Peace of Mind and Other Myths

I think I was born with a furtive brow.  I worry about everything—things known and unknown. I pretty much worry all day long.  Currently I’m worried that the article I saw on the Today Show website might secretly be about me.  “Worrying about worry:  What it’s like to grow up with OCD.”  Now I’m worried I have OCD.  Tell me, is this normal?

Don’t answer that.

My worries have evolved as I have aged.  During childhood I worried I was retarded but no one wanted to tell me.  I also worried that ghosts would haunt me (even though I seem to lack a sixth sense).   I also worried my brothers would burn my dolls—it turns out that worry was well founded.

I have moved past most of my early fears and have exchanged them for more complex ones. If Stancey breaks her curfew, I’m certain her broken body is at the side of Plumb Creek.  If Max goes through an entire night without wetting his diaper, I fear his kidneys have shut down. Forget Walt Disney’s “If you can dream it, you can do it.”  My mantra is “If I can imagine it, I can worry about it.  And if I can worry about it, you bet I can obsess about it.”

Next week my family will take our first vacation in eight years.  You guessed it.  I’m a nervous ball of “what ifs.”  What if the car breaks down on the way?  What if someone gets sick?  What if it’s too hot and we all have a miserable time?  What if I drive off the road because I attempted to break up a fistfight? Never have I ever imagined a “what if” situation that was positive.  I am a cognitive therapist’s nightmare.  I don’t buy any of it.  I recognize my distortive thinking and I embrace it.  I expect the worst and feel relief only when things turn out for the better.  Vacation or not, I will not vacation from my worry.

Over the years, I have learned to keep most of my worries to myself.  John is not patient with my overzealous calling.  His stock answer to most of my speculations is, “You’ll probably be dead by morning, in which case it won’t matter anymore.”  The world is comprised of these two types of people--those who worry and those who let their spouse worry for them.

If I have OCD I guess I’ll stop worrying about it. I’m pretty sure my doctor would advise me to drink two glasses of wine and call her in the morning.  In which case, my worrying will have shifted onto a new target.  Luckily target is something we happen to have a lot of at my house. 

So Easy A Cavebaby Can Do It!

I suspect that John and I are not the best role models when it comes to emulating proper language usage.  Given that three of our six children have had some type of language delay must reveal the fractures in our communication style.  Eventually they all express their needs and wants.  In fact, five of the six are speaking right now.  Unfortunately Max, the Thompson caboose, still prefers to communicate via cavemanese.  Why talk when a grunt will suffice?

Stancey never demonstrated any trouble communicating.  As a toddler, she belted out her first sentence while waiting in the bank drive-through.

“Come on, jackass!” She called from the back seat.  Not too much has changed in her style of expression over the years.

Like Stancey, Sam had few communication issues.  From the beginning he has had a wonderful talent for confessing family secrets as just a matter of fact.  Last weekend when my co-worker dropped by, he told her the X-rated name John had suggested calling our newfound kitten.  I blush just thinking about it. 

And Kenny has no shame when it comes to voicing his cerebral musings, and because he has no "inside voice" most of what he broadcasts is awkward.

“Mommy, can we stop walking for a minute so I can scratch my butt?”

This only makes me laugh because I remember my friend’s daughter saying to a mute two-year old Kenny, “Talk, stupid boy!”

Given what my kids say and when they say it, perhaps I should be grateful that Max isn’t yet verbal.  However, there has to be a better way of getting his needs met that doesn’t involve his intricate system of pinching and shrieking.  He’s a week away from being two and toddlers are supposed to talk.  I know all about Your Baby Can Read®.  Someone needs to develop a program called Your Baby Can Talk.

I feel like a communications failure.  It’s like Stancey said to John sometime after the bank episode.  “It just isn’t fair.  You try and you try, but you’re still a loser!”

Maybe Max finds it suspicious that I spend so much time encouraging him to talk only to turn around and tell his siblings to shut up. 

Still, I wait intently for what Max has to say.  Silence may be golden but for this mom it’s overrated.

Doodling Fool

The graffiti on the outside of my house has nothing on what lies within.  I feel like I’m living a scene from Raising Arizona.  We may not live in a trailer but someone in our house has learned their ABC’s real good because they’ve etched “Fart House” across our front porch risers.  When you couple that with the dirty diaper that always seems to be sitting just outside the front door, "Fart House" seems like an appropriate name.  I’m amazed the mailman will even deliver to us.

Inside the house, Max is a doodling fool.  He prefers to create on tabletops and walls, but will settle for sketching on my sweeper in a pinch.  His alphabet skills are not yet as accomplished as his siblings, but give him time.  He’ll probably write long before he decides to speak his first word. 

Max comes from an enduring lineage of scripters and artists.  Years ago toddler Stancey drew some hair for her Charlie Brown-headed brother—another color other than green Sharpie would have been preferable.  And Madison was our sidewalk correspondent until one of his libel remarks upset the neighborhood children.  (No one wants to see his or her name connected to the phrase “is poop”)  Finally Sam did some fine engraving (in gravel) on my van door when he was honing his penning skills.   

So really, I should be grateful that they’re all so literate!

I’m not bragging.  I don’t for a minute think my kids are unique in their desire to want draw and write.  What I do think is unique is my indifference to their desire to create as the day goes on.

“Mom!  Max is drawing on the dog!”

Yah?  So what.  He goes to bed at nine.

Thank God for the Mr. Clean Magic Eraser.

As for the dog, it’s a good thing she’s dark because there’s only so much Mr. Clean can do.  What can’t be erased will be left for posterity.

Call Me Glenn

“Bubba says I have to call him Glenn.”  Kenny disclosed during a conversation totally unrelated to what he had just divulged.  Sure that he was kidding, I turned to Stancey who confirmed.

“Where have you been?  I’ve been calling him Glenn all summer!”

I understand that most children go through this phase.  Sam, upon returning from his first day of preschool, asked that we call him Marson, just like the other little boy in his class.  Stancey, during the hype of the Spice Girls in the mid-nineties, told us to call her Baby Spice.  And my Wizard of Oz infatuated niece would only respond to Dorothy for an entire year before returning to her given name of Courtney.  A lot of young children go through this phase.  I know this.

Madison, however, will be starting high school this fall. 

We’ve had a collection of affectionate names for him:  Bubba, Boo Bear, and Maddie.  Even Stancey had a special name for him in early childhood--he was Daimber and she was Buck.  

He couldn’t have chosen one of those? 

Could it be Post Traumatic Stress Disorder from name confusion in early infancy? He was “Baby Boy Thompson” for two days before John and I reconciled on a name.  I’m not convinced about that one. I’m sure other infants have gone way longer without a name and have turned out just fine—just don’t ask me to define just fine.

Maybe it was the birth announcement my mom put in the local paper under the alias Matt Andrew.  (My mom’s way of letting us know she wasn’t real crazy about the name.)  But after fourteen years, we all have become quite fond of Madison’s name, my mom included.  Besides I’m not even sure Madison’s aware of his pseudonym.  It’s hard to have PTSD over an event you’re not even aware happened.

When he was asked who’s Glenn and why his name, he replied “It’s a cool name.”

(I dated a Glenn once.  He had hairy knuckles and he tried to rip the steering wheel off his El Camino when I told him I didn’t want to date him anymore.  Cool is not necessarily an adjective I would use in describing that name.)

Being the seasoned mother that I am, I know I shouldn’t be too concerned with Madison’s sudden distaste for his name.  He’s grown up listening to me explain the methodology related to all their names every time we meet a new dentist, doctor, or just other curious person.  Almost apologetically I’d say, “Well the kids’ names got progressively more normal the more we had.”

I guess it really doesn’t matter what he wants to call himself because odds are I'll call him the wrong name anyway. Max and Kenny, Sam and “Glenn” have all become part of my hodgepodge litany.  Eventually I get all their names right, and in the end, that’s all that really matters.

Man's Best Friend

I’m not a big dog person.  I like the idea of dogs—their loyalty, protectiveness, and loving companionship--but when it comes down to actually having a dog, I still go back to liking the idea.

I’ve had a few dogs in my time—all of them owned collectively and none of them my own choosing.  My childhood dog was named Kinky after her curly brown hair and matted brown butt.  She was expertly trained to dive under the couch as soon as my not-so-dog-loving dad arrived home from work at 4:00. I’m guessing the source of his dog discontent stemmed from his own mother—Grandma Betty--an animal hoarder before animal hoarding became must-see cable t.v.

Kinky lived well into her old age despite the chocolate chip cookies I made for her when I was ten.  (I really didn’t know dogs weren’t supposed to have chocolate.) Kinky was a constant sliver between my parents.  My mom adored her and my dad tolerated her. I was sixteen when my mom had to put her down.  I can only imagine how dismayed she must have been in her dog-disparaging family, especially since it was several weeks before I even noticed Kinky’s absence. 

Not much has improved for my affection for dogs over the years.  Try as John might, the longevity of dog ownership has always remained somewhat elusive during our sixteen-year marriage.  Every few years John will spring a new dog on me and I will begrudge and complain until we are once again dog less. 

Really, the children are enough.  I don’t want to pick up poop from anyone or anything that didn’t drop through my own birth canal.  Besides, something happens to animals once they cross our boarders.  Perfectly intelligent animals suddenly become witless.

Six years ago John brought home from St. Louis a shelter dog that had been widowed by her owner.  She had a goat-like quality and wide vacant eyes. The kids had a kind of love-hate relationship with her.  When she felt neglected (which was often) she took to chewing their toys.  I have this strong mental image of four-year old Sam sitting on his tricycle giving Melba the bird.  It was totally random and it still makes me laugh. Unfortunately, high-strung Melba couldn’t be restrained to the context of our yard even with the assistance of an invisible fence.  As far as I know, she’s still out there running.  

Three years ago Stancey used her birthday money and adopted a terrier-Chihuahua mix from the local no-kill shelter.  Pedro had the foulest breath imaginable.  He loved butter and pooping on Madison’s bed.  In the year that he lived here, he had his paw rescued from the dining room radiator by the fire department and took to touring the adjoining neighborhoods whenever the back door was left ajar.  It’s really not surprising that his final walk from our house led him back to the shelter we adopted him from.   Pedro was just too much drama for a house already prone to breakdowns.

Today we have Moxie.  She’s a nice dog.  Rather busty and robust, but nice.  She dually serves as family pet and learning toy.  As Kenny would say, “She has seven, eight, nine nipples!” 

Moxie’s groomer says, “She’s a big girl and she knows it!” 

I am acutely aware just what a big girl she is. She takes up a huge chunk of real estate on our main floor.  It seems that no matter where she lies, she’s in the way.  Just this morning, Kenny bellowed out, “Get in the basement, Moxie!  All of you!  Even your tail!”

She is the Moby Dick of Labrador Retrievers.  Everything about her is enormous.  In a moment of great excitement, Max picked up a gargantuan poop that she had erected in our front yard.  He held it over his head like a trophy.   Why should her poop gross him out? I catch him drinking out of her water bowl all the time. 

Tell me, why do we need a dog when we have a Max? 

Maybe someday, after the children are grown, I’ll find that ideal dog. 

Or maybe I won’t.

After all, dog is man’s best friend.