Sometimes, having a storage unit, I forget what I’m missing.
I just feel like all my stuff is there, waiting for me to get my own place. I forget I’ve sold my childhood desk, and my favorite glass-fronted cabinet and a sideboard I repainted and replaced the knobs on myself; those things are not, in fact, waiting in the storage unit for me.
Which says something about materialism and “stuff,” I guess.
So it’s always a heart-stopper when I remember that I sold the glider and ottoman I rocked all my babies to sleep in. I just…am thinking about my kids and trying to carefully cull the good memories without jostling the bad, causing them to rise to the surface like dislodged flotsam but I'm not always successful.
The glider was beige micro-suede and I found it on sale at Burlington Coat Factory, the cheapest one I’d found on my 2 year search for a glider, which we could never afford. It had an oak frame and a handle that locked it to keep the chair from gliding---convenient when trying to haul your butt up with the dead weight of a sleeping 16 month old on your shoulder.
You paid attention though, didn’t you? That thought makes me smile, because yes, I did. I knew, in my heart of hearts, that I would not be there forever, that my marriage wasn’t working and that it was not the optimal environment for my kids. I knew. So I looked around every evening, when I put my kids to bed. And I memorized those calm, comfortable, cozy times. Times that could make me feel nostalgic right then; could cause tears to just start streaming down my cheeks. It was a nicely appointed, cozy room, that nursery. Music was playing, Traveling Tunes by Baby Einsteins I think. And I knew that every time I heard that music in the future, it would set me to bawling. Because music and smell, it instantly transports me, like magic. The impact is often….unstoppable. I didn’t want to set myself up to have bad triggers, if I could help it. Instead, I tried to set myself up for good triggers. This music, I thought at the time, will always transport me here, to this dimly lit room with the striped curtains and the white crib my parents gave me and this comfy glider and the smell of this beautiful baby girl, who will probably be my last baby. That thought made me pause and I'd feel sadness well up. I wait for it to pass; I’m already crying, so that part doesn’t matter.
I always felt like I was bloated with tears. That I was full up and swollen with them and sometimes, they just leaked out, all on their own.
I’d lay down next to my son, my sweet middle boy, 3 years old, on the bottom bunk. We would talk about falling asleep. He’d whisper he wasn’t tired. He’d ask if he could look at a book and then I would doze off—I couldn’t help it! Running after 3 little ones was exhausting! I remember his giggle, how sometimes he’d cover his mouth, eyes crinkled in the corners, his little square man-fingers splayed over his squeezable cheeks, the cords of his neck standing out as he strained to contain his glee and not wake his brother on the top bunk. He would eventually sleep, and I would cry quietly, brushing his hair out of his face, feeling but not yet knowing that this wouldn’t last forever; fooling myself into thinking it was because I was thinking of them growing up.
But I knew.
I knew there would be times in the future when I couldn’t be with them. I certainly had no idea it would turn out as God-awful as it has, that I would only see them 93 days of the year and my life would become a waking nightmare, a punishment for an unknown crime I’d gladly give my life to rectify, at this point.
I sink back down, down, where it’s less bright.
I remember standing on the bed frame of the bottom bunk, reaching up over the wooden rail meant to keep my sleeping thrasher safe, my petite frame straining. I remember the feel of the wooden rail digging into my underarm as I reached, trying to touch the cheek of my eldest, asleep and snoring as soon as his head hit the pillow. Regret was there, that I couldn’t snuggle and sleep with my 5 year old, when he complained that I snuggled with everyone but him. I couldn’t very well climb up onto the top bunk with him; we’d crash and crush Little Old Man. {Codename, remember?}
The bunk beds are still in that house, although they’ve been moved. My mind slides over that. These thoughts of how my children’s bedrooms have changed, they’re like the scratchy part of Velcro: the sensation is uncomfortable, but I can’t stop rubbing the cheap plastic-y feel of it. The wonder that this rough piece always reminds you of its other half, the softer side, and how they cannot work separately, but only together. A metaphor for their father and I, I suppose. (He being the scratchy one of course.)
I shy away from those more recent memories.
I’d rather be down here in the deep, where light is uneven and watery. Where I float without rising and my memories are solid, jumbled rocks at my feet. When I’m without my kids, I could stay here forever. Remembering.
I just feel like all my stuff is there, waiting for me to get my own place. I forget I’ve sold my childhood desk, and my favorite glass-fronted cabinet and a sideboard I repainted and replaced the knobs on myself; those things are not, in fact, waiting in the storage unit for me.
Which says something about materialism and “stuff,” I guess.
So it’s always a heart-stopper when I remember that I sold the glider and ottoman I rocked all my babies to sleep in. I just…am thinking about my kids and trying to carefully cull the good memories without jostling the bad, causing them to rise to the surface like dislodged flotsam but I'm not always successful.
The glider was beige micro-suede and I found it on sale at Burlington Coat Factory, the cheapest one I’d found on my 2 year search for a glider, which we could never afford. It had an oak frame and a handle that locked it to keep the chair from gliding---convenient when trying to haul your butt up with the dead weight of a sleeping 16 month old on your shoulder.
You paid attention though, didn’t you? That thought makes me smile, because yes, I did. I knew, in my heart of hearts, that I would not be there forever, that my marriage wasn’t working and that it was not the optimal environment for my kids. I knew. So I looked around every evening, when I put my kids to bed. And I memorized those calm, comfortable, cozy times. Times that could make me feel nostalgic right then; could cause tears to just start streaming down my cheeks. It was a nicely appointed, cozy room, that nursery. Music was playing, Traveling Tunes by Baby Einsteins I think. And I knew that every time I heard that music in the future, it would set me to bawling. Because music and smell, it instantly transports me, like magic. The impact is often….unstoppable. I didn’t want to set myself up to have bad triggers, if I could help it. Instead, I tried to set myself up for good triggers. This music, I thought at the time, will always transport me here, to this dimly lit room with the striped curtains and the white crib my parents gave me and this comfy glider and the smell of this beautiful baby girl, who will probably be my last baby. That thought made me pause and I'd feel sadness well up. I wait for it to pass; I’m already crying, so that part doesn’t matter.
I always felt like I was bloated with tears. That I was full up and swollen with them and sometimes, they just leaked out, all on their own.
I’d lay down next to my son, my sweet middle boy, 3 years old, on the bottom bunk. We would talk about falling asleep. He’d whisper he wasn’t tired. He’d ask if he could look at a book and then I would doze off—I couldn’t help it! Running after 3 little ones was exhausting! I remember his giggle, how sometimes he’d cover his mouth, eyes crinkled in the corners, his little square man-fingers splayed over his squeezable cheeks, the cords of his neck standing out as he strained to contain his glee and not wake his brother on the top bunk. He would eventually sleep, and I would cry quietly, brushing his hair out of his face, feeling but not yet knowing that this wouldn’t last forever; fooling myself into thinking it was because I was thinking of them growing up.
But I knew.
I knew there would be times in the future when I couldn’t be with them. I certainly had no idea it would turn out as God-awful as it has, that I would only see them 93 days of the year and my life would become a waking nightmare, a punishment for an unknown crime I’d gladly give my life to rectify, at this point.
I sink back down, down, where it’s less bright.
I remember standing on the bed frame of the bottom bunk, reaching up over the wooden rail meant to keep my sleeping thrasher safe, my petite frame straining. I remember the feel of the wooden rail digging into my underarm as I reached, trying to touch the cheek of my eldest, asleep and snoring as soon as his head hit the pillow. Regret was there, that I couldn’t snuggle and sleep with my 5 year old, when he complained that I snuggled with everyone but him. I couldn’t very well climb up onto the top bunk with him; we’d crash and crush Little Old Man. {Codename, remember?}
The bunk beds are still in that house, although they’ve been moved. My mind slides over that. These thoughts of how my children’s bedrooms have changed, they’re like the scratchy part of Velcro: the sensation is uncomfortable, but I can’t stop rubbing the cheap plastic-y feel of it. The wonder that this rough piece always reminds you of its other half, the softer side, and how they cannot work separately, but only together. A metaphor for their father and I, I suppose. (He being the scratchy one of course.)
I shy away from those more recent memories.
I’d rather be down here in the deep, where light is uneven and watery. Where I float without rising and my memories are solid, jumbled rocks at my feet. When I’m without my kids, I could stay here forever. Remembering.
The problem with this is that I cannot move forward unless I am present in the bright, harsh world of the Now, if I’m not working within the Now. The other problem is that both my children and my Honey are in the Now and they are the ones I want to be with. Do I wish I could feel that way again, soft and secure with my children in my arms, feeling like I was a good mom? Every day. Heck, every hour. And then I find myself wondering if I can have that feeling again, if I can capture it again but in another place, in the future. And that is what makes me turn, whooshing back to the present.
That past is only alluring because it’s comfortable, because it’s Pre-Divorce, not because it’s any better than the bright shiny Now. This is the only thought that can wretch my foggy attention into some sort of focus: I can’t be apathetic now, no matter how much pain I’m in, or I'll be stuck then, never getting to there.
I drag my attention back to my book, to learning a skill. I hold onto this like a mermaid clinging to the rocks, with her body in the familiar water, her head and arms in the wind, her squinting eyes scanning for enemies.
A skill will help me. That’s concrete.
Longing for things I cannot get yet, clinging to things I have no longer; both are exquisitely painful. Not to mention the complete and total lack of a clear path forward. And so to avoid becoming stuck, I try not to think about that glider, that ottoman, the feel of the weight of the baby and the micro-suede. I think of expanding my skills. Because that is a single step I can take.
Otherwise, I’ll be rocking in that glider in perpetuity.
That past is only alluring because it’s comfortable, because it’s Pre-Divorce, not because it’s any better than the bright shiny Now. This is the only thought that can wretch my foggy attention into some sort of focus: I can’t be apathetic now, no matter how much pain I’m in, or I'll be stuck then, never getting to there.
I drag my attention back to my book, to learning a skill. I hold onto this like a mermaid clinging to the rocks, with her body in the familiar water, her head and arms in the wind, her squinting eyes scanning for enemies.
A skill will help me. That’s concrete.
Longing for things I cannot get yet, clinging to things I have no longer; both are exquisitely painful. Not to mention the complete and total lack of a clear path forward. And so to avoid becoming stuck, I try not to think about that glider, that ottoman, the feel of the weight of the baby and the micro-suede. I think of expanding my skills. Because that is a single step I can take.
Otherwise, I’ll be rocking in that glider in perpetuity.