Outside of the Celebration

The morning was about stuffing my face with my dim sum buddies.  We go a few times a year. We used to be a writing group.  Now we just eat dumplings together.

While we were stuffing our faces, many of my gay colleagues (as the gays call each other in Costa Rica) were tying the knot, legally, for the first time in my state.  It is a big day for the big gays.

I’ve never been one to rush to be the first to do anything.  And though I admittedly enjoy the limelight from time to time, I felt no rush to the altar today.  We haven’t had our wedding yet. We were waiting for it to be legal in NY.  And I’ll be damned if I’m going to plan my one and only wedding in 30 days!

But I did want to go down there and get caught up in the excitement.  One of my friends had wanted to go down and serenade people as they exited the office building.  I said I’d join her, but of course, with the kids, the timing was all wrong and I went at the one time when she couldn’t make it.  My fiancee is not interested in the limelight, ever.  So she stayed home with the kids.  And there I was.  By the time I got there, it was 3 pm.  There were more photographers than any other people.  There was one couple getting ready to go in.  A few people around the couple were dressed up, but obviously not the center of attention.  There was a man and woman passing out yellow flowers to onlookers.  I felt a little invisible.  And hot.  I felt hot.  I stood there holding my yellow flower.  Wondering what to do.  There was no hullabulloo.  Just a little fuss.  Then, a couple of women rode up on bikes.  One woman was wearing a rainbow flag as a cape.  All of the reporters ran up to them.  Are you getting married?  Where do you live?  How old are you? No, they aren’t getting married until DOMA is repealed. They are 24 and 25.  I was standing next to them thinking, I’m getting married.  I’ve been with my partner for 12 years.  I just turned 40! I have two little boys. I was just standing there with my yellow flower.

Then it happened.

The moment I had actually gone there for, the reason I left my honey alone with two cranky boys: the couple who was actually getting married stood together.  Their friends stood behind them.  In a procession. And they walked into the City Clerk’s office.  That was it.

I burst into tears.

I had no tissues.  I didn’t know the couple.

But they were walking in to get married. Married!  In New York!

I guess it didn’t feel real until I saw that.  I wiped my eyes, quietly, and walked to the subway.

[Mazel tov to my friends who are newlyweds today: the L & C and M & A!  And, of course, to any other friends who may have been hitched?! I was trolling the wedding photo sites for any familiar faces.  All I saw was a possible ex-gf.]

Revisiting the Dildocam

As you may or may not know, I’ve been having some digestive issues for, oh, over a year now.  The latest in a long line of medical investigations into the problem was to go get a … wait for it … vaginal ultrasound!  Yes.  Yes I did.

So there I was in the office with the curtain around the door, being asked to get waist-down naked.  It was downright spooky, I tell you.  The tech was telling me the usual, “I’m going to put some gel here,” etc.  And I kept saying, “I know. I know.  I know already.  I’ve done this about a million times.”  I told her about the infertility treatments.  She told me that she had just signed up to start them!  In the same clinic where Trucker was conceived.  It felt cosmic.

It also felt so different to be doing this familiar thing without the pressure of popping out follicles.  Without the blood being drawn, or having to remember my donor’s ID number.  It felt like a relief.  And a little bit sad because that excitement of making the baby won’t happen again. (Though I DO get to plan a wedding, finally.)  And I felt a kinship with you, my struggling ladies.  I know how many of you are still waist-down naked with your feet up in stirrups holding your breath while the doctor counts follicles.  Yes, I do.  Once you have been there, a part of you never leaves.  Even when your baby is three years old and throwing tantrums because you didn’t let him close the car door that he can’t reach with his seatbelt on.

My thoughts are with you today, TTCers.  May you one day have a baby who sings.

Dear Trucker, 36 months !?

Dear Trucker,

You came into the world three years ago.  You came quickly, immediately giving me the gift of your birth story, which I will cherish more than any other gift and hopefully remember until I am thick into dementia.  You came smiling.  You came chunky.  You came with a full head of spiky hair.

And now here you are.  You are three.  You started practicing for age three at about age two and three quarters.  By this I mean, you started trying to do everything completely by yourself, meeting any unsolicited help with screams of protest.  Ah, three. It is a long year.  Also, it is a year of showing the world that you are no longer a baby.  You clearly need to teach Mommy that you are not a baby.  You can speak in full sentences.  You can almost ride a bike without training wheels or assistance from me.  You have your own ideas and your own taste.  You don’t need me to feed you.  (Though sometimes you still request it.)  You’re here! You’re Trucker! I’ll get used to it.

You sing all of the time.  Real songs, made up songs, made up songs with words that are made up.  You also love to dance.  You are not a big fan of food.  Mostly you like meat.  Which is what I liked to eat when I was pregnant with you.  You also have an unwavering love for chocolate milk. I realize now how the younger child gets spoiled.  There’s something about knowing that there will be no more babies that makes a mom want to baby that last one.

Of course, you are still in love with trucks.  You have branched out to airplanes and hovercrafts, tractors and motorcycles.  But nothing makes your heart quite as happy as a shiny big rig or a car carrier loaded with cars.  Your favorite book right now is Richard Scarry’s Cars and Trucks and Things That Go. I love that we can’t go to bed without looking at the pickle car or looking for Goldbug on at least three pages.

Oh, and you are a charmer.  You got your first crush at your uncle’s wedding. A fourteen-year-old niece of the bride became your princess.  You danced with her and her mom all night long.  Even though the wedding was weeks ago, you still look up at me at times and tell me that you are going to dance with her tonight.  She liked you back.  She said that she was going to go back home and tell her friends that she met a cute boy from New York.

I love you, my sweet boy. Thank you for teaching me to face the day with a song.

Love,

Mommy

A Message from Cakie

It has been a busy year.  So so sorry I’ve neglected the blog.

I wanted to let y’all know about a sweet thing my Cakie did the other day.

I’ve had some anxiety about Cake not thinking I’m legit, since he didn’t come from my belly.  The other day he must have been feeling particularly lovey dovey.  He climbed up on my lap and said, “I don’t have to love Mama more than you.  It doesn’t matter which mom you come from.  We are a family.  You love everybody in your family the same, right Mommy?”

I kid you not.

So if you’re feeling blue about something your child is saying or doing regarding biology or playing favorites, just wait for it.  Wait for it.  It will come.

An Exchange With My Son

Cakie:  Mommy, Sihad says the number infinity-nine doesn’t exist.

Me: Well, technically, he’s right.  Infinity is like all the numbers in the world.  It keeps going.  You can’t really add nine to that.  What do you mean by infinity-nine, anyway?

C: It’s the last number in infinity.  You know, like twenty-nine, thirty-nine.

My Baby Blog Is Pregnant?

Blogging is cool.

Deep, I know.

But I have to say that I’ve been fairly inactive for over a month… could it be two?  And when I went back to my dashboard, entire conversations had been going on about my writing.  I think writers are sort of introverted divas.  We feel shy and insecure.  What we really want is for people to have conversations about our writing.  Or better yet, for someone to tell us that they like it.  That they connected to it.  That it made a small (or big) difference in their lives.

That has happened to me.  It is totally addictive.

I’ve been thinking for a while about starting a blog about my newest obsession, education reform.  Sort of going at it in a Forrest Gump kind of tone.  Because the whole thing is really so stupid.  It might take a Gump to point it out well. I went to an inspiring talk the other night in Manhattan.  I has again renewed my idea of the blog.  But there’s a problem.  My honey and several of my closest friends work for charter schools.  Sometimes my house feels like what it must be like to live in the Carville-Matalin household.  I don’t need to annoy my honey with a blog again.  (Yeah, this blog annoyed her.  Making the private public, spending so much time and energy, etc.  I understand.)  Sooooo, I’d like to blog, but I don’t want it to end in us having to spring for couple’s therapy.

The other problem is that I would like that blog to not be anonymous.  I’ve enjoyed some success here.  But my name isn’t on it.  For good, vagina-related reasons, I think.  I’d like to have my name on the new one. I’m not sure what I can legally, or safely cover.  Can I write about my students with fake names?  I never would do anything to exploit them, but I have some good testing-related anecdotes.  Can I write about my school?  Would any of it put my job in jeopardy? I don’t know the rules.  Do any of you know?

Tanks, y’all.

Favorites

I don’t know why I did it, but I feel like I made a gay parenting mistake.

My son, Cakie was talking about when he was in my tummy.  I told him he had been in Mama’s tummy.  Now he thinks I’m the least important mom.

My honey says not to worry, that all kids play favorites.  But not all kids have two wombs from which they could have sprung.  And not all kids are a cut and dry as Cake.  When he decides something, that is the end of the story.

So now I’m Trucker’s mom and A is his mom.  We keep trying to explain it to him; he keeps rejecting our explanations.  I spend much more time with him than A does.  We walk to school together.  I pick him up and entertain and feed him until A gets home.  He misses her.  So maybe he just wants to connect with her.

It doesn’t help that Trucker is a complete cling-o-rama on me.  He won’t let A read him a story.  Only me.  So when I try to read with Cakie, Trucker slides in and tries to take over.

They are both latching on to their bio moms.  It makes me feel weird.

Sorry I’ve not been blogging much.  My life feels a little like a hamster on a wheel.  Except I’m not getting any exercise.

When Your Mom Tells You It Has Been Too Long…

…between posts, you know it is time to write another post.

I haven’t written much lately, because my life has become a bit of a black hole of same same same.  Not bad.  Tiring.  Not much new to say.

Except that my stomach problems are still here.  I’m still stressed out. I nearly got depressed, which if you know me in real life, would make you shake your head and say WHAAAAT?  I am one of those people who is normally so happy, that I annoy people.  But the stomach thing makes everything worse.  If I have a stressful day at work, then come home to a tantruming two-year-old and an annoyed five-year-old and I do my best to feed them and love them and get them ready for bed… I can’t have a @#$%$^% glass of wine after they go to bed!  And I can’t have a coffee when I get up.  There is only so much I can do without a little bit of chemical help from food and drink.

But I reached a bit of a low point and went out for drinks with a very good friend (mind you, I couldn’t actually drink) and it helped me re-adjust things.

Things have gotten better.

I’ll talk about my stomach.  I’m sure you logged on tonight because you are just so excited to hear about my digestive system!  Goody!

I was sent by my regular doctor to a GI specialist, who basically told me that there’s nothing to be done.  Some people just have over-active intestines.

This visit, of course, made me stick my middle finger high up in the air (yes, mom,  but in a figurative way, of course) at western medicine.  I decided to stop trying one thing at a time and get all eastern on my stomach.  So I’ve started the following things: a retired teacher in my building insists that aloe vera gel saved her stomach, so I’m taking that; another good friend was saved by a probiotic called threelac (the GI doctor did say that some people have had success with probiotics) so I bought a similar product and have been taking that; aaaaannnddd oh, and acupuncture.  I’m getting to something fairly interesting, I promise.

I don’t care what anybody says, acupuncture does hurt.  And it is weird.  I found this great place that does community acupuncture.  That means that several people are getting treatments at the same time in the room with you.  It also means that it is a lot more affordable than having it done privately.  I really like it. I mean, I would like it more if I actually enjoyed the acupuncture.

So, I sit there on a chair, and the wonderful, healing nurturing acupuncturist sticks needles in me. And they do hurt (maybe it is a red-head thing).  My limbs get heavy.  I can’t really move them.  Some of the needles throb (the acupuncturist says that means they are working).  I start to imagine what would happen if the building caught on fire.  I don’t actually think I could get out of the chair with all the needles in me.  Then you have to sit there with the needles in.  For a long time.  I have trouble sitting still.  But, I don’t recommend fidgeting with needles stuck all over you. No. Not recommended.

I’ve had two treatments.  In both of them, the fact of my infertility treatments has surfaced like a dusty penny from under the couch.  Have I had my ovaries checked? Well…. I was very familiar with my ovaries two years ago.  Very familiar.  Have I had any stressful, traumatic experiences? Have I mentioned two years ago?  Can I blame my current state of imbalance and messed-uppedness on follical-stimulating hormones?  Please?  I would love to.

So I sit there and think.

I don’t get to do that very often.  Just think.  Without a child jumping on me.  Without my phone in my hand.  No book.  No computer.  No stack of papers to grade.

Tonight I started to think about what has made me sad.  A big part of it is the current assault against my profession by a billionaire boys’ club.  I’m taking it too personally.  Another part is that I don’t get enough adult time.  Another part is that I feel like I never finish anything.

I’ve made it a priority to spend more time with adults.  I can do that.  I’m trying to let go of my anger about education reform.  Also, trying to do something about it.  But what about the finishing bit?  Has anyone noticed that I’ve had a page about my so-called book for three years?  And no book?  No freaking book.

Maybe what I need to do to feel better about not finishing things, is to finish something. Yeah. Maybe that.

My Head Is Full of Children

When I lived in Provincetown for a summer, there was a T-shirt in one of the toursity-gifty shops with art by one of those crafty greeting-card women that said that: My Head Is Full of Children.  And it had a picture of a head.  And there were children all over the woman’s head.  And she looked happy for it.

Well.  My head is full of children.

I wake up and dress and feed and prepare lunches for them.  Then I drop them off at various places.  Then I go to my workplace —  which is full of children.  And then I go straight from my workplace to the other building of my workplace to get my eldest child.  Then we walk home.  Perhaps run and errand together, then pick up the youngest child.  Feed, bathe, jammy, read, bed them.  My head is full of children.

There is happy and ummm…not the opposite of happy, but not happy, to this situation.

Here’s some of the happy:

• My son’s warm hand in my cold one, walking to school on a chilly October day.
• Looking at, and discussing various Halloween decorations on our walk.
• Listening to my eldest opine about choice time in his kindergarten.  Listening to him retell the read alouds.  Trying very hard not to jump in and reveal that I know how the story ends.
• Seeing my little one dressed in a vest and a hoodie with the hood up and his little curls flipping over the edge of the hood.
• Every little success I have in making and getting the children to eat healthy(ish) fast(ish) food made by moi.
• The children I spend my day with?  The students?  They are an amazing, hilarious, interesting group of people.  I love them.
• Seeing how responsible my Cakie is about doing his little kindergarten homework.

Here’s some of the not-exactly-opposite-of-happy:

• My baby is two.  Full-on one-hundred percent two.  Melt-down city.
• I don’t even have any kind of cushion of time for myself.  I have a sitter twice a week after school.  For one of the days I plan with the third grade.  For the other day I plan with my co-teacher.  Done.  Then I pick up Cakie.
• If I stop home before I pick up the two-year-old, the five-year-old is really difficult to wrench back out of the house to fetch two-year-old.  I wish I could flash back to the seventies and just leave him there for the ten minutes it takes me to cross the street and fetch the melt-down king.  But I cannot.
• I never get to cook.  Not for real.  My co-teacher was sick yesterday when we usually plan, so I got to make potato leek soup.  It was awesome.
• My honey doesn’t get home until at least 7:30 most nights.  That just sucks.
• What I really really want is to go out with some adults and drink some freaking alcohol.  But if I do, I’ll get horribly sick because of my stupid stomach/intestinal problems which have yet to be resolved.  Don’t I deserve some good motherf*cking white wine about now?  Don’t I?  Huh???
• I have no time to putter in my classroom.  I miss puttering in my classroom.

I’m in limbo a bit.

That’s all I have to say right now.

Thanks for listening.

“Gifted”

I’m putting it in quotes.

That’s what I feel about it.  The way NYC does gifted, is that children are tested when they are 4 (!) and put into gifted classes where they stay until high school.  That is so dumb.  As though kids don’t change.

I don’t believe one can tell if a child is gifted until he or she is about eight years old.

All of this is to say that Cakie’s teacher pulled me aside to ask me why I didn’t put him in gifted.  Ummm.   Yeah.  Because I think it is silly?  I think it is a way to pull rich folk into to public schools.  Because I hate how the “gifted” fifth graders are so sick of each other they want to puke because they’ve been in the same class all the way through school.   Because I want my son to work hard, not just think he’s smart.  Because I want him to not feel like he has to be perfect at everything, or else he gives up.  (Ok, he’s already like that.  But no need to fan the fire.)  Because my school is full of gifted kids who are not in the gifted program.

But then…. there is one part of me that is curious as to how well he’d do on that test.  There is one part of me that would like to see him at the school run by my friend, that only has gifted classes in it, so it wouldn’t be that same isolation/ I’m-in-the-smart-kids’-class attitude.  There’s a part of me that wonders what it would be like if he went to the gifted school in Manhattan that goes all the way up to high school, so I wouldn’t have to stress out about getting him in to a good middle school or high school.

What’s your take on it?

 

PS I was both flattered and appalled by this little chat.  I’m hoping he isn’t acting up, or being snarky.