I’m Moving to Mexico
May 30 2014
We are 60 hours post-surgery on my kid, and I’ve officially lost all the the poo there is to lose. Which is a complete and utter lie. There is always more poo to lose, and I haven’t begun to hit the mother load because, let’s be honest, the mother load is a LOT of poo. There is a LOT of poo to lose. All the Poo. There is All the Poo to lose and I’ve but lost a tiny fraction of it. But I’ve been awake every hour on the hour for the last 60 hours straight, dispensing opiates and turning on the ice machine and comforting the teenager who’s all WHAT DID YOU LET THEM DO TO ME even though we’ve had her foot surgery planned for, like, ever, and I’m a little done in. A little fried. A teeny, tiny bit at the end of my rope. And the barest bit Yell All the Things I’m Thinking at Greg. Hold Nothing Back! Which would be nice if I was thinking about roses and puppies, but I’m not. I’m not. I’m really, really not.
I’d like to just take this minute to do a shout out (do you do a shout out? make a shout out? is that too like making a poo? or do you simply Shout Out without the doing or the making at all? HELP ME) to all of you who are Awake with Small Children All Through the Night. YOU ARE HEROES. Do you know? YOU ARE HEROES who somehow Exist Without Sleep but Keep on Tickin’ like that battery-operated toy at the bottom of the toy box that will not – WILL NOT – shut up already. Except, unlike that toy, which is creepy as hell at night, you ROCK. And as many bloody noses and wet beds and bad dreams and vomitty messes as I get up with in the middle of the night, I am out of your league, mamas and daddies of babies. OUT OF YOUR LEAGUE. Which the last 60 hours showed me in spades.
I left home tonight. Left Greg and All the Children and skedaddled. Outta there. Gone. Because I needed a break to find some of the poo I’d misplaced. And, just before I closed the front door, when the Children asked me when I was coming back, I said, “NEVER! I am NEVER coming back. I am moving to Mexico because they have beaches and sunshine and lounge chairs and BOOKS, and none of those things exist in Oregon. NONE.” And it was a very dramatic exit, but they all rolled their eyes at me, and Abby said in a stage whisper I’d probably be back tonight, and one of the littles asked me to pick him up a churro. A churro. Because my children MOCK MY PAIN. And Greg joined them saying, “You can’t go to Mexico ’til January, anyway” like he’s the boss of me, and I said, “January? January?? WATCH ME.”
So this time, I’ve decided to do it.
I’ve decided to move to Mexico. ‘Cause that’ll show ’em just like it showed my parents when I ran away in the 3rd grade, which they never noticed, but whatever.
I’m moving to Mexico, and I’m doing it right now.
Right after I run some errands, I’m outta here. OUT, I tell you.
I’ve decided to move to Mexico, but first I have to go get a mouse for our snake and food for the dog and those chips Abby likes.
And I’ve decided to move to Mexico, but first I have to go to the pharmacy to renew the kids’ prescriptions.
Yes, I’ve decided to move to Mexico, but first I have to clean my house because my mommy told me to always wear clean underwear in case I’m in an accident, and right now my house looks like it’s been in a terrible, terrible accident, and none of its underwear is clean. Metaphorically or literally. So someone’s gotta fix that whole situation.
Sure, I’ve decided to move to Mexico, but I have to go home and see Abby through surgery recovery and physical therapy. Which will take at least 6-8 weeks, at which point she’ll have her 2nd foot surgery. But 6-8 weeks after that one, I’m gone. GONE.
Assuming I’ve done the grocery shopping.
And the extracurricular planning.
And the extensive calendar-writing.
And, of course, the butt wiping. And the tear drying. And the boo-boo kissing. And the night-nighting.
And the hugging and the loving and the living and dying, which happens every day.
And the breathing and the being.
And the moving and the shaking.
And the still-as-stone-ing and the stop everything-ing.
And the reckoning. And the gratitude-ing. And the attitude-adjusting. And the mama-it’s-ok-to-resting. It is, mama… shhhhh. It’s ok to rest.
… but right after all those things, I’m moving to Mexico. I am.
And I mean it this time.