Marm
Sometimes Words Simply Fail
Moments in time.
We all have them. Some of these moments are brilliant. They shine so far beyond our expectations that we wonder if we really had anything to do with it at all. Other moments are more everyday, mundane, routine, but beautiful none-the-less in their simplicity. And then, there are those moments. Those are the moments we would like to take back, or wished never happened, or worse, revealed so great a conundrum about ourselves that it leaves us speechless. Those are the times that we just shake our heads and wonder what in the world we were thinking at all. Yep. Moments in time, or shall I say, less than great moments in time.
It was such a typical day. It was just the three of us at the time: Marm, Annie, and me. Annie was just a tyke in diapers and not very old at all. We were in those early stages of being first time parents. Everything was a big deal in regard to our baby. We were the over-the-top vigilant parents. Nothing got past us. (Ha!) and nothing ever would. (Ha again!)
Everything was new and unusual. We were knee-deep in working out routines, schedules, and all those things that contribute to having your entire world turned upside-down by the smallest of people. Everything had changed forever. This was not bad, mind you, just the truth as any parent will tell you. Nothing was or ever would be the same as before.
Take the laundry for instance. When it was just Marm and I laundry seemed to be a fairly simple task. Once or twice a week there would be a couple of loads to wash and dry and that was it. Who knew a baby could change something as droll as laundry into one of the biggest time challenges of the week? It was only one small kid. How could she routinely mess up so many clothes and cloth diapers.? As Vizzini from The Princess Bride would say,”Inconceivable!”
I’m telling you. There were diapers, onesies, tops, pants, sleepers, dresses, jumpers, skirts, socks, bibs, towels, more diapers, plastic pants, blankets and the like. She was just one kid, but the piles of laundry she could produce were inappropriate. I still shake my new daddy head when I think about it.
The reason we had so many diapers was simple. We were part of the early eighty’s parenting movement known as “natural childbirth”. This meant Marm had no meds during labor and delivery, she nursed the kids faithfully rather than feed them a bottle, and we used cloth diapers with rubber pants over them. We would have none of those plastic diaper thingies on our girl’s little tush.
At that time the environment and plastic diapers hadn’t become a pop-cult item like today. We just didn’t want to use them, and didn’t want to have to pay for them. Cloth was cheaper, more natural.
Compared to the cloth diapers our daughters use on their kids today, ours were from the stone age. No deluxe shapes, snaps, colors and patterns. No fancy inserts for better absorption Nope. Simple, plain, white, cotton diapers that had to be folded after every use. These were our tools of the trade, and this brings me to the point.
I really did want to help Marm out with all the work load this little angel of ours created on a regular basis. Marm had her hands full with everything that went into being a first time mother. I don’t know if I really helped that much or not, but I would like to think I did. She could probably give you the 411 on this much more accurately than me.
What I do remember was one of those glorious moments when I did one of the stupidest things I could do. What’s so pathetic about this is that I didn’t even realize how stupid it was, and how immeasurably dumb I sounded in defending myself.
It went something like this.
“Don, please put the wet diapers that are in the washer in the dryer so I can have them ready in the morning.”
“Sure thing Sweetheart,” I said as I trotted downstairs to the laundry room and switched the diapers from the washer to the dryer.
We spent the rest of the evening uneventfully. Next morning Marm heads down for the diapers and finds them in the dryer right where they should be, still soaking wet.
“Don! Why are the diapers still wet?” she asked me.
I came down to take a look and had this sinking feeling in my stomach.
“Did you turn the dryer on after you put them in here?” she asked.
“No,” was my reply.
“Why not? You now I needed them this morning.”
“You didn’t ask me to. You told me to put them in the dryer, and I did.”
“Are you kidding me?” she exclaimed as she stood there incredulous. “I have to tell you to turn it on once you put the cloths in?”
Here would have been the best time just admit defeat, but alas I wasn’t that wise.
“You said to put them in the dryer,” I insisted, “and, I, did.”
Her eyes turned to fire on the spot. Not only did she have a pile of wet diapers that she needed for the day, but her husband was being the hugest of idiots.
“I figured a grown man would know that when you put clothes in the dryer you have to turn it on. I guess you proved me wrong!”
I was asked to leave immediately.
I had no defense, none. To this day I still have no defense. I would love to justify this somehow. I would love to recover from this and make it seem rational, but I can’t. It simply goes down in the family history book as one of those moments when sometimes… words simply fail.
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Too Pooped to Party
Back when Marm and I were in college and were “just being friends” we discussed things from A to Z. It never mattered how important or frivolous the topic. We loved to be together and spent hours talking to each other. She was the best friend I ever had and I simply couldn’t wait to see her each day.
One day while we were talking she asked me, “How many kids do you want to have when you get married?” I told her, ” I want a large family. Six is about right. How many kids do you want to have when you get married?”
“I want a large family too,” was her reply.
This didn’t surprize me since I already knew how much she loved children. I remember another box being checked off in my head in regard this wonderful woman. I was beginning to think she might be the one, but wasn’t willing to admit it to myself yet. I was already falling in love with her at this point.
Obviously we did get married and we did have that large family. Five wonderful children: Annie, Aaron, Abbey, Amber, and Amy. They are our filled quiver, our “handful”. Our house was full. Full of love. Full of memories being made. Full of surprises. Full of noise. Full of bedtime routines. Full of sleepless nights. Full of sick kids at times. Plainly put, it was packed full of life.
I remember how Marm and I would collapse onto our bed after an unusually hectic day and look at each other with that dazed “deer in the headlights” look. I asked her once at such a time, “Back when you asked me how many kids I wanted to have, did you ever envision all of this?”
“Nope, never did!” was all she said as she just sat there and stared. This was that rare quiet moment of the day that was filled with absolutely nothing, and we were too exhausted to actually enjoy it.
Here we were alone together. No kids clambering for something. No one yelling. No one doing something sneaky. No cries for water, another story, or another prayer over them. It was our time and whoop-tie-do.
Exhaustion warps reality. I remember how we would interact through the day. Short comments, my huffing and puffing at requests for needed help, her frustration in not wanting to have to deal with one more thing. It was so easy to be irritable. Impatience was always around the next corner. Miscommunication was inevitable and caused its own mess. Where were the days of ease when all I wanted was to see her as soon as possible; when being with her was enough and talking with her was the highlight of my day?
It was so easy to lose sight of her, of us, and the dream we had back then. Here we sat, a crumpled couple on the bed of our life. A heap of folk beaten down by the routine, whooped up on by the fulness we created. Then I would stop and see her again and see something at that moment I never told anyone, maybe not even her. Here was the lady I chose, the love of my life, and she said, “Yes”. She was more beautiful to me than ever as she sat there with her hair a bit ruffled, her clothes showing signs of the day’s activities, looking tired and worn out. I fell in love with her all over again and silently vowed to be less irritable and impatient. I told myself I wouldn’t huff and puff anymore when she needed help. I would listen better and communicate clearly.
As the years passed and our adventure unfolded I would break all of these vows numerous times, but I’ve never stopped trying to keep them no matter how impossible it seemed.
Marm is and always will be my dream come true. And our family? They are now and always have been our dream come true. We aren’t as exhausted as in the past and it’s easier now to remember who we are together. Exhaustion brings an altered sense of reality about life while one is in the midst of it. I remember our times of being “too pooped to party” and the woman I shared it with, both then and now. We are living our dream together, and I am still head-over-heels in love with her.
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Real People Trapped in Little Bodies
Reflection can be a powerful tool. Being born in the late 50’s my grammar school years, as they were called back then, were in the decade of the 60’s. This was the era of the original “Hot Wheels Cars” and full size “G.I. Joes”. Real metal “Tonka” trucks ruled the world. Cartoons like Yogi Bear, The Bugs Bunny Road Runner Hour and Space Ghost were some of the choice Saturday morning TV offerings. It was also the era of “children are to be seen and not heard.”
It’s ironic how as children we’ll “pick things up” without even realizing we did it. Often its not until later in life we begin to see what we picked up and are confronted by it, sometimes rather starkly. It was here in one such moment that the wisdom of the 60’s crashed headlong into the heart of Jesus.
Annie, our first-born, was three-ish. This made Aaron our second born infant-ish. We were out on a family excursion with the intent to buy Annie a new pair of shoes. Now this was nothing new or unusual, we had bought shoes for the kids before. What made this outing different was that Annie was involved in picking them out for herself. A fact I truly became aware of only too late.
Annie and Marm (Martha’s nickname given to her by her nephew when he was little) were having a ball. They were jabbering together about this shoe and that one while moving freely up and down the aisle. Boxes littered the floor. Most had one shoe teetering sideways within while the other one was laying where it had been dropped some 2 to 3 feet away. This was shopping at its finest for Annie. She was having a blast.
I too was shopping, but with much less enthusiasm. I was thinking more along the line of finding an appropriately sturdy pair and then going home rather soon. She was, after all, only 3 so it really didn’t matter too much which pair we bought. This should be simple. I walked over to the girls with Aaron in tow in the stroller and showed the ladies my offering. Annie wrinkled up her nose without hesitation. These definitely were not for her. I was insistent about my choice and foisted them on them both rather sternly.
“ These are good shoes,” I insisted. “ They will wear well and are a nice brown color too.” This all seemed more than reasonable to me. I was having a hard time understanding all of the fuss.
“They’re ugly!”, Annie stated flatly, “and I don’t like them.”
I looked at Marm for the obvious support I thought she should lend me, but was startled by the look I saw in her eyes. Now I was really confused and was becoming more frustrated. I was thinking to myself that this isn’t that hard to do. Just pick out a pair, show them to Annie, she’ll be grateful and like them, and we all go home.
I expressed these sentiments to the both of them and was once again met with resistance. Annie wanted a different pair she had selected herself. In fact she was actually trying to decide between two different pairs she had picked out. By now I was getting hot around the ears. I thought we had come to buy shoes, not shop for them.
I certainly wasn’t thinking that Annie actually had an opinion about them herself. And, as painful as it is to say, that what she wanted was as important as what I wanted. I was turning the outing into a misery. I was crushing the joy out of my daughter. I could see it in her face, and I was lost as to what to do next. My default setting from the sixties was failing me badly.
It was here that Marm pulled me aside and gave me that look a wife gives to her husband when he’s being dumb. Then, thankfully, she brought me up to speed. Even though my daughter was only three at the time, she certainly had opinions and desires like everyone else. “Everyone else” meaning adults. Those opinions and desires MATTER. Sadly, I had left no room for Annie to be Annie. No room for her to make her own choices. I wanted what I wanted plain and simple. I wanted her to be seen but not heard.
It wasn’t that I didn’t know better at the time, and honestly, it didn’t take too long for me to remember that this was not the heart of Jesus when it came to kids. Jesus told the adults of his day to let the children come to him and to stop hindering them. In other words; back off people, the kids count too. The lesson learned that night was simple, and it laid the groundwork for a statement that Marm and I use often in regard to children. They are indeed … “real people trapped in little bodies.”
Curls & Capes 