The Bloody Nose - Part 2

14 minutes left I bolt out of the garage and run around the side of the house to the back door, forgetting that, for no explicable reason, I had locked it earlier. In a single move, I take the two steps in one leap, and reach and try to turn the knob. As I realize that it’s locked the rest of my body is still in forward motion. My knee slams into the window pane, there is a crash and a dull thud as glass hits the carpet inside. "Oh," I think "I just broke a window." That thought is quickly followed "Thank God! Now I can reach through it and unlock the door." I then note that the broken pane is too far away for me to reach the door knob. I check my knee for blood. As I look up, I glance inside and there on the counter are…my keys. I try my telekinetic powers, fail, and then decide to leave the practice to another day.

Tissue number two is now completely soaked through. I have two things to consider before I continue trying to get my keys: I cannot, under any circumstances, interrupt my husband’s meeting, and I cannot leave the kids in the car long enough so that it is the first thing they talk about when they get to school.

The front door! I can’t remember locking it, so hope rears its head. I go around to the front porch and up the steps to the door. It too is locked. “Et tu Brutus, et tu?”

13 minutes left I trudge back to the car and tell the kids the keys are in the house and I need to go get them. My son helpfully suggests going through the garage door. I explain that it is locked. “Why is it locked, mama? Did you lock it? Why did y……” I stop him. “No questions for the moment,” I say. My daughter has an open-mouthed alarmed look on her face. As my head leaves the car, I hear her mention to her brother something about a red tissue…

I fling open the tool box, grab a screwdriver and head back to the front door. Up on the porch, I pull the screen off, then with one hand holding the tissue, the other pushes the window up. I throw one leg over the sill, and another neighbor drives by, beeps, smiles and waves. I forget what I’m doing. I let go of the window and wave. As it falls, I attempt to catch the window with the hand that is holding the bloody tissue. I miss. The window slams into my thigh as blood drops, spreads, and looks like a Rorschach test on my leg. I think: “Giraffe! No wait...paint brush!” I force up the window again squeeze through and fall onto the floor.

11 minutes left Inside at last, I grab the keys and glance at the clock. Time has now disappeared but I can’t stop the momentum. I get into the car, remind my son of the No Question Moratorium and pull out of the garage. My nose has stopped bleeding, and a good thing too….I’m out of tissues and I’m driving a stick.

“I can do this,” I think as I hit the road. “If all the lights are green and I don’t have to sit behind a very old driver, I can make it!” Of course, all the lights are red, and I get caught between TWO very old drivers. I arrive at school, four minutes after the drop-off time. No one is out front. My knee is throbbing, my thigh aches and my lower belly hurts from the unsupported running. I rest my head on the steering wheel and start to cry. There is silence in the back seat.

I don’t get it. I don’t understand why I was so frantic. Why is getting the kids to school so hard? Why do I resent having to push, prod, negotiate and beg my way to school every morning? Routine or not, it isn’t easy. In fact, it’s the most mentally hard job I’ve ever had.

While I’m sobbing, I don’t notice my friend, Genee, pull up behind me. She pulls open one of the doors and takes my kids into school. I sit in the car and cry some more. Why on earth do I feel like such a failure? Why am I sitting here, in the car, in front of my kid’s school, crying about not being able to get my kids here on time? I look at the sweaters, hooks and library books in the seat next to me. Why do I feel like I have to take care of every one of those errands?

Genee returns, pushes the errand pile to the floor and gets in the passenger side and waits. After a few minutes, I am dried up.

“Feel better?” she asks.

I shrug. What would make me feel better is if I could just go home, stay in bed and have someone bring me soup, if someone else could run the errands. If someone else could be an efficient manager of the home, if someone else could clean the messes, buy the clothes, cook the meals, administer the medicine and worry obsessively if they have enough, got too much or will need more later. What would make me feel better would be if I weren’t trying so hard to live up to this magical perfect mother-image I cling to as my standard. That’s what would make me feel better.

“Ya’ know,” she says, “motherhood just isn’t the way they make it out to be in the books. It’s a hell of lot harder and a hell of lot messier.” Amen to that!

The Bloody Nose - Part I

This story occured almost exactly four years ago...really.

I glance at the kitchen clock and decide to start a little early; we have 23 minutes to make a 12 minute drive to school, and for my little daily miracle to take place. At school there is a 15 minute window when SOMEONE ELSE will take my kids out of the car. Currently, it is one of life’s great pleasures. Eight months into pregnancy with baby #3, it doesn’t take much to make me happy.

I am sick-- slight fever, nose stuffed, and feeling generally lousy. All I want to do is lie down. And that is why today, I need an extra dose of "I’m a good mommy." So I broke with morning tradition and let my kids outside; they frolick in their boots, in the puddles left over from last night’s rain.

In a moment of hormone-induced madness, I lock the back door. I never lock the back door. We live in a town where unlocked cars with $100 dollar bills left openly on the front seat will sit for only minutes before a neighbor comes by to make sure everything is OK and hands you the money back plus an extra little something…just in case.

I push the button to open the garage door. As it opens, I spot a neighborhood dog running loose. Suddenly, I sneeze. I look into my hand and find blood...lots of it. Our dog, always eager for a view of the world that does not include a fence, is at my heels when I open the door. At the exact moment of my sneeze, his black four-legged body zooms past my knees, out the door. I think “Hey!” then, “Oh s---t, he’s seen the other dog!” I turn back into the house, grab a tissue, and then take off after our dog.

21 minutes remain With tissue compressed to my nose, my unborn child and I lumber after our dog, past my kids, commanding in the sternest voice I can muster to “COME!” The dog either ignores me or doesn’t understand nose bleed talk.

The sternness of my command does however, have an effect on my daughter. She is caught completely off guard, not sure who is yelling and positive that thing that is going after the dog is not her mother. She freaks and runs to the back door, which, is now locked. I hear her begin to cry. I yell for her to come back around the house, but she isn’t going anywhere without an escort.

My son is watching the whole thing with great curiosity, I imagine (I didn’t actually get a chance to stop and ask him). He comes trotting after me. I holler for him to go get his sister; however, the dogs and I prove to be much more interesting. He follows me instead. I triage the situation quickly. If I leave my daughter at the back door crying, a) she will not get hurt, b) she is actually safer there than watching her mother sprint with a bloody tissue, cursing under her breath, after the dog, and c) she will mostly likely not remember this incident. Therefore, it will not cost her any future sessions with her future therapist.

On the other hand the dog is a) the cause of my frustrations, and b) an easy target that generates minimal guilt. I continue my jog after the dog, tissue held to my nose.

My neighbor drives by, honks and WAVES!

17 minutes remaining
I revert to threatening the dog with his life. I know he doesn’t understand, but he certainly understands tone. He turns, takes a wide path around me and heads back to the house. My daughter’s cries...no howls...suddenly register with me. I realize I may have underestimated how traumatizing the situation is. This may actually cost her two sessions with her therapist.

16 minutes remaining As I follow the dog, and pass my son, I tell him to get his sister. He turns and trots to the back door, but not before asking “Mom? Why do you have that red thing on your face?” I remove the tissue for second, and notice the blood has completely soaked through. It is indeed a "red thing."

Completely out of breath, I stumble back into the house, supporting myself with the doorknob, and glance at the clock. If we leave right now, we'll make drop off. As I grab for another tissue, with the other free hand, I pick up my purse, two sweaters for the dry cleaners, a package of hooks to be returned, and library books that are overdue. I close the door behind me...with my foot.

I dump all the stuff on to the front seat of the car. My son appears in the garage with his sobbing sister in tow. I go around the car, lift her into her seat and at try to buckle her one-handed. I need two. I tilt my head back, balance the tissue on my face and attempt to buckle the car seat, cursing at the person who made them mandatory. I am in “Mommy Stance.” Mommy Stance is when a mother (for dads never seem to do it) contorts her body in some weird and highly unnatural way in order to accomplish some relatively easy task. This task is usually attempted in difficult and extreme circumstances…like having too many things in your hands. Suddenly, a drop of blood escapes. Before I can catch it, it drops onto my daughter's jeans. She starts to scream.

I take complete advantage of the moment. The tissue falls to the floor as I wipe off her pants with my shirt and using both hands quickly buckle her in, all with my head tilted back. Then all I have to do is calm her down. I check the blood spot on her pants. “Look,” I say, “it looks like a dog.” She quiets and I am thankful it looks like paint.

My son, seat belt on, is now asking questions, one after another, leaving me no room to breathe, let alone think. “Why is that dog loose? Why did our dog run out of the house? Does he know that other dog? Where is that other dog going? Why did you yell at our dog? Are you mad at him? Why is…?”

15 minutes remain. I glance at the car clock. I have 15 minutes to make a 12 minute drive. I turn to my son and tell him, as calmly as I can, that this is no time for questions. I reach for the keys.

Where are the keys! The questions start again “Momma, are you mad? Why are you mad? What does %#$%^ mean? Is that a bad word?” I search my seat; check the floor. I get out and search under the kids…no keys.


To Be Continued…

The Incompetent Mother

This story has been the hardest, so far, to write. I am, in essence, “airing my dirty laundry.” I do it in the faith that there are other mothers who know exactly what I am talking about...who remember being lost and who still cry at the thought. I do it with the hope that one mother, who is in the middle of this gigantic culture shift called motherhood, will read this and feel better about herself and about her thoughts. This doesn’t have to be a lonely journey. If you know someone who might need to read this, pass it on…


The doctor said “Push!”

My dad shouted “I can see the head!”

I thought “who cares what you can see? Get this baby out…NOW!” I think I screamed the last part out loud, but at that point there was so much commotion between my dad, the doctor, the midwife and the vacuum-suck thing that brought my son into the world, no one noticed. My husband did notice that our newborn son had a head shaped like a banana. I noticed…that I had done the birth thing all “wrong.” The birth had not gone as planned, had not been the way that all the books, articles and the birth instructor had described it would be. The only conclusion I was capable of reaching at that time was it was somehow my fault. I tried to cheer myself up. “So what if your hair is doing a great impression of Don King?” I told myself, “and who cares that you threw up on your husband...twice? The point is you and the baby are safe and healthy.” It didn’t work. Somehow I had failed my first initiation into the responsibility of motherhood.
I didn’t know then what I know now. In fact, it is only now that I can say for sure that all those books, articles with “how-to” tips on toilet training, keeping the romance working and having children, and baking the perfect cookies, ...are all a lie. Mothering is never that simple. I was not wise then. And it almost cost me.

A few days later a nurse wheeled me out the doors of the hospital with our newborn. My husband drove the car around and opened the door. I stood up and the nurse peered into the car to see that we had a car seat. She smiled, said goodbye, and turned quickly back towards the hospital.

It was at that moment that I knew there was something inherently and deeply wrong with the system. Why on earth would they let two idiots who clearly did not know what they were doing take home this fragile, helpless creature?

I turned towards the nurse with questions in my head “Are you for hire? Will you follow us home and tell us what we need to be doing? Where are the operating instructions? No one gave us instructions!”

“Honey,” my husband said, “can you help me with this?” He was trying to put the baby in the car seat. While I was deciding whether or not to scream “help!” my husband had taken our child from my arms and was now attempting to strap him in. I hadn’t even noticed. Proof that maybe I didn’t have that 'natural' mothering instinct.

“Yes, I know you feel no attachment to this banana head shaped baby at the moment,” I said to myself. “But some of the books did say that attachment is not so immediate for some. Besides, the tag around his wrist does say he’s yours. So if nothing else, let that comfort you.”

For three weeks, I functioned in a fog. People spoke to me, I spoke back. I nursed him, I burped him, I swadled him, I cooed over him and sometimes I even remembered to change his diaper. But none of it made sense. It was as if I was in a foreign country and didn’t understand the rules of the culture.

One day the infant started to cry. And cry and cry and cry. Every moment he cried was a moment I confirmed that I really didn’t know anything about mothering. Holding your crying infant is like someone yelling in your ear with a bull horn…..”YOU SUCK AT THIS!”

So, hearing “YOU SUCK!” screamed at me, I walked inside with my crying child. I walked outside with my crying child. I nursed my crying child, I burped my crying child. I swaddled my crying child. I cooed over my crying child. I changed my crying child. My crying child kept crying.

I called the doctors’ office.

“Well,” said the nurse, “babies will do that. Call back if he continues to cry for two more hours.”

What? TWO MORE HOURS! Indignation gave away to helplessness. I don’t think I can do this. Why is this not natural? What’s wrong with me?

I called my husband.

“Well,” said my husband, “if you really neeeeeed me to come home I will. But honey, do you really neeeeeeed me?”

Again, why couldn’t I handle this? Why did I feel utterly un-equipped to deal with this newborn?

“No,” I said, “I’ll be all right.” Never before had I told such a lie.

I called my mom

“Where’s the baby?” she asked in a rush of words, filled with concern.

“In his crib crying,” I answered, my chest tightening. I wanted to say, “Mommy, I can’t do this. I can’t take his screaming and my incompetence and feeling like I am doing this 100% wrong.” Instead, not wanting to give away my secret, not even to my mother, I stayed silent. “Sweetie,” my mom said “Let him cry it out. Go outside where you can’t hear him and let him cry it out.” WHAT????!!!!! This was clearly a violation of the good mother rules. God…no wonder I’m so messed up! Besides, what if I left and came back in and find a dead baby? What then? Then everyone would know what I already feared, that I was simply not cut out for this.

I hung up. I took the baby to the rocker and a promised to rock till either he stopped crying or my husband came home.

There were no ‘how-to articles’ describing what a mother feels like when her infant has been crying for long periods of time. I don’t know if there are any now. Nothing addressed the panic, intense fear, the loneliness, and the inadequacies of not being able to protect or help or sooth your own flesh and blood. Nothing prepared me for what I did next.

I rocked and rocked my son. I just needed him to stop. I needed 10 minutes of peace, to wrap up my nerves, to hear my own voice, to reassure myself that I was and had been doing the right things. But babies do not understand that need.

I began wishing, praying, for him to stop crying. With tears coming hot and fast, I begged him. “Please, little man, please stop crying. Just for second. Please, please just stop. I need a second. Only a second”

I looked at the wall and wondered…if there was a way that I could bang his head on it and not hurt him, but knock him out. I began reviewing my college biology course; which side of the brain controls the “awake” part, and which part the breathing? Which side? How much impact would do it? How do I measure the amount of impact? How the hell do I measure the amount of impact?! If I could just get him to pass out and not die then he would be ok and …I would be OK. I can’t do this. This is just to $#@^ hard!

Like a cold gust that whips open your coat, I suddenly realized what I had been contemplating doing. Terrified of what I had been thinking, I laid my baby in the crib, turned my back on him and walked out of the room. I shut the door behind me.

I walked outside to the stone wall and found myself on the wet, cold ground, sobbing. Wanting to hurt my child was truly the sign of an incompetent mother, a bad mother. I couldn’t do this. And if I, a woman of “birthing” years couldn’t do something that is supposed to be so natural…then what could I do?

Three hours and six minutes after he had started crying, he stopped…and then he slept. Two hours later he awoke. I nursed him, I burped him, I swaddled him and I cooed over him. I even remembered to change his diaper.

The Sock

“------ please stop.” I said, my jaw in stage 1 of clenching
“No!” she screamed
“------ I am asking you to stop…NOW!” I said, keeping my voice in check until the ‘now’ exploded from lips. Stage 2 of clenched jaw fully in progress.
“No I won’t!” she continued. “Cause you are a dumb, stupid, poop-head, stuck in the toilet, pee-pee yucky mamma, and I hate you!” she screamed. The “I hate you” was emphasized with a kick and punch combo on the back of my seat.

I was trapped…in my car, driving down a major highway, with a really pissed-off kid sitting behind me. There was no way to escape. In only 5 minutes—only a few more miles—I would be home and able to leave this box of rage with wheels. My anger, lack of control over, and inability to escape from the situation, combined with the steady pounding as my daughter kicked my seat, were shoving me to the brink. No doubt she was feeling the same way.

I took a big deep breath trying desperately to grab on to, think of, something pleasant…a rainbow, a joke, a pleasant thought about this kid who was kicking my seat. Instead I just kept thinking: “I’m gonna f---’ kill her!”

I was suffering from an inside the car road rage. I felt like the babysitter in the horror movie when the police call her back and say, “The call is coming from inside the house! Get out!” Getting out would have been the prudent thing to do at this point.

But I couldn’t, so I tried one of my favorite mommy lines, this time fully prepared to back it up. “This is the last warning. Stop now or reap the consequences." (Yes, I used the word reap) Stage 3 of the clench, my teeth now attempting to get back into my gums. There was that eerie calm in my voice. You know, the one that is used in the movies before the killer attacks.

She stopped. Suddenly, there was silence, and peace? Not a sob escaped from the back. Could it be this easy? Is this some developmental stage where 5 year olds actually listen to what you say? I didn’t dare look at her in the rearview mirror. Guess I should have.

Suddenly something came whizzing past my head, hit the dashboard and fell under my leg. As I bent to grope the floor for it, another whizzing item was flung from the back. It bounced off my hand and landed in my lap.

A SOCK! SHE JUST THREW HER %$#@$% SOCKS AT ME!!!!

“That’s what you get, mamma,” came the daring, triumphant voice from the back.

My instinct was to reach back and grab her leg. Afraid I might actually break it in my bare hand or at least cut off all circulation below the knee, I grabbed the sock instead. While steering with my left hand, the sock in my right hand, I heaved it out the open window.

At that moment, even while surrounded by the indignant yells of my daughter, a sense of warm, and all-enveloping peace came over me. In that moment, I knew I could make it home, had it been five more minutes or four more hours. With that sock went my frustration, guilt of losing control, and any negative thoughts of not having enough patience. With that sock, I released my anger at my daughter.

Then I looked behind me to see if there was a police car ready to pull me over for littering.

I started to laugh. How absurd this must look from a car behind us. Erratic driving, then something small and white comes flying out of the car. I laughed at the fact that I had just thrown a sock out of the window that I was going to have to replace. I laughed because it was such a silly, immature thing to do and if felt so wonderful to do it. I laughed because it blatantly violated every rule in the “good mother” handbook!

Not once after that moment did I feel guilty for not having patience, for not being the “adult.” Not once did I berate myself for my lack of good mothering skills when things got tough. Later that day, I apologized to my daughter. This apology came from a different place than any other apology I had offered before. This “I’m sorry” did not mean “I’m sorry for hating you in the moment,” or “I’m sorry of losing my temper because I should know better.” Or even “I’m sorry because I was not good enough to keep you from getting really mad because the 'skilled' mother never lets her kids really lose it.”

This apology came from a place of respect for my feelings. I did not say sorry for the way I felt. I said sorry for expressing it by throwing her sock out the window. I was at a place of acceptance of my inability to be supermom. And it felt good. I am allowed to be mad and pissed off. Being the mature adult doesn’t mean I deny my emotions. Being mature simply means I make mistakes in the way I express them and for that, my dear daughter, I apologize. And then, it even got better. I realized in the end…it's better that she see me as a real mother, with emotions, like intense anger. The funny thing is she will be a better mother for this too.