Chinks in the Armour

Posted: May 5th, 2009 | Author: kristen from motherload | Filed under: My Body, My Temple, Paigey Waigey Wiggle Pop, Parenting | 3 Comments »

I just got back from the chiropractor where I got the unsettling news that my seemingly bottomless wellspring of postpartum body issues—aches and imbalances which just months ago taunted me from the moment I’d swing my legs off the bed in the morning—appear to have rectified themselves. That I’m in good shape, all in alignment and shit, and getting stronger.

It’s so totally weird.

I mean, aren’t chiropractors programmed to tell you to come back next week? Isn’t that part of the Chirocratic Oath they swear to upon graduating from those New Age-ily named schools like Life University that they go to?

I feel like I’ve been in years of complex therapy and suddenly my shrink gave me a playful sock in the arm and said, “Cool, well, looks like you’re cured. Take care!”

But really, blessedly, I’m surrounded by subtle comforting reminders that my life’s not perfect. Like, every night when I go to take off my contact lenses and reach for the case, which currently has two green Right Eye caps on it. A couple of the white Left Eye caps apparently ran off together to a better life beyond my medicine cabinet.

Makes me feel like Eugene Levy’s character in the pants-pisser Best in Show, who had, literally, two left feet.

And then last night I’m rocking the responsible solo parent act with Mark away for a one-nighter work trip. I had the neighbor kid across the street—who I’m trying to sway away from going to college next year in lieu of occasional babysitting stints for us—come over for a couple hours while I went to my book group.

He’d just watched the kids at his house during our party on Saturday, which allowed for my drunk wig-bedecked friends to get into Paige’s crib and dance the Mashed Potato if they so desired. Far be it for me to repress one’s desire to make use of an innovative dance floor. Especially if they’re paying for a sitter.

So anyway last night he comes over and I have the kids fed, PJed, and both happily, safely a-snooze in their beds. I jaunt off, book in hand, reminding him my cell number’s on the fridge and the monitor’s on the coffee table.

When I get back he’s deep into one of Mark’s rape-and-pillage type video games. Such good clean educational fun. (Hey, whatever keeps him coming back at $8 an hour…) And he tells me at one point he’d turned the monitor on to check on Paigey, make sure she was quiet and all.

“But I hear this voice talking,” he says, “and I’m all thinking, what IS that? I mean, I know there’s not, like, anyone in there with her.”

And of course my mind goes to the Irrational Fear Mama Place of “everyone wants to steal my baby—someone broke into the house to take the baby.”

But I’m trying to mask my abject terror and feign relaxed light interest in his little story. While blocking out the blare of machine gun fire and screaming women from the TV.

“And I’m like, wait, I know that voice!” he continues.

And at this point I’m in a full-bore flop sweat. I’m holding myself back from running into Paige’s room to see signs of a struggle and a stark empty crib. Just waiting for him to say the voice he recognized was the leader of some violent gang from his school who was on some baby-stealing spree as part of a nothing-better-to-do-on-an-unseasonably-rainy-Monday-night antic.

“And then I listen again and I’m like, WAIT! It’s my mother! She’s all on the phone! And it’s like, wait, what?! And then I’m all, oh I got it. You guys forgot to take the other part of the monitor from our house Saturday night when you came to get the girls. So here I am all here and stuff, but I’m listening to what’s going on over at my house. How rad is that?”

And as my stomach unclenches I reach for the arm of the couch to steady myself, and emit a little sweet laugh.

“Oh, ha! Silly us. I guess we did forget to get it, didn’t we?”

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