You Get Used to It

I have an aunt who lives in NYC. Whenever we’d go visit her growing up, I could never sleep in her apartment. All night long, you’d hear sirens blaring, taxis honking, cars backfiring (or were those gunshots?). I couldn’t imagine how anyone could get used to all that noise. Conversely, when my aunt came to visit us in the “country” (relatively speaking), she complained it was too quiet.

The point is, you get used to your surroundings. I am reminded of this every time I’m around people who don’t have small children at home.

When my parents come to visit, for example, I have all these visions of getting out to the gym, going shopping, going out to dinner with my husband – basically taking full advantage of the free babysitting.

But then after the first day or 2, I begin to realize: most people aren’t used to our “lifestyle.” (I put that in quotes because the word lifestyle always makes me think of retirement communities or the Kardashians and that’s not what I mean at all.)

I’ve become so used to the noise and energy level around here that it’s not until someone else points out how crazy it is that I even notice. I’m so used to going 100 mph from the minute my eyes open (whenever the first kid wakes up) that I forget other people aren’t used to that pace.

I’m so used to eating standing up, grabbing something on the fly, and pulling together separate meals from whatever’s on hand that I forget other people actually plan meals, prepare them, and sit down together and eat them. Off non-plastic dishes, even!!

There was a moment during their last visit when my mom, out of breath and not having finished her first cup of coffee yet at 10 a.m., said to me, “Do you think I could go use the bathroom?” LOL! I almost said, “Well, you can try, but I can’t guarantee you’ll have it to yourself.” But I thought better of it and said, “Of course, I’ve got an eye on the boys.” I guess some people aren’t used to going with the door open so they can make sure the kids aren’t riding on the dog while they’re in there.

My parents always have the same reaction when they leave after spending a few days with us: relief, mixed with disbelief, sprinkled with equal parts sadness about leaving their grandkids and admiration and pity for me. “Good luck!” they say, clutching my hands. “I wish you strength. You’re doing a great job. Hang in there,” they reassure me as the taxi pulls away.

Then I imagine they heave a huge sigh of relief, close their eyes, and thank God they’re just visiting. Until a few months later when they decide their life is a little TOO quiet...

READ O' THE WEEK: I came across a "Baby Blues" comic book in a bookstore once & have been hooked ever since.

A Father's Day Post

This is a post about a great dad. It’s not about my own dad or my children’s dad, though they are great dads, too. It’s about my father-in-law, a man we call “Pop.”

This is a picture of Miles at about 3 mos. old. The person making him laugh is Pop.


This is a picture of Riley at about the same age. The person making HIM laugh is Pop.


This tells you a lot about the kind of person Pop is. He loves his family and they love him. There’s one day in particular that stands out to me as a perfect example. It was the first time we visited my in-laws on Cape Cod with Miles. The same trip the above picture was taken, in fact.

I was in new-mom hell. Besides trying to breastfeed in a crowd of relatives and worrying about my son’s cries disturbing everyone, I was having a hard time accepting my new situation. What kind of vacation was it if I couldn’t do any of the things I liked to do, like go the beach, bike, kayak, or even just sleep late?

One day the 3 of us and my in-laws piled into the car for a day trip to a quaint little town. I dashed into a couple shops while someone kept an eye on the stroller out front. We changed diapers in the back of the car. I stressed through lunch that the baby would start wailing at any moment. On the drive home, I was exhausted and grumpy. My father-in-law, on the other hand, smiled and said, “What a great day.”

A few months ago, Pop was diagnosed with cancer. It came out of the blue, with no warning, and his was such a rare type it took several weeks and doctors all over the country to figure out what it was. It’s rare, it’s aggressive, it’s scary, it's unfair, and it sucks.

It sucks that such a healthy, happy, loving man could suddenly and inexplicably be stricken with an awful disease. It sucks that my MIL, my husband, and his siblings have been thrown into this awful situation where there are no real answers, just more questions. It sucks that my kids’ grandfather is in and out of the hospital, going through chemo, and losing his hair.

And it sucks that I have absolutely no idea what to do about it.

I struggle to comfort my husband. I offer up inadequate sympathy and meaningless platitudes. I dread having to explain Pop’s illness to my 4 y.o. son. I refuse to believe that Pop might die. I hate to talk about it to other people because nothing they say -- NOTHING -- will make it better.

But I feel like people should know. Especially today, on Father’s Day, I feel like people should know that there are dads and granddads out there like Pop. Men who have touched so many people and especially their own families. Men who have shown by example what it means to be a great dad. Men whose idea of a perfect day is a simple, nothing-special day with their loved ones.

Because that’s the kind of guy Pop is.