So many people have asked me how Nate is managing, so I wanted to let everyone know that he is healing. it’s going to be several weeks before he can go without his bandage, but the doctors have assured me that his hand will heal normally. Right now it doesn’t sound like he will need any skin grafts.
He’s mostly back to his usual self, which means that he is up to trouble and we have to constantly chase him around as he runs away, now with his bandaged arm in the air.
I feel very lucky.
You might have noticed that I’ve been talking more concretely about my kids lately. This has been a bit of a hard decision. Should I write about them at all? Is it a violation of my family’s privacy? What about using their names? For a while now, I’ve wanted to tell you more about them. I know that I could invent aliases, but it doesn’t feel natural to me to do that. So I’ve been using their names.
After my last post, I received a lot of comments from readers who were clearly confused about who Gabe is. I think I need to back up and tell you about my family.
Geoff and I have been married for almost 13 years. Our daughter, Anna, is seven. Our older son, Gabe, is five, and Nate, our baby, is almost two. They are funny, smart, great kids. I’m going to tell you more about them in future posts. Readers, I am trusting you. Please help me protect my family while I write my stories.
“Let’s eat our cake,†I tell her.
“Okay,†she says. We pretend to eat the dirt we rolled into balls and decorated with acorns and bits of stick. We’re playing castle in the tarp-fort that Daddy made.
“Nate!†I call to my little brother, who is eating the dirt cake for real. “Stop eating the dirt. Just pretend.†I show him how. He pretends for a second, then runs out of the castle over to Daddy. Daddy is chopping wood by the fire.
“Don’t eat my cake!†Anna screams at me. I wasn’t, but I don’t bother telling her. She never listens to me.
“Nate, no!†Mommy yells, so loud that I jump. I run out of the castle. Daddy is holding Nate and screaming. Mommy and Daddy are yelling for us to get into the car.
“Let’s go! We have to go to the hospital!†Mommy tells me. “Nate burned his hand!â€
I’m scared. Then I look at Nate. Skin is falling off of his hand. He’s screaming and crying. I start to cry, too.
“Come on, Gabe. We have to get into the car. Go get into your seat,†Daddy says. I hear him, but I can’t move. I’m too scared. Mommy pulls my hand and we go towards the car.
Nate is already buckled in by the time I get into my seat. He’s holding his hand out and crying. “My and urts,†he cries. “Mommy, my and urts!â€
“I know it does,†Mommy says, holding his arm tightly. “I’m sorry, Natey-boo,†she says. She sounds sad.
I sneak a look at Nate’s hand. The skin is gray and falling off. He’s screaming.
“I don’t want to look at his hand!†Anna says. “It’s terrible!†She’s almost crying too.
I’m so scared.
We drive super slow by the lake, past our ice cream shop. I had a cotton-candy ice cream cone, but I couldn’t finish it all. Daddy is angry. He’s yelling and saying words that I don’t understand. He goes fast around a car and then honks the horn.
“My and urts!†Nate cries. “It urts!†he says.
“I know, baby boy,†Mommy says. “We are going to the doctor to make it all better.â€
I’m not so sure. It looks like it won’t ever be better. I’m so scared. “Mommy,†I ask, “is Nate going to die?â€
“No, he’s not, sweetie,†Mommy says. But I’m not sure. Maybe he will. The skin is falling off his hand. Underneath there is red stuff.
“My and urts!†Nate screams. Why won’t he be quiet?
Anna covers her ears. “I don’t want to hear him!†she yells.
Everyone is talking and yelling. I am so scared, so I cover my ears too. I don’t yell. I just stay inside. If Nate dies, I will miss him. Maybe he will go to heaven to be with Mom-Mom. Mom-Mom will take care of him there, and maybe his hand will be all better in heaven. But I will miss him. I don’t want him to die. If he stays alive, I will teach him to be careful by the fire. When we go camping, I will follow him around and keep him safe. I promise. Mom-Mom, please don’t let Nate die. I love him and I like having him for a little brother.
“It urts!†Nate cries. I can still hear him through my hands.
“I know, sweet boy,†Mommy says. “It will be okay.†She turns all the way around and looks at me. She looks worried. “Gabe, we’re almost there. I promise.â€
That makes me feel better.
Before tragedy struck
I want to preface this post with a bold statement: I rarely, if ever, have felt guilty as a mom. In fact, I hardly ever experience guilt. I have recently wondered if that makes me a sociopath. Hopefully not. But as a mom, I try to give my kids all that I have to give — at least I did until recently. I have always tried not to leave myself any room to feel guilty.
This weekend, while we were camping with the kids, Nate, our youngest, fell into the campfire. He burned his hand badly, and I spent most of the night in two ERs getting him treatment. It was a complete accident. Geoff was starting the fire while the kids played in their fort on the other side of our campsite. Midway through setting up the fire, Nate wandered over to Geoff, who was sawing apart a log. Geoff warned Nate to stay back, and Nate turned and started walking away, looking at Geoff over his shoulder. He took a few steps and tripped directly into the fire, which, thank God, was low, tiny. Geoff saw what happened and immediately pulled him out, but the damage was instantaneous. We all jumped into the car and headed to the nearest hospital.
Where was I while this happened? I was reading a book. In my chair. Watching from afar. I’m embarrassed to admit it. I think of my best friends, the ones who are moms, and I know that each one of them would have been following behind their babies wherever they went around the campsite. There was an open fire and I was reading a book. It’s unforgivable.
The attending doctor at the first ER was concerned that Nate should receive care from a pediatric burn unit. He told me that Nate would need to be put under while his wounded hand was cleaned and the damage accessed. So we transferred to another hospital, closer to home, now at 9 p.m.
Nate fell asleep in the ambulance. It was heartbreaking to see his car seat belted into a stretcher. He looked so tiny and helpless. When the EMT covered him with a white hospital blanket, I couldn’t stop myself from crying. What if the fire had been bigger? What if Geoff hadn’t pulled him out so quickly? All the impossibilities came flooding in at once. If the EMT, sitting across from me in the ambulance, noticed me crying, she didn’t say. How could she have known how much I hate white hospital blankets, how they will always only be shrouds to me ever since my mom died? How could she have known that covering my baby with one to keep him warm in the air-conditioning would put me back in that room with my mom who died so suddenly that I couldn’t even make it to the hospital in time to say goodbye? She couldn’t. She meant well, and truthfully, it all turned out fine.
We made it to the second hospital, and a team of burn doctors assured me that Nate’s hand will heal without surgery. They bandaged his hand, sent us home, and all is well today. He’s learning to be a lefty without much complaint. But I still can’t shake this too-close-for-comfort feeling of near-miss, and I can’t let go of the blame. Maybe I shouldn’t.
When I was a kid, we celebrated all the holidays. Our menorah went next to the Christmas tree, and our Easter dinner often included ham and matzoh. Go ahead, laugh. Just don’t judge me.
Let’s generalize and say that I was formally, publicly, Catholic. I attended Sacred Heart Elementary, where I learned to love Jesus, to recite Our Father and Hail Mary, and where I colored xeroxed copies of the stations of the cross. At home, my mom, my sister, my Bubbie all cursed in Yiddish and ate corned beef. I didn’t question it until much later.
As a teenager, I abruptly decided to give up Catholicism, and celebrate only Jewish holidays. I felt that the main point of religion was to honor your ancestors, never mind spirituality. I still agree with this to a point, but I have long since realized that I wanted my Bubbie to love her more. I thought that if I were more Jewish, like her, that she would. Did she? Did it work? I don’t know. She was inscrutable.
On Christmas as a kid, my mom would take me to midnight mass. I remember one year seeing a young couple kissing in their pew. That beautiful image has stuck with me all this time, that joyful and spiritual togetherness. Sometimes the memory is sweet, sometimes it breaks my heart. I never talk about it.
My mom taught me that all religions are just different paths to the same God. I agree, but I still grew up feeling confused and slighted for not having one singular religious identity like my friends did. Why did my mom choose to walk two paths at once while raising me, between the Judaism that she grew up with and her chosen Catholicism? If she were still alive, I would ask her. In her absence, I have to guess that those childhood memories are powerful and it was her instinct to share them with me. But what I would like more than anything is to experience that shared faith, that certainty in that which cannot be seen. My mom found her spiritual source in church, but she chose not to force that source on me. I understand why, but I can’t help feeling that that intangible piece of religion, the faith, is lost to me.
I’ve long since made my decision on religion, and Geoff and I basically agree: We’re happy to belong to our synagogue, to send the kids to Sunday school, and to see them developing their singular religious identities. They deserve it. And even though their Grandma does occasionally take them to church, they know they are Jewish. I’m glad to offer that certainty to them. But as for the other piece of it–the faith that I’ve only ever felt in church–how can I ever share that with them?
Pink hollyhocks burst against an adobe wall.
A ladder to nowhere casts haphazard shadows.
Sagebrush guards the well; her black door becomes a window, becomes an eye, becomes a gate to the faraway.
This morning, he was lying facedown on my bed, his adorable little face lying on the blanket, so I joined him. I put my face right up against his on the blanket, nose to nose. He laughed. We stayed like that for a moment, smiling at each other. Then he jumped up and climbed onto my back, wrapping his arms and legs around me like a baby monkey. He laughed and said, “Mommy!” Then we laid like that for awhile.
I love him like crazy at this age. He’s so open, so full of himself. He has little fear and heaps of curiosity. He doesn’t hold himself back. If only he could permanently remain in the here and now and not reach two, a thief waiting to steal all of his fun.
The little mischief maker:
“Where’s my brown-eyed princess?†he called as soon as he set his hat on the rack and tossed his coat over the banister. His voice reverberated throughout the small house, now all the more a home because of his arrival.
He kicked his wet shoes off into the mat and loosened his tie, unbuttoned two buttons on his white shirt. “Come on, princess, let’s play!†he called, waiting. Usually she was sitting by the door, but today she was off somewhere, immersed in a game.
He quickly ran a hand through his hair and got down on his hands and knees. “Come ride your pony,†he boomed.
“Daddy!†she cried, running from the kitchen, through the house, and vaulted into his back, hugging him. “I love you, Daddy! I missed you!â€
“I missed you, too, princess,†he said, beginning his loop around the living room. “Where to today?†he asked, as he did every day.
“Can we go to India?†she asked, her voice hopeful and excited.
“Of course, princess,†he agreed, rounding the armchair and nearing the fireplace. “Which way is it to India?†he asked.
“Oh, Daddy, I don’t know. Don’t you know the way?â€
“Well, I’m not sure, but I think we need to go south, and over oceans.†He paused near the fire for a few moments.
“Oceans, Daddy?†she asked as she tightened her grip on the collar of his shirt.
“Yes, princess. But ponies cannot ride over oceans, so we’ll need to take a ship.â€
“A ship? Really?†she was so excited that she nearly fell off of his back.
He stopped while she climbed back on, “Yes, my love, a huge ship! Would you like that?â€
“Yes, Daddy! Let’s go! Mommy and Norman can come, too, right?â€
“Yes, princess,†he laughed his deep laugh, pausing to lean against the sofa. Little did he know that in a few short months he’d be boarding a plane without his family. Ships were no longer the only way to cross oceans.
“Oh, Daddy, I can’t wait to sail to India and meet the Indians!†she cried, climbing off of his back and onto the sofa. “When do we leave?†As he sat up, she grabbed his hands.
“After dinner, my love, after dinner,†he laughed, turning to smile and wink at his wife—my Bubbie—in the kitchen doorway, who was holding a dishtowel and wearing the same slightly displeased expression that would come to be her usual expression years later when I was born.
“Dinner is ready,†she said.
It flits by, quietly landing on her arm.
“Look,” I whisper, gently touching her arm near its landing place.
“Oh, a damselfly!” she whispers excitedly.
Of course she knows its proper name, but that doesn’t explain how she attracts these ethereal beings, why they seem to hover around her daily as if they recognize her.
“How do you charm them?” I ask as the damselfly moves away.
She laughs in reply.
I’ve been thinking a lot about rules lately, and I’ve been breaking more than a few. Sadly, even some of what I write as a blogger breaks some of the rules of my marriage. Last week, I read this article by Molly Crababble on money and success. She contends that to accomplish anything above and beyond the marriage-big-house-two-and-a-half-kids pipe dream, women have to break the rules. I agree.
In her article, Molly Crabapple talks about how artists in particular have to transgress established norms. Artistic success, she says, depends on “doing the ambitious work everyone said you weren’t ready for, then getting mocked and rejected for it, until, slowly, the wall began to crack. You could never do what you were supposed to, never stay quietly in your place.â€
I’ve mentioned this before, but if you’re new around here, one of my reasons for blogging is that I want to return to work. I want to work as a writer, and I want to write creatively. My plan is to start with writing about myself and move on to separate characters. I find myself in a unique position: well-educated, with some decent experience on my resume, and with several years away from the workforce to raise my kids. Not to mention that I have a certain level of financial freedom.
Since I stopped working full-time when my daughter was born, my husband’s opinion has been that it doesn’t pay for me to work. Truthfully, by the time we pay for childcare and our ridiculously high tax bracket, there would be very little money left to make my efforts worthwhile. This is the “official†reason that I stay at home full-time. It doesn’t include my strong desire to be at home with my kids when they are little, to start them off with a strong emotional attachment. It doesn’t begin to cover all the fun that we’ve had together over the past seven years, and it certainly ignores all the skills that I’ve learned as a mom.
Stepping out of the workforce has given me clarity about the pros and cons of paid employment and what I really want out of a job. I want to do what I love. It’s a sacrifice to hand over part of your life to a manager. I’d love to have the freedom to write as I like, indefinitely, without any consideration of pay. But I think that’s impractical. And honestly, I think it will serve my marriage well for me to once again receive a regular paycheck.
So here I am, on the cusp of changing nearly everything about the daily structure of my life, of my kids’ lives, of Geoff’s life. I want to savor this time as I transition from full-time to part-time mom. But I’m constantly reminded how much I have come to expect of myself in this unpaid role. It’s nothing short of perfection. I am used to filling my days with taking care of my family’s needs, with making their lives special and fun. I do love that job, with all my heart. But I just can’t do it all anymore. And to change, I need to break the rules.
To write this blog, which I hope to craft into a portfolio, I need time away from my kids. Rule #1 broken. I need to hire a sitter during the day, which means spending money. Rule #2 broken. I need to make time to do what’s important to me, and I need to do it before I take care of anyone else. Rule #3 broken. This is unfamiliar territory, and I only know that to succeed, I have to make up new rules as I go. Do you think it’s easy to make up new rules? Does it sound like fun? Maybe. But it’s also hard, like running uphill. Sometimes a nice life, with enough money, a loving husband, and three cute kids, can act like a trap.
I’m going for the impossible here: I want to have the family and a job that I love. Do any of you have an axe I can borrow?
