The Past Rears its Ugly Head and Ruins a Lovely Walk

It is a beautiful autumn day.  I finish my coffee, and tell the Boy that it is time to take the dog for a walk.  I pull on my sneakers, he slips on his "slip-ons" as he calls them.  I wind a scarf around my neck, and he wiggles into his hoodie.  Leash, dog, and off we go.

The Boy holds the leash today, and he is kicking leaves.  Today is Picture Day at school, and he tried to put on his suit this morning.  I convinced him that just the white shirt and vest will work if he adds pants without holes in the knee.  He's a handsome boy, and I suggest to him that zipping his hoodie will keep him warmer than clutching it shut.  We walk along.

He holds my hand, and never stops talking.  He points out spider webs, fallen nuts, and pretty clouds.  The dog follows as best she can, all the while sniffing and stopping to deposit her own calling card.  I admonish the Boy that watching her poop is kinda gross, and he turns aside.  He comments on the houses in the neighborhood, and asks me if I remember the huge slug we saw last week, and wonders if it might still be there.  I laugh, delighted, and suggest that, since several days have passed, rain has fallen, and birds would have noticed him by now, I bet the slug is long gone.

I am right, and we continue on.  He loves looking down into a ravine to which a homeowner has added a little landscaping bridge.  He calls my attention to flowers, and I think about what an interesting boy he is, and how much I enjoy his company now.  I really cannot believe he is already six.  And, as I often do, I think about what I remember at his age.

Disaster strikes.  At Christmas, when I was six, my mother sent my brother and I off for our visitation with my dad.  He dropped us off at school at the end of the break, and no one came to pick us up that evening.  My mother had run away.  January 4, 1982.  At my son's age, I only had three months more with my mother.

I look at my son, who is still holding my hand and attempting to get the dog to stop digging in a mulch pile, and I cannot imagine life without him.  And I wonder how she could have left me just when I was getting to be interesting.

Confession.  I hate babies.  They are boring.  They are annoying.  All they do is cry and eat and shit, sometimes all at once.  I loved my son when he was a baby, but in a grim way perhaps.  It was my duty, my responsibility, and I approached the task of motherhood vowing to do it well.  I didn't relax into being a mother for months, and it  was years before I felt confidence in that role.

Years have passed, and I have this fun little guy, who thinks zombies are hilarious, loves books and Legos, and correctly uses three syllable words.  He makes interesting leaps of logic in his reasoning, which while sometimes less-than-accurate, are entertaining.  He is sweet, loves holding my hand, and expects an intelligent answer when he asks about clouds or leaves or mechanical engineering.

I wrap my arm around him as we walk.  He is still trying to control the dog, who is hot on the trail of some remarkable scent.  I have a feeling that the next few months will be a countdown of sorts for me, that I will be cramming in all sorts of experiences into the Boy's life, as I continue to over-compensate for the mother who didn't want me.  I will fight off tears as I mourn what I didn't get to do with her, but will damn well make sure he gets to do with me.  And when that magic deadline passes, I will know that I can maybe let myself just love the Boy for being mine, and stop projecting on to him the little girl who waited and waited for her mother to show up and take her home.

Who Wants To Live Forever?

Today is my son's first day of school.  This post is NOT about that.

Well, it is kinda.  See, I walked him to school, and there were all these parents there, snapping pictures, wiping tears.  And I was thinking, "I cannot wait to get home.  I wonder what I can eat with the Boy's grilled cheese sandwich crusts."  I then thought, "Wow,I am a bad mommy.  I'm not posting my son's first day of school pics to Faceborg.  Of course, now I am an OLD mommy."

Yesterday was my birthday.  I am 37 now.  The thirties have been awesome, and kinda hip.  Hitting 35 was cool, and 36 was grown-up.  But 37 is close to 40, which is close to death!  Tee hee!

I am going to die.  Because people do die.  But it is getting harder, apparently.  My husband shared a news post, about this guy who figured out how to oxygenate blood, so when your heart stops, you can live longer without brain damage.  It depressed me.  We already live so fucking long.  TOO fucking long.  And why does a 86 year old person deserve a new kidney or heart?  Sorry, but really?  Why can we not listen to the signals our bodies give us?

Heart:  Huh.
Grandma:  What?!?
Heart:  I am really not working so well.  And...
Grandma:  WHAT?!?
Heart:  I know this is hard to take, but your arteries are kinda clogged, and your lungs are so inflamed from forty years of smoking that they aren't sending enough oxygen anyway.
Grandma:  I don't understand...
Heart:  And really, the extra fifty pounds you've been carrying since the 80s are kinda making it worse.
Grandma:  Okay, I can't hear what you are saying.  I keep losing my hearing aid, because I can't find them unless I wear those ugly glasses the doctor gave me.
Heart:  JUST DIE ALREADY!
Grandma:  You want me to go where?

I am not advocating the execution of the elderly.  Trust me.  I just lost my last grandparent this summer, and I was depressed for weeks.  (Hence the no new blog entries.)  I remember her telling fascinating stories, and braiding my hair when I was younger.  She was a nurse for decades, and raised four kids.  She created quilts, and she introduced me to naughty literature.  But she was in her nineties, and they decided to do shoulder surgery, even though she kept talking about how much she missed Grandfather and didn't understand why she wasn't with him yet, and she wouldn't eat and was generally miserable.  She didn't want to improve her quality of life...she wanted her long full life to end.

So, how do you make sure you won't live forever?  A Do Not Rescusitate Order? My husband's grandmother had DNR paperwork, advanced medical directives, the works... and THEY GAVE HER A FUCKING PACEMAKER ANYWAY.  I joke about getting DNR tattooed on my left breast, although I've been informed that this is not legally binding.

What does a person have to do to DIE a natural death?  You aren't allowed to die when your body is clearly giving up.  You aren't supposed to commit suicide.  You cannot get someone to assist you in dying.  And you cannot do a long term, subtle cyanide poisoning anymore (Waldorf Salad, anyone?), because there is even a KIT now, and then they cure you, and you have to start all over again.

So, we live long lives despite the terrible abuse we heap upon our bodies: eating McDonald's, smoking cigarettes, consuming vast quantities of high fructose corn syrup, breathing smog, watching over twenty hours  of television a week, and never exercising.

We deserve to be able to die, and we certainly deserve to die.  Maybe medical care should be saved for those to prove they really deserve it.  Smoke?  No healthcare for you!  Addicted to McDonald's?  Nothing for you.

Want to live forever?  Not gonna happen.  If you want to live longer, take care of your body, and teach your kids how to take care of their bodies.  Eat fresh foods!  Don't smoke!  Exercise!   Don't just assume you'll be saved by a fucking medical community that cannot figure out the difference between what you CAN do versus what you SHOULD do.

Is my son's first day of school important?  No fucking way.  Whether he becomes a life-long learner IS.  And I hope he learns that he ought to throw mommy from a window rather than sign the paperwork for her to get a heart transplant when she is 98.  If he learns that lesson, then I'll be happy.

Happy thoughts.  And  now for some Queen... Who Wants to Live Forever?  (sorry about the ad)