The Odd Broad

She's a maniac

My sweet William's first birthday is fast approaching and I've decided it might be nice to do some Aaahts n' Crafts to mark the occasion. (Who am I kidding? I'm crafting. Crafting as fast as I can! Crafting my life away!) Hope nobody at work notices. Pictures to follow. xoxo

Obligatory greetings

If there's one thing I learned from my years in New York it was not to talk to strangers.  How quickly I forget...

Things have started to get a little awkward with my train conductor.  It's just, I take the same train every evening, and after a while I noticed everyone else was friendly with him, so I decided to throw in a "hello!" or "good night!" of my own.  Why not?  I live in the burbs now, don't I?  Perhaps it's time to start being friendlier.

But then there was that rainy evening when the train was short staffed and no announcement was made when we arrived at my stop.  I looked up after a second, panicked, and noticed the doors weren't being opened.  Huh?  It was then that I found myself sprinting down the car, into the next one, and then the next one, bags flying, all the while being cheered on by my fellow commuters: You'd better run for it!  Hurry, hurry!

I was making a total dickhead out of myself, but I didn't care.  I wanted off that train!  I wanted to get home!  When I reached the door we were already pulling away.  "Oh no, wait!" I panted in vain, "Oh, I missed my stop!" but the conductor just stared blankly at me and walked away.  It was the weirdest thing ever.  "You missed your stop?" a lady asked as I stared out the rain speckled train doors, pathetic and dejected.

Um, yes.

"I'm through with that conductor," I told Hubby that night.  "No more hellos, that asshole is dead to me!"  

Hubby's expression seemed to suggest, I'm sure he'll be very upset.

But the next day, as I was boarding the train, I decided to ask exactly which car I should sit in so I wouldn't miss my stop again.  "Oh ya, you missed your stop last night, huh?" the conductor said, all smiles.  "We were down a conductor, so that's why there weren't any announcements."

That night he pointed towards the exit when he passed by and made a special effort to make sure I knew when we reached my stop.  A little humiliating, sure, but at least I knew I was in the correct spot.  

Since then there have been many friendly Hellos! and How ah ya's? exchanged between us.  I've gotten to know the faces of people who sit in my car, and among them is a woman and small child who I assumed to be his wife and daughter.  He carries the little girl up and down the aisles sometimes, it's very sweet.  But then a few days ago, as I was walking down the platform, I noticed the woman gave the baby to a different man to carry, and, wait a second, did she just say, "Oh, there's Bob and Jerry!" to the little girl as they passed the conductors?

That wasn't his kid at all!  And now that I'm actually paying attention, it kind of seems like this woman hands her kid over to a lot of different people.  Hmmm.  

I'll see my conductor on the occasional morning, too, and of course we inevitably end up making eye contact.  And because I've already established the precedent of acknowledging him, if I take a day off from doing it I feel like I'm being rude.  These hellos have started to feel forced and expected and a little...awkward.  Yes, they're definitely getting awkward.  When did that happen, anyway?  And when did he start smiling at me like that?  Dear Lord, does this guy think I've got the hots for him or something?  Me, a married mother?  No, surely not, right?  I carry a Medela breastpump bag with me, for crying out loud! Of course, he wouldn't recognize it as such unless he had one of his own, which, unless he is lactating, he doesn't.

Whether it's all in my head or not, I've systematically been decreasing my hello and goodbyes.  When I walk down the platform, I pull out my BlackBerry so I have something to focus on.  Well?  I don't want to give anyone the wrong idea, do I?  Jeesh.

"Have a nice evening!"

The Gift

There are few pleasures in life I find more warm and fuzzy than waking up to my smiling baby.  On the weekends, mornings with him are just brilliant, when the day is new and stretched out before us and I don't have to think about work for even a second.  But weekday mornings are a different story altogether.  Inevitably, I always end up rushing to get myself out the door in true hot mess fashion (ie: wet hair, no makeup...pretty girl).  I'm careful to tiptoe around so I don't wake the baby, and if I do, Hubby has implored me not to engage him.  I respect his wishes, him being the primary caretaker and all (in addition to working nights and weekends), but it's never easy to just walk away.

On a good morning, I'll get myself smoothly out the door after watching half an episode of "Cheers" while pumping some breastmilk.  On a *not* so good morning, I'll accidentally wake my son up while closing my sock drawer, or stepping on Sophie the giraffe's squeaky head.  If he spots me, naturally he'll want to come to me, and when I have to go, he'll cry.  Leaving for work while my son is crying for me is not one of my favorite things.  In the spirit of full disclosure, and at the risk of sounding completely melodramatic, it breaks my heart, and makes me feel as if a little part of me is dying inside. What's that Sondheim song that always used to give me a belly ache?  Every day a little death...

On a shitty day, I worry that I'm taking up residence in Bittersville.  Sure, I know tons of mothers do it these days, but I find that it doesn't make it any easier.  Especially when I don't really have anyone to talk to about it.  I'm smiley by nature, too, so nobody at work would ever suspect I was struggling unless they asked. 

I call my mother every morning as soon as I shut my front door.  She expects these calls, will even wait to take her morning shower until she hears from me, but on mornings when my baby is crying for me, I'm not always the most sunny conversationalist.  I pretty much suck.  "That's okay," she assures me, "I want you to vent to me."  

Aside from dumping my karmic frustrations on my supportive mother, I'm careful not to allow myself too much time to dwell on these things.  I try to count my blessings, and if I can just get myself to turn my face toward the sun (literally and figuratively speaking), I can usually keep my chin up.  And a morning like today helps.  I'd turned on the video monitor (we are sleep sharing these days, ie: William sleeps in our bed) and as I was pumping, I saw my baby's head pop up on the screen, his eyes as big as half dollars.  He was awake!   And he was practicing blowing raspberries.  And I watched as he patted Hubby's face, grabbed the scruff on his chin, stuck a skinny finger up his Dada's nose, blew raspberries into his face...

It was a weekday and I was getting to watch my baby wake up.   The fact that this was exactly what I'd been wishing for was not lost on me.  This was a little gift, and I had to recognize it as such.  I even got to snuggle him for a bit before leaving for work, and today he didn't cry when I left, at least not while I was within earshot.

I walk the line between being fiercely optimistic that some cosmic shift is about to happen that would allow me to be home more with my baby, and stifling a nagging fear that maybe I'm just deluding myself.  That maybe I'll always spend more hours at work than at home.  That sort of self-defeating talk usually pops into my brain when I'm experiencing fatigue, whether it be psychic or physical.  When my emotional defenses are down, havoc ensues.  Also, last month we came very close to being able to swap roles, Hubby and me, but our hopes morphed into a giant setback, though we tried to spin it otherwise.  Another time.  Que sera.

For the most part, I continue to barrel through, my faith propelling me forward, beckoning me to open my heart and turn my frown upside down.  What else can I do, really?   I count my blessings, the million ordinary, extraordinary, miraculous, so-cute-that-they're-heartbreaking blessings that season my life these days.   My goal is to find the balance to be open to receiving what I'm yearning for in my heart of hearts, and in the meantime to remain grateful for the life we're living now.  For our jobs, for my extended family, for my amazing Hubby, for our spectacular little son.  Still, I've got to believe there is something better out there for us.  Leaving that baby every day to come to work is a daily struggle.  But mornings like today certainly help.  xoxo

Danger on aisle four!

It was the day after Christmas and we were making a quick family trip to Target to pick up some supplies.  Only, I'm not always so quick these days; in fact, Hubby often tells me I shop like the elderly.  (Well!?  I don't get out as much as I used to!)  And then there was the matter of the miniature tree I'd been trying to find for the bambino, for next Christmas.  I just needed to go and look at the discounted holiday stuff...

And that's when it happened.  I'd found William's tree: a whimsical little number, on sale for the unbelievable price of $4.50, and I called Hubby over to share in my joy.  "Hey, come see this!"  The aisles were crowded, and we probably should have left the store 20 minutes ago, and although I noticed he gave me a barely perceptible roll of his blue eyes, Hubby complied.

"Excuse me," he said to the woman and teenager blocking the aisle.  "Oh, sorry, sorry!" said the boy, who looked about 14 or 15, and I remember thinking it was a little strange the way he'd apologized like that.  

In hindsight, had I been playing the role of Hubby, I might have replied, "That's okay, man" or something to that effect.  But alas, Hubby did not.  And before we knew it, the kid's mother was screaming, in an outraged, aggressive tone, "What's his problem?  He's giving you a dirty look!?  Some people are so rude!"

Now that this soul had grabbed my attention, I couldn't help but notice she was a rough looking, pajama wearing, heavyset woman.  A tough broad, you might say; easily two times my size.

"I hope he teaches his baby some manners!"

Um, yes.  She was talking about us.  We were being made into quite the spectacle.  Hubby and I stood motionless, my hand on the baby's stroller, and it was only then that I realized I was still holding onto my tiny tree.  "So...what was it you wanted to show me?" Hubby asked, cool as a cucumber, not acknowledging the screaming banshee five feet to our right.  (So very Hubby of him.)

I should mention that my Scorpio husband possesses the infuriating ability to exude zenlike calm in the face of extreme anger.  Often he's looked at me, after I've worked myself up into a terrific Sagittarius frenzy, and has calmly asked, "Why are you yelling?" which naturally only adds fuel to the fire.  It seems he had the same effect on this woman, too.  She was becoming unhinged.  As she stomped over to the next aisle, still screaming about what a bastard my husband was, her silent teenager in tow, I hissed, "What did you say to that kid?  Were you rude or something?"  Hubby looked at me like I was nuts.  "I said excuse me, what else was I supposed to say?"

It was really time to leave.  But not before I picked up a miniature green tree skirt and some tiny garland (Yes!  Yes!  Yes!) and also not before a very large dude, who I took to be the woman's brute husband, walked by Hubby, looked him straight in the eye and said, "You're a f*cking asshole."

Holy schnikes!  Were we in Bizarro Land or something?  Hubby hadn't even done anything to this kid, and now these crazies were going all Jerry Springer on us!  "We're gonna get effing stabbed!" I whispered to Hubby.  "I don't want any trouble!"  I joked.  And I didn't.  I can be as mouthy as the next person, but there's a time and a place.  Something about this lady and her companions (there were several of them) told me they were not to be trifled with.  Some inner voice, or spirit guide, or maybe just my years of city living instructed me not to engage.  Truth be told I wanted to wrap that miniature garland around her beefy old neck when she'd made that crack about teaching my son manners, but her wrath had subdued me into a kind of mystified stupor.  Incidentally, what kind of an example was this crackpot setting for her own son?  

Are people going mad?  This wasn't the only spontaneous public meltdown I witnessed that week, I also saw an elderly man screaming F bombs at a woman in a crosswalk later that day.  Do the holidays bring out the crazy in people?  Did we somehow unconsciously manifest this ugly exchange?  

Luckily we made it home without getting jumped in the parking lot.  And after some reflection I was actually quite impressed by Hubby's levelheadedness, because a different man may have started screaming right back.  But that's not Hubby's style, especially now that he's become a father, and I was glad of it.

That night I wrote in the One Line a Day journal I've been keeping for William: "Bought you a miniature tree today for next Christmas!  With mini lights, etc.  Yay!"  A decidedly abbreviated and rose colored version, for sure, but that's the thing about life, and motherhood- sometimes we get to edit out the ugly.  Like unprovoked Christmastime altercations in Target and stuff.

Catching up

Happy New Year to you, Dear Reader!  I'm sitting here on my lunch hour, typing to you on my brand new MacBook (hooray!), which will hopefully facilitate my sincere wish to start posting more regularly in 2012.  If the world doesn't end, that is.  (Cue Debbie Downer trumpet sound: Womp-Womp.)

The long and short of it is that finding time to post regularly in Odd Broad Land has been a real challenge.  (My earmarked copy of Dr. Wayne Dyer's "Excuses, Begone!" just popped into my mind's eye, and it is judging me.)  But balancing my mommy duties with working long days in corporate America leaves me with little extra time to write.  A classic quote from my uncle Jim comes to mind, which goes something like, "Kimberly," (that's my aunt) "I don't have time to wipe my ass, let alone fill in the blank!"  (In my case, post on my blog).  

Hopefully my new laptop will change all that.  Not that we can really afford such a large purchase right now, but the truth is I never really buy myself anything big, as Hubby pointed out, and expressing myself through writing makes me less of a crazy raving lunatic happy.

In the minutes and hours and days that I've spent at home not writing, I've been doing a million other things.  Watching my William double fist his binkies, grow tooth after tooth, crawl, stand, shake-shake-shake his little shaky toys, bang away on his baby piano, and use absolutely anything he can find as a walker.  I've been crawling after him on my hands and knees, making him howl with laughter; playing peek-a-boo, singing him song after song after song, trying not to cry as I listen to the adorable little crunch sound his teeth make when he eats his veggie crunchies.  Everything delights this child, and I love seeing the world through his eyes.  My love for him is the most powerful, natural feeling I've ever experienced.

Basically, I'm trying very hard to be present in the moment, because he's growing so fast and it's easy to feel like I'm missing everything, being away from him all day.  Some days I cry about it and worry that I'm getting a serious chip on my shoulder.  And some days I'm okay.  (Set the scene: have I splept at all the night before?)  Always I hold out hope that there will come a day when I will be able to spend more time with my beloved little pal.  I will never give up on that beautiful dream becoming a reality.  (Dr. Wayne wouldn't want me to, either.)

And that's where I am, really.  I'm hanging in there by day, playing and reading Sandra Boynton books by evening, always being careful to remember to be grateful for all that I have.  Because there's a lot to be grateful for. 

Boston could not be any colder this week!  Hope the weather is a bit warmer where you are.  Time for me to head back upstairs.  xoxo

Happy Birthday, Kit

Tomorrow would have been my Kittie's 13th birthday.  It's funny, it's been nearly three and a half months since that awful afternoon in August, but I definitely still have moments when I can't believe she's actually gone.  I think I'm really in denial that she's never coming back. 

It might sound crazy, but I think of that cat every day.  Little reminders of her pop up all the time, taking me by surprise, filling my chest with a heaviness that I wish would go away.  Just a few months ago she was here with us, and now she's gone.

You were a good friend to me, Kit Kit.  I think of you with a sad heart, but I'm hopeful that someday I'll be able to take comfort in all the wacky, good times we shared.  I love you, little mama.  xoxo

 

PS: Yes, I swaddled my cat friend in blankets and wrapped her in my sweaters.  You wanna make something out of it?

Giving Thanks

This Thanksgiving, my gratitude was palpable.  My son has brought more joy into my life than I ever thought possible.  The love he inspires in me has been so life-changing, I can scarcely begin to articulate it.  But I'm going to keep trying.  I've been writing to him in a journal ever since I realized I was pregnant, before I even knew that he was a he.  How is it that my sweet baby will be a year old in two short months? 

He's waking up.  That's my cue.  xoxo

Buble!

A retraction to Monday's post in which I dared to propose there be no more renditions of "Santa Baby" imposed upon the people of this good earth:

I didn't realize Buble sang it.  Croon away, Buble!  You can do no wrong in my book.

We've started listening to Christmas music a bit early this year in the Odd Broad household. It's only November, but I'm saddened to report that Hubby has already placed a ban on "Baby, it's cold outside" from being sung or played in his presence.  I'm hoping it's only temporary.  Fingers crossed.

There's a Martina McBride version where she sings along with Dean Martin's vocals that is just disgraceful, I mean seriously atrocious, which I suspect may have pushed Hubby over the edge.  Of course, it also could have been the one where Cyndi Lauper sings with Sinatra, although I give that one two thumbs up.  (Perhaps that's part of the problem.)

While we're on the subject, if I may, I'd like to propose that "Santa Baby" be closed to any future musical interpretations.  Does the world really need any covers after Eartha and Madge's, anyway?  Ryan Seacrest's girlfriend doesn't even sound like she's trying. I say no more renditions, please, it's getting a little yucky.  Of course, the sentiment of a grown woman singing to Santa about diamonds and checks in a sexy baby voice is wretchedly nauseating, but also I'm just not sure it translates anymore.  Or is that wishful thinking? 

On that note, Merry Monday, everyone! Just a few days until turkey day!  xoxo

It's Friday, I'm in love

It's 11-11-11, y'all! There's got to be something magical about that. Why not make a wish this morning, Dear Reader. Someone is always listening. xoxo