Expectations and Disappointment

My mom's husband is doing better. He is still hospitalized, but at least I have answers now. The excessive bleeding was because he is on blood thinners. Neurologically he is fine. He is no longer in a coma, and actually came out of his coma the same day my mother sent the email. It took three days for anyone to get back in touch with me, and I'm perturbed by the delay. Why drop a bomb talking about coma and impending death and then leave me in the dark? Why wouldn't anyone return my many, many phone calls?

I don't know what is expected of me in this branch of my family. I do not know my mother's husband very well at all. We have never lived together. In the fourteen years that they have been married I have spent maybe four months with him. His kids do not consider my mom's kids to be family -- we do not refer to one another as step siblings as we were all grown when our parents wed. We barely know each other. If he dies am I supposed to go to South America to pay my respects? Funerals are for the living more than they are for the dead, so if my mother wants me there I will find a way to go -- but honestly, I'd rather save the trip for a happier time. She did not go to her own father's funeral so I do not think she'll ask me to go, but I do not want to cause conflict with that branch of her family either. I need to ask her what is expected of me when that time comes, but the timing for that question is not right now.

I'm cranky because when my mom's husband's son called me he sounded highly irritated. I am giving him the benefit of the doubt that he'd had a stressful weekend and his abrasive phone manners have nothing to do with anything against me -- but even so... for months I've been in touch with him always asking after his father. Not once has he asked, "And how are you?" They don't even know that my mother-in-law is dying.

One of you said that illness or death takes its toll on the living and it is so appropriate. It's not unlike the infertility obsessiveness. When one is dealing with it everything else is tinged with that particular situation. I want to be generous to my mother's family and not hold it against them that they are coming across so incredibly self involved. Despite my good intentions, I'm mildly angry with them. I'm angry with my mother, too for sending such a dramatic email and then not updating us. I'm not in a rage and I'm not even seething -- maybe angry is too strong a word. I am disappointed.

Whatever -- that's my vent, and now I have to let it go. There is no point in holding on to something so abstract and difficult, and as for the family politics -- I just have to ask.

Jeremy's mom still isn't speaking to me. I called yesterday to ask if she had a nice time with her cousin who came to visit this weekend. She has said that this cousin is like a sister to her. When her husband let her know I was on the phone I heard her say to him, "I don't want to talk to her right now." It made my FIL very uncomfortable and he babbled a stream of excuses to me, but I cut him off saying, "It's fine. I'm sure she just doesn't feel well." We usually visit them at some point during the weekends. This weekend, in the security of being around her husband and my husband, I'm going to just ask her why she won't speak to me anymore. I don't mind the silence very much because I don't like speaking to her anyway, but if I've hurt her feelings somehow I would like to know -- and I don't want to be later accused of abandoning her when she's the one pushing us away (us being Zoey and me -- not Jeremy).

God, what a stupid, boring post. I'm so tired of thinking about sad, sick people... so next time I'll post about the sun, the beach, funny dogs, and pretty baby clothes like this blue sun dress.

Watching Tele.tubbies while she digests her food.

She loves Po, the small red one.

I think she gets tired of all the kisses -- but I'm not going to stop...

Sweet, little Miss Blue Eyes

Dealing with Illness

My mother woke up during the witching hour because she had an uneasy feeling. Her husband was not in his bed. They no longer share a bed because his various illnesses have made him a fitful sleeper, and his Parkinson's in particular causes him to sometimes be violent during his sleep. They hired a woman to sleep in their bedroom with them so that when my mother's husband sleep walks someone, a hearing someone, is aware of what is happening. The care giver has the weekend off, though -- and my mother slept through her husband getting out of bed. When she awoke she found him face down on the floor in a puddle of blood. He is now in a coma.

I don't know what happened. I've been phoning Colombia all weekend, and the few people I can get in touch with aren't really in the know and my mom's husband's family is not answering the phone because they are all at the hospital.

My husband's mother is not speaking to me. I got tired of her lament that she has been abandoned. She has not cried once to her other son that he has abandoned her, and whenever she complains about it to Jeremy she makes him feel extraordinarily guilty. Jeremy talks to her every day and he visits her at least twice a week. The other son never speaks to her and rarely visits. She has also complained that her physicians have abandoned her. When she lays the guilt trip on Jeremy he gets angry -- but he directs his anger at all the wrong people. He gets too overwhelmed and impatient at Zoey when she's fussy. He talks to me like I'm a bitch. He picks fights with me, and he handles Zoey in a rough manner -- not enough to hurt her, but rough enough to upset her and make her not want to be around him.

I was drinking too much when I'd given up on the Naltrexone. Jeremy told me recently that he'd resigned himself to a future with a sad wife who would possibly become an alcoholic, and he never once complained to me about my depression or expressed that he was worried about me developing a drinking problem. I can't imagine how it must feel to watch a parent die. I can't fathom the depth of feeling he must have when he feels like he is letting his mother down even though he is taking every opportunity possible to talk to her and be with her. I DO know what it feels like to not be good enough, and maybe that's why I'm being so patient with him when he's mean to us. I want to be present for him the way he was for me when I was so desperately sad. He needs me, but he's been really difficult to be around. Sometimes I don't know how much more I can take before I totally lose patience and react. It hasn't happened yet, but some days I have so much anger towards him I want to punch him in the mouth.

Jeremy's mother has been calling my father too much. He is her pulmonary doctor. At first he was very sympathetic about her feeling abandoned by her physicians, but when he heard me complain about her pulling the same trip on her son he lost his sympathy. The last time she mentioned it he told her that the only physician who has stopped paying attention to her is her oncologist, and the reason he does not follow up with her is because SHE OPTED TO END TREATMENT. My father told her that the oncologist is no longer her doctor and she should not expect him to pay attention to her because she is not his responsibility. He told her that she is getting the best possible care, and that most cancer patients do not have the luxury of phoning their physicians at home whenever they are feeling anxious or if they have any questions. My father will stay after hours at his office to see her if she feels like she needs to be seen. He always takes her phone calls. He will stay on the phone with her because he considers her a personal friend AND family -- he told her that if he is not enough for her then she needs to also reach out to her general practitioner, but that he did not want to hear her say that she feels abandoned by her doctors anymore because he takes that personally.

I am proud of my father that he stood up for himself, but ever since then she's been worse with us. Jeremy's father tries hard to soften all the edges, but he can only do so much. On top of it all it's hard to tell if she's being dramatic and cruel because she's acting out, or if this is happening because her brain tumors are altering her personality. Maybe she is confusing her sons? She isn't speaking to me. When I've tried calling her she tells me she doesn't want to talk to me. I no longer stop by her house during the day because she never accepts our (Zoey and me) visit.

I don't know what to do. I don't know what to do for my husband. I don't know how to handle his angry depression. I don't know how to talk to him without getting angry at him over the way he handles our daughter when he's unhappy. I don't know if I should even bother saying anything to my mother-in-law, or if I should keep my mouth shut and be patient. I wish I could contact my own mom.

I'm so grateful that I have so much joy to weather all this sorrow.

Schedule

I know that babies need routine, and that having a routine supposedly makes life easier for both the parent and the child. Having a schedule stresses me out. Zoey made her own schedule, and it's fairly easy to maintain -- but I don't follow a schedule to the minute.

Sometime between 5:30 and 7:00 Zoey wakes up. After she's changed, fed, and changed again we take a walk. After the walk she plays on the floor while I eat breakfast and straighten the kitchen. Sometime between 8:30 and 10 she has a nap -- it depends on what time she originally woke up, but I can expect her to be tired and ready to nap three hours after she initially wakes up. She'll nap for at least 30 minutes, and sometimes up to two hours. The whole day is this cycle except at some point the walk and floor play is often replaced with splashing in my dad's pool, or running errands, or splashing in Erin's apartment complex pool and then playing on Erin's floor.

When we're invited to do something at a specific time it's unnerving. I was supposed to go to the Farmer's Market at 11 a.m. for some event they have for kids, but Zoey is still sleeping. She will need her diaper changed, and then a bottle, and surely another diaper changed after that. The person who invited me is upset with me because I can't tell her what time we'll be there -- if we make it at all. The thing is, I never promised I'd go. All I said to the invitation was, "Sounds nice. We'll see."

My neighbor has a baby 5 months older than Zoey. That baby's routine is so set in stone that everyone knows not to phone between certain hours because the baby is asleep. That mom can make promises to people and show up relatively on time. However, should the routine be altered at all -- should the nap be postponed a few minutes or should something different be introduced that baby is a basket case.

I prefer my way. I'm not saying my way is better -- it has the downfall that I can't plan to be someplace at a specific time in the future because the day's schedule depends on the hour Zoey awakens, but on the up side -- my baby can go with the flow. And for that I'm VERY grateful. Life is too short to get mad over tentative invitations.

This is an outfit my mom bought her while she was here -- she bought it for Zoey to wear now in the summer.

I've tried and tried to get Zoey accustomed to wearing hats. We're still working on it.

On Monday

Zoey will be six months old on Monday. She was born on a Monday.


She rolls like a champion now, and she can scootch forward but doesn't actually crawl yet. I wish she could sit. I don't think there is anything I can do to help her learn to sit, and from what I understand it's just supposed to suddenly happen or something. A few times when she has been trying to sit up I'll press on her legs and that leverage is exactly what she needs, but I don't know if it actually helps or not. She seems to get frustrated that she can't do it, but maybe I'm just projecting. Being a baby seems so difficult.

She knows who I am. When Jeremy asks her, "Where's Mama?" she looks around for me. She also knows Whiskey and Banjo. She knows boca, because when I feed her I say "Abre la boca," and I open my mouth wide and repeat boca, ah ah, boca until she opens her mouth. Sometimes I'll say it and she opens wide whether I have food or not. Sometimes she just looks at me like I'm mildly stupid. I'm sure there are other words she knows that I have no idea she actually knows them. According to the book I'm reading they (being babies) start learning what words mean starting now long before they can actually say anything. Jeremy is working really hard to stop cursing.


Her hair is turning blonder from being in the pool. The pool has a salinated filtration system so there is no chlorine involved, but still -- the sun does what it does. The tips of her lashes and her hair are becoming golden.


Jeremy's mother is tired of being alive, and I don't feel like talking about that -- but it's because of her that this post is short. I just don't have it in me to write. Instead, enjoy these photos.

This was an angry bed time. Her face cracks me up, especially because of the doll she is attacking. Her eyebrows look like they will take the same shape as mine.

Sparkly clean after a bath.

Not at all ready to nap.

Jump! Jump!

Summer is Fun

Jeremy's employees filled his office with rubber rock-n-roll duckies and penguins for his birthday celebration. His birthday isn't until Friday, but they wanted to get him "unawares." Jeremy loves penguins, and the rubber duckies were because they couldn't find rubber penguins. He liked that they are rock star ducks. Zoey likes them, too.

This is the first day in my dad's pool. She liked it.

The second day she wasn't as happy. She was cranky all day until I gave her Tylenol. Teething... I can't imagine the discomfort. I hope we have eruption soon. Despite teething, we had happy moments. This is in my dad's "sun room."
Papa's home. Bumbo chairs were on sale. I'm glad I bought it.
Zoey napping. Save the lectures, please... she doesn't normally nap in the guest room in the same bed with a bunch of animals, and she never uses a pillow. I was desperate, and I was in bed next to her reading making sure she wouldn't roll away or smother.Papa is in love.

Exposing Myself

My husband, his father, and his brother have gone to choose my husband's mother's casket, urn, and to make whatever other arrangements need to made with the funeral home. My husband's mother was making jokes about the men's shopping trip. I was not able to laugh with her. I wanted to let her know that I'm aware how surreal it must feel for her to be sitting in her small house with her youngest son's wife and her youngest grandchild while her mate and sons choose her coffin, but I could not articulate my sympathy. Instead I listened to her cynical jokes. She is napping right now.

I'm sad. And I am still angry. Rationally I know I am angry at cancer, but the anger is directed at my husband's mother. Her skinny arms especially irritate me. Her thin, fragile, pale, onion skin on those bony arms consternate me to the point that I envision myself scratching at her and tearing that skin. I know I feel violently towards her because I do not have a physical outlet to cause damage to the cancer, but my silent violence makes me sick.

***

For the past two days I took a course to meet my requirements for re-licensure to teach. The course was called Contemporary African-American Literature, and we were also taught quite a bit of history. One of the lectures was centered around the significance of the "mammy" figure. I especially enjoyed the analysis of this piece.

It is called "The Liberation of Aunt Jemima" by Betty Sayr. What I thought was a shapely black skirt on the liberated mammy is actually a black power fist protecting the mammy's womb. She has a pistol underneath the arm with the broom, and that is a shot gun in the opposite hand. She is standing on cotton and there are golden cotton hulls at her feet. That baby is unhappy, and the mammy looks like she could just drop that baby if she damn well feels like it.

The professor said that the mammy figure still exists, but now she is Latina. According to the professor, it isn't unusual to see "small, brown, Hispanic women pushing the strollers of blue-eyed, blonde, pink-skinned children." It brought to my mind the stark physical difference apparent between Zoey and me. When people point out to me that she looks just like her father it does not bother me, but when people feel compelled to point out to me that she looks "nothing like" me, I hate to admit, it bothers me a bit. I often "pass" for white. I know the "small, brown, Hispanic women" the professor speaks of are the stereotypical mestiza-looking women, and I don't fit that look. I do not have a mixed-race child the way my friend Curly has a mixed-race child -- French-Canadian mother and Black American father. I wonder if parents of obviously mixed-race children feel the same mild irritation when people feel compelled to comment on the physical appearance of the children. Ova Girl, does Tricky's dad ever get stupid comments when he's out with just his son? When I am by myself with my daughter I only see Zoey. I'm not fully aware of her "whiteness" until I'm out in public with her and other people feel compelled to point it out. When the professor mentioned the Latinas pushing the strollers of white babies it made me wonder if people assume I'm the nanny when I'm out with my daughter.

***

My mother-in-law asked me earlier this morning, "What do you wish for your daughter?" I thought of Zoey's face as it is right now.

I thought of her open-mouthed, toothless, wide-eyed smile. I can't imagine how she might look when she is older. Her face is completely different than it was when she was a new-born baby, and yet I recognize certain expressions, features, and attributes that were innate even in her ultrasound photos.

While pregnant I would beg the fetus to thrive. I promised my fetus that I would celebrate her life every day. Now that she is here I often marvel at the miracle of her. Jeremy and I had our 13th wedding anniversary on Tuesday. After all those years of marriage we finally have a child. I never imagined when I was that young, young bride that it would take so long, and I do not imagine my daughter's future other than to think of it in the abstract. I have never been able to live in the present until now.

My wish for my daughter has not changed. I wish for her to thrive. I wish for her to live. I wish for her to survive and become an old woman. I wish for her to live richly, colorfully, and happily.

***

At five months Zoey:

• rolls from belly to back to belly easily, but has not yet decided to roll as transportation.
• makes clicking sounds with her tongue
• smacks her lips at food
• is desperate to play with the remote control
• knows how to stop and start her crib toy and no longer "calls" me to help her turn it on when it has cycled through
• eats in her high chair. When I first put her in it she cried, but the pureed banana changed her attitude

• wants to spoon-feed herself, but does not mind the help
• smiles more at men than wmen
• prefers me over everyone else, including her Papa... totally flattering
• is still fascinated by my hair, especially on humid days when it frizzes and curls. She yanks on my curls violently and often has strands of my dark hair woven between her pretty little fingers
• still loves to be rocked to sleep
• will go to sleep by herself in her crib without too much of a fight, but I love spoiling her by rocking her to sleep. I waited a long time to rock my baby to sleep.
• still has blue eyes
• has new hair filling in underneath the hair she was born with, and the new hair is so blonde it is white
• was in the sun too long on Father's day at my father's house, and she did not burn
• wants to eat what I eat and drink from a glass
• rests her feet on the cup-holder tray of her stroller when we go for walks
• tries to bite the dogs. Whiskey lets her chew on her ears. I do not let her chew on Whiskey's ears... seeing my daughter with a mouth full of dog fur is just weird.