Friday, May 28, 2010

Reconsituting Ambitions

I generally pride myself on being somewhat of a gardener. There is nothing better than digging in the dirt, feeling the warm sun on your back, and at the end of the day sitting on your porch with a refreshing beverage admiring the work you’ve done. I also don’t mind the occasional sore muscles the next day from reconstituting the soil and mulching. In a lot of ways, playing in the garden is my version of going to church. I feel whole.

When I was younger I remember the dreaded yearly visits to Western Gardens with my mom and Ginny. Mom planted formal gardens complete with alternating orange and yellow marigolds along the boarder. Ginny was more free flowing and tried her hand at veggies, herbs, and wildflowers. As a result of the two influences, I like a natural garden and I completely 100% without a doubt ban all marigolds. They always depressed me; kind of like 4:00 in the afternoon. I don’t know why I have an aversion to the 4:00 – 5:00 witching hour, but I always have.

I spent a ton of time trimming wild honeysuckle mounds and weeding my parent’s garden after break-ups. You could generally tell if I had hit a rough patch in my love life because the yard was immaculate. After one particularly ugly break-up in 2000 I weeded their lawn. Yes, their lawn. By hand. I’m not talking about just the dandelions. I’m talking the crabgrass, morning glory, violets, henbit, sorrel, and the dreaded spurge. My poor mom has been trying to get grass to grow in my weeded spots ever since.

When I bought my first house my first summer was tormented with boyfriend issues. As a result I grew fantastic zucchini, eggplant, broccoli, sage, thyme, basil, and tomatoes. I bought tons of good top soil and spent hours upon hours with my shovel tilling the garden. I had so much produce I finally had to invite random family friends to stop by and harvest their own. I bought my first lawn mower – which proved to be entertainment for all the men on my street to watch me attempt to maneuver it up the steep hill. I had never operated one of these things before given my brother’s penchant for the task. My neighbors would seriously come outside with a beer to watch. After that humiliation I practiced with my weed eater over at my parent’s house. As a result, my parent’s garage needed to be repainted because I had whacked all of the paint off.

Moving to Indy I had to downgrade my garden adventures to a small patch along our sidewalk and pots. That year we made a container Victorian twilight garden. It was magical. Think of tons of pots on a deck with highly contrasted and variegated foliage of texture and color – most of the colors being pale yellows, pinks, purples, and whites. As twilight would approach, the blossoms and contrasts seemed to float and glow. Add a little candlelight and wine or a homebrew for a perfect way to wind down from a hard day.

We haven’t had the opportunity to plant our pots again until this year. Selling our place in Indy then moving in and out of Boston mid-summer kind of put a damper on that. But this year? We’re ready to go! Or are we?

I didn’t exactly grasp how being 7 months pregnant would impact that whole gardening thing. After all, those pioneer women were still planting crops and trekking down the Oregon Trail in their third trimester! Being an ex-athlete I have a great ability in tuning out whatever might be aching until after the event was over. Come to think of it, maybe it’s not such a “great ability.” I typically overestimate my capabilities and pay the price later. I don’t notice that I’m limping, grabbing my ribcage, or stretching awkwardly to compensate for my 2008 back surgery until I’m almost done with the project. The rest of my evening is spent laying on ice with some sort of painkiller on board, barely moving while J either says, "I told you so," or "Why can't you just take care of yourself like normal people? I'd like my wife to be around when we're 70."

I’m trying to learn how to ask for help. What’s difficult is then realizing the timeline is out of my control. I realize I cannot reconstitute the topsoil, move the bags of potting soil, crawl around on my knees weeding, or lift the pots once their filled with flowers. It sucks. I try to sit on the porch calmly and fight the urge to pick up a rake or trowel on a daily basis. In order to calm my inner grasshopper I think I’ll go try and prep the nursery for painting instead. Really?!? Because moving furniture into the center of the room and crawling around with painters tape is easier?!? Ok, scratch that idea. What about doing the floors? You know, vacuum, swiffer, mop the suckers? Oh yeah! Because the vacuum is so light and easy to maneuver up and down the stairs. Ok, so I'll scrub the bathtub. Have you tried leaning over a basketball to scrub the bathtub recently? Add in a kicking squirming basketball. It doesn't work very well.

Today I had a whole conversation with J about limits and what constitutes being “active” during your last trimester. Sad to admit it, but I think I figured it out. We went to have lunch outside the hospital at the park which involves traveling down a hill. For one, my balance sucks. I almost fell a couple times. This is a new development. Then after lunch (the small lunch due to the compressed stomach) I had to get back up the hill…with limited lung capacity. It was a small hill. I sounded like I had advanced COPD by the time I literally heaved myself up it.

My dream for Memorial Day weekend was to conquer raking the yard of all maple whirligigs, getting the topsoil and grass seed in, planting more pots and flower beds, ordering mulch to be delivered, cleaning the house top to bottom, AND priming the nursery. I’m beginning to think I’m a little overambitious. Maybe I'll settle for doing a load of laundry...that is, if I can carry the basket to the basement without falling ass over teakettle.

Friday, May 21, 2010

The Two Extremes - A Preview

I always knew that we would fall into one of two parenting camps: the over-protective’s or the shake-it-offs. Given our pediatric medical backgrounds I could see us wrapping the kid in bubble wrap, helmets, various athletic pads, and using Styrofoam to seal off any gaps we might have missed. “Ok, honey, have fun getting the mail! Remember Stranger Danger!” I could also envision the opposite with us glancing at the kid scraped up and bones broken after attempting a new trick on the homemade skateboard ramp, “You’re fine! You have an airway, you are breathing, and you definitely have circulation! I mean look at all that blood! Just grab a paper towel and add pressure to that gaping wound to stop the bleeding.” I always worried we would swing like a pendulum between the extremes without any rhyme or reason.

Edgar gave us a little preview of our lives as parents. However, handling crisis and the art of preparation call for two different approaches. In the heat of the moment of a crisis, I completely over-react – see the entry about his frienemy. J handles things with logic and calm while I’m hysterical. It’s good to have a balance. Then we take the Boy Scout method of Be Prepared. J’s style is to completely over-plan and safeguard against the worst possible scenario. The planning effort can sometimes be completely overwhelming and gets us stuck with no movement what-so-ever. Whereas I figure you can only plan for so much and then just deal with it. If you want something done, ask me. If you want something done well, ask my husband.

Let’s skip to our crib shopping experience, shall we? After reading something in a baby book about how you need to get your crib ordered by week 20 of pregnancy, I now had black and white proof that we needed to stop pretending we’re ostriches with our heads in the sand. By week 21 we began to browse baby stores. It was over-whelming to say the least. Do you get a convertible lifetime crib that turns into a full sized bed for little Jimmy to go off to college with or do you do the standard crib? Will the lifetime crib stand up to Jimmy’s gumming and teething? Well, that depends upon the wood. If it’s pine, then forget it. Do you need dove tail joints on your kid’s dresser? Really?

Our first visit ended badly as J was on a verbal rant about how much crap do you really need for a baby? Really? Specific baby nail clippers? And don’t get him started on baby monitors! “We don’t need no stinkin’ monitor! We grew up just fine in the 1970’s without them!” he exclaimed. (Yes, however we also had higher rates of SIDS and my own mother’s sanity would have been preserved knowing my colicky self was just fine wailing away in my crib while she went outside to take a 5 minute mental health break.) I told him that he didn’t need to get a monitor, but I would be getting one thank you very much. (His tune has changed once he realized he could set up internet nanny cams on our wireless home network. Tech nerd porn at it’s finest!)

On the second visit to the baby store, we literally closed them out after 3 hours of browsing, taking brochures on the crib manufacturers, and asking about the manufacturers recall rates in the past 5 years. We were not your typical pregnant couple. Other couples looked at the cribs and remarked, “Gee, that one is pretty. Should we order it?” And then there was us. While I’m reading the consumer reviews about quality, customer service, and which brand had the largest recall in 2007 for lead paint from China, J’s shaking the crib all over the place to see how sturdy it is. We had three different sales reps come up and ask, “Can I help you?” Nah, we’ve got it. I think they were more worried about us abusing the floor models than customer service. Like I said, we closed them out. Music was turned off and they had to unlock the doors to let us out.

On the third visit, weeks later with my panic increasing about timeframes, we were determined to narrow our selections down. Again, it took us two or more hours to settle on 3 different possibilities and finally place an order for a rocker/glider. In my mind, this was a must-have. After all, it will be my tired butt that is playing dairy farm in the middle of the night. It better be damn comfortable, durable, and stylish in addition to all that quality stuff J prioritizes. Again, music was off and lights were also in the process of being turned off when we finalized the sale. At least we provided someone a nice commission check.

Our fourth visit occurred last weekend. We went directly after work on Friday. The same sales girl was there who sold us our rocker and she remembered us.

“Have you made a decision?”

“Well, we’ve narrowed it down to these three.”

“Are there any questions I can help answer?”

“Nope, we’re just debating.”

Fast forward through the next 2.5 hours where J is continually knocking on the two floor models to check on the wood density, crawling underneath to check on the mattress support, and opening drawers repeatedly on the dressers. I pretty much just sat in the floor model rocker watching him asking how I could be helpful. Our perky sales girl stopped by 3 more times before we decided we were ready. By the time I brought her over, J was interested in potentially ordering a crib from one company and the dresser from another as long as the wood finishes matched. This of course, prompted more debating about styles of furniture and philosophical references to how style trends come and go as she walked away. And then the music turned off…again. We made a quick decision – which would have been my original choice by the way, 2.5 hours ago. And then we had to decide upon the mattress. Really? Natural organically certified bamboo or the fancy spring/foam flip mattress? I chose the easy to clean in the middle of the night plastic covered one. J lovingly caressed the bamboo green mattress and conceded.

Thursday, May 6, 2010

Prodgeny Returns

One of my dearest friends has a floor to ceiling framed reproduction of Rembrandt’s Return of the Prodigal Son in his office. Seriously it takes up a full wall. It’s ironic that he selected this painting considering all of the strife that later ensued in his relationship with his son.

When I stopped writing last year it was because I needed a moment of pause…or months of pause to be precise. The blog has been an outlet for me to process my experiences, thoughts, and beliefs. Most of these have been primarily shaped by my upbringing which is why my family makes many guest appearances along the way. The story I tell is mine. It’s my perception and what I chose to accept into my own mythological life story. It’s biased, one sided, and in that sense very self-centered.

It’s almost been a year since I traveled home to extend an olive branch to my father; my own version of the return of the prodigal son. But instead of following the parable in the Bible, my father did not slaughter the calf and celebrate my return. Instead he said I had a “poisoned pen,” told me he didn’t like me, I wasn’t a friend, and wished me the best of luck with my life. I was then compared to my brother and how he treats my father, thus adding to the distance and triangulation. Agreeing to his terms of playing the part of daughter where he would interact with me at Sunday dinners on a superficial level, we operated like this the rest of the painful 5 day visit. I had been emotionally disowned and abandoned by my father. In many ways I had created what I most feared. For the next 7 months we did not speak. Not on my birthday, not on Thanksgiving, and not on Christmas.

It was just too much for me to handle. I had hit what Seth Grogan calls The Dip. “Quit the wrong stuff, Stick with the right stuff, Have the guts to do one or the other.” I needed time to figure this stuff out.

And then things shifted big time for me. Not like I had enough on my plate by starting a new job and getting settled in a new town, we also decided to try for a baby. We succeeded.

10 weeks into the pregnancy we decided to return home, although with great trepidation. It was at that time we planned to announce the happy addition to our families. I tried to remain open and play out the moment of revelation with my parents. Would I get a cool congratulations? Another “best of luck?” I tried my best to keep my expectations low out of self-protection. I couldn’t have predicted what happened. My father jumped off of the couch with tears in his eyes to congratulate us, warm hugs, and, “Thank you. This seriously is the best gift you’ve ever given us.” They then commented that over breakfast that very morning they discussed how old my eggs were. If I'm lucky, I may even get a visit from my father when the baby comes in August. This would be a first ever since I married and moved out of state.

Since then things have improved. We send photos of my growing belly and ultrasound shots of the baby via email and Dad will actually talk with me on the phone when I call. It’s a nice change. I suppose we’re both testing the waters. In many ways its akin to dipping your toes in the ocean waves after living through a tsunami.