Beyond My Control

I had every intention of going to Cummington this weekend. Having arranged rides to and fro and a place to stay on Saturday night, I packed on Friday night and got up at an ungodly hour Saturday morning to feed Taz, take a quick shower, and begin the adventure.

To discover that not only had Taz pulled out his feeding tube, something he's been doing way too much lately, but he'd broken the water balloon that holds it in place, and we didn't have a backup. Grant got the broken one back in somehow, and we faced the prospect of tracking down a replacement during a holiday weekend and/or standing constant guard over Taz to make sure he didn't pull the tube again. Only a scumball could leave her beloved spouse to deal with that by himself, so I didn't. (Things turned out OK: he did pull it out Saturday night, but by then we had acquired a spare.)

(Replacing a feeding tube is somewhat like changing an earring: you put it into a hole that connects the stomach with the outside world, then insert a syringe into a port and fill the water balloon with about a teaspoon of water. The balloon acts like a post while you're inserting the tube and like an earring back once it's filled. The whole process is very easy and quick to do, unless the balloon is ruptured. Imagine trying to insert an earring that has the consistency of cooked pasta. I really don't know how Grant did it.)

Thus did the universe whack me over the head yet again with the message: you are not in control, and any plans you may have are subject to change without notice. Living with this fact is probably the single biggest challenge of parenting — or of life, for that matter, but when you're a parent it gets in your face much more often.

People deal with this challenge in myriad ways, of which the most popular seem to be religion, denial, and/or OCD. Any sort of organized religion is out for me, and I do OCD very badly (as anyone who has seen my house can attest), although it does come out in my knitting. I think it accounts for my extreme difficulty with knitting other people's patterns and my general preference for solid-colored yarn. I will decide what I want the pattern to do and when to change colors, thanks just the same. It may also explain why I get 13 stitches to the inch in Trekking and about six in worsted weight.

If only I could follow a short list of rules, it's tempting to believe, I could get back in control. I could practice the seven habits of highly effective people, or take eight steps to financial freedom, or learn five never-fail ways of conquering clutter. The desire to reduce everything to a manageable, a controllable formula has made lots of people lots of money, but for me, anyway, it turns out not to be so simple.

So I go for denial: not noticing how other people's worlds expand as their kids get bigger, not imagining Taz playing catch with the two brothers who live across the street, not remembering that he's almost exactly the same age as the twins who mow our lawn, not envying my friends while admiring their pix of family trips. Not thinking too much about, well, much of anything, except dealing with today, and not planning too far ahead, because you never know.

I have a horrible suspicion that all this not-thinking is stunting my brain somehow, and, worse, all the not-feeling is shrinking my heart. I fear I'm less of a mom, wife, friend, human than I should be. This is not new, and I try to look up from the straight path once in a while, to realize it's not all about me, to remember the rest of the world and try to brighten it a bit. But I know I could do better.

I did finish a Dulaan hat this weekend, and I started a pair of Magic 28 socks. And we went to the town parade, which we'd never done before. I don't have time to upload pictures now, but in penance for the whiny post I leave you with yet another tree-in-bloom shot.


Tomorrow, I think I'll talk about knitting.