Exposure Therapy

I keep bumping into my fear of aging, as though, if given enough chances to face it, head on, I will somehow overcome it.   That's why God gave me Logan, I think.  My blessed child who, at least on a monthly basis, reminds me--and anyone else--that I am getting old.  With comments like, "Your skin is kind of oldish," or "You should try this make up because you have a lot of lines around here," or "My mom can't run anymore," (which, for the record is untrue.  I CAN run.  It's just that after the baby I sort of pee a little when I do.) or, feeling my slightly bulging tummy, "Are you sure you're not getting pregnant?" or "I liked you better when you were in shape."  or, pointing at my sundamaged skin, "What are those?  Ewww."  Like I said, God's version of exposure therapy.

I'm not convinced it is working, per se.  I still consider my short walk to adult diapers and decriptitude on a regular basis, but at least I'm developing a sense of humor about it.  Which is good, because sometimes, if I don't laugh I might cry.

Like yesterday.  I had put off Lincoln's 3rd vaccinations long enough.  Thanks to our crappy, self-employed insurance coverage, I was out of Dr. visit money.  They'd pay for vaccinations but not the office visit.  If you can get the doctor to vaccinate the child without actually going into the office, I'd love to know your secret.  Soooo...back the the free vaccination clinic we go. 

Remember the last time we were there?  I do.  It is branded into my memory.  Just driving there caused a hot flash.  Over and over again the scene replayed in my mind.  Griffin writhing and screaming.  This time, all the way there I heard the happy gurgles of baby Lincoln in the back seat, and it made me cringe to know that in a few short minutes he, too, would be in tears, that confused and accusing look across his face the moment the needle pricked his fleshy thigh. The bad taste of dread made it hard to swallow.

So I gave myself a pep talk.  As I drove I silently listed all the benefits of early vaccination, and as I filled out the paperwork I recalled all the diseases my children do not need to fear thanks to modern medicine, and as I made my way through the hallway toward the nurses station, I just tried to breathe.  As I sat down I confessed, "You know, after three kids you would think this would get easier."

And you know what the nurse said?  "Is this your grandchild?"

Wha---?!  Suddenly, the needles on the desk infront of me didn't even register.  Screw polio!  I look like a grandmother???  Are you kidding me here???  My mind went into some kind of whirling black hole, and just like that the baby was crying, the shots were done, and I was back in my car, still flabbergasted.  "Grandma?!"

There are serious thresholds a woman crosses on the way to (ahem) maturity.  Those looks women are used to getting one day disappear.  You know, those smiles from men that are slightly creepy, until they are gone and then you sense they were sort of flattering, too?  Those disappeared around the arrival of our mini-van.  And I distinctly remember my first "Ma'am."  That was a shocker.  But this?  My first address as grandma?  This was too big to handle alone. 

I needed to talk to my people.  The committee, of sorts, that I pass all important information by.  The people I trust to weigh in on all things Laurel:  Mr. Wicke, my two best friends, and my mother.  Between them they were able to talk me down from the ledge.  They told me she was "crazy."  We agreed that childhood pregnancy was not uncommon at the free clinic, right?  I appreciated their apparent shock, and laughing together tilted my little world back onto its axis again.  Yes.  Something was definitely wrong with that nurse.

And then, this morning over breakfast (because my genetic makeup is to turn things over and over again in my brain) I did the math, and here's how it added up:  I could have a grandchild.  And not in a "I got knocked up in high school" kind of way.  I could, legitimately, have a grandchild.  I don't.  But I COULD.

Bump!  See?  There it is again.  I am getting older, and there is nothing I can do about it.  Man, this exposure therapy is painful!  Especially to a "grandma" like me.

Being "The" Mom

I would have a good post for today about pride and marriage, but alas our internet was down all morning.  (Stupid Cox Communications.  And I'm not supposed to say stupid.)  Anyhow, so the thoughts that have been roaming around my head will have to stay there.  They are taking up space, which, as we all know, is limited; it would have been nice to move them onto paper.  Monday perhaps.

The other thing that is taking up the rest of the space in my brain is the mortification of being "the" mother of "the" child in a teacher's kindergarten class.  You know.  "The" child that needs a whole lot of extra attention and intervention and motivation because he can't seem to behave.  I'm "the" mom of that child.  I know I'm that mom because his teacher called me yesterday afternoon to discuss her new approach to Griffin's...uh...should we say...spiritedness?  (That's a kind way of saying he has a hard time following the rules.)

I soooo appreciate this teacher and her willingness to go the extra mile.  She sees all the good things that little Griff has going for him, but we all agree that listening and obeying may not be his strong suit right now.  No.  He would rather color gigantic circles on his pants with marker, like yesterday. 

His explanation? "Somebody spilled marker on me." 

"Really?  How does one do that in perfectly concentric circles on both thighs?"

For that manuever, he lost one of the six red sticks Miss Bruce gives him at the beginning of the day, which is part of the new program for "Kids Who Just Can't Seem to Remember."  If he has at least one stick left at the end of the day, we're calling that a success.  Oh...the mortification.

And then I remember that this is not about me.  I need to repeat that often:  This is not about me.  This is not about me.  But it sometimes feels like it is.  I don't want to be "the" mom. 

But being "the" mom also has its benefits.  It means that I get the pleasure of mothering this funny, charming little person with a very big spirit stuffed into that body that is sometimes too curious and too social for his own good.  I wouldn't trade him for anything, even for the Mom of the Year Award.

...which is good, 'cause it looks like I'm not in the running this year. 

Uninvited Guests

In the last week I have:
found two of these (alive!)


and one of these (dead!)







in. my. house!!!

Hey, I'm all for hospitality, but this is where I draw the line. The thing is, we have lived here three years without seeing one scorpion. Now my friend down the road has had them the entire time, but not us, and I thought we were safe. Supposedly they "do not migrate," but apparently they do, because they've decided to come chill in our pad for a while!

The first one was out in our garage. We thought it was just a fluke, one that came in on the leaf blower our neighbors had borrowed. It was gross and nasty, but I was sure we wouldn't see another.

But then two nights later, Griffin announced rather gleefully, "Hey! There's a scorpion!"

Sadly, Mr. Wicke replied, "No there isn't. Now get in there and brush your teeth." (Yeah, we are all about building that high level of trust with our children. Don't worry, we are saving money for their probable counseling.) But the real point is that upon closer inspection, sure enough Griff was right: A full grown, adult, bark scorpion (those are the nasty ones), on the second floor of our house, right outside my baby boy's door! That is not a fluke! (You may still hear the reverberations of my muffled scream.)

But that's not all. Oh no. On Monday night during family home evening, I thought I saw something under one of the bookcases in the living room. What the heck is that? Reading my squinted eyes and confused expression, Thomas interrupted the important point he was making.

"What?"

"Sorry...but could you see what is under there?"

He inspected but clearly didn't want to say anything out loud. Perhaps I have a wee history of over-reacting.

"What is it? Seriously. What?"

That's when he went for nonchalant. "Oh, it's just a dead mouse."

And that's when, no kidding, I started to cry. Laughing because I knew I was utterly ridiculous, but crying nonetheless. In front of our children. I am one smooth operator.

But come on!!! Isn't that just too much for one week? I don't feel safe in my own home, and don't think I'm crawling into bed without a full and complete bed check every night or walking around barefoot in this joint anymore. No way!

Some house guests just make things really uncomfortable!