Monday, June 20, 2011

Insecurity blanket


June has just declared detente with her second cold.

While it was certainly more, um, productive than the first in terms of mucous output, it was pretty mild. Save for one night, she slept fine, was in a great mood, and it remained in her sinus cavity. Nothing in the ears, lungs or throat. I'm very thankful for that.

There was one big beef poor June had with her malady, however.

Kleenex.

For a baby unaffected by most things that would upset a child (loud noises, whacking herself in the head with a toy, the administering of a rectal thermometer and the like), Kleenex is her undoing. It got to the point where she would simply see me pull one from the box and start to recoil.

I had a thought: this must be why the white sheet became the symbol of surrender -- deep-seeded issues arising from infant colds.

My dad, watching her writhe and bellow while I grasped her sturdy cheeks with Kleenex in hand, offered a typically wise observation.

"This must be where insecurities come from."

So, so true. Here's a lady (me) who has made it her life's work to do nothing but good for this child (June). Feeding her when hungry, comforting her when upset, hand-picking dog hairs from her toys when they become unrecognizably hirsute. Suddenly I approach her with the Dreaded White Thing and intentionally annoy the crap out of her. She doesn't realize it's for her own good (and for, admittedly, my snot phobia). All she thinks is, "Well, this sucks. Thanks for nothing."

I think about those kids we all knew in grade school -- the ones who, on their healthiest day, had two streams of snot the width of PVC piping shellacked to the underside of their nostrils. Is this going to be June? So scarred from her mother's persistent nose wiping that she chooses to eschew it altogether? I shudder at the thought.

Then I think about myself, and the fact that there is no shortage of insecurities rolling around in my dome -- most of them tied to a specific moment in time and burned into my memory. Let us take a look back, shall we?

Insecurity No. 1: My obsession with clothes.

As I've mentioned before, this one didn't exactly yield an impeccable sense of style. While I may stew about what I wear (and fantasize about outfits as I drift off to sleep at night), I normally don't look particularly good. Take today, for instance. I changed three times getting dressed this morning. Three times. What wearable golden egg emerged victorious? A stained skirt and a shirt so stretched in the bustline that I can just whip one out without adjusting any clothing. No, I'm not going anywhere, and yes, it made functional sense, but three times? Three times??

I remember doing something similar in 7th grade on the day I was to visit New Trier High School (what a joke that was -- like that was ever even a fleeting option). I had been thinking about what I was going to wear that day for weeks. New Trier was a fashion mecca of pegged jeans, hemp ponchos and crystal pendants. How do I, with the austere wardrobe typical of the uniformed, compete with that? When that morning finally rolled around I chickened out of dazzling all those boys with my authentic Jeremy Roenick jersey and opted for the invisible look: jeans, a giant green v-neck sweater and a white turtleneck. And not even my "good" white turtleneck. I had to secure it with a safety pin so the collar would hug my neck just so. My guide for the day, Jillian Abruzzo (name changed), wore white jeans, a chambray shirt, and, as I discovered when she changed for gym, a real bra with lace on it and everything. My mind was blown and I, deep down, thanked Jesus for my predetermined path to single-sex Catholic high school education. I was just not ready for the level of sartorial responsibility coeducational schooling demanded.

Anyway, the insecurity can all be traced to one definitive moment.

Picture it: OLPH Preschool. Glenview, Ill. 1981. A gaggle of girls standing in a hallway talking before Miss DePrima ushers the group into her classroom. One of the girls' mother approaches.

"Oh, look at all you girls in your pretty dresses!"

Little Kerry beams, then panics, looking down to find that she is NOT wearing a pretty dress, but instead a pair of purple overalls and a heart-studded turtleneck.

Cue a lifetime of clothing anxiety dreams, wardrobe regret and the ability to remember what I wore on just about any given day of my life.

Insecurity No. 2: The wearing of makeup every day*.

Now, It's not a face full of foundation and an eyeliner beauty mark, or wearing makeup to the gym (if I went to the gym), I'm talking a little mascara, a little concealer, a little Benefit Dandelion to give June something un-wretched to look at. It's part of my routine and if it makes me feel a little better, then why not, right?

*Every day is a bit of a stretch, as there are plenty of occasions where this ritual gets shirked. But most days is accurate. And if you have seen the photos of the morning of June's birth and the mascara on my tear-streaked cheek, then you get the idea. Although, in my defense, I went in to labor when we were out to dinner so I didn't exactly rush home to prep my skin. Anyway.

I trace this one back to the following. It was on or around my 13th birthday when my mom felt I was old enough to handle the heavy journalism and ensuing body image problems of Seventeen Magazine. She brought it home from the grocery store and presented it with grandeur, cognizant of the life-altering power it possessed. I was elated. Having recently discovered the joys of scented lotions (see No. 3), it was like they had run those Love's BabySoft ads for me alone. I scanned the table of contents: "Does He Like You?" -- who cares. "Your Changing Body" -- gross. "Zap That Zit in a Hurry" -- my hands couldn't work fast enough to find that page.

It was between that generous review of "Return to the Blue Lagoon" and the box ad for those deodorant crystals that I found a story about a pair of modeling sisters. They loved one another (lies), and did everything together (serious lies) and stumbled into modeling when they were discovered on the beach near their California home (oh, come on). The younger of the two, also 13, was breathtaking. Straight, sunkissed hair, a smooth bronze sheen to her skin, perfectly aligned Tic-Tac teeth. I closed my eyes and summoned the power of all the beauty gods to find a visage like this little bitch's when I opened them again. Instead I found a head of hair like David St. Hubbins', including some big-mistake bangs I had recently cut myself, a gray pallor and a grill full of sideways horse teeth.

I burst into tears.

This girl upset me so much that my mom, who had since surprised me with an entire subscription to Seventeen, threatened to cancel it if it was going to continue to affect me this way. No! No! No! It can handle it, I told her. I needed this magazine now. I was one UPC code away from the free Caboodles gift set.

Rather than letting the teen model bring me to ruin, I channeled the negative energy and decided to put it to good use. I sneaked into my sister's room, rifled through her makeup bag and produced a free-gift-with-purchase-sized compact of Clinique blush in Totally Tawny. I ground the included brush into its cakey constitution and applied it with such gusto that I split the brush hairs in two and could feel the brush's metal anchor scraping my skin. Forehead. Cheeks. Chin. Nose. Eyelids. Heck, neck too. Why not. I admired my creation in the mirror. I looked tan, beachy, like a sun goddess.

Meg walked into her room, pissed. We were headed to a graduation party for her and her friend and this was not what she wanted accompanying her. I assumed it was because I looked so good.

"What the hell are you doing? Get out of my room! And you look like you got burned in an industrial accident."

So much for that.

It's being applied with a much lighter hand these days, but it's still being applied.

And I know now I'm totally not a Totally Tawny.

Insecurity No. 3: The need to smell good.

This stemmed from what I like to call "The Horse Days." I'm talkin' interest in horses as well as a resemblance to horses.

And apparently an odor reminiscent of horses.

It was a love not unlike what so many other girls experience at the onset of adolescence -- the horse love. I have no idea why. Is it their majestic beauty? The aristocratic airs horse people have? A communion with nature? The fact that, unlike boys, horses will love any old sadsack who flat-palms them a carrot? I'm guessing that one.

Whatever it was, I BEGGED my parents for horseback riding lessons. After years I finally wore them down and I was treated to a two-week summertime riding camp at the Horse Forum in some northern suburb I'm forgetting now. For the first week I threw up every day, and by the end of the second week I realized what terrifying, pissy animals horses are and that put an end to that obsession.

But it was sometime during my Horse Forum days, before I saw a horse bite Lizzie O'Rourke in the chest and thus get turned off from the hobby permanently, that I was with my dad at the Winnetka Village Toy Shop and was able to successfully lobby a Breyer model horse -- a Pinto pony, if you're wondering -- out of the visit. In a gesture of thanks, I threw my arms around his neck and gave him a big, genuine hug.

Only later did my mom delicately explain to me that my dad said the hug was a rather musky, equine one and perhaps I should think about showering after returning from camp. She handed me a stick of Avon deodorant that had come in a gift pack she scored for half-price the day after Nite Lites, and suggested maybe it was time. For the record, I would have been better off with the crystals in Seventeen Magazine. That deodorant was a joke. Anyway, I was pretty shook-up by the whole ordeal and committed to not only not smelling bad, but smelling almost offensively good at all times. Lotions. Potions. Perfumes. Shower gels. Soaps. It's an affliction that follows me to this very day. This morning, with my stained skirt and light makeup application, I am enshrouded in a subtle mist of Hawaiian Pikake flower essence. It is delightful.

So very long story short, the littlest things have the biggest impacts.

And, please Lord, may June take after her insecurity-free father in this respect.

Thursday, June 16, 2011

Back that thing up.


I have a new appreciation for doctors.

Granted, I've always had an appreciation for doctors but now I value them even more because that job sucks. Yeah, they get paid a lot, but they deserve it. Think about it: they're dealing with puss and veins and kids' snot, three of the grossest substances / presences on the planet, people do nothing but complain to them, they're just sitting down to dinner and their beeper goes off because some paranoid mom such as yours truly has a child with the sniffles, and they spend all day in a windowless office wearing rubber gloves. I hate rubber gloves. I should amend my earlier statement about puss and veins and kids' snot to include rubber gloves. God, I'm getting the heebie jeebies just thinking about them.

And even during well visits, you're never talking about good stuff. They just sit there rattling off the list of maladies you may have had or may very well will have before the clock runs out. High blood pressure? Thyroid problems? A family history of rickets? They never ask you if your hair has gotten any thicker or if you discovered you have a high tolerance for expired food, or something else equally cool. The conversation always winds up a downer.

When I was in my preteen years I thought I wanted to be a dermatologist, under the impression that I could wear a white lab coat and design skincare regimens for celebrity clients. Then I found out it's mostly lancing boils and parting butt cheeks on the hunt for precancerous moles. Survey says? No dice.

This comes on the heels of several unplanned doctors appointments in the last few weeks. There was one for June while in Winnetka, in which a sweet pediatrician accommodated our transient selves to give us the blessing that June, with her cold, was well enough to fly. Then there was another while in Winnetka, only for me, during which I flashed a nurse-midwife, causing her to wince (I'll get to that in a second), and the third was here in New Hampshire, when I visited the poor physician who had to go poking around, um, downstairs to determine whether or not I had hemorrhoids. I referenced this in an earlier post.

I know what you're thinking -- "Uh, gross." I realize no one wants to read about my butt. No one. Least of whom, my husband. But I was begging him to indulge me in a little discussion on the matter. He didn't want to hear about my infected black fly bites, so why in sweet baby Jesus' name would he want to hear about rectal bleeding? Unfortunately his wishes were not heeded and he not only had to hear about it, he had to buy me Preparation H.

Before I go on, let me tell you I DO NOT, I repeat, DO NOT have hemorrhoids. Turns out all the fuss was over a very minor irritation that arose from childbirth. Nothing to it, nothing required. And for those ladies expecting their first children, embrace the possibility of a) this sort of thing happening to you, and b) this disturbing comfort level in discussing these sorts of things also happening to you.

And I believe this could be of help -- or at least for a good "been there, done that" chuckle to some of you -- as I believe most of my readers are moms themselves. And a 63-year-old father of mine. And potentially one or two Catholic priests. But I digress...

I think this was the most surprising part of this whole ordeal: I had this poor doctor's finger up my butt and I didn't bat an eye. One minute we were talking about his visit to Saddam's palace while he was stationed in Iraq, and the next he was a couple inches away from tossing my salad. I listened, I cracked jokes (what else can you do?) and I shook his hand at the end (ha) of it all. He used terms like "bottom" and "fanny" and I countered with "butt" and "booty." I remarked that this was a helluva way to kick off a Friday. He told me he liked my story that had run in the paper that morning.

I have to give a lot of credit to pregnancy and childbirth for giving my modesty a kick in the pants. The whole "drop your drawers, and spread 'em" directive is so ho-hum that I'll do it at the dentist if I have to. Would you like me to hold the light in place for you, Doctor? Skooch in any particular direction? Point to the trouble zone on that medical poster of a woman's bottom half? Help me help you.

Don't get me wrong, the experience was still thoroughly awkward, especially since I was convinced I had the H-word (what Greg insisted I call it) when in fact I had nonesuch. How one goes about experiencing a false positive for hemorrhoids I may never know, but I did it. Clearly I've never had hemorrhoids before or I would have done a better job of identifying the problem. In the meantime, I needed a doctor who had confronted more carnage in the pit of Sadr City to tell me I was healthy and to eat more fiber. Thank God for that $0 copay.

For those of you who have stuck with me this far, thank you. For all the others who have navigated away from this page in favor of that Web site with the live feed of those Akita puppies, I hope you will return.

In related news, the more recent doctor's visit was for mastitis. Or as I described to my dad, who promptly put his fingers in his ears and started ululating, "an infection of the hooter." Which is almost intolerable soreness and a red stripey presence that looks like someone cold-cocked the underside of my tatty. I have loved breastfeeding so far. Honestly, it's been wonderful. The bonding, the health benefits for June, the convenience, the savings, the assistance in the weight loss -- I'd do it forever if that wasn't creepy. This is the first hiccup and I attributed it to the fact that I wasn't pumping while I was in Winnetka. Or maybe it was an ill-fitting nursing bra. Or maybe my "era of good boob feelings" time was up. Either way, I got some horse pills that make my mouth taste like I've been eating mulch and I'm almost 100 percent better.

Point being, very little grosses me out anymore.

You wish you could say the same about this post, huh?


(And happy father's day to my blessed husband, father, fathers-in-law, late grandfathers ... and all the other guys out there who showed up and then some.)

Monday, June 6, 2011

Peaks and valleys


A month? I haven't posted in a month?

For shame.

Sorry folks (uh, mom). It's been quite the four weeks. First my parents were in town, (good!), then my grandfather died (bad). After that I thought I had hemorrhoids (bad), but it turns out I didn't (good!). And how does someone think they have hemorrhoids but actually be in possession of blessedly normal bowels? (bad... and good?) Anyway, then I got slammed with freelance work (good!), but got an insurance bill for over $9,000 for June's birth. Uh, bad. But as I suspected, we were billed in error. Good.

Very good.

But now I sit with a few minutes to spare, listening to the tickticktick of the kitchen timer laying in wait for the roast chicken and potatoes in the oven. Beautiful baby's in bed, sun's slipping away behind the hills, husband's chatting on the phone, cool summer breeze is creeping in through the windows. It's a jeans-and-flipflops kinda night. I love the roasting, stifling heat of a Chicago summer's eve (uh huh huh), but this is pretty nice, too.

As I mentioned, my grandfather died several weeks ago. He was 94. It was neither tragic in the untimely sense, nor terribly sudden, nor greeted with the wash of regret over missed opportunities a lot of folks feel when an elderly loved one passes. Spoose knew precisely how I felt about him, and God bless his kind heart, I knew precisely how he felt about me.

It's very weird that he's gone. Dad and I kept repeating those words when we were in Winnetka a few weeks ago. How is that possible? He's here, then he isn't? But I just talked to him? He just told me he couldn't carry my shoes (but he effed up and said "I couldn't carry your jock" ... then started laughing really hard. "I haven't said that since I was in the service!" he said. Which got me thinking, what the hell was he telling guys in the service that for anyway? That's awfully, um, loaded.)The point stands -- and as Trish said when I wrote to tell her, "Moose and Spoose always felt strangely immortal to me." And how. Sure he had his "spells," or, you know, had one ear, but he was with it, and funny, and sweet. It's easy to ignore the fact that he was repeating himself, when he's telling you how much he loves you.

Spoose's death is hitting me in waves. The morning I found out was one wave, the night of his funeral was another. I had a good cry the other day when I finally grew the balls to re-watch the video my dad made months ago when he met June for the first time, and a couple Saturdays ago when my spectacular and oddly-dialed-in-to-the-cosmos mother-in-law, Sharon, told me about the vivid dream she had of her own beloved grandfather. "I was thinking about what you said to me after your grandfather died," she said in her whispery-sweet voice. "Where does that energy go?" My guess is the only place we're not too distracted to give that energy a platform: the zzzz's.

I'm hoping for a dream like Sharon had -- one where he appears with a smile, gives me a hug, tells me I'm "the greatest", and is so vivid that I could feel the nubby wool of his soup-stained John Gardner's Tennis Ranch jacket. But Sharon's grandfather died decades ago, so I guess I ought to be patient and grateful for when it does come.

I did dream the other day that we were with him, but he wasn't doing so well. We were at a grocery store, he was talking to a bag boy and then fell -- he closed his eyes and that was it. I woke up.

June and I were back in Winnetka last week for a planned visit. June got sick, as did I, so we spent the last two days of our trip either at the doctor's or trying to get an appointment. We didn't see Moose until our last day when she stopped by, looking cute in her skinny jeans and oxford shirt and driving that death trap of a Pontiac with no working seatbelts. She looked great, was funny and loving, but there was a sadness to her. Hey, she had Spoose around for 67 years so what do we expect? She said several times as we were talking, "It's so quiet. I pretend he's on a trip." I'm sure psychiatrists would recommend confronting the loss and working through it in order to process the grief and move on. I said to her do whatever helps you sleep at night. If it's pretending he's still around, why not. She's 89. She's had enough pain and loss in her life. She's also had a tremendous amount of joy and laughter. Whatever she did to rectify the bad stuff in the past has worked.

I'm not so good at pretending he's still around, because he's simply not. But it's strange living so far away and attempting to accept it. His death is difficult to confront because I am not around to really sense his absence. In some respects I feel like I can get in touch with him a little more easily now. I find myself quoting him a lot more. Talking about him a lot more. Talking to him a lot more. I know folks who had lousy grandparents so their death never had an impact. It's like when the face fell off the Old Man of the Mountain here in New Hampshire. This community built an identity around this presence, but now the presence is gone. Folks thought, "Well, now what?" The identity is still there, but the face has changed. The only difference is this sucks more.

I had Spoose for 33 years. That's remarkable for anyone in terms of a grandparent. A week before he died mom and dad were here visiting and dad and I spent some time after dinner one night talking about Spoose's war service. He was a pack rat -- not a hoarder -- but someone who held on to seemingly meaningless stuff. But when he returned from his time at sea on the escort ship, he got rid of all his military belongings. No hats, no papers, no jackets. He gave some away, tossed the rest. That part of his life was over and he was ready to move on.

Dad told me that he heard from a friend who was at the funeral who witnessed something pretty spectacular. Right before the eulogies started June began to get a little squirmy. Greg got up from our front row pew and made his way down the center aisle toward the back of church with our baby as "Mountains of Mourne," an old Irish song and one of Spoose's favorites, was played by the musicians. Dad's friend said June was beaming the whole way back, and looking up toward the ceiling, her huge blue eyes affixed on something worthwhile. It was a powerful sight, the friend said.

It's instances like that that has me convinced his "energy" is still floating around. I walked through our house today and, I swear, I could smell him -- that comforting blend of dryer sheets, the ocean in Southern California and the faintest traces of Moose's "Charlie" perfume. He's not here, but in some respects he's here more than ever.

The face of that mountain may have changed, but the mountain is still worth visiting.