Operation Save Winky

August 22, 2006 family

Lately Troll Baby has been afraid of the bath, as I mentioned before, so we have been bathing him as best we can under the circumstances. Because we can’t get him to bathe, we clean him up the best we can, Daren showering with him or me giving him a “chicken bath” (that’s what my Grandma calls it) in the bathroom sink.

Unfortunately, the lack of bathing results in a diaper rash right under his winky. Yeah, I said winky. I don’t need perverts coming here for any reason so I said winky. Deal. Troll Baby knows it hurts to clean it, and re-apply the cream and powder, so he clamps his legs shut every time I try to wipe him up. And by that I mean get the Jaws of Life, because there is nothing that will open those toddler knees.

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Suitcase of Doubt

August 21, 2006 Parentless

When I yell at my kids, I’m reminded of her and make myself stop. They will end up spoiled because of me. My husband says I’m too soft.

When I drink too much, I remind myself to stop or end up like her.

If I try to lose weight, I’m reminded of how much she hates fat people.

She’s always hated me because I wasn’t her.

Everyone says I’m nothing like her.

I don’t see her when I look in the mirror.

So why do I carry around all this doubt?

Not a Competi-Mommy

family

I forget which of my favorite bloggers coined the term Competi-Mommy, but it has been ringing in my ears for months. I remember the days when I was pregnant, watching and judging other moms, including my own friends. I was smart enough to keep my mouth shut then, but just like an adult who finally confesses to her mother that she used to sneak out as a teenager, I simply have to admit I was a competi-mommy well before I was pregnant.

That being said, Dylan and Troll Baby have brought me to my senses, much in the way a deer facing a tractor-trailer gets knocked to the ground.

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No One Interferred, and They Should Have, Dammit

August 17, 2006 Parentless

I love hockey rinks. To this day, I step into a rink and I feel the rush of freedom. My brother and I used to run up and down the bleachers, each with $5 in our pockets to eat whenever and whatever we wanted to. We would gorge on ketchup chips and cream soda until our bellies hurt. Call my mother what you will, hell she was a real bitch at times, but my brother and I had fun as kids. It helps when no one is parenting you.

Then she met step-dad #2. Dick was an IT type of guy, with an immaculate apartment and stacks of Heavy Metal magazines, full of cartoons with naked women. My brother was in heaven of course. I think he was 7 at this point and he was fascinated by these magazines. We weren t allowed to touch anything at his place without being told we were getting fingerprints on it. Of course, everything at Dick’s apartment was made of glass: his dining room table, his coffee table& I was sure his frigging bed would be made of glass if I looked. He liked things absolutely perfect.

Dick had a dry weird sense of humour and we later found out, he got mad easily. I remember sitting on the balcony at our apartment once with him. I was eating a banana and we were talking about something silly and he smashed the banana into my face. We both laughed hysterically. My mother was funny, but she never did silly things like that. I liked Dick and when my mother told us he had asked him to marry her, we were really excited. We began jumping up and down and screaming, and so did she. I ll never forget that moment. That was the last moment that I remember it being a happy household.

The wedding was average, held at a place with no church affiliation. Dick did not believe in God and as a child, this really confused me. The summer we spent at Greg and David s (both had been boyfriends to my mother during the previous summer), us kids were sent to Sunday school every week. As an adult I know it was so the adults could have time alone, but back then, it was all about God.

Before the wedding, we had moved into a townhouse, much bigger than our tiny apartment on the 24th floor. My brother and I had our own rooms! My mother and I had shared a room for so long, it took me a long time to get used to being alone. She had complained I was a teeth grinder, so she ended up in the living room in the apartment most nights anyway  especially if she had a man home.

The townhouse complex had so many kids to play with and it was in a good neighbourhood. It was hard adjusting to being the new kids again, although my brother settled in better than me. I was the shyer of the two of us by far. My brother was a charismatic little man who knew how to win friends fast. He soon fell in with a crowd of boys who were mean to me and got into trouble with the law later on.

I befriended Michelle. Michelle was a semi-popular girl who was the tallest in our grade 6 class. She was kind to me and we laughed so hard when we were together. I called her parents Mom and Dad. I still do actually. They are Grammie and Grampie to our kids to this day.

I spent more time at Michelle s house than my own, which was becoming increasingly tense and violent. My mother and Dick fought, both physically and verbally, frequently. She would walk by him while he was reading and slap him upside the head just to piss him off and he would be quick to throw her into a wall, or once, through his precious glass coffee table. My mother was moody, unhappy, drunk a lot of the time and I couldn t stand to be home. My brother witnessed his fair share of this, being younger, he had to be home earlier than me.

At 14, I had butted heads with my mother and Dick so much that I finally ran away from home. Dick tracked me down the next day and chased me halfway around the perimeter of the local mall before grabbing my arm, shoving me into his car and taking me home, where my mother kicked the shit out of me. Two days later, I left again. I went to another friends house, since Michelle s place would be too obvious. My friend hid me for four days until her parents insisted I go home, and Michelle s family took me in.

My mother wrote me a letter and dropped it off at school. She also brought me some of my belongings and told me that I was to never come back. The letter said something about taking my braces off unless someone at Michelle s was going to pay for them. I called my grandparents and they agreed to pay for the braces.

Every time the phone rang at Michelle s, I would tense up. My mother called me nearly everyday to swear and yell at me for ruining her life. Michelle s parents did not interfere until I broke down and told them the things she was saying. They put a stop to the phone calls by answering the phone themselves and hanging up as civilly as possible.

She eventually gave up.

That is, until my great-grandfather died.

She and my brother picked me up at Michelle s to go to the funeral. It was the one time I remember my mother telling me I looked nice. She gave me a big hug and I could tell she was very upset over the loss of her grandfather. I kept my mouth shut, with the exception of one word answers, while she babbled during the long car ride there. I couldn t wait to see my family. I knew at 15, to never say that to her, as she fought with her parents so much, and that most of the family didn t like her at all. We hadn t seen them in a really long time. It’s been about 15 years since any of the family has had anything to do with her. They’ve given up.

We attended the funeral and it was bittersweet of course, as our reunion overshadowed the death we were here to grieve over. I had written a poem for my great-grandmother and she placed it in the casket with my great-grandfather. She was touched and my mother made it crystal clear that she was unimpressed with me upstaging her, although that isn t how I had thought of it at all.

After the service, we all went back to my grandmother s, and my mother only went because us kids were begging her to go. We loved being there and it pained her and made her jealous that her children preferred her parents to herself. She proceeded to sit at the bar with all the men, some family, some not, and got so drunk that she was flirting with family friends. My grandmother was crying for someone to take her out of there. No one wanted her to take us home, driving drunk, but back then people didn t step between a mother and her cubs, and we piled into the black Monza in the dark that night and drove the hour to get home. It was freezing because my mother had to have her window down to stay alert and the radio was blasting. She drove to our old townhouse and expected me to stay the night, rather than take the extra 5 minutes to drive me back to Michelle s. Of course Michelle s parents were expecting me to be home and so I ended up walking, near midnight, in a black skirt and sweater. At least I knew my brother was home safe. We didn t see our family members again for years.

My mother cornered me outside of school soon after the funeral, only to tell me that they were moving across the country. Dick had gotten a transfer and they wanted me to come along. I said no and she told me I would never see my brother again. I still maintained my position and told her she couldn t pay me to go with them to be abused some more. She slapped me across the face, turned on her heel and left. My peers stared at me while my cheek stung and my eyes welled up yet again. I vowed that was going to be the last time she made me cry. It wasn’t.

They moved to that other city and sent letters, photos and gifts all the time. My mother made it sounds as if the new city was the solution to all their problems. I spoke to my brother on the phone infrequently, and missed him a lot.

The Christmas Eve after they left, Dick beat the crap out of my brother and sent him, then 15, into the streets, where he lived for 2 months. Finally my brother tracked me down and he came to live with me. We both lived with my grandparents (my mother’s parents, who still do not speak to her) until we were old enough to live on our own. I didn’t speak to my mother until years later (we don’t now, but there was a time), and my brother still doesn’t.

So now that my oldest plays hockey, when I step into that cold air that tickles my senses with sweat, peeled paint, slaps of pucks on the boards, and that strange metallic icy taste, these good memories of before the man come to me. It was after Dick arrived that our innocence as children was stolen from us. Though the three of us: my mother, my brother and myself, had problems before, none were so great as after his arrival. My mother transformed into this monster, and we were forever after thought of as slaves, pawns and burdens.

I don’t understand how a mother can choose an abusive husband over her children. Or why my ‘normal’ family members never stepped in. I just. don’t. understand.

Teaching is Love

Friends

Via PHAT Mommy I found out that Karen at Chookooloonks claimed today as Love Thursday.

I shot this picture at the Children’s Museum the other day as Dylan taught Thomas about putting gas in the play car. I love how patient Dylan is with Thomas, every day. He has never shown any sort of jealousy toward his little brother, and I hope he continues to be the laid-back, easy-going kid he is now. He is a wonderful teacher to Thomas, and to me as well. I’m trying to learn the infinite patience Dylan has, but it’s taking too long.

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Goodbye

Parentless

I walked into my mother’s room and was immediately hit with a big gust of reality. I had noticed the disassembled pieces of her bed in the hallway, but didn’t think much about them until I walked into her room and saw my mother lying in a hospital bed. I couldn’t believe it. I had only been gone for one week, but in that one week everything had changed.

She lay there, pale, thin, her pear-shaped body completely diminished into flab. I could see her shiny scalp under a veil of her soft black hair. She smiled when I came in. I went over to her and hugged her softly and half-heartedly. I did not want to be there anymore. But I stayed a little while longer and answered her questions.

“Yes, I had fun.”

“Yes, I got to see my friends.”

“Yes, I had a good trip back.”

I continued on with my vague answers to her questions. I had to get out of there. Finally, I told her I needed to start unpacking and she let me go. In my room, I just sat there and tried to think about everything. Before then I had not let myself think that my mother might die. I had figured that it would be like the last time and that she would recover again. But that was just a dream and not even a close possibility of happening. The hospital bed had proved it. I know now that the bed was just to make things easier for her, but then it was a symbol for me. It meant that I could no longer deny her death. It meant that I would never get my mother back from the depths of sickness and depression that she was in.

What bothers me most now is not her actual death, but the death of everything I loved about her. This happened, or started happening, at least a year or more before her actual death. Depression had taken her over and only got worse as the sickness took effect. In the final months the cancer seemed to seep into her brain and eradicate everything I knew about her. She became a completely different person. She was weak and needy, which was understandable, but I was not used to that from her. I couldn’t really talk to her any more because she would get worried about the smallest things and would obsess about them until you practically had to lie to her to convince her that everything was going to be fine. This was so different from who she used to be that I could barely stand it. She was not my mother anymore. Many times I hated being around this person. I got mad at myself for feeling that way, but at the time, I didn’t know how else to feel.

When she died, I was glad that she had finally been put out of her misery. The last image I have of her was when she was lying in her bed, unconscious, breathing in and out rapidly and emitting disturbing sounds. I left the room quickly and a few hours later my dad came and told me that she had died. I went to my room and sat with the television on, not really listening to it, but not really thinking about anything either, just staring. My cousin, maybe out of either her own ignorance or maybe her astuteness in trying to make me feel better, suggested we go play tennis. I looked at her and practically spit out, “I can’t go play tennis now!”

“Why not?” she asked me. I looked at her again and tried to answer, but no words came. Why couldn’t I play tennis? Yes, my mother has just died, but it wasn’t like I hadn’t been expecting it. I was glad she was out of pain. I was selfishly glad that I wouldn’t have to see her in pain again and that I wouldn’t have to sacrifice so much for her. I hated myself for thinking that but in many ways it was true. Why couldn’t I go play tennis? My mother didn’t die today, she died many months ago. She died when the cancer reached in and took away her being, her personality. The person who died was not my mother, it was just her body. I still didn’t play tennis that day; it just didn’t seem right to me.

I don’t think about those few months very much anymore. At first I didn’t think about her or anything else about those few months for a long time. I guess it was sort of a denial of everything. I didn’t say her name; I didn’t look at her picture, nothing. Finally, I realized how stupid that was. I still don’t like to think about that period very much but now I think about other times, too. I think about good times, as cliche as that sounds. I think about our many shopping trips together, helping her cook brownies, or walking down the beach with her at sunset. I hate the fact that I will never get to spend time doing those things with her again, but I am grateful for the 15 years I did have with her.

~ Emily

Wow. YOU’RE Amazing!

August 16, 2006 family

It disturbs me that this guy reminds me somewhat of Steve from Blue’s Clues.? Play with the razor after the video for added fun.

Blame

Parentless

I was a golden child, that is until I was about 4.

My sister was born a couple of months after I turned 4 years old. I remember the day she came home from the hospital as clear as if it had just happened yesterday. She was tiny and dainty and blonde. I remember my mom taking her to her bedroom and laying her on the bed and I gently walked in the room behind them. I asked my mom if I could snuggle her and she said yes. It was heaven to me. I had always wanted a sibling because even at a young age I knew I had a big heart and wanted to share it with someone, someone I could take care of.

As time went on though, I noticed some changes. They were subtle at first and probably to most looking in, were just normal transitions when parents bring home a new baby and have to try to shuffle their time between the older kids and the new addition to the family. But the changes I felt were making me doubt myself and making me feel very ‘bottom rung on the ladder’. Even as a young child, I knew things, I was always wiser than my chronological age and although I couldn’t explain it or always articulate it, I felt it.

I was about 6 and my sister 2 when one evening, we were playing under our kitchen table. We had dolls and blankets and other toys, making a mess, giggling and having fun. My sister stood up slightly, and reached her hand up to grab a toy off of the table. But instead of the doll she thought she was reaching for, she had a hold of a big green ashtray full of butts and ashes and pulled it down onto the floor. It made a huge noise and although it didn’t break, it sent ashes and smoked cigarettes flying all over the shit green linoleum.

My mother came running out of the livingroom to see what had happened and immediately looked at me.

“What have you done”?

“Nothing, I didn’t do it mom”.

“Well I know it wasn’t your sister”.

“It really was, she was grabbing for her dollie but grabbed the ashtray by mistake”.

“I don’t believe you. It’s pretty bad when a 6 year old would blame a 2 year old for something she did”.

I sat on the floor under the table, trying so hard not to cry. I could feel my lip quivering and the tears beginning to form but I was pinching my palm, willing myself not to let those tears fall. No matter what I said or how many times I protested my innocence, she wouldn’t believe me. Finally I couldn’t take the steely glare so I spoke up again.

“I’m sorry I knocked the ashtray over. I’ll clean it up. I’ll be more careful next time”.

“Good. And don’t blame your sister again for something she didn’t do. Good sisters don’t do that”.

Things never seemed the same after that. I had nice Christmas’s, birthday’s, sleepovers, all the things that kids dream of but something was missing, something that I think will never come back especially now that 30 plus years have gone by since that incident.

~ Taylor

Must Stop Talking On The Phone

family

Troll Baby never stops talking lately, and although most parents would be all like, “SHUT UP ALREADY!” I completely adore it. He babbles away, experimenting with syllables, sentences and exclamation marks, and I couldn’t be happier about it. Don’t look at me like that. I know it will change. Soon.Today I talked to Sassy and Jenn on the phone and because I’m aware of the swearing that I’m not doing, especially after this incident, I’m very careful to use words like fartsucker, poop, shoot (no, not poopchute. though that would be interesting), and lately? Bizatches.

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Scream-Clutch

August 15, 2006 Parentless

Broken glass under the see-saw

Turquoise glare and evil smile

Jet black hair

High-rise of twenty-four floors;

looming safe-haven,

hardwood floors and Holly Hobbie;

scurry - pet gerbils - Buster and Lenny

scream

clutch

head against my arms

frail and fragile

little brother

didn’t know any better

Christmas massacre of the soul

ducts dried

tears crusty

no more energy for emotion

out cold Mama

bed post to the brain

scream

clutch

why did the man with the mustache get so mad?

up against the wall with a hairy hand to the throat

wide eyes but no sound

dangling size four running shoes

dropped

into a tiny heap of innocent emotion

scream

clutch

brother grasping for sister

3 and 6 years young

holding hands

hating Christmas

What has Daddy done?

Years later

the man is gone

but the memory is there

and Christmas is scarred.

I wrote this at 17 years old. It was a very real memory of the Christmas I was 6. My brother’s father had gone on an alcoholic rampage on Christmas morning. My mother tried to step in the way of our imminent beating. He knocked her out cold on the metal frame of my bed, and as I held her head in my lap, stroking her hair, and holding my brother under my other wing, I felt as though the world was caving in. I really thought I might die that day.

When my step-father came back into the room, he couldn’t wake up my mother. As an adult, I can only imagine she had been drinking with him all night Christmas Eve. I don’t know for sure. He dragged her out and closed my bedroom door, leaving my brother and I alone. I listened to him cry to her in the livingroom, and her getting angry. I grabbed my brother’s hand and we stole out of the tiny apartment and ran down 22 floors to our babysitter’s apartment.

The police were called, my step-father was arrested and we never saw him again. I later found a letter from jail, in my mother’s desk. It read:

“I’m sorry I couldn’t go through with it. They are just children.”

I never spoke of this to my mother, but I can only imagine she wanted us dead. So many stories in my childhood point right to that notion.

~ Jane