How Time Flies...

It took 6 months to get here, but here we are.  Far from New Jersey, and in the middle of Wisconsin.

There is no way to explain to you what has transpired these last few weeks.  I don't know if I would know where to begin.  And as I sit here typing this, I can only wonder what the circumstances of our lives will be when you finally read this.

6 months is a long time.  It doesn't seem that long, but it's a long time.  And it's especially long to be separated as a family.  I don't think I'll ever fully grasp how it affected you.  I know it did.  I watched it.  I only wish I was able to comprehend how you are putting things together at this age.  You were angry at your Dad because you thought he left.  I recognized that.  But you are also 3, so you moved on.  But I wonder sometimes if you still do not trust him fully.  I wonder if you sense the tension.  I wonder if you can feel what I do.  Now, you're scared.  And to be perfectly frank with you, so am I.  And you are holding on to me for support pretty tightly.  And I am being the strongest person I am able to be for you.  That's what moms do.  You help me find strength I never knew I even had.  And every single day I pray to whoever is listening that I do not fail you.  Failure is simply not an option.

And someday I know I'll explain this all to you.  All that was happening right in front of you, without you being able to understand.  Some day you'll look back, and you'll understand better, but you'll also have a lot of questions.  And I'll answer you with all honesty.  Because if there is one thing I have learned through out all of this, it's that honesty is hard - but it's worth it.  Your mom is not perfect, but God knows I try my damnedest to be the best mother in the world for you.  And I still don't know if I'm doing it quite right.  Time will tell, I suppose.

I may not have all the answers for either of us, but I'll always keep trying for you and me, my sweet little Bug.

<3 p="p">

What kind of paradise am I looking for?

And without even realizing it, you and i are embarking on a new adventure tomorrow.  Your father starts a new job in Wisconsin tomorrow.  But you and I are staying here - for the time being, as least.  And plans that are supposed to be laid out and in order are still a jumbled pile of ideas and thoughts of various different paths, none yet actually chosen.  That type of shit drives me nuts, but your father has always seemed to thrive this way.  And eventually, you and I will catch up to him on his road.  We'll leave New Jersey.  And what an odd concept that is... a place I've been dying to run from since I first set foot in its boarders 12 years ago.  Now that the moment is upon me, I find the roots I've grown go deeper in the earth than I ever realized.

But the next 3 months will be about us... 3 months of just you and me.  I'm incredibly frightened of this.  And it's not that I think I can't handle being a single parent for a while.  And it's not that I don't love spending all the time in the world with you.  But there's a weird thing about parenthood that no one ever seems to mention - it gets lonely.  I think that's why there are all those "mom" groups.  At least it's company.  But it's true - parenthood gets lonely.  Friends without children don't like getting bogged down with kid stuff, and friends with children are just as busy as you are running around like a crazy person trying to care for their kids and tend to their lives.  And at the end of the day, when I'm sitting downstairs while you snore away, I will only find wine and ms. difranco for company.  where we used to revel in the "adult time" together, I will find myself having to fill it alone.

and as hard is it's going to be, maybe that's all for the better.

<3

There will be an answer

I doubt you'll ever remember this day.  You will have been on this earth for 32 months in two days.  We spent all evening in a hospital because tonight very well may be your father's cousin's last hours on earth.  We bussed home from Manhattan, discussing what we may and may not have to explain to you.  No one wants to explain death to their kids, but it's always a necessity at some point.  We avoided the awkward conversation today, as you were too little to actually go to into the ICU ward where Eric is.  But you smiled, and giggled, and gave out hugs in the waiting room.  A much needed breath of cheer.

Eric was not expected to live beyond 6 months, let alone 24 years.  His brain stem is not attached to his spinal cord.  He has no mobility.  He cannot eat - must be fed via feeding tube.  He cannot speak.  He does have brain activity, but not a single person has any idea of how much of our world he is cognizant of.  For all we know, he could  be the world's biggest genius, but trapped inside a broken body with no way out.

I stood by Eric today and looked at him for a while.  I wasn't really sure what to say.  I was never really able to get to know him... and how could I truly?  But I reflected on the way this world works.  When I was pregnant with you, they found a hormone missing from my blood and that caused enough concern for me to be sent to a gene therapist.  When your father and I told this gene therapist that he has a first cousin with a severe birth defect, that was enough to get me put on watch.  Eric was the reason I was monitored so closely.  Eric changed the entire scope of my pregnancy with you. 

As a mother, I now look at Sue with massive amounts of sympathy.  No parent should outlive their child.  No child's death is easy for a parent, even for a child as disabled as Eric.  I watched you play and laugh and cry this evening.  And mostly I realized that Sue was robbed of all of this with Eric.  And I wanted to cry... and I thought about how many times she must have had these thoughts the last 24 years and did cry.

So you won't remember Eric.  But I want you to know that there was once a disabled boy who never moved or spoke that made a ripple in your life before you were even out of the womb.  Sometimes the only thing you need to do to make a difference, is just be.

Schizophrenia

It's crazy how all of my life decisions revolve around you.  Don't get me wrong, I was not so naive to think that I could have a child and go back to living my life in the exact same way.  However, I never stopped to think that having a child could dictate my entire career path.  I'm miserable in my current job.  I was offered another more in my chosen field, with lots of opportunity.  I turned it down.  It was half the salary I make now with no benefits.  And I'm really not that upset about it.  I don't want you to read this one day and think that I gave up this great thing because I had to feed my family.  I have no doubt other things will come along.  But what kills me is my only impetus for the decision was you.  I went back and forth on it.  On the one hand, my current job drives me crazy, but it pays well, gives me benefits, and is super flexible.  On the other hand, this other job would make me far happier than I am now and had a much better commute.  Keeping my current job was the "responsible" decision.  But will it discourage you from taking chances?  Is the message I'm sending "It's better to have a big pay check than to be happy"?  And I get that you're 2, and you're probably not quite this philosophical yet (but hey, you're pretty advanced).  But the last thing I want is for this to become a pattern.  Patterns lead to ways of life.  I don't want you to learn the pattern of give up your dreams for money.  But I also don't want you to be so reckless that you wind up with nothing.  The balance in between the two is a fine, fine line and I don't know that I know how to teach you to walk that tight rope.  So as your parent, I'm your safety net... but I still feel like I'm walkingt the wire too.  I'm doing both a once and it's a maddening stunt.

This is the real reason kids make parents crazy.

Well, this and the constant screaming. :)

In the end, we're molding each other, Bug-a-bug...

Awesome stuff you say

While watching Sesame Street:  "Mommy... Elmo is always naked."

On a particularly rushed morning:  "What the hell is the matter??"

Feeling better after a particularly nasty stomach bug:  "I want to eat EVERYTHING!"

Thoughtful potty moment:  "Mommy, girls can ride dinosaurs!"

Holding a new stuffed pig:  Me:  "What's her name?"  You:  "A frog!"

Over Xbox to Jill:  "You got pwned!  BOOM!"  (ok, i fed you the first line, but you totally improvised the 'boom')

I loved you first

You're snuggled on my shoulder, rubbing your binky, and slowly but surely falling asleep.  It's so sad when you are sick.  You are always smiling, laughing, and generally having a good time.  But when you are sick, even if it's just a little pink eye, you're generally just sad.  Of course you're a little grumpy and cranky.  But mostly, you're just sad.  You want to cuddle on the couch.  You cry at anything.  And it's so heartbreaking to see that childhood giddiness slip away from you.  Even if it's just for a little while.

And now you're picking your nose.  You're timing is impeccable.

But you're sleeping.  And normally this is a time of day I cherish.  My few moments of self time or time with your daddy before I, too, succumb to my exhaustion.  But today, despite having spent the day with you, I miss you.  Because you weren't yourself today, maybe?  Because even simple things like pink eye can throw a day into such a whirlwind that neither of us get to be our relaxed, normal selves with each other.  Perhaps it is an overlooked phenomenon of being a working mother:   that our time together seems so limited, that we are both so overjoyed to have one another at the end of the day, that we couldn't help but be our relaxed, giggly selves.  And I suppose that's both a blessing and a curse.

Never in a million years would I have ever guessed that love could be defined with snores, drool, and eye snot.  But as you sleep here on my now goopy shoulder, I cannot imagine a more glorious moment.

I love you forever.

You're going to be okay.

That statement is as much for you as it is for me.