Artemisia

A glimpse inside the guy

2005-11-02T19:12:00.000-08:00

I've been thinking about the last eight years, and one thing I've learned is a bit about being the guy.

All those inexplicable things men used to do when I was young? I've found myself doing some of them: walking away from chaos and leaving it for someone else. Chatting about nothing to avoid "state of the relationship" conversations. And the big one: avoiding people I love, fighting irritation when they want to see me, because dammit, I'm so busy, have some pity...only to find myself a complete puddle of affection in their presence and wondering what could I have been thinking?

Since no guy will ever say this, I'm duty-bound to report that the raw material out of which all these fuckwit habits are formed is fear, fear that you won't be able to get it done for your kids, that you won't be able to make enough of a mark on the world to rest easy at night, fear that you can't keep up and will end up a failure, walking around leaking self-loathing and doom. It makes you set aside the pursuit of happiness as a luxury in the interest of keeping the metaphorical wolf of failure from the door.

I'm not sure why women aren't so fearful in their twenties and thirties; maybe they are now, I don't know. When I was at that age, my deepest-held imperative was to have children, to do a good job raising them, and that, on its face, isn't a difficult achievement. Maybe that kept me from fear. I had my children. And while Thirteen provided a whole haunted house's worth of chills and terrors, I didn't, for the most part, worry about failing as a mother.

Having a career, making a mark on the world, financial independence - these things were on my radar, but the signal was weak for many, many years. And then one day an amplifier kicked in or something and I became, by turns, the guy.

Scared I won't be able to send my kids to college. Scared I can't keep up. Scared I'll die having barely scraped by, having never realized any of my hopes, some of which have already expired.
I've heard that men feel that way when they are young, needing to make their mark in the world, prove their manhood. When they get older, they realize they need to invest more in people; they become closer to their wives, they have affairs, they reconnect with friends and brothers and sisters, they meet their neighbors. And meanwhile, I'm letting connections wither, and barely sustaining even the few I'm unwilling to lose.

I don't know, I watched my mom build a life of endless relationships and no achievements and it filled me with horror. I love my friends, my extended family, but right now, I'm too scared to make time for them. Relationships outside my kids and my dearest are a luxury. I need to be able to look myself in the mirror, I need to be able to give my kids more than I can now. I need to accomplish something, even if it's only supporting myself. But I'm afraid it's making me a bit of a fuckwit.

Halloween

2005-11-01T17:18:00.000-08:00

There's some twisted nutcase inside my head who thinks that the real parents are the ones with little bumblebees and princesses and Thomas the Tank engines running around with little pumpkins full of Halloween candy.

I feel like a has-been when I say "well, my oldest decided he was too old to dress up, so he gave out the candy, and my younger one was the Grim Rapper."

What the hell is wrong with me?

Sunday School

2005-10-30T16:17:00.000-08:00

Bad morning. We had an extra hour, thanks to the end of daylight savings time, and what's an extra hour for, but to waste? I won't relive the details, but the result was three of us riding into town, late, Thirteen and me screeching at each other the whole bloody 15 miles, while Ten ducked and thanked the merciful Lord his brother was obnoxious enough that I would forget who else refused to tidy his room and dress for church. "I'm crossing your name out in the family bible!" Thirteen threatens, "I'll tell Dad to DUMP you!" "In my dreams," I mutter. Not pretty.

After Sunday school, we dash back to the car in the interest of getting Thirteen to his baseball game. Always: we exit the church from the back, onto the street rather than the square. We pass the little walled garden, cross a street, and duck into the brief, windy, tunnel that leads into a courtyard surrounded by stores and offices, and in one corner, contains an elevator to the garage.

The mad dash through the tunnel is my own personal timewarp. Never can I pass through it, not on Sunday, not during the working week, without seeing ghosts of two little boys I carried, ushered, and chased there when they were small. I see them as infants in white linen. I see the three year old with floppy blonde hair, feel the determined clutching of my hand, forestalling the loss of attention the next hour promises. I see little ghosts of 5 or 6 or 8 or 9, running through the tunnel for the sheer joy of it, or because we are late for choir, or because they must - MUST! - the one to push the elevator buttons. The tails of their little blue jackets fly behind them and people in the tunnel smile at them, dressed neatly for church, their little ties gone crooked in the race. The eternal question "Mommy, why isn't this restaurant open?" echoes between the brick walls. "Are we on P1 or P2?" "Mommy, hurry!"

Today, when we stepped on the elevator, Thirteen said, "I'm sorry for that really horrendous stuff. I didn't mean it, I'm sorry. " and I said, "I'm sorry, too. Neither did I. I wish you'd get ready on time, but I hate fighting with you more than anything." He accidently hit P1 before he remembered we were on P2, and I bolted out the door at P1, forgetting he had hit it, and the three of us laughed. We rushed to baseball, only to find that the game was cancelled because the field was one big puddle.

Someday I'll be old, and some of the ghosts in that tunnel will look like this: a thirteen year old with long aggressive curls and an opulant mouth. He wears hiking pants, because Rite-13 kids don't wear khakis or ties. The giraffe-like combination of awkwardness and grace, the clear, earnest face, the hazel eyes that scan the world for where he will fit, they are as fleeting as the little boy's exuberant speed. And his little brother of ten, still required to wear a tie but not to cut his hair, brushes the blonde locks out of his eyes and checks back for his mother, although he no longer reaches for her hand.

Notes from Saturday

2005-10-29T12:46:00.000-07:00

~I have two comments from people NOT trying to sell me something. Lordy, I didn't think there was anyone out there! Thanks, Terrance and Lucy Jane! I'm verklempt. Seriously.

~I'm trying to post every day, just as an exercise, even if I'm writing useless stuff that makes me cringe the next day. I did okay until my husband came home, and now, yow, forget it. His needs - which are minimal, really, but involve seeing my face unlit by the glow of my computer screen - just put me over the edge, timewise. Right now, for instance, I have about five minutes until we leave for the evening, so long posts with any thought behind then whatsoever are not in the cards.

~Last night I paid off my last credit card. Okay, it's not that big a deal - it's not like I had tens of thousands on plastic (hell, no, that kind of honor is reserved for my friends at the student loan place) - but I always had just enough going on to keep them at $2-3k. Now - gone, except for a hundred bucks that should go away as soon as LLBean processes my refund.

~So, to celebrate - and this is for Terrance and Lucy Jane, who read my bitter little rant about being Spinach to my husband - I went out with the same to see how many bottles of wine we could find off a list of fabulous-but-cheap-wines I clipped from the Globe. We didn't do that well - we were hoping for 10 bottles and ended up with 4, but the list and the wine store were organized at distinct cross-purposes, so what can you do. I'll post when we try them and horrify any poor wine snob who comes across blog. Cheers!

Wednesday

2005-10-26T20:24:00.000-07:00

Our last night as three - the dad comes home tonight. It's been busy and I have been less productive at work, but still, I'm sorry it's over. It's telling how much less tension I feel coming home when it's just the three of us.

Thirteen made a funny observation at dinner: "Dad doesn't care if we see violence in movies, but he doesn't want us to hear swears." he said. "You don't mind about the swearing, but don't want us to see R movies because of the violence. It's really weird." True, absolutely. I wonder if he'll be able to sum up the political differences as succinctly as he gets older.

So finally, after dinner dishes, Thirteen starts homework, which requires help. From me, reduced to brainstem function by 7:30 at night.

Up to my office with 4 page study guide, crammed with material he's never seen before. We settle in. Meanwhile, Ten suddenly realizes he doesn't have his spelling words to do the required pretest. Panic! He calls Zach for the words, but Zach won't be home until 8.

Thirteen and I begin to study, both boys and Pollyanna jostling each other for room on my office loveseat. Characteristics of civilization: government, stable food supply, socialized levels - wait, make that social levels ..... Migration of man: from Africa to Australia to Central Asia.....

"Hey!" says Ten, jumping off the loveseat, upsetting the cat. "I'll call Kenny, he'll have the spelling words."

He calls; Kenny agrees to read the words over the phone to Ten, who will repeat them to me. I will enter them in a Word document. But wait. Kenny, too, has left his spelling words at school. Ten must wait for Zach.

The most important new skills during paleolithic times: communication. During neolithic times: agriculture. The boys struggle for space on the loveseat. Ten cracks jokes and Thirteen seizes them. (Old Stone Age, New Stone Age, Coldstone Age for people who like ice cream! Get it? GET IT? Hilarity ensues.) The phone rings.

Kenny got the words from Ian and will give them to Ten. I take a break from Stone Age Studies and type them in. We three move into the bedroom and into the big bed, along with the cats - it's getting cold and we're all tired.

Reasons for migration: food and climate. Important tools: fire, axes, arrows. The phone rings. This time it's Zach. He's home, but he, too forgot the spelling words. Ten dictates them over the phone. Thirteen laughs hysterically, while I remind him: agriculture leads to settlement and specialized jobs.

Ten gets back in bed. We're all getting drowsy. The party breaks up at nine.

We'll have to do this more often.

Great job getting up in the morning!

2005-10-26T14:36:00.000-07:00

I was packing up at work today when I heard the distant metallic buzz of a vibrating phone. Yes, it was Ten. Yesterday's Call Mom's Cell! lecture must have penetrated.

He left a message (Lord, how I love the way my kids' voices sound recorded) "I just got home, Mom, and I'm calling right away. I'm doing my homework. Can I go to Chris's?" Well, no, Eddie Haskell. School night and all, but nice asking.

Ten grew up watching a stready stream of therapists teach his brother how to talk, to connect, to play. It was a good education, in its own twisted way. He learned a whole repertoire of what grown-ups consider proper verbal and social behavior. He learned to modify his own behavior for the sake of approval at a ridiculously early age. "Want a turn?" he inquired cheerfully at four when approached by another child wanted a chance at Ten's bat and hanging ball. Nice sharing, kiddo!

He learned the fine art of backing out of unwinnable battles, the futility of brow-beating a parent. "You just don't understand about grown-ups!" he said once to his brother, voice dripping with exasperation. "Arguing with them never works. Don't you notice?" And he doesn't argue; he reasons, he charms.

Or suggests, most obliquely. "I'm not going to ask for one," he says delicately, one day at Target. "But I'd really like that LEGO set, and I'd pay you back if you bought it for me." He pauses, hopefully. "I'm not asking, though." Good job telling me what you want without badgering!

Age-mates are trickier. All those great adult-defined social skills he learned? That currency has considerably less value among the 5th grade set. Ten has suddenly become aware of a few skill gaps, socially. "I'm different from everyone else" he says. "Our family is weird. We can't say shut up and stuff. It's ruining my life." "I just can't tell people to back off," he says, dejectedly, in a less emotional moment.

"What are you afraid of?" I ask. "Hurting their feelings" he says, "or just them. I might overreact."

Someone, sometime, has clearly told him he overreacts. We've talked about it. We talk about how you stay calm, but just have to say things like "back off" even if it's uncomfortable. I remind him of his godfather's bluntness. I remind him of the distorted fishbowl quality within a grade, of how he's a favorite with younger kids, with animals, with adults, that a little social discomfort is normal at his age, but proves nothing about his worth.

The problems are lessor, but in their own way, harder these days. There are no clear programs, skills, answers, measures. Just me muddling through, hoping against hope that the cure for his brother didn't do damage to him.

Spinach.

2005-10-25T19:11:00.000-07:00

Possible subtitles:
Why I'd Like to Get Divorced.
Why My Husband Married Me.

When I met my future husband:

He was a normal guy in a world of freaky men. (Although he did have a beard.)
I was cute enough to be fuckable and bright enough to talk to. (Although I carried an extra 10 pounds.)
He was a few classes short of college graduation and starting his own business.
I was working my way through college after taking time off, and had no defenses left.

What we did for the first few months:

Had sex.
Fought.
Had sex.
Tried to talk about something other than the weather (me)
Tried hard to not talk about anything more intimate than the weather (him)
I won the battle and got him to talk. He admitted he was just hanging with me, waiting for the next big thing to come along.
He won the war. No more Really Talking, thanks.

Guys I didn't date but should have:

The cute pharma rep at the hospital (tall, blonde, nice beaky nose)
The cute doctor at Mr. Auburn (who was treating the UTI I kept getting from constantly having sex)

The girls he didn't marry, but maybe should have:

The high-school girlfriend who was cute and blonde, despite having a potato jaw by age 20. She put out, had the brains of a french fry, and looked slightly cheap.
The slightly psycho roommate of his friend's girlfriend. First she became morbidly depressed, then she became a flight attendant. She learned to apply makeup at airline boot camp and ended up looking a bit like the high school girlfriend.
The old grade school friend he drove to Virginia to help move.

What happened in the end:

The psycho girl became a happy flight attendent and flew off into the sunset. He never talked about it.
He let the old girlfriend visit for the weekend, despite my opinions. He slept with her, but never admitted it. I think he regretted it. He wrote me something approaching a love letter after the weekend, and I took him back. He never talked about it.
The grade school friend and he exchanged Christmas cards for a while and then that fell off. He never talked about it.

And then we moved in together.

Signs he wasn't that crazy about me:

He had to call directory assistance for my phone number. (His partner told me this with evil glee.)
He bought me a cheap friendship ring and warned me it wasn't an engagement ring.
He never wanted a picture of me or of us. He did, however, take endless pictures of his jeep.

But, no fear, things were going my way:

I got the right reaction from his family. The aunts liked me and his older brother was put out he had a live-in girlfriend and regular sex life. Score!
I wanted children, but planned to work. Wouldn't be financially dependent. Score!
I shut up and stopped asking about his feelings, so that left sex and going out with friends. Score!

Really, people. Who wouldn't want to marry me?

Things I wish I'd discovered before marrying him:

Prozac
My job
Casual sex

But I didn't.

The final count:

Financially independent
Socially acceptible
High IQ and strong jaw-line to pass onto offspring

But not:

Wonderful!
Worth a bunch of flowers once in a while!
Couldn't live without her.

In the end, I was spinach.

Good for him
Requires no thought
Inspires no passion
Kind of disappointing, after a while

What I suspect, all these years later:

If I'd waited, I might have been someone's cake.

The sound of another ball dropping....

2005-10-25T16:39:00.000-07:00

We were a half hour late for language group today.

I got home early (Just ask my manager. Who called as I was driving home. Eep.) so it wasn't my fault. I walked in, content (house clean, running early, phone calls made in car) but with a minor bone to pick with the kiddies. "You didn't phone me," I said sternly to Ten, who appeared first.

Phone Mom's Cell The Minute You Get Home! is the first requirement for latchkey priveliges. So key this requirement, that even the The in the requirement's title (as in The Minute) is capitalized so as to emphasize that such lessor activities as bathroom breaks, snacks, mail checks and arguments over CDs only occur in subsequent minutes after the Phone Mom's Cell! requirement is met, approved, and dispensed with.

Ten looks at me. Blank as a piece of paper. "Oh," he says. "Well. I didn't know I was supposed to."

So much for latchkey priveliges. "Where's your brother?"

"I don't know."

"Well, didn't he get off the bus?" I say, never dreaming the answer will be...

"Nah." says Ten, utterly nonchalant. "He must have forgot."

"WELL, WAS HE ON THE BUS TO BEGIN WITH?" I'm frantically grabbing a old district phone book, searching for a phone that's charged.

"Dunno. I don't usually notice if he's on the bus or not."

"AND YOU DIDN'T THINK THAT WAS WORTH A PHONE CALL?" Mother Mary and Holy Shit. The middle school secretary answers the phone. "Hi, this is Mrs. Artemisa, I just walked in from work to find Thirteen didn't get off his bus. Any sign of him there?"

Moments later he is on the phone. "I had work to do," he explains.

"Couldn't you have CALLED?" I shake my head in wonder, since clearly it's not his brother that remembers the Call Mom's Cell! rule when they get home.

"I did," he said, injured. "I left a message for you at home."

Later, I checked, and so he did, at 10 a.m., an hour when I am invariably at work. But at least he called, bless his pointy little head.

Three is a magic number...

2005-10-24T17:45:00.000-07:00

Mr. Artemisia is gone for the first three days of this week, so it's just me (in Boston all day) and the boys (in school in the wilds of New Stepford). Just one job, two schools, two early morning trips for music and tutoring, one tennis lesson, one language group, one church night, and enough homework to choke a cat. No big deal. So what if I drop a few balls?

Tennis dropped. I flat forgot about it until my cell rang on my way in. It was Ten. Small talk for a few minutes (I could just hear the crabby school secretary's foot going tap-tap-tap while Ten politely inquired about my commute) and then "Hey, Mom, guess what? Today's tennis."

Sadly, tennis requires a local parent: no racquets allowed on the bus, so the racquet must be dropped off, fifteen minutes out of the way if done in the morning (it's only a mile, but you know, New Stepford traffic). Of course, the child AND racquet must be fetched at 3:30. I mulled it over and came to the conclusion that the chances of my leaving the office by 1:30 (exit garage at 1:39, home by 2:06, racquet at school by 2:15) were slim. Ten must take the bus home and skip tennis, unless I miraculously appeared with racquet like a angel of stay-at-home-mommy-hood. Not bloody likely.

Far from leaving at 1:30, I was lucky to be in my car by 4. Home at 5 to tidy house, purring cats, Ten doing homework, Thirteen "hanging out". We puttered around, worked, vegged, and the boys made pancakes for dinner, while cracking themselves up. In Italian-accented falsetto: "I'm Luigi and I'm number one." In nerdy falsetto: "Arrrrre yew braking up with meeee?" as well as various other lines from Drake and Josh. A dozen pancakes took about 45 minutes to make, thanks to the comedy routine, but hey, they had fun. And despite not getting much work done (see comedy routine above), I had a great time, too.

I know, it's got to be hard being a single parent full-time, but from a part-time perspective, it's got its moments.

No conflicting agendas. No subtle recriminations about dinner (what else can we eat with that?). No rules about doing homework at dining room table only. No fights about turning off the tv, since on my shift, it's a weekend only thing, anyway.

I've still got some work to do, but I think it'll go nicely with a glass of wine.

Won't you please sing something Mummy can stand?

2005-10-22T19:16:00.000-07:00

My otherwise-musical child has a terrible voice, but you'll have no idea how terrible until you listen to him singing along with his portable CD player. Nothing like a teenage boy imitating an overproduced pop recording: the slurs, the flourishes, the wah-wah-wah, all rendered in a voice fixing to change any minute now, and meanwhile, seriously flat. But the worst of it is what he's singing.

This afternoon, he spent a few hours going through my iTunes library, fixing himself a nice little playlist that expresses (I thought) his eclecticism and musical sophistication. Okay, I was kind of smug about it. I mean, at 13 I wasn't listening to a mix of classic soul (Ray Charles), grunge (Nirvana), and celtic punk (the Drop Kick Murphys), let alone Green Day, Frank Sinatra, Outkast, Aerosmith. My kid has bettered me. That's what we all dream of, right? And I was kind of expecting it from him. He's the child that I once found in the dark, watching the Christmas tree lights, listening to the Overture from the Nutcracker at concert volume. He's the one who can identify any singer once he's heard the voice. He's the one who solos in band.

And right now, he's the one who is howling along with a twee little piece of crap that a boy-band called O Town did a few years ago.

Huh.

Backstory

2005-10-19T14:04:00.000-07:00

How does anyone describe herself? I have listed my age, my kids, my job. I have hinted at my generally irritable nature. I can list a few interests - documentaries, cooking, skiing, travel. But whatever I say, there is a back story that colors everything.

My oldest son was diagnosed with autism at three, and our family spend the next nine years living and breathing therapy and legal battles; while he "lost" his diagnosis at seven, we were still left with some severe language and learning issues to resolve. We still live lives slightly askew because of his history; we still meet with teachers, schedule evaluations, worry about his lack of social life.

But for the most part, the battle is quiet these day, perhaps even over. We had braced ourselves for his teenage years, but unlike many kids with disabilities, he has bloomed in adolescence. Frontal lobe development, good services come to fruition, divine intervention? Who knows, but I have reason to feel infinitely grateful.

But, you know, I still worry. I don't know what will happen down the road. And my thirties are gone.

During those years, I didn't work full-time. Sometimes I didn't work at all. You can't take an autistic child to a daycare; you can't manage a child's full-time home program from an office. But I didn't have the perks of stay-at-home mom-hood, either - play dates, dinner with other families, experimenting with recipes. All the things I'd done on my days off when he was little, I couldn't do any more. Some were logistically impossible; others were a victim of my decimated concentration. Who can enjoy cooking when there's a life and death struggle for a child's future going on upstairs? Who wants to have dinner with the new people in town who are so worried and distracted and whose child is so strange?

These days, I'm grateful, but I also have to assess the fallout. I'm deeply cynical about people who live in my town. A few were lovely during our struggle; many were less than kind. I'm suspicious of anything I read in the newspaper, hear from an expert: I know how disastrously mistaken they can be, how they can reverse themselves without blinking an eye when it's too late. I've lost a decade of career development. My marriage and retirement account are in tatters. And there are silly little things I can't do, like pick up a phone.

I remind myself how lucky I am, that my son got better. How lucky the people in his life were so loving, so skilled, so giving of themselves. How lucky I am to have a sister, extended family, good friends, a job I love.

But honestly? That doesn't make the damage go away. I just know it could have been worse.

Preblog

2005-10-19T12:29:00.000-07:00

I love reading other people's blogs.

Years ago, a friend raved to me about her feminist history class, in which they focused on the everyday lives of women way back in the day. "I love that," she said. "The nitty gritty: what were their lives like, what did they do with their time, what did they do all day." I smiled and nodded and thought to myself, ewwww, that sounds dull as rocks. What I want to know is what they were thinking.

And through blogs, that's what I find out: what people are thinking.

And in this blog, I'm going to find out what I'm thinking myself. This is where I'm going to write about everything I can't talk about: life after really bad stuff happens. Living broke among oceans of tech money. My bleeding, gasping, marriage. Getting older. Religion. And the good things as well: my kids, my sister, my friends, good food, my job. And my reactions to other people's blogs. And probably I'll slip and do some annoying self-improvement entries about how I'm going to save money and work out more, which I'll delete after I've bored myself into a stupor.