Malcolm

Tunnel Vision

Approaching the luminescent tunnel, I falter at the entrance. The darkness. The light. The vulnerability. The close presence of the body next to me. I watch the tunnel lapse into darkness, as the far end gently radiates traceable evidence of light. The glow pulses, in matching heartbeat, growing larger, brighter. Waves of single inconsequential bulbs twinkling, undulating in mass toward the two of us. Inviting us to its experience. I step onto the conveyor walkway and begin my naturally brazen stride. A hand discretely grasps mine, stopping my feet. And I stand. Corrected. Coerced, to simply slow down and give myself to the breaking light.

For six years, this person has been woven into my fast paced life. Seen but unseen. Loved for what they are, not who. A constant apparition bending to the will of others in sacrifice of itself. A juxtaposition of a being craving to reveal itself, all while living suppressed until the most impactful moments. Today, he has pulled back a glorious section of his shade.

His hand is wrapped in mine, as we glide with the crawling belt. Part of me is screaming, for the leisure of traveling two miles per hour, surrounded by twinkling light, feels perverse. Wasteful.

Malcolm planned our first trip in solitude to the Smithsonian Natural History Museum ending at the National Art Gallery. At each exhibit, I wrestled with my natural inclination for speed in order hit every display, but he was there to quiet me. And in quiet I remained, while he jabbered on, on revealing hidden gems of himself and restricting us to the only interesting sections of the museums: rocks, bugs, and Van Gogh. He forced me to pause, and not only glance at, but find the camouflaged bugs, note their coloring and later compare them to an artist’s shadings at the art gallery. It was this hidden little man, who stopped at each exhibit, read, inquired, supposed, listened, and saw the beauty and value that forced me to ask myself: Have I become so callous, that I am missing the beauty? Why so fast?

Time is such a precious commodity when you are a parent. Time for activities. Time for homework. Time for dinner. Time for school. Time for work. Time to workout. Time for lust. Time for quiet. Time to clean. Time to potty train. Time to correct. Time for Kid 1, 2, or 3. There used to be so much time… to just contemplate. Where has all that time gone? And why I am forcing others to relinquish their precious time?

On our sixth ride through the tunnel of light, I look down at our intertwined fingers, a rare and extraordinary gesture from my middle son. Rubbing my thumb on the back of his hand, calm and fulfilled, it hits me. I yell at Malcolm on the daily to hurry up, come on, not now, because I am just trying to get to the next thing on the list, and his poignant, meandering thoughtfulness gets squashed in my wake. I must take the time, to go slow with him, for time is all he wants.

And why not slow down to see the world like him? For it truly is, that much more beautiful.

July 8, 2018 1

Merry Christmas Toilet Gods

We’ve all been there. 1 AM. Legs spread, wrapped loosely around the basin. Chin awkwardly resting on the porcelain rim, lips quivering from exhaustion. Eyes closed, head rolling slightly left… right… as inaudible, breathy whimpers beg for the heaves to stop. Hands gingerly draping the bowl, fingertips poised to grip yet barely touching for by God, this is a toilet! Red eyes pop open without seeing, and the spine rounds, chills with this sudden disgusting realization…

I lean over the stirring body and whisper in Malcolm’s ear, “Honey, I wipe the toilet down after each vomit, just relax, there you go. It’s OK.”

It’s Christmas Eve’s Eve. Malcolm, my son in the middle, has been vomiting for four hours every 20 to 30 minutes. I saw it coming. For three weeks, we have struggled as a family to stay healthy. Sniffles, coughs, fatigue, but nothing serious. Nothing consequential. Quietly illness hung amongst our mistletoe, waiting for the opportune moment to drip into our eggnog and poison our glee. And just when I thought we were in the clear, Malcolm is taken out by illness’s worst culprit. The one who ruins all joy deriving from Christmas cookies, roast beef, gravy, veg, Yorkshire and Christmas Pudding… the Stomach Flu.

But this one seems different. Something is wrong.

My leathery hands reach to his shoulders and gently extricate his face from the toilet and guide his small, six year old body to the crook of my left elbow, his back against my heart. Holding him as I haven’t in recent memory, my body naturally rocks him as his Goodnight Sweetheart, Goodnight lullaby slips from my lips.

He is out. Shallow breathing. Clammy. His vomit has gone from yellow to green. He isn’t shaking, but weak. I wrap towels and blankets around him for warmth and insert the thermometer into his right ear, as I have all night. Rocking, I wait for the beep.

94.9

Now I panic.

His temperature has slowly decreased since the vomiting began. I put towels under and around him to shield him for the harsh cold of the tile. Called the emergency nursing line through our pediatrician, who kindly said “Um, this could be a serious infection. I’ll put a call in to the doctor on call. If you don’t hear from her in 20 minutes, I would take him to the ER.”

It’s been 9.

I show the temperature to my partner in crime, who, like any amazing teammate, is wiping down the toilet, and make a silent Eek face.

This is my ninth year as a mom and I am dumbfounded. I am helpless. I have done everything I can think of to help Malcolm and nothing has worked. The best I can come up with now is rocking and singing. Basic comfort. How does that serve, really?

In recent years, I know I have become a bit of a panic man when it comes to illness and injury. Especially, since losing our twin girls at 20 weeks to TTTS in 2014. The experience scarred me, leaving me expose and newly, wholely knowledgeable of loss. You’re their mother. Your sole job is to protect your babies. Their illnesses or injuries may not be your fault, but you feel like you should be able to fix anything that threatens. And when impossible, that innate fear of losing them becomes so astronomical, you revert to rocking instead of solving.

So I hold. I rock. I sing. Within myself, I swallow away that ever present choking fear. The highly unlikely, but suffocating fear of the, small percentage point that could happen. And I wait, for the phone to ring.

It does.

Jolting to the phone, I run through the symptoms, timeline, steps taken, clothing, and steady decrease in temp. She listens, softly asking the color of vomit, length of time, and type of thermometer. On speaker, with David listening, she guides us to “Take his temperature in the other ear as wax build up can effect the numbers. Have you only been taking the temp from the right ear?” Um, yes!!! It is the only one exposed because I hold them with my left arm, duh!? “Well, take it in the other or by a different gauge… if it is the same, take him to the ER.”

I thanked her for her time and stared silently at my husband, absorbing this new lesson.

We simultaneously pounce on Malcolm, roll him over, stick the thermometer in his left ear, and wait for the beep.

98.9.

Damn Wax! Even sick, they find a way to make you feel incompetent.

*Note: Yes, the bug made its way through all five us, and on December 27th… we finally had Christmas Dinner. We all then felt sick, for another reason.

December 30, 2017 0

Nightmare on Doodle Street

Smoke circled my head as elbows flew, tracing the skillet. Stirring. Stirring, round and round until the spaghetti sauce collapsed into submission and began to simmer to doneness. I felt uneasy, all evening. The air was dense and each child was unusually amiable. Listening, doing what I asked, no need to yell or evil eye them to achieve a purpose. The hairs on the back of my neck rose slightly. Something was coming.

The sound of my black industrial fan whined from overuse, keeping me cool from the intense outdoor inferno known as summer. All day, we each had dripped with sweat unable to escape the heat, even indoors. Our dogs, Bert and Mardi, permanently laid in front, windblown and calm.

I paced to the sink, eager to keep busy until whatever was going to hit the fan, hit.

The room darkened from our nightly thunderstorm and the crescendo began, as the skies opened with a roar.

Wheels took off with a water gun protecting all from the lightning, followed by his energy equal Bert. Sprinting from corner to corner shooting the thunder amidst high-pitched barks. Focusing on my bowls and soap, Malcolm, my son in the middle, became stoic reaching for his Viking helmet and sword. He posted up in the hallway, determined to battle only if lightning came to him. His loyal subject, Mardi, lumbered beside, staring with complete devotion, moaning in agreement.

As the battle waged and the voices grew more ferocious, my hands moved feverishly to complete dinner before Stewie joined the foray.

With a scream rivaling most battle cries, I closed my eyes for I knew, it was too late. Stewie, armed with blue blankie, ran from brother to brother babbling instructions provided by his commanders. Tiny tennis shoes screeching to narrowly miss corners of tables and walls completed the orchestral climax.

Spraying the stray bubbles down the sides of the sink, I was almost done. My intervention imminent. Prepared to join and protect my boys from the bodily harm associated with the sudden madness of too good of a day! One more task… get the noodle water on.

I grabbed my pot, filled it with water, slammed it on the flickering fire, and turned to a silent house.

Not a single bark. No yells. Just the slow rumble of a dying storm. Something was off. Everything was off. I moved with caution to the dining room where Wheels, Stewie, and Bert were all nose pressed to the windows, discussing whether victory was theirs.

I pattered to the hallway. No Malcolm. No Mardi. This was it. They were the victims.

Eyes up. I saw the front room was dark with only the primary color glow of Paw Patrol illuminating the shadows. My legs took me to the edge and with a peek, I glimpsed an outline moving vigorously on the couch. My eyes adjusted and feel upon the innocent horror writhing in the darkness.

Malcolm lay on the couch, belly down, arms lifeless at his side, head turned to the TV, entranced, oblivious. Mardi was hunched on his back in a full death grip, humping away and hair flying.

“Noooooo! MARDI, NO!”

“Maaaoom, don’t yell! She is shivering because she is cold. Duh,” Malcolm muttered.

With a swipe of my hand, not only did she back off, but Mardi left me with a very interesting conversation distinguishing the difference between shivering, and domination.

Hey, it could have been worse.

August 6, 2017 1

The Perpetual Dance Party

Yesterday, after finally being relinquished from duty, I slouched on the couch and began surfing through the outlets on my phone. I came across a Facebook post inquiring, “Did you know today is Middle Child Day? Probably didn’t until now. It’s okay, we’re used to it.”

Oooo Snap. Got me there.

Not that I would intentionally celebrate Middle Child Day as some sort of extra holiday to make up for the fact that Yes, you do get forgotten about, because to be honest, at some point, they all do. But it did trigger me to ponder Malcolm.

Why don’t I worry about him? Why do I feel like I can just let that one slide because, he has a good head on his shoulders?

I don’t even think twice about him holding his own, since he is so strong, level headed and easily walks away from bad situations. Even though he has an unhealthy admiration for his big brother, I know not only could he whoop him, but he would be the first to make things right afterward.

Perhaps I have a false sense of security concerning him and I will have to watch that. But the fact is, I have learned his tell. When he feels low, if something is truly wrong, he listens to music, drifts away and dances.

When he was a year and half, we had our first dance party around Christmas. Until this moment, his world revolved around Wheels. When the music started, I cranked it up and began dancing wildly. His eyes lit up. His knees bent up, down, up, down and tried to jump. He ran screaming in circles, like an animal just released for the first time since captivity, breathing in freedom. And when his older brother shouted “I got something cool, watch this” and dropped bare bum trou… Malcolm, lost in his new moves, didn’t notice everyone’s horrified gasps or Paw Paw’s dulcet “Oh Dear.” He just kept dancing.

California took a toll on Malcolm; he was bullied profusely in preschool and struggled with being stripped from familiarity. He regressed in potty training and language. At this time, we shook off the dust of an old CD player and handed it to him. His eyes lit. His favorite “jam”, I’m a little Tea Pot, would play loud when he was happy, and soft when he needed a hug. Entering his room, he would be staring at his player, waiting for a consoling chat.

Upon moving home, his interest in music and desire to let it replace his emotions and pour from his body, surged when introduced to dance music. Nervous about starting a new Pre-K and what was to come, he asked for a dance party every night until he felt safe at school. Bass Cannon, Daylight, Hello, Harlem Shake, New York would blare through the house, his feet moving in unison to the beat. Sashays, spins, splits, break dance back spins, jumps, booty shakes, and swing naturally took over his spirit and made him feel whole. Only stopping when red, sweaty, and calm.

After each session, his once insecure face had light again. He was sure of himself. Released from whatever gloom had consumed his mind, and made free.

Impressed with his natural rhythm, I suggested he take dance class but no, “I do it just for me, mom.” Can’t argue with that.

So why don’t I worry about Malcolm?

Unlike Wheels or Stewie, obviously, Malcolm has found a way to tap into his feelings. He was forced to early. He isn’t afraid or ashamed to tell you he is upset. And he wants you with him while he works through it.

And if his chosen way, thus far, is to bust a move, I am all in!

May 19, 2017 0

Give ‘Em the “Have you ever danced with the Devil in the pale moonlight?” Eyes and Follow Through!

Malcolm, my son in the middle, has consistently been the most thoughtful and caring of my three sons. He is aware of how you are feeling and how others make you feel; which does not mean he will act upon what he sees, for he has a stubborn introverted personality. However, his random acts of kindness and understanding when you least expect it, have always been a bright spot of pride for me.

On Monday, while taxiing the kids to their various schools, I mentioned off hand “to look in your closets tonight for something red to wear on Wednesday in support of women.”

“Mom, why red and why are we supporting women,” Wheels asked, always first with a question.

“Well hon, currently women are having to fight to keep some of their rights they have earned and also across our country women generally get paid less than men simply for being a woman. Not to mention some men think they can do anything they want to women because they ‘own’ them or are better than them,” I explained as simply as I could to a 7 and 5 year old.

“So, equality?” asked Wheels.

“Simply, yes.”

Feeling satisfied in my explanation of the cause and proud my boys got it, I let the peacefulness resonate throughout the car. I did gooood. I am passing on the power of both women and fighting for what you believe you in to my young boys. Molding them into men, respectful of women. Chivalry with a modern twist. A deep exhale emanated from my chest when a little voice rose…

“Eh, I know women aren’t equal to me. Never will be,” Malcolm matter of factually mused while calmly gazing out the window.

BOOOOOOM!

My mind was blown. What did he say? NO… not him. I looked back through the rear view mirror and Wheels was peaking from behind the middle row looking into my eyes and gesturing his head toward Malcolm who was still staring out the window. Ok. Ok. Stay cool. Don’t blow. Ask what he meant and I am sure there is a simple explanation. One way better than my sweet little thoughtful guy is a hidden male chauvinist!

We pulled into his preschool parking lot, I turned to face him and calmly asked him to explain.

His voice spouted in an eye rolling duh tone, “Mom, none of the girls run faster than me at my school. I don’t think they are smarter than me either. I don’t even know what women do. I just think I, and all boys, are better!”

Then it happened. A tense silence filled the car. Stewey stopped sucking his pacifier, Wheels ducked down hiding completely from view, and I could feel my eyes grow wild, wide, twitching with the new knowledge of my son’s honesty and ignorance. His impending doom was mine… mine alone… my precious. And I will deal with him as I see fit!

I closed my eyes and said, “On Wednesday, you will learn what women do. Allll day. Your job will be mine. You,” my finger coming up in a severe point, “will do everything, and you, will acknowledge every woman in your life on that day and thank them. I haven’t thought it all up yet, but I will. By the time you get home from school!” I leaned toward him still pointing, “Come Wednesday, be prepared.”

Wheels interrupted, “Hey! Hey! That is just him, right ? Not me. I love women! They are so beautiful and magical! I love them!”

“Wheels, that comment is barely a step above what Malcolm said! Yes, this goes for you too. Magical!? Now go to school!”

On International Women’s Day, I never worked so hard at not working. Those boys wore red, extracted Stewey from his crib, changed his diapers, dressed him, made his breakfast first, then made theirs, made their own lunch and checked their bags, made my coffee, fed Bert, instructed me on driving directions to their schools, took a red flower to each of their teachers and gymnastics teachers with a ribbon attached that said “Thank you in honor of a day without Women,” made dinner and dessert, read Stewey books for bed, and cleaned their bathroom. I was exhausted!

While tucking them into bed separately, I told them how proud I was of their being a “woman”. I explained, Even though you may not fully understand what today was about, understand this, your entire day was filled with only women contributing to your academic, athletic, and societal success. Eighty-fiveish percent of your future education, will be provided to you by gracious women. You don’t have to understand it all, but just recognize how women shape you and your dreams.

March 11, 2017 0

Mom-dern Vignettes

hopefully hilarious life outtakes and mom fails

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