wakey wakey
uh, there's something in my pants that needs immediate attention
seriously guys... code brown.
dammit, i'll just go take care of it myself. you guys suck.
i’m not good at this
weeks ago i received a tweet from someone unexpectedly.
aidan confessed in this tweet that she was “addicted” to my blog. in fact, her exact words were, “I’m a rookie blogger, but I am newly addicted to your site. Your voice and sensibilities are more than compelling. Thanks.”
i then realized who that tweet had come from, and shit my pants.
it was aidan. AIDAN. AIDAN DONNELLEY ROWLEY… as in holy shit she’s a published author who’s book comes out next summer and i can hardly wait another moment, let alone wait through fall, winter and spring to then read it.
in the midst of soiling myself repeatedly, i call my mom. i proceed to tell her what’s just taken place on twitter. and while i’m closing in on a state of hyperventilation, my mom remains calm and fairly unemotional about this AMAZING THING THAT HAS JUST TAKEN PLACE.
while on the phone with me, i email mom links to aidan… to her book, blackberry girl… and gush and gush and gush about how much of a fan i am of her’s. (she had me at pinot grigio).
then mom socks me in the stomach with “well apparently she’s a fan of your’s.”
huh?
upon getting off the phone with mom, aidan and i begin (what i refer to as) an email love affair. i skip my shower during the magoo’s nap… aidan skips packing for a wedding in order to continue emailing me back and forth and back again.
an hour passes. we talk about everything and nothing. we talk about publishing and blogging. we talk about her being in nyc and me being in annapolis, just a train ride away. we talk about motherhood.
we connect.
and the entire time this email love affair of our’s goes on, with each minute that passes on the clock, each tick tock, i think to myself “OH MAH GAWD, IT’S AIDAN DONNELLEY ROWLEY.”
**********
fast forward a few weeks… aidan and i continue to email back and forth. we strike up a deal that one of us is to teach the other about something we’re both passionately interested in. (no, i’m not going to tell you what our deal consists of).
with time the AIDAN DONNELLEY ROWLEY-NESS of her dissipates. she becomes aidan. she becomes a friend.
our emails become more personal, delve deeper and deeper into who exactly we are… as women, as mothers, as writers… what we are seeking as women, as mothers, as writers.
our differences peak out here and there, but at the core of each of us, aidan and i are so very similar.
and then she goes and writes this. about me. about herself. defining WHY she blogs… including me in her definition.
i am left speechless.
she writes in this piece, “I relished in the uniqueness of my new quasi-friend.”
*deep sigh with a smile*
so did i, and i still do with each email i receive from this fantastic woman.
**********
so how do you thank someone for that? for writing so eloquently about the absurd beauty of our “encounter.” how do you thank someone for including YOU in what is THEIR definition for WHY they blog?
**********
i’m not good at this part. i’m not good at receiving. compliments or criticism, i am not good at receiving it. i struggle to even reread the post aidan wrote about me, about our encounter.
i can give it. i can’t receive it. i can write about others; even write about myself as though i have exited my own flesh, and can then write words about the person existing within the flesh.
but reading about myself from someone else’s point of view, as beautiful as their perspective may be… i’m not good at that. and i struggle to reread what i know is aidan’s exquisite post, as she is an exceptional writer.
i am humbled. i am flattered. i am grateful.
for you, aidan. thank you.
tense
someone is behind me.
at all times.
not touching me. no contact is made.
but just there.
always present.
and i’m always aware of the presence.
my mind works against me.
i try to distract myself from what’s behind me.
wash the dishes.
sort laundry.
get outside.
(though some days outside is scary)
write… lots and lots of writing.
some drafts. some published.
(ok, most drafts)
the magoo helps.
his laughter helps.
but someone is still behind me.
breathing.
softly but noticeably.
the hair stands up on my arms.
my own breathing gets shallow.
i close my eyes and will the someone away.
i lose.
sleep is my enemy.
someone is then in my head.
inside.
my teeth grind.
my back is tense.
shoulder muscles turn into rocks.
i wake up sore.
and tired. always tired.
make my someone go away.
toddler puke
i write a lot about puke. back when jackson was just a wee babe, i wrote A LOT about puke. paul and i always had puke on us in some form or fashion whether it was on our shirts because it soaked through the burp cloths, in our cupped hands as we tried to catch it so it didn’t get on the rug (which now just leaves me wondering “who catches puke?”), or in our hair and down our backs as we would burp jackson and be showered in his formulaic glory.
over time, months and months, we got used to the puke. paul and i would watch how jackson would swallow and we would just know that it was coming right back up. we would hear the tiniest bit of a gag and instantly cup our hands and await the vomit. in fact, paul and i honed our skills of reading our son’s puking signs so well to the point that we would move jackson, point him in the direction of the hardwood floor, and just watch it fly at the precise moment the show began.
we got mad skillz, yo.
but that was when it was just formula and the occasional pureed mashed baby food he ate. it was a puke, burp cloth/blanket wipe, clorox wipe, paper towel dry, change clothes and you’re done sort of thing…
a rhythmic dance, if you will.
the magoo has been puke-free for quite some time now, and though he still takes medication for his stomach and reflux issues, we have cut back on the dosage. progress my friends, progress.
last night however, i encountered quite possibly the most wretchedly disgusting and horrific scene my senses have come in contact with…
toddler puke.
or as a consoling friend described to me on twitter… something “OF THE DEVIL.”
********** YOU’VE BEEN GIVEN FAIR WARNING. THIS IS WHERE YOU STOP READING IF YOU HAVE A WEAK STOMACH, YOU PANSY. **********
the magoo had been missing his dad a whole helluva lot yesterday, and started wondering (i think) if paul was actually going to ever return. he would rest his head on my shoulder and murmur for “mah daddy” and was extra snuggly. he wouldn’t point at pictures of paul and say “mah daddy” in recognition of paul, but with a saddened tone in his voice that said to me, “where did he go?”
so i gave the magoo a special treat last night, he had a cup of warm milk as i read him his bedtime story. (and no, it was not expired). the milk doesn’t happen often as we had weaning issues in the past and took the entire thing away. so very VERY rarely do we allow for this special treat to take place.
we read our stories, he drank his milk, we snuggled and rocked til he was groggy, and then i put him down for bed. i left his room, went into the kitchen and loaded the dishwasher. i then opened a bottle of petite sirah, poured myself a glass and sat down on the couch just in time to hear the following on the baby monitor…
“BLUHHHHDEIOWNVOANOIVNAIN RNEURBONAOIRNBKJNDNJIBNOV AWWWWNVIUENONDOINVEON MOM MAHHHHHH MOM!!!!!”
i could smell it down the hallway… putrid. absolutely putrid… and yes, “of the devil.”
upon opening the door, i witnessed my son covered head-to-toe in vomit. not formula-vomit, not just-wipe-it-up vomit, but FULL ON TODDLER KIDDIE MEAL VOMIT. it was in his hair, coming out of his nose, down his entire front, in between his fingers… covered his favorite blankey, his stuffed elmo… soaked through his crib sheet AND THE WATER-PROOF ONE and saturated even the baby bumper in his crib.
it was a chunky nightmare.
jackson just looked at me crying with his eyes wide open like “MOM, WHAT THE FUCK?!?” and i looked back at him with my eyes wide open like “MAGOO, WHAT THE FUCK?!?!”
i then went into action mode:
step 1: undress the magoo and begin creating the puke pile for laundry.
step 2: cleanse the magoo as much as possible without giving bath because he’s too tired to keep his eyes open.
step 3: redress the magoo and wrap him in blankets to keep him warm after being chilled from semi-bath.
step 4: place the magoo in his favorite chair and begin undoing all of his puke bedding.
step 5: watch the magoo giggle and play while untying the fucking baby bumper he has puked all over.
step 6: gather the magoo and pile of vomit materials and head to laundry room.
step 7: listen to the magoo bang on the laundry machine while stuffing it full of vomit materials.
step 8: brush the magoo’s teeth and recheck for any vomit remnants in his hair.
step 9: return to the magoo’s room and begin searching for new, clean bedding.
step 10: be attacked by the magoo throwing books at you, wanting to read, while you remake his crib.
step 11: listen to the magoo cry out of utter exhaustion because it’s now been an hour since this process began.
step 12: upon finishing the magoo’s bedding, find new blankey and snuggle until magoo is passed out.
step 13: place the magoo in clean crib and leave the scene of the crime.
i went back to my glass of petite sirah. and though i went to bed last night, i didn’t entirely go to sleep. i slept with the monitor on a little louder than normal. i went in and checked on the magoo so many times that i should’ve just camped out in his room for the night, except that it SMELLED LIKE VOMIT.
no fever. no teeth coming in. the magoo has a snotty nose… he just likes to communicate these things to me, and let me know that he’s not feeling entirely well by puking.
lucky me.
Have a Sip
