What We Sold For Mold (L)

Alessandra, I hate for you to read this, I really do...I know you’ve been surviving jam jar stinky diaper mornings with the beacon of “someday they’ll sleep” blinking as a light at the end of your tunnel...but... (Oh God, this feels like telling the kids about sex all over again. The horror of the truth, bashing the sweet fantasies of the innocent.) I won’t say it, I won’t tell you, “It gets worse.” Because, in truth, I can’t remember the days you are in all that clearly anymore.They exist in the mist of myth, the memory recreated by Memorex. I sit in the present watching my kids in the past play Ring Around the Rosie, with S toddling in hand trying to keep up, lifting his onsie to try and make it twirl like F’s skirt. I inhale the sight of them loopty looing over and over, day after day, in the track circle from kitchen to dining room, hugging each other, laughing, falling.

I watch those sweet glory tapes and think, “We lost our family Mojo when we lost that kitchen. Traded it in for a new sparkling smaller kitchen.” We gave up on the dream. Mold and asthma, man, they conquered the dream. Smashed it into four equal parts arriving by truck to be assembled. S’s almost outgrown his asthma and the only mold found in our new house is on the unwashed shower curtain and forgotten wet towels on the basement floor. But I have to wonder, was it worth it? Maybe S would have outgrown his asthma anyway. Maybe I would have even recovered from the loathing and fear of the house that mold had instilled in me.

Recently, I actually went through a week’s insane dream of wanting a new baby. Thinking, maybe a new baby would fix it all, we could focus on something other than us, raise a baby together. It would be the beautiful bandaid our family so desperately needs right now. It would give S a little brother (I know it’d be a boy.) It’d give F something to nurture and love besides her bunny (and babies don’t have fur, no worries for S’s asthma.) It’d give G the needed boost to get her past the tweeny crisis she is in (either getting her to think outside of her little chaotic sad world or giving her something to actually be miserable about.) My fantasy baby would calm me, tame me, until menopause kicked in. Most of all, it’d bring us all back together again as a family, re-create that unit, get back the Mojo we left in that kitchen long ago. Fortunately, the doctor’s knot we put in C’s testicles 6 years ago holds firm. But I don’t know if I can ever really relinquish the idea of velvet newborn skin snuffling into my neck, seeking my scent above all others.

After I’d shaken off the fog of baby lust, I wondered what had made it so desperately appealing for me? Do I really want to be dealing with teenage depression at the same time as being spit on by a toddler? Of course not. Inescapable misery incurs crazy fantasy solutions. But there’s a certain beauty in knowing how to make someone you love happy. To be able to evoke delight by just lifting a shirt. Unfortunately, lifting my shirt doesn’t bring a light to anyone’s eyes anymore. But this post is about our family’s current struggle to endure the dizzying hormonal assault on our overly intelligent, creative, 12 year old introvert in a small Maine town, not the perils of 40 year old aging.

I am no less determined to make G happy than I was 12 years ago, when I would come home from a walk to find her crying in her bouncy seat on the other side of the room from C. I’d pick her up with a glance of shocked disdain at my husband who would shrug and say, “She wouldn’t stop crying whether she was in my lap or over there.” I would soothe her in my arms feel her trembling and shuddering subside from the smell of me, the sureness of my body that I could quiet her.

Now, I don’t know how to assuage her. I won’t bore you with the details of my methods or attempts. My desire to stop G’s wracking sorrow is perhaps worn down slightly by a decade of having to placate it while succoring two other children. And yes, it’s a bit chipped away by the devastation of hearing the words, “I hate you!” slip from her mouth, cold eyes of hatred attempting to rip me apart foot to soul. Unconditional love does begin to challenge as the years wear on. It is easier to flow soothing mother love over a kicking baby who pulls your chin to her mouth to gum for comfort than a 12 year old who complains of the ugliness of her life and then leaves no less than four water cups in her wake, sighing with exasperation when you ask her to put them away.

So, yes, Alessandra, some things do get better. Our children may still be up at all hours of the night at times, but when they are older we can choose to ignore it. I remember when I would complain about the horrific 3 1/2-5 years and older parents would say sagely and maddeningly, “Wait ‘til they’re teenagers.” It’s a cliche, that phrase, isn’t it? But with a morose 12 year old, I’m starting to get it. It’s not that they are SO monstrous (yet), it’s that you can’t make it all better no matter how much you want to. And when they are bad, they make sure they are ruinous to the entire day, event, household. I’m told the oldest (girl especially) is the worst and they improve after college. I guess that means there is still a beacon of light at the end of the tunnel, however distant. I just have to figure out how to survive the sinking ship without going down with it or letting it drown F, S, and my marriage. Until then, I’m keeping well stocked in red wine. I am not opposed to drowning in that.