All Within the Range

Because you are all lovely, caring people, you're probably wondering how Jack is doing. The short answer is: better. The longer answer is a little more involved. We started with our general provider, who gave us a referral to see a neurologist at Children's. The best thing I can say about the woman we saw was that she really, really liked Jack. She congratulated me on my superior powers of observation and pointed out that if Jack was in a different kind of household with a different kind of mother, he'd probably be put on heavy drugs for ADD. She was very sweet and attentive and kept saying things like "Clearly, he's fabulous!" She genuinely liked him and that was all very heart-warming, but not very useful from a medical standpoint. The good news is that Jack consistently aced all the neurological tests and his chart states "perfect upon examination." So nothing wrong with his brain. The conclusion of Kindly Neurologist was "You're a fantastic mother, keep doing what you're doing and come back in four months. And by the way that will be $237.00 please." My next move was to take him to Dr. White, my lovely chiropractor. It was abundantly clear after x-rays that Jack's neck was grossly out of alignment and in such a way that Dr. White assured me it was affecting blood flow to his brain. Jack has received two adjustments to his spine, and there's good news and bad news. The good news is that his spine is now in perfect alignment, and on our third visit Dr. White said that Jack didn't need a third adjustment because he was still holding perfect alignment. The other good news is that Jack's headaches seem to be less frequent and, when they do come, less intense. We are always able to nip them in the bud and avoid the vomiting stage. The bad news is that he still gets headaches. I'm grateful that for the time being they stay headaches and don't progress to full-on migraines. Dr. White suggested a blood allergy test to look for foods that might bother Jack, as allergies can be common migraine triggers. We are learning more and more about how to manage his situation, and were even able to take a two-hour road trip to Lake Wenatchee for a little vacation thanks to the miracle that is Dramamine. I'm not normally a big fan of giving my kids medicine for every little ache and pain, but I am a huge fan of being able to drive for a couple of hours with no one vomiting. Another tool we discovered(thanks to Anna) is something called Migrastick, which is a little vial of essential peppermint and lavender oils. When Jack feels the first signs of a headache(which he is getting better and better at recognizing) we dab a little oil on his forehead, temples, and the back of his neck. Usually, ten minutes later he feels fine. If not, we break out some chewable ibuprofen and carry on with our day. I'm trying to train him to feed and water himself more independently, and all in all things are improving. I feel like I need to catch my breath a little before we seek out further treatment, which will most likely be with a naturopath. I received so many e-mails full of concern and recommendations, and I'm so grateful for all of them. Thank you all for caring about my son, I deeply appreciate it. And speaking of appreciation, I had a rather tragic invitation to appreciate my life a lot more than I have been recently. It's embarrassing how easily I can lose my perspective, and the depth of awfulness sometimes required for me to get my head back on straight. For a while there I felt like I was in a storm of difficulties, trying to manage Jack's migraines and allergies while keeping Jack and Matteas from killing each other, all while feeling misunderstood by my husband. It was not a good time. And then Kayleigh blew into town and we had an amazing two weeks together, full of food and conversation and insight. I realized how important it is for me to make space for myself, to take a break from the daily grind and do things that feed my soul. I also realized I need to spend more time talking to my husband and less time talking about him. The night before we went on vacation I finally came clean to him about something I've been upset about for years. Literally, years. It's really not that juicy in terms of content, but the principle was that I didn't trust him with my wounds and it was driving a wedge between us. It was a small wedge at first, and the space it drove between us was so small I thought I could overlook it but the more I overlooked it the more the space grew, until one day I looked up and saw that the small space had become a large chasm and that I needed to make a choice: keep drifting, or reach for my husband. I chose to reach, and he met me with open arms. I thanked him by getting snot all over the shoulder of his black t-shirt on account of all the blubbering that ensued, but he didn't mind. He just held me while I blubbered and whispered really nice things to me, and I realized what a fool I'd been not to let him comfort me a long time ago. He would have if I'd asked, but I refused to ask. Life had to push me to a really dark place before I would admit I was in pain. So now we are quite in love, Jack is doing much better, Matteas is his charming self(and he's now three years old) and we are working on our master bedroom and reading C.S. Lewis together out loud. All this goodness was thrown into sharp relief by a visit to the park the other night, just the boys and me while Aaron was out. Two little boys were at the playground, 5 and 2, and they immediately befriended Jack and Matteas. Their dad and their grandma were with them, who seemed like kindly, if odd, people. Turns out they were very odd, and very sad. The grandma, not bothering to make the usual playground small talk, launched into a detailed account of her son's nasty divorce which is apparently being driven by his hateful wife who detests him and abuses her children. She blurted all this out while the kids were playing right next to us, and I was torn between trying to be kind to her and protecting my kids from someone else's tragedy. When it was time to go, Jack volunteered to give the dad our phone number so we could meet again. "Oh," I said, "we come here all the time so I'm sure we'll see you guys again." I made a mental note to avoid the park on Wednesday nights, which is apparently the one weeknight Hateful Wife grants her soon-to-be-ex-husband custody of his own children. We headed home and I put the boys in the bath, and fed them watermelon while the warm water soaked the dust from the park off their skin. I told Jack that next time he meets a kid he likes at the park, he needs to ask me if it's okay to exchange phone numbers before volunteering that option. He asked me why, and the best I could do was to say that there are some friends that we make a part of our lives, friends we have over for dinner and plan vacations with, and then there are friends that are just park friends. He didn't really understand, and it suddenly hit me that we are rapidly getting to the part of the show when I will have to explain Harsh Realities to him, to teach him about things I don't want him to know. He was only a year and a half when Karoly shot himself, wasn't born yet when my oldest sister left her five boys. He hasn't had to process any deep personal tragedies yet, and I was overcome with a wave of gratitude that, for all my complaining, my struggles are really all within the range of normal. I may struggle in my relationship with my husband, but if I struggle it's in order to have a better marriage. The boys might drive me crazy with their fighting, but they can only drive me crazy because I am here being their mom every day, not just Wednesday nights. We struggle still, but generally it's in a thriving kind of way, and whatever else may happen I know we will at least struggle together.

We Laughed, We Cried, We Learned a Valuable Lesson

I knew today was not going to go well. I knew this because Matteas woke up early, and by "early" I mean that he got less than 12 hours of sleep. I always feel torn about how to handle these days; do I lower expectations to avoid potential meltdowns, carry on as normal, bribe the boys into good behavior? Originally, I planned on laying low. But then I realized we were out of food. Really out. I used our last few pieces of bread to make toast for breakfast and had since been periodically throwing granola bars and string cheese at the boys whenever they made hungry noises, but then I got hungry too and the wilted half-carton of arugula did little to fill me up. The boys were fighting a lot and I debated whether it was the type of day that would be improved by an outing or if temperaments were so out of whack that we should not take ourselves out in public. I chose to risk an outing. I chose wrong. Our library books were due back, so I proposed a plan to the boys: hit the library, then PCC. Normally, they are excited about doing both of these things. It took us half an hour of whining and general bad behavior to make it to the car with everyone appropriately diapered and shod, but I foolishly pressed on. We got to the library and were greeted by the sound of 35 children's voices singing some idiotic rhyme led by the voice of a woman who clearly didn't like children. I picked out a few books for the boys while they checked out the fish in the giant tank, then I looked away for two seconds and looked up to see Matteas climbing over the back of a chair, a chair where the woman who clearly didn't like children had hung her jacket. He was climbing over the chair to get to the free-standing little puppet stage. So he could climb on it. I ran over to him, but the woman who now did not like my children specifically beat me to it. "No, no, NO," she said, motioning to Matteas to get off the chair, "the puppet stage is CLOSED." I grabbed Matteas and slunk over to the checkout, where I scanned our books and made haste out of the library. On the drive to PCC, it occurred to me that maybe trying to buy groceries would be a poor choice, so I proposed an alternate plan: we would splurge on prepared food, then head to the beach. The boys agreed it was a fine plan, and said they hoped it would be our turn to use the car cart at PCC(side note: why the f**k does PCC only have one of those carts? Worst idea EVER). I said that maybe it would be our turn, maybe not. We pull into the parking lot and lo! there's the car cart unattended! Score! The boys and I hustle over to it, but immediately Matteas starts whining for a baby cart. I have a rule about the baby carts: we only use them when Dad comes shopping with us. Two toddlers running around the grocery store with their own carts in opposite directions does not make for a productive shopping experience. I remind Matteas of this rule, then tell him that if he wants to go to the beach I need him to get in the car cart and help me drive. He obeys, but with a lot of whining. We hoof it over to the hot food section and I'm pleased to find a Mexican casserole type thing made with beef and cheese and corn tortillas, so I get a sample cup to let Jack try it. He loves it, but Matteas refuses to try it. He whines, loudly, about three more things in the next ten seconds. I tell him if he doesn't stop whining, we can't go to the beach. He pitches a full-on fit, so I grab our empty cart and head for the door. Jack knows we're not going to the beach now, so both boys are wailing as loud as they possibly can and everyone is staring at me. I don't even bother smiling in apology, I fix my eyes on the door and try not to look like I'm kidnapping the screaming children in my cart. We buckle in and head for home, the wailing now punctuated with cries of despair. Jack declares that this is the worst day ever, and then he lets me have it, the toddler equivalent of an F-bomb: "I hate you!" As soon as it says it, I realize my mistake. Well, actually, there are several of them. When Jack tells me that he hates me, it stings. And pisses me off, which tells me two things: I take parenting too personally, and also that it is way too important to me to have my kids like me. It's not my job to get them to like me, it's my job to teach them not to behave like hooligans in public places. We get home and I drag my still-weeping children into our cluttered, foodless house. I deposit Matteas in his bed, leave Jack in the living room, and then heave myself onto my bed to ponder what it is I could have done to incite the wrath of God so that He would punish me with such awful children. I run back over my life's offenses, and the words of the gym teacher from Mean Girls come to mind. He's trying to scare a room full of teenagers into celibacy: "If you have sex you WILL get pregnant and you WILL die." So maybe that's where I went wrong. But something in me says that there is, actually, something bigger that I missed, something important. I realize that I have failed to instill in them a sense of respect for others, the knowledge that they are not the only people in the library or the grocery store, that they need to consider what impact their behavior will have on the people around them. I gather the boys and have a talk with them. I explain that we all have jobs, even kids. Right now their jobs aren't super big, but it's still important that they do them well. When it comes to food, our whole family works together: Dad makes money to buy food with, Mom shops for it and cooks it, and the boys need to be well-behaved while Mom does the shopping. I ask them what kind of family they want to be, one that helps each other or one that doesn't care about each other, and they instantly say they want to be a helping kind of family. I tell them that we are going to try again, that I know they can do their job if they try hard, and that if they don't there will be severe consequences when we get home(besides still not having any food). They look relieved that I appear to be in charge again, and quietly climb into their car seats. At Trader Joe's(no way was I going back to PCC today) they are quiet and cooperative. A few things catch their eye, but I explain we're not shopping for those things today. I manage to fill the cart with the basics, plus a few exotic yogurts. I splurge on a bottle of all-purpose cleaner that smells like the woods because I will want to wash the counter tops with it, and people smile at my children and give them stickers. A lovely British woman waiting in line behind us chats with Matteas, and he informs her(correctly) that his birthday is "about August fourteenf." I had no idea he knew when his birthday was, and for a brief moment I see my son not as the wretched instrument of torture he has been to me all morning, but as a stranger might: tan, blond, charming. I realize that I need to create more opportunities for Matteas to be his best self, and more opportunities for me to notice him that way. When we get home, I tell the boys that I need help carrying in the groceries. I normally carry them all in myself because I can do it faster and also the bread won't be all squished, but we've already covered the negative consequences of bad behavior today and I want to shift the focus to the positive effects of good behavior. I hand Jack a bag full of light stuff and give Matteas the mini watermelon I bought, and they trudge happily up the stairs and into the house. I thank them for their help and commend their performance at Trader Joe's, and tell them we are going to make a chore chart so we can keep track of all the ways they contribute to our family. Jack immediately proposes that he and Matteas can share the job of putting the chickens away: Matteas can use the broom to herd the chickens into their coop and then Jack can close the door. I tell him I think that's a great idea, and start thinking about how long I need to wait before showing my face in PCC again.

Peaceful, but working like hell

Shannon, Kayleigh and me

I haven't been here much lately. That's because August became a Festival of Amazing Women, and I cooked a lot of food and read a lot of books and had a lot of conversations. It was during this Festival that I realized that my life would be much better if I could manage the everyday the same way I manage childbirth: peaceful, but working like hell to give birth to something. I have so much to say I don't even really know where to start, so for now I'm going to take the boys blackberry picking because we all need to get out of the house. Sometime later I'll make some tea, and try to straighten out all the womanly wisdom I've been absorbing for the past three weeks. Because I really can't keep it to myself.

Just to Clarify

So I've been getting a lot of phone calls from people I haven't heard from in a long time. They say they called just to say hello, but eventually they all get around to saying the same thing: "so I read your blog the other day, and..." So I thought I should clarify a few things. -when I wrote this post, I was in what is quite possibly the Worst Funk I've Ever Been In. Some people think it wasn't the best idea for me to publicly share what was in that post. I have no regrets, but I did want to share the context: I was feeling overwhelmed and under-equipped. I don't feel like that on a regular basis. Several things in my life converged simultaneously, and the stress got the better of me. I think my anxiety over Jack's migraines was a huge factor. That post was not representative of how I feel about my life as a whole, it was representative of how I felt about things on that particular day. It was my Emotional Self speaking, not my Reasoning Self. I knew, even as I wrote that post, that I would eventually get to a different place, but I wasn't there yet. -Aaron and I fight, I just don't usually post details about it on my blog. We are amazingly civil when we fight. This is mostly because of Aaron, who never raises his voice even a little. We have been married for five years and have never once yelled at each other or called the other person names. We try to focus on the issue at hand, and for the most part we succeed in avoiding any kind of attack on the person. Maybe I shared things that some people thought were Too Much Information, but I still don't regret it. The fight happened whether I publicized it or not(plus I did leave out some juicy bits). The reason why I chose to share my Funk was twofold: catharsis was a selfish reason; community was the other. I think community is the saving grace of motherhood. Without it I would be lonely and crazy. I can't count the number times another mom has shared with me about difficulties and challenges and I have found myself nodding in agreement and resonating with sympathy. It's important to know that it's hard for everyone, not just you. -Just because my children drive me nuts sometimes doesn't mean I don't love them. I love my children more than my own life. They also drive me nuts a good deal of the time. Those two things are not mutually exclusive. I think it is also important- crucial even- for other mothers to know this. It's par for the course. They are both my greatest source of joy and my greatest source of frustation. I don't tell them that they frustrate me(though I'm sure they can tell), I tell them they are my treasures. In the end, treasure is more important. -Everything I write on my blog is true. The wedding cake, the poop, the messy house, the organic garden, the romantic dates with my husband, the art projects, the flooded basement; in short, the Good, the Bad and the Funky. It's all my life. I know some people use their blog as a place to focus on the positive, and for the most part that's what I like to do. But that's not all there is, and I find it frustrating when people say things like "Children are such a blessing," without balancing that statement with the crustier realities of parenting. I certainly don't want to focus on the hard parts, but I think it's crazy-making to act like they aren't there. Children are a blessing. A blessing that will make you laugh, cry, gag, rejoice, despair and hope, sometimes in the span of fifteen minutes. Also, they will poop and throw up a lot. It is 11:20 and I am still in my pajamas. I'm going to change into some real clothes, put some banana bread in the oven, then go shampoo the rug downstairs which has developed a strong moldy odor since the Flood. We'll let the chickens out and probably do some gardening. At some point there will be some book reading on a blanket outside. Along the way there will certainly be some naughtiness, some fighting, some discipline and some hugging. In short, there will be real life.

...and now for something completely different

Thank you all for your support over my little nervous breakdown. I wake up almost every day feeling happy just because, and it distresses me when that doesn't happen. I was venting to my cousin Kayleigh the other day about all the sources of stress in my life, and she said " The Dalai Lama would say that those things have something to teach you." So I said to my nervous breakdown, "Breakdown, you are my teacher. What do I need to learn?" The conversation is ongoing. It was tricky that I was going through all that emotional turmoil at a time when my husband was otherwise engaged(he was the best man in Trevor and Melissa's wedding) so he didn't have a lot of time or attention to give me. The drive home from the wedding last night was over an hour, so we finally had a chance to connect and have a real conversation. I realize I don't talk to him enough, and also that I'm not very good at speaking his language. We have very different communication styles, and so many times when I'm satisfied that I've successfully communicated specific things to him Aaron will later inform me that he had a completely different interpretation than what I intended. I sometimes find it frustrating that being in a relationship with someone can be so much work, that it's not enough to simply be in love with each other. A mistake I have repeatedly made is to hold Aaron responsible for meeting all of my needs, rather than discerning which needs are actually best met by him and which needs could be met elsewhere. Also, it's miraculous what some time away from your children can do for your relationship with them. Most days I do actually enjoy being with my kids, but sometimes a mama needs a break. My sister took them overnight, then my cousin took over all day yesterday so I could make wedding cake like a total maniac. I'll be you're all wondering how that went. It all worked out in the end, but I'd be lying if I said there weren't moments when I let loose a string of expletives that would make a sailor blush. Some things that surprised me: -how very, very long it takes to properly frost a cake -how tricky it can be not to use too much sugar -how relaxing it was to transport all thirty pounds of it I would totally do it again. Which is good, because I've already signed myself up for two more weddings. The part I was the most apprehensive about was driving it 62 miles to Gig Harbor, but that part went just fine aside from the fact that I had to periodically remind myself to relax the death grip I had on the steering wheel. I wanted to make extra sure that nothing would slide around, so I used some of that rubber stuff you put under an area rug to keep it from sliding around and duct taped it to shallow boxes. The cakes didn't budge, not even when I missed the street the church was on and had to turn around on a narrow road. Next time I think I'll save myself some time and just line my trunk with my yoga mat. I got there several hours later than I planned. As in 20 minutes before the ceremony started. Everything took so much longer than I thought it would, then I hit terrible traffic on the drive down. I wore shorts and a tank top, certain that if I arrived dressed for the wedding I would get frosting all over myself. The church where the wedding was held was a huge compound, and there were multiple buildings to choose from. I saw signs that said "Fellowship Hall" and parked in the closest spot I could find. I grabbed the bottom tier and made haste into the building, where there were dozens of people milling about and some tables with flowers on them. Naturally I assumed this was where the reception would be, so I made my way to the back of the room where there appeared to be a kitchen and asked the nearest lady if I could do cake set up in there. "You're bringing the cake?" she asked. "Um, yes," I replied, thinking that much was obvious. "Are you here for the memorial?" she asked. "This is a memorial?" I asked, mortified. "Yes. You probably want the reception hall on the other side of the church." So yeah. I waltzed into a memorial in an outfit I would garden in, bearing a cake for a wedding celebration. That's just how classy I am. I thought I couldn't be any more embarrassed, but then I walked by a mirror and saw a streak of frosting about ten inches wide across my chest. So in review, I walked into a memorial horribly underdressed and asked if I could set up a cake I'd just smeared across my boobs. I did manage to get the cake finished and had just enough time to rush to the bathroom, throw on a dress and some lipstick and make it to the sanctuary about 25 seconds before Melissa walked down the aisle. I don't know why I wasn't more concerned about this project. I thought it be easy, but apparently the term "piece of cake" was coined in referrence to a single piece of cake, not 186 pieces of cake. I don't know if you can tell from these pictures, but the lilies have a very faint pink shimmer to them. The sash on Melissa's dress was the same color. Melissa requested Nutella filling. In taste tests, it proved to be overwhelmingly sweet but the flavor was great, so I whipped Nutella with cream cheese and chopped toasted pecans. A one-to-one ratio of jars of Nutella to bricks of cream cheese was just about perfect; it also made the Nutella silkier and less gooey, so it was a little easier to spread without getting the crumbs all excited.

I was nervous about smearing the Nutella filling with white frosting, so I piped a ring of frosting around the cake before I filled it. It worked great, and I didn't have any trouble with the filling mixing with the frosting.

I read so many recipes for Swiss Buttercream, but I kept coming back to Deb's. Hers uses slightly less butter than others, and then I cut the amount of butter even further(but just a smidge). The quantity which worked best for my mixer was eight egg whites, two cups of sugar, six cubes of butter and 1/2 teaspoon vanilla. Also, I found I preferred to use half salted butter and half unsalted to keep the flavor lighter. When I do this again, I'm going to borrow my sister's Kitchenaid because I think mine hates me now for all the work I made it do and next time might go better if I can make twice the frosting in half the time. Each batch takes about half an hour to make with all the double-boiling and prolonged whipping. I made four batches that morning. That's two hours just for frosting, y'all. And 24 cubes of butter, in case you weren't adding it up. I'm amazed that I can add at all anymore, after all the calculating this project required.

For all my careful leveling, the cake still leaned just a bit. I used small dowels in the bottom two layers, but now I think I might need to buy those plastic pillar things. I might ask the next person I make a cake for to pay me in craft store gift certificates, because I also think I need a cake lifter.

The cake itself was also from Deb, and frankly I don't know why I ever bothered looking elsewhere. For some time now I've had this irrational aversion to adding any kind of flavoring besides vanilla to chocolate cake, and I realize now how foolish that was of me. Deb's recipe calls for coffee and cinnamon, and I used fresh hot French press coffee in mine.

To die for. I don't even like cake, and I loved this. Ina Garten is always saying that coffee in chocolate recipes makes the chocolate taste even more like chocolate, but somehow I always expected it to come out tasting like a mocha. It doesn't. It adds a lovely depth and keeps the cake from being too sweet. And the touch of cinnamon with the Nutella filling...there weren't so much as crumbs left. I didn't even get my own piece, but my brother Damien shared a few bites of his with me.

This morning as Aaron and I were having coffee on the couch, I looked at him and said "I can't believe I'm saying this, but I think I want some cake." I have about five pounds of that Nutella cream cheese mixture in my fridge and I've been curious to see how it tastes with yellow cake.

Broadcasting Live From the Long Dark Teatime of the Soul

This is what the boys did yesterday while I was washing wedding cake dishes. I knew they had the hose on and I could see them from the window above the sink, but somehow I forgot to look at them. They flooded the patio, which flooded the basement. With gallons and gallons and gallons of water. They came running up the stairs, muddy and breathless and reported "there's water in the house! Lots of water!!!"

Indeed.

I stood there for a minute and tried to summon a can-do attitude, but the most productive response I could muster was to sit down on the only dry spot I could find and sob.

This morning Matteas peed the bed and when I put him in the tub to clean up he pooped in the bath water. I feel like this is a metaphor for my life right now; work, more work, and then while I'm trying to do the work someone shits on it.

I never wanted to have kids, and I knew it. But then I had a few by accident and I thought that I grew up and got over myself, but here I am five years later still seething with resentment. I would like to insert some touching anecdote here about getting to the end of a hard day and kissing the boys goodnight, about feeling a soft cheek against mine and the voice of a little boy whispering about how I'm the best mom in the whole world, how all the blood and sweat and tears are so worth it. But I don't feel that way. I feel like it is hard and shitty and thankless, and then the little darlings flood the basement.

Also, this morning Jack announced that he does not love me. I know that he's five years old, that all kids say that to their parents at some point, that I should not take it personally. But I do because it is a mean thing to say and if it is really true then there's not much point to what I do all day. Parenting is not modelled on capitalism, and this is part of what is wrong with it. If you work hard at something, you should be rewarded. Maybe not with a huge paycheck, but at this point I'd settle for job satisfaction. Instead I work my ass off for a group of people who, far from appreciating my efforts, tend to resist and resent them. Jack refused to eat breakfast this morning, which means he is setting himself up for a migraine later. I can play scientist all I want and take notes on his behavior and various reactions to all kinds of situations and factors, I can discover all there is to know about migraines and Jack's particular chemistry, but when it comes down to it I cannot force him to comply with any remedies. This is infuriating. Especially today, because I scored an appointment with a neurologist at Children's due to a cancellation, without which he'd have to wait until late September to be seen. He doesn't care because he's not in pain at the moment, and I resent that he is only motivated by incentive or by consequence; why can't he be good simply because it's the right thing to do?

To add insult to injury, Aaron and I do not agree on the reality of Jack's migraines. Aaron knows he gets them and how much medicine to give him if it happens, but he doesn't take my word for it when it comes to triggers. Jack can't handle a lot of stimulation or prolonged activities; we can't go to the park after three hours at school without going home for a snack first. I've tried it. The result is always the same. The other night Aaron took the boys out for pizza and then to a movie. Jack got a headache when they got home. I think Aaron wants Jack to be a normal kid who can do normal things, but he isn't and he can't. Aaron's failure to accept this fact makes me feel crazy, because I work really hard to manage Jack and figure him out, then Aaron disregards what I say. This means he thinks that I am either a) stupid or b) wrong, and both conclusions are distasteful. Also, he will be mad that I wrote that. I should probably care about the fact that Aaron will be mad, but right now I don't because I am tired of repeating and repeating and repeating myself and not being heard.

I feel like the guy in Greek mythology whose damnation involves rolling a heavy boulder up a steep hill over and over, but every time he nears the top the boulder magically appears at the bottom of the hill again. He never gets to the top, but he has to keep trying again and again. I find it cruel that parenting is so psychologically torturous; how am I supposed to raise healthy, happy kids when they're driving me fucking bonkers?

A friend on Facebook was in distress the other day, and someone posted a comment to her which read "God doesn't give you more than you can handle." I want to punch people who say that. If you really believe in God, then you're not the one handling things anyway. And how is that supposed to be consoling anyway? All it really says is that your feelings aren't valid: if it happened, you can handle it.

Now I get to go spend a couple of hours in the car so I can talk to someone about Jack's migraines while he dorks out and makes noises like a baby so that the doctor and I can't hear each other. But first I have to find Jack and make him put pants on against his will, which he will probably really appreciate. After the appointment I will call Aaron and tell him what the doctor said, and he will believe her because she is a doctor. She might be a mom as well, but that's not the important part.

One Day, I Will Figure This Out

It's hard to believe that Jack was ever that tiny. He was five days old in that picture, and weighed just a few ounces over five pounds. He was slow to gain, and the hospital almost made us stay another day because he wasn't putting on weight the way he was supposed to. He became jaundiced and had to spend a night under the lights, the blindfold covering half his tiny face. It really was the best of times and the worst of times; I was so in love with this tiny, tiny person, but it was scary to be in charge of caring for him. He couldn't do anything for himself and he was so very needy. I felt fiercely protective of him, and determinedly pumped bottles of breast milk in the middle of the night for months and months. He was small and needed the very best calories; I could sleep later. Five years later and a lot is still the same; I am so in love with Jack, but it's scary to be in charge of caring for him. He's not tiny anymore. He weighs 55 pounds and is tall, muscular and fast. He draws and sings constantly, works hard to overcome his many fears, bravely accepts his wheat allergies and tries new foods. He has grown so much and in so many ways. But something is wrong. Recently, Jack has been getting migraines. A lot of migraines. From the time he had the vocabulary to articulate it, he has frequently complained about his forehead hurting. He loses his appetite, the pain gets worse, and then the vomiting starts. After a good night's sleep he wakes up feeling much better and then eats like a horse. This used to happen two or three times a year. In June I noticed it was happening more often, so I started writing it on the calendar every time he got a migraine. We have a routine now. When he complains that his forehead hurts, I give him Tylenol and Motrin simultaneously, make him drink water and then have him lie down in a dark, quiet spot. This is usually enough to pull him back from the brink, and after a 30 minute rest he's good to go. Most of the time we can avoid getting to the vomiting stage. With the last migraine, we weren't so lucky. It was 91 degrees and, despite my best efforts, I think his body couldn't stay hydrated. We were at his grandma's and it was late, so when he told me that his forehead hurt I decided we should just head home. I didn't have any medicine with me, so I hoped he would just fall asleep in the car. Three blocks away from grandma's, he threw up. That's what the bucket in my back seat is for. After a good purge, we made it home without further incident. He was asleep, so I put him to bed without waking him up to take any pain medication. At 2:30 a.m. he came into my room crying, saying his forehead still hurt. He'd never woken up in pain before. I gave him his usual cocktail and some water, then got in bed beside him and massaged his scalp. I thought back to how many times I'd written "migraine" on the calendar and realized that this was his fifth migraine in a month. I lay next to him in the dark, unable to do much but be with him while we both waited for the medicine to work. It usually takes about 20 minutes, which can feel like an eternity when your child is suffering. Plus, 2:30 in the morning is a Worrisome Time, the time of night when everything is menacing and this is not just a headache and what his wrong with my son I'm his mother I should know why can't I figure this out and HOLY SHIT if anything happens to this kid I will want to die. I hate caring about another person this much. The next morning I make an appointment with his doctor. In the exam room, Jack is chipper and talkative. He likes being the center of attention, and his doctor is a really nice guy. I go over Jack's migraine history, explaining that he had episodes of vomiting without apparent illness from the time he was about two. I think he had his first migraine the day we went to buy a Christmas tree, and he puked all over Aaron at Azteca. The next morning he was fine, and we didn't think much of it. Kids puke all the time, right? Now that I know what his migraines look like, I realize that's what was going on. I tell the doctor about our current management plan, how I make sure Jack has something to eat and drink at least every two hours throughout the day. As soon as I say it out loud, I know it sounds odd. Every two hours? What is he, an infant? Clearly, no. So why do I still have to feed him like one? I go on, explaining that we avoid things like big, loud parties or crowded places; we can't stay at the beach too long on a sunny day because it's too bright for Jack; he gets carsick easily; I never leave the house without food and drink in the car; if we take a trip, the first thing I pack is the bottle of chewable Tylenol and Motrin; his babysitters know to give him a glass of water every hour. I know this is not standard issue care for most five year-olds, but hearing myself say it out loud to another person really underlines it for me. Jack was difficult to care for from day one. He didn't nurse, cried inconsolably for months, was unhappy in new situations. All babies are work, but I didn't realize how much more work Jack was until my sister told me "Your one baby is more work than all five of my children put together." So I guess it didn't seem that odd to me, this frequent feeding and watering and having of medicine and buckets. Jack is high-maintenance; it's just how he rolls. But this has gotten to the point where it is not okay, is past being explained by saying things like "he was early, lots of early babies have colic." I realize that Jack has a very, very narrow range of being in which he thrives and if anything comes along to tip the balance, it triggers a migraine. The doctor asks me if Aaron or I have ever had migraines. I tell him never once in either of our lives. He tells me that it's unusual for a person to have chronic migraines without at least one parent having them in their history. He also tells me that it's extremely rare to see chronic migraines in a child under the age of seven. He gives Jack a bunch of little tests; close your eyes and touch your nose, balance on one foot, raise your eyebrows, squeeze my hand. Jack does them all perfectly, and I breathe a sigh of relief when the doctor says that all his neurological functions look good. I cross Brain Cancer off my list of worries. The doctor tells me that I'm doing a great job, and to keep doing everything we're doing; treat migraines as they come, and do our best to avoid the things that trigger them. We will see a neurologist and discuss preventative treatment. This makes me nervous because a lot of prophylactic migraine treatment involves anti-depressants. They are given in lower doses than they would be for the treatment of depression, but I question the wisdom of putting such powerful drugs into the body of a child who clearly has a sensitive system. I want to know why he keeps getting migraines, not just suppress them.

For now, we wait. We haven't seen the neurologist yet, so I'm doing what I normally do and trying not to get too worried before I know what it is I should be worried about. When I feel like I might start freaking out, I make muffins. Wheat-free, dairy-free raspberry muffins. They are warm and soft and yielding, and for fifteen minutes I am comforted. Then I go back to worrying, because I can't make muffins all day.

One day I will figure out how to manage this whole parenting thing, how to balance the fear of what could be wrong with the faith that everything will turn out alright, but I'm not there yet. I struggle not to resent my attachment to my kids, these little people who can bring moments of such joy to my life but who make daily living so messy, so loud, so fraught with sibling rivalry and screaming and general unpleasantness and threats of penile violence in public. After I kiss the boys good night, I survey the day's damage to the house and begin the never-ending work of picking up the living room. I scoop the blocks into a basket, put the books back on the shelf. I pick my purse up off the floor and hear the rattle of pills inside, the medicine I almost always carry. It reminds me that I need to put a clean bucket in the car before we go anywhere this weekend. Because for now, that's our normal.