Dreams, Deferred

Today I wanted to write about hot, steamy sex. Unfortunately, I am not having any hot, steamy sex right now, so I find my mind sadly blank.

After nearly 12 years of marriage, middle age has begun to take its toll on our sex life. Prior to this year, we enjoyed active, fully participatory encounters 2 or 3 times a week. But this year...this year we just can't seem to make it all click.

And by "it" I am referring not to the act itself -- that still pretty much works -- but to the milieu of our sex life; the thousands of interactions that occur throughout the day leading up to the Big Nasty (remember that term? Ah, high school). It's all that extraneous stuff that seems to be consistently derailing us.

One of the most pernicious is the sudden realization that we are not hip, young twenty-somethings anymore (or, sadly, even thirty-somethings). We are not as slim, toned and unlined as we were when we got married. One of us has been through 3 pregnancies, which do such a whammy on the bod that's it's often hard to feel desirable. Things just aren't as perky as they used to be. One of us has had to curtail his weight-lifting regimen in favor of gymnastics and Little Ninja classes. We both bring a lot of insecurity about our older selves into the bedroom with us now, and that occasionally makes us circle each other like embarrassed teenagers ("will she notice my zit?" "what if he finds out I stuff my bra?")

I mean, we knew we weren't getting any younger, but somehow that has been made blindingly clear in the last few months.

Then there's the constant round of childcare for our three monkeys that often leaves us too tired for sex, no matter how much we've been thinking about it (like, all day. Or whatever.)

There's also the Mandatory Waiting Period in the evening, so you can be absolutely certain the kids are fully asleep. This is a dangerous time because one or both of you might get too wrapped up in either working out or watching TV and opt not to have sex so you can finish Law and Order or get in that last set of bicep curls.

And then there are the Romance Killers. For me, these take two forms. First and foremost is any sound that indicates a child might be a) awake and/or b) about to burst in on us in such a way that s/he will see things requiring years of therapy to exorcise. We have a lock on our door, but that doesn't entirely relieve me of stress in this area. The second mood-killer is something I like to call Negotiations. This is like the Yalta Conference of Sex, when you have to look each other in the eye and say "are we having sex later? I can do it before 10, but after 10 is a no-go." and your partner says, "Well, Lost is on at 8, so 9 looks pretty good. But if we don't do it tonight I'm not free again until Friday because of basketball." Or my personal favorite: "We can have sex now, but it's kind of late, so no foreplay." (No what? ) Nothing ruins the romance like Negotiations. If I have to hammer it out like this, ain't nobody gettin' laid, least of all me.

It makes me nostalgic for the days when we reached for each other in the dark, heedless of the time because what did we care about the next day? All we had to do was stay awake and maybe explain the dopey grins on our faces. Desire never had to take a back seat to breakfast or bus schedules. The sheer scarcity of our encounters now makes each one that much more critical, which increases the sense of pressure we have to really make it count -- and sometimes you don't want to be the author of fireworks and love poems; you just want a good roll in the hay.

On the other hand, the odd firework wouldn't necessarily be unwelcome.

Anatomy of a Shower

Mother's Duties:

Distribute food to children. Whisper to eldest girl that you are going to take a shower and can she please watch the baby so that she doesn't interrupt said shower. Also, could she please not fight with her brother for the next 20 minutes. Remind her that she can bribe baby with raisins if necessary. Whisper to son that you are going to take a shower. Make him repeat that you are going to take a shower. Sneak upstairs and barricade self in bathroom. Listen through floor vents to see if World War III has errupted yet. Strain to hear something, anything, over the extremely loud TV. Get in shower and lather, rinse, repeat as though pursued by a pack of wolves. Wonder briefly if speed showering should be an Olympic sport.

Eldest Daughter's Duties:

Ignore baby. Begin argument with brother over volume of TV. Scream like you're caught in a bear trap. Suddenly realize that baby is not in family room. Chase baby through main floor, blocking her way upstairs until she is shrieking with frustration. When baby is a panting, sobbing mess, give up pursuit and yell to mom that "This baby is IMPOSSIBLE." Be sure to mention that this is NOT FAIR. Go back to family room and resume argument with brother.

Son's Duties:

Wait five minutes. Notice Mom is missing and wonder where she is. Begin shouting for Mom. In absence of Mom, begin argument over TV clicker. Stand your ground -- you're always getting screwed by either the big one or the baby, so now is a good time to let everyone know you're not going to take it anymore. When the girls finally leave the family room, crank the volume up to 55, then go to the basement and play game cube.


Baby's Duties:

Refuse to be engaged by the excellent PBS Kids programming. As soon as siblings are squabbling, attempt to get upstairs. Run like heck when the big one chases you, screaming to emphasize that you will not be oppressed any longer. When the big one gives up, drag yourself upstairs, punctuating your progress with sobs. Throw self repeatedly at mom's door, wailing and crying. If neccessary, poop your pants.

History

So very cool to watch the inauguration this morning and be filled yet again with a sense of hope. Besides the speech, which was excellent, this little musical moment was inspiring -- a real portrait of what our country can be like at its very best. We have all the talent and resources; now if we could just catch the vision we need to truly move forward.

Make Someone Happy

Sometimes, very small things can make the whole day brighter. Take this, for example:

These belong to my baby; my itty bitty baby who has never had her fingernails painted before. How I managed to neglect this critical aspect of girlie parenting, I know not. My older daughter was begging for full manicures on a weekly basis at this age. I can only say in my own defense that my brain just ain't what it used to be, full stop.I can no longer remember what I did with everyone in their toddlerhood (though I'm pretty sure I didn't do my son's nails more than once).

But yesterday, the little lightbulb went off in my head -- nail polish! We raced upstairs, Baby giggling the whole way in the same tone she uses when she's discovered the sugar bowl is unsupervised. We sat right down in Mommy's bathroom and had us a little spa moment.

The sun came out, the angels sang, and I am back in the running for Mother of the Year.

Death by Candy

See these cute faces?

Don't be fooled. They're addicts -- all three of them. They'll do absolutely anything for a hit. They're slaves to the sugar-god.

The little one is the worst.

We spent the weekend after Halloween in a crazed candy orgy the likes of which have seldom been seen outside of Charlie and the Chocolate Factory. Even Mom and Dad dipped a little heavily into the sugar sauce, but eventually our poor, overloaded, elderly pancreases just said "Enough!" and we quit to seek other, more nourishing food.

But the little ones, oh the little ones...

They're pancreases (pancrei?) are young and strong and they knew no limits. When the boy lay groaning in pain, muttering "Mom, why does my tummy hurt?" and his mother lovingly answered, "Too much candy, son," he shook his head in disbelief -- that couldn't be it. Yeesh, Mom, get a clue. By Sunday evening, the baby actually refused dinner and crawled around seeing what sugar she could glean from the floor. We gave up trying to make her eat and just fed her M&Ms until bedtime.

But here's the great part. The candy is now gone.

Candy. Gone.

And no, in case you're wondering, they didn't actually manage to eat all of it. That would fall under the heading of child cruelty, to allow 3 children to consume 9 pounds of candy in 2 days. NINE POUNDS. I know, I weighed it.

I have only a hazy recollection of how much candy I brought home on Halloween, but I know it never lasted very long, no matter how zealously I hoarded it. And I have a very clear, sharp memory of people handing me one piece of candy at each house -- even the houses that had the holy grail of Halloween, Pixy Stix. Remember these babies? Just a li'l tube of sugar. Wish I'd thought of that.But seriously, these are record hauls my kids are bringing in -- if I could figure out a way to preserve it all until next year, I could easily forgo buying candy to hand out and my kids would still be able to eat themselves sick on the remains.

Anyway, Daddy took the last of the candy to work so that people there can have fat tushies and cavities, too. And really, the kids don't seem that upset about it, although the baby is still on a half-hearted hunger strike because she just knows there are chocolate chips in the house somewhere. The other two asked me briefly whether the candy was, in fact, gone this morning and when I said yes, they nodded sagely and went back to writing on themselves with magic marker.

And hey, in the absence of candy, they can always go back to sniffing pumpkins.

Feeling Defeated

I have been teaching Sunday School for approximately 5 years now, with one short break after my third baby was born. I have mostly been following my children up the grades, always in the kindergarten and under classes until last year when I stepped up to the 1st-5th classes which are led by a different coordinator than K and under. This year I moved back down to the Kindergarteners because my son asked me to teach his class and am back working under a coordinator who I have come to loathe.

Yes, loathe.

It's hard to say this about someone who is obviously dedicated, obviously sincere, obviously a Christ-follower, but she absolutely rubs me the wrong way. And I'm pretty sure the feeling is mutual.

I have never been overwhelmed with love for her, but I never gave much thought to whether I liked her or not since it wasn't like I was marrying her, or even spending much time with her -- the sum total of my relationship with her was an hour a week in which I might see her for a grand total of 10 minutes, most of them non-consecutive.

In fact, I was never conscious of any antipathy until I told her I was taking a year off when baby #3 came, which decision I defend by explaining that a) I breastfed all my babies, who b) never took bottles no matter how hard I tried to get them to do so, so c) I had to be on call for feedings until they were about 6 months old, and d) they invariably needed to eat right in the middle of church and/or Sunday school. And of course e) I just don't adjust to change and increased responsibility with great ease and needed to reduce everything outside my very immediate sphere.

When I told her, this look crossed her face and I knew she thought I was pretty paltry, taking a year off just because I was having a baby. I mean, what sort of pansy was I, to be overwhelmed by major surgery and round the clock feedings of a colicky infant? Never mind that I couldn't even remember my name those first few months after the baby came -- certainly I could plan, prep and conduct a measly little Sunday school lesson?

No, I could not.

I have never pretended to be superwoman. In point of fact, I am often at great pains to demonstrate that I am the poster child for chaos theory. Organization is a painstaking labor for me and anytime my organizational routines are overset it takes me forever to recover. After this last episode it took me a year to feel like I wasn't drowning. I knew that this would be the case, so I took some steps to limit the damage caused by my complete meltdown and the subsequent reconstruction era.

And I think she has never forgiven me.

Had I not taught under the other coordinator, I would never have known how difficult this woman is to work for. The 1st-5th coordinator was encouraging without being stifling; she let me teach and trusted that I knew what I was doing (and since I was a teacher in my former life, I kind of do).

Now I'm back with a person who is as irritated by me as I am by her.

I have to consider whether it's worth teaching any of my baby's Sunday school classes in the next year or two --can I overcome my annoyance and frustration to participate in my daughter's Christian education, or will I take the easy road and teach the older grades until she's out of kindergarten? I have 10 more weeks of contact with the benevolent despot before this little soap opera is over.

I am trying not to whine.
I am trying not to lose my temper.
I am trying to be understanding -- I know she has a difficult job and I am trying to care about that.

But man, am I annoyed.

Blog Post #101

Wow, I am so glad Blogger keeps track of my posts. Otherwise, I wouldn't have known how historic this particular entry was/is/shall be. Let's hope I can live up to my own hype.

Two events which were small in seismic terms but large in effect occurred this week. The first was a long overdue Mommy Makeover, wherein I went to the Salon (and by a total quirk of fate, I go to a Salon, capital S, where I almost always feel under-dressed and generally out of step with the world of fashion) and Dave-Who-Is-Not-Gay gave me a badly needed cut and highlight combo which was so expensive that one of the children is now going to have to go to trade school.

BUT, I look fabulous.

My stylist, Dave-Who-Is-Not-Gay, always spends at least a third of my appointment regaling me with stories of his girl-chasing days before he finally settled down with wife #3 and decided to raise a family. I find this amusing, because my mother, who also goes to Dave-Who-Is-Not-Gay, has never heard these stories, so either he thinks that I think he is gay or he doesn't think that my mother thinks he is gay or someone somewhere wondered if he was gay and now he is not going to let anyone under 50 out of that chair without completely affirming his not-gay status in as many puerile ways as possible.

Or possibly he's hitting on me a little. I did wonder about the backrub before the haircut...

Whatever. He does a great job on my hair and whether he's carrying a purse like Tinky Winky or goosing waitresses at a biker bar, I don't care as long as my highlights come out right.

I'd so neglected myself for so many months that a simple cut and glow made me feel like a supermodel. I've been walking around all week swinging my hair around and smiling and nodding at myself in the mirror ("How you doin'?") a la Joey Tribiani. Some of us mom-types get really good at self-denial when we really need a little more self-respect. I've been in that rut for a while and it suddenly occurred to me that I'm not really taking one for the team, I'm just not taking care of myself. And taking care of me in this small way makes me feel more like taking care of everyone else.

The other small-but-significant event was the arrival of a book.

Backstory: Middle child has been a source of tremendous concern lately. He is prone to tantrums, prone to disobedience, prone to sass, prone to physical responses to parental control. At school he's a perfect angel. At home, he's a terror. He has moments of great sweetness, but lately he devolves into tantrum mode so quickly and so often, that we're hard pressed to see the sweet shine through. Anything that didn't go his way was a signal for him to start having a fit. We were seriously considering counseling because nothing we tried with him seemed to have any effect and the stress of dealing with him was just exhausting, particularly for me. Then my sister recommended we try reading this book called Parenting with Love and Logic.

We'd heard of it, at least the title, in various church groups we'd belonged to over the last 2 years. But it was a parenting book and we were leery of some new parenting fad that wouldn't really last over the long haul or be relevant to what we felt was becoming a serious situation. In the end we bought it to see what it had to say, not because we thought it would be the cure-all for what ails #2.

Enter the book. I've been reading it since Sunday and on Tuesday I had the chance to put some of its principles into action. I used their strategy for dealing with tantrums with my boy and for the first time in weeks -- months -- I feel like I regained some control of the situation without completely draining my own energy. There was no arguing, there was no yelling on my part, there was no loss of temper on my part, no lecture, no harping, no lingering feelings of incompetence or failure for me whatsoever.

In one instance I was able to defuse the tantrum altogether, in two other instances we went through with the whole tantrum protocol and he emerged from it calmer and more in control of himself. That right there is a big step for both of us. Today we backslid a bit, mainly because I handled the situation improperly. This method is going to take some practice, mostly in how I phrase my responses, since some words are triggers for kids (certainly the word "no" for my son either sends him into a tailspin or sends his brain racing to find a way to do what he wants to anyway -- either way he stops listening as soon as it's out of my mouth).

Baby steps, baby steps. I'll post more as I get more into the book.