Speaking of being mad, I bet when this woman woke up from sedation she was pretty darn mad at what she’d done. Ironically, now, she can yell again–if she needs to.
Archive for January, 2011|Monthly archive page
When I was child being mad meant throwing temper tantrums, and as I grew into adolescence, unfortunately for me, it meant self-inflicted words of pain. I’d tell myself what an idiot I’d been, or how much I hated myself for doing something wrong or ruining my parent’s expectations. Fortunately, that only lasted a few years.
Then I grew up. In college I rarely found myself mad at any one thing or person. I take that back, I did get mad, once, at an insanely jealous roommate suffering from bouts of bi-polar disorder. Unfortunately, for me, that meant I almost got the boot from my University. Long story, but the situation ended with a sincere apology, an admission of dishonesty to academic counsel, and I think a Hallmark card and balloon. She got married four months later and for the next year and a half I prayed fervently for her new husband. End of story.
Then I grew up even more. I started, “wearing big girl bras” as my mom likes to phrase it. I got divorced (as we all know by now), and I learned how to really get pissed. I’ve never been a drinker or a smoker, so those avenues don’t suit me well at all when it comes to “blowing off steam.” I think, rather, I internalize it and then I forget about it, but, interestingly, I’m still mad. This becomes evident when a similar situation occurs in my life and “reminds” me of my madness.
Today I was pissed.
I was mad when I priced my books on the internet, $700.
I was mad that my apartments raised their pricing on the water, sewage, and trash.
I was mad that my apartment agent lady was rude.
I was mad, when after speaking with the rude apartment lady, I read on Yelp that my apartments like to charge insane “move-out” fees for freakishly clean apartments.
I was mad when I stepped in bird shit on the way to my car.
I was mad that I had to count one hundred garbanzo beans (don’t ask).
I was mad that I will soon be receiving my W-2’s only to be blindsided by my greedy ex factor.
I was mad that I had to write a check for an attorney bill that was never suppose to exist.
I was mad that I got five different texts, from five different people, containing only smiley faces and/or camels.
I was mad when the fifty millionth person asked me about my custody arrangements and travel situation and then said, “that sucks.” No shit.
I was mad when my ex called, and over speakerphone, I heard his new little baby cry in the background.
I was mad when he said “mommy” (his new wife) needs lots of rest, so I’m taking stepbrother to grandma’s house.”
Then I sat down, logged on to my computer, and do what I always do when I think I am having the worst most maddest (I know that’s not a word) day: I read this blog and this blog. Then I felt like life, as hard as it gets, is still–good. I bet sometimes Nie gets mad when she wakes up and sees her face burned off. I bet Ashley gets mad when she walks through her little one’s room and silence ensues, or visits Preslee’s grave. I bet they get mad too because anger is part of life. At times you have to deal with it, though.
And this makes me feel better too, Freud said, “Civilization began the first time an angry person cast a word instead of a rock.” Thank goodness for that caveman.
Now, I’m laughing. You can’t laugh and be angry and the same time.
What happens when all our “trying” just amounts to mere frustration and anger. Sometimes, in life, it feels as if the achievable is just out of reach. The other night I was at a friend’s house and their 18 month-old very sneakily “hid” my keys in the sub woofer. Fortunately, for her, the tiny opening in the side was just big enough for her little hand. In fact, as we sat conversing my friend kept inquiring, “where are all her binkies going?” She’d give her a binkie and then have to replace it five minutes later after searching the couch and surrounding area. Little miss had her treasure trove nestled snuggly, aside my keys, where no one would ever suspect.
When I finally went to grab my items, and noticed they weren’t there, my friend ademently reinforced that the little one had placed them somewhere. I thought, “no way,” it’s been so long since I’ve had a toddling thing that I thought it impossible. Reflecting on the event it seems that we easily forget events in our lives, once they have passed, because we are consumed by a new set of experiences (i.e. my now learning to read kindergartener).
I’ll come to back to the conclusion of the aforementioned story (I know you’re dying to know how I got home). But first, last night, as I prepared little e’s Top Dog of the Week Poster, I started thinking about all his baby pictures. I knew them to be situated on my old laptop and just assumed it to be at my folks place in safe storage. So, I’m visiting with my mom and mention it to her. I use the term “white laptop.” She went and grabbed the “new white laptop” they have since purchased believing I’d find what I was looking for. Not so, “That’s the wrong laptop. I mean the old one.” And then it came like a ton of bricks,
“Dad took that one to the refurbish place months ago.” Afterwhich, she turns and grabs some CD’s and begins lecturing me on the importance of backup elements. I immediately began to cry, and I hurried to leave the house. As I drove to my home, I thought about all the pictures of me pregnant, the ones of little e in the hospital after his birth, the entire first two years of his life. Then I began to account for every picture that I had lost but so desperately wanted back.
I want the one with my tear stained face holding my little newborn just minutes after his arrival.
I want the one of my pink socks peeking from underneath the hospital sheets (I had specific socks hand-picked for my delivery).
I want the video of my ex filming the nurse midwife who delivered little e.
I want the picture of little e in his exersaucer, rosy, drooling, and teething.
I want the picture of little e in his little blue chair, and the one in his red highchair eating for the first time with his lefthand (I always knew he would be a lefty), the ones of our vacation in Greece, the pictures of little e and his Dad watching sports, e in his batman sneakers at 6 months, e and mommy lying on the bed together, napping.
I want them all back. Now, all I have is the memories, those burned images, unretrievable. I cry still thinking about it.
I returned home that night and immediately found my mother had already sent me a few pics (ones I had obviously sent her) to help ease the pain. Mothers, what would we do without them. However, among them did not exist the intimate ones I so long for. The ones that were so terrible looking I hadn’t sent them to any family members.
I’ll return now to the story of the little sneak and the missing keys. We tried, unsuccessfully sticking our hands in the tiny hole; however, to no avail. Then someone got the idea to fish them out with a fork-like spatula. I had my doubts, but it worked. Exactly twenty minutes later all of the binkies, minus one, and my keys had been retrieved without any permanent damage to the speaker, fabulous! We had conquered the unachievable and there was happiness and laughter at the carelessness of the event. When I started up my engine that night I sighed, “I can’t believe that just happened?” I know, though, four years ago, with a toddler in tow myself, I wouldn’t have been surprised in the least bit. I’d forgotten.
And so my tears for the lost pictures were not for the objects themselves but rather the memories. I recognize the nature of one’s recollection and I know someday I’ll wonder, what was e like at three months, or how did he act? I know though that certain photos will missing. This isn’t a matter of trying, they’re gone and no amount of achievement can fix this particular experience. But–I can take that CD from my mom and try again, burn the pictures I have now, and keep them in a safe place. That is achieveable.
And words, I’ve decided to write a paragraph for every picture I remember. I’m hoping that will, at the very least, keep those images active in my mind. I never want to forget my bald head, blue-eyed, little e. His infancy. Ever.
a missing whit.