January 30, 2006

Operation Acne Attack

Just before Christmas Finn got contacts. For the first week or so I helped him put them in. One day while I was grabbing his eyelashes with one finger and pulling down his bottom eyelid with the other, I got a close-up look at his face and I nearly dropped the Acuvue lens. Sprinkled around the top of his nose I saw several whiteheads. I shuddered.

“Mom!” Finn yelled. “What are you doing? You’re poking my eye!”

He was right. His contact was sitting firmly on his eyeball, anchored in place by my finger, which I had forgotten to remove while I contemplated his inevitable journey through Clearasil, Buf-Pufs, dermatologist visits and shame.

I took my fingers out of his eyes and held his head in my hands. “Let me see your face,” I commanded. I counted about ten bumps in all. I ran my finger over them, and I could feel them under the surface of his skin. It was undeniable; acne was trying to force its way into my ten year old’s body. I vowed to protect him. I’m convinced that with enough chemicals and willpower, a boy can successfully
avoid suffering from more than a couple of full fledged pimples during adolescence.

As a preliminary step, it was important to know whether Bill would be on my side or not in the fight. That night I asked, “Honey, you had acne when you were a teenager, didn’t you?”

“Of course,” he said. “Doesn’t everyone?”

“Well there was one girl in my class with long blonde hair who always had dates and I never saw her with a pimple. She was very popular. She was an only child, too, so I figured she and her mom spent a lot of time on skin care after school.”

“Why are we talking about zits?” he asked, finally looking up from the deposition he was reading. “Last night we forgot to be the tooth fairy for Drew, and now you’re switching to pimples. I think you should stay focused on the problems we already have, not problems we’re going to have in a couple of years. Let’s take them one at a time.”

“Well, Finn is showing signs of pre-acne,” I said. “I think we should attack it now.”

“I have never heard of ‘pre-acne’ in my life,” Bill said. “Is that a condition unique to the Tiny Kingdom?” As if kids don’t suffer from pre-acne in Lower Alabama, where he was raised. I thought about and decided against having Bill examine Finn’s whiteheads; they were too subtle for a man who’d already declared himself skeptical of the existence of such a condition to see.

“So you definitely think Finn is going to have acne?” I asked, getting to the meat of the matter.

“I’m damn sure of it,” Bill said.

“Even if we start a quality skin care regime now and prevent any acne from ever forming?” I asked hopefully.

“Not a chance that will work,” he said firmly.

“All right then,” I said. I knew where he stood. Finn and I would engage in Operation Acne Attack alone.

It’s always important to make sure that the troops are fired up to fight the enemy, so the next day I called Finn down to the computer to show him some pictures of people with acne so he would know the monster we were up against. Now, I wasn’t going to show him the best case scenario, like Hillary Duff with a small blemish. That wouldn’t grab his attention. I wanted to show him something horrific, like this.

“Gnarly, dude!” Finn said after he looked at the screen. “I’ve seen people like that. Do I have that?”

“Not yet,” I said solemnly. “And with God’s help, good cleansing and probably a top-notch dermatologist, you won’t have that. But we’ve got to make a plan, and we’ve got to stick to the plan. Cool?”

“Cool,” Finn agreed.

“Most guys don’t have to start paying attention to their faces until they’re a little older, but I guess you’re just really masculine for your age,” I said.

“I think that’s probably right,” Finn agreed.

“So, we’ll keep this quiet, just between you and me. Your friends don’t need to know what you do in the bathroom, because that’s where you go to do private things anyway, like fart and pick your nose, right?”

“Right,” Finn said.

“And let’s not mention it to Daddy, either,” I continued. “We’ll make it a surprise. He’ll expect you to wake up one day with a lot of zits and it will never happen!”

I decided to start slowly. I bought Finn some Cetaphil and made sure he had a good supply of wash cloths. I showed him how to wash his face, especially around his nose. His hair is longish (it’s part of being a drummer) so it kept getting in his eyes as he washed. I only knew one solution to this problem. You see, women have to pull their hair back while they wash their faces, like this.

Instead of using a satiny blue headband to hold back my hair, though, I just twist the front part up into an old plastic clip and start washing. I got Finn a clip and recommended that he do the same, but I told him he might want to lock the bathroom door while he washed his face to avoid having to answer awkward questions from other family members who didn’t fully appreciate the challenge we were taking on.

“Don’t worry, Mom,” Finn said, laughing. “I would never put this clip on my head if I thought anyone could see me.”

Three weeks passed since I had seen Finn’s skin up close, as he’d been getting his contacts in easily without my help. I checked his face, and to my horror, it appeared that he had twelve bumps instead of ten. I tried not to let Finn hear the panic in my voice as I said,” You know, sometimes guys have to try several cleansers before they find the one that is right for them. I’m going to get you something a little stronger and manlier.”

I got some Clearasil Icewash at Publix, figuring that we needed to add a little salicylic acid to the mix to annihilate the spots. Finn started using that when he showered instead of the Cetaphil.

Last night we conducted another check. His skin seemed to have cleared up some– I could only count five little bumps. On the down side, his face was getting a little dry and he complained that it itched, so I called him into my bathroom to give him some Oil of Olay.

“You can just keep it in your bathroom and use it when your face is dry,” I said. “I have plenty of other moisturizers.”

“Cool,” he said, and he walked out of the bathroom clutching the bottle of Oil of Olay, just as Bill walked in the room. It felt very deja vu but fortunately Bill didn’t notice his son carrying a bottle of women’s face lotion.

Glamores 1, Acne 0.

And the fight continues.

January 29, 2006

The Lone Vagina, Part 2

I’ve written before about being the only female in a house full of males. Last night I was once again surrounded by testosterone. Finn had a friend to spend the night, and Bill and I and the four boys went to a nearby restaurant for dinner. The place was crowded and the kitchen was slow. Bill and I had a drink at the bar while the boys played video games. After about thirty minutes we were seated and placed our orders.

The boys exhausted their quarter supply and came to the table looking for food. Porter busied himself sprinkling the fake Parmesan cheese into his palm and licking it. Finn and his friend picked up their forks and knives and started a riff on the table, until I reminded them that there is no drumming in restaurants unless there is a real drum kit present and you have been specifically asked to perform.

The waitress noticed that they were becoming famished and tried to help out by bringing a little bread and marinara sauce to the table, which was demolished in twenty-three seconds. She indicated that our food was not arriving anytime soon, so Bill and I ordered another glass of wine and produced more quarters and sent the boys back to the arcade.

Porter used up his quarters first and came to sit on my lap. I jiggled him on my knees and blew on the back of his neck to tickle him. He laughed. I blew in his ear and he squirmed and giggled.

Just then, a little girl walked by our table, staring at Porter.

“Look at that girl,” I said. “She’s got on a pink ruffly sweater and a long blonde ponytail. She’s looking at you. Maybe you should wave.”

“Blugh,” Porter said.

“Wow, she really knows how to accessorize, too,” I continued. “She’s wearing a black headband and a polka dotted bow. She’s still looking. She must think you’re handsome.”

“I don’t care,” Porter said petulantly. He looked at me, his mouth rimmed with Parmesan cheese. “Will you just keep blowing me?”

Ack. I hope I don’t hear that phrase coming out out of his mouth again. It kinda ruined the moment.

January 27, 2006

Bad Mom or Good Taste?

This weekend we’re taking the boys to the circus. I’m dreading it. I hate the circus. I wasn’t going to tell anyone that, because I always thought parents were supposed to enjoy going to the circus with their kids. Even as I bought the tickets this morning, I was ashamed that I wasn’t looking forward to the outing.

I was already feeling guilty because of a conversation Bill and I had in bed last night. He had worked late, and he missed the after school assessing of the fines ($1 each for Finn and Porter for failure to make beds in the morning), the performance of pre-dinner chores, dinner, the bathing and showering of dirty bodies, two math sheets, the reading of Just Me and My Mom (with Porter) and Danny and the Dinosaur Go to Camp(with Drew) and the preparation for the 101st day of school. Drew had to take a jar of peanuts to mark the occasion; Porter had to take 101 items to school.

“So what did he take?” Bill asked.

“He took 101 hickory nuts from his collection,” I said.

“So did you help him count them out?”

I snorted. “What a ludicrous question,” I said. “What do you think I did?”

“Helped him count them out?” Bill asked doubtfully.

“No!” I shouted, swatting him on the arm. “I told him to make ten piles of ten nuts and then grab another nut and stick them all in a box. So he did. On my white carpet. His nut pile left this mossy, fungusy pile of dirt, so then I made him get the vacuum and clean it up.”

“Okay,” Bill said, exhaling slowly. “So everything’s done?”

“It’s done,” I replied. A minute passed, and I looked over at him.

“You think I should have gotten down on the floor with him and counted nuts and made it a mother-son bonding experience, don’t you?” I asked accusingly. “Well, there was no need for that, mister. I was bonded out. I had everyone clean and fed and homeworked and besides that we read The Stable Where Jesus Was Born and The Giving Treeand when I was done I felt like that tree. I used to be full of energy and life and one by one these boys are eating my apples and cutting my branches and I feel like nothing but a withered stump but they still come sit their sorry asses on me.”

Bill looked at me strangely. “I’m not familiar with The Giving Tree,” he said. “But it seems to me like maybe you’re crotchety. Do you need a back rub?”

“Yes,” I admitted. “I’m just feeling guilty about Porter. Maybe I should have paid more attention to his big nut collection, but it didn’t sound very exciting and I was just mothered out at that point.”

This morning after my date with Ticketmaster, I headed to Jazzercise, determined to dance away the guilty mother blues. I lapsed into a momentary funk when “Freeze Frame” came on (that song is an earworm that won’t leave your head all day) but then a friend came over between songs to talk to the Voice of Reason and me.

“Have you been to the circus?” she asked.

“We’re going Sunday,” I said, trying to fake smile at the thought of it.

“It was absolutely excruciating,” she said. “It was worse than working a shift at the Spring Carnival.”

“It was really that bad?” I asked, excited and astounded that someone had dared utter such blasphemy in a school gym full of sweaty moms.

“I haven’t been to the circus since I was eight,” the Voice said. “I refuse to go.”

I turned to her in disbelief. “You’re shitting me,” I said, incredulous.

“Ooh, don’t talk like that,” the Voice replied. “But no, I make my husband or the grandparents take my kids. It does me in.”

Suddenly, I felt a whole lot better. I had no idea other mothers shared my hatred of clowns, my inability to be impressed by a lion jumping on a block and my irrational fear of families of sparkly acrobats performing unsafe maneuvers high in the air.

There’s no hope for me this year. I’ve already bought the tickets and the boys have been saving their money for weeks to buy tacky souvenirs. But after I leave that circus, I’m never going back.

January 25, 2006

Sweet Dreams

“Why are you squirting perfume on my son?” Bill asked me last night.

“He’s having trouble sleeping,” I explained, as I spritzed fragrance on Porter’s wrists and indicated that he should rub them together.

Bill stared at me, uncomprehending. I hugged Porter and sent him off to bed.

“Do you want to enlighten me here?” Bill asked.

As with many child-related things, something seemingly kooky had a perfectly rational explanation.

In a word: Bedtime. When you’re single or childless, the word has pleasant connotations: a time to read, to make love, or to sleep. Once kids appear, the same time period suddenly becomes fraught with anxiety– will he sleep or won’t he? Where are the pacifiers? Why won’t this kid eat another spoonful of rice cereal so I can sleep an extra twenty minutes?

Most of that drama is behind us because the boys are now ten and seven. But although Drew and Finn hit their beds and fall asleep immediately, some nights Porter encounters difficulties achieving the same state Occasionally these problems compel him to come into our room seeking solace just after he’s been tucked in.

For a while he’d come into our room with the uncommon malady I call “Itchy Ass.” It is easy to diagnose. Porter would walk in the room and say, “Mom, I can’t go to sleep.”

“Why not?” I’d ask, not looking up from my book.

“My bottom itches.”

The first time this happened, I visually inspected his buttocks, which showed no sign of redness or tenderness. I began to doubt the veracity of his complaint. When I asked him to point to the itchy area, he didn’t point to the more delicate central tissue, but instead proclaimed that his “entire” bottom itched, further supporting my diagnosis of nighttime fakery.

Knowing that the problem had to be treated in order for my reading to resume, I dug around in the bathroom and found a bottle of old baby powder and told him to pull down his pants and lie on his stomach on my rug. He complied, and I sprinkled his bum liberally with powder.

“Now get in the bed immediately,” I cautioned him. “The powder will stop the itching but it will also make you very sleepy, and I don’t want you to fall asleep on the way to your room.”

His eyes widened and he rubbed his butt. “Yes ma’am,” he said, and he scurried off to bed.

For months thereafter, his momentary bouts of insomnia were easily cured with a sprinkle of powder. After a while, I convinced him that he was old enough to powder himself and then I had a period of not being bothered by Porter at bedtime at all.

As with all good things, the efficacy of the baby powder came to an end. One night Porter came into our room, holding his stuffed panda and looking morose.

“Mom, I can’t go to sleep,” he said.

“That’s too bad,” I responded, engrossed in my New Yorker. “Have you powdered your bottom?”

“No, my bottom doesn’t itch,” he said. “I just can’t go to sleep.”

“Well, powder it anyway,” I said impatiently. He was really cutting into my reading time.

Five minutes later he was back, poking out his bottom lip and clutching his panda and my red chenille turtleneck. “Still can’t sleep?” I asked. He shook his head.

I rummaged around in my bedside table and located a small container of Aromatherapy Sleep Chamomile-Neroli cream. I hadn’t seen it in years; I vaguely remembered purchasing it at Bath & Body Works back when I was treating my Hepatitis C with interferon shots, which caused insomnia. The aromatherapy hadn’t helped my true insomnia, but I thought it would cure Porter’s problem.

“Aha!” I exclaimed triumphantly. “I’ve found a special cream you rub on your wrists and your head to make you sleepy. Let me show you.”

Porter stared at me, entranced, as I pumped a tiny bit of lotion onto my wrists and rubbed them together. Then I put a drop on each index finger and massaged the cream into my temples.

“Wow,” I exclaimed dreamily, suppressing a fake yawn, “I wanted to finish this article about concrete plants in New York City but I’m getting really sleepy.”

“Let me try,” Porter begged and so I dotted him with Aromatherapy. He rubbed it in, breathed in deeply, then trotted off to bed.

And so the tiny tube of Aromatherapy Sleep became my secret weapon for getting him to sleep on those increasingly rare occasions when he didn’t drop in the bed and immediately start snoring.

Over time, I realized my stash was becoming depleted, and I was unable to locate any more Aromatherapy Sleep at Bath & Body Works. Soon it was gone. So last night, when Porter popped out of bed moments after being tucked in, I realized it was time to move on to a new method of combating his problem.

“Honey, we’re out of Aromatherapy,” I said. His lip quivered, so I hastily added, “but that’s really for little boys and babies anyway. I think you’re ready to use something that grownups use to get to sleep. Why don’t you sit on my bed while I find it?”

He did, and I went to my bathroom and started furiously looking for something that would work. My Ambien or perhaps a glass of chardonnay were the obvious choices, but even I have limits to how far I will go to get my children to sleep. I also considered and rejected using a squirt of Bed Head Small Talk (nice grape smell but too sticky) or a dab of shimmery body lotion with gold flecks (which looked dramatic but ultimately lacked a satisfying sleep-inducing odor). Finally I noticed a small bottle of vanilla scented spray that smells just like a pound cake. I was applying it to Porter’s pulse points when Bill came in.

And that is the entirely reasonable explanation as to why I was squirting my son with perfume last night.

Sweet dreams!

January 18, 2006

I’ve Come A Long Way, Baby

Sometimes it’s easy to dwell on the bad things that are going on in your life and forget to be grateful for the good things. This year over the MLK holiday I was at the lake with my family, and I was able to walk with the boys almost everywhere they wanted to explore. I was extremely thankful for that because it hasn’t always been this way.

I was in very different circumstances two years ago. In January 2004 I went to NYC to undergo a complicated spine surgery. I stayed up there a month, part of the time in the hospital and part of the time in an apartment recovering enough so that I could fly home. Both of my sisters were there and several of my friends flew up at different times to help Bill take care of me.

I’d been through spine surgery before in 1980. That’s when I had Harrington Rods put in to stop my scoliosis from getting any worse. (If you click that link, my back looked the most like Figure 7C after my first surgery.) I was in 7th grade. I had vivid memories of that procedure, especially the fact that I would not be able to raise my arms for a while after surgery. So in preparation for Spine Surgery 2004 I chopped all my hair off because I knew I wouldn’t be able to deal with it for a while.

Here is a picture of me the day before the operation:

Here is a picture of me about six days later. I’m not smiling quite so much anymore, am I?

Once I left the hospital, we went to the apartment I had sublet. It was cheap because no one wants to be in New York when the weather looks like this:

My Artistic Friend had decorated the apartment before my arrival so I’d feel at home.

This is how I looked most of the time. When we needed some excitement, everyone would gather around and shout encouragement while I’d grunt and groan and turn over on my other side and lie that way for a few hours.

Later someone would go down the street to Eli’s to get me some soup. Inevitably they’d come back raving about the store and the huge Wall of Soups– all homemade– I had to choose from. My favorites were the matzoh ball and the chicken and vegetable. It was my greatest desire to go to Eli’s and see the place myself.

GROSS OUT ALERT!!

Next I am going to show a picture of my incision, so you should skip over it if you’re not one for gore. Notice how I managed to show the full incision yet hide my crack? It took us a while to get this photo exactly right, but then again, we had nothing better to do. I’d already turned over that day.

(the scissors are purely coincidental; they have nothing to do with the incision)

Each day I would take my pain medication and then take a bath. A close friend will shave your armpits for you if you can’t move your arms enough to do it yourself. I am lucky enough to have four very close friends.

They even did their best to make me look beautiful, but I didn’t give them much to work with.

The Voice of Reason sent me a gift of some great dish towels decorated with painted flowers. For some reason my friends and I decided I would look great if I wore one on my head. We were going for a quirky look. At the time I thought I looked like a cute, carefree hippie.

Clearly the painkillers were affecting my judgment. I was taking lots of Oxycodone, so I can see how I committed this fashion faux pas. What I can’t understand is why my “friends” let me look like this and assured me I looked awesome.

It took me a little while to feel well enough to even want to venture out of the apartment. Once I was feeling better, though, I was ready to hit the town.

Look at me! I made it down the block and across the street to Eli’s! I got to see the famous “Wall O’ Soup” in person.

A lady came up and told us no pictures were allowed so I had to smack her with my cane. Then we took this picture and got the hell out of there. (I swear there was a scene from “Sex and the City” filmed here. Maybe I just needed a permit to take the picture legally).

My friend wheeled me home and we had a feast!

MMmm, lunchtime! That’s some delicious Boost in the cup with the bendy straw. Unless it’s prune juice. Also notice the yellow and black Grabber. It works just as well as they say on the infomercials.

Having surgery will turn you into an old lady quick.

After a couple of weeks, the boys flew up to see me. They were completely confused by the absence of grass in the big city.

“I KNOW there’s a backyard here somewhere.”

They went to the ESPN Zone, the Museum of Natural History and went
sledding in Central Park. The best part was our family journey to Dylan’s Candy Bar.

The boys went home and I stayed another week so I could check in with my surgeon, Dr. Jean-Pierre Farcy. Notice that I am standing unassisted and smiling once again!

He looked at my X-rays and cleared me to go home to Alabama. I spent the next several months doing physical therapy. Here I am doing exercises at the lake.

Since then, I’ve been working hard to get back in decent shape. In January of 2005 I was able to return to Jazzercise (which of course, is a much cooler activity than you think). I can stand up at parties and walk without leaning over. I rarely have to take pain meds.

But I really knew I had recovered when we went out west this summer and I did this:

I’m pretty sure this is not on Dr. Farcy’s list of recommended activities, but I don’t spend much time on a horse, despite what you may think about people in Alabama. I prefer to travel by minivan.