Winner of the Father of the Year Award
Three years running…
He thought it would be hard, but nothing in his life came easier than this.
Happy Father’s Day, my sweet boy.
Rejection
Maggie doesn’t love me.
She’s said so on more than one occasion. And it’s happening more frequently. She wants nothing to do with me. She wriggles out of my grasp; she won’t look me in the eye. She’s openly defiant. She’s two.
Audrey has a much gentler, democratic way of indicating her preference in parents. When Daddy Bean is gone, I’m her moon, her sun, her everything. She asks to call me when I am gone. When I walk through the door, she squeals in delight and runs full speed into my arms. When I swoop her up, she greedily hugs me, as if she hasn’t seen me in days, rather than a few short hours. I feel loved.
When he is there, she squirms away from me and burrows into his shoulder. Who wouldn’t? He’s got great shoulders! And I don’t mind it too much; it doesn’t hurt because I know what little time they have with him and I always feel a tinge of pride as I watch her idol worship from the sidelines.
Maggie, on the other hand, is a bit colder with her feelings. When she sees me, if she even looks up from what she is doing, gives me only half a glance. Sometimes she’ll ask, “Where’s Daddy?” as if the Work Fairy dropped off the wrong parent. In the morning, when I am getting her ready for the day and it is still too early for either of us to be reasonable, she will scream in anger at even my slightest touch. She refuses to let me take her out of her car seat, if J and I are both in the car. She won’t let me kiss her good-night.
The other day, while she was trying to escape my hold, I asked her if she loved me. I know it was silly of me and that she’s only a child throwing a tantrum, but when she repeatedly sobbed, “No, I love Daddy! I love Daddy, not Momma,” I welled up with tears.
I can’t help that it hurts my feelings when she rejects me. In the end, I realize that she’s just being a toddler and that it’s nothing personal. Actually, I’m quite thrilled that the Beans have such a loving relationship with their father – it reminds me of the one that me and my sisters have with our dad. But I’d love to go back to the old days when Maggie was my girl and I was hers.
Happy Birthday to Momma Bean’s #1 Fan!
A loyal reader and one of the Beans’ biggest fans, Hughes turns another year older today. Thanks for the pom poms! The Beans can’t wait to share another beer and some chips with you. And don’t worry, no matter how old you get, Daddy Bean is much older and grayer than you are! Have a great day!
32
Remember when I bought you extravagent gifts, all wrapped up in pretty paper and curly ribbon?
When we would take the day off and take a long drive to anywhere?
When I would dress up and present you with freshly pressed clothes and whisk you away to a great dinner and a show?
When we’d stay out in the wee hours, me with my glasses of wine and you with your (one) bottle of beer?
When there were fewer wrinkles on your face than in our bedsheets, and less gray at your temples than in the sky?
Remember?
Today, we had carry-out Chinese.
You didn’t take the day off but you came home earlier than I expected.
The cake wasn’t frosted.
The presents weren’t wrapped.
The card wasn’t signed.
I was dressed in my comfies and the Beans were in their diapers.
I passed you Maggie, who had recently pooped. Audrey promptly informed you that we had bought you “Moo-veeeees!!!”
We sang “Happy Birthday” one and a half times because I forgot to take a picture.
And now, you are laying on the floor, a willing trampoline for the Beans who don’t act nearly like there are ten minutes until bedtime.
And yet, you look happier than you ever were.
And so am I.
Happy Birthday J.
Love,
the Original Bean.
Bedside Manner
I don’t like sick.
I know, who does, right?
When the Beans are sick, it’s a different story. The mommy bone kicks in and I just know what to do. I am a robot and the foul vomit and offensive diapers don’t phase me. I stave off queasiness and revulsion because I know that my girls need me to comfort them and to let them know that it will be alright soon. Where I would otherwise run, here I stand my ground. I am the calm in the room and the rock on which their tears are soaked.
But when it is anyone else, I turn into jelly. I don’t like sick.
When a co-worker or friend has a cold, I politely toss them a tissue box from a safe distance. When someone sneezes or coughs around me, I hold my breath for twenty seconds, in the hopes that I didn’t inhale their sick.
When the dogs are sick, I do the same. J has to take care of them…I just can’t bring myself to do it. My skin crawls, my throat retches. I get clammy hands.
Arisa was always the one to take care of us when we were sick. In the medical field, she was always fascinated by the unwell and wouldn’t hesitate to catch puke in her hands or wipe a sweaty brow with her sleeve. She was the one who nursed us all back to health during the Stomach Flu of ’96 (which consisted of a hospital trip and J, my then boyfriend, mooning the staff in a haze of dehydrated delirium). Me…I stayed far away.
Which is why, yesterday afternoon, while sitting in the emergency room, waiting to be called, I looked at J and said, “You don’t have a will. This is why we need a will.”
J looked at me in shock. “Why would you say that? You’re telling me I’m going to die.”
“Well…what if it’s really infected or something? And they have to cut off half of your side?”
“You know, you could really be supportive right now. I’m in a lot of pain.”
“I’m just saying!”
“Well stop!”
You see, J had a gooey. Last week, it was just a little bump. And when I saw it on his side one night while he was playing Horsey with the girls, I poked it. And I said, “Ew, girls! Come look! Daddy has a gooey!” The girls promptly jumped off him and began inspecting.
“Ew! A gooey!” They chanted, prodding him with their sticky, chocolatey hands. I giggled. J squirmed. They nudged him again. It became a game for them until he couldn’t take it anymore and he swooped them up and into the bathroom for night night rituals.
Days ago, it became red and swollen. On Wednesday he could barely walk. “My gooey hurts.”
I chuckled and shook my head. “Suck it up and help me with the dishes.” I always tell J to walk it off, to suck it up. In my twisted mind, he’s not allowed to be sick. He’s only allowed to be invincible.
Yesterday morning, he asked me to call for a doctor’s appointment. Yesterday afternoon, looking at him sitting there, grimacing and uncomfortable, I suggested that I take him to the emergency room. But not before we stopped off for lunch, because I was starving. He winced when I said that, but my hunger distracted me.
While we were in the waiting room, I took pictures of the gooey and sent them to Arisa. I called her up and laughed with her about the Purple Nurple while J writhed in pain.
It turned out to be what they are sure is a spider bite that went bad. He’s on antibiotics and pain medication right now and is feeling a little better. In what seems like a bit of karma, the physician’s assistant gave me a homework assignment. I’m to drain the wound by putting gauze into it for the next two days. Yes, I said “into it”. And, as my skin is crawling, I won’t further explain what that means.
I teased him last night that I was going to put the photos that I had taken up on the site so that everyone could be equally disgusted. He just looked at me and shook his head.
I think I am this way about illness because I can’t come to terms with the idea of someone I love in pain or ill. It’s another one of those control freak quirks of mine. I can’t fix them, so I avoid them. Or I make fun of them. Or I get my Beans to poke them.
The idea that J is somehow human and not a superhero that can never be hurt is not something that I want to ponder for longer than necessary. So, I tell him to suck it up and I sock him in the shoulder. And I wish more than anything that I could take his pain away.
She thinks he can rope the moon.
I’ve been writing a lot recently about my conversations with the Beans. It may get a little tiresome to read, but I’m so amazed daily that I’m conversing with these little things that not so long ago couldn’t even walk that I have to share!
The other day, we waited on the front porch for Jimmy to come home. It was about 6:45 p.m. and still quite light out but the moon was hanging directly above the neighbor’s house across the street.
The girls have recently become so fascinated by the moon. When they spotted it, they jumped up and down in jubilation.
Maggie kept stretching as far as she could to reach it and Audrey kept saying, “Come here Moon! Come see Maggie and Audrey!”
Maggie turned to me and said, “Momma, get it!” but I told her that I couldn’t reach either.
Then, because she knew that Jimmy was almost home, Maggie said matter-of-factly, “Daddy get the moon.”
Six Years
If I didn’t say it enough, I meant to.
Without you, there would be no Momma Bean, no canvas on which to wax poetic on the perfections of our offspring, the quirks in their personality, the dance steps, the new words.
In them, I see you and I see our love and our joy and everything we ever wanted.
You were the first to say it and it took me awhile to come around. And now I can’t say it enough.
I love you.
I love you.
I love you.
Six years. It feels like a lifetime and yet not enough time when I am with you.
Happy anniversary.
I love you.
Happy the one day a year that Hallmark suggests that we officially love someone in our lives and do so by bequeathing him/her with flowers, chocolates, stuffies holding puffy hearts, jewelry and three dollar cards.
So, we don’t really celebrate Valentine’s Day - or Sweetest Day for that matter, which, I hear is just a Midwest thing - but I had to give a shout out to Daddy Bean today.
How do I love thee?
Let me count the ways…
…You let me use the bathroom before you do at night because you know I don’t like when you fall asleep before I do.
…You spent your first vacation in a couple of years in the middle of nowhere with my whole family and didn’t mind it one bit too much.
…You think I am an excellent mother, sister, daughter, wife, writer and singer. What! What?
…You think I am a great cook. (Note to self: have Daddy Bean checked for malfunctioning caliculus gustatorius)
…You are a dork just like me.
…You think I am funny.
…You give the best hugs.
…You’re taller than me. Not hard to do, but brownie points to you.
…You’re a hottie.
…You don’t protest too much when I drag you across the state to visit Meredith.
…You are a kick-ass daddy and your Beans love you.
…You let me have Sunday mornings to myself.
…You make sure I get to work on time.
…You iron my clothes.
…You let me dress you.
…You let me nap.
…You let me hold the remote control.
…You try weird foods when I bully you.
…You think I pack a great punch.
…You love dessert as much as I do.
…You gave me shots and kissed my boo boos; you produced under pressure and you held my hand when I woke up; you found out who the Wallaces really were; you rubbed my belly and eased my fears; you made the hospital your second home; you learned how to swaddle and change diapers before I did; you slept on an Aerobed; you didn’t give up. You gave me the Beans.
Love, love, LOVE.
Daddy Bean
Okay, this is a record THREE ENTRIES IN ONE DAY!!!! But I just had to, and I didn’t want to wait for tomorrow. Plus, there aren’t any rules with regard to how many times you post something on your blog is there? If there is, I don’t know it, but then I don’t know much blog ettiquete even two years after beginning.
Anyway, this is what’s so great about J being a dad. He gets such a kick out of things. I love it. I love him.
From: S, J [mailto:js@hisjob.com]
Sent: Wednesday, December 06, 2006 12:52 PM
To: Momma Bean
Subject: RE: this is the book i wantForgot to tell you what happened this morning
The Beans were eating, The Wiggles came on television and HRP screamed for joy!
It was so funny
This next event shocked me
The Wiggles were on television and I was singing the ‘Wags the Dog” song while I was busy in the kitchen*
Out of no where I here “Wasss the Dug”
HRP said Wags the Dog**
I tried to get her to do it again but she wouldn’t
It was soooooo clear
*He was singing?!?!? I’ve never heard him sing before!!! And now he’s singing a Wiggles song? A song I’ve never heard of? WTF?!?! Scratch that…every once in awhile, he’ll sing, “You’re my brown eyed girl.” to me. Not the song, just that sentence.
**The girl just won’t stop talking all of a sudden. And singing. I’m trying to compile a list of words, but she just keeps going!
