Friday, December 24, 2010

Obsessing About T's Poop

It doesn’t take much for feelings of extreme insecurity to well up and start to take over.  When my mind is presented with a scenario I assume I’ve done something to bring about the negative side of the story.  For some reason T failed to have a single solid poop in the month of November.  We went from dumping his turds in the toilet to not having that option at all.  I sort of assumed the looser poop was happening because we traveled the entire month.  As I’ve mentioned before, little man is a creature of habit.  When his schedule is messed up he starts to melt down.  When we arrived back in Syracuse his damn crap still didn’t firm up.  But for some reason in the last few days it has.  We are flushing about half the time.  I should be celebrating. 

But here is what I’m thinking instead.  When he was traveling without his dad in November he had loose poop because I was stressing him out.  When we got back to Syracuse his dad was still working and he was upset because he was spending his days with me.  Now that we are at Z’s folks house and Z is with him every day he is relaxed and happy and can achieve solid poop.  Because when Z is around T doesn’t want to give me the time of day.   And it hurts my feelings.

If I stop for half a second I realize a million holes can be blown through my “theory”.  1.  Z was with us for a week of the November trip and little dude still didn’t take a solid crap.  2.  Z was with us a lot during the several weeks at home.  There were the weekends and a snow day and there was a trip to visit him at work.  3.  T spends almost every waking moment with me.  I’m boring.  I’m old hat.  Daddy, on the other hand, is an exciting change.  Of course he wants to hang with Z when Z is available.  I felt the exact same way about my awesome dad when I was a kid.  I’m feeling pretty guilty when I remember how easily I would drop mom for him when he came home from work. 

And when I told Z my “theory” last night he said, “Dude.  You are crazy.”  His patience was already worn pretty thin because I’ve been spending a lot of time proposing causes for my miscarriage over the last few days.  For some reason he doesn’t find it useful to talk about my harebrained speculations about that event. 
Me, “It could have been the cold I had.” 
Z, stony silence.
 Me, “I let myself get really dehydrated, and they say that can cause miscarriages.”
 Z, stonier silence. 
Me not getting the hint, “I think it was because I had runny egg yolk.” 
Z, “I think it was the imaginary bed bugs.  Or the early onset Alzheimer’s you insist you have. Or the cysts in your arms and legs.  Or a pulmonary embolism.  Or that heart attack you had in August.  Do you know you are batshit crazy?”
Me, “Yes.  And shut the fuck up.”
Z, “Um, you shut the fuck up.”

When we tell each other to shut the fuck up, we mean it with love.   I don’t know.  It works for us.  Actually, it is really useful when he calls me on my crap.  Sometimes a person needs to hear they are batshit crazy.  My mind is often my own worst enemy.  Z helps me remember the hateful and self destructive thoughts can be challenged and fought.  I don’t think I’ll ever completely be able to silence the ugly and hurtful thoughts that constantly whirl in the back of my brain, telling me I am worthless and unlovable and a terrible person.  But I’ve had enough therapy to be armed with tools (Oh, the pretentious and annoying psychobabble!) to fight back.  At least when I have someone who reminds me I’m letting them take over. 

And the truth is I love having Z around every day.  We are getting some fantastic family time in, not just with the three of us, but with the whole Leonard gang.  I couldn’t have asked for a better time. 
I love closeups of his sweet squishy face. 

We were lucky enough to have dinner at a couple's home who are very close friends of the family last night and T was given this awesome truck.  I love visiting with this couple because the wife is an extraordinary cook and the conversation is always interesting.  They live in the most amazing rambling Victorian home.  When we got home last night I was telling my mother in law that I look up to the wife so much.  "I want to be just like her when I finally grow up" I told her.  My mother in law laughed and said, "Me, too."

 And I thought a shot of the little dude copping a squat was pretty appropriate for a post in which I discuss his poop.

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