Right, so I know Saturday was supposed to be the end of the Summer of Love here at 2HT. And it would have been. Except today is, well, still technically August. And I have been begging for Crystal to write me a guest post from within the first 60 minutes of meeting her in Chicago last month. And she finally got around to sending me one just before midnight last night.
From Boobs, Injuries, and Dr. Pepper. If you think I’m not posting something from HER, you’re insane. She rocks my socks. So now I leave you with the REAL last guest post from the Summer of Love
Back to regular programming tomorrow (and the regular 2HT banner). -Karl
I took my toddler, Harmony, to the park today.
At 5:30 am, she stood motionless and unblinking near my face as I slept. My arm was hanging off and I’m sure there was drool.
Kids have the spooky ability to remain that way for an indefinite period of time so that they can scare the bejeezly shit out of you. When you’re somewhere that requires any form of reverence, however, you can tranq them and superglue their ass to the seat and their remaining that way for longer than 23 seconds is a statistical impossibility.
It typically only takes about a minute or so until I sense, somewhere in my psyche, that there is a face in my personal bubble. Before coherent thought can form, I am up in the middle of the bed shrieking like a pantywaist and piddling all over my husband, Chris. This happens at least five times a year, with each child. If I have a nervous tic and I don’t like sudden movements, I think it’s fucking justified.
No matter how disconcerting my screams or the hysteria that ensues, Harmony finds this uproariously funny - so much so that as I’m gasping for air and clutching my chest, she is doing the same, but for much different reasons. She will be doubled over, her chubby fists balled up on her knees and tears rolling down her cheeks as I struggle to make sense of what has just happened.
After the shock had worn off, she quietly asked for a ‘pop dart’ and I rolled out of bed to begin our day, trying to let Chris get some much-needed sleep. I denied her repeated requests for a pop dart and we compromised with cereal and juice. I watched her eat and marveled, for the thousandth time, at her beautiful, natural ringlets and her methodical destruction of her pajamas as she independently scooped big, sloppy spoonfuls of cereal into her mouth, the milk dripping over the sides and down her clothes.
At 8 am, we were watching Mickey Mouse Clubhouse when I sat up and told her to find her shoes. “We’re going to the park.” I have been housebound for almost a week and the despair and anxiety I had been suffering as a result of some very poor choices and necessary lifestyle changes was beginning to lift.
She looked at me in disbelief, her huge, blue eyes confused. “We go to da park? Da park, Momma? We go to da playground?”
My heart ached as I nodded and watched her face erupt into an ear-splitting smile. She went in search of her sneakers and I counted in my head the number of times I have taken her to the park. I counted less than five. My job, a job that I’m grateful for, especially in today’s economy, is no longer a job. It is a life. It is one that I alternately hate and fear. It is one that has caused me such stress and anxiety that it has played a huge part in my medicated, hospitalized, destructive life as of late. It is one that has forced me to compromise my morals and the very person I’ve worked so hard to become. As a result, my family has suffered.
We took stale bread and fed the ducks. I heeded her demands of, “Higher, Momma!”, and I watched her climb and explore and learn and live. After a while, I urged her that we needed to go and eat lunch. I couldn’t stand the disappointment on her face, so I chose to take her to a restaurant that has a huge children’s area. “It’s a better playground,” I assured her. She was satisfied with that, so we went. I spent the next hour fishing her out of giant tubes when she was convinced that she had climbed into another universe and began wailing in fright. But we also played with all the toys and I didn’t’ give a damn when she declared, “You’re too big for dat toy, Momma,” indicating said tubes. “I’m little.” I grimaced in horror when I saw the color of the bottom of her bare feet and I fretted over the trillions of germs, but her joy was worth the risk.
At home in the afternoon, I put her in bed for a nap, pushed her curls off her forehead and kissed her mouth. She smelled like kool-aid. “I love you, Momma.”
“I love you. You’re my little guy.”
“I’m not a guy, Momma. I’m a guwull.”
“Have a good nap.”
I sat outside for a while. The afternoon was passing and a blessedly cool breeze was coming around the corner of the house. I watched some kids down the street playing basketball in the cove and I thought about the last time I really noticed what my kids were doing. I tried to remember the last date I had with my husband. I struggled to put even a tentative time frame on the last real kiss we had shared. I couldn’t remember what peace and contentment had ever felt like.
I picked up crayolas off the floor and training panties from the bathroom. There was a struggle going on inside me, one that had been raging and gnashing to be born, to be resolved. I dealt with it accordingly; I pushed it away.
When I wrestled Harmony into bed for the night, I tried to reason with her. “Ok, little guy, it’s been a long day. You need to sleep. You have a big day tomorrow.” I was referring to daycare.
She grabbed my face and pulled it in close. “We go feed da ducks. And den we go to da playground,” she chirped. “And den we go to da betta playground!”
It was at that moment when the struggle was laid to rest. I’m quitting my job tomorrow and looking for a life that doesn’t begin and end with a time clock. I’m going to the park.
a
Tonight at 10pm Eastern, it’s SecondHand Radio with my guest Father Muskrat, who you can find on Twitter here. I met the man at BlogHer ‘09 and enjoyed his company a lot. Course, that was before I learned he has a giant tallywhacker. Now I feel slightly threatened. Nevertheless, the show must go on.
Eden Fantasys is providing me with a prize to give away to you, my lovely, dirty readers. It’s a $25 gift certificate to their shop, and believe me when I tell you, there are lots of things for girls and guys alike in that store. I may own some things myself. What? A boy likes a hot pink vibrator. Don’t judge.
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