Minor Irritations

Me: I think I’ve got Irritable Bowel Syndrome like Adriana
Ever Lovin’: You know that’s a fictional show, right?
Me: Yeah but it’s a real condition. They used to have ads for some kind of medication on television.
Ever Lovin’: I think it’s just that unripe avocado we ate yesterday.

In fact, I probably don’t have IBS. I’ve never, thank God, really had digestive issues in the past, and I’m fairly certain my mild discomfort is a passing thing. I was, however, really fascinated by the fact that Sopranos writers had Adriana diagnosed with IBS right before Silvio took her out in the woods and shot her. (Experiencing a big old Sopranos jones whilst waiting for Season 6 to come in to the library). Got me thinking about those super annoying (but irritatingly memorable) ads for Zelnorm that were on when I was still an occasional television viewer (you know, the ones with a bunch off women showing off scribbles on their midsections). It turns out Zelnorm (which is apparently some kind of serotonin booster) was banned from the US market a couple years ago because of deadly cardiovascular side effects.

IBS, according to Google health, is a “complex” disorder of the lower intestinal tract characterized by alternating bouts of constipation and diarrhea. It has no known physical cause but is apparently aggravated by emotional stress. Most of the afflicted are, of course, women.

Anyway, no plans to call the gastroenterologist just yet. I’ll just take a probiotic, hang out in downward dog for a few minutes and hope I feel better in the morning.

Dropoff Drama

Ahhhh preschool enfin! We seem to be starting up excruciatingly late this year. I think we must live in the only jurisdiction on the planet that still starts school after Labor Day. My niece in a nearby city started like two weeks ago. But the blessed day has finally arrived.

Was a little worried because Hank had somehow developed a fixation with Ms. Annemarie, the other four-year-old teacher, and had a fit every time I tried to gently get him used to the idea that he was not going to be in her class. The situation is made worse by the fact that his oldest friend (they go waaay back—like 3 years) is, in fact, in Annemarie’s class. He seemed to forget about it during this morning’s open house and enjoyed discovering his new classroom but started talking about her again on the way home. Hoping it’s not going to be an issue and that occasionally admiring la belle Annemarie on the playground will be enough.

And of course we’ll have to get back into the groove with the whole drop off, pick up and playground socializing thing. For you non-parents, there’s so much more to it than just dropping your kid off for preschool. For a bunch of women with nowhere else to go,it’s time to see and be seen and connect with other mothers (or not). I always wonder how much (or how little) grooming is acceptable before drop off. I don’t really care all that much how I come off, but I don’t want to show up looking like a total hag either. Fortunately, the rest of us slobs will no longer have to encounter the perfectly made up blond from last year who always showed up in workout clothes and never failed to park her Range Rover in the fire lane. Her kid has moved on to kindergarten this year. As has my prom date’s kid so don’t have to worry about running into him. Unlikely I’ve seen the last of him though…there’s always elementary, middle and high school to think about. Good lord.

When it comes down to it, I’m not the greatest preschool mommy. I try to avoid coming off as aloof but I guess I’m just not that warm/friendly/approachable. And when I’ve tried to reach out to parents of classmates, it hasn’t really seemed to work. Everyone seems so busy and like they already have all the friends they need. I’ve had more success meeting interesting parents at other venues, notably at parties thrown by mutual friends. (Meeting other moms is a lot like dating, and I think in both cases, having a common connection bodes well for the relationship.) There’s also the fact that my house is always a bloody mess, which makes it difficult to organize playdates. There are a few laid back mamas I don’t mind letting into my chaos, but I really think some of the tightly wound gals from the playground would flip if they got a glimpse of the scene around here.

In case you were wondering, this does not in any way mean I will be facebooking and reading magazines for hours on end. I still have a rowdy toddler to contend with, of course. But managing one kid for a few hours after a summer of handling two full time is like taking the training weight off your baseball bat. Feels kind of effortless. We can do some yoga, have tea parties and read Polar Bear, Polar Bear a zillion times.

Institutionalized

My recent polygamy-themed dream and immersion in Season 5 of the Sopranos have me contemplating the institution of marriage lately. Tony and Carmela are on the outs as the old man and I slog through the usual (painfully dull but somehow impossibly incendiary) stuff: cashflow, childrearing, division of household labor. It occurred to me that the ever lovin’ definitely has a southern boy Tony Soprano thing going on: the swaggering alpha male with a short fuse and a sweet side. Minus the binge drinking and violent tendencies, that is. As for me, I’ve been feeling a lot more like Livia than Carmela these days. One of the flashback episodes (I think it was in season 2) hit a little too close to home when 1950s Livia tells young Tony if he doesn’t leave her alone she’s going to stick a fork in his eye. Brought to mind one of the low points of my life as a parent: when I told Hank if he didn’t stop sucking his thumb I was going to cut it off. Still can’t believe I actually said that to my preschooler. He didn’t seem particularly traumatized, but who knows when it’ll resurface…

Anyway, when you think about it, the whole institution of marriage just seems kind of bizarre. You attach yourself to some (hopefully) non-related person and try to work it out so you can stand to live together for the rest of your lives. This, of course, involves dealing full-time with another person’s shortcomings on top of your own. Which, depending on who that other person is, can be a lot to take on. The upside, I guess, is a kind of mutual shoring-up. It’s certainly something I’ve experienced in my own marriage at its best moments. And when things are going well, it certainly makes up for most of those frustrations. We all know that, until pretty recently, marriage was really more of a business transaction than a romantic notion. I suppose there’s still an element of that in the whole thing. Don’t we see, in many modern marriages, traces of a financial arrangement designed to allow people to support themselves and raise children? Obviously, that’s far from all there is to it. I have numerous friends/relations who have satisfying marital relationships and no interest in reproducing. I’m all for love, companionship and, if you’re lucky, health insurance.

Anyway, I’ve described my own marriage as pretty raucous but fundamentally sound overall. There’s a lot of cussing and carrying on around here but also a foundation of truthfulness and trust which I count on to see us through. As I’ve written before, I find being married to Christian infinitely rewarding but not at all easy. The truth is, if I hadn’t taken a religious vow/signed a legal contract and if we didn’t have these amazing children, I would have, on too many occasions to count, been tempted to bail on this relationship as I have on quite a few others. Not because I don’t love my husband (I do, deeply) but because it’s just so damn hard. But we’re determined to hang in there. If only they had remedial classes in the art of compromise…