The Bad and the Good

The bad. I haven't posted in a while in large part because my grandfather has been dying. I wrote a bunch of posts about it -- posts about him, about my aunt, about our final visit to say goodbye -- but never felt like any of them was complete or really said what I wanted to say, so they remain drafts. My family made the decision to withdraw life support last Monday (the 24th). He passed away this past Sunday morning. I loved him dearly, and he will be greatly missed. I am especially sad that we will miss the funeral, though I am not sad about why. Speaking of which...

On to the good. And it's great. P and I have a daughter! J0sephine M@rie M. was born yesterday (June 1) at 1:16pm. She was 7 pounds, 9 ounces and 19 inches long. I didn't end up with the VBAC I wanted, but I did end up with a very healthy and very lovely little girl in the end, which is all I could have hoped for. I will probably post her birth story tomorrow. A preview: I dropped Harry at daycare at 8:30, stopping at Dunkin Donuts on the way home. When I got home, I realized I was having contractions 5 minutes apart. By 10:15, I was getting ready to head to the hospital. Between 11 and 11:45, I dilated from a 4 to a 7. By 12:30, it was clear that she couldn't handle a labor that fast and hard and we needed to get her out immediately. We did. No regrets.

Thanksgiving: The One Where I Lose It

It got worse. P spent Wednesday afternoon making the mashed potatoes. Wednesday night, we put Harry to bed in the car and drove to my brother's house and transferred Harry to the pack and play. The three of us then each took a item and prepped the beans, which I then cooked. Thursday, we headed to my dad's. My stepfamily showed up in the early afternoon, and my stepbrothers immediately planted themselves in front of the TV, where they proceeded to spend the entire day.

While P attempted (unsuccessfully) to get Harry to take a nap, I began working on stuffing and sweet potato casserole. My brother helped by washing things when I finished working with them. The stepbrothers would occasionally wander in to get a new beer but never offered to help. It was a long day in the kitchen. The only contribution either of them made was that my dad explicitly asked one of them to stir the gravy, which he did, but he didn't look happy about it. They did manage to contribute very large appetites, eating an enormous amount of food. Possibly because they were rather stoned.

The following morning, my dad asked if anyone was particularly committed to having turkey leftovers. We said we'd take some if it wasn't a hassle but we weren't especially committed. It turned out that he was hoping to re-roast the half of the bird that was not yet carved some night when my brother was over for dinner. His wife stated that she and her boys wanted leftovers. Seriously? You contribute essentially nothing and you insist on leftovers?

They also insisted on pie. My dad divided up what remained of the pie, putting some in a box for him, some in a box for the boys and some in a box for us. When we were getting ready to leave, I asked my dad for our pie. He pointed to an empty spot on the counter, then realized that the boys had taken not only their pie but also ours.

Fuck that. Really? You contribute nothing, you insist on having leftover turkey even though it's inconvenient for the person who prepared it, and then you steal the leftover pie of the people who made 90% of the food? FUCK YOU!! Yeah, I was and am pissed. I called my stepmother to tell her to stop wherever they were and surrender the pie (they had only left ten minutes earlier), but her phone was off. One stepbrother seems to be surgically attached to his iPhone, so I emailed him, but he didn't respond. So we got no pie. And I decided that I will never again have Thanksgiving with them unless there is an arrangement made in advance regarding what each person will be contributing -- one which prohibits freeloaders -- and some sort of lockbox for my damn leftovers.

Thanksgiving: The one where Harry likes cranberry

My stepmother's contribution to Thanksgiving was a cranberry dish involving cranberries, orange, and who knows what else. When she suggested that would be her contribution, I had to laugh a little, since I know that my dad, my brother, P and I do not eat generally cranberry concoction at Thanksgiving. So the only contribution she and her boys would be making was something that only they would eat.

When we sat down to eat, the cranberry was in front of Harry. He immediately started pointing at it. He ate his mixed veggies and some mashed potatoes and some stuffing and some sweet potato casserole. He rejected his turkey, as expected. But throughout, he kept pointing at the cranberry. My stepmother kept telling him he wouldn't like it, that it was tart. But he kept pointing.

Finally, we gave in. We put a few bites on his tray and let him try it. He made a face, one that clearly noted the tartness. And then he grabbed another handful. And another. He made that face each time, but he kept on eating, like it was the best food he'd ever tasted. We kept scooping more onto the tray, and he kept eating it. Apparently, Harry likes tart things, including cranberry.

Needlesstosay, we ended up with half of the leftover cranberry.

Thanksgiving: The One Where We Do All The Work

In the almost ten years we've been together, P and I have spent Thanksgiving with his family. Until last year, my dad and brother joined us. His mom is a good cook and does a good job of assigning people things to bring so that she doesn't get overwhelmed. And the added bonus is that his mom's house is only ten minutes from us. Maybe fifteen. So, aside from last year when we went to his aunt's vacation house three and a half hours away, we spent Thanksgiving at his mom's. But my dad got remarried last year, increasing the size of my family and making it difficult/impossible to join the families together. It started to feel like we were supposed to trade off, so we agreed to head to my dad's this year.

So we're heading to RI. But my dad doesn't usually host Thanksgiving, or hasn't in a long while. Which means he doesn't really know how to do this. He is a firm adherent to the philosophy that holidays are about family/people rather than food or presents and therefore thinks effort should be minimized with respect to the latter two categories. Consequently, he is providing turkey, baked potatoes, peas, and a pie, and anyone who wants anything else is responsible for bringing it. Which means that P and I are responsible for mashed potatoes, sweet potato casserole, green beans, stuffing, and a second pie. Because my dad's wife and her (adult) sons are incapable of contributing anything. This pisses me off to no end. Thankfully my brother is going to help us prep when he can (keeping in mind that he has to work Thanksgiving morning, so I'm genuinely thankful that he's going to help at all).

I sent an email listing the menu (basically, what my dad would provide) and asking what people were bringing. My dad's wife offered to bring cranberry. No one else said a single fucking word, until one of her boys said he hoped the second pie would be pumpkin or pecan, but didn't offer to, say, bring it himself. Leaving the rest to me and P -- you know, the pregnant woman and her husband and their toddler. And my brother, who actually has work to do that day. Ugh. Not that I'm bitter or anything ;) With P's mom, everyone gets assigned one or two things, and we only have to drive 10 minutes. So, yeah, next year, we're back to going there. And we may not do the alternation thing. Because let's be real -- Thanksgiving is kind of about the food. But if I'm going to have to make it all, I'm not going to travel with my bags of food.

Edited to add: Later this afternoon, my dad sent an email asking what people wanted for beer. He noted that he has Michelob and Coors Light. My goddamn stepbrother wrote back to say he'd like Sierra Nevada or Heineken. Really, you self-centered son of a bitch? I got pissed. P decided to respond to the email, suggesting that perhaps anyone who wasn't okay with Coors Light or Michelob could bring their own to save my dad from having to go buy a bunch of six-packs for anyone who wanted something different. What is wrong with these people?

A Long Goodbye

Shifting gears entirely to another subject that leaves me feeling a little stressed and lacking in control, it looks like my father will not be selling the house I lived in during the latter part of my childhood and moving to another state afterall. As much as this is the way I would have preferred things to end up, the circumstances under which this change in plans has arisen are fully suck-tastic.

I always thought his now-wife was a tiny bit flaky, which struck me as a bit odd for a fairly high-powered professional, but I figured it was just a quirk of her personality. Apparently, this "quirk" grew increasingly worrisome and had been a subject of many unpleasant discussions between her and my dad over the past year-plus. He insisted she seemed flakier; she insisted he was being an ass. Possibly to placate him or possibly because she could no longer deny what he was insisting was a problem, she went to a neurologist. After much testing, multiple opinions, etc., she has been told that there is a 95% chance that she has early-onset Alzheimers. And there's really nothing good about that.

Let me begin by saying that the situation for her and for her (adult) kids is a nightmare. I can't imagine having to face it and am a bit ashamed of how glad I am that it's not my dad facing this horrendous diagnosis at such a (relatively) young age.

But it's not exactly awesome for my dad either, and I doubt anyone else is thinking about him and what this means for him right now. I feel like no matter what my dad does, it's the wrong thing to do. If he moves, he gives up the life he has where he lives now for, what, a couple of years, maybe more if they're lucky, with his wife before she no longer remembers who he is and goes to live in a nursing home? And then he's stuck there. She promised to help him ease the transition, introducing him to people and helping him establish himself socially, but is that realistic now? Or he stays where he is and rips a woman whose mind is already losing touch out of the one familiar setting it has. Or they stay where they are, living apart.

The current plan seems to be to continue to try to sell her house but not his, spending three weeks a month there, and one week in an apartment they'll rent near where she lives now so she can remain in contact with the people and places she knows. Is that really for better or for worse? It seems so incredibly selfish for him to do anything but move, but that sacrifice just seems astronomical now, with no real upside. He's was in his 60s when they met -- this isn't exactly the Notebook.

The reality is that he sensed something amiss months before they got married and talked to her about it numerous times, but she just kept saying that it was who she was. (He has since learned that she spoke to at least one of her oldest and dearest friends and voiced her own concerns during that same period, which I think really upsets my dad. I'd feel better saying he is upset because he feels sad that she didn't trust him but really he feels betrayed, feeling like she lied to him.) Part of me wonders if all his heel-dragging over the move (because, seriously, they got married 11 months ago and still don't live in the same state) was subconsciously related to his gut sense that something was wrong (ignoring the fact that the state of the economy hasn't exactly made it easy to contemplate selling either, much less both, of their houses, as they planned to move to a new shared place). There would be much less guilt and indecision if the move had already been made.

This may be the first time in my life when something bad was happening in my dad's life that didn't really affect me. I don't even know what to say to him. I can't even figure out how to think about the situation. I keep trying to step outside myself for a bit and think about what I'd want my dad to do if I were one of her kids, or if I were her, and I honestly don't know and I'm secretly and shamefully glad I don't have to.

Christmas Eve

Seventeen years ago today, my mom left. She sat us down in the dining room and told us that when we returned from celebrating Christmas with our grandparents, she would be gone and wouldn't be coming back. She meant in the living-in-the-same-house sense, and in that sense she was wrong -- she did come back for a few weeks in the spring, making a half-hearted attempt to work things out.

But in the more meaningful sense she was right. She never really did come back. Without my father, brother and me to keep her in check, she descended deeper into an alcoholic haze, one she seems to be in even when sober now. And there's been a distance in her eyes ever since then. Or maybe it was there before and I just didn't notice it. But I definitely experienced that moment as a turning point, for me for sure, even if not really for her.

And, sadly, this continues to be what I think of when Christmas Eve rolls around. Merry frickin' Christmas, mom.

On a more positive note, tomorrow I will wake up in my own house on Christmas morning for the first time in twenty years. Hooray!

Happy Birthday Dad!

(My dad with his dad)

I have always loved singing, despite my not-so-great voice. As a kid, I sang in the church youth choir and also in the school chorus. In middle school, my friends and I started an a capella group that had actual gigs, and I sang lead on a few songs. In college and for a few years after, I sang in a gospel choir. So now that I have a captive audience -- and because I hope to foster in him the same love of music, even if he too lacks any real talent -- I have been singing quite a bit. The sad part, though, is that I only really know single lines and verses, little snippets, a bit of the melody of many of the children's songs I know. And, even though Harry doesn't know any better, I find that embarrassing.

(my dad with me)

(My dad with Harry)

So, a few weeks ago, I went online and googled children's music lyrics and came upon this site. As I scrolled through the lyrics available, I quickly realized that for many of the songs there, I heard them in my head. And the voice I heard singing was my dad's. Traditional children's songs like Pop Goes The Weasel, Row Row Row Your Boat, Teddy Bear's Picnic. Patriotic songs like Caissons Go Rolling Along, The Marine Hymn, Off We Go Into the Wild Blue Yonger -- random for a man who never served in the military due to severe allergies. My mom was the one who read me stories at night, but my dad marched me to bed each night, carrying me over his shoulder, singing as we went. He isn't a great singer -- much of his singing is more like a whisper over the hint of a tune -- but, like me, he sang anyway. And for that I say thanks dad! And happy 67th birthday!

Generations

Friday was my grandmother's 90th birthday (this was the third year in a row that P and I celebrated a grandparent's 90th birthday). We went down to her place (45 minutes away) yesterday for a surprise party to celebrate. We thought it was going to be the three of us, my brother and SIL, my mom and stepmom, and my stepmom's dad. We were thrilled to arrive and see that my uncle had flown his entire family up from South Carolina to celebrate -- him, my aunt, their two sons (my cousins), my cousins' wives, and their five boys, ranging from ten months to ten years in age. We never get to see them. So instead of having seven people from four generations, we had the same four generations but eighteen people -- all of my grandmother's descendants. It was awesome. My grandma cried.

Of course, because it's my family and nothing ever goes as it should, my grandma barely got to see my cousins and their families. My mom and stepmom had planned the party, and they planned it expecting only seven people. When my uncle called on Thursday to say that he was flying the family up, they claimed it was too late, that they didn't have sufficient notice to change the number of people on the reservation with the dining hall at my grandma's old folks home, so they would have to wait around and see her later in the day, after the party which was to be at lunch.

Seriously? They flew here from SC. I get that there are issues (many, many issues). I get that the dining hall may have said they couldn't make it work. But there had to have been a better option than proceeding with only half the family. If it hadn't been sprung on P, my brother, my SIL, and I by my mother at the last minute (i.e. when we arrived), we could have come up with a better plan, even if it meant doing takeout Chinese or sandwiches from the grocery store in my grandmother's apartment (my grandma won't leave the home anymore). I'm sure having us all together would have meant much more to my grandmother than getting to eat a hamburger and pick at a piece of cake at the dining hall ever could.

By the time we were back from lunch, the ten month old needed a nap, as did my grandma (Harry, on the other hand, slept the whole way there, in heavy traffic, and slept through much of lunch). They kept the baby up as long as they could, but eventually had to bring him back to the hotel -- 45 minutes away -- for his nap. And so my cousins and their families barely saw my grandmother. Ugh. Thankfully, we (me, P, my brother, and my SIL) got to hang out with all of them while my grandmother napped (my mom and stepmom left right after lunch). And my aunt and uncle got to have dinner with my grandma.

The situation makes me incredibly sad. I hope my uncle knows that it had nothing to do with my generation, that we felt truly terrible about it all. I didn't want to say anything in front of my grandmother but will probably give him a call this week to let him know how good it was to see him and how bad we felt about the whole thing. Why does there always have to be drama?

My stepmother called yesterday and apologized for being such a mega-bitch (a point to those who catch the reference). They are coming to the baptism. She was stressed because her mother is in the hospital and she felt like her father and sister were conspiring to keep her out of the loop. It sucks that she took it out on me and threatened to take it out on Harry, but I'm glad it's resolved. I think they and my stepgrandfather are going to come by this afternoon. It'll be his first time meeting Harry. He's a bit of a, hmm, how to put it, loon? But I know he's looking forward to meeting another grandchild (Harry is his fifth, with another on the way).

On the whole baptism front, I have no idea what to have Harry baptized in. Neither of us is really keen on the whole dress thing (I'm probably more open to it than P), but the only non-dress Christening outfits seem to be shorts, which doesn't really work for New England in November. My priest said his own son was baptized in striped overalls, so he isn't really particular about attire, so Harry may wear offwhite overalls and a white bodysuit, but I'm open to suggestions, especially those offering rush shipping since we only have six days...

Not the best day ever...

Ps grandmother passed away last night. Ps mom called yesterday to let us know that his grandma had developed pneumonia and that they were administering comfort measures only (after antibiotics failed) and didn't expect her to survive the weekend. We got the call this morning. In many ways, we lost her a few years ago -- she developed rapid-onset dementia in the months following Ps father's (her son) death, so this was more the death of her body than anything else.

Sadly, once she stopped knowing who we were, we stopped visiting her in the nursing home she moved to a few months after my FIL died. So we hadn't seen her for a couple of years even though she lived a few miles away. I feel awful about it, but it was important to P to preserve his memories of her as they were. And, with his family, it's important for me to do what is important to him. We went to the hospital to be with his mom and aunt yesterday but didn't go in the room to see his grandma. She was a great lady who I feel very fortunate to have gotten to know. She will be much missed, but, to be fair, she has been much missed for years now.

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On a completely unrelated note, my stepmother (my mom's wife) is being really petty right now and it has me really upset. She is angry that I forgot her birthday. I get it. I feel really bad. Things have been busy around here, but that's no real excuse. But today she refused to talk to me on the phone. And she seems to have decided not to come to Harry's baptism, which is taking place next weekend when the bishop visits my church. She says it's because I didn't tell her about it far enough in advance. First, that isn't true. I told them this past summer when my minister first mentioned the date. I still wasn't completely convinced we were really going to have a baby come All Saint's Sunday, but mentioned the baptism date to my mom and stepmom nonetheless. I mentioned it again the first time she saw Harry -- they came to visit a few minutes after the minister came to the hospital to bless him. I know I mentioned it, and P remembers it too. Second, what difference would it make? Had she known in advance, the conflicting event would still be taking place at the same time and she'd have to choose. If she remembered me telling her more in advance, she'd make a different choice, attending her grandson's baptism instead of her minister's final service at her church, but because she didn't have advance warning, she'll choose the final service? That doesn't make sense to me. Regardless of her reasons, I just don't get punishing Harry for my faults. Ugh. Why would anyone be so juvenile? Or am I being unreasonable?

In some ways, the saddest part is that all I can think about is what I can or should do to make up for forgetting her birthday. As P pointed out, people make mistakes, but most of us are adults about it and may feel hurt but don't act like children about it. But my guilt seems to be reigning supreme here.

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All in all, today hasn't been the best day ever. But it certainly hasn't been the worst.

Namesakes

My mother called a couple of nights ago, semi-drunk as usual, in part to let me know that my grandmother's health is failing. Because of the semi-drunk part, I didn't ask a lot of questions and therefore don't know much by way of details, which makes it hard to determine how serious this is, but I'm guessing it's at least somewhat legitimate.


As I have mentioned before, my grandma and I have always had a special bond. One of my favorite girl names is my grandmother's middle name (and was her mother's first name, as well as my paternal grandfather's paternal grandmother's first name). I like it on its own, it has a nickname I like, and it has personal meaning. In a world in which I made unilateral decisions, this is the name I would give our child should said child be a girl (and I felt this way before any recent downturn in my grandmother's health). But P doesn't like the name. At all. And this makes me sad. Since I know it's not his favorite (okay, since I know he really strongly dislikes it), I've been trying to push for it to be the middle name rather than the first name, especially as it would go with most of the options currently on the table first-name-wise. And while he hasn't outright vetoed it, I know him well enough to sense that his silence is not one of acquiescence but one where he hopes I'll just drop it.

I'm into genealogy, and connecting to the past while honoring family tradition and legacy are important to me. And all of a sudden, with both of my remaining grandparents nearing the ends of their lives, it feels even more so. P, on the other hand, is more of the mindset that all names that belong to anyone he has known, family or otherwise, are generally off the table, I think for fear that using the name of someone else will give the impression that we're naming after them and that person (or their closest living relatives) will get some sense of undeserved honor. And in the end, the genealogy/honoring relatives thing just doesn't have any salience for him (which it doesn't for a lot of people -- I get it).

With boy names, we've done well on finding names we both like that have some meaning to us, but it's been much harder with girl names, in part because the girl names in our families are almost universally unpalatable to us (as a sampler, our grandmothers are Ed.na, Mil.dred, Wil.ma, and Est.her), either in general or in combination with our last name, and in part because P is partial to French names for girls, and we aren't French (and also in part because it's much harder to use a last name as a first name for a girl). I just wish there was a way we could both be truly happy with the name (or, for now, names) we choose, rather than just ending up with a name we "like".

Eek: 27 Days to Go and Major Life Changes

27 days to go. And that's assuming no early arrival. That said, I was born on my due date, and P was four weeks late, but I have no sense as to whether our mothers' experiences are at all predictive.

I am feeling somewhat better about how much there is to do. Between last week and last night, we made some progress on the list. We sorted stuff last week and put all things requiring washing into the hamper. We also started the laundry last night. I know you're supposed to wash baby things before use -- how many times? We're going with two, but I'm starting to wonder if we should just do one for clothes/blankets and only do more for cloth diapers. We have our Taking Care of Your Newborn class tonight, so maybe we'll find out then. The corner shelves were a pain in the ass for P to install given that our walls aren't square, but they got done last night and look awesome. We'll probably tackle the wall shelves tomorrow. And we ordered a quilt hanger -- thanks Nicki!

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On an unrelated-to-baby note, this weekend, my dad got remarried. It's weird to be 31 and get a whole bunch of new family members. I went from having one brother to four, plus a new sister in law and niece. I'm not sure to what extent I'm supposed to think of them as brothers, etc. -- if I was a kid and we all lived together, then sure, of course they're siblings, but as adults it's different, or at least it feels that way.

And there's also the significant change that it represents to all of our lives. For us (me, my dad, and my brother), getting through my parents' divorce involved the repetition of a lot of traditions and the creation of new ones. It gave us a sense of stability in a time that was seriously lacking in it. I definitely came to rely on that repetition and sense of constancy, probably too much so. It was just the three of us for so long. Now, with each passing year, we seem to add new family (first P and his family, then my SIL and hers, and now my dad's wife and her family), and while each addition is a blessing, it requires a change in "what we've always done." Thus far, the changes we've made have been relatively limited -- my dad and brother/SIL have joined P and I with Ps family for Thanksgiving for 8+ years; P and I cut the time with each of our families short at Christmas in order to fit everyone in, resulting in a lot of time in the car; P and I only do vacation with my famly every other year to allow us some travel time on our own -- but my dad's routine throughout this time has stayed largely the same or accommodated us, so it's only been our routines that have changed.

But it won't stay that way. My dad will be moving further away (from an hour away to three hours away), and, I assume, will be spending at least some holidays with his wife's family. He's very nonconfrontational (and rather passive-aggressive), and I fear that will result in us seeing very little of him, except when it doesn't much matter to her (such as Christmas (she is Jewish), which is the holiday that is the most difficult for P and I as it is, given the number of people that expect to see us and given Ps (and my) reluctance to do all the driving with a baby and my family's unwillingness to accommodate our needs). And I'm not sure where any of it leaves me, other than with feelings of abandonment and terror. For so long, my brother and I accommodated my dad's wishes around holidays because he was sad and lonely and it was what he needed. But now it's what I need and I feel like no one gives a shit. Several years in a row we didn't even see my dad for Father's Day because he made other plans, and it broke my heart, but it felt selfish to say so.

Bottom line: As much as I know I'm gaining a lot of new family, I feel like I'm losing the one I had, and it makes me incredibly sad and afraid at a time when I'm already feeling overwhelmed. I wish I could grab hold of my family and force them to stay close and keep things the way they always were, but I know I can't. I know things change and the world doesn't revolve around me and my needs but sometimes I wish it did.

Bathing in Something

Yesterday, my colleagues threw P and I a surprise baby shower (we don't work together -- they invited him to come over from his office, so it wasn't a surprise for him). It was our first shower, and their generosity was truly amazing. We got so much stuff -- they all chipped in and got us our Pack N Play (and a sheet for it), our infant car seat, an extra car seat base, a Snuzzler, a play mat, a few toys, and a bunch of books. We had to use two mail carts to get it all to the car. They made chocolate chip cookies as well as frosted cookies in baby shapes (feet and ducks and letters spelling BABY) and had an ice cream cake. Mmmm...ice cream cake. I wish I had pictures! The whole thing was truly unreal. And, again, their generosity was beyond compare.

Between the gifts and the stuff we bought for ourselves used (bouncy seat, swing, and high chair), it looks like we live in a combo Graco-Fisher Price factory. Oddly, though, none of it seems real yet. It feels a bit like we're acting as if, going about our business as though we really and truly believe there will be a baby in the end, which I'm not sure I've truly integrated into my world view yet. The crib and dresser are being delivered this weekend, and we'll probably start to set up the small room at that point (since right now it only has a valance and a hamper and a closet filled with junk, which was apparently Ps idea of "cleaning out the room" -- that said, I'm really glad he did it, since clearly I hadn't done it and we really needed to paint). I suspect this all will only exacerbate this suspension of disbelief sensation.

Speaking of showers, our "big" shower (i.e. the friends and family one) isn't until August, by which point I'll be at 35 weeks. I have some serious concerns about this shower, but there isn't much I can do. My mother wanted to plan it, which seemed like the worst possible idea, given her alcoholism and narcissism and whatall. (As a couple of examples from the day she asked to plan it: She suggested doing it at the old folks home my grandmother lives in (because it would be convenient for her, even though it would be inconvenient for us and for all our friends and for all our other relatives, none of whom live near there) -- the same place she said was "too depressing" to spend Mother's Day. She also gave me two dates all summer that she was free -- both while we were on vacation. She had concert tickets for the dates that were best for us and was unwilling to miss one.) So, when she asked if she could plan it, I told her that others had also asked to be involved in planning, then I asked those others to please pretend they had asked to be involved in planning, so as to avoid certain disaster. Thankfully, my MIL and two SILs are wonderful people and are willing to take one for the team (though I think planning something with my mother -- or having to spend more than five minutes with her for any reason -- is my MILs idea of hell, and I can't say I blame her for feeling that way).

In the end, it's unclear who, if anyone, is doing what. I had to find a location and set a time myself, since no one else would. The shower is in 4.5 weeks, but no one has sent invites yet. My MIL seems to have gotten stuck doing them but no one will send her needed addresses (I sent the address list to the four of them four weeks ago, noting that I didn't have a current mailing addresses for a few folks and assigning others to find them -- relatives to the moms and friends to my SIL, since she and my brother got married last year and had to send invites to those folks then. I know they didn't send them since my MIL called me to ask for them and because I had asked them to send them to me too so we would have them as well). My mother keeps calling me with questions (like "what time is the shower" and "has someone sent invitations"). Why is she calling me? Shouldn't she know these things since she is, she claims, PLANNING THE SHOWER? And, if not, why not call my SIL? Or my MIL? Or ANYONE OTHER THAN ME? If my mother was planning it alone, it just wouldn't happen (or would happen on three days notice and no one would come), which makes me incredibly sad. Even with three other people helping, I'm still a little concerned. I should not be filled with dread about this, but it fills me with much angst these days.

I also hate that the stress I feel about it makes me feel like a spoiled brat for thinking I deserve a shower at all, much less a properly-planned and -executed one. I really am thrilled that someone wanted to throw us a shower, and I know our friends are excited to get to be there, since many of them have asked about it (since, you know, they haven't received invites yet). I constantly feel torn between this sense that the whole situation seems sucktastically ridiculous and this sense that I really need to GET OVER MYSELF. Ugh. Poop. And all other expressions that convey my desire to crawl under my desk, curl into a ball, and knock my head lightly against the wall.

Reverberations

How do those of you with one or more less than ideal parents not quake in fear at the thought that you might not be able to do any better, that the flawed model you have been presented for parenting may have left its subconscious imprint despite all efforts at conscious rejection?

27w1d: Father's Day Redux

So, I updated yesterday's post to add a picture of the sneakers, just because they were too cute to resist. Also, I forgot to add last week's belly shot last week, even though I did take it, so I added it today.

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Yesterday, in addition to giving P a small pair of sneakers, we went to see my dad. I constantly have to remind myself that having one normal parent is more than a lot of people get, and for that I am very thankful. My dad is a semi-uptight, uber-intellectual, (now-retired) attorney. Growing up, my friends were afraid of him until they got to know him. He's not the warmest guy in the world (which I think was in part what was intimidating for friends -- that and the fact that they often didn't get his quirky sense of humor), but he knows that and has worked hard at it.

My dad taught me basic algebra and how to play backgammon when I was in elementary school and asked us science questions over dinner. He built us a play house in the basement with lights and shutters and a door that closed. And he videotaped all our birthdays and holidays (and filmed "slice of life" segments too, to ensure we didn't end up with a distorted sense of our family life), borrowing a camera from a local university before any normal person owned one -- he interviewed our friends on these tapes to be sure we'd all remember who was who and how we knew them when we watched the tapes 25 years later. We get together every Christmas to watch these old tapes, a tradition that began after my parents split up, when my dad became obsessed with creating new family traditions for the three of us, traditions that now involve P and my sister in law and my dad's fiancee. He's a great dad, even if he's not like most other great dads.


Thankfully, while I look quite a lot like my mother, my personality comes almost exclusively from my dad. You know, because he's not an alcoholic and, rather than being a narcissist, always has the interests of others foremost in his heart, even though others (namely, my brother) don't always see it that way (note to my wonderful but not always sensible brother: your interest isn't always furthered by being told what you want to hear).

I have never lived more than an hour and a half from my dad. He's getting remarried this summer (congrats Dad!), which means he'll be moving, ending up three hours away, which makes me sad. And the timing (right before the birth of his first grandchild) makes me especially sad. But I know it's what he has to do for himself, a constituency he considers far too little, and I'm glad he's doing it.

I love you, Dad!

Confrontation

Even though the near-fainting continues (I only got through 30 minutes of church on Sunday -- ought to make ushering this week fun -- and had to get out of the car and walk before I actually got to work this morning), I feel like I need to talk about something else.

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The other night I dreamt that I finally confronted my mother about her drinking and its consequences regarding her relationship with her grandchildren. I woke up with an odd sense of calm and relief. And then I remembered that it was just a dream.

It's not just that I don't feel comfortable leaving young children alone with her. I don't even feel comfortable with the idea of her holding them -- she has been known to misestimate the distance between herself and the floor and just let go of a wine glass, shattering it. Wine glasses are fungible and replaceable, unlike, say, children. In attempting to pet him, she has poked my dog in the eye, more than once. And, as the day goes on, she has trouble standing or walking (or speaking in complete sentences, or following the conversation taking place around her). I don't want to put vulnerable people at risk, and I don't want them exposed to her behavior, and I certainly don't want them growing up with the same warped belief I had, that all grandmas (mommies in my case) are like that.

But I am also fully incapable of dealing with this issue. As much as I hate the person she often is, I do love my mother. That love used to be tied to various fond memories from my childhood, a vague recollection of the person she once was. At this point, as those memories have faded and/or been replaced with worse ones from adolescence and adulthood, that love has become untethered, existing primarily as something more akin to a requisite (but fully ingrained) filial affection. The type of love that stems from a feeling of "supposed to." But regardless of its source, it keeps me from dealing with these issues, in part out of a fear of hurting her while gaining nothing, and in part out of a fear of losing her affection, an affection that often feels as unanchored as my own, and far more fleeting as well.

I have managed to avoid the ultimate confrontation with my mother for 16+ years. I wish I could avoid it forever. But I know P harbors the same fears that I do regarding my mother and our future children, and we're going to have to deal with this issue at some point, and that point is starting to seem a lot closer to now. It's weird, because I can actually envision the conversation -- and can envision it going well. It's probably a conversation I should have had with her a long time ago, one that would have improved our relationship substantially by this point.

But the only way it goes well is if we have it alone. My stepmother can't be there. Even though I can only imagine that my mother's drinking has as profound an effect on her as it does on me, she perceives everything as an attack and first goes on the defensive, then switches to attack mode, making it about me and the ingrate I am. And I can't handle it. I become a mess. But I've only seen my mother alone once in the past 16+ years. Once. Because I insisted. Just because I missed having a mom. A mom with whom I could have a relationship, like other people.

And in the end, the whole subject just fills me with dread.

Reminiscences on Mothers Day

We had all the moms (my mom, my stepmom, and my mother in law, plus her husband), along with my brother, sister-in-law, and Ps sister over for dinner for Mother's Day. Dinner was good. We had fresh pasta with chicken and wild mushroom sauce and roasted asparagus. I am not a great cook, but I can hold my own. My mother is a terrible cook. We thought her cooking was fine when my parents were married, because it was what we ate every night (and we never went out). When my parents split up, my dad told us that we were done eating flavorless food. He started buying spices and mixing up the menu a bit. He's not a great cook either (his mixing up the menu included apple pancakes for dinner and canned chicken a la king), but his meals were better than chicken breast thrown under the broiler served with too large a portion of overcooked noodles, which was a typical meal before that.

My mother showed up already drunk, I would guess from mother's day brunch with my grandmother, since it's the only thing she did before coming over, as far as I know. Drunk enough that she was only allowed to drink water for the rest of the evening. She pretty much just sat like a lump on the couch until I went to the kitchen to cook, then she followed me and asked me inane, largely nonsensical questions (such as "are those recipes?" pointing at the cookbook open on the counter -- WTF?). I had to fight the urge to tell her to go away. Then when we sat to eat, she didn't seem to understand that I couldn't just suck it in to fit between her and the piece of furniture behind her (our dining room really isn't big enough for a luxurious dinner for 10, so it was a tight squeeze), so my stepmother kept having to pull my mother's chair out of the way with her in it, treating her like the lump she is when she gets like that. It was definitely nighttime mommy, which was disappointing. Especially disappointing because my mother always talks about how much she likes and wants to spend more time with my mother in law, who we desperately try to keep away from her to avoid the shame that comes from having a parent like her. Way to make me less afraid to let you into her presence.

Yesterday morning, P sent me to CVS to buy mother's day cards for all the moms. Buying a mother's day card for my mother is hard. The cards are all "you're the best" or "your amazingness showed me all the best things in life" or "I'm so glad I take after you." They don't make cards that say "Thanks for being a drunk and repeatedly crashing the family car and not coming home to read me a story like you promised. It taught me not to count on people which has kept me from being too disappointed in life." Or "Thanks for walking out on us on Christmas. It taught me not to expect too much from holidays." Not that I'd have the guts to give such a card if they made it, but it'd be nice if Hallmark acknowledged that some people have complicated relationships with their mothers.

Happy belated mother's day, everyone.

Daytime Mommy

My mom left on her annual sojourn west days after we gave her our news. Normally, she calls a few times (maybe once every week to ten days) during these trips. I'm somewhat ashamed to admit that I often tune out what she says on such calls, since they tend to be dull updates regarding how lovely it is to get a break from not having any real responsibilities, and to get to do so in a place that is far warmer than where I am.

This year, her calls came at the same interval as they always did, but the calls seemed different. She didn't drone on and on about herself and her "exciting" life. Instead, she actually asked about me. And seemed to be genuinely interested in hearing my answers. We talked about morning sickness, and the fact that she never really had any. And she talked about the cravings she had when pregnant with me. And how her pregnancies with me and my brother were really different, enough that she knew he would be a boy since I was not. We had real conversations. The kind I imagine other women have with their mothers and think nothing of but that to me are extraordinarily foreign.

The real key: she was sober. I can't think of the last time I had two calls in a row from my mother in which she wasn't wasted and slurring her speech so badly it was hard to know what she was talking about. She sounded like what I, as a kid, called "daytime mommy" (a marked contrast from "nighttime mommy," who largely just became "mom" when my parents split up and no one kept from from getting drunk before 8pm anymore). It was weird. I almost convinced myself that she had realized that P and I were unlikely to let her hold our child, let alone spend time alone with him/her, in her present state and decided it was time to sober up. Or, even better, that her happiness at our happiness was enough to subdue the need to pour herself successive glasses of wine to numb the feelings she has spent her adult life numbing. Alas, her return home this week proved that one wrong, but it was nice to have daytime mommy back, even if it was just for a brief period.

My Grandma's Immeasurable Sadness

On the way to see my moms to give them the news yesterday, we stopped by to see my grandmother (fairly briefly, as my mother kept calling to ask when we'd be there). She is in decent health, all things considered. She is overweight, smoked for 60 years (quit 8 or 9 years ago, leading to much of the extra weight), and will be 90 this year, but her heart is in good shape physically and her doctor routinely gives her a fairly clean bill of health.

But while her heart is in decent shape physically, the emotional trauma it suffered when my grandfather died in his sleep 10 years ago has left it broken, growing more fractured with each passing year. And this has left her without any joie de vivre. I'm not sure how often she gets out of her living room chair anymore, even though she gets around fine with her walker. I know she goes to the dining room at her retirement home for dinner, but she turns down all invitations to do anything else (or accepts, then backs out at the last minute), so people (friends and family) have stopped asking. She has, for the past few weeks, refused to have her hair done. She doesn't read any more, or watch TV, in part because her eyesight and her hearing are both bad, and she refuses to do anything about either one. And, because of the hearing, she is terrible on the phone.

Her refusal to do anything but sit and await death has, predictably, begin to impede her cognitive functioning. She no longer has any stimulation to keep her mind going, so it's starting to slow down. And as she loses her short term memory, she retreats deeper into the past, struggling more and more to find anything to enjoy in the present or to look forward to in the future. And this creates a vicious cycle. It shocks and horrifies me that, until I did so yesterday, no one in her life has suggested that perhaps anti-depressants might help with some of the emptiness and loneliness she feels. They may not help, but neither will failing to consider them.

Seeing her like this overwhelms me with sadness and truly breaks my heart. This woman went to Radcliffe. She taught science because it gave her great joy to share her love with young people. She is an amazing woman who still has so much to give. My grandfather was never willing to travel, so she never did any traveling either. He thought overseas travel was too dangerous, so she never went to England, which was her lifelong dream. But, for my twelfth birthday, she did take her first real vacation -- we went to Bermuda, just the two of us, and had a wonderful time. I wish I knew what to do to give something back to her and, especially, to make her stop hoping for the end of it all.

For reasons of family politics, I knew I couldn't give her the news before my moms, so we'll have to make another trip down her way in the next couple of weeks to share our news with her. She hasn't been particularly excited about any of her five great-grandsons (my cousins' kids) thus far, but I also know I've always been very special to her (and was to my grandfather as well). I lived close by when I was little, so I saw her often. Plus, I'm the only girl grandchild or great-grandchild, as she reminds me each time I see her. Finally, unlike anyone else in the family, she always felt I took after her side of the family, both in appearance and personality, and points it out often. I'm really hoping our news will bring a little light to her life and give her something to keep living for.

Wagers

P and I have finished our crazy Christmas tour -- 8 homes in 8 cities in 3 states in 4 days. As usual, Christmas ended with a visit to my drunk of a mother.

(As an aside, my mom is gay. This isn't news to me, nor does it have any bearing on the challenging relationship I have with her (most/all of which derives directly or indirectly from the aforementioned drinking problem), but it's probably news to all of you and knowing that will make the relationships between people easier to understand. My step-mom is married to my mom. My step-family is my step-mom's family.)

Ever since P and I got together, we have celebrated Christmas jointly. Before P, my brother and I would go to my dad's on the 23rd for "family Christmas" -- my mom left us on Christmas Eve, and for the next few years this was our way of reclaiming the holiday, or, more accurately, wallowing in self-pity and watching old slides and videos to remind us how much happier we used to be. On the 24th, we'd all go visit my dad's father and sister, staying there through the 25th. My mom didn't get us until the 26th, which was punishment for breaking up the family on Christmas. (Believe it or not, I used to be far more bitter about this.)

When P came on the scene, we had to add time for his family, so he and I would leave my father's family on the morning of the 25th, driving three hours home, then spend an hour or two celebrating Christmas just the two of us, finally heading to his family's for Christmas dinner. At this point, my brother decided to end the decade-log embargo and started leaving when we did and going to my mother's for Christmas day. This got him favorite child status, which he pretty much enjoyed anyway. This also began the tradition of the Christmas of two moms. Every year, he would be there on Christmas day, and every year he was punished for it.

Every year, our mom (and sometimes our step-mom too) would get rip-roaring drunk, and frequently she would make a scene to end all scenes (she does this somewhat often -- the time P and I had to carry her out of a restaurant half-conscious, we actually got a card apologizing). When the next day rolled around, she was so hung-over ashamed, she would be on her best behavior. So each year, my brother got "bad mom" and we got "good mom." Somehow, it took us years to figure out this pattern.

This year, my brother and his wife decided that for their first Christmas, they wanted to be alone on Christmas day. (Truth be told, his marriage was a good excuse to do what he has wanted to do for 20 years -- neither of us had woken up on Christmas morning in our own bed since 1987, and I still haven't.) So he and my SIL joined us for the 26th. The big question was whether we would get bad mom or good mom, or if we would somehow get both. We placed bets among the four of us, but no one was sure whether accurately guessing bad mom could really be called winning. Happily, we got good mom. She ruined one surprise my stepmom explicitly asked her halfway through the ruining of not to ruin , and she complained loudly and rudely that she had no grandchildren and didn't know when she would get any (and, bless her heart, my stepmom told her to shut up and mind her business -- I have never loved her so much), but she was generally non-awful, and she didn't make any scenes. The worst moment was when my stepmom accidentally knocked a full glass of red wine onto the floor and onto a variety of , shattering glass and wine across the floor, and my mother for some reason cried out in pain, despite having no reason to have experienced any. It felt like a normal person's Christmas.

So I hereby promise that if and when I find myself blessed with children of my own, I will never do anything that will make it seem appropriate and worthwhile to place wagers on whether I will scream, cry, or pass out at Christmas dinner.