tricia booker's my left hook

“Create a womb,” my husband said.

The analogy startled me; this was more than a decade ago, and we were undergoing infertility treatment at the time. But he was right. That’s what I needed to do. I dug big holes and added a little fertilizer, then filled the holes with water and swished the dirt around to create a hearty primordial soup; I then plopped in my horticultural embryos. I placed each plant carefully into its bed, then tucked in the dark earth around it. I’d never really gardened before. Houseplants withered at my touch, and the scant impatiens I’d always shoved into the ground each spring usually wilted convincingly by July.

But I became sick of looking at spiky grass stretching across my backyard like a green suburban desert. If life wouldn’t spring from me, I wanted it to spring from my soil. I wanted blooms to smile at me like satisfied children, and birds to eat sunflower seeds from my feeder while I watched. I dreamed of tending to a garden like a hen tends her eggs. I imagined photosynthesis occurring before my very eyes.

“I’ll believe it when I see it,” said my neighbor. He thought I was a slacker.

But one Sunday afternoon I picked up a shovel and started digging up the grass around the perimeter of my yard. Periodically I hit big old roots, or bricks left from long-ago construction, and I kneeled down and clawed at the dirt until I uprooted the culprits. The earthworms squirmed between my fingers as I carefully lifted them out of the reach of my shovel. The dirt blackened my knees and stained my overalls. It crawled beneath my fingernails and muted the gold on my wedding ring. I dug for hours, till blisters popped up on my hands and my back felt stiff as a pine tree.

I started shopping for flora in need of a home. Roses, maybe? But I wanted to be practical. Jason worked at the nursery near my house. He had long blond dreadlocks held back by a bandana. “Bluebird hydrangeas,” he told me. “Man, they’re awesome.”

“I don’t have a lot of sun,” I said doubtfully. But hydrangeas like shade, it turns out. I bought some. I consulted a landscape designer “What do you like?” she asked. I told her I like things that will live. She pointed me toward some althea hibiscus. Then thryallis, bush daisies, native azaleas, holly ferns, lantana, African irises and a gardenia bush. Also some dianthus. And a tiny King Sago palm. I loved lantana, but my dog liked it more. He used his teeth to pluck the yellow blooms right off the stem, like he was nibbling a miniature hot dog off a toothpick.

I planted and planted, and fretted.

When I was away from the house, I thought about the plants. When the afternoon sun glared down like a punitive schoolteacher, I felt dried out. I imagined my little azaleas, their leaves drooping like arid tongues. The dianthus didn’t want to bloom, and I regretted not creating a womb for them. Classic Failure to Thrive syndrome.

My neighbor informed me that my gardenia would probably get a disease and die, and wanted to hit her. After she left, I leaned over it and searched for signs of stress. Sweet lemony blooms shined white against the dark green leaves. “I won’t let you die,” I whispered, feeling slightly insane.

I decided to grow vegetables. My friend Mary had some extra cherry tomato plants and she brought them to me. They were tiny, not much more than a few leaves on a stalk barely four inches high. I felt nervous taking them into my custody. We dug furrowed aisles, which we filled with Black Cow manure. That night I dreamed there was liquid napalm roiling beneath my little tomatoes, and I woke up in a cold sweat.

My dad wanted me to plant some carrots. He thought it would be cool if I raised a carrot to the sky after pulling it out of the ground and shouted, “As God is my witness, I will never go hungry again!” like Scarlett O’Hara.

My friend Walter came over to bring me a datil pepper plant and show me everything I was doing wrong. I listened to his advice on the fungus that’s bothering my tomatoes and my hydrangeas’ need for water. “Did you dig up all the old roots before you planted?” he asked. “Pretty much,” I said.

On my deck sat a ficus tree growing in a clay pot, and Walter turned on the hose to water it. “Don’t water that,” I snapped. “I hate that plant. I’m trying to kill it.”

“That’s terrible,” he said. “If you don’t want it, just chop it up. Don’t just let it suffer.” A month earlier I would have laughed at him. But after he spoke, I felt ashamed. Later I stood on the deck and observed my poor ficus tree. The tear-shaped leaves seemed droopy with grief.

The Tyrant lugged her 6-year-old sleepy self into the kitchen the other day while wiping sleep from her eyes.

“Mom,” she said. “Guess what. I dreamed we were at a hotel, and we were staying at a hotel, and we were all there, and then we left.”

“Wow,” I said. Because I’m totes supportive like that.

“BUT,” she continued, “before we left, I was in the bathtub, and there were bubbles way up to my neck.” She put her little fingers up to her neck to show me, and waited for my reaction. “Wow,” I repeated.

“AND,” she continued, “the bubbles WERE RED.”

Ew. Like blood? That’s what jumped to mind.

“And I couldn’t get out of the bubbles,” she said, quivering just a tiny bit. She stood there in her Hello Kitty nightie scratching her tangled hair with dirty fingernails. I picked her up and she wrapped her legs around my waist, and I imagined her stuck in a hotel bathtub full of red bloody bubbles. Where was I? Why wasn’t I pulling her out of the tub? Combining all of the heavy themes here, I consulted an online dream interpretation guide and learned that my little girl subconsciously needs to supplement her daily routine with more fun and merriment, which should help bring a sense of renewal and purpose to her life. Also, she must soon confront a very emotional issue, as indicated by blood in the bathroom.

Later that day, she bit me really hard, which may or may not be related.

Fast forward: Last night at the gym, one of the childcare workers rushed in all freaky-outy to say she needed help getting the kids off the playground because there was a snake out there eating a baby rabbit. I was all, PHOTO OP! and ran out to see.

Yep, there he was –  a big old corn snake, or maybe a rat snake – curled up with a furry little ball sticking out of its mouth. Awful, but sort of cool, like a real life nature show right there at the YMCA.

“There’s the mama bunny right over there watching,” said a co-worker. Okay, really? Please say no.

But it was true, and it was ghastly. There sat Mama Rabbit, up on her hind legs, just a few yards away from us underneath the swing set. She wasn’t twitching or acting skittish like rabbits do – she was just perched there, black eyes trained on the bottom of the bush where her baby was being digested. It was one of the saddest fucking scenes I’ve ever witnessed.

After a while we retrieved a pool net with a long handle, scooped up the snake and threw him into the woods. Mama Rabbit slowly hopped away.

“That’s horrible! Why didn’t you stop it?” said my friend K. when I told her about the incident. “One time I saw a snake and a squirrel going back and forth. The snake was trying to get the squirrel’s babies. I threw a ball at it.”

Well. Hopefully by today the mama rabbit has forgotten all about it. Bunnies aren’t that smart, right? Say right.

Anyway, I feel a tiny bit sad that I didn’t save that baby from being eaten in full view of its mother, and it made me remember the Tyrant’s dream, and right then I promised myself that if I ever find my daughter in a hotel bathtub drowning in bloody red bubbles, I will wrench that child from harm’s way immediately. Even if she bites me.

Have you been living under a rock in Outer Mongolia? Yes? Welcome back! It’s so strange to think there are people uninformed about my life.

Anyhoo, if you’re visiting here for the first time, you’ll need a recap. Here is the abridged version:

I grew up in New Orleans, have red hair, and learned to drive in a 1977 kelly green Cadillac El Dorado. I drank a lot in high school.

I graduated from the University of Notre Dame then worked as a deckhand, swamp tour guide, and purser on the Mississippi Queen steamboat before earning my Master’s degree in journalism from Boston University. I started working at a newspaper on Cape Cod, where I met a hot guy who happened to be my editor. We had an affair and moved to Florida (WHEEE!) then to Minnesota (BRRRR.) then back to Florida (WHEEEE!). I married the hot guy.

We couldn’t get pregnant, so instead we bought a sports car, moved to a beach house and planned a trip to Italy. Then we decided to have children.

We adopted our first child, the Diva, from Vietnam when she was five months old. She’s now 11. She loves makeup, cooking, surfing, and orchestrating everything. She talks of being a writer (sniff!) and remains cautiously optimistic about the existence of Santa. She is nearly perfect except for the squalid condition of her room.

Our third child, the Tyrant, was born in Guatemala. She nearly died in the orphanage, so we sort of took her and didn’t return her and rented an apartment in Guatemala City so we could nurse her back to health. We brought her home when she was 13 months old. She’s 6 years old, doesn’t like to wear underwear, and can shimmy up stop signs. She loves music videos, her Teddy, Barbie, and swimming. She is afraid of nothing except the Grinch. She throws stuff at people for emphasis.

The Pterodactyl was also born in Guatemala, and came home at age six months. He’s so nicknamed due to the mind-numbing screech he developed as toddler. Our son began challenging us when he was two years old with tantrums and bouts of misery, and we spent the next six years trudging from therapist to doctor to therapist. He has been diagnosed with attachment disorder, depression, being naughty, and having bad parents, all of which may or may not be accurate. He’s currently under the care of a doctor who thinks he has a chemical imbalance caused by vitamin deficiencies and an intolerance to gluten and dairy products. So we are now a gluten-free, dairy-free household.

The Pterodactyl, now 8, loves Pokemon, Legos, and his sisters. He’s a perfect angel in school, and his teachers look at us quizzically when we mention problems at home. He does not share. He would love to reside at Target. He could live on hot dogs and Lemonheads.

My husband had a mid-life crisis after our first daughter came home and left journalism to become a Hot Firefighter Husband. He is a sports nut and a political junkie.

We have two chocolate labs: Damn Gem, who is addicted to paper, and Buddy the Wonder Dog. I traveled to Wisconsin to get Buddy last year in order to train him to become a service dog for the Pterodactyl. It hasn’t worked out like that. Buddy loves me like I am a slab of bacon, and seems to have his own attachment disorder. So far he has eaten three pairs of flip flops, two pairs of eyeglasses, and four socks. But he’s very handsome.

I’m a work-at-home mother, writer, and fitness instructor specializing in boxing. I yell a lot then kiss my children’s faces off to make up for it. I love salad, wine, and Cymbalta.

Hey, there. Did you know I’ve expanded my empire? Nothing new at MyLeftHook today, but you can visit me at Dear Savvy Sister for some decent advice at an excellent price. Go on! It’s not far! And I promise you’ll learn something.

Sunday was one of those days my kids would have been better off without me. But damn, we were stuck with each other.

First: I’ve got some kind of nerve problem happening in my neck and left shoulder blade, and it’s causing my hand to catch on fire during the night. It’s excruciating for my hand to be on fire. Also, I’ve been trying to cut back on my Cymbalta dosage. I mean, I WAS trying. Hot Firefighter Husband put a stop to that immediately.

In short, I felt cranky from the minute I woke up. And by “woke up,” I mean was yanked into consciousness by the Tyrant shoving her tangled mess of hair into my face and shrieking, “I WANT SOME ORANGE JUICE, MOM.”

Then the Pterodactyl crawled up behind me and whispered, “I wanna snuggle with you, Mom.” I said, “Okay, let me get your sister some orange juice,” and he was all, NO! NO! STAY HERE. and the girl was all, MOM! ORANGE JUICE, PLEASE! and I had been awake for five minutes and was already thinking HOLY DAY OF REST MY ASS, HOW LONG UNTIL BEDTIME?

Side note: Someone was complaining to me last week about having a colonoscopy, and I thought, really? You got to stay in your bedroom for 24 hours and the only place you had to go was your bathroom? Could you lock your door? Bring it on, dude. And yes, I’ve had a colonoscopy. I know what I’m saying.

In addition, looming over our heads were two school projects due Monday that we’d known about since time began and had not started. The Tyrant, who is in kindergarten, had to make a leprechaun trap. Now, you may recall how I feel about this leprechaun business. Remember when all we had to do for St. Patrick’s Day was wear green and pinch people? Those were the days. The idea that parents and teachers are introducing yet another imaginary character into children’s lives in honor of a nonexistent holiday appalls me. And a character who leaves chaos and mess in its wake? Seriously? I’ve already got three leprechauns year-round. Five, if you count the dogs. I won’t count Husband, because his chaos is mostly accidental.

For the other assignment, the Pterodactyl needed to turn plastic Easter eggs into something else. It’s called the Egg Transformation project. Gentle reminder: he’s eight. He told me he wanted to create a dragonfly, and needed pipe cleaners, plastic wrap, and some really strong glue.

Also, my mother-in-law has been in town. And it was her birthday.

I tried to rally for her. We went to the beach and enjoyed a very relaxing 10 minutes until the children got cold at the exact moment the pool attendant ran out of towels. Bust.

All day, I told myself that life was okay. We are healthy and clothed, with little chance of being swallowed by an earthquake. But I couldn’t shake the yearning desire for this wicked day to end, topped by guilt that I was wishing time away.

Through it all, my mother-in-law, who turned 76 Sunday, remained calm and cheerful. She ate french fries with the kids, and helped my son with his dragonfly project while I cooked dinner. She read books to the Tyrant until she fell asleep, and straightened the kitchen while I sang songs to the Pterodactyl.

Later, when the house was finally quiet, I thanked her for putting up with me all day, and keeping me from the proverbial ledge. “It’s okay, dear,” she said. “I’ve done it all. Some days are just better than others.”

It struck me as the wisest perspective I’d heard in a long, long time.