Kathleen M. Basi's Blog, page 106

My chatterbox

Nicholas rode in the tractor with his grandpa for a couple of hours last Friday. When the big red Case, with planter behind, swept in for lunch under the shade of a row of trees, Dad signed to me that my son had fallen asleep. But by the time the door opened, Nicholas was chattering busily.

Dad chuckled. “That boy,” he said, “talked nonstop the entire time he was in the tractor, up until he fell asleep.”

I nodded. “That’s my life every day. It’s exhausting! Mentally exhausting, I mean.”

He nodded thoughtfully in turn. “Yes, it is. You could just let him talk…but the problem is, he expects a response!”

To get an idea of what Nicholas is like, the best illustration I can think of is that 1990s Mel Gibson movie Conspiracy Theory. “Jerry” is a cab driver in New York who talks nonstop all day, even as his voice grows more and more hoarse, until by the end of the day he can barely talk at all.

Nicholas talks even when he has a sore throat. He talks whether or not he has anything to say. If he runs out of words, he simply hums or says nonsense syllables. And he virtually always expects a response.

I reiterate something from yesterday’s post: the word “noise” comes from the word “nausea.” This is what noise does to me. It unsettles me, sets me on edge, which is why I seek out stillness, and why I hardly ever play music around the house even though I have two higher degrees in music. So you can imagine the soul-growth my third child requires of me. Some time I should count how many times a day I say some variation of “Be quiet!” to him. Frequently I have to remind myself he’s not actually doing anything wrong.

He’s singleminded as only a three-year-old can be. For example:

N: “I want a movie.”

Me: “Finish your lunch.”

N: “I want a movie, Mommy.”

Me: “Finish your lunch first.”

N: “I want a movie, Mommy!”

Me: “Finish your broccoli right now, and then we’ll talk about it.”

N: “I want a movie!”

Me: “Look at me. What did I say?”

N: (A beat, then): “I want a movie?”

Julianna doesn’t talk much. Remind me why we’re pushing so hard for her to speak? …

(That’s a joke. Chill. )

This Moment Is All I Have

It has been a month of craziness unsurpassed. I held my breath and lowered my head into the wind, knowing there was nothing to do but get through it. But in living through the last few weeks, several things have become clear.

Last week I was a mother of two for thirty-six hours, and all I can say is, it was so easy. Unbelievably easy. For the first time I questioned our choice to clump so many children so close together. I began to doubt myself, to wonder if the desire for more children contains a fair dollop of self-righteous ego. Would I be a better parent, more patient, if I had only two?

I cling to the objective truth I discerned in days when I was sleeping more: that the short-term chaos reaps benefits I would regret missing out on later; that twenty years from now, I’ll never say, “Oh, I shouldn’t have done that;” no, in fact, I’ll be profoundly grateful for the richness of my life, and glad I looked long-term instead of being overwhelmed by the size of the task.

Even now, objectively speaking, I am grateful. Each of my has their own unique beauty, qualities the world can’t do without that offset the moments when they drive me crazy. But it is a humbling realization, knowing that I can never do for and with each of my children everything I would like.

While I was nursing yesterday I read the new issue of Liguorian cover to cover. William Rabior shared that the word “noise” comes from the Latin word “nausea.” Yes! I thought. The chatter of constant stimulation overstimulates more than my baby; it overwhelms me, too. My nerves coil tight; nervous energy zings from point to point inside my brain until I’m incapable of living in the moment, but spend my days bouncing from one obligation to the next, planning, always planning how to squeeze more, more, more into every day.

Michelle Francl-Donnay’s take on an examination of conscience brought me face to face with all this, and tied it all together. I don’t know that my life really looks all that different from many of yours. I may have more visible irons in the fire, but many of you work full time and come home to squeeze in a few precious hours with your family; many of you struggle to keep the house clean and get all the kids to their various appointments, just like I do.

Since we bought our new camera, I’m loving the ability to capture a sliver of the moments I’ve seen with my eyes, moments like I’m sharing today. But when I go back to look through them, I realize I’m living my life only half paying attention. And when I see these pictures, I realize how much I want to remember these moments. How much I want to experience them fully, with every sense, not just enough to be able to blog them, but to capture the feel of them in my skin, the taste of them on my tongue and the imperceptible smells in my nostrils. I don’t want to half-live.

When my little ones crawl up on my lap by twos, I want to revel in it, not feel worn out and put-upon  by overstimulation. I don’t want to be constantly saying, “Later, later,” because I just have to get this savory, half-gourmet meal cooked. I want to be present in my children’s lives–and perhaps even more important, fully present in mine.

I don’t know what the answer is yet, only that I’m hearing a call that tells me to stop considering myself indispensible, and my time more valuable  than my presence to those I love. To stop worshiping at the altar of productivity, and save more of my emotional energy for the flesh of my flesh and blood of my blood.

It’s time to learn to live in the moment.

The Moment Is All I Have

It has been a month of craziness unsurpassed. I held my breath and lowered my head into the wind, knowing there was nothing to do but get through it. But in living through the last few weeks, several things have become clear.

Last week I was a mother of two for thirty-six hours, and all I can say is, it was so easy. Unbelievably easy. For the first time I questioned our choice to clump so many children so close together. I began to doubt myself, to wonder if the desire for more children contains a fair dollop of self-righteous ego. Would I be a better parent, more patient, if I had only two?

I cling to the objective truth I discerned in days when I was sleeping more: that the short-term chaos reaps benefits I would regret missing out on later; that twenty years from now, I’ll never say, “Oh, I shouldn’t have done that;” no, in fact, I’ll be profoundly grateful for the richness of my life, and glad I looked long-term instead of being overwhelmed by the size of the task.

Even now, objectively speaking, I am grateful. Each of my has their own unique beauty, qualities the world can’t do without that offset the moments when they drive me crazy. But it is a humbling realization, knowing that I can never do for and with each of my children everything I would like.

While I was nursing yesterday I read the new issue of Liguorian cover to cover. William Rabior shared that the word “noise” comes from the Latin word “nausea.” Yes! I thought. The chatter of constant stimulation overstimulates more than my baby; it overwhelms me, too. My nerves coil tight; nervous energy zings from point to point inside my brain until I’m incapable of living in the moment, but spend my days bouncing from one obligation to the next, planning, always planning how to squeeze more, more, more into every day.

Michelle Francl-Donnay’s take on an examination of conscience brought me face to face with all this, and tied it all together. I don’t know that my life really looks all that different from many of yours. I may more visible irons in the fire, but many of you work full time and come home to squeeze in a few precious hours with your family; many of you struggle to keep the house clean and get all the kids to their various appointments, just like I do.

Since we bought our new camera, I’m loving the ability to capture a sliver of the moments I’ve seen with my eyes, moments like I’m sharing today. But when I go back to look through them, I realize I’m living my life only half paying attention. And when I see these pictures, I realize how much I want to remember these moments. How much I want to experience them fully, with every sense, not just enough to be able to blog them, but to capture the feel of them in my skin, the taste of them on my tongue and the imperceptible smells in my nostrils. I don’t want to half-live.

When my little ones crawl up on my lap by twos, I want to revel in it, not feel worn out and put-upon  by overstimulation. I don’t want to be constantly saying, “Later, later,” because I just have to get this savory, half-gourmet meal cooked. I want to be present in my children’s lives–and perhaps even more important, fully present in mine.

I don’t know what the answer is yet, only that I’m hearing a call that tells me to stop considering myself indispensible, and my time more valuable  than my presence to those I love. To stop worshiping at the altar of productivity, and save more of my emotional energy for the flesh of my flesh and blood of my blood.

It’s time to learn to live in the moment.

Fiction Friday: A Cry in the Dark

Photo by Wonderlane, via Flickr

Those damn yellow shoes.

Zin massaged her ankle as she watched Ned disappear into the gloom of overhanging oak with the rest of the party. Flashlight beams danced on the thick canopy as their voices chattered. Soon even that was gone, and she was left on the porch with nothing but an ice pack, the peep frogs and crickets for company.

Click-click-creak. Click-click-creak.

Oh yes. And Dee’s Grammy, knitting in the corner.

Click-click, creak. “I toldja not to wear them shoes out in the yard.”

Presumably, Grammy had perfected the art of “I told you so’s” long before the Flood. “It’s all I brought.”

“Whad’ja trip on? Rabbit hole?” Click-click-creak.

Zin jammed her fist into her hand. “A stump.”

“Well, leastways you kin keep an old lady company. I got a shiver in my bones tells me this here blanket’s gonna be needed soon.”

Zin stifled a groan. She’d spent two hours assembling exactly the right look to impress Ned, and in the end all she’d gotten was a solicitous arm, helping her up to the porch. Somehow, when Dee had talked about her great-grandmother’s house in the country, she’d neglected to mention it was more Deliverance than divine. Now Dee was out spelunking with Ned, probably finding some secluded avenue to explore two by two. Maybe Dee’d planned it that way.

Her ankle throbbed; she bent, adjusted the ice pack and slapped a mosquito.

“You’re goin’ about it the wrong way, y’know,” Grammy said.

“About what?” she snapped.

“Catchin’ the boy.”

Zin looked up over her knees and was surprised by the sympathetic smile. “What do you know about it?”

Grammy uttered a short bark of laughter. “You think I was never young? There’s boys you catch with stilettos, girl, but that boy ain’t one of ‘em. Take my word for it. It’ll take somethin’ real to get his attention.” Click-click-creak. “Now, in my day there was a boy I liked, name of John. I like to never catch his eye.”

“Sounds familiar,” Zin mumbled.

“Tried everything–clothes, perfume, makeup. Wasn’t ’til I–”

“What was that?”

Click-click-creak. “What was what?”

“That sound. There it is again.”

Grammy paused, cocked an ear. “Coyote pup, maybe.”

Zin stood. “That’s no coyote.” Gingerly, she limped down the stairs and started into the trees.

“You be careful, girly!” called Grammy. “I cain’t come git you if you sprain your other ankle!”

The mewling cry came again, weaker this time. Zin stumbled into a fold in the ground, black against charcoal earth. Her skirt snagged on a thorn; she clung to saplings to keep her balance as she struggled downward toward the patch of white at the base of a tree. She moved the threadbare fabric and caught her breath.

It was a baby.

*

The theme du jour is choice and its consequences. I can’t explore either the choice or the consequence properly in 400 words (this is pretty far over, in fact), but I hope I’ve at least intrigued you.

Moonglow

Photo by prawnpie, via Flickr

The world is black and white and silver beneath the full moon as I stumble down the hallway and retrieve a hungry boy from his crib. It’s been weeks now since we’ve needed to turn on the light to help us latch, so as we enter the room, the nursing chair waits in a mural of interrupted white from beyond the window. As we step into range, zebra stripes rush up our bodies, disorienting, so strong they almost seem a tangible creature.

The baby settles in to his job with deep concentration, his free hand grasping, releasing, and grasping my finger. The strength of his grip measures his progress from wakeful hunger back to peaceful sleep. Strips of brilliance curve around the shape of his head. It’s so bright, as if something punched a hole in the universe, and all the light of Heaven now pours through a disc the size of a quarter hung in the center of the sky.

We switch sides, and the stripes curve the opposite direction. His hand still wraps my finger, but hesitantly, pausing longer between grips. Silver skitters over my face, making me aware of my own nose, my eyelashes–things I can always see, but never notice. I wake my brain, willing it to commit this moment to memory. So many beautiful moments have disappeared. I hope that once the clutter of early childhood’s constant need fades, my mind will be able to retrieve some of them, but I’m not confident. Christian remembers things I’ve already forgotten. This moment–this one, at least–I want seared into brain and body until it is a visceral thing, the pattern of light and dark disrupting normalcy with magic. Reminding me how close by the side of transcendence lies every moment.

*

(Note: no, we do not have a full moon right now. I’ve been sitting on this moment for a couple of weeks.)

After a Good Night’s Sleep

photo by Martin LaBar (on hiatus), via Flickr

Today, I am thankful for sleeping till 7:15, and being awakened by the slanting rays of sunlight instead of a baby’s cries or an obnoxious alarm clock.

I am thankful for a husband who knew he could offer me a welcome rest by taking two kids with him when he went to visit family. And who took the child I most needed a break from–the one who does not know how to shut off his voice box unless he’s asleep, and sometimes not even then.

I am thankful for sleeping in the middle of the bed, and children who were in bed by 8p.m., giving me some much-needed down time.

I am thankful for sleeping with the windows open.

I am thankful for two days in which I actually was able to concentrate on my novel–for the first time in months, feeling that I actually accomplished something on it, because of the quiet around the house.

But I am thankful, too, for a much-needed reminder that the child who is hardest for me to deal with right now is probably the one who needs me most .

And I am thankful that the quiet, the bed to myself, the sleeping late, was only for this one night. I am thankful that by dinnertime, we’ll have all the chaos back. It’s not the chaos I miss–I could do without that forever–but the love it represents. Because the truth is that, just as motherhood is a variegated flower containing both light and dark, so is family. You can’t have one without the other.

And that insight is perhaps the most important “gratitude” of all.

Motherhood Fears

One Fear illustration from Book of Fears (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

I sent my boys off on a trip this morning. For the next thirty-six hours, it’s just me, my girl and my baby. I’m not used to this. It’s always the other way around: me taking the whole crew for a day trip and leaving Christian behind. A few weeks ago, he took them all to a cousin’s baptism, leaving me to hold down the fort for weekend commitments we couldn’t escape. As the van pulled away I nearly dissolved into blithering mess of terror. What if something happens to them on the road? What if this is the last time I see them?

I’ve always prided myself on being a mommy who doesn’t cave to unreasonable fears. So much of child-rearing advice these days is based on fear: fear of SIDS, fear of power outlets, fear of stairs, fear of bicycle crashes, fear of abduction, fear of germs. Christian and I have always played it cool, believing in supervision and moderation over childproofing and overprotection. Our last doctor tried so hard to panic me over Nicholas’ slow growth. “Look,” I told her, “I’ve had a child with a disability who’s almost died. You are not going to get me to freak out because Nicholas refuses to eat what he’s given.”

I thought I was impervious to Mommy fear. But since Michael came along, everything’s shifted. I’ve found myself going in to make sure he’s breathing, and fighting unreasonable nerves as long as I’m not in the room. I’ve had to talk myself off a ledge when Julianna goes wandering while we’re outside, even though I know her top three favorite places to haunt. During pregnancy I had a recurring day-mare about crossing bridges. Every day when the bus pulls away, I blow kisses and wave at Julianna, and I have to squash the what if‘s.

It’s happened to Christian, too. All our babies napped on our bed at one time or another–Alex slept most of every night there for the first several months. But that news report about babies at day cares got under his skin. Has anything changed in the last couple of years? No–our children are no more likely to die sleeping on our bed now than they ever were. It’s the adults who’ve changed.

For me, the fear even reaches tentacles into the past. A while back I took the kids to visit my parents on the farm. The gravel was fresh that day, and I could feel the van tires slipping on the road. 35 mph felt a little too fast that day, and I remembered myself tearing down those roads in high school at 55 and 60. (I’m not kidding.) I got the shudders, as if somehow I was still putting myself and my kids in danger because I was an idiot when I was a teenager.

It seems odd for mommy fear to be more acute at this stage of the game. Shouldn’t an experienced mother be less freaked out, not more? Well, in some ways I am. But with more children, the stakes are higher, and I imagine they’ll probably continue to increase as the kids get older. So maybe it’s just as well I have plenty of practice learning not to let the fear rule me.

Acknowledging The Whole Picture of Motherhood

In case you missed the memo, yesterday was a big day.

Happy Mother’s Day (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Mothers Day is one of those holidays that bears the weight of impossible cultural expectations. I’ve had some doozies of Mothers Days in the past few years. There were three in a row, in the infertility years, when I tried to pretend the day didn’t even exist. But the mother of all Bad Mothers Days was the one I spent in the PICU with Julianna. She wasn’t in any danger by that time, so all my emotional energy went into feeling sorry for myself. After all, I’d asked for only one thing for Mothers Day: brunch at one of those wonderful buffets. Instead,  I was sitting under fluorescent lights being bored out of my skull and trying to keep a baby entertained while his sister slept…or didn’t.Since then, I’ve kept my expectations for Mothers Day pretty low. The whole thing is a crock, anyway. You should appreciate your mother all the time; this is just one more way to separate people from their money. As a stay-at-home mom, the best Mothers Day gift I can imagine is for someone to take them off my hands for a whole day so I can just relax! And, um, that’s not quite the point. Ahem.

This year, by the time the weekend rolled around, I was in not in a great frame of mind. Witness my Facebook status:

These are the days that make me want to engage in some serious theatrical drama. In an attempt to get naps coordinated, I force Michael to stay awake for an extra half hour till I get lunch on and the others are half done. Then I put him down, get them finished with lunch, and upstairs they go. Julianna goes in and wakes Michael up.

1 1/2 hours later, I despair of getting him back down by nursing, so I put him in his room and pray he’ll go down before he wakes Julianna up. After ten minutes of him crying, NICHOLAS wakes up wailing in the other room. I comfort him, tell him it’s not time to get up yet, and go back downstairs.

Ten minutes after THAT, Michael wakes Julianna up. I carry her into my room to finish her nap. Michael settles down at last. Three minutes after THAT, the @#$%^&*( neighbor turns on some jack hammer-sounding piece of lawn equipment…which won’t work. So he starts it again. And again. And again. And every time, Michael screams AGAIN.

Three minutes after THAT, Dish Network pounds (I don’t mean “knocks,” I mean “pounds”) on the door. “I’M NOT INTERESTED,” I say, and slam the door in their faces.

And Michael is crying again.

Michael did not sleep for FOUR AND A HALF HOURS on Friday afternoon. I spent the whole evening composing a long, foul blog rant in my head.

But Christian has been on a multi-year campaign to redeem my faith in Mothers Day. Last year, he took us all to a brunch buffet–quite an investment with our then-three children. It was wonderful. This year, he came home with a crabapple tree for me (I adore crabapple trees, and he hates them), and we bought a new outdoor table and chairs, which he and my parents put together at great inconvenience and time expenditure so we could eat our dinner outside yesterday. (Babe, you rock!)

It’s human nature to hug the extremes, I suppose. We get into a negative funk and look for things to get P.O.’d about, and then someone hears us and goes to the opposite pole: “Just enjoy it! It goes so fast!” I defy you to enjoy a baby who’s mad and refusing all forms of comfort for four solid hours. Please. Be real.

The reality, and it’s an uncomfortable one, is this: “Motherhood is the only time you can experience Heaven and Hell at the same time.” You can’t deny either part; to do so devalues the whole. In contemplating this humble post, less than a blip on the radar of the blogosphere, much less the sum total of human history, I traveled from borderline murderous rampage to blissful transcendence to grace-filled tolerance and back to pulling my hair out. (Fussing baby + preschooler who is physically incapable of closing his mouth while awake + clumsy daughter knocking over the marble run for the tenth time in half an hour = Mommy Meltdown.)

I think I would be less jaded about holidays like Mothers Day more if those trying to separate us from our money were a little less rosy about the whole thing and acknowledge how darned tough it often is. We all need affirmation. That’s why the card Christian gave me last night was so perfect:

The inside reads: “And that was all just since yesterday!” Did I mention my husband rocks?

Related articles

A Poem For Hearts That Ache Emptily On Mother’s Day (via Rebecca Reynolds) (garyware.me)
Great Expectations (byjlaurel.wordpress.com)
Motherhood on Mother’s Day (jennyonthespot.com)

Sunday Snippets

Happy Mother’s Day to all my visitors from Sunday Snippets!

Here are my contributions this week:

Julianna, Unlimited, in which I illustrate Julianna’s, er, non-angelic moments

Looking For A Line, a reflection on consumption vs. charity

Spring Makes Me Happy (fun with our new DSLR)

He’s Cranky? Run Some Bath Water! (Warning: very cute baby pictures!)

7 Things You Can Learn at a Kickoff for Down Syndrome

7 things you can learn at a kickoff event for Down Syndrome

1. People-first language. When we were new to the world of disability, we thought the whole “person with Down syndrome” structure was cumbersome; it was so much easier to say “Down’s kid.” We thought it was PC nonsense. But I’ve changed my mind, and you should too. Here’s why: you don’t walk around labeling other people by their less-than-”perfect” traits. “Hey, look at that cancer woman.” “This is my selfish kid.” “___is that pimply girl.” To do so implies that said trait is the only thing about that person worthy of note. It reduces them to a single part of who they are. People with a disability are people first, and should be referred to with the full respect granted everyone else in society.

2. The same can be said of families. We are a “Down’s family,” but that’s not all we are. We’re also a musical family, and an Italian-German family, and a foodie family, and an NFP family. (I could go on, but you get the idea.)

3. Disability truly is, as Emily Pearl Kingsley wrote, like landing in Holland instead of Italy–different than you expected, but not bad.

4. There is no standard itinerary for a child with Down syndrome. Just as with typically-developing children, there is a wide range in size and skill level at every stage of the game. Judging by what I saw on Sunday, in fact, it’s even wider than for typically-developing kids.I saw a sixteen-month-old who looked like nine months, and a fifteen-month-old who looked like eighteen months. I saw five-year-olds who were talking way better than Julianna and five-year-olds who were far behind her.

5. Related to that: there is no one-size-fits-all personality. That ought to be obvious to anyone with a reasoning brain, but you’d be amazed how often we all hear our kids referred to as angels who are so happy and sweet all the time. Um. Please don’t patronize us. All children are happy sometimes and royal brats at other times. To try to lump kids with DS (notice that “people-first language?”) into a single category makes everyone nuts, especially the siblings who KNOW their brother/sister is NOT an angel!

6. Never try to guess the age of a person with Down syndrome. I guessed 14. She was 25.

7. Cake pops are yummmmmmmmm. How can I have gone 37 1/2 years never having had cake pops?

(I would love to share more photos but I didn’t ask permission! Ah, well. Can’t have it all.)