Detachment - Issue No. 8
ISLAND TIME AND PAINKILLERS
For the first time, this newsletter is a week late. While this next grouping of sentences reads like a dog ate my homework excuse, it’s more of an unsolicited explanation. It’s summer time, if this is a surprise to you, step outside and feel the suffocating heat surrounding you. With summer, the number of children constantly in my house has doubled. I’m writing this as my sweet and occasionally clingy three-year-old is sitting on my lap asking me, “how are you writing?” I’m not sure what she means by her question, but I’m inclined to reply “not as well as before.” So, I’m attempting to type with my arms on either side of her chatty little body, said Hemingway never. Reason number two for the delay, (and the real crux of this section) is that my husband and I took our first vacation away from our kids (more to come on that). Subsequently, my mom (who graciously watches my children while I write and acted as primary guardian while we were gone) needed a complete break from my very busy little ones upon our return. So, here we are, a week late, desperately clinging onto the final strands of the carefree and well-rested feeling of vacation.
And, that brings me to part two of this piece, my first real kid-free vacation since becoming a parent. The trip is so hard to describe beyond enthusiastic adjectives. So, here are some facts:
We rented a large catamaran and sailed for a week with four other couples (half of which we didn’t know well) in the British Virgin Islands.
My husband and one other man captained our boat while I lacquered on sunscreen, completely lost track of time, and had the most enjoyable chats when not reading (with equal parts amusement and envy) I’ll Show Myself Out by Jessi Klein.
While at a time other than now I’d love to learn the mechanics of sailing, for this trip, all of the women (who are either moms of young children or pregnant) decided to take a step-back from their usual appointed role as “troop leader”, and instead sat on the upper deck with no agenda, watching the water that was somehow both cobalt and clear. At any given time, I wasn’t exactly sure where we were going or coming from, or how long we’d been sailing for, it all felt so meditatively fluid.
I felt a bit like I was walking into this trip blindfolded; here are some things I didn’t know going in:
The difference between starboard and port (and that the word is “starboard” and not “star-bird.”)
Thanks to my embarrassingly rudimentary understanding of geography, much like thinking Nova Scotia was near Sweden, I wasn’t sure exactly where the British Virgin Islands were, beyond South.
Until this trip, I’d been unfamiliar with sea sickness. Thankfully, I only experienced it once, and puking off the leeward side of a boat with wind in one’s hair feels, in some way, albeit small, like a vintage connection to Moby Dick (a book that to date, I’ve never found very relatable).
Finally, here is what it feels like to return after such a trip:
The juxtaposition between sipping Painkillers one day (a delightful drink made with rum, cream of coconut, pineapple and orange juice, and a shake of nutmeg on top) to changing your son’s poopy diaper as he tries to heedlessly hurl himself from the changing table while your daughter gags at the smell but refuses to leave the room, can feel a bit discordant.
Having an opportunity to come up for air, to remember who you are in your own body, to not be constantly watching your periphery to be sure one child isn’t pulling another child’s hair or exploring the mechanics of your dog’s tail, it felt really rejuvenating and like I could come back a better mom than when I left.
Once you have babies, even when you’re away from them, even when you’re sipping cocktails, paddle boarding over stingrays, feeling your feet sink into the sand, they’re still deeply a part of you. You’re never fully alone again. I could both feel in touch with myself and so far from the self that I was before I had children, because without them I’m not whole. Even though I wholly enjoyed having a break.
HOME ALONE AND
WHEN KEVIN MCCALISTER BECAME A MOM
Every once in a while, I find myself truly stunned still by the fact that I’m an adult. At 35, I thought I would have warmed up to this idea by now, but there are times that it truly still floors me. Perhaps, I imagined I would be given a key on the precipice of adulthood to a door with all of the answers inside. But instead, I still feel like I have so much to figure out, and I lose my keys all of the time. Last night, I was laying in bed and thinking about how, if my kids feel scared, they seek me out to make them feel better. Since it happens every day, I don’t think a lot about it, but the other night, it really struck me. My husband was out of town and I was laying in bed devising a plan of what to do if a burglar broke in: hide under my bed or escape from one of our way-too-tall windows trying to avoid the electric wires that are far too close to our house to be to code. Perhaps, I could act like I was already dead from a burglar who had broken in previously or I could hope that my sweet Black Lab in a moment of true valiance would become a ferocious beast. But, it’s not just about me, without any additional Ninja training, I was given these kids to protect.
When I was seven years old and the first Home Alone movie felt like an integral part of my life, my nextdoor neighbors got robbed. The next day, my neighbor and I went outside to dig a very big hole in my front yard. Our thought process was, if the robbers returned, they would break-in to my house, since my neighbor’s house had already been hit. Upon walking up our steeply sloped yard, because robbers don’t use driveways, they would trip and fall in the hole, and know, thanks to Macaulay Culkin's expertly played Kevin McCalister, that we were expecting them. Having already experienced a taste of our possible vengeance, the burglars would run away in fear. The plan backfired when my neighbor gave me a bloody nose by accidentally smacking me in the face with his shovel. And, really from that moment forward, I’ve been uncertain if I’d be very useful (other than my stellar soft-skills) in a zombie apocalypse. Which brings me to the other night, laying there, in sheer shock that I am a mom whose job it is to protect my children. And, while I would do absolutely anything to keep them safe, my knowledge of how to tie knots, skin a fish, and forage for anything outside of our refrigerator is still incredibly limited. So, laying in bed the other night feeling sheer disbelief at the responsibility I now shoulder, I connected more to Kevin McCalister than I have in years. Unable to sleep, I just laid there, hoping that at least for a while longer my kids continue to feel safe in my arms, unaware that I’m totally winging it.
REFLECTING ON THE REGRESSION
OF WOMEN'S RIGHTS
I’ve been searching for the words to contribute my voice to the reversal of Roe. V. Wade. And, while I’ve felt compelled to speak up, I’ve been struggling with how to express my disappointment and fear.
I’ve been thinking about the nine months leading up to my daughter and son being born, and how unbearable it would have felt to be growing a baby that wasn’t viable, or who was conceived by rape or incest or before it was the right time. I’ve been thinking of how scared and betrayed I would have felt if my healthcare providers couldn’t have done everything in their power to keep me unharmed and alive. I’ve been thinking about my c-sections, the recovery, the scars, how my body has been forever changed, how a man could never understand what it feels like to endure any kind of pregnancy.
I’ve thought about how life-changing and consuming and expensive motherhood is and how impossible it would feel if I hadn’t been ready.
I’ve thought about how broken the systems are that we have to support these women and these unwanted children.
And, I’ve thought about how to articulate how serious this is for our country, how to say something that my eloquent and powerful community hasn’t said, how to express the urgency of this call to action.
To my daughter, June 24 was marked by a carousel ride, her first time tasting Dippin’ Dots, and her brother’s first time pooping in a potty (though, it was definitely a fluke). That night, I watched her on the monitor. She was fighting sleep by dressing up like a doctor-ballerina-firefighter in her closet. I’ve told her she can be whatever she wants to be. Though, that feels less and less true.
Because to me, June 24 marked the loss of women’s fundamental right to control their own bodies. To me, the day felt like the beginning of a terrifying regression in policies that will make this country so vastly different than the home I want for my babies. I’ve not yet told her any of this, I’m not ready nor is she. But, when I do, I hope that I can give her hope—Hope for a world that believes in her, wants to keep her safe, and trusts her integrity as much as I do. When I tell her, I want to assure her that a world which resembles the one she deserves is possible.
SOMETHING THAT
DID WORK
When my son was born, he quickly gained the nickname “Mr. Grumbles.” When he was sleeping or nursing or feeling particularly cozy, he would make a sound likened to a grown man eating a perfectly barbecued rib, fresh off the grill. That grumbley noise, as I nursed him to sleep or felt his face pressed against my chest brought me peace. If I could compose any noise to sleep to on a sound machine, it would be this one. Now, when he eats a particularly delicious piece of cheese or an occasional hot dog, the grumble returns, but now he looks back at us with a face that seems to be inquiring “good, right?” And so, our whole family grumbles in response. And, this is why we will not be dining as a family in a fancy restaurant any time soon. Witnessing a child that was within you finding comfort without you, discovering the pleasures of the world and having it result in such a wonderful sound, it brings me joy. I know my kids, who are growing at what I would argue is a bizarrely fast rate, will outgrow most things that they do today. My daughter will likely stop saying “Scun-screen” and “Daisies and Gentlemen” and my son will probably soon stop saying “woah” when he’s running particularly fast in circles or exclaiming “Mama, bir!” when he hears tweeting overhead. My parents love talking about how I used to sing the word “Ba-quila” instead of “Tequila” (when singing the song from the ‘50s, which was my only exposure to Tequila till college). Or, how I confused the words “sensible” and “sensitive” and used to notify my peers, when a loud truck passed or someone screamed that I had “very sensible ears.” I know that eventually their words will get corrected and that they’ll be introduced to inhibitions. I’ve made peace with some of that concept, but I hope, in the right company, on occasion, my son will continue to share his grumbles of delight with the world.
SOMETHING THAT
DIDN’T WORK
For this piece, it is important to first introduce you to MacGyver, a television character from the ‘80s (with a recent remake). Google describes him as a young hero with an extraordinary knack for unconventional problem solving. Recently, my daughter has been exploring her potentially preordained future role as Ms. MacGyver. She’s been trying her hand at creative problem solving, and I have been doing everything in my power to encourage her thinking-outside-of-the-box but doomed-to-fail experiments. When her bubble wand rolled under the fridge, she suggested we try to get it with a piece of fruit, first she tried a banana and then a peach, while I sat next to her, trying to conjure every ounce of my patience as I watched her gears turn while she attempted to squeeze our fresh produce underneath the refrigerator. The next morning, I had trouble opening a jar and she suggested, perhaps Play-Doh could help. So, then I was attempting to open a jar covered in Play-Doh, and when that didn’t work, she resiliently added poof balls (a word that you only say or understand when you have kids). Later that afternoon, she put grass clippings in front of our truck, so as to stop the scooter from ramming into the bumper as it picked up speed going down our sloped driveway. She was shocked when her brother still plowed straight into it. I so deeply want her to feel uninhibited in her imaginings, to approach problem solving with an open mind, unencumbered by the limiting nature of self-doubt or debilitating pessimism. So, I’m left encouraging her as she puts toilet paper between her butt cheeks and comes out of the bathroom with her “tail” dragging along the floor so “she never has to wipe again.” And while her inventions have not yet resulted in a lot of success, I think her continuing to think this way has a great deal of potential.
SUSTENANCE SUGGESTIONS
Peach Daiquiri
It’s summertime, and in true Georgia-girl fashion, for me, the season is marked by trying to consume as many peaches as possible while they’re good. From salads to pizza, during this season, to me peaches make almost anything better. Shout-out to my god-moms who first introduced me to this tasty beverage! And with that, here is my favorite summer cocktail:
Ingredients
2 ripe peaches
1 can of frozen Minute Made Limeade
1 tsp. of powdered sugar
2-3 shots of dark rum (you can also make these without rum, if you’re looking for a virgin option. Or add more rum, if you’re looking for something slightly more boozy.
1 cup of ice
Directions
Blend it up and enjoy!
