Ma Thoughts

Years ago, a few of us took the dogs for a walk in a vast park on the outskirts of Melbourne.

Tasha was barreling along the hills, full tilt around the place. It was a joyous afternoon with one of my best friends and a new friend, an old schoolmate of hers.

Suddenly we noticed that Tasha was heading towards the road, and there was traffic…it was all moving so slow and so far away and so impossibly dreadful as we all watched Tasha get hit by a car – the sick tight twist in the stomach and the jaw clenching, trying to freeze the moment that precedes disaster.

After locating the other dog, whose name I think is Ruby, but I cannot recall right now – we piled Tasha into the car – my good friend was driving, but she was overwhelmed so I offered to take the wheel.

I was steel, even, calm, driven, focused, the gas gauge beneath empty, the dog bleeding, all of us just needing to get to that vet get to that vet. But I still remember how singular my aim and my determination was….

We got Tasha to the vet. She is alive today.

I think I carried from that a small pride in dealing with crisis well.

Other people’s crisis,  I guess.

I was not steel, even, calm or focused an hour ago when Felix tumbled from wrestling the blanket from the dog, head straight onto the corner of the toy chest. He buckled…and then there was red….red….

“No…no….no….no” was all I could stutter, collecting my bleeding boy into my arms – running around the house – looking for the phone to call BP, all a rush and whirr of every pore in my body surging and screaming :no” not collected enough to just look at the cut for a minute or two.

He calms down – the blood stops – he looks at me straight in the face, stating, “Ow.” Then he squirms to be released from my mother’s death grip, to go play on his truck.

By the time BP got here, Boeuf was humming to himself, with a little mat of dried blood in his hair.

I’m still shaking. First blood. Thankfully he is fine. Especially because in this instance, I was a mess. Any hint that he is breakable confuses. It is harrowing.

Breathe. Cuddle boy. Breathe.

….Fuck that! I have way better superpowers than that freakish image that long haunted me…..

From three rooms away I can tell if Felix is sitting, crouching, or standing up on the chair. I can hear him bend forward when watching his twice-ish weekly episode of Backyardigans (caved, I know…but it’s creative and cute and only 24 mins long!) to get at the keyboard I do not want him playing on. I can hear that moment when he puffs his cheeks with milk to blow it all over the dog when he is on ma bed and I in the livingroom, with the vacuum cleaner on!! (Well, maybe not…)

My hearing is crazy. So I assume, and deduce from this that this mad skill is an animal parent horseshoe. Specifically of the “don’t kill the bebe” variety.  It reminds me of Pacman where you could eat that throbbing glowing whatever it was and then move super-fast to eat some ghosts….Right?

No wonder my neck is so freaking sore – It is sore from craning to hear that stuff…Oh, and carrying, and swinging and upsidedowning and and and…

But ma hearing. Damn. It is strictly associated with Felix – mind, but wow.

I hereto declare that this 29th of October, Saturday night, Halloween night for adults…..Four events to have attended perchance, I have decided to bail on all of it on a quest for a possible 7 hours straight of sleep. Felix is with Bebe Papa tonight.

I have my Cruella de Vil costume, and a good one at that, featuring, a floor length baby seal fur coat, yes, I shit you not. I have red heels compliments of Alyssa who bestowed the lower heels (a few inches, still) and I have been walking about for a few days in them to practice.

But alas, I am bagged. I don’t want to go out and be tired. I don’t want to go out and be reminded of how fun everyone else in the entire world is save me. I don’t want to go out and see how other parents seem to have more chachacha in them. I am tired. I am tired of not sleeping through the night. I am tired, bone tired, of either working or working at being as good a mom as I can.

And so, here I am. In my jams at 6:52pm with a glass of wine and Netflix, surrendering to the fact that going to bed early then getting up for a long run and a yoga class is more exciting to me in this moment than many wonderful wonderful funny fun people who I do love but feel a bit of an alien about at the ‘mo.

So to complete my quirky Halloween, I am going to watch Justin Bieber’s movie on Netflix. Somehow that seems just the thing to do.

Thaz all I got.

Back to the Bieber.

This is Mark. Our first pumpkin.

Felix named him.

I, for myself, was quite impressed with my heretofore non-existent artistic ability.

“Mark!” Felix has been welcoming the pumpkin into the day and night, thrilled to have a new buddy in the house……

That was Sunday….Then yesterday, for some obscure reason I smelt the orange little decorpicated house guest (nice new word, non?).

Disgusting. I mentioned it to BP when he was about last night, “I was not going to say anything, but you really need to scrape it out really, really well.  Pumpkins can smell really nasty.”

Day Five of Mark Occupation (Sorry! Lame, bad, but passable?).

Mark has got himself some soggy-ass ears and some friends. More than three little tiny flies. And a whole new sensation of aroma in this room.

So. Felix wants to put the battery-operated candle (from when I went into some spontaneous labor and into hospital to have him that did not occur) into Mark – where it had been until I discovered the sludge mounting.

“Mark has to go,” I explain to Felix. “No!!!  Mark!!!!” Felix screams.

“Up!” he commands. I lift him up. “Mark is gross and stinky and I am throwing him out,” I say, calmly to Felix.

He turns to Mark, waves and says, “Night night Mark.”

And that is it.

No more Mark.

But the subtle scent lingers, if only in ma mind.

He just poured his sparkling water (I know, very very, but he does not have it all the time….)  into his tuna with pepper and mayonaisse lunch and is slurping up the bowl. Delicious.

I was doing the dishes yesterday. My back was to him. He was only wearing his diapier…Did I mention he likes to stick his hand down the back of his diaper? Well, anyhow – he bellows, “MOM!!!! POO!!” I turn around…He is pointing at me and his hand is completely covered….Staring at me, like, “Figure this out for me, will ya?”

All the gross goodness I have not shared but may have yet to share if it piques my attention…..Feel free to share your own grubby gems!

And then they handed him to me and he rolled onto ma breast and latched on and bada bing bada boom……And we were one in a different way….

I really enjoyed breastfeeding. I loved knowing my body could produce something so rich in nutrition for my son. I loved that closeness. I loved that connection.

But now, do I miss it. Nope. Not at all. There’s too much other interesting stuff going on. And I’m still his mom. We’re good. Onto the next phase! Bring it on!

But ma breasts, what about them? It is almost odd to have them there- there – see? I have disassociated with them a little. They had stuff to do – nutrients and comforting to supply – and now they just, well, look pretty and hang out…Actually not too much different than before that bebe. But they have returned to the land of the nice female built-in accessory for fun, fashion and fancy times.

The shift from more part of my body being directly involved in the growth, support and physical engagement in mothering is a little morsel of relaxation for this mom-pipes, neck and shoulders wasted now built like a bit of a brick shithouse from shlepping heavy cute child about here and there (oh, and the bike, thank god the aluminum is way lighter than the prettier wood one, oh and my big purse and his bag ‘o tricks, oh and the groceries, the dog, the recycling, and the coffee cup all at once ‘cuz I be stubborn.)

But I like the distance it creates to witness and enjoy Felix as his own little human, not He Dat Hangs Off Ma Tatas. Our interaction, I think, has evolved from that transition and it’s nice.

Thank you, sweet breasts, for working so well and so hard and so full. Now you can just be pretty and chill out. Retirement is not so bad, yes, ladies?

“Felix, please don’t stand in the middle of the stairs facing backwards with a toothbrush in your mouth, holding the dog’s leash as she barrels down the stairs…..”

8am (Oh, shit, really?)

8:15 (Whaa? Okay, we have to get a move on….)

8:45 (One more coffee)

9:01 (Let’s go let’s go – crap – where is Felix’s lunch? Did I check the heat is off? Where is my coffee? Susi!!)

The leash wrapped around my leg, Felix insisting on grabbing the leash and me not helping. Rain pelting down as I Sherpa two big bags, a coffee and the recycling, which apparently could not wait…..And then I notice that I need to change my tampon right away….

Back in the house we go…..

So I stopped breastfeeding a few weeks ago. He has mostly forgotten about it, as have I, though ma mamms have not. They’re still eager to feed.

Now, instead of maybe going to him once a night, cuddling him briefly in the rocking chair, and putting him back to bed, I get up, I warm the bottle. I go in…After he has been mewling, crying, shrieking, “mamaaaaaaaaaaa.”

The moment I enter, he stops crying, reaches down for stink dog, and lifts up the free hand, “Up!” Surprised he didn’t have a suitcase ready.

Then.

He refuses to take the bottle in his crib. Or in the chair. Or without stink dog. Or without being in ma bed. Head on ma pillow no less. With me holding the bottle.

And then.

He finishes, cries for more, and then pivots on an axis (remember, this is usually at 415am – groggy get-me-the-fuck-back-to-sleep-please-darling-hour), kicking out his legs like a rabid pinwheel, powerful legs like pistons churning into the air, the dog, me….Until I push him, with both hands onto the other pillow, whisper, stern, “dodo” (French for sleep in his main lullaby) Then he falls asleep, legs splayed.

Usually this occurs around 4ish. we are up at 6. But sometimes it is at midnight – and after 30 mins of wailing I just tend to cave. Or maybe 28 mins….

I will break him/us of this habit. But it is nice to sleep with him – with him just sleeping, not hanging off ma breast. It is cosy. And sweet. Except for the windmill thing. That sucks. And it freaking hurts – not that he generally gets a shot in before the loving shove.

Especially to the throat…but I digress.

“He’s very different with me,” says Bebe Papa, chuckling. I picture Felix sleeping through the night – them in their adjacent man caves, BP not caving and cuddling like sappy mom-me. ‘Well, yeah – you’re his dad. He’s only at your house once a week, and you never fed him with milk your body created, or grew him, not to mention that! And we’re different and your relationship with him is supposed to be and that is fine and both are good and neither is better – who said better – who said either was doing a better job or being a better parent or that he liked them better or that I was messing something up and is going to be and that is what is great and that is wha……..’

*NOTE*

That’s ma brain on not much sleep last night (Boeuf in ma bed at approx 11:37pm) and 4 days of stomach flu = No food either. What BP meant was “He’s very different with me.” I just laced it with all that other fancy stuff cuz I’m complex like dat sometimes. Yep.

Felix does respond well to anything said, no muss no fuss. It is THE MOM VOICE. I have to say I like it. I like that a lot.

He’s with BP tonight, so all things going well sleep will beat down this brain, I mean, calm and soothe this little sweet overthinking self for the morrow.

Cheers.

So I recently learned that Themis is the goddess of balance. Or relearned, whatever. I Googled this brainstorming title ideas for a story I am working on that is totally unrelated to ma things. But alas. It is very very fitting.

Balance is what I am learning, nay, experiencing right now with Felix.

Not like sleep and eating and playing balance. No. not like that.

A little more extreme. Like, he whines in a way that feels like one of those scrapey tools that removes old paint?  Except I am the wall and the paint is not even peeling, but his whine is just getting in there and raking away hard….back and forth and back and forth and back and forth and…wow. Breathe. Awful. Not even epic awful like he bit a chunk out of the dog, but awful in an insidious, torturous but not enough to justify banging my own head against the wall, but enough that I can appreciate why he does some times.

And then, we are in the bath and usually I express some obnoxious but bright fun green foam soap onto his hands and he washes himself, but today he has decided to wash my leg. My right leg. Over and over and he is very careful and methodical. I have, by now, melted into a warm fuzzy puddle in the tub of how thoughtful and cute and lovely ma bebe is. He makes Bambi look like a killer.

But then…Boeuf likes to try to throw the rolling pin at the dog, then kiss her. Sounds like a bad metaphor, but it’s apt. so tender, sweet, switched on and amazing. I don’t mean throw the pin to her, as in catch. I mean heff it at her head.

And of course, then…becasue balance is in threes sometimes…I bought him a Norco run bike (red and black) with a helmet (duck duck goose!) on Sunday. Pics of that to follow. That again has Themis chuckling…ride fun! Ride fun! Ride fun! Park! Ditch bike to try and steal men-playing-a-serious- game-of-basketball’s basketball…which they don’t, for some reason find cute at all!?!….Try to reason with le bebe? You must/ I must have been joking…or something….Carry writhing child and bike home. NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO.

Balance. Exhale.