- It's Like Angry Sex...Only, Tastes Better (Nov/Dec 2005)
- Coming of Age and Reasonable Doubt (September 2005)
- Reservation for Six (July 2005)
- Falling In and Out of Love With Your Father (June 2005)
- I Am The Alpha Mom . . . (May 2005)
- Growing Old With Nagy Mama (April 2005)
- Talk Dirty to Me! (March 2005)
- My Brother's Wife (February 2005)
- The Year I Fed My Husband Chicken (January 2005)
- A Christmas Without Uncle Bud (December 2004)
- 'Tis the Season to be S.A.D. (November 2004)
- My Two Breast Friends (October 2004)
- What to Expect When You're Not Expecting Anymore (September 2004)
- Warning: Motherhood May be Dangerous to Your Health (August 2004)
- Bound by Passion (July 2004)
- Lost in Transition (June 2004)
- Don't Hate Me Because I'm Maternal (May 2004)
- The Ring Around Motherhood (April 2004)
- Minor Distractions & Misdemeanors (March 2004)
- Annette, Meg, and Me (February 2004)
- Best of Both Worlds (January 2004)
- Gift-Worthy (December 2003)
- Yes, They're All Mine (November 2003)
Showing posts with label This Full House. Show all posts
Showing posts with label This Full House. Show all posts
Elizabeth Katkics Thompson
THIS FULL HOUSE:
It's Like Angry Sex...Only, Tastes Better
By Elizabeth Katkics ThompsonThere’s this place I know, out-of-the-way although easily reached, where the sky meets the earth in the midst of gentle rolling hills dressed in soothing shades of green and lavender.
Soothing currents of air, sweetly scented in herbs and berries, gently intersect amid shade and stippled rays of sunshine that fracture the shadows with multi-colored warmth that rouse the little hairs on the back of the neck.
There is peace, and quiet. And happiness abounds.
You can’t get there by car, bus or train and need not pack a bag or a map, because it’s never in the same spot except easy to find.
**heavy sigh**
It’s my happy place.
When I lose all sense of control and nothing seems to go right -- and I’m not right, so the kids are not right -- I go to my happy place.
The kitchen.
**dog begins to bark**
“Daddy’s home!”
**slamming front door**
“Where’s Mommy?”
**banging pots**
“Nevermind.”
**walks into kitchen and loosens tie**
“Any news about Mom?”
**wiping brow, adjusting all four burners to full blast**
Here’s the thing – I’ve spent the last twelve years raising four children and killer dust bunnies – I cannot speak a complete and coherent sentence, consecutively.
I mean, in my mind, it makes absolute and total sense. But, one way or another, the words begin mingling with thoughts and, wel, listen:
“They’re releasing her from the hospital today….they can’t tell me what’s wrong with her….but they’re sending her home….called the cardiologist myself…test results aren’t all in….and he’s sending her home….should have some answers in a couple of days….told me not to worry….can’t tell me why I shouldn’t….should have some answers soon….did I mention that they’re sending her home today?”
**ears begin to ring**
“Maybe it’s her heart, maybe not….”
**warning lights begin to flash**
“….I’m thinking…lips turning purple and fingertips turning blue…definitely not good!”
**lips quiver and hands begin to buzz**
“Telling me not to worry….WTF am I supposed to do….sit here…take his word for it and watch everything turn to shit?!?”
**all system shut down…and I am re-routed to happy place**
“We’re having steamed chicken with fresh tomato, garlic and basil salsa. Cauliflower mashed with butter and chives with a loaf of crusty bread on the side. And for dessert, I made you some of my tiramisu. Oh, and I made a pot of chicken soup to take to Mom tomorrow.”
**blank stare**
“What?”
**shakes head**
“You’re nuts!” He says.
And my happy place quickly dissolved into sweltering house overflowing with empty DVD covers and snack food wrappers, bits and pieces of Polly Pockets and dried-up Play Doh, kitchen scraps, empty grocery bags and used mixing bowls.
But the smells were heavenly!!
And I shrugged my shoulders, grabbed my husband by his collar and kissed him deeply. You see, my husband is on a mission -- an ongoing quest it seems -- to successfully synchronize our sex drives.
Lately, we suck.
I don’t mean to imply that we do this in a sexual manner or that it’s not for the lack of wanting.
Our timing is a little off, that’s all.
Most days my husband and I meet at our coffee maker, giggling, whispering and openly flirting with each other.
“Ooooh, you smell good!”
“Yeah, and do I look as good as I smell?”
“Oh yeah – and I bet you taste just as good too!”
“Just wait ‘til tonight!”
And we’d give each other a playful grope before heading in two different directions.
I’d go about my day, typically spent behind the wheel of our minivan, feeling all saucy; my husband would sit behind his desk and fantasize on what exactly it is I have planned for him for the night.
Psst, after 15 years of marriage, I can still be very…um…creative.
We’d sail through supper, rush through baths and homework -- giving each other sexy glances and sometimes a sexual innuendo or two -- skip story time and tuck our four kiddies in for the night.
After all, we’ve waited all day for just the right moment. The children are visibly asleep. We turn down the lights. We get all cozy…and then swiftly fall asleep.
To be honest -- after a full day of coping with tons of extended family issues, cajoling four unhappy children and juggling a book of nasty customers (or visa-versa) -- even the best laid plans are usually the only thing getting…you know…around this full house.
Oh well.
Later, watching the kids clean the last of their plates and listening to their praises of, “That chicken soup was awesome,” and “You are the best cooker, ever,” I sipped on a deliciously crispy glass of chardonnay and found myself feeling pleasantly full.
“How was dinner?”
**taking the last of my bread**
“Great! But, you didn’t have to cook on such a hot day.”
**finishing my wine**
“You know how I get….when I’m all nervous or pissed off….I have to cook!”
**shaking his head**
“Yeah, I’m sorry you feel so shitty, but it’s like, I’m sort of excited, too.” He says.
**synchronizing watches**
“At least, I know I’ll be eating well for the next couple of days.”
**laughing and snorting wine through my nose**
“Yeah, it’s kind of like angry sex….only….it tastes better!”
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Copyright 2005 Elizabeth Katkics-Thompson
Elizabeth Katkics-Thompson is a mother to four children and has been married for 13 years to her husband, Pete. Liz also writes a weekly column entitled, Married With A Whole Lot of Children at Just For Mom and has had essays posted at The Imperfect Parent. You can read the ongoing adventures of her life at This Full House, the blog. Liz lives and writes in New Jersey.
Coming of Age and Reasonable Doubt
By Elizabeth Katkics Thompson
“Quick…she’s here!”
“Guys, carpooling mom is here!”
**the dog stretches and blows one**
“Turn off the television…grab your backpacks…don’t forget your jackets, lunches and anything else you need on a Monday…and GET OUT!”
Next comes the running of many feet, followed by a few air kisses, as the dog begins to bark, the door slams and the picture frames bounce on the wall in a haze of dust and dander.
Thus begins another a Monday -- a new week of orientations, bake sales and cramming for end of the school year tests that will either make or break the grade – and the inevitable end of my patience!
Is it me -- does the end of the school year get super crazy -- or what?
And, with four kids in four different schools this year, I can’t help but think, “Holy crap!”
Can it get any crazier?
And this is where each and every one of you with children -- whether you are single, married, employed or whatever -- inserts a, “Hell yes!” Because, regardless of how concerned or indifferent we may feel about things, if it’s not one thing, it’s going to be another.
Shit happens!
And…Dayum! If there’s not a whole lot of shit out there to go around.
Multiply that by four kids and I’m looking for the nearest thing to a shovel I can get my hands on.
There’s been a lot of…you know…big changes going on here, lately, and I’ll be honest with you –- as always –- I don’t know if I’m coming or going –- again, and like always.
A sufficient amount that, rather than signing her up for nursery school, I decided to keep my four-year- old home with me this passed year because…well…she’s my youngest…and they grow so quickly…especially once they start school. I felt as if I needed to…you know…get to know her a little better.
Does that make any sense to you?
Perhaps not, but suffice it to say that signing her up for pre-Kindergarten last month was a whole heck of a lot easier.
Keeping up with my crazy schedule, and a four-year-old happy, has proved to be quite taxing. She and I need a break from each other and I believe that four afternoons come September would be a welcome change for the both of us.
Halfway through the orientation visit, and participating in their circle time by spelling her name, “H-O-P-E, but just call me Hopey, ‘cause ev-wee one duz!” it was apparent to everyone, including me, that she was very ready to start her journey towards independence, and that I was not. Because I spent most of the morning, turning towards either the dinosaur center or the craft table, wiping at my eyes in a constant effort to compose myself.
What is wrong with me?
Yes, I know, I’ve recently turned 41 and have read a sufficient amount of information concerning the onslaught of pre-menopause -- not to mention the added burdens of stress and water weight gain -- enough to fill and confuse an elephant.
No pun intended.
And then there’s dealing with my father’s retirement –- or, more accurately, the complexity of his inability to do so – and considering both my mother’s and father’s failing health, I’ve been trying to balance nurturing my children and planning for my parents future, as well.
I’m not complaining, mind you.
Although I find myself feeling exhausted and overwhelmed with very little time on my hands, more often than not, I can’t help but believe that I owe them as much.
It’s hard to explain.
How do I accurately find words, for the sense of urgency I experience whenever I think of my parents, which will seem logical or make sense to anyone else but me or, quite possibly, to my brother?
Oh, I could easily relate stories of my parents growing up with little food, or very little else, in Eastern Europe. How my grandparents -- two of whom weren’t educated beyond the third grade and another widowed with three children and forced to marry a second time unhappily out of convenience -- were left with little choice but to raise their children in an atmosphere of constant struggle and serious emotional imbalance.
I can imagine my father running out of school, and almost hear the awful whistling warning of imminent danger, as he and the rest of his classmates frantically made their way to safety, underground. I can almost smell the peanut butter -- dropped by the American Red Cross -- and imagine its taste on fresh baked bread, that my four-year-old mother DID NOT HAVE to bring to school, and the teacher’s chilly voice, dripping with insensitivity, saying, “And what am I supposed to spread this on; your hands?”
But, I can’t imagine their terror or the hunger they felt.
Because, I never had to.
As fate would have it, they were given the chance to choose a different life for their children. They worked hard, made sacrifices and always made it a point -- even though finances were always a struggle –- never failed to make my brother and I feel as if anything were possible; unfortunately, leaving very little savings for their future.
So, yeah, everyone’s got problems and the world may not be a better place, but there’s very little I can do to change that -- and even though I’m grown and have children of my own, I still need to learn that I can’t be everything to everybody. Still, how can I not, at least, try to give a little something back?
I owe them that.
“Hope is more than welcome to stay for lunch today.”
The assistant teacher’s voice surprised me and I shook my head a little which, I was sure, made me seem totally disorientated and not just a basket case.
“No, but, thanks very much.”
**looking at watch**
“I’ve got to make an appointment for her.”
**eyes go wide**
“Oh, is Hope not feeling well?”
**confused look**
“Oh! Um…no…I’ve got to make an appointment for my mother and take my father to the doctor.”
Now, she looked just as confused as I did.
“A child’s work is never done, eh?”
And, as I type this, my parents are closing on a place I found for them, in a happy little adult community, where I’m hoping they will spend the rest of whatever time they have left together, happily, and perhaps will afford them the time to take care of themselves.
It may not be the most earth-shattering or environmentally important news, ever -- just as my son’s losing his first tooth soon after my oldest daughter’s getting her first period may not matter in the grand scheme of things –- it’s but a small step towards my coming of age.
And that, my friends, is what life is all about.
I think?
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Copyright 2005 Elizabeth Katkics-Thompson
Elizabeth Katkics-Thompson is a mother to four children and has been married for 13 years to her husband, Pete. Liz also writes a weekly column entitled, Married With A Whole Lot of Children at Just For Mom and has had essays posted at The Imperfect Parent. You can read the ongoing adventures of her life at This Full House, the blog. Liz lives and writes in New Jersey.
Reservation for Six
By Elizabeth Katkics Thompson
Wrapped tightly in a light comforter and waking to crispy blue skies reminiscent of a morning in early October, a blessed relief from the wetness of a typical summer’s day in New Jersey, I considered the day a gift. We had plans to go somewhere I promised I would never step foot in again -- except under the influence of, well, anything provided it be anesthetic in nature, really -- especially on a hot and humid day in July.
An environment I fear and consider more intimidating than any PTO meeting, scarier than any civil office and more nerve-wracking than taking a cross-country trip with a car full of hungry and very bored children.
I remember the date well -- July 14, 2004 -- we had tickets to a theme park.
*shudder*
It’s not that I have anything against them personally (theme parks, I mean). I’ve been to Six Flags many times and loved it -- B.C. (before children) -- I’ve even gone with children, though the last time was seven years and two turns of potty training ago. Nor do I put myself above anyone holding a season pass. However, if I had to sit down and actually do the math:
$60.00 (x) 4 regular admissions
$45.00 (x) 2 junior admissions
Add in another two months worth of my husband’s paycheck for food, drinks, and an occasional trinket or two, and I start getting the cold sweats.
And then there’s -- oh, how should I word this without offending anyone? Okay, the whole dealing with people, thing. And don’t pretend you don’t know what I mean. But, I cannot stomach rudeness, dozens of whiney children who are not mine, or the parents that believe theirs are the only ones worthy of a good time. And excuse me because I’m pushing a double stroller that can’t turn on a dime!
Oh, and the whole waiting on line, thing -- two hours f standing for 30 seconds of sitting -- on a Saturday?
Nope, not my idea of a fun time.
The firm my mother works for was holding their annual family picnic at Six Flags Great Adventure, so imagine her excitement when she called to tell me,
“Yes…we…are…all…going…and…it’s…on…them!”
Shit.
Needless to say, the kids were stoked and I was, well, not. But, at least I would not be alone this trip, because I made my husband come too. He hates theme parks as much as I do, maybe even a little bit more, but in keeping with the whole misery loves company idea, we went.
Thankfully, the good outweighed the bad and, truth be told, we had a pretty good time.
One of my least favorite moments, however, was spent standing on a line for over 45 minutes and watching all of the people with “a virtual ride reservation” going ahead of us.
“What’s the deal with them?”
The attendant shrugged his shoulders and explained that they were ticket holders for the “Fast Lane,”a system advertised as: We’re ready to "stand in line" for guests who want to enjoy every minute of their visit!
Okay, maybe it’s me, but, like, who doesn’t?
My parents started to get tired and left well before dark, but my husband and I thanked them and agreed that we would stay as long as possible, because we wouldn’t be back anytime soon. Not unless we could get reservations for six, in economy coach or something, and with very little or no waiting, please. It turned out to be a very long day, as the kids and I slowly made our way through the park and toward the fireworks show. We had to separate our large crew to accommodate the few seats that were left.
I don’t know if it was my nerves or fatigue, but I sat there, watched the show, and I soon began to cry.
Yep, I bawled my eyes out.
Maybe it was because the show was a tribute to America, dubbed with stirring speeches and moments of the past, or perhaps it was since I always cry when I hear Lee Greenwood’s performance of “God Bless the USA."
I tried to find where my husband and the three girls were sitting, but the flashes of light were disorientating and I’d lost sight of them while squeezing into the section -- and in between two senior citizens who had an argument and chose not to sit or speak to one another for the rest of the show -- near the lake where my son and I were sitting.
It’s not unusual for us to separate at such large events and, more often than not, the girls choose to stay with their father and the boy hangs out me. Not because of separation anxiety, but I swear each time he pulls out my chair, grabs a grocery bag, or answers the phone with, “Hello, my mommy’s busy, call back later!” my son has this idea that I need help and couldn’t possibly function without his constant support. A perfect argument by any mommy’s standards, but I find his little acts of chivalry, quite flattering. Besides, it won’t be long when his attentions will abruptly drift from me to that of another damsel in distress.
They were building up to the finale, so I held onto my son a little tighter -- the boy hates loud noises and even holds ears while flushing the toilet with his foot. I began to rock back and forth to the music to soothe him. His hair smelled like popped corn and I watched the color change from blonde, to pink, to purple and to whatever color fireworks burst over his head and I was surprised to realize that he had fallen asleep!
I’d like to believe that it was because he was feeling safe and warm in his mommy’s arms, rather than that of his being completely dead-dog tired. But, now that I think about it a little more, this was probably about the time I began to think about his starting Kindergarten that September and how much I was really going to miss my son.
I am confident that many parents would agree that raising children in today’s consumer driven world can get very expensive. There are some days when I want to throw open my window and scream, “I’m fed up and I don’t want to have to buy into it anymore!”
But, on a particularly cool day last summer, I was reminded that not everything in life, worth anything, has to cost something. I was given the gift of a quiet moment, even if it was spent listening to a couple of bickering individuals along with a few scattered bombs bursting in air. That alone was well worth the trip.
And I didn’t even need a reservation.
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Copyright 2005 Elizabeth Katkics-Thompson
Elizabeth Katkics-Thompson is a mother to four children and has been married for 13 years to her husband, Pete. Liz also writes a weekly column entitled, Married With A Whole Lot of Children at Just For Mom and has had essays posted at The Imperfect Parent. You can read the ongoing adventures of her life at This Full House, the blog. Liz lives and writes in New Jersey.
Falling In and Out of Love With Your Father
By Elizabeth Katkics Thompson“One advantage of marriage is that, when you fall out of love with him or he falls out of love with you, it keeps you together until you fall in again.” ~ Judith ViorstAnd that’s the easy part.
I’ll be totally honest with you -- raising four children in a seven room house after nearly fifteen years of marriage -- my husband and I have found it necessary to come up with innovative ways of keeping the passion alive in our relationship. Often times the simple act of kissing for an uninterrupted and extended length of time, say 30 seconds, without one of the kids screaming, “Ew, gross!” or the dog poking his nose into my backside, becomes a most gratifying act in itself.
So, how do we do it? How do we keep the home fires burning for one another, at home, so to speak? What makes our marriage so damn hot?
(adjusting breasts)
Well, all I can say -- without embarrassing myself or my husband too much -- is that I don’t have a freaking clue!
No, really.
Even after the birth of our children, though the level of frequency has decreased considerably, my husband and I are physically inseparable. We actually look forward to each other’s company and couldn’t go a day without touching or kissing, whenever we were near enough to each other to do so, although those times have also grown far and few in between.
As engaging as our relationship may sound, I can’t sit here and tell you that it is all good or that we don’t have our share of unhappy moments.
In fact, my husband and I repeatedly dislike each other, and badly.
Unfortunately, the greater part of our dissatisfaction with each other-- as well as nearly all of our less than grown-up moments -- typically happens in front of, and while dealing with, our children and normally ends with the same affront.
“You’re just like your father!”
What is it about our fathers that cause us to react so negatively whenever one of us brings either one into a quarrel? Well, probably because it’s true and we both refuse to recognize the fact, to each other.
Not only does the truth hurt, it usually stops the argument dead in its tracks.
My father is an enigma --quick-witted and often offering words of encouragement and strength while exhibiting his terrific sense of humor one moment -- brooding, pessimistic and refusing to believe that he will physically or financially recover in time for my mother’s retirement by blurting out, “These are supposed be our twilight years?” and “Golden age, my ass!” I’ve read about people finding it difficult to adjust to retirement, but after two years and nine operations, my father pretty much has given up on adjusting and lives his life as always -- from day to day, not expecting too much and functioning purely on an emotional level.
It’s like looking in a freaking mirror.
My father-in-law, however, is anything but unpredictable. He analyzes, investigates, and provides a rough-draft before acting on EVERYTHING. A creature of habit, he still buys his meat from the same butcher, and an apple crumb cake from the same bakery for the last fifty years and does his banking and shopping every Saturday, even though he’s been retired for nearly ten years now. A respectable and proper New Englander, nothing rocks his boat -- except the unpredictable and incalculable little things in life.
Ditto for my husband.
So, when his sister originally tried to set us up, and encouraged him to call me, I understood his hesitation to get together. His sister was a bit of a wild child, and a cause of most of those unpredictable little things in my father-in-law's life. And any of friend of hers, well, you know.
And, judging by her description of him, I felt pretty much the same.
Eventually, and essentially to get his sister off his back, we did get together and it still amazes people, even today. Mainly people are shocked because we are so vastly different with many opposing views and opinions -- particularly politically (don’t even get me started). And more shockingly, while raising four children -- we are still very much in love with each other and even hold hands in public. Simply put, according to many people, we are just plain freaky.
After all, the statistics are pretty grim when it comes to marriage. Uh-oh, look I’m speaking in data -- he’s gonna want some.
Quite honestly I'm taken aback by some people’s reactions to my relationship with my husband. According to many of my mommy friends, we are just plain weird!
YES, our marriage (as well as most things in our lives since children) has become more complicated. YES, we are totally like our fathers, and NO - we don’t always agree.
Yet, there is at least one thing that we both could not deny -- We couldn’t have done any of it -- without each other.
Oh, and even though I don’t profess to fully understand or will ever be able to explain exactly how we do it, there is one thing I do know to be true. Opposites most definitely do attract -- sometimes even vigorously -- and every now and then in the most unconventional of means.
Happy Father’s Day, sweetie. Thank goodness you are so like your dad!
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Copyright 2005 Elizabeth Katkics-Thompson
Elizabeth Katkics-Thompson is a mother to four children and has been married for 13 years to her husband, Pete. Liz also writes a weekly column entitled, Married With A Whole Lot of Children at Just For Mom and has had essays posted at The Imperfect Parent. You can read the ongoing adventures of her life at This Full House, the blog. Liz lives and writes in New Jersey.
I Am The Alpha Mom . . .
Well, At Least In My House I Am
By Elizabeth Katkics Thompson
My husband was patiently waiting for his turn as he watched me from the doorway leading into our bathroom. I caught a glimpse of him in the mirror and the fascinated sort of look on his face, as if he were watching the final death throws of an animal, after it’s been terribly mauled and left in the middle of the road to die.I finished blow drying my hair and he gave me a playful tweak.
“Ouch…hey, easy, that hurts!”
I must have sounded pitiful as he turned to leave and suspected that either he had grown tired of another disappointing attempt at his being playful, or didn’t have the stomach for road kill, after all.
“Sorry. It’s just that I don’t know how I’m going to make it through today.”
He returned to my aching side and said, “Just focus on the fact that today is Friday.”
Hey, good idea…Friday…TGIF…okay, that’ll work! So, I pulled on my loosest pair of jeans -- the pair with the hole in the left knee and frayed bell bottoms -- which I reserve and put on once a month for three days or so.
I headed out into the kitchen and silently began chanting to myself, “It’s Friday. Remember T.G.I.F. Thank God it’s Fri....”
Snap, crackle, pop!
“What the hell?” I lifted my foot and squinting rather unattractively (I wasn't wearing my lenses in my quest for comfort) while grabbing at what looked like cereal stuck to my heel. I then saw a hazy path leading into the kitchen and turned to confirm that the crushed pieces I had left behind were indeed, Cheerios.
And I started to growl, “Oh for the love of…why can’t these children eat anything without it ending up on the floor? Why do we even bother with a kitchen table?”
My husband yelled from our upstairs bedroom, “Stop! Friday, remember?”
“Yeah, right, okay…T.G.I. friggin’ F!”
I chanted again when my two oldest girls burst out of their room simultaneously begin to scream at me and each other. “Mom…she’s being rude…using my stuff…turned off the radio while I was singing…want my own room.”
I played mediator and negotiated myself right into a corner; feeling threatened, I bared my claws and sent them to their rooms. They stormed off as soon as they heard my two youngest in confrontation somewhere further behind me.
“Hope is stealing all the tape!”
“No, brudder, Hopey do!”
“Stop it…no…hey…QUIT IT!”
I quickly retrieved the dispenser, sent them to find their father and began to pick at my scotch tape covered desk. “And this is all the tape Mommy has. No more tape. Hey, and why are you doing crafts at my desk, anyway?” It’s a wreck!” I grabbed a tissue, began wiping up the glitter glue and muttered, in a low guttural sort of way, “If this morning is any indication of what the day was going to be like, I’m screwed!”
God, but I hated feeling like this, as if every single nerve in my body was on fire and rapidly dissolving all of my mental reserves -- whatever little remained -- to the point where the simplest parenting issues appeared arduous and complex. Yes, raising four children was understandably strenuous and my typically agonizing menstrual cycle had me dead-dog-tired, but I wondered if perhaps there would ever be a day when I would get a grip on this whole mothering gig, when all I wanted to do was be, well, mothered.
“Momma?”
My eleven year old spoke barely in a whisper, but I slammed my hand against the desk and jumped right out of my skin nevertheless and answered her in rather a rough tone. Her frown deepened as the tears quickly formed and began to spill over her deep brown eyes and she let her forehead drop right onto my chest.
Now, feeling very guilty as well as pathetic, I apologized, and asked her if she's okay.
“Yeah, I just needed a hug. Sorry. I woke up tired and am acting like a bitch.” I hugged her back and allowed a smile to escape as I answered, “You and me both, kid; you and me both.”
So, maybe I wasn’t ever going to get a grip, but the only thing that I cared about at that very moment was hanging on to the fact that my children didn’t care. Because, I would always be their mom, good or bad, and with continued guidance -- not to mention a constant supply of pain relief medication -- harmony could at least be understood and, with any luck, achieved.
I passed on this new revelation to my husband before he headed to work -- describing the mess, the fights and the tears I’ve encountered along my path to enlightenment, all in the matter of about five minutes and all before 8:00 o’clock in the morning.
He raised his eyebrows and said, “Well, think about it. It’s a full moon. You’re into your cycle. Holly’s hitting puberty. You know what they say about females living together?”
My face confirmed that I do not.
“How they synchronize their bodies - their cycles. It's just a matter of the beta females of the house following the alpha female’s cycle.," he continued.
I quickly did the math.
It’s feasible that, one day, my husband could quite possibly have three pre-menstrual betas and one menopausal alpha female living under the same roof. A tiny giggle in my throat erupted into a full blown laughing fit.
“Oh man…you are so screwed!”
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Copyright 2005 Elizabeth Katkics-Thompson
Elizabeth Katkics-Thompson is a mother to four children and has been married for 13 years to her husband, Pete. Liz also writes a weekly column entitled, Married With A Whole Lot of Children at Just For Mom and has had essays posted at The Imperfect Parent. You can read the ongoing adventures of her life at This Full House, the blog. Liz lives and writes in New Jersey.
Growing Old With Nagy Mama
By Elizabeth Katkics Thompson
Reflecting on my life as I cross the threshold into my 40’s, I can name more than a few people who have inspired me over the years – various members of my family, mentors and some even strangers. But there’s seldom a day that goes by that I don’t think of my maternal grandmother or draw a great deal of encouragement from her memory, which is often reflected in my writing. Her passing had a profound effect on me and now, almost two years later, I continue to uncover stories about her and am never at a loss to learn something new with each glimpse into the past.
This is my original journal entry on the day that she took her last breath and became my inspiration.October 10, 2003
Nagy Mama has passed away.
We were preparing for this day. Her health was steadily declining and she was hospitalized for the past three months. Thankfully, I had the opportunity to take the children to visit with their “Mamama” two weeks ago.
Still, the phone call was a shock.Then came the moment my husband and I have been dreading for a long time -- telling our four children. I tried to compose myself, but I couldn’t help feeling a profound sense of grief and was surprised by my need to share it. Pete and I debated, in the middle of the bathroom hallway, about just exactly how and when to tell them.
“I want to tell them now.”
“Wait, wait, should we?”“Of course we have to tell them! Besides, they’re bound to figure it out! Who cares when we tell them. It’ll suck no matter what!”
“Okay, but how?”
“We’ll play it by ear.”
True, there were things to be done, plans to be made. Pete was asked to drive down to South Jersey with my Dad (Dad is scheduled to have surgery on his eyes next month) to pick up my mother’s sister. I had to get up to my mother’s house and prepare for a funeral. And, unfortunately, our children were bound to get caught up somewhere among all the chaos.
So, with Hope napping quietly upstairs, we decide to tell the others. I prayed for strength and for the ability to deal with their pain, as well as mine, and their endless questions. This is the first death they’ve had to deal with. We gathered them close in a circle on the living room floor.
Heather, our seven-year-old, was the first to react. She was very close to Mamama. My heart broke to hear her scream, “Why did she have to die?” She collapsed into her father’s arms and had the hardest cry of her little life.Holly, our nine-year-old, was speechless at first. She stared at me, as if not exactly understanding what we were telling her. She just sat there, shocked out of being able to display any signs of emotion. When Heather’s cries became inconsolable, Holly angrily threw herself onto the living room couch, crossed her arms over her chest and refused to speak to anyone. She wouldn’t allow me to touch her, let alone hug her.
I gently told her that it was okay to be sad. She just shook her head and angrily yelled out, “I knew we should have never left her in that hospital!” and hid her face behind a sea of pillows.
Glen, our four-year-old, frowned and then repeated, “She’s not in the hospital anymore. She’s gone up to heaven.” Then he asked the question that brought fresh tears to my eyes. “Will she be able to come back?”I was unable to speak from the pain in my throat and slowly shook my head no. He reached for me and began to cry.
We spent a long time on the floor holding them, crying, and answering some their questions . . .
“When did she die?”
“Did her body go up to heaven?”
. . . and avoiding others . . .
“When will I die?"
"Can I go to heaven and see her?”
We kept reassuring them; telling them not to worry about “that” right now. I asked them to remember how sick she was when we last saw her and promised that in heaven, she won’t be sick or sad ever again. I looked to my husband for support, but he was cradling Heather and Glen and I realized that he was also crying.
Once their initial shock subsided, I began to explain what we would be doing in the next few days and that it was okay to feel sad, and it was okay to even cry if they felt the need to. I told them that my mother was very sad too. We had a very important job as her children and grandchildren.
Sniffling and coughing they asked, “What kind of job?”
To go up to Mama’s and Papa’s house and give them a lot our hugs and kisses, because that’s what families do -- help each other through bad times as well as good -- not be so sad and remind ourselves how important we are to each other. I also told them that people would be coming back to our house to remember all the good things about Mamama.
The girls promised to have enough hugs and kisses for everyone, but couldn’t agree to be brave. My son thought he could be brave, but couldn’t promise to give hugs and kisses, because he was afraid that doing so might just make him cry again.
Parenthood is full of surprises, really. I believe that even in the most disturbingly stressful of times, like trying to explain death, I am given a second chance at childhood -- understanding that life is harsh and less than predictable, while eagerly grasping for the smallest fraction of encouragement possible. As a result, I find hope in my children and for our future together -- however long or short it may be.
My intention for this entry was to try and deal with the grief, loss, and anger I feel seeing that Nagy Mama and my mother were robbed of a childhood and how difficult it is for me to make up for the mistakes of the past, without making more than a few of my own.
But all I want to write about now is the serenity.
My wish is that my children will one day appreciate the wonderful years they had with their great-grandmother, be grateful for their childhood, and know that I will continue to be their mother, no matter what. I hope that they will find happiness in her memory.I know I do.
May you find peace and know that I will always love you very much, my dearest Nagy Mama.
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Copyright 2005 Elizabeth Katkics-Thompson
Elizabeth Katkics-Thompson is a mother to four children and has been married for 13 years to her husband, Pete. Liz also writes a weekly column entitled, Married With A Whole Lot of Children at Just For Mom and has had essays posted at The Imperfect Parent. You can read the ongoing adventures of her life at This Full House, the blog. Liz lives and writes in New Jersey.
Talk Dirty to Me!
By Elizabeth Katkics Thompson“STOP! Just stop what you’re doing!”
I lifted my head and wiped at the fine bead of sweat that’s formed on my upper lip. I loosened my grip, but didn’t let go right away. Frustrated, I tried to keep my voice controlled and asked, “Well, clearly I can’t seem to make it work. What do you want me to do?”
Silence.
“Don’t worry about it. I’ll just try something else.” I climbed off and adjusted my top.
“I don’t think it’s you. Maybe it’s because we haven’t done it in so long. You know, it’s been idle too long.” I turned away and began to pace. I didn’t want to argue and I certainly didn’t want to hurt his feelings. But I couldn’t very well pretend that what he just said didn’t bother the hell out of me.
“It’s not like it’s been all that long. And it’s not like I’m sitting around eating bon, bons, either. You know how crazy it gets with the kids and I've been kind of busy. It's not like I don’t know it’s there. But it seems to take a lot more effort than it used to.”
Dead silence.
This time he spoke first, “I’ve been leaving you alone, you know. I haven’t bothered you about it. I know how tired you are. You don’t always have to do it, you know. I’ve even taken care of it, myself.”
“I know you have honey. But, I really do want to do it. I need to do it. Believe it or not – it makes me feel good, too. That I can do this for you. Here, let me try one more time.” I gently grabbed hold and climbed on again. “There, okay, I bet I can get it started, now. Let me take a closer look. Here, maybe if I blew on it a little . . .”
My husband’s voice cracks under the strain as he says, “Try hopping up down while turning it with your other hand.”
I let go again and this time I can’t help but laugh out loud. “Are you serious!?! Well, if you think that’ll work, what the hell. . .” I lean back, bounce up and down and I feel utterly ridiculous. And I start to yell at it, “C’mon baby. Start already. You know you want to. Rev it up, baby. Yeah, that’s right. Mamma wants to ride you. Nope. Nothing. I swear - it must be dead!”
“Oh, just forget about it. Just plug it back onto the charger and leave it in the garage until I get there.”
I love mowing the lawn. And after spending the last two months battling illness, I wanted to go out and aerate, re-seed, fertilize and plunge my hands deep into its darkest part and smell the richness of the earth. I needed to think about the outdoors and ready our rider with some pre-season maintenance. As the days grow longer and brighter, so does my anticipation for a fertile and bountiful season of days spent in the warmth of my gardens in the sun. Alas, it is snowing again and I finally gave in to the fact that I won’t be cutting the grass, anytime soon.
“Hey, honey, by the way, why don’t you talk dirty to me before I hang up?”
I took the phone away from my ear, looked at it a second longer, placed it close to my mouth and breathed into it heavily in my best Garbo, “I vant to mow your lawn!”
Then I went to look for a wine cooler.
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Copyright 2005 Elizabeth Katkics-Thompson
Elizabeth Katkics-Thompson is a mother to four children and has been married for 13 years to her husband, Pete. Liz also writes a weekly column entitled, Married With A Whole Lot of Children at Just For Mom and has had essays posted at The Imperfect Parent. You can read the ongoing adventures of her life at This Full House, the blog. Liz lives and writes in New Jersey.
My Brother's Wife
By Elizabeth Katkics ThompsonMy brother’s wife forwarded an e-mail together with photos that included nothing more than the simple instructions of, “Please pass this along to my sister and tell her that I am fine.”
It was at that very moment that it dawned on me - my brother had someone else in his life now. Someone to share his secrets, his dreams, his troubles and his fears with. Someone he would e-mail a couple of times a day and call twice every week. Someone he would think of every waking moment and plan the rest of his life with.
Someone he would put first and foremost above everyone else - including me.
And from that moment on, and for the first time in my life, I would have to find a way to share my brother.
For all our lives, it has always been my brother and me. While other girls were trading record albums, Barbie dolls and issues of Tiger Beat, I was swapping baseball cards, building makeshift tanks, and jumping cardboard ramps (which we erected haphazardly on cinderblocks) with my Huffy. We built snow forts in the winter and once the ground thawed, we dug deep holes behind the garage in search of buried treasure and dinosaur bones. Whenever the holes grew too large or fruitless, we would decide to turn our energies toward finding fame and fortune in China, or perhaps Australia.
It really didn’t matter to us where or how far our imagination took us, as long as it was a long way away from my grandmother’s house and that we achieve our success, together.
We had a very close relationship growing up, regrettably, one that was not free of struggle nonetheless. We experienced loads of jealousy, anger, and resentment that naturally occur between siblings. And being raised by European parents, not to mention in very tight quarters, only added fuel to the fire. Eventually, a quick wrestling match or fist fight would ensue, which would almost always end in a draw, and we would go back to hiding in the treetops as my grandmother called for us at dinnertime.
It was like this for years, even through high school when it wasn’t cool to hang with your brother or sister, we did. We were polar opposites in gender and personality, but we’d grown used to the other being around.
To my understanding, twins are like that, but I can’t speak for everyone. There’s a definite connection between us that goes beyond a birth date. There have been numerous times throughout our lives when we would be separated over long distances, and it’s at those most removed moments when we feel a physical bond that is, quite frankly, border-line bizarre. I mean to the extent that we can feel one another’s ailments, injuries, and pain without ever having to pick up the phone.
I guess that’s why I ache every time I speak with or see my brother’s wife.
My brother met her in the most unpredictable and dubious of settings -- the Internet. I was apprehensive about my family being introduced to another of my brother’s cyber-conquests. I didn’t want my kids to get too close, or comfortable, with another woman my brother would eventually grow tired of, and who would suddenly drift out of our lives. When my brother introduced us at the military family picnic, I cautiously kept her at arm’s length. But, by the time my brother announced their engagement the following summer, I cried out, “What took you so damn long to ask her?”
Her e-mails reflect that same air of lightheartedness that is unavoidably infectious. You just can’t be a loser around this woman. Knowing my brother, I am reminded often of why he fell in love with her - by the mere sound of her laughter that is hearty and full of life . . .her ability to offer words of comfort effortlessly. . .her terrific sense of humor . . .the twinkle of mischief that quickly becomes visible in her crisp blue eye . . .and how quickly and easily she’s become a greatly loved aunt to my children.
Frankly, I swear that my chidlren seem to prefer her company over mine – and that’s okay. Because I know that it’s impossible for her to be anything less than sincere. I guess that’s why I think I’ve fallen a little in love with her as well.
My brother and his wife planned their wedding rather hastily, as his orders came through at a much faster and earlier than anticipated time frame. She planned and prepared for the entire wedding in three months. She created the invitations, the wedding program, the favors, the head pieces for my three girls, and a ring bearing pillow for my son. They would only have two weeks together as husband and wife before my brother shipped off for six weeks of training. My brother was given 36 hours leave before his deployment date, eight of which they shared with my husband and our four children. They haven’t had much time together as a married couple, but it is obvious to anyone of their friends and family that they are, without a doubt, soul mates.
I missed my brother terribly after he was deployed, and I’m sure that his new wife missed him just as much, if not more. My life provides a constant measure of distraction - days are entirely devoted to raising four children, writing and keeping an overworked husband happy – whereas my brother’s absence compels her to put up a brave, albeit vacant, front. I suspect that her pleasantly quick sense of humor and endearing personality have gotten her through a tough time or two. I admire her strength and confidence; but mostly, I admire her choice in men.
We sat together in my parents’ yard one Sunday, waiting for my brother's call. The mood had become uncharacteristically sullen and it was obviously affecting everyone -- even my brother’s new and usually funnier wife. My parents and I were talking about what vegetables we intended to garden and the home renovations that needed to be addressed when one of the three outdoor phones rang.
My brother’s wife answered the call as my father quickly moved a chair under her. She spoke to her new husband briefly and handed the phone over to his parents. As we lined up, youngest to oldest, and waited for our chance to chat with my brother, she stepped back and off to the side a little, waiting and smiling. Quickly lighting another cigarette, after just finishing one, was the only indication of how really worn out the woman was. Her nerves were shot. At that very moment, I decided to stop calling her my brother’s new wife.
Her name is Pam -- and she’s the woman my brother and I have fallen in love with.
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Copyright 2005 Elizabeth Katkics-Thompson
Elizabeth Katkics-Thompson is a mother to four children and has been married for 13 years to her husband, Pete. Liz also writes a weekly column entitled, Married With A Whole Lot of Children at Just For Mom and has had essays posted at The Imperfect Parent. You can read the ongoing adventures of her life at This Full House, the blog. Liz lives and writes in New Jersey.
The Year I Fed My Husband Chicken
My twin brother and I grew up in an ethnic neighborhood -- a tapestry of cultures intersecting east of Roosevelt Avenue and as far away from Main Street as one can get.It had its advantages. Everyone knew each other and we all came from somewhere else. Our dad, as well as the many others who lived on Union Street, had a really cool accent. My brother and I attended harvest festivals at the Hungarian Club where we were allowed to drink a little wine and stay up well past our bedtimes and sometimes late into the night. We cooked big meals and ate together every Sunday while listening to colorful stories from the "old country".
There were countless dramatic chronicles of rivalry between clans, stories of forbidden love, and tales of restless souls returning from the dead that made for marvelous entertainment.
My first storyteller was my maternal grandmother, Mama Bogar, who passed away a year ago in October. One of her more frightening tales was that of the witch who lived in their village and put a curse on my great-grandmother’s eggs. Mama didn’t know the exact reason for the woman’s discontent, but she remembered walking in on the witch, who was standing in front of a mirror and muttering some sort of Hungarian evil eye while carefully turning each egg in both her hands. My grandmother took the eggs to her mother who cracked one open to find a bloodied yolk. Once she learned of the evil eye, she promptly threw the rest of the eggs out the kitchen window; basket and all.
Then there’s the one that still makes me shudder; the tale of the second-cousin-or-another lying on her death bed and wanting to see my teenaged grandmother one last time. My great-grandmother, being superstitious, was not about to expose her young daughter to any bad karma and refused to send my grandmother. Her family shared a one room house and slept in beds that were lined against the wall nearest the stove. My grandmother remembered that, as soon as the lights were turned down, the night the cousin died there was a sound like that of a whip slicing through the air and a cold wind that swept over the room, blew out the kerosene lamps and pulled the covers from my grandmother’s bed.
I can almost hear her voice say, “We lit the lamps once more and as soon as they were turned down, the wind would blow and the terrible whooshing sound would get louder and louder, until my mother put an end to it by saying The Lord’s Prayer and lighting every blessed candle we had. Remember my child. -- never, ever deny a person’s dying wish!”
That one still gives me goose bumps.
Stories like this made for great fodder to a vivid imagination and I have always maintained a respect for old wives tales through the years. I’ve since passed on a few of Mama’s tales to my children, G-rated of course, reassuring them that it is a fun way to share and learn about their ancestors. And however far-fetched they may seem, there are sometimes some grain of truth, however small, in most folklore.
There isn’t a day that goes by that I don’t think about the things I’ve learned from my grandmother. I especially think of her on New Year’s Day.
1996 was the year when things were bad, and kept getting worse. We had a two-year-old and a newborn in the house and it was that winter when my husband lost his job. It was the year when my husband suffered with one health issue after another, the baby was diagnosed with severe colic, I endured month after month of sleep deprivation, and my two-year-old contracted a viral infection that would last for the next three years. We were putting our groceries on the credit cards and our marriage to the test.
My Grandmother listened to me rant and rave about my husband’s bad luck. I couldn't understand it! How could so many bad things happen to such a good person?
Finally, when it seemed to her that I had exhausted every bit of postnatal energy I had left by wallowing in self pity, she placed both hands on the table, leaned in very close and asked, "Vat deed you feed heem ze firrrst day of ze new yearrrr?"
I stuttered my response, "What, you mean New Year's Day? Chicken. Why?"
She slapped both hands down on the kitchen table, hard. She shook her head in total disbelief and made the sign of the cross. "Vell, vat deed you x-pecked? You feed ze poorh men chicken!"
I didn't understand. I thought she was off her broad egg noodle. "What does that have to do with it, Mama?"
My Grandmother sat back deep in her chair and crossed her arms. She patiently explained that the chicken would scrape the ground in a backward motion while looking for its food; while the pig would always root forward. You never feed your husband chicken on the first day of the New Year, because that would mean looking back at the past. Feed him pork and you look forward to getting ahead in the future.
"Zo, you zee my dehr, it vas bee-cuz of you. No chicken, everh, on New Year's Day!"
Maybe it was just a bad year, or maybe it was the chicken. Either way, motherhood has taught me to appreciate the good days, and to listen, as well as learn, from the voice of experience. And every New Year’s Day since 1997, I've taken my grandmother's advice -- and only eaten pork -- just in case.
Happy New Year and may we all look forward to getting ahead in the future!
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Copyright 2005 Elizabeth Katkics Thompson
A Christmas Without Uncle Bud
By Elizabeth Katkics Thompson
The headline read: Hotel Blast in Baghdad Kills Two.
I felt compelled to click on the “raw video” icon and it wasn’t due to some morbid sense curiosity. I saw the quick flash of a face…a face of a soldier who looked a hell of a lot like my brother.
In my mind I knew that he was fine and that his unit was deployed far from any fighting, but my heart raced as I continued to scroll through the story and flash over the streets littered with chunks of the damaged hotel.I covered the computer screen with my hand when I heard a voice behind me ask, “Wow. Are those soldiers? Like Uncle Bud?"
It was my five-year-old son. He adores his uncle and is passionate on the subject of military life. He brings home library books on The Revolutionary War and has a collection of figures wherein medieval warriors battle cowboys and Indians. He believes that George Washington should still be the President of the United States and listened intently to the tour guide at his home in Mount Vernon, VA. I couldn’t help but smile as he drew a few glances from the rest of the adults in his attempts to correct her, once or twice.
His fascination with the rules of combat is quite amusing, but I’m beginning to wonder if his attention toward warfare is quite as healthy – so I attempt to tread lightly and point to the fuzzy picture on the computer screen, “Yep, they’re soldiers looking for the bad guys who made this mess.”
He placed his G.I. Joe on my desk and moved closer as a smile quickly flashed across his face, but I bit my lower lip and waited.
“War is so cewl!”
There it was and if I had fur, it would have been standing on end right at that moment. I pulled my son onto my lap and allowed him to watch the video with me, again. He gasped when I told him that the blown out windows and crumbling building was a hotel similar to one we stayed in recently. He moved closer to the screen to see the damaged vehicles, some almost unrecognizable, and he was surprised to learn that they were once real and not some special effect. I pointed at the ambulances and reminded him that there were probably injured people, two of which were reported to have died.
After watching the short news clip, my son asked, “Is Uncle Buddy going there to fight in a war?”
I have found it difficult to prepare myself for his deployment…not being able to see him at our parents’ house on Sundays… isolated and strained to celebrate our 40th birthday without my twin brother…
But planning a Christmas without their Uncle Bud has been disappointing, to say the least. Trying to help my children understand that war was bad and Uncle Bud was good has been extremely challenging.
“No, thank goodness, but if America asked him to, he would. Because it’s his job to protect us and to protect our right to live free. And sometimes that means he has to protect people in other countries as well. From leaders who don’t want that kind of freedom for their people. That means that no one can tell you what to be when you grow up; or that your three sisters can’t do something just because they are girls; or no one can tell you to be quiet when you want to talk about something you don’t think is right. Stuff like that.”
I continued my attempts to help my son understand that gun battles and blowing things up is not as glamorous as some weird and badly animated cartoon might portray. That a lot of soldiers...who have families just like ours…have died. That even though I was sad that my brother would be away from his family for the holidays, I was happy that he was okay.
“Will Uncle Bud have snow for Christmas?”
My three-year-old rubbed her big brown eyes and yawned, fresh from her afternoon nap. My two oldest girls stopped playing their game and watched me closely as I shook my head and turned off the computer.
“Nah, it’s very hot in Cuba and he’ll probably wear shorts on Christmas Eve and go swimming on Christmas Day. Maybe you can draw him a picture of snow and send it to him! Wouldn’t that be cool?”
I turned away and headed for the kitchen, because I was afraid that I would begin to cry.
“Anybody thirsty?”
We sat at our kitchen table, drank our warm chocolate milk topped with marshmallows and talked about Christmas without Uncle Bud. I scraped at the dried up glitter glue and spoke of tree lightings, holiday shows and caroling with the girls scouts, but tried to think of a way to make this Christmas a little more, special.
They finished their mugs and wanted to know, “What’s for lunch?” The usual argument ensued and I insisted that they try and agree on one thing, because I would not be making three different meals, when my son interjected, “Yeah. ‘Cause that’s ‘cause we live in America. I say we vote Mommy from being the boss!”
Perhaps my husband is right and there is such a thing as too much information. Rest assured, I acknowledged that the right to vote was indeed a wonderful thing. And I stressed the fact that even though I may not be the boss of them, I was still their mother -- who, incidentally, had a direct line to Santa.
As peace keeping efforts continue overseas, I pray that each and every one of us find a little of our own peace and comfort in sharing this holiday season with family and friends. And in the spirit of the holidays, I hope that those of us who are separated will, one day, be together again.
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Copyright 2004 Elizabeth Katkics Thompson
'Tis the Season to be S.A.D.
By Elizabeth Katkics ThompsonIt starts somewhere around the mid-September, when the weather starts to cool and mums begin to appear on the neighbors’ front stoop. Just about the same time when the playgrounds are packed with fresh pine mulch and are filled with drunken honeybees.
It takes place soon after the first soccer game and before the first class photo. While the days quickly turn into night and the trees begin to drop their leaves suddenly. About the time when the parkways have emptied of endless shore traffic and the countryside harvests are well underway. When the grass grows a little slower and the late afternoon cicada song shifts from solo to chorus.
While picking up my children from school a few weeks ago and being bombarded by the ghost of holidays to come:
“What do you think I should be for Halloween?”My four children are already thinking two holidays and a full season ahead of schedule.
“When is it my birthday?”
“Is everyone coming to our house for Thanksgiving?”
“How many days until Christmas?”
“When is it my birthday?”
I admit, having contributed to the chorus of moans and groans upon seeing Christmas decorations in September, my first thought of the holiday season is, “Ugh! And it starts…”
Why?
One of the many reasons, I think, is that motherhood has conditioned my brain toward responding, inescapably, to the effects of high volume advertising and pre-season blowouts including, but not limited to, the back-to-school sale. This typically requires some form of shopping be done….in a store….full of other people….shopping…. and the binding family style dinner.
But, when did the holidays turn from annoying to down right sad?
There’s always a lot of media mention about “the holiday blues” this time of year. It’s supposed to be “the most wonderful time of the year,” but for some people it’s not. I remember reading somewhere about a mood disorder associated with the seasonal changes in light. It’s called seasonal affective disorder (SAD) and the National Mental Health Association states that, “Some people suffer from symptoms of depression during the winter months, with symptoms subsiding during the spring and summer months.”
Could this be what I was feeling? Or was it just your normal, average, everyday mommy stress?
The article went on to say that, “…as seasons change, there is a shift in our 'biological internal clocks' or circadian rhythm, due partly to these changes in sunlight patterns. This can cause our biological clocks to be out of 'step' with our daily schedules. The most difficult months for SAD sufferers are January and February, and younger persons and women are at higher risk…”
Okay. So, I was definitely in the “higher risk” range, but could I truthfully say that I was spiraling into some sort of seasonal depression?
Then I remembered 1956.
I wasn’t actually there, but I remembered the story. It was the year my father spent the holidays in the United States for the first time and contemplated suicide, ever. He was nineteen and alone. Not without friends, because there were three others that escaped with him, his sponsors (a local American family with Hungarian ties) and the local priest, who he didn’t care for much. But, they weren’t family. He missed his father, his sisters and physically ached for his mother’s voice and was reminded of them at every turn. He found himself experiencing Thanksgiving for the first time and wondering if there was anything truly to be thankful for. Could he have imagined a day when he would push away from a table filled with food, satisfied?
While he sent boxes of canned food to his family back home, his depression became worse and his first New Year’s Eve, in America, was spent at the corner bar, listening to other folks complaining about their families as he wondered… was his freedom worth leaving all that he knew and loved?
Fortunately, he pulled through and still calls it, “the Christmas that I almost wasn't,” and often says he understands why people often succumb to their depression at that time of year.
So, I’m thinking that it’s okay to not feel so happy about all the hype. That no matter how much I clean or how early I shop, one of my children will most likely be sick and there will always be a place that sells it that much cheaper! And as long as I get through it with my mind, body and new Kia Sedona intact, I should be fine. That maybe I ought to think about lessening my expectations for the holidays. And then maybe, just maybe, I won’t be as disappointed when they don’t match up to what the media version of a perfect holiday.
Alas, some old habits are hard to break… because the kids have already composed their letters to Santa… and so have I:
Dear Santa,
I have been a very good mommy this year. I have tried to express, in many different ways, how much I love my family and friends; tried to listen more than speak; tried to forgive and forget; went another year without knowing my exact weight; changed what I could, and made peace with the rest.
The only thing I want for Christmas is a space to call my own.
Today’s mail is hiding somewhere under a mass of pumpkin drawings. My desktop publishing CD is missing and has been replaced with Mr. Potato Head. Thanksgiving recipes are mixed in with job search responses. Remodeling brochures are mixed in with coloring books. PTO donation reminders, Girl Scout community service requirements, and class mom reminders are posted everywhere. Donating my time has become second nature to me, now. I’m perpetually logged onto EBAY and QVC… and what the heck is that sticky spot just to the right of my “I Love Nantucket” mouse pad, anyway?
So, come on Santa baby, make me into the well-organized and well-informed person that I seemed to have lost somewhere in between MOTHER and HOOD.
Yours faithfully,
I.M. Amess
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Copyright 2004 Elizabeth Katkics-Thompson
Elizabeth Katkics-Thompson is a mother to four children and has been married for 13 years to her husband, Pete. Liz also writes a weekly column entitled, Married With A Whole Lot of Children at Just For Mom and has had essays posted at The Imperfect Parent. You can read the ongoing adventures of her life at This Full House, the blog. Liz lives and writes in New Jersey.
My Two Breast Friends
By Elizabeth Katkics Thompson“Oh I should think I will never see anything droopier than the two of these!”
My husband walked by our bathroom and caught a quick glimpse of me staring at my naked reflection. He snapped his head back into view and gave me a perplexed, “What the hell are you doing now?” sort of look.
I just stood there - lifting one breast, then the other, letting go and watching both flop back into place, and astonishingly not too far from my belly button, like a pair of empty saddle bags – sadly surrendering to the bare effects of gravity.
“It’s just that, every year, they seem to be pointing further and further south.”
I continued to stare, this time motionless, and felt totally betrayed by my own body. My husband moved closer and put his hands on my shoulders. He gave them a quick jiggle that sent ripples through my breasts similar to those caused skipping a stone over a smooth pond.
“I don’t have a problem with them. I’ve grown rather fond of ole’ Zeke and Elmer.”
Okay – so, he affectionately calls my breasts, Zeke and Elmer – just don’t ask me which one is which. They both look the same, though one is slightly larger than the other, and I just don’t care to remember anymore. This happens to me about the same time every year, when the seasons change, and I begin to feel restless. I want to change everything.
“I hate the color of our bedroom! I’m sick of the wallpaper in the living room! I’ve just about had it with the floor in the kitchen. And I need a new pair of breasts!”
My husband playfully causes the ripples to migrate to my backside and says, “Cheer up! Besides, don’t you start your exercise class tonight? All you need is a good work out. That’ll perk you right up!”
When it comes right down to it, Zeke and Elmer were way past perky. The boys and I have been through a lot. In the last 10 years, of what I’ve come to refer to as our Baroque Period, I’ve watched them grow to an alarming (my husband would probably relate more to the word thrilling) size with each of my four pregnancies. I looked as if I were inflated and ready for flight, but felt more like a vessel carrying a pair of burning hot boulders as my attempts at breast-feeding consistently failed. I ignored my husband’s futile attempts of encouragement and insisted that he run to the drug store for formula, as I alternated between ice packs and violently swaddling Zeke and Elmer with an ace bandage. They’ve been pulled, bitten, fondled and squeezed to unbecoming lengths and sometimes bear a resemblance to a haphazardly folded roadmap.
Zeke and Elmer have done their time and time has done them in. I grabbed for a towel and demurely covered the old boys.
“Don’t worry guys, I won’t mess with you. You poor things deserve an early retirement.”
Later, sitting behind the wheel of my minivan on the way to another physically humiliating and exhausting session of pilates, I listened to an advertisement sponsored by the National Breast Cancer Awareness Organization. There was a dad talking about losing his wife to breast cancer. He talked about how his children missed their mother and how he felt that no family should go through what they did in the short six months after her diagnosis. I was stunned to learn that she died at age 35. That In 2004, it is estimated that about 216,000 new cases of invasive breast cancer will be diagnosed in the United States, along with 59,390 new cases of non-invasive breast cancer. And that every woman is at SOME risk for breast cancer – that this is merely the “risk” of living as a woman.
I turned 40 this year and made a mental note to finally make an appointment for a mammography. Not that I looked forward to having Zeke and Elmer sandwiched in between pieces of cold machinery in a very clinical way, but I was gradually becoming thankful for my healthy body; grateful to be able to feel anything and everything.
So, I salute you – Zeke and Elmer – as I become a little more aware of my two breast friends. I'm hoping for a favorable diagnosis and looking forward to acceptance, because there’s nothing immediately ailing the old boys that a good underwire couldn’t cure.
October is National Breast Cancer Awareness Month - October 15th is National Mammography Day
To learn which facilities in your area are taking part in the event, call:
American Cancer Society (800) 227-2345
National Cancer Institute (800) 4-CANCER
Y-ME National Breast Cancer Organization (800) 221-2141
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Copyright 2004 Elizabeth Katkics-Thompson
Elizabeth Katkics-Thompson is a mother to four children and has been married for 13 years to her husband, Pete. Liz also writes a weekly column entitled, Married With A Whole Lot of Children at Just For Mom and has had essays posted at The Imperfect Parent. You can read the ongoing adventures of her life at This Full House, the blog. Liz lives and writes in New Jersey.
What to Expect When You're Not Expecting Anymore
By Elizabeth Katkics ThompsonThe women sat together forming a half circle surrounding the expectant mother. We did not have an intimate relationship. Mel is the daughter-in-law to very dear friends of the family. I’ve known John and Cheryl ever since childhood, when they were a part of my parents’ social circle, and now I enjoy their company as friends. My children refer to them as aunt and uncle and they are also the godparents of my youngest daughter. Mel and I weren’t intimate, but we were family.
I remember meeting her seven years ago, soon after her engagement to Garrett, and not long after the birth of my second child. I remember feeling a bit out of my element – surrounded by their young, fit and beautiful, college buddies. They were all full of exuberance and self-confidence.
Quite frankly, I was a bit envious of them. Not because I was much older than Mel and Garrett. I wasn't. I was also not dealing very well with adjusting to a two child household. I was physically exhausted by my baby’s severe colic and not very happy with myself physically or mentally. I was content with my life as a stay-at-home mom, but I pined for their feelings of joy and enthusiasm – their great expectations in the newness of it all.
Mel and Garrett married, moved across the country, and promptly followed their own paths – his as an Air Force pilot – hers as a healthcare professional. I followed their lives through Garrett’s parents with Christmas newsletters and the occasional photograph sent and I soon realized that Mel and her mother-in-law, my friend, were very much a like. They were both unpretentious and possessed an effervescence that was very contagious. They have a knack for being able to make strangers feel as if they were best friends. It wasn’t hard to understand Garett’s attraction to Mel. I liked her and, more importantly, my friend loved her new daughter-in-law.
Recently, Mel and Garrett moved back to New Jersey and my friend threw her daughter-in-law a baby shower. My mother and I made plans to attend together and I looked forward to spending some time with her and Cheryl, while getting to know Mel a little better. Moreover, I love babies and I had fun shopping for a baby other than one of my own. Truthfully, I went a little nuts and managed to fill a laundry basket with bath toys, towels, a finger puppet wash cloth, a bath mat with a matching protecting spout cover, a hooded terry cloth robe, and a lullaby cd. I was careful to add something special for the expectant mother - a mini spa in a bag.
As usual, I was wrapping the gift minutes before I needed to leave and was having a bit of trouble. Already running late, I slowly admired each item – reflecting on past great expectation moments of my own, through osmosis.
I watched Mel open her baby’s gifts and was once again moved by her healthy mix of self-assurance and self-effacing attitude, which she managed to carry throughout her pregnancy. Her mother-in-law instructed us to fill out an index card with some advice and Mel was quick to quip, “And I’ll take all the advice I can get!”
Damn, did I admire this woman’s attitude. But I felt a bit regretful at my own physical reaction to pregnancy. I was either sick from the sights, sounds, and smells of the city, cranky after the slightest cramp or annoyed at the numerous aches and pains I felt carrying with a slipped disc in my back. It didn’t get better with subsequent pregnancies, either. And I was to give this woman, who was positively beaming with expectation, advice?
I grabbed for one of the brightly colored index cards and fiddled with my pen. I had nothing. I looked around the room and then watched the other women write, furiously scratching out multiple lines of advice. I looked over at my mom’s card and whispered, “Can I copy yours?” She chuckled and elbowed me back toward the empty card on my lap. I didn’t feel qualified to give counsel, but certainly had plenty of warnings rolling around in my head that I wished someone would have given me.
For instance, there was a definite distinction between labor and Lamaze! Nobody told me how cold and numb my feet would get. I had no idea about the amount of blood loss and the enormity of afterbirth pains. What about the heartbreak of holding a firstborn baby while she’s hooked up to way too many wires and tubes? Or how the heart races when reviving a second baby who stopped breathing in my arms. You will forget everything you were taught in Lamaze class. You'll be frustrated by your new babies for not latching on properly or quickly enough. You may feel like a complete failure and ask for a bottle of formula each and everytime. There are sleepless nights and longer day. You can feel very isolated and alone even though family is just minutes away.
What could I possibly say to her that wouldn’t come off as tired and old? I twirled my pen and focused on Mel. She was truly a beautiful representation of everything good I always associated with having a baby – inside and out. And I found myself falling a bit in love with Mel, in her current condition.
I uncapped my pen and began to write…
“I guess the best advice I can give is to remember to turn down the lights, crack that bottle of wine, and call the grandparents! Welcome to Motherhood!”
Mel took her time and enjoyed each and every piece of motherly advice; all of which were about the same as mine – except for those of the two most experienced moms. Cheryl and my mom are always a Hallmark moment waiting to happen and their advice was true to form.
“Enjoy your children. You blink once and they’ve grown and are going to school. You blink again and they are out of the house and getting married. You blink once more and they are starting a whole new generation of their own. These are the best of times that will one day become the most precious of years.”
As I kissed Mel goodbye, I wished her luck and looked forward to the promise of meeting her baby very soon. And I couldn’t help but feel a great expectation of my own - knowing that even though Mel and I weren’t the most intimate of friends, we were now indeed sisters.
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Copyright 2004 Elizabeth Katkics-Thompson
Elizabeth Katkics-Thompson is a mother to four children and has been married for 13 years to her husband, Pete. Liz also writes a weekly column entitled, Married With A Whole Lot of Children at Just For Mom and has had essays posted at The Imperfect Parent. You can read the ongoing adventures of her life at This Full House, the blog. Liz lives and writes in New Jersey.
Warning: Motherhood May be Dangerous to Your Health
By Elizabeth Katkics ThompsonI quit smoking the day I found out I was pregnant with my first child because there was a warning issued by the Surgeon General printed right on my cigarette pack that, “Smoking…May Complicate Pregnancy…Smoking by Pregnant Women May Result in Fetal Injury, Premature Birth, and Low Birth Weight.”
I listened to the warnings because I wanted to be a good mother and do everything that I could to have a healthy baby. I grabbed every pamphlet, brochure, and mommy-to-be reading list available.
I mean, there were hundreds of prenatal care books for the taking and I quickly found myself feeling overwhelmed with advice and anxiety. Was I eating enough? Was I eating TOO much? When should I stop working? Would I continue working? What about stretch marks, gestational diabetes, or varicose veins? Would I get a seat on the train, or would the commuters continue to ignore my enormous belly thrust in their faces?
There are some answers that you just can’t or won’t find in a book. My husband and I went to natural childbirth and breastfeeding classes and felt confident that we were ready for the big day. It came finally, one unseasonably warm day in November, and every blessed birth practice we learned went right out the window. We weren’t as ready as we thought. We discovered – or more accurately – I realized the true meaning of labor. Ironically enough, none of the “birth specialists” took the opportunity to provide an opinion that childbirth would fall on the “yucky” side of the survey.
Our firstborn, Holly, tolerated formula loaded with iron. She very rarely spit up anything beyond what a cloth diaper draped over a shoulder couldn't handle. As an infant and toddler, she slept whenever and wherever possible. -- moving car, non-moving car, crib, floor, couch, grass, Daddy's shoulders, Papa's stomach -- and in every conceivable position(once while half sitting/half standing in front of the television during Barney). I went to every well and not-so-well visit with a list of questions and followed our pediatrician’s advice to the letter. During the many hours my baby slept, I was able to read monthly issues of Parents, American Baby and Child Magazines, cover to cover.
When we became pregnant a second time, I felt fully prepared. After all, I knew about the “yucky”, had all the baby stuff, and our firstborn was an easy baby. But my husband and I walked around in a shell-shocked state when our second daughter, Heather, was born. The child never slept. I am not exaggerating -- she screamed day and night and we had no idea what the heck was going on or what to do to make the child sleep. We switched formulas as the pediatrician recommended, twice, and were promptly introduced to projectile vomiting. I was stretched to every limit, both physically and mentally, and quickly became frustrated when nothing worked – nothing that I did with Holly, that is.
I felt like a failure as a mother; as if I were neglecting my 2 ½-year-old while focusing all of my reserves on her sister. Still, I could not make my six-week-old happy. Finally, on a particularly difficult night, I dressed and strapped my screaming infant daughter into her car seat and decided to take her for a ride. In spite of the ungodly hour, I didn’t want to wake my husband or my sleeping firstborn. There's absolutely nothing going on at 1:00 o'clock in the morning here in the suburbs of New Jersey. And so I felt as if I were the only mother in the world -- or at least the only sleep-deprived mother driving her colicky baby, and crying her eyes out in the middle of a Dunkin’ Donuts parking lot.
It didn’t get better until Heather outgrew her colic, sometime soon before her first birthday. But, it did get better and I did get pregnant again, twice. Glen and Hope are third and fourth in birth order, respectively, and the feedings and non-sleeping only got worse. Glen beat his siblings in the projectile vomiting and emergency visits to the hospital department and I still can't begin to effectively describe the mess we went through with Hope’s intestinal troubles. Quite frankly, in between the doctor appointments, preschool canvassing, and constantly disinfecting my house, I didn’t have the time or energy to read the latest statistics or pay attention to reports on stress or the dangers of post natal depression.
Why, in the beginning didn’t I ask for help? Why the hell did I listen to parenting magazines, professionals and self-appointed experts in child rearing? They published tons of surveys, nationwide studies, and research statistics telling me that in order to be an effective mother, nothing less than a “Super Mom” would do. Well, if I truly had to be honest with myself (and what greater forum than in a philosophical mothering way) no one held a gun to my head. I chose to rely on popular opinion, rather than pay attention to my instincts.
My youngest is now three-years-old and fully potty-trained, I am relieved that my children and I have survived their baby years. However, I obviously did not learn my lesson, because I still find myself wondering if I could do it all again - or at least, maybe, just one more time.
What I have learned is that we live in an age where there is a lot of information on motherhood out there for the taking, the majority of which is probably very useful and some of which I certainly should have paid closer attention to. In hindsight, I imagine that it probably would not have mattered much though, because I truly believe that reading about motherhood is much different from living it.
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Copyright 2004 Elizabeth Katkics-Thompson
Elizabeth Katkics-Thompson is a mother to four children and has been married for 13 years to her husband, Pete. Liz also writes a weekly column entitled, Married With A Whole Lot of Children at Just For Mom and has had essays posted at The Imperfect Parent. You can read the ongoing adventures of her life at This Full House, the blog. Liz lives and writes in New Jersey.
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