Velveteen Mind

Those Things You Do

Pants was sitting in my lap tonight, playing with a cool new Melissa & Doug wooden sandwich set, when he turned around, kneeled on my lap, wrapped his arms around me, and started smothering me with kisses all over my face.  Coming up for air, I asked, laughing, "Goodness, what's with all of the kisses?"  He furrowed his brow and replied, "You listen to me, Mom.  You go on the Naughty Stool!  And then dahlam blada sama grrrreden do!"  That last part is the toddler-speak he reverts to when he just wants to be talking.

I'm guessing that last part is also what my explanations of why he (very rarely) has to go to the Naughty Stool must sound like to him, as the first part was me almost verbatim.  Good to know.

Why I had to go to the Naughty Stool was never fully explained.  At one point he said it had something to do with my being mean to motorcycles.  Huh?  He clearly thought it was funny, though.  I'm thinking he didn't like having his kissing generosity questioned.  Another good point to note.

The other day, Pants and I were sitting on the couch watching the end of That Thing You Do together after lunch.  He's a sucker for anything musical, so this movie and its repetitious music was a big hit.  At the end of the movie, the Tom Hanks look-alike Tom Everett Scott and Liv Tyler kiss.  Pants then scoots over, grabs my face in his hands, tilts my head to the side, tilts his head, and then goes in for a big open-mouth kiss!  Fortunately, he also does this in movie-slow-motion, so I had plenty of time to duck out of the way before we're both scarred for life, poor thing.

First rejection.  And by his own mother.  Solid material for future therapy.  Honestly, the whole scene was straight out of an '80's John Hughes first-kiss movie.  We just needed swelling music, followed by the sound of the needle abruptly scratching off of the record player.

My mom was sitting with us and about fell out of her chair laughing.  Although Pants was just kidding around, with a big fat knowing smile in his eyes even as he went in for the kill, I could tell that he was on the verge of being embarrassed, so I quickly tackled him with tickles and raspberries to shake off the dodged smooch.

After, we did have a "that's not really the way you kiss your mom" talk, but I'm pretty sure it didn't sink in, just like it didn't last time.  That's right, this is not the first time I've seen this kissing attempt come my way from my precious toddler.  Before, I thought he was imitating the way Cheeks does his baby looking-for-another-nipple suction-cup kisses on my chin.  It occurred to me that he might have seen it on a movie, but for the life of me I couldn't think which one.  Honestly, had he not done it again right after the scene this time, I would have totally not noticed what we were watching.  Who knows how much macking I've let this kid watch without even noticing!

Kissing is serious business.  Right from the start, such a fascinating thing.

Finally, the other night I let Pants sleep in bed with me while Maguire was out late at a poker party.  Just as we were falling asleep, Pants leans over and says, "You have pretty eyes, Mom."  Then he gave me a sweet little kiss on my eye and my nose.  Then he fell asleep.

It was pitch black in the room.  He couldn't see my eyes.  I'd like to think that he was just thinking about how much he loves me as he fell asleep, but that's probably just a little magical mom-thinking.  As part of our natural bedtime routine, Maguire and I both tell the boys things we love about them.  "You have beautiful eyes" is often heard.  Nevertheless.

Sweet kisses.  I want to remember them all.

Murky Depths of Depression

Today is a bad day.

All I feel is sadness about the difficulty of motherhood and how misunderstood and underestimated it is.

I was driving to Pants's new Montessori school to drop off some paperwork this morning when I heard the news on the radio of the mother in Texas who hanged her four daughters and herself.  Three of her daughters died along with her.  Her baby survived.  The reporter's voice cracked as she read the report.  I think my jaw may have actually dropped, then I just drove on in stunned silence.  Cliches abound, but there you have it.

I just couldn't shake it all day.  Later, I logged onto a mommy board I used to be fairly active on and read the inevitable thread about the hangings.  I was surprised to find a lot of anger.  Anger hadn't even occurred to me.  I was only sad.

Much of the anger was over why this mother would do this to her children.  A lot of it was over seemingly lenient punishments for surviving mothers in the past who have murdered their children. 

"Not guilty by reason of insanity" being the lenient verdict.  I admit, I favor states with the "Guilty by reason of insanity option."  I feel like once the mother has been treated effectively, she is then closer to even...  it is at that point that she should start serving time for her crime, as a different person than the one who committed it or not.  But this is beside the point.

I can't stop thinking about what must have happened in that trailer.  What her daughters must have been saying to her, crying to her.  What she must have been saying to them and to herself to get through it.  I feel the same way about that day in the home of Andrea Yates.  I just can't stop thinking about it.  Believe me, I want to stop, but something won't turn off.

I'm nothing but sad.

Then it happened again.  Cheeks fell off the bed again.  I want to throw up.  I had laid down with him and nursed him to sleep, then snuck out of the room to call his dad and ask him to come in a different door when he came home from work so as not to wake up the baby.  The idea was that I would then get back into bed with him until he woke up.  In the seconds it took for me to make the call and get no answer, he woke up and crawled off the end of the bed.

I'm so sick over this that when I close my eyes I feel like I'm going to pass out.  My head is swimming with guilt and grief and worry.  Physically swimming.

He cried for a second.  Nothing swelled this time.  He was more stunned than anything.  Nevertheless, I don't know how I'm going to sleep tonight.  What is wrong with me?  How could I let this happen again?  Am I that careless?  What is wrong with me?  What if I had ran back in to find him still and silent on the floor rather than stunned and moving and then crying?

Then I think of this mothering instinct to protect and I think of this Texas mother.  I don't doubt that her instinct was intact.  In fact, had her eight month old fallen off of the bed the day before, I am quite sure she would have rushed to her aid and even taken her to the doctor in case she seemed hurt.  Knowing what she may have planned to do the next day in the back of her mind.

What makes us break?  What makes us crack?  Where is that turning point?  And how can pure love exist in the midst of such madness?  I believe that it does.  I really do.  It's something else that goes wrong and sweeps us away.

The women on that mommy board that are angry that she would do that to her children, I just don't feel like she must have felt like she was doing anything to them.  Something tells me that in all of these cases of possible postpartum depression, the mothers must have believed on some level that they were releasing their children from some form of suffering.  I'm talking about the mothers that do it deliberately, that clearly planned it out to some degree.  Not the violent crimes of passion.  Those women, well, I can't find any form of suitable justice. 

No, I'm talking about the ones whose sanity slowly wicked away.

I'm not making excuses for this mother or any other.  I want to do nothing but protect my children.  In fact, if you can't protect your own, I'll take them on, as well.  However, more attention needs to be drawn to postpartum depression and the general stress of motherhood and how it can slowly wear away at you, like water on a stone.

I just can't shake this sadness and it is forcing me to think about this in less black and white terms.  Nothing so simple as anger.  Nothing as white hot as rage. 

I am in a sea of gray.  Murky.  Cool.  Faces filtering in and out.  Images I both do not want to see come into focus, but which I can't help but try to make out.

A Bubba Is Born

This morning, I witnessed how it is that these little Southern boys get the name "Bubba."

While changing Cheeks's diaper, he was babbling, "Mama, Mama, Mama."  I said, "You love Mama and Dada?"  To which, he replied, "Dada, Dada, Dada."  You see where this is going.

Then we talked about "your brother, Pants."  Yep.  "Bubba, Bubba, Bubba."

Cheeks is sitting, right this moment, in his high chair, feeding Pants Gerber Graduates fruit puffs.  Cheeks is laughing fitfully as Pants bounces left and right, up and down, trying to catch his baby brother's handful of puffs in his mouth. 

This play is why we always knew we would have more than one child.

But I won't be calling that first kid "Bubba."  No matter how cute his baby brother's babbles are.  The developing Southern accent I'm hearing around here more and more these days is going to have to be enough Southern charm to last.

Now go hug yer momma, cuz she coulda called ya Bubba.