Like the Swallow

I've been debating for a while about this post. Whether I really had the guts to begin to talk about it, even to begin to think about it. Whether I really needed to work it out for myself or just I could let it keep sleeping, hidden under the surface. I think I need to... even though it's not the sort of thing I normally talk about. I mean, who really wants the darker parts of themselves on display? So, if you're looking for a cheerful, ain't life cute post, today ain't the day. (May I suggest LOLCats instead?) But if you don't mind digging in my psyche with me, come on along.

First and foremost, I'm an adrenaline junkie. Most pilots are. Even when I'm in total control of the aircraft, that adrenaline rush of landing, the kiss of tires on tarmac is beyond compare. I like speed - the faster the better. This is not to say I don't have common sense. I understand the need to control that demand for faster, higher, farther for the sake of others.

Living on that kind of edge is not a place for mothers. It's not fair to my children to put myself at risk like that. As long as there are lives that depend on me, it's my responsibility to put them first.

But I crave the danger. And it's not enough to speed or fly. There's a part of me that wants to be dangerous. That is dangerous. This is the part that lives deepest within. The part that screams with the need to express physical rage. The part that blinds that common sense. The calculating cruelty that I cannot seem to excise from my soul. Part demon, part merciless avenging angel.

I have no outlet for that part of me. Neither my vocations nor my avocations allow for violence. I am trapped: by my life, by my love, by myself. I'm fat, clumsy, and middle-aged; when I see my reflection as I exercise, I realize my only danger to others is if I sit on them. I'm hardly going to take up being an assassin or some such at this point in my life yet there is a deep part of me that needs to let that avenging angel soar.

In a few years, when all the kids are in school, I want to learn to sword fight. Yes, it's a useless skill (unless, of course, there's an apocalypse rendering ammunition impossible to come by - then it might be useful) but it calls to me. There are times I wonder whether another lifetime saw me metal-clad and armed. I don't know whether this "pretend" dangerousness will be enough to let the angel rest more quietly, keep the demon locked away.

It scares me, the need. Even as I physically crave the danger, the craving scares me.
Who am I to need that? Logically, it makes no kind of sense. Neither my place in life, nor my faith in God permits it. If I am to trust God, I am where I should be. And where I am distinctly precludes walking the edge.

On a wagon, bound for market
there's a calf that is born to die.
High above him, there's a swallow
winging swiftly through the sky.

How the winds are laughing, they laugh with all their might,
laugh and laugh the whole day through and half the summer's night.

"Stop complaining," said the farmer,
"Who told you a calf to be?
Why don't you have wings to fly with
like the swallow so proud and free."

How the winds are laughing, they laugh with all their might,
laugh and laugh the whole day through and half the summer's night.

Calves are easily bound and slaughtered,
never knowing the reasons why.
But whoever treasures freedom,
like the swallow, must learn to fly.

How the winds are laughing, they laugh with all their might,
laugh and laugh the whole day through and half the summer's night.

If you touch me, You'll understand what happiness is

We did backrubs in choir Wednesday. I love when we do backrubs in choir for all the obvious reasons we do them but it always surprises me how much I like them. And I think I've finally figured out why. It's the touch. I don't get touched really.

I'm not a terribly touchy-feely person. I like my personal space a fair piece larger than most. But I realized that I don't often get touched except by the little ones who are more than happy to hang on me as much as I'll let them. I think it's a hazard of being home with them and working from home, maybe; there just aren't those small encounters where someone might pat your arm briefly or put their hand on your shoulder, those little inter-personal interactions that show someone recognizes you're there and cares about you.

I remember (and, yes, I'm dating myself a bit here) a Scarecrow & Mrs. King episode where Amanda is explaining to Lee how she knows that a particular pair who are pretending to be a couple don't love each other. They don't touch each other, she says. People who love each other do. (Of course, she says this with her hand on Lee's arm...)

The isolation of working from home, of taking care of small children, of always being busier than one has any right to be... the things we sacrifice for 'having it all'... as the song puts it, "something's got to give."

I realized, after I thought about this, that a goodly reason of why my kids hang on me is that I'm always busy trying to Get Stuff Done. So I am resolving to touch them more. To try to show them through my actions that I love them. Whether it's just a pat on the head as I pass them, an extra kiss at bedtime, a hug during the day, I will try to make sure they don't come to the same realization that I did - because, when it comes down to it, we all need that little reassurance that someone realizes that we're there and is glad of it.

~~~
Memory, Cats.

A Dash of This, A Pinch of That

• Why is my camera always on the other side of the room when I want it? I looked over while Evie was eating dinner tonight. She was skewering her hot dog slices on the pointed tip of a big fat crayon before using the crayon as a utensil. Note to self: be sure to provide a fork in the future!

• Matthew appears to be back on the weight gaining track. He'd lost, then gained in the hospital, then lost some more as of the end of last week. My thought is that second loss was due to me stopping the morphine (damn!) - either the increased pain level inhibited milk let-down or maybe he was missing the dope hitting his system through the milk. At any rate, hopefully we're back on the gain train for good now.

• The Syracuse Medical Cootie Problem continues - this time, the ER visits spread outside the family to my sister's friend (chest pains, she's ok now).

• Oh, and we, too, were visited by the Syracuse Medical Cooties. Evie wound up in the ER at the children's hospital Saturday night after having possibly eaten part of a mushroom in the yard. (She's fine - a dose of activated charcoal and some observation.) Two observations on the event: (1) the CT Poison Control people are great and (2) it's very helpful that our pediatrician is a bigwig at the children's hospital. He called to let them know John was coming with Evie and he didn't have to wait on queue at all.

• Feeling a bit isolated these days. It's funny how even the small interactions with store clerks or the preschool teachers can make one feel connected to the world and how deprived one feels when one can't even leave the house. I do realize, of course, that people are busy and this, too, shall pass; but, as my friend Marla says, "yeah, like a kidneystone!"
  

• I am grateful for John, who has been an enormous help. It's hard for me to accept the help. I feel guilty that I'm not doing more. I forget (though, to his vast credit, he does not) that feeding the baby is work too. Even though it takes up probably a good 8 hours a day (8-12 feedings of 30-60 minutes each, then the concurrent diaper changes)k, I'm just sitting on my ass while doing it so it makes me feel quite the lazy bum.
  

• Particularly when the girls are being truly wretched. Jealousy, exhaustion - not good for anyone's temper and the combination is really ... unpleasant. Evie is just getting into the tantrum age anyway and has taken to beating on her older sister (to Katie's credit, for the most part, she just bursts into hysterics instead of hitting back).
  

• I'm back at work (since last Wednesday, a week after my c-section) 10 hours a week. Thank the Lord in heaven it's from home but, still, between that in the evenings, watching 3 kids all day, recovering from abdominal surgery, and being woken 2-3x night, I am too tired to even get myself carried away in a good make believe.
  

• Next doc appointment on Wednesday. Should get ok'd to drive but, still, Matthew's too young to really go anywhere - particularly with all the H1N1 crud. But maybe I can get a spare half hour to just go for a drive or something by myself some night. As long as I'm back by the next feeding (an hour and a half apart lately - methinks a growth spurt is coming on).

Alright, enough.
Later.