The Unbalancing Act (3 page)

     Let’s address sexy time. I’m sure that’s important to you in one way or another. That’s a completely normal human activity, right? What used to be lights-on naughty-nighty on the kitchen counter humping, has now turned into the mission for missionary covered from head to toe with a comforter and one eye on the door with an overwhelming fear that your child will walk in and be scarred for life. Worse than that is the fear of actually getting into it enough that you start feeling something down there only to be cut off by a wail on the baby monitor leaving you with a case of female blueballs. Your man is gonna take care of his own business while you go down and get the baby back to sleep. Blah. You may want to just forget about it in the first place.

      Let me add that while you have lost all of these things, these rights, these needs, you
have
gained the world. The fact that you have signed over your life doesn’t mean it’s all for nothing. As parents, we know that it is all worth it. Our babies, our families are worth every bit of sacrifice. We are martyrs. We are warriors. We are mothers. And although we may look like we have nothing left in us by the end of the day, there is still enough left in us to fight for our “me time.”  So when you win this battle and you have this precious little ounce of time, try not to waste it. Read a book, watch those Kardashians, or just go eat your kids’ Halloween candy and say fuck a lot. It’s your time, so make it count.

Thanks as always for reading!

~
V-Bow

     That’s my blog, by the way. I have a blog. I use “V-Bow” as my name because I try and remain somewhat anonymous. My blogs aren’t exactly PG, and I don’t need judgment. I can’t handle it. This post is kind of special to me for some reason. It’s actually the last post I wrote before I got to this place. I kept having these little ideas, stories, and thoughts and I would randomly jot them down and email them to my friends and family. After a hundred times of hearing, “You should start a blog” I just did it. Being a stay-at-home mom, I found some time at least once or twice a week to share my funny stories or my ideas and at least let the world out there know I was alive. It’s been going okay and I guess I feel better having a blog, than being blog-less, if that makes any sense at all. It’s like, okay, today I am going to do something with myself, besides housework, and carpool, and trying to be the best mommy in the whole wide world. I don’t have a huge following, but enough to keep writing. So, that’s why I blog.

     I am thirty-one. I’m okay with the thirty, but the one part throws me off for some reason. I can’t figure out why. Maybe I don’t like odd numbers or maybe it’s just that I’m older than thirty. I really am a nice girl, I swear. I participate in every school function, I never miss a well-visit at the pediatrician, and I literally mop my floors three times each day. Clean floors make me feel in control. They make me feel like I am doing a good job, even if the kids are screaming and we are running late, and I have fly-aways hanging out from my pony tail, like Shelly Duvall in
The Shining
. I mean what if the president stopped by? Wouldn’t you want to have clean floors? Well, I would, whether it was George W. Bush, Barack Obama, or George Washington, I’d like to have clean floors for the president.

I wanted kids all my life. I was just sure of it. I had the baby fever so bad that I would dream about babies every night. I would even rock a stuffed teddy bear with a diaper on it sometimes. I guess that is a little nutty, but I’m not in here for nothing. Oh, where am I you ask? I’m in the Nuthouse, The Looney Bin. Yep, that night after the carbon monoxide incident, Eric talked me into it. So here I am at The New Outlook Center for Mental and Behavioral Health, Women’s Division. Mrs. Vada Bower. Complete with an I.D. number and pills that come in little white cups, just like in the movies. My food comes on a little tray. They wake me at seven for breakfast and lights out is at ten. It’s slow-paced and quiet, for the most part. I get to take walks and read and watch the other nuts crack several times a day. Mary, my roommate, is crazy...like bath salts crazy. I’m actually afraid she’s going to eat my face, so I’m trying to get moved to a private room. It shouldn’t be hard because the staff here all know I’m not like these people. I’m afraid if I stay with her for too long, I’ll become a crazy-eyed bag of shit too. What if it’s contagious? Her way-too-short bangs stick to her forehead and are always damp. Maybe it’s because she’s sweaty, or maybe she’s just greasy. The first two inches of her mangy-looking hair are dishwater blonde and the bottom is dyed jet black. Not an intentional ombre style if you know what I mean. The poor thing’s face is so terribly broken out for an adult. I would really like to share some skincare product tips with her, but I’m not sure she would be too open to my help. She doesn’t say much, but she doesn’t have to. Her eyes are huge and bloodshot and she always looks like she’s bearing down—for a crap, or labor, or something. She’s not pregnant, but I’m ready for a gremlin baby to pop out of her at any moment. The idea of her looking at me with those eyes and crapping all over our room would probably freak me out more than delivering her baby. I could totally see the little thing coming out and looking up at me with those same eyes. Then, it would probably crap all over me as I tried to cut the cord. It would be my luck to get the best of both worlds. Anyway, I should be getting away from her soon. I may be off my rocker a little, but I’m not crazy.

     We are having grilled chicken salad, bread sticks, and a pudding cup for dinner tonight. The pudding cup makes me miss my boys. They love those things and I get to lick the lid. They are always so quick to offer it and always so proud of their own generosity. Mary needs to keep her big bulging eyes on her own damn pudding cup. The way she keeps eye-fucking my dessert makes me not want it and it is really screwing up my nostalgic moment. What a nut bag. I want to dump it in the trash. But it’s chocolate. I can’t do it. I glare at her to see if she’ll blink but she doesn’t. My thoughts are racing and I’m getting a little frightened. Alright little Miss Mary Quite Contrary, you wanna go? I’m game. I’ll knock the crazy right out of your stupid face. I may be five foot tall and as big as your right thigh, but I know how to fight, because my boys taught me. And I don’t fight fair. I’ll smack your acne ridden face so hard that all those boils will pop at the same time, so you’d better fetch a rag to catch the drippings. I don’t want that shit on the floor. I like clean floors. And by the way, I know you are in here for bipolar disorder, so I really hope it’s happy time. That way you can feel all euphoric while I kick the ever-loving piss out of you and then sit on your passed-out body while I eat my dessert. What a psycho. But in real life, I don’t say or do any of these things. In fact, I offer her my pudding cup. She takes it without saying a word. So I lie in bed and stew about why I’m so pathetic for the rest of the night. I finally rationalize what I’ve done by deciding that I’d rather her eat my pudding cup than eat my face.

      “You ready for your visitors?” I hear. It’s Katelyn, the sweet little nurse who pretends to love her job. I wonder why she doesn’t just check herself in with the rest of us. Anyone who is this immaculate in their appearance has got to be covering up some kind of crazy. She is absolutely gorgeous. Her skin is a beautiful, dark brown and her black hair is pulled back in a funky knot with braids crossing in and out of wavy strands. Very boho-perfect. Her make-up is flawless and her complexion makes me feel like I should really start using toner. Her eye make-up I swear has to be tattooed on because it never smudges or fades and you can literally count her thick and separated lashes. She has striking brown eyes and a little heart-shaped smile. She literally looks like she’s been photo shopped. I haven’t asked but I would guess her to be around thirty or so, my age. I know she can’t be as perfect as she looks and she is always sniffling. I can’t figure out if she’s got seasonal allergies or if she is maybe snorting a little something-something out of those little white cups, if you know what I mean. Something’s keeping this chick one hundred pounds and working so fast. If I had to bet on it, I’d bet her allergies are just fine. I like Katelyn.

I head for the visiting room with the big double doors. Today I have my hair up in a high ponytail and I put on a pair of sweats and a pink hoodie. Damn it. If I’m going to be in the insane asylum, I’m going to be comfortable! I can’t wait to see my babies! I’ve only been in here for a few days and I miss them like crazy. The three boys are each holding a flower and they all look happy to see me.

           “Hello, my precious angels!” I say and I wrap my arms around all three at the same time. I get lots of hugs and kisses and a sharp pang of guilt tight in my gut and another one of sadness that I have missed out on almost two days of their lives.

I look them up and down and make sure there are no scratches or bruises since I’ve been away. Since it is still a bit chilly out, they have probably been mostly inside and therefore not getting hurt. They look good and healthy. I finally bring myself to look at my husband.

“Hey you, kid, how are things on the outside?” I ask. I elbow him playfully because I’m not sure how to greet the man I married, who has so strongly expressed his belief that I need professional help.

  “Oh Vadie, I am so sorry!” he says. I think a tear comes to his eye and he fights it back for a second. “Are you holding up okay? Are you eating well?”

The questions continue and I answer each of them with as much honesty as I can manage. I quickly turn the subject back to the boys. Looking over at Ben, Max, and Jordan, I can’t believe how beautiful they are. Ben has Max in a headlock and Jordan is trying to draw on the wall with the slobber from his binky. Ben has a pretty good grip, and Max can hardly move until he manages to throw an elbow right into the chest of his older brother.

            “Ohhhhhhh….you stupid wiener factory!” yells Ben. His big brown eyes immediately look my way and he knows he’s said a bad word.

“Mom, tell him he’s the wiener factory!” Max sobs and runs over to me. His blue-green eyes are now red with tears, and his face is radiating hot pink heat from a bitch slap that I believe may have occurred before the headlock.

I’d like to tell them that I am actually the wiener factory, since all I can seem to produce are boys. I hug him even though I know they should both be in trouble and I look at my little toddling Jordan baby. He has these great big brown eyes and sweet little brown curls in the back of his hair that I just can’t bear to cut off. I always thought that curls looked dumb on boys until it was my kid. It’s kind of like ugly newborn babies. They are all kind of like swamp creatures until it’s your own and then it’s suddenly the most beautiful thing you have ever seen. His curls will stay. Just so we are clear...mine were beautiful newborn babies. Just sayin’.

            “Why are you fighting?” I ask. “Now stop that at least while you are here. For goodness sake you should be loving on me with your sweet faces instead of fighting. So knock it off.”

This is part of my problem. Eric and I cannot talk. We cannot talk because when we try, our kids will start fighting, or crying, or asking for a drink of water. They will do just about anything to keep our attention on them at all times, and it works. Some mother I am. I’ve taught my kids letters, numbers, how to ride a bike, how to (poorly) make their beds, you name it. The one thing I have forgotten to teach them is how to shut the hell up. Seriously. That might sound mean, but they can’t shut up for one minute. Times that by three. Now, see if that doesn’t make you want to fling your shit like a chimp at the zoo. Yikes!

“Boys, would you do me the best and biggest favor and draw me some pictures?” I ask.

This is one of my glorious tactics to get them to stop fighting and calm down. It works. We all sit at the big rectangle table and draw. Eric tells me that nothing has been going on and that things are pretty dull around the house. My mother and his mother have been helping him with the kids. He tells me that he doesn’t want me to worry about a thing. I just need to concentrate on taking the time to get better so I can come home strong and healthy and focused. I just smile and change the subject to things like his job and some projects we’ll want to start when I get home. At this point the boys are doing fine. Ben has drawn what looks to be a ninja of some kind. Max has a piece of paper with six oval shapes and a vertical line down the middle of each one. I don’t have a clue what these are but I don’t want to hurt his feelings, so I just smile.

“Your pictures are awesome boys. You guys are the best artists I’ve ever met and I love everything you make!” I say. They look at me with proud eyes.

“Mommy, what’s that smell?” asks Max.

“I don’t know baby, maybe Jordan needs a diaper.”  I check and he’s clean. I really don’t smell anything, but start to wonder if I am just used to the smell of this place. It’s not necessarily bad, kind of smells like a new bandage when you take off the wrapper.

“Can I keep these pictures to hang by my bed so I can look at them when I miss you guys?” They nod. “And Jordan, can I just keep you here with me to use as my pillow?”

The boys all laugh as I take my darling baby and pretend to be asleep and snoring on his tummy. Jordan laughs and I kiss his belly and then his sweet cheeks that smell like baby soap and vanilla wafers. I love that smell.

“But Mommy, don’t you smell that?” Max is insisting.

I tell him again that I don’t smell anything and after much hugging and kissing and “I love you’s,” Nurse Katelyn comes in and says I have to go to my group session in five minutes. As I am watching the loves of my life walking towards the door, I blow kisses and tell them I will call them and that I’ll be home soon. Max stops and looks up at me. I’m feeling so much guilt and I think he is going to cry for me to go home with them. Oh no! This cannot be happening, because if he has a breakdown, it will kill me and I will have to give this place up and go straight home.

“Mommy…I know what that smell is,” he yells with a smile “it’s all those butt cracks I drew on your picture.”

Nice.