Simplification: Step One

So yes, I want to simplify my life. I think I’m going to start with the mornings, since, you know, they’re the start of the day. Makes sense, right?

Right.

So mornings…are hectic. Why? First of all, because I’m not a morning person and so I roll out of bed like a turtle trying to get off its shell. Then I lumber down the hall to the bathroom where I wince as I turn on the light. If I’m lucky, I’ll get to brush my teeth and use the toilet before Olivia joins me in my bathroom where she’s plops herself down in front of the space heater and cooks her feet while I gather the things I’ll need after my shower.

But really, that’s not the most complicated part of the morning.

The most complicated part of the morning is getting Olivia to get dressed.

See, these days she’s got very strong opinions on what to wear each morning. Yesterday, for example, she changed shirts three times before she was satisfied with her ensemble.

This makes me crazy because our mornings are very scheduled because I snooze until the last minute. See the paragraph above about me not being a morning person. By the third change of clothes I’m usually hissing, “Come on Liv, it’s not like I have all flipping day.”

Yes, not my finest moments as a mother. I’m working on that one.

In an attempt to curtail all this changing of clothes, I am going to start having Olivia help me pick out her clothes for the week on Sunday afternoon. For the past five years, I’ve laid out clothes each Sunday. But I’ve never asked for her input and this year it appears she needs to have some input. I feel like getting her thoughts on the week’s clothes on Sunday. Sunday afternoons are much less stressful and scheduled than Monday mornings.

And best yet, if I have her help pick out the outfits she’ll wear each week, she’ll have only herself to blame if she hates that morning’s clothes. I know real mature, right? Who’s the parent here? I can just see myself snapping that at her some Thursday morning when she’s declaring the shirt not fancy enough and the pants annoying.

Sigh…this might not be the best plan and yet… it’s a start. We can tweak it as we go if necessary. And sure, I can maybe grow up just a little bit. Of course I can.

Happy Birthday!

So yes, Saturday was my birthday. I very much like having birthdays. I don’t even care about age. It’s just fun to celebrate and be reminded that there are people who are happy you’re in their world.

As I stared down the aging process and accepted that I’m officially in my mid-forties (44 is still early forties in my book) I realized that I want to use this year to make our lives better, simpler, less cluttered both literally and metaphorically.

I have a lot of clutter in my brain, a lot of noise that is not good noise. I need that to quiet down.

I also desperately declutter my house, my car, my desk at work. Heck, my whole life.

Case in point: I tried to make pie crust from scratch this weekend. It did not end well. Wait, okay, the pie crust that I tried to make did not end well. The pie itself ended just fine because I drove four miles to the grocery store and bought some Pillsbury ready-made pie crust and Tom, Olivia and my mom enjoyed some lovely raspberry pie that evening.

But the process of attempting to make that pie crust? It just wore me out. It was awful. And it deflated me so completely it was ridiculous. Tom couldn’t understand why the failure of the pie crust crushed me so thoroughly. He read the recipe and didn’t understand what was so hard about it. I agree with him. It reads as such a simple thing, what with the flour and the shortening and the salt. Alas, it was a huge disaster and I have vowed, much to Tom’s disgust, to never EVER try to make pie crust again.

So help me, if he buys me one of those damned pastry cutters shown in my cookbook, I will not be responsible for my actions. Seriously.

But other than the pie crust debacle, it was a lovely weekend. We had cake (well, the family had cake, I had tiny cupcakes because I hate the whipped cream frosting they prefer on cakes. Ugh!) and I had cashew chicken and hot and sour soup from our local Great Wall.

I got a book and a couple of movies. My mom covered my footstool in this lovely yellow and cream fabric that makes it look new. The girls were awesome because they just are.

My brothers both called/texted to wish me a happy day and Julie, because she’s awesome too, texted.

I have the greatest family and the best friends. I’m not sure I deserve them but I’ll hold them close anyway and continue to try and better myself in hopes of being truly worthy of them at some point.

So, word for the next year, the year of 45? Simplify. Do I want to do this? Will it make me happy? Will it enrich my life? Will it make me a better wife, mother, daughter, sister, friend? If yes, let’s go for it. If no? Walk away and look for the next simple thing.

Here’s to forty five years of me.

Tics and New Outlook

Our darling Olivia has had a few tics over the years. The biggest probably doesn’t even count as a tic since it can be classified as a whole issue all by itself. You know I’m talking about the hair pulling, right? Yeah, that was the biggest and she overcame that one all by herself.

This latest tic, though, is driving me crazy. She bounces and then makes this weird sound in the back of her throat. Sort of a hum crossed with a sound like she’s clearing her throat. As she makes that sound, she’ll jump maybe an inch off the ground, landing with a thump and then making the sound again.

It’s awful.

I know she can’t help it and yet I struggle to keep myself from telling her to knock it off. In fact, I sometimes lose the struggle and command, “Stop bouncing!”

Those are not my proudest moments. I’m lucky that she just ignores me, bounces one more time and then goes about her business.

I realize that she’s not bouncing AT me and yet it’s so irritating. I try so hard to remember that she’s probably not even aware that she’s doing it until I tell her to quit it.

I wish I were the type of loving, gentle mother who could just ignore the bouncing, secure in the knowledge that it, too, will stop when she’s ready to let it stop.

Instead, I can be heard from the shower telling her, “Stop bouncing. Stop it, stop it, stop it!”

And in the next breath, I’ll tell Alyssa to not yell at her sister for something she (the sister) can’t help.

Yeah, mother of the freaking year over here.

But you know what? Something Julie said recently on Facebook really resonated with me.

I shared a post about wishing my daughters could see themselves the way I see them.

Julie commented that the reverse is true, that we should try to see ourselves the way our daughters see us.

That right there…it was beautiful.

You see, I have so many faults, I get so cranky and tired and achy and irritable and my kids love me anyway. They seek me out, they want to be near me because, and I honestly believe this is true, my good moments far outweigh my bad ones. The irritation is erased by the hugs. The tiredness is blotted out by the kisses and back scratches.

The “Stop bouncing!” is eclipsed by the “I love you so much.”

They see so much good in me, so much potential to be the mom they need, the mom they deserve. I need to remember that. I need to seek out what they see and let it shine brighter than ever. I need to remember that to them, I’m the best mom in the world, because I’m theirs. I need to live up to what they see when they look at me.

No Filter

An acquaintance of mine (shall we call her Danielle? Yes, let’s.) asked me yesterday how Alyssa is doing since Orville’s untimely death.

I replied that Alyssa is doing very well, thank you. She was very sad for about a week and then evened out. She seems to have found a place of peace about the whole thing.

I mentioned that the day after Orville died, Alyssa had two tests. She managed to get an A+ on one of the tests and only missed two for a solid A on the second one.

To my co-worker I said, “I feel like the fact that she could work around her grief to the point of getting those kinds of scores on her tests is a mark of emotional maturity.”

Danielle was nodding wisely when I added, “Either that or she’s a sociopath. You know, one or the other.”

Danielle let out a startled laugh and said, “I can’t believe you said that.”

I shrugged and she walked away. I’m aware that some might have found that comment offensive but it’s so glaringly obvious that Alyssa is not a sociopath that I thought it was funny. Perhaps I’m the one without emotional maturity. Or just no filter.

Lyssie is an awesome, smart, sweet person who works hard, has a great sense of humor and feels all the feelings deeply and truly. Hannibal Lector’s daughter, she isn’t.

Attention Seeking Little Sisters

“Why is she such a weirdo when my friends are around?” Alyssa wondered the other day as we drove to Gram’s house.

Olivia was in the backseat minding her own business, just being quiet and, dare I say, normal? Perhaps even ordinary.

“She wants your attention,” I replied. “When you’re with your friends, you’re giving them your attention and the best way Livie can think of to get your attention is to act crazy. So she does.”

“But it’s so annoying!”

“Of course it is, that’s what gets your attention.”

Olivia’s syndrome manifests itself mostly through social issues. She doesn’t really have friends at school because she won’t talk to her peers. But she does have a relationship with her sister. She interacts with Alyssa and so sees Alyssa as her friend. When Lyss’s friends are over or when we’re out and about and run into friends, Liv sees Lyssie with her friends and I think Liv is jealous that her sister is giving all that attention to someone who is not her.

I do my best to distract Olivia when Alyssa is with friends but it’s hard for all of us.

And when Olivia acts out, she really does go to extremes. She makes weird faces, she shrieks, she laughs hysterically. In the end, I can understand why Alyssa is embarrassed, even if just a little, by her sister.

I think, though, that a lot of sister relationships are like this, even sisters where there is no syndrome involved.

I finally told Alyssa, “Little sisters are annoying. They can be embarrassing but I’m sure your friends understand that her behavior is not something you can control. You’re friends are good people, they know that Livie is just silly sometimes and they think it’s funny, not something to judge you against.”

“I know,” she sulked a little. “I just wish she’d stop being weird.”

Oh Lyss, I think those words have been spoken countless times by big sisters everywhere for all time. It’s just the nature of being siblings. You deal, you get annoyed and at the end of the day, you’re grateful for your siblings. Really.

So Normal

Last Friday Olivia’s class had a Halloween Party. It’s one of three times in the school year when parents are invited to the school to spend the afternoon with their kids.

I worked the snack table, handing out cookies for the kids to decorate and spooning frosting onto their plates.

Another mom (let’s call her Lara) joined me and helped hand out juice boxes and pretzel packs. The kids were divided into four groups of four, so we had nice small groups coming to our table every fifteen minutes or so.

Olivia’s group was the last one to make it to the snack table. While they were there, her teacher, Mrs. P came up and whispered something in O’s ear. Liv smiled and nodded. Mrs. P asked me if Olivia had thanked me. I smiled and said she had.

“That was our only goal for today,” Mrs. P said with a smile.

As Mrs. P walked away, the mom working next to me asked what that was all about.

I told her that we were working on getting O to talk while at school.

“She doesn’t talk?” Lara asked.

“Oh, she’s perfectly capable of talking,” I laughed. “She talks constantly at home but here at school, it’s more of a challenge.”

Lara replied, “I wish I’d thought of that when I was in school.”

“Well,” I said, attempting a quick education on the complexity that is Olivia. “Her not talking isn’t really a conscious choice on her part. We’re working hard to get her to talk here. She sees the speech therapist, and since she does have 5p- syndrome, a lot of her challenges are just part of her biology.”

Lara looked over at Olivia, who was happily smearing orange frosting on a sugar cookie. “She looks so normal. She’ll probably outgrow it, right?”

I wasn’t sure what she was suggesting Olivia would outgrow but replied, “We’re hoping she’ll out grow the not talking thing. That’s why we work so hard with her but since her syndrome is chromosomal, it’s kind of something she’ll have to deal with her entire life.”

Lara shook her head. “But she looks so normal. She’ll probably outgrow the syndrome thing.”

At that point, I gave up trying to educate Lara. She didn’t get it. And why should she? She’s probably never heard of Cri du Chat or 5p- Syndrome. She has no reason to understand it.

She looks at Olivia, she sees a cute little girl with a mischievous smile and pretty hair. She sees ‘normal.’

And sometimes, I’m okay with that. I don’t need to educate the whole world. I don’t even need to educate every single one of Olivia’s classmates’ moms. I decided in that moment to let that mom hold on to her ignorance, her belief that O would outgrow her chromosomal disorder. It wasn’t worth taking time from the awesome kids at the party to explain that a person’s chromosomes just don’t change as they grow. They are the same at 90 as they were at conception.

For that moment, I let Liv be a ‘normal’ kid who was a little quirky. And honestly? It felt good to just let it go at that moment. Just call me Elsa.

Only

This year while at the conference I attend each year, I told our story quite a few times. And each time, I used the word only with air quotes.

How obnoxious are air quotes? I mean, seriously. I need to cut that crap out.

So yes, I used air quotes and talked about how Olivia spent ‘only’ eleven days in the NICU.

I used the air quotes to let people know that I knew that there is no such thing as only. Except, obviously, I still felt the need to throw that only out there anyway, thinking the air quotes negated it.

I think, no matter how much I tried to deny it, I used the word only to let everyone around me know that I didn’t think that Olivia’s eleven days in the NICU compared in any way to the days, weeks and yes, months other babies spent in the hospital.

I wanted everyone to know that I respected the fact that their children were sicker than mine. That they’re children spend more time in intensive care than mine and because of these things, obviously my pain from having O in the NICU didn’t compare to anyone else’s.

But you know what? There’s no comparison because pain is pain. There is no award given to the person who suffered the longest or the hardest. There’s just suffering.

And by acknowledging that, I’m giving up the ‘only’.

My story now reads: My daughter spend eleven days in the NICU immediately following her birth.

My full-term newborn spend eleven days in the NICU.

I went to the hospital to have a baby at 41 weeks and two days pregnant and when my baby was three hours old, she was taken from the hospital where she was born and transported via ambulance to a larger hospital with a NICU equipped to care for her. She spent the next eleven days in that NICU. I spent the first night of my daughter's life an hour's drive away from here. Beginning the very next day, I visited her every single day, dividing my time between the NICU and home, where my three year old waited, no understanding why her sister was not home with us.

No matter where I was during those eleven days, I felt like I should be somewhere else.

If I was with Olivia at the hospital, I felt like I was neglecting Alyssa at home. When I got home, within minutes, I felt like I was the worst mother ever because my baby was at the hospital, all alone.

There is no only in that story. There is pain. There is grief. There is suffering. Our entire family suffered during those eleven days we were separated from each other.

No one ever expects their newborn to spend time in the hospital. For me, having had a fairly uneventful pregnancy that ended with an induced delivery nine days after my due date, I absolutely didn’t expect my baby to end up in the NICU.

My daughter spent eleven days in the NICU immediately following her birth. It was hard. It was painful. It was unexpected and I wouldn’t wish those eleven days on anyone else.

Here we are, coming up on Olivia’s ninth birthday and I’m finally letting go of the only and embracing the trauma that we all suffered during her eleven days in the NICU. I believe that by embracing the pain, I’ll be able to let it go. By letting go of the ‘only’ I’ll be able to see that our experience was as valid, as painful, as hard as anyone else’s. It was our experience. We lived it. We were lucky to survive it. And we’re so, so lucky to be able to tell the story of it.