Practicing Motherhood

I'm convinced that there is nothing worse than a gloomy, chilly Saturday without a plan. Well, unless you are ill or just want an excuse to sit in your pj's and eat peanut butter out of the jar because you are too lazy to actually make the peanut butter cookies. But, I suppose that IS a plan so nix that last sentence. There is nothing worse than a gloomy, chilly Saturday without a plan.

I like plans. But mostly I like plans because I can either choose to follow them or deviate from them. It's a power thing I suppose. I can feel uber accomplished and look at my to-do list all checked off while inhaling the Lysol vapors or fabulous peanut butter cookies I actually made. Or, on the other hand, I could feel semi-criminal by slacking off and actually getting away with it. What's funny about this whole thing is that I am the criminal and the police to myself simultaneously. Hard to "get away with it" when you have to be the enforcer.

Yesterday we didn't have a plan. Sometimes my plan is really not to have a plan. This "plan" works when I know one of us has experienced a really tough week and unstructured downtime is needed. Not the kind of unstructured downtime that includes something like, "1:00 PM - 3:00 PM Unstructured downtime." So, see that would be too structured. In order for it to be truly unstructured it can't even be premeditated. *sigh* Then again, by planning to not premeditate the unstructured day would be a plan.

Have you come with me through the looking glass? Yes, this is what it is like to be me. It's exhausting, isn't it?

Ok, now really, back to my story: yesterday. We decided to finally attend the 6th Harry Potter movie matinee. Because it's a matinee and it's so late from the debut, we practically have a semi-private showing of the movie all to ourselves. I realize that we could have gone to see something more, oh, I dunno...grown-up, perhaps? Like the newest Quentin movie where Brad looks like he's wearing a caterpillar above his lip and everyone keeps wondering if it tickles his nostrils, or the cooking movie where Amy is once again trying to be Meryl for the Oscars only this time without a nun's habit. Yeah, we thought of going to see one of those movies, but it just wouldn't be faithful to our penchant for kid's movies. The escape factor really sets in when you temporarily believe that your house will float with a gazillion balloons or memories can be stored in tiny vials. But here's the ironic part: I needed escape from myself (see paragraphs 2-4 if you need further explanation). But I needed escape from myself because I've been focusing way too much on the whole kid issue. So really, how wise was it for us to attend a KIDS movie where your only semi-companions are KIDS to try and escape the KID issue? Don't even dignify that with an answer...it's pretty obvious.

Again, I'm all about the planning. Specifically for the past two years the question has remained the elusive: when? It doesn't take a leap of faith to realize that I was highly unsuccessful in my quest to escape myself. Damn. So now I'm actually forced to DEAL with the issue which means talking. Talking. Processing. You know, all the things I'm specifically trained to do. I look like I have alphabet soup behind my name showing all the credentials of my specialty of processing issues.

The issue has come to more of a head for me these past few months as I've now graduated...again...and have tried to launch myself into the job market. I guess I wonder where I should be placing my energies with the timing of potential plans. I also have to say that I feel like a mooch. Here I am sending my husband out the door to make a living while I make plans with my domestic art skills. (Numchuck skills, dungeons and dragon skills, Sims 3 skills.) I wouldn't feel so guilty about it if there was a little one who was my one and only responsibility for those 8-10 hours of the day. Edgar almost counts. Well, he did this week. He had a 48 hour tummy virus which gave me a taste of motherhood by being woken up in the middle of the night retching and bed-changing, wandering around cleaning up vomit, doing laundry, petting him while the poor guy didn't understand what was happening as he puked, and washing his beard/brushing his teeth only to have him toss his cookies once again. I also dabbled in the arts of playing amateur dry-cleaner with our velvet slipcovers on the couch. By the way, I can tell everyone with confidence this is NOT a skill of mine. But like I said, Edgar almost counts. And you know what? I was pretty damn successful playing Mom!

Edgar is like a kid in several respects. We take him pretty much everywhere. My husband mentioned it was almost apple picking season and pumpkin patch season to which we thought about bringing the dog. Yes, I get he's a dog. I also realize these are activities normal people would bring their children. I'm not normal. He has favorite toys like a kid, scheduled meal times, a regular doctor, play groups, etc.. See? Kind of like a kid. He even has phobias. He doesn't mind lightening and thunder. Fireworks are a little more troubling. But his real challenge is that obnoxious beeping from smoke alarms with low batteries.

We discovered this phobia when my Mom was visiting last year. His ears could hear the faint beep timed 90 seconds apart from the alarm in the basement. He would settle down to sleep, hear it, then pace the bed and tremble. Not exactly restful and it took us 2 days and nights to figure out what was going on. It was that faint and he has super-hearing power with his Scottie ears.

Fast forward to June when another alarm in our apartment was doing the same thing. As my husband fiddled with it and replaced the battery I got in the shower. The loud beep was enough to drive Edgar mad. So much so that he banged his head through the bathroom door, leaped through the shower curtain and over the high claw foot tub to find safety with me. The last time I had a dog jump in the bathtub with me I was maybe 5 or 6. Henry, my first Scottie, was afraid of thunder and arguments. The bathtub was his refuge.

As we returned from our date of Harry Potter and City Market, we noticed Edgar had expressed his frustration by strewing the bathroom garbage about the house from, a) being left behind, and b) being blocked off from the living room where the great velvet comfy couch sits in a prime location to see out the front window. As I was picking up the Kleenex I heard J laugh, "Hey Mr. Roo!" Edgar was trembling in the bathtub. Traumatized Edgar practically jumped into my arms when I bent down to pet him. And then we heard the beep.