A Peanut Butter and Jelly Marriage

My husband and I have been together for just over a decade. This summer we are going on eight years of marriage.  When we first met we came together like peanut butter and jelly. Yes, we fought over silly things sometimes, but never big things and the fights were more witty exchanges than fighting. Except where roleplaying was concerned.

You see, we started roleplaying together shortly after we met. I was new to the wonderful world of Dungeons and Dragons and he was already knee deep into the gaming culture. I loved everything about this new world that opened. Truth be told, he wasn't the one to introduce me to roleplaying, that honour went to a fellow teacher in training.  But my experience was limited and our society still deemed it an evil plaything. Something I still don't get.

Once I met the love of my life, I was given the opportunity to expand my horizons a little more, and the deal was closed. I am marrying this guy. No doubt about it. This man I've known for about two weeks was the one.  He encouraged me to accept all the parts of me that was always deemed nerdy or geeky and I was made fun of more than once.  It might be true that the mockery might have all been imaginary. I had a strong imagination and was very shy, so the fact that I enjoyed things others saw as 'not cool' might have fabricated this teasing. But, it might have happened for real. I'm fuzzy on the details.  The fact is, I was accepted. He enjoyed my crazy obsession with musicals and disney princesses. He loved it when I burst into song in the most inopportune moments. And I loved him for loving me.  There were many things besides this that made me love him, but acceptance for my true self and encouragement to pursue the things that make me happy, was the deal clincher.

Then roleplaying happened. We both loved playing. He often ran the games and I usually played in them. But we would fight. ALL THE DAMN TIME. The games where we are both players were the worst. Our characters would constantly try to off each other. Game after game, we found we brought the game home with us. We would go to bed and still argue over it. Our approaches were different, our styles were different, our characters were so different they couldn't find a way to work together. Even when we attempted other systems like Abberant, it still ended in turmoil for us, regardless how different the characters were.

In time we have learned to turn it down a little. The fighting grew less and the magic left with it. The magic that made us so passionate about the game that we would fight over it was missing. Yes, we still had a few disagreements, but the epic fights we had with each other over the game disappeared.  Gaming became more of a chore. A chore we still enjoyed enough to keep playing, but a chore non the less.

And somewhere along the line our relationship started taking a beating. Life was hard. We have so much to deal with on a daily basis. We started fighting over things that witty exchanges couldn't solve. Real problems. Real issues. And we fought dirty. Broke each other down in an attempt to force acknowledgment.  It is a shitty way to fight. In the process we lost ourselves. We started spending less and less time together. We lived together. We still loved each other but the floors were strewn with egg shells. Too scared to say anything that might upset. Too scared to say anything positive for fear of rejection. It was like a battleground. The war was drawing to a close and the casualties were lying on the battle field. Dignity and respect. Yes, we still loved each other deeply. It's all that kept us going some days. But that wonderful feeling of being in love? Gone.  Being married has become a chore as well. Far above the normal 'hard work' that is marriage.

One day the hubby had an idea. He wanted to try a new game. Just the two of us. Try out the system. World of Darkness. We've been playing Pathfinder and DnD so often, we sometimes forget there are more systems out there! We both played some WoD before, but it was a long long time ago. We're playing one on one. And you know what? GREAT system for a personal game like that. FAN-FREAKIN-TASTIC!  We've only been playing for a week or two. And it is great. We can play late at night for an hour after the kids go to bed. We can play during dinner. We can play whenever we want. We don't have to juggle schedules with a group of other people. No waiting a week between games. It's just us. There is no haste in the game either. If I want to roleplay the tedious business of moving, I will. And it is awesome.  I sometimes yell out of the shower my next move or a conversation I want to have in game. And we do a quick five minute gaming session. Done. Just like that! Without any fighting.

And here's the wonderful thing that happened: It's given us the courage to talk to each other without fear. To once more know and feel that this is a safe place. Us. We are safe. We can come to each other and not fear. We can open our hearts again and know we will be just fine. To know that at night our bed is just that, OUR bed. It's our haven. We can spend time together and find each other again. I can talk to him and say what I think and feel because this isn't just his bed. This isn't just his house. It is ours. Husband and Wife. On equal footing.

There need not be a power struggle. Peanut butter and jelly. We work together like peanut butter and jelly.

I'm Banning Frodo

For the last few weeks I've been feeling a little down.  Much like Frodo.  This little scene in The Lord of the Rings kept playing in my head:

 

The only difference is, in my life I couldn't hear a Gandalf.  I couldn't hear that other people have been in my situation.  I couldn't hear that it is up to me to do what is necessary.  I was stuck in my self-pity.  I was stuck being Frodo.  Frodo is not my favourite character.  In fact, I can watch all the Lord of the Rings movies and skip all the Frodo parts as soon as they run out of the Shire.  Frodo is far too mopey for me.  At least when Aragorn is mopey he is also rediculously good looking.  You can cry on my shoulder all day long, Strider!

Today my Gandalf showed up.  He took the form of a tiny and very talented photographer.  We did a lot of talking.  We discussed our kids and the things that make them special.  We discussed our families and experiences.  We discussed moments of wonder and awe.  Moments we are proud of.  And you know what?  I came home and heard Gandalf.  I heard him.  

"All we have to decide is what to do with the time that is given to us."

And I am out of my rut.  Ready to take this world on!  I'm going to do whatever is necessary and will fight to the very end.  I will stop feeling sorry for myself.  Odd thing, I never really did feel sorry for myself but the more people took pity on me and my situation, the more I started feeling like this is how I'm supposed to feel.  You know what?  They are wrong.  There is no room for pity.  I will not wallow in despair and self pity.  I will take control of my life and my household again.

Word of warning:  No Frodos will be welcome here.  I will kick you out.

Dear Fellow Parent

Something is brewing inside of me.  Something that is not very nice.  Something I’ve been fighting for a long time and I’m reaching my limit.

You see, my kid can’t do all those things other three year olds can do.  My kid can’t say silly things that make no sense.  He can’t make animal noises and pretend he’s a bunny... hop hop hop!  He can’t sing The Wheels on the Bus or Row Row Row Your Boat.  We never colour together or paint or draw with chalk on the sidewalk.  Play-Doh is for throwing, eating or shoving it into every little nook and cranny, not for building Olaf.  We don’t do story time or nursery rhymes.  We just survive.

Every day is a battle just to get everybody through in one piece.  If I can get him to eat one meal that includes iron and go to bed before 11 PM, we’ve won.  We rarely win though.  In fact, I can’t remember the last time we’ve won.  I am tired.  So very tired.  Drained.  It’s like all the emotional energy I was granted has been drained away and I am an empty sac.  All that is left is some very nasty feelings.

You see, the problem is sort-of you.  You, as in the proud parent of a toddler that can do any or all of those things.  You write blogs about the things your kid says.  You post on Facebook the  cute songs the munchkin sings.  Artwork is displayed that he can do all by himself.  You can go to the park and when she wants to take something that doesn’t belong to her, you can reprimand and with some work usually get an “I’m sorry” out of her.  You can teach him to ask nicely and even though he doesn’t always do it, you know he is capable.  He can go to the naughty corner and get his timeout and it will mean something.  You can talk about it.  Explain why.

Your kid can probably say their own name.  She can answer when someone asks it of her.  She might not always do it because there is definitely some personality there!  But she is capable.  She knows what is being asked and she can deliver.  You can explain to your kid why running into the street is dangerous.  You can explain about cars and strangers and dogs that are out for a walk.  Yes, he doesn’t always listen, but he can understand.

And this is where my problem lies.  Every time I see or hear or read about the amazing and yet very ordinary accomplishments and milestones you have reached, my heart breaks.  Someone is taking a dagger that I have already been stabbed with and twisting it.  A little by little.  Every day it gets twisted just enough to remind me of what we can’t do.  What, after three years of parenting I still haven’t experienced.

I didn’t expect this.  And yes, there are so many mothers who have it way worse.  I get it.  But this is still so very hard.  Sometimes it overshadows the wonders my child has to offer.  I feel guilty.  So very guilty it eats my soul.  I feel guilty for not trying harder.  Guilty for not singing more, reading more or reciting more rhymes.  Guilty for not going that extra mile that might just have been the one to crack the code.  What if that one extra mile was the one to make magic happen?  But what if there is no magic?  What if the magic was never meant to be for us?

I am so sorry I feel this way.  I am so sorry that I look at you, my friends, and instead of just enjoying our time together and being happy for you, I envy you.  I envy you the opportunity to bribe your kid to eat his lunch.  I envy you when you potty train and even though it took awhile and you hated it, you were successful.  I don’t even know where to start.  I don’t know what to do.  The internet isn’t helping.  The more I google, the more hopeless it seems.  Time to step away from Mr. G.  He never really helps.  He just helps you find the answers you didn’t want.  

And please, don’t think I have anything against you.  I know it sounds that way.  But I don’t.  You are doing a great job.  I am just a little jealous.  And when I get all tired and worn out like I am today, the feelings that are left in my heart of hearts, is negative.  They are dark and gloomy and there is no place for hope.  There is no place for light.  There is only fear.  Fear that this will never end.  This will never get better.  And that maybe, just maybe I will miss my second chance.  I am scared that I am so consumed by this that I will miss my chances with the baby.  I don’t interact with him through song and story as much as I should because I feel broken.  And I am scared.  Scared that I am fucking up.  Scared that he will forever be at a disadvantage because of my weakness.  I couldn’t find the energy.  I couldn’t find the drive.  All I could find was guilt and shame.  

But tomorrow is another day, right?  Tomorrow we try again.  And maybe tomorrow I can be a better friend and mother instead of wallowing in self-pity and despair.  Despair isn’t very attractive, is it?  And tomorrow I will see you, fellow parent, again.  You will be at the park, the mall, on Facebook and I will enjoy your child.  I will enjoy seeing and hearing and reading about the amazing things toddlers can get up to.  Until that time, I’m just going to try my best to not get too lost in the darkness.  

I will see you and love you again in the morning, dear friend.  But for the time being, please accept my apologies.  It isn’t fair towards you, I am sorry.  So very sorry.

One Tough Job

I remember years ago, my dad used to get upset when I wear spaghetti strap tops.  He claimed it was inappropriate.  He disapproved of the clothing and I am sure he thought he was protecting me.  And I am thankful that he cared enough to take that stand.  But it never made sense to me.  Shoulders.  Arms.  What is the problem?

This morning I read an article about a girl in Quebec who was sent home because she wore denim shorts.  I saw the picture, they weren’t even that short.  Quite modest as far as shorts go.  I’d say it’s a job well done for any teenager.  Another girl was sent home due to her tank top.  Her bra straps were showing.  I distinctly remember my dad having a problem with this as well.  No bra straps.  Bra straps have always been a big NO.

But why?  Why bra straps?  It’s a stupid piece of elastic.  Is it because it is underwear?  Would it be better if I was wearing a bikini top underneath?  Technically not underwear anymore, so it’s better, right?  O, I know... let’s just ditch underwear completely.  No underwear is showing so no problem!  Would that be better?  You think the boys will concentrate better on their school work now?

Tell me, why is it ok for my husband to walk outside without a shirt on... but not me?  Men can wear shorts, pants and skirts.  They are allowed the tightest shirts, with or without sleeves.  But girls get turned away from the gym because their shoulders are showing.  Seems a little wrong, doesn’t it?

This is bullshit.  I really don’t care how well intentioned these dumb rules are... they are still dumb rules meant to oppress women and sexualize their bodies.  And the problem starts at home.  A good friend of mine said last night that his job as a father is to teach his daughter to take care of herself.  And that got me thinking. I have two boys.  What do I do?  What is my job as a parent?

My job is to teach them to respect women.  Teach them to not look unless invited.  Don’t touch unless asked.  Learn to control yourself.  You are not a mindless animal.  You are an intelligent human being, capable of showing restrain and respect.  You are a man and will not sexualize women.  And hopefully if he should ever cross that line (hopefully that will never happen), I hope the girl on the other end was one raised to take care of herself and kick his ass.  Because if she doesn’t, I will.  I will not teach my boys that it is the girl's fault.  I will not teach them that girls are asking for it.  I will not teach them that it is ever ok.  I will not sit by and teach my boys that girls in shorts and tank tops because it is summer, is anything less than just a girl in shorts and a tank top.  And that means I can't shut up over it.  I can't just let them be and say "Boys will be boys."  What a bullshit phrase.

It’s a tough job.  I often think to myself how lucky I am not to have girls.  There are so many things girls need to be taught... and before I can finish the thought I catch myself.  No, I am not lucky.  My job might very well be even bigger.  Teaching my boys to respect those girls, regardless of their clothing.  THAT is a tough job.  And with a lot of hard work and a little bit of luck, we can change these dumb rules because they are worth changing.  

Because our girls are worth empowering.

I Finally Get It!

I think I might have finally figured out why my child isn’t talking.  Next week he’ll be three.  A whole three years old and he was assessed at having the language skills of a one year old.  The baby will be one next week as well, so I guess they are on the same level!  Born on the same day and with the same current language ability... weird, eh?

A few weeks ago he was diagnosed with Autism Spectrum Disorder.  The Developmental Pediatrician that performed half of the evaluation told me that he will need to learn things other kids do out of instinct by example.  Which is why we are putting him in preschool starting in September.  For months he’s been visiting with a Speech Pathologist, checking in and seeing where his language is at.  She kept giving me all these awesome exercises to do with him, but none worked.  I attended a parent workshop where they teach us how to teach our kids to talk.  None of the activities were successful.  We failed at everything.

After meeting with my son again, the lady who presented the class agreed that he might not be behaviourally ready for speech therapy.  Our first course of action should be to get him into behaviour therapy or intervention and try again in a year or two.  We’ll wait and see. Maybe with the right behavioural team, speech will start happening on its own.

But then it hit me.  How could I have not put two and two together before?  I know why he doesn’t talk!  He just doesn’t get that that is what you are supposed to do.  

Example:  My friend’s kid made a mud pie in the park down the street from us.  She stood in a specific spot and went through the actions of making a mud pie, handed it to her mother and her mom had to pretend to eat it.  My boy saw that.  He noticed.  Weeks later we went to the park.  We ended up in the same spot and suddenly he knew what to do.  He picked up the mud, made a pie and handed it to me.  I tried to throw the mud pie away, but he just made another and stood there until I pretended to eat it.  He was happy, turned around and ran away.  Done.  

He knew those are the actions he was supposed to take under those circumstances.  And that will explain why he did so well in daycare.  He started talking in daycare.  He said all sorts of things but stopped talking soon after.  I always wondered about that.  I wondered if I’m such a bad mother that my child won’t talk in front of me.  That he is regressing because he spends so much time with me.  But no, that’s not it.  He is regressing because he isn’t seeing kids around his own age on a regular basis saying the things he is supposed to be saying.  He isn’t seeing them ask for milk, and then getting milk.  He isn’t seeing them naming objects and getting a response.  He only sees me, labeling and naming things.  He sees me saying milk over and over and over again.  How weird must that be?  He must think I’m totally crazy to keep saying the same word a million times.  He doesn’t get that he’s supposed to repeat it.  He just doesn’t get it because he hasn’t seen it in action.

It all makes sense now.  And now I don’t worry anymore.  I don’t worry about his speech.  I know it will come when the time is right.  Probably when he sees his brother ask for that cookie he wanted, and then get!