Mom Creep

I have a favorite chair.  When we first brought it home, it was big and comfy.  It came with an ottoman. I would put my feet up, my back sinking into the cushions. It was heavenly, and it was positioned perfectly so that I could see the television, the stairs, the front and the back door, all at the same time.   If you're a mom, then you know how important it is to have visual contact with these areas.

I decided that it was my chair. I should have known better.  Moms don't really get to have a "spot", not unless they fight tooth and nail.  Things from the other two people living in the house just start creeping over to my side of the bed, or on my vanity, or in my car.  Mom Creep, I call it.  My chair was not immune.

First it was my child.  Zane decided that he liked my chair, so I'd come downstairs and find him curled up in MY chair, playing on his tablet.

"You're in my chair," I said, nicely. "Get up."

"You're just like Sheldon," Zane grumbled as he moved to a different seat, comparing me to a character on the show The Big Bang Theory.  A few minutes later, however, he was squeezing in next to me.  I was disgruntled at having to share, mostly because occasionally I like to do things without having a child or a dog attached to me.

Next, when Maisy came along, she decided that the very best place to take a nap was on top of the cushion at the back of MY chair.  It was fine, at first, because she was a puppy. She would curl up around my shoulders.  Now, however, Maisy is a sixty pound dog, who still thinks that the back of my chair is the place to be. The cushion is smushed flat, try as I might to fluff it back up.

Then I came downstairs, bleary-eyed, one morning to find my husband in MY chair, his feet propped up, his hands clutching an X-Box One controller.  A steaming mug of coffee was on the table next to him.  I did not say a word, but headed to the kitchen for my own coffee.   After I'd had my first cup, I went back into the living room.

"You're in my chair," I said, gruffly.  "Get up."

"You're just like Sheldon," Larry grumbled, as he moved to a different seat.   I sat down, but it just wasn't the same anymore.  I sighed heavily.

"What is wrong?" My husband asked me. 

I grumbled under my breath.  He knew darn well what was wrong!  I just put my head down and inhaled the steam from my coffee.  I needed to let it go, I knew.  Moms are all about sharing. We share our bodies to bring our children into this world, what's one little chair? 

Maybe the next one. 

Our First Sleepover

This past week was spring break for Zane and I.  It was not spring break for my husband, who works in another district.  I had grand plans of taking Zane to the Witte Museum and maybe going for a walk with the dog, or perhaps a drive in the country.

None of that happened.  Because I'm on chemo, my immunity is down, and I caught some random virus that knocked me down. I've had this particular malady before, and both times it turned into something more, either croup or pleurisy(yes--I contract 18th century maladies. It's my thing).  My oncologist delayed my chemo and put me on antibiotics, and I've slept as much as I can in between coughing up my lungs.  Zane was great the entire time, but I felt bad that he wasn't getting to do anything fun. 

And then we got a phone call from a mom inviting Zane to a sleepover at her house. I was excited.  Zane was excited.  Zane's first sleepover! I said yes, excited for my son, and hung up the phone.  That's when I started thinking of all the things that could go wrong.  Because that's what moms do. A litany of my little boy's idiosyncrasies played in my head: 

Zane likes to strip down to his undies at home. 

Zane only eats certain foods.

Zane argues if things don't make sense.

Zane likes to have a story read to him before bedtime.  To delay bedtime.

Zane sleepwalks. 

Zane is up before the crack of dawn. 

Zane has a tendency to ask about inappropriate topics at the most inappropriate times. 

All the things I love and accept about my son, I started to see through someone else's eyes.  I didn't like the idea that my son might be seen as odd or weird or difficult, but I had to accept that this might happen.  However, I wasn't going to deny him the opportunity to at least try new things because of my fears.  He has to experience the world, and that is the way it has to be.  I needed to let go, at least a little bit.  I sucked up my anxieties, and started talking to him about what he wanted to bring.
 
That night, Zane wrapped me in a hug and asked "What if I miss you?"  I smiled at him and told him that he would be having too much fun to miss me.  Inside, however, I was asking the same question. I already knew I would miss him!

Zane was out of the car before I turned off the engine, and he even remembered to get his booster seat out of the car.  He was inside and upstairs with his friend before I even had a chance to say goodbye.  I felt a little twinge, but I let it go, and drove immediately to the store to distract myself. 

And I waited for a text or phone call, telling me that Zane wanted to come home.  My husband came home, and we went out to eat by ourselves at a restaurant that featured actual utensils.  He made sure that my phone was turned up as loud as it could go.  He made sure that I left my phone on the table while we ate.  He checked my phone several times during the night to make sure that nobody had called or texted. 

It was a shared anxiety, as it turns out.  It was his first sleepover.  We were both having trouble letting go.    We went to sleep expecting to be awakened by a phone call that never came. Zane did great on his first sleepover, arriving home happy. 

He survived.  And we did too.

Happy Birthday Mom!

 Dear Mom,

I know that you're still mad because I was born breach and you didn't get to have any of the good drugs, but look!  Your grandson made you a really cool present.

We started out with a blank puzzle. No I don't know where I got these blank puzzles.   I was cleaning out my closet the other day and there they were in a box.  Jimmy Hoffa was in that box as well--maybe they were his?

We traced Zane's hands onto the puzzle pieces.  Zane cooperated with my attempts to trace his hands, mostly because I wouldn't let him move any fingers while I was tracing. 

Since Zane knows that he holds his Grandma's heart in his hands(also her wallet), we drew a very red heart.  And then we colored the entire picture using as many crayons as possible. 

 
And now we take all the pieces apart and put them in a bag and bring them to Grandma's house so she can play(Zane's word).  Hooray!