Teen Talk

When the husband and I were in high school we stole many a late-night hour from the bedtime tyrants (the parents) as we talked to each other in hushed conversations on the telephone. I even lied to Wonderboy (the husband), telling him that the second phone line at our household only rang in the basement. It didn’t. But he never would have called me that late if he had known that either of my parents could have picked up the other end of the line.

So, often after my magical dates with Wonderboy he would hold my hand all the way to my doorstep, hug me—a long one if I was lucky—and then tell me he planned to call. I rushed inside, checked in with the parental units, then flew like a phoenix on fire to my bedroom where I stood vigilantly by my phone, waiting for the “incoming call” light to blink. If I knew Wonderboy planned on calling, I always caught the call long before the phone even thought of ratting out our midnight conversations.

Now I’m the bedtime tyrant. But, I’m still steeling away many a late-night hour in hushed conversations with the one I love. After a few hours, it’s not that we even have that much to say anymore. It’s just the thrill of hearing his tired voice on the other end of the line tell me how much he loves me, how much he wishes I were with him, and how much he wants to see our sleeping sons. I feel like a teenager again—except that we never said the big “L” word, we whispered so that we wouldn’t wake our parents (not our boys), and Wonderboy isn’t just a few miles away. He’s in Texas.

Even though the husband is 1,500 miles from our home, I do feel like our frequent phone conversations have improved the quality of our communication. Odd, I know, but it’s easy to become complacent and take the company of the one you love for granted. I’m not distracted by the dishes and the laundry and the many miscellaneous messes piling up around me. He’s not allowing his attention to be split by email, research and catalogues of online sports stories.

I discussed this phenomenon with the husband and he agrees, but he also thinks that being in the same room with the one you love is worth a thousand words. I say that thousands of words are worth thousands of words. Of course, our time together can never really be replaced by phones or video-chats or text messages or letters. But I love listening to his undistracted, uninhibited thoughts. I remember how it feels to soak in every sweet sentence. I adore the way he laughs at my clever, flirty attempts to catch his attention. And I love hearing him do the same.

Even though it’s hard to be apart, in some ways I feel like the distance is helping us grow a little closer together. The husband even sat down to read, “Five Love Languages” the other day. Now I want to read it too. I don’t want this to last forever, but I’m thankful for the reminder that deep down inside of me is still the smitten teenage girl who stands watchfully by her phone, waiting for the moment that Wonderboy will call.

Regression

Today my world spun backwards. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t fight the gravity of regressive forces sucking me into a deep, dirty, grumpy hole.

The ants came back. They crept into the pajamas I left on the floor when it was dark. When I awoke for my nightly writing routine I slipped them on and quickly gained new appreciate for the term “ants in my pants.” After our third attempt at extermination today I feel like either poison or dead pests are sticking to the bottom of my feet.

Little Atrain chose to poop in his pants. I caught him right as he stood in the doorway of the playroom, contemplating the act. I offered him any of the toys and treats in the potty box if he would just sit on the toilet for a few minutes. “No thank you,” he said. I told him I would buy him the biggest truck at the D.I. if he would just use the toilet like a big boy. “I want to be a baby,” he said. I threatened to take away his potty training toys. He went through the list of toys he owned that weren’t potty training toys and said, “That’s ok.” I begged him. He screamed, “I don’t want to!” I gave up. He pooped his pants.

After that incident I told the husband that I feel like I’m a horrible mom. He laughed at me. I wasn’t joking, so this wasn’t the reaction I was searching for. I nearly started spilling it all, trying to explain to him how frustrated I feel when I spend a half hour trying—unsuccessfully—to convince my kid to use the toilet; how guilty my conscious becomes when I wonder if my sweet little Jdog feels neglected as he watches all my attention focus on his balky big brother; and how much I hate that I can’t keep myself away from the delicious plate of brownies on the counter. But, then I realized that I would need an interpreter to relay such a load of motherly emotion to the husband. It’s not that he’s not supportive. It’s just that sometimes we speak in different languages, and I didn’t have the energy to interpret my feelings today. So, right after, “I just feel,” spilled over my lips, I stopped the dam from breaking and took the kids to the park to get some fresh air (and avoid the ant extermination fumes).

Sometimes days just don’t work the way you want them to. I want to teach my children to be good. I want to keep my house clean. I want to have dinner together at the table as a family without the TV—even if that dinner is pizza and the TV viewing is epic. And I don’t want to feel like the only one working on these things. But some days, sometimes, things don’t work the way you want them to. And that’s ok.

Tomorrow’s agenda: work hard, recover my sense of humor, and be ok with backwards.