love; I shouldn't be feeling this way.  As the tattoo symbolizes, I should just keep moving forward, maybe silently.  But really, I'm exhausted.