I, like the rest of the Internet, have become a big fan of The Pioneer Woman. I like her self-effacing humour and the beautiful pictures she posts of her seemingly idyllic life on a ranch in Oklahoma. Her recipes are drool-worthy, though I haven't made any of them because, Hello cheese, butter, cream and bacon, meet my gargantuan thighs.
Recently Pioneer Woman posted a lovely set of photos of a cow watching nervously while a cowboy roped a calf to stop it from wandering away. She wrote about how the cow's maternal instinct gave her the ability to find her calf in a herd of a hundred cows and how the cow's concern for her little calf trumped her fear of the cowboy who was roping it.
I know that concern and fear. I've known it from the day Bug was born. I couldn't stand to be more than a few feet away from her. The night before we were supposed to leave the hospital, a nurse came to take Bug for one of the many look-sees they give newborns. I don't question nurses. I know better. They have needles and catheters and they know how to use them. If you're nice, they'll make sure you're comfortable and get the best meds.
The nurse was gone about a milli-second longer than I thought she should be and I started to sweat. I wondered if I'd carefully scrutinized the nurse's ID badge before she took my baby away from me. My heart pounded. Grinch saw anxiety pulling color out of my face and said, "Go get your baby."
I could hear all the way down the hall. Her cry wasn't the cartoon "wah, wah, wah!" It was "Lllllaah! Lllllaah! Lllllaah!" The nurses tried to assure me that, yes, she was safe, she'll be done in a second but I couldn't hear them. All I could hear was "Lllllaah! Lllllaah!" I paced back and forth at the nursery door like a lioness. A nurse finally gave me the go-ahead to come in. I pushed past her, and zeroed in on my sweet bug, wailing and lah-ing like her life depended on it and as far as I was concerned? At that moment, my life depended on it.
I carried my sweet, snuffling bug back to the hospital room, wheeling her bassinet behind me. I closed the door and collapsed in a chair, holding her tight to my chest, nursing and crying. "She's ok. She's ok." Grinch soothed me. I nodded through tears.
I may not feel like the best mother. I certainly don't know everything about being a mother and, you know what? No one does. Not even close. Everyone has their own way of doing things. We all know the difference between right or wrong but if you'd rather bottle feed than breastfeed, that's not right or wrong, that's just none of my business. We don't watch TV in my house, but if you let your kids watch Backyardigans and Dora, well, ok for you.
Everyone seems to want to be the "best" mother. I want to be the best mother I can be and whether or not I achieve that is really my kids' judgment, not mine. I'm not going to kill myself to live up to someone's standards. They can be the "best" mother to their own kids.
My instinct tells me to protect my children from danger, to breastfeed them, feed them healthy foods when they're ready, teach them to use good manners and not pick their noses in public. My instinct tells me it's ok to skip over the scary parts of books when we read, to enroll them in Sunday school and to avoid the creepy guy at the park.
That's all we're really working on here, isn't it? Instinct? Good, old-fashioned, motherly instinct. It works for cows and lions and for me and my girls. Right now, my instinct is to go give them big, fat, sloppy kisses.
Excuse me.
Showing posts with label Parenting. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Parenting. Show all posts
Sunday, April 18, 2010
Saturday, November 28, 2009
I've Come For An Argument
For a kid who can barely muster the nerve to say "good morning" to her own teachers, Bug is weirdly confident about other stuff. Like the fact that I am totally and completely wrong about everything.
"Sweetie, don't crawl under the bed. It's very dusty under there."
"No, it's not."
Really? So that 2-inch thick layer of gray fuzz on the floor? What is that, exactly?
"We can't go outside, it's raining really hard right now."
"No, it's not."
Then why did our neighbor's trash cans just go floating down the street?
"I can't read any more, I'm too tired. I'm about to fall asleep."
"No, you're not."
Kid, did you miss the part when I said, "...down the hill, tumble bumble, pellzzzzzzzzz...."?
"Darlin', you can't wear those stripey purple pants with the starry orange shirt and pink Hello Kitty socks. It just doesn't go together."
"Yes, it does."
If you're headed to try outs at clown college, maybe. But not for lunch at Oma's house.
I actually used to argue with her about these things, which is ridiculous. It was like a Monty Python sketch.
"It's time to go home, bunny."
"No, it's not."
"Yes, it is."
"No, 'tisn't!"
"Yes, 'tis!!"
Unlike Michael Palin and John Cleese, there is nothing side-splittingly funny about our arguments. The debates would get heated, I'd raise my voice and make ugly, angry faces, I'd realize that I'd let myself get into an argument with a four-year-old and get even madder. Now, I try to just keep going. Distract, redirect, dip into the bag of tricks and see what works this time.
"I made meatballs and pasta for dinner..."
"No, you didn't."
"...and delicious cookies for dessert."
"Oh, yay!"
"Yuck. The cat threw up on the floor."
"No, he didn't."
"I'll just clean this up and we can go to the park."
"Yay!"
Our pediatrician says the Bug doesn't really doubt everything I say, it's just her goofy four-year-old way of striking up the conversation. It gets to me, though. It does. I already doubt almost everything I do, particularly as a parent. So when she expresses doubt in me, too...well, it hurts.
I'm trying to look at this positively: she's not gullible. She doesn't take everything at face value. She's going to question everything until she gets to the bottom of things. That's all good, right?
Right?
"Sweetie, don't crawl under the bed. It's very dusty under there."
"No, it's not."
Really? So that 2-inch thick layer of gray fuzz on the floor? What is that, exactly?
"We can't go outside, it's raining really hard right now."
"No, it's not."
Then why did our neighbor's trash cans just go floating down the street?
"I can't read any more, I'm too tired. I'm about to fall asleep."
"No, you're not."
Kid, did you miss the part when I said, "...down the hill, tumble bumble, pellzzzzzzzzz...."?
"Darlin', you can't wear those stripey purple pants with the starry orange shirt and pink Hello Kitty socks. It just doesn't go together."
"Yes, it does."
If you're headed to try outs at clown college, maybe. But not for lunch at Oma's house.
I actually used to argue with her about these things, which is ridiculous. It was like a Monty Python sketch.
"It's time to go home, bunny."
"No, it's not."
"Yes, it is."
"No, 'tisn't!"
"Yes, 'tis!!"
Unlike Michael Palin and John Cleese, there is nothing side-splittingly funny about our arguments. The debates would get heated, I'd raise my voice and make ugly, angry faces, I'd realize that I'd let myself get into an argument with a four-year-old and get even madder. Now, I try to just keep going. Distract, redirect, dip into the bag of tricks and see what works this time.
"I made meatballs and pasta for dinner..."
"No, you didn't."
"...and delicious cookies for dessert."
"Oh, yay!"
"Yuck. The cat threw up on the floor."
"No, he didn't."
"I'll just clean this up and we can go to the park."
"Yay!"
Our pediatrician says the Bug doesn't really doubt everything I say, it's just her goofy four-year-old way of striking up the conversation. It gets to me, though. It does. I already doubt almost everything I do, particularly as a parent. So when she expresses doubt in me, too...well, it hurts.
I'm trying to look at this positively: she's not gullible. She doesn't take everything at face value. She's going to question everything until she gets to the bottom of things. That's all good, right?
Right?
Sunday, October 18, 2009
Clarity
Hello again from the land of outspoken toddlers and runny nosed babies. Sounds like a fun place to visit, doesn't it? Tickets are free. Donations of wine and mild tranquilizers are welcomed and appreciated. Step right up and enjoy the freak show.
Actually, the freak show has gotten somewhat less freakish. I took several days off last week and I don't know if it was the extra sleep or what but, damn I swear I saw rainbows and heard birds singing just about everywhere I went. That's even weirder than it sounds considering that it's been raining for what seems like the last month.
Some things have been wonderful, like seeing the Bug enjoy school more and more, hearing her excitement about new discoveries in the classroom and seeing her test her strength on the playground. I pick her up from school everyday. On my days off, I take Dos with me and the three of us spend some time playing in the classroom together after the other kids leave for carpool. I love seeing what Bug finds so fascinating about her classroom. "Mommy, look! These are called Lincoln Logs." she says, revealing her new discovery. "This is the reading corner! And we have puzzles!"
On the days I work, I leave the office and go straight to Bug's school. Waiting in the carpool line, I sometimes see her with her classmates on the playground. There's something weird about seeing your child moving through the world without you. It's different than taking them to the park and watching them run and play with their friends. They're still conscious that you're there. They're depending on you. You know they're your responsibility and you're on alert, so to speak.
Watching her on the playground, away from me, running and playing without a care in the world...it's a partial out of body experience. She's part of me, but completely independent of me and growing more so every day. It's wonderful and frightening at the same time. I'm still on alert. What if she falls? What if someone is mean to her? What if she needs me and I'm not there? It's hard not to rush to be by her side just in case but that's not what she needs now. What she needs is to learn to be her own person away from Mom, Dad and little sister. So I sit in my car, watching my little girl grow up right before my eyes.
When it's our turn in the pick up line, I'm reminded again that she's still a little girl. My little girl. She climbs into the car, wide-eyed and smiling at me. She has a new painting or project she can't wait to show me. Her teacher buckles her in and we're off. We stop for smoothies and she begs me to hold her hands while we twirl around the room. The room spins and my eyes are focused on her. Her eyes are shining and she's smiling. We stop and she stumbles into my legs, hugging me. "Mommy" she says, giggling, "you're my best friend."
Actually, the freak show has gotten somewhat less freakish. I took several days off last week and I don't know if it was the extra sleep or what but, damn I swear I saw rainbows and heard birds singing just about everywhere I went. That's even weirder than it sounds considering that it's been raining for what seems like the last month.
Some things have been wonderful, like seeing the Bug enjoy school more and more, hearing her excitement about new discoveries in the classroom and seeing her test her strength on the playground. I pick her up from school everyday. On my days off, I take Dos with me and the three of us spend some time playing in the classroom together after the other kids leave for carpool. I love seeing what Bug finds so fascinating about her classroom. "Mommy, look! These are called Lincoln Logs." she says, revealing her new discovery. "This is the reading corner! And we have puzzles!"
On the days I work, I leave the office and go straight to Bug's school. Waiting in the carpool line, I sometimes see her with her classmates on the playground. There's something weird about seeing your child moving through the world without you. It's different than taking them to the park and watching them run and play with their friends. They're still conscious that you're there. They're depending on you. You know they're your responsibility and you're on alert, so to speak.
Watching her on the playground, away from me, running and playing without a care in the world...it's a partial out of body experience. She's part of me, but completely independent of me and growing more so every day. It's wonderful and frightening at the same time. I'm still on alert. What if she falls? What if someone is mean to her? What if she needs me and I'm not there? It's hard not to rush to be by her side just in case but that's not what she needs now. What she needs is to learn to be her own person away from Mom, Dad and little sister. So I sit in my car, watching my little girl grow up right before my eyes.
When it's our turn in the pick up line, I'm reminded again that she's still a little girl. My little girl. She climbs into the car, wide-eyed and smiling at me. She has a new painting or project she can't wait to show me. Her teacher buckles her in and we're off. We stop for smoothies and she begs me to hold her hands while we twirl around the room. The room spins and my eyes are focused on her. Her eyes are shining and she's smiling. We stop and she stumbles into my legs, hugging me. "Mommy" she says, giggling, "you're my best friend."
Sunday, August 30, 2009
Give Me a Home
Our favorite babysitter went back to college and I have a niece and two nephews who are college freshmen as of last week so there has been a lot of talk about college and college life around our house lately.
Grinch and I have been talking about our own journeys to college, being away from home, going wild, feeling lost and free at the same time. We've talked about how my sister, a single mom, must feel, sending her daughter 444 miles away to go to university. How hard it's going to be not to have her daughter around, to not be able to protect her, guide her, have fun with her.
Grinch is already twitchy about the idea of sending the bug away to college. You should have seen how we hovered over her pre-school when first started there. She was only gone for a few hours, two days a week, but we sat in the parking lot and waited just in case she needed us. I got weepy just thinking about next year, when she'll be in school *all* day! Five days a week! How are we supposed to just drop her off, drive away and not see her for....ohmygod months?!
It's a good thing we have 14 years to think about all this. Which, given how quickly the last four years have gone, doesn't seem like that much time at all. Ohmygod.
I don't worry about Dos too much because she's still so baby-like that I have a hard time imagining her ever growing up. She'll just be my baby forever and we'll leave it there. K? I'm trying to avoid a full-on emotional meltdown here, y'all.
Bug has overheard all this college chit-chat and has started asking questions. "What's a college? What's a professor? What's tuition?" With everything, we're straight forward and honest which is pretty easy to do with a subject like this. (Drowning and dying came up recently. That's a whole 'nother post.)
We've talked about studying hard, choosing a school, joining clubs and making new friends. I thought I was doing pretty good until "...and we'll take you to your dorm and help you get everything you need and...."
"What's a dorm?"
"That's where you live when you're away at school."
Her eyes filled with tears and her mouth turns down. "But I don't want to live away from you and Daaaaaaddeeeee...."
I made my sweet girl cry. I feel like a jerk. Oh! But she loves our home so much, she loves Grinch and me so much she never wants to leave! We're awesome!
"Aw, bunny... You don't have to go away to college. You can stay at home. You can stay at home for as long as you want." She's smiling again. Giggling.
Wait...did I just tell her she can live at home forever? I did. Which is OK with me.
Grinch and I have been talking about our own journeys to college, being away from home, going wild, feeling lost and free at the same time. We've talked about how my sister, a single mom, must feel, sending her daughter 444 miles away to go to university. How hard it's going to be not to have her daughter around, to not be able to protect her, guide her, have fun with her.
Grinch is already twitchy about the idea of sending the bug away to college. You should have seen how we hovered over her pre-school when first started there. She was only gone for a few hours, two days a week, but we sat in the parking lot and waited just in case she needed us. I got weepy just thinking about next year, when she'll be in school *all* day! Five days a week! How are we supposed to just drop her off, drive away and not see her for....ohmygod months?!
It's a good thing we have 14 years to think about all this. Which, given how quickly the last four years have gone, doesn't seem like that much time at all. Ohmygod.
I don't worry about Dos too much because she's still so baby-like that I have a hard time imagining her ever growing up. She'll just be my baby forever and we'll leave it there. K? I'm trying to avoid a full-on emotional meltdown here, y'all.
Bug has overheard all this college chit-chat and has started asking questions. "What's a college? What's a professor? What's tuition?" With everything, we're straight forward and honest which is pretty easy to do with a subject like this. (Drowning and dying came up recently. That's a whole 'nother post.)
We've talked about studying hard, choosing a school, joining clubs and making new friends. I thought I was doing pretty good until "...and we'll take you to your dorm and help you get everything you need and...."
"What's a dorm?"
"That's where you live when you're away at school."
Her eyes filled with tears and her mouth turns down. "But I don't want to live away from you and Daaaaaaddeeeee...."
I made my sweet girl cry. I feel like a jerk. Oh! But she loves our home so much, she loves Grinch and me so much she never wants to leave! We're awesome!
"Aw, bunny... You don't have to go away to college. You can stay at home. You can stay at home for as long as you want." She's smiling again. Giggling.
Wait...did I just tell her she can live at home forever? I did. Which is OK with me.
Sunday, July 12, 2009
Different is Good
"Is she a good baby?" a friend asked after the Bug was born.
"She is. She's a good baby." I told her. I wasn't sure what she meant by "good baby" but I meant that Bug was cute, nursed well, let other people hold her and didn't cry without reason. Don't get me wrong. She cried. Lordy, lord did she cry. I cried, too. Big, heaving sobs of "This sucks! I want my life back!" and then she started sleeping through the night and I no longer felt like gray matter was seeping out of my ears. Things got better. We figured each other out. I stopped trying so hard to be The Perfect Mom and concentrated on being a really good mom to my little girl.
I was dumb enough to think everything would be exactly the same the second time around. Everything was different from the start: Bug took her time getting everything in place before she would think about being born. Dos came five days ahead of schedule and nearly made her entrance in the hospital parking lot. Bug barely made a peep during the first few diaper changes. Dos screamed bloody murder, to the point that a nurse poked her head in during one diaper change to ask, eyebrows raised, "Is everything ok?" Bug looked around, wide-eyed with wonder on her first ride home. Dos clamped her eyes shut and screamed for 5.5 miles. In rush-hour traffic.
Bug slept through the night on her own at 8 weeks. Dos finally gave it a try at 8 months and didn't care for it too much. She was over a year old before she slept through the night on a regular basis. I don't think she's all that fond of sleeping, but she does it reluctantly because she knows a whole buncha fussin' isn't going to get her much more than a cursory pat on the back and another stuffed bunny tossed in her crib. There are only so many bunnies one kid can take.
Grinch and I fretted and lamented the differences between Bug and Dos. We questioned everything we had done, I, had done during my pregnancy. Wondered if genetic anomalies, chromosomal aberrations, even brain damage could explain her apparent unhappiness with seemingly everything. We fumed and cried, cursed and raged. What was wrong with this baby?
Then one day, it hit us: nothing is "wrong" with her. She's just different. She's a healthy little girl who has her own personality, her own likes and dislikes, her own quirks and curiosities. She's not Bug, she's Dos. All new. All ours. Ours to figure out, to learn from and enjoy.
She's different from her sister in another obvious way: I used to rock Bug to sleep, singing campfire/Beatles/Johnny Mercer medleys. When I tried to lay her in the crib, sometimes she'd wake up, clamp her arms around my neck and cry as I pried her off. Dos nurses happily until she's calm and sleepy but hates to be rocked almost as much as she hates my singing. I stand with her cribside, swaying to the music and patting her back. She pats my back, leans in for a kiss or three, then dives for the crib, clasping a bunny to her chest. I hear her cooing and giggling as she falls asleep.
She's different from her big sister, alright. What a great thing.
"She is. She's a good baby." I told her. I wasn't sure what she meant by "good baby" but I meant that Bug was cute, nursed well, let other people hold her and didn't cry without reason. Don't get me wrong. She cried. Lordy, lord did she cry. I cried, too. Big, heaving sobs of "This sucks! I want my life back!" and then she started sleeping through the night and I no longer felt like gray matter was seeping out of my ears. Things got better. We figured each other out. I stopped trying so hard to be The Perfect Mom and concentrated on being a really good mom to my little girl.
I was dumb enough to think everything would be exactly the same the second time around. Everything was different from the start: Bug took her time getting everything in place before she would think about being born. Dos came five days ahead of schedule and nearly made her entrance in the hospital parking lot. Bug barely made a peep during the first few diaper changes. Dos screamed bloody murder, to the point that a nurse poked her head in during one diaper change to ask, eyebrows raised, "Is everything ok?" Bug looked around, wide-eyed with wonder on her first ride home. Dos clamped her eyes shut and screamed for 5.5 miles. In rush-hour traffic.
Bug slept through the night on her own at 8 weeks. Dos finally gave it a try at 8 months and didn't care for it too much. She was over a year old before she slept through the night on a regular basis. I don't think she's all that fond of sleeping, but she does it reluctantly because she knows a whole buncha fussin' isn't going to get her much more than a cursory pat on the back and another stuffed bunny tossed in her crib. There are only so many bunnies one kid can take.
Grinch and I fretted and lamented the differences between Bug and Dos. We questioned everything we had done, I, had done during my pregnancy. Wondered if genetic anomalies, chromosomal aberrations, even brain damage could explain her apparent unhappiness with seemingly everything. We fumed and cried, cursed and raged. What was wrong with this baby?
Then one day, it hit us: nothing is "wrong" with her. She's just different. She's a healthy little girl who has her own personality, her own likes and dislikes, her own quirks and curiosities. She's not Bug, she's Dos. All new. All ours. Ours to figure out, to learn from and enjoy.
She's different from her sister in another obvious way: I used to rock Bug to sleep, singing campfire/Beatles/Johnny Mercer medleys. When I tried to lay her in the crib, sometimes she'd wake up, clamp her arms around my neck and cry as I pried her off. Dos nurses happily until she's calm and sleepy but hates to be rocked almost as much as she hates my singing. I stand with her cribside, swaying to the music and patting her back. She pats my back, leans in for a kiss or three, then dives for the crib, clasping a bunny to her chest. I hear her cooing and giggling as she falls asleep.
She's different from her big sister, alright. What a great thing.
Saturday, May 9, 2009
Mother's Day
I never expected to be a mother. It's not something I was raised to do. As a little girl, I didn't play house and I didn't carry around baby dolls. I played "Love Boat" and pretended I was a famous businesswoman who Gopher fell in love with on a cruise to Acapulco. I had high aspirations, obviously.
I didn't take Home Ec in high school. My sisters took it and it sounded like fun: baking cookies and cake and learning to sew. I expected to take it, too. When I brought it up to my counselor, she looked over her glasses at me and said, "But you want to go to college, don't you? Don't waste your time with home ec. That's a class for...for girls who won't be going to college."
In fact, I was steadfastly against having children until about two years before I became pregnant. Working years in retail will turn anyone against children. I watched too many temper tantrums unfold in the toy aisle near my cash register, saw too many parents reduced to red-faced, sweaty messes as they juggled bags, checkbooks and screaming children.
My own mother didn't seem to like being a mother very much so there wasn't much to interest me in joining the ranks.
But here I am. I'm a mother. I'm not the first. I'm not the best. I'm not the worst. But here I am.
I'm trying. It's hard. I don't have great examples to follow and I wasn't trained to do this. There's no pay check, no big jackpot. The payoffs come when you least expect them: a midnight nuzzle on your neck as you carry a sleeping child to bed. A messy kiss after a shared surprise ice cream cone. Feeling your baby grow heavy on your shoulder as she shudders, sighs and gives in to sleep. The sunlight on your child's hair as she runs happily through the park, her giggles ringing in the air. The fistful of dandelions offered to you as though they were a bouquet of roses. Watching your children hug each other tightly, then open their arms to invite you in.
There are payoffs, sometimes so small, that if you blink, you might miss them.
Here I am. I'm a mother.
Thank goodness.
I didn't take Home Ec in high school. My sisters took it and it sounded like fun: baking cookies and cake and learning to sew. I expected to take it, too. When I brought it up to my counselor, she looked over her glasses at me and said, "But you want to go to college, don't you? Don't waste your time with home ec. That's a class for...for girls who won't be going to college."
In fact, I was steadfastly against having children until about two years before I became pregnant. Working years in retail will turn anyone against children. I watched too many temper tantrums unfold in the toy aisle near my cash register, saw too many parents reduced to red-faced, sweaty messes as they juggled bags, checkbooks and screaming children.
My own mother didn't seem to like being a mother very much so there wasn't much to interest me in joining the ranks.
But here I am. I'm a mother. I'm not the first. I'm not the best. I'm not the worst. But here I am.
I'm trying. It's hard. I don't have great examples to follow and I wasn't trained to do this. There's no pay check, no big jackpot. The payoffs come when you least expect them: a midnight nuzzle on your neck as you carry a sleeping child to bed. A messy kiss after a shared surprise ice cream cone. Feeling your baby grow heavy on your shoulder as she shudders, sighs and gives in to sleep. The sunlight on your child's hair as she runs happily through the park, her giggles ringing in the air. The fistful of dandelions offered to you as though they were a bouquet of roses. Watching your children hug each other tightly, then open their arms to invite you in.
There are payoffs, sometimes so small, that if you blink, you might miss them.
Here I am. I'm a mother.
Thank goodness.
Sunday, April 5, 2009
Le Freak, Boutique
Just before Dos was born, a co-worker gave me a gift certificate to a fancy-schmancy baby store near my office. Correction: not "store." Boutique. La-dee-dah.
On the day I planned to use the gift certificate, Bug got a stomach virus and when she wasn't spewing all over the place, she was sleeping deeply on my chest and very pregnant belly. Not exactly perfect conditions for shopping at a boutique. By the time she was better, I was in the hospital, birthin' Dos and didn't exactly have time for boutiques.
The gift certificate has been sitting in my purse for over a year now. I finally got a chance to go to the store last week and, oh my, yes it is a boutique indeed. White walls, white floors, white shelves, and expensive white towels, sheets and blankets. You can tell that people go there BEFORE they have a baby because no conscientious parent would haul a barfing, pooping baby or grabby, sticky-handed, crumb-faced toddler into a store like this. Sorry, boutique.
The boutique had such beautiful things. I think I touched every blanket they had and they were all as soft as a baby's skin. I shook the rattles and squeezed the stuffed animals. I may have even nuzzled an organic cotton bunny. All heavenly. I fell in love with a palm-sized, wooden rattle/music box that played "Alle Meine Entchen" so sweetly I almost cried. I tinkered with every toy car and train, thumbed the pages of nearly every book.
I jealously eyed the staged nurseries. Everything matched so carefully and precisely that it looked like page in a design magazine. Hearty cribs with delicate linens. Porcelain night lights and decorative plates, hand-painted with lambs and bunnies. I thought back to Dos and Bug's room, with the 20-year-old hand-me-down crib and Ikea bed covered in mismatched sheets, no door on the closet and books haphazardly stacked on the shelves. Am I a bad Mommy because I didn't paint the room pink when Bug was born? Are my girls suffering because I haven't spelled out their names in pastel wooden letters over their beds? Would Dos sleep better if she had a $75 scent diffuser by her crib? I had to pull myself away before I felt the need to tear up my Mommy card.
Then I rounded the corner to the strollers. Not just any strollers. The Lexuses and Mercedes of the stroller world. The strollers were sleek and gleaming. They had cup holders perfectly sizes for venti soy lattes and BPA-free bottles. These strollers were ergonomically designed and built the the same material used in car and airplane production. They had ports for ipods. One had speakers. I think I drooled a little as I reached for the price tag on one of the strollers.
Have I mentioned before, or has it made itself apparent that I am budget-minded....some might say "cheap"? Yes, well, I *do* gasp and go gog-eyed when I see a $1999 price tag on a stroller. Unless it pushes itself and teaches my child three languages there is no stroller on earth worth $1999.
I backed away from the strollers and started looking at the price tags on other things. A matching set of 600 count crib linens? $210. A cashmere romper? $98. That dear little music box? $54. I knew that I would never be back in this place again. I wanted to make the most of my gift certificate and go home to hand-me-down kids' clothes and second-hand stroller. Back to the homemade bedtime mix CD on our creaky old boombox. Back to my giggly girls who didn't seem to care if they weren't wearing designer clothes or any clothes at all for that matter. Better access to tickly ribs and armpits.
I left the store with a small bag of fun odds and ends, all of which are going in the girls' Easter Baskets. I think they'll like them as much as the very non-boutiquey candy I bought for them at Target.
The girls' room doesn't have a theme other than "comfortable." I didn't put a whole lot of thought or money into a design concept. I don't worry if their toys are organic or free-trade as long as they're smart and safely built. Their room doesn't smell like lavender and fresh-baked cookies. I'm not a boutique kinda mama, I guess. That's ok. I think my girls love me anyway.
On the day I planned to use the gift certificate, Bug got a stomach virus and when she wasn't spewing all over the place, she was sleeping deeply on my chest and very pregnant belly. Not exactly perfect conditions for shopping at a boutique. By the time she was better, I was in the hospital, birthin' Dos and didn't exactly have time for boutiques.
The gift certificate has been sitting in my purse for over a year now. I finally got a chance to go to the store last week and, oh my, yes it is a boutique indeed. White walls, white floors, white shelves, and expensive white towels, sheets and blankets. You can tell that people go there BEFORE they have a baby because no conscientious parent would haul a barfing, pooping baby or grabby, sticky-handed, crumb-faced toddler into a store like this. Sorry, boutique.
The boutique had such beautiful things. I think I touched every blanket they had and they were all as soft as a baby's skin. I shook the rattles and squeezed the stuffed animals. I may have even nuzzled an organic cotton bunny. All heavenly. I fell in love with a palm-sized, wooden rattle/music box that played "Alle Meine Entchen" so sweetly I almost cried. I tinkered with every toy car and train, thumbed the pages of nearly every book.
I jealously eyed the staged nurseries. Everything matched so carefully and precisely that it looked like page in a design magazine. Hearty cribs with delicate linens. Porcelain night lights and decorative plates, hand-painted with lambs and bunnies. I thought back to Dos and Bug's room, with the 20-year-old hand-me-down crib and Ikea bed covered in mismatched sheets, no door on the closet and books haphazardly stacked on the shelves. Am I a bad Mommy because I didn't paint the room pink when Bug was born? Are my girls suffering because I haven't spelled out their names in pastel wooden letters over their beds? Would Dos sleep better if she had a $75 scent diffuser by her crib? I had to pull myself away before I felt the need to tear up my Mommy card.
Then I rounded the corner to the strollers. Not just any strollers. The Lexuses and Mercedes of the stroller world. The strollers were sleek and gleaming. They had cup holders perfectly sizes for venti soy lattes and BPA-free bottles. These strollers were ergonomically designed and built the the same material used in car and airplane production. They had ports for ipods. One had speakers. I think I drooled a little as I reached for the price tag on one of the strollers.
Have I mentioned before, or has it made itself apparent that I am budget-minded....some might say "cheap"? Yes, well, I *do* gasp and go gog-eyed when I see a $1999 price tag on a stroller. Unless it pushes itself and teaches my child three languages there is no stroller on earth worth $1999.
I backed away from the strollers and started looking at the price tags on other things. A matching set of 600 count crib linens? $210. A cashmere romper? $98. That dear little music box? $54. I knew that I would never be back in this place again. I wanted to make the most of my gift certificate and go home to hand-me-down kids' clothes and second-hand stroller. Back to the homemade bedtime mix CD on our creaky old boombox. Back to my giggly girls who didn't seem to care if they weren't wearing designer clothes or any clothes at all for that matter. Better access to tickly ribs and armpits.
I left the store with a small bag of fun odds and ends, all of which are going in the girls' Easter Baskets. I think they'll like them as much as the very non-boutiquey candy I bought for them at Target.
The girls' room doesn't have a theme other than "comfortable." I didn't put a whole lot of thought or money into a design concept. I don't worry if their toys are organic or free-trade as long as they're smart and safely built. Their room doesn't smell like lavender and fresh-baked cookies. I'm not a boutique kinda mama, I guess. That's ok. I think my girls love me anyway.
Sunday, March 8, 2009
Snakes, Ducks and How I Roll
"She has a strong maternal instinct."
Used to describe thoughtful, warm, caring women who are always going out of their way to tend to people, especially children. Women described this way always seem to be baking something, tidying up and smiling while tending to their offspring's every need, no matter how unpleasant. You see this phrase next to airbrushed photos of mama ducks with their ducklings and silk-skinned, topless mothers nursing their new babies.
.::.
"She has no maternal instincts."
Used to describe the woman who locked her child in the car while she went to gamble away the rent money in a smoke-filled casino. Or worse. This phrase is illustrated with photos of snakes and mug shots of women who have done regrettable, horrible things to their children.
.::.
Is there a middle ground for maternal instincts? Because while I literally would stand in front of a speeding freight train to protect my children, I don't exactly love tending to their every whim, especially when some of those whims come at 3am, accompanied by feces.
I do not smile through my toddler's tantrums. I have been known to tell her to "can it" on more than one occasion.
I do not relish the thought of changing the baby's diaper. While it is an opportunity to see her perfectly adorable bum, it is also occasion to see her face turn purple with rage because this baby HATES diaper changes.
I do not love it when strange children come up to me on the playground and try to engage me in a discussion about their newest plastic gee-gaw. It makes me uncomfortable and I often end up asking them, "Is your Mommy here? Why don't you go find her."
However.
I do love painting pictures with the Bug and giggling with her at nap time. I am happy to hold her when she is frightened, upset, sick or just needs a quiet cuddle. I know when she needs space and when she needs to hold my hand.
I chase Dos around the house on my hands and knees because, even though it shreds my kneecaps, it makes her laugh and that's priceless. And I change her diaper, even though she tries to claw my face off when I do.
I race to catch anonymous toddlers who wander away from inattentive parents and nannies at the park. They aren't my kids, but they are someone's and need to be kept safe from harm.
I'm not a snake. I'm not quite a mama duck, either. I'm just a mom, trying to figure all this out as I go along and finding that maternal instincts aren't always instinctive.
Used to describe thoughtful, warm, caring women who are always going out of their way to tend to people, especially children. Women described this way always seem to be baking something, tidying up and smiling while tending to their offspring's every need, no matter how unpleasant. You see this phrase next to airbrushed photos of mama ducks with their ducklings and silk-skinned, topless mothers nursing their new babies.
.::.
"She has no maternal instincts."
Used to describe the woman who locked her child in the car while she went to gamble away the rent money in a smoke-filled casino. Or worse. This phrase is illustrated with photos of snakes and mug shots of women who have done regrettable, horrible things to their children.
.::.
Is there a middle ground for maternal instincts? Because while I literally would stand in front of a speeding freight train to protect my children, I don't exactly love tending to their every whim, especially when some of those whims come at 3am, accompanied by feces.
I do not smile through my toddler's tantrums. I have been known to tell her to "can it" on more than one occasion.
I do not relish the thought of changing the baby's diaper. While it is an opportunity to see her perfectly adorable bum, it is also occasion to see her face turn purple with rage because this baby HATES diaper changes.
I do not love it when strange children come up to me on the playground and try to engage me in a discussion about their newest plastic gee-gaw. It makes me uncomfortable and I often end up asking them, "Is your Mommy here? Why don't you go find her."
However.
I do love painting pictures with the Bug and giggling with her at nap time. I am happy to hold her when she is frightened, upset, sick or just needs a quiet cuddle. I know when she needs space and when she needs to hold my hand.
I chase Dos around the house on my hands and knees because, even though it shreds my kneecaps, it makes her laugh and that's priceless. And I change her diaper, even though she tries to claw my face off when I do.
I race to catch anonymous toddlers who wander away from inattentive parents and nannies at the park. They aren't my kids, but they are someone's and need to be kept safe from harm.
I'm not a snake. I'm not quite a mama duck, either. I'm just a mom, trying to figure all this out as I go along and finding that maternal instincts aren't always instinctive.
Wednesday, March 4, 2009
Smile
I see one of my co-workers on a regular basis, but we don't often have time to chat. When we do, the conversation always centers around our kids. He has a little girl who is 4, going on 24. Her attitude is legendary and he always has a funny story about her.
We were chatting recently and he asked, "What about you, how're your girls?'
I paused for a second to take inventory. "They're great." I said.
"You always smile when you talk about them." he said.
"I do?"
"Yes. Is there always something to smile about?"
"I guess there is. I just can't believe how lucky we are. I still can't believe they're mine."
It's true. As hard as things have been, I am lucky. It's so easy to forget when I'm feeling lousy and stressed out. When both kids are crying and it's probably my fault that they are. When I haven't slept when my husband in weeks and I can't remember the last time I saw my friends. When all of that piles up, everything seems awful and I often roll my eyes and groan, "Kill me now."
But when someone asks, "How're things?" and I say, "Great!" It's true. I'm not covering up or glossing over things to paint a rosy picture. Things really are pretty damn good. Everyone is in good health, the girls are thriving and growing. We have good jobs, food in the cupboards and a home in a friendly neighborhood. Our families and friends are supportive and caring. Frankly, sometimes I think I have it better than I deserve.
Things ARE pretty damn good. It's easy to forget.
We were chatting recently and he asked, "What about you, how're your girls?'
I paused for a second to take inventory. "They're great." I said.
"You always smile when you talk about them." he said.
"I do?"
"Yes. Is there always something to smile about?"
"I guess there is. I just can't believe how lucky we are. I still can't believe they're mine."
It's true. As hard as things have been, I am lucky. It's so easy to forget when I'm feeling lousy and stressed out. When both kids are crying and it's probably my fault that they are. When I haven't slept when my husband in weeks and I can't remember the last time I saw my friends. When all of that piles up, everything seems awful and I often roll my eyes and groan, "Kill me now."
But when someone asks, "How're things?" and I say, "Great!" It's true. I'm not covering up or glossing over things to paint a rosy picture. Things really are pretty damn good. Everyone is in good health, the girls are thriving and growing. We have good jobs, food in the cupboards and a home in a friendly neighborhood. Our families and friends are supportive and caring. Frankly, sometimes I think I have it better than I deserve.
Things ARE pretty damn good. It's easy to forget.
Friday, January 16, 2009
The Good, The Bad and The Asshat
There are moments in parenting that make you feel like the smartest, most entertaining, most resourceful, kindest parent in the world. Gluing a favorite toy back together, catching a child in mid-fall, saying the just the right thing to soothe a sobbing child, occupying a toddler on a rainy day using nothing but Popsicle sticks, glue and construction paper. Those kinds of moments.
There are also moments that make you feel like a complete asshat.
If you play your cards right and work really hard at it, the good moments are more frequent than the asshat moments. But the asshat moments hurt. Hopefully you haven't done anything so awful that it hurts your child physically or mentally, but it hurts you. At least, the asshat moments hurt *me*.
There are simple ones, like the time I got the Bug all hyped up to go to her favorite indoor play center. We got there and the place was closed for a private party. Bug already had her shoes off and was excited about jumping in a bouncy tent. I had to pull her back and tell her we weren't allowed. Talk about taking the wind out of some one's sails.
There are scary ones, like the time I was holding Dos, who was enraged that I'd just changed her diaper. She bucked backwards and right out of my arm. I can still hear the sound her body made when it hit the floor and it makes me sick to my stomach. After four hours in the ER, Dos had a perfectly clean bill of health and Bug was have a grand time in the hospital cafeteria and I was resolved to hold my baby tightly, with two hands, no matter what.
And then there was Saturday night. A new level in ass-hattery for me. I was a major-league asshole to my child. I was frustrated and weary. She was energetic and insistent. I threw away a toy she gave me and stomped off, leaving her alone, wailing in the kitchen. I didn't just take the wind out of her sails. I shredded the sails, pulled the plug on the boat and left her there to sink.
I apologized a short time later and she seemed fine with everything, but I can't forget the sound of her cry. Add that to the nasty look Grinch gave me later, along with the admonishment, "She was really hurt. REALLY. Hurt." and my torment is complete.
No parent is perfect. I know that. I pray a lot for patience, strength, energy and fortitude. I don't know if God hears those prayers. I don't know what he'd think if I prayed, "Dear God, don't let me be an asshat to my children today."
There are also moments that make you feel like a complete asshat.
If you play your cards right and work really hard at it, the good moments are more frequent than the asshat moments. But the asshat moments hurt. Hopefully you haven't done anything so awful that it hurts your child physically or mentally, but it hurts you. At least, the asshat moments hurt *me*.
There are simple ones, like the time I got the Bug all hyped up to go to her favorite indoor play center. We got there and the place was closed for a private party. Bug already had her shoes off and was excited about jumping in a bouncy tent. I had to pull her back and tell her we weren't allowed. Talk about taking the wind out of some one's sails.
There are scary ones, like the time I was holding Dos, who was enraged that I'd just changed her diaper. She bucked backwards and right out of my arm. I can still hear the sound her body made when it hit the floor and it makes me sick to my stomach. After four hours in the ER, Dos had a perfectly clean bill of health and Bug was have a grand time in the hospital cafeteria and I was resolved to hold my baby tightly, with two hands, no matter what.
And then there was Saturday night. A new level in ass-hattery for me. I was a major-league asshole to my child. I was frustrated and weary. She was energetic and insistent. I threw away a toy she gave me and stomped off, leaving her alone, wailing in the kitchen. I didn't just take the wind out of her sails. I shredded the sails, pulled the plug on the boat and left her there to sink.
I apologized a short time later and she seemed fine with everything, but I can't forget the sound of her cry. Add that to the nasty look Grinch gave me later, along with the admonishment, "She was really hurt. REALLY. Hurt." and my torment is complete.
No parent is perfect. I know that. I pray a lot for patience, strength, energy and fortitude. I don't know if God hears those prayers. I don't know what he'd think if I prayed, "Dear God, don't let me be an asshat to my children today."
Tuesday, January 13, 2009
Easy/Hard
The day to day business of parenting is pretty easy. Diaper changing, book reading, cup filling, baby totin', etc? Easy peasy. It's when you throw in an actual child that things get complicated.
You have to contend with squirming, crying, fussing and cussing. And you think pregnant women are moody? Honey, baby and toddler moods switch so quickly you could get whiplash. Grinch and I often remark to one another, over the angry wails of a certain tot, "Five minutes ago, everything was funny. Suddenly, NOTHING is funny."
And here's a surprise: 3-and-a-half year olds have very strong feelings about things. Very strong feelings that they don't tell you about until it's too late. "nononoNOOOOO! I wanted to peel the clementine! Aaaaaagh!" "Where are my pink monkey pajamas?" In the wash. "WHAT?! I wanted to wear those tonight. Aaaaaagh!" "I can buckle my own belt! Aaaaaagh!" You get the idea.
My best response to these outbursts is to say, "I didn't know that, darlin'. Next time you can (fill in the blank). Next time. Hey! Look! Charlie is chewing on your sister's sock! heehee!" and I go on about my business.
That works pretty well with the bug, but Dos doesn't know anything about "next time." All she knows is that you made her mad! right! NOW! Diaper change: Waaaaaaaaah! Car seat buckling: Waaaaaaaaah! Removal of small objects from her mouth: Waaaaaaaaah! And she, unlike her sister, is a fighter.
My 20-something brothers used to wrestle me to the ground when I was just a pre-teen. I was regularly knocked around by my childhood "playmate". But the pain of being bitten on the shoulder by pointy baby teeth is like no other. And who taught this little angel to slap? Seriously. She has never been hit, never seen anyone get hit, but she can land a slap better than Joan Collins.
I don't know if baby-on-mama violence really hurts, or it's just the indignity getting whalloped by an infant that riles me up so much. Plus, you can't hit back. I go hit the washer/dryer and scream into a pile of laundry instead. If our laundry pile could talk, it would probably repeat some very bad words.
The furniture and the laundry bear the physical manifestations of my frustration and anger. I get it out of my system and go back to the baby or the toddler, hold them close, kiss them, whisper loving words into their ears, sometimes all while they're still wailing about whatever injustice has befallen them. I throw myself back into the fray because parenting is hard, but loving them is easy.
You have to contend with squirming, crying, fussing and cussing. And you think pregnant women are moody? Honey, baby and toddler moods switch so quickly you could get whiplash. Grinch and I often remark to one another, over the angry wails of a certain tot, "Five minutes ago, everything was funny. Suddenly, NOTHING is funny."
And here's a surprise: 3-and-a-half year olds have very strong feelings about things. Very strong feelings that they don't tell you about until it's too late. "nononoNOOOOO! I wanted to peel the clementine! Aaaaaagh!" "Where are my pink monkey pajamas?" In the wash. "WHAT?! I wanted to wear those tonight. Aaaaaagh!" "I can buckle my own belt! Aaaaaagh!" You get the idea.
My best response to these outbursts is to say, "I didn't know that, darlin'. Next time you can (fill in the blank). Next time. Hey! Look! Charlie is chewing on your sister's sock! heehee!" and I go on about my business.
That works pretty well with the bug, but Dos doesn't know anything about "next time." All she knows is that you made her mad! right! NOW! Diaper change: Waaaaaaaaah! Car seat buckling: Waaaaaaaaah! Removal of small objects from her mouth: Waaaaaaaaah! And she, unlike her sister, is a fighter.
My 20-something brothers used to wrestle me to the ground when I was just a pre-teen. I was regularly knocked around by my childhood "playmate". But the pain of being bitten on the shoulder by pointy baby teeth is like no other. And who taught this little angel to slap? Seriously. She has never been hit, never seen anyone get hit, but she can land a slap better than Joan Collins.
I don't know if baby-on-mama violence really hurts, or it's just the indignity getting whalloped by an infant that riles me up so much. Plus, you can't hit back. I go hit the washer/dryer and scream into a pile of laundry instead. If our laundry pile could talk, it would probably repeat some very bad words.
The furniture and the laundry bear the physical manifestations of my frustration and anger. I get it out of my system and go back to the baby or the toddler, hold them close, kiss them, whisper loving words into their ears, sometimes all while they're still wailing about whatever injustice has befallen them. I throw myself back into the fray because parenting is hard, but loving them is easy.
Thursday, January 8, 2009
She Is
She is strong-willed. When the nurses tried to hold her in, she forced her way out. She was ready, even if they weren't.
She is opinionated. Give her a toy she doesn't want and she dashes it to the floor, using her newly free hand to grab what she really wants.
She is tenacious. She learned to climb before she learned to walk. She did it so she could reach toys that had been placed out of reach.
She is full of wonder. Take her outside and she hushes, taking in the sunlight, the twittering birds, the buzz of the neighbor's lawnmower. She is wide-eyed and looking in every direction. "Show me more!" she seems to say.
She won't be ignored. If her sister is getting lap time, she muscles her way in. If that's not enough she climbs higher on my shoulder. If that doesn't do the trick, she gets into nursing position. The kid knows how to work the system.
She is tough. She rolls off beds, jumps out of arms, falls while learning to walk and barely misses a beat. She's given of a dozen heart attacks, but just keeps going.
She is funny. She'll roll up my shirt-sleeve to get bare skin upon which to blow a proper raspberry. If I'm laying down, she'll lift my shirt to blow on my belly. She chuckles at her own trick and does it again and again just to hear me laugh.
She laughs and cries lustily and with great purpose. There is something wrong. There is something funny. She can't talk, but she can communicate and she does it with unmatched fervor.
She is my Dos. My do-si-do. My monkey. My cookie. My bunny.
She is one year old today. I can barely believe it. The textbooks say she's not a baby any more. She'll always be my baby. My special baby girl.
She is opinionated. Give her a toy she doesn't want and she dashes it to the floor, using her newly free hand to grab what she really wants.
She is tenacious. She learned to climb before she learned to walk. She did it so she could reach toys that had been placed out of reach.
She is full of wonder. Take her outside and she hushes, taking in the sunlight, the twittering birds, the buzz of the neighbor's lawnmower. She is wide-eyed and looking in every direction. "Show me more!" she seems to say.
She won't be ignored. If her sister is getting lap time, she muscles her way in. If that's not enough she climbs higher on my shoulder. If that doesn't do the trick, she gets into nursing position. The kid knows how to work the system.
She is tough. She rolls off beds, jumps out of arms, falls while learning to walk and barely misses a beat. She's given of a dozen heart attacks, but just keeps going.
She is funny. She'll roll up my shirt-sleeve to get bare skin upon which to blow a proper raspberry. If I'm laying down, she'll lift my shirt to blow on my belly. She chuckles at her own trick and does it again and again just to hear me laugh.
She laughs and cries lustily and with great purpose. There is something wrong. There is something funny. She can't talk, but she can communicate and she does it with unmatched fervor.
She is my Dos. My do-si-do. My monkey. My cookie. My bunny.
She is one year old today. I can barely believe it. The textbooks say she's not a baby any more. She'll always be my baby. My special baby girl.
Tuesday, December 9, 2008
Back to Reality
If you've noticed the sudden increase in the number and frequency of postings here, that's because I took the last week off of work. It's amazing what a little extra sleep can do for one's mood and creativity.
Being a stay-at-home Mom, even for a week is damn hard. I don't necessarily envy anyone who gets to do this full-time. That doesn't mean I wouldn't want to actually do it myself. I think I'd need some outlets, though. The blog for creativity and a place to vent, a group of friends to go out with occasionally and play trivia or see a movie, have snacks and talk, whatever and maybe a class or something to give me deadlines and challenges that I'd have to meet on a regular basis.
For all the heavy sighing, temple rubbing, teeth clenching and "deargodgivemestrength" muttering I did this week, I'm going to miss being able to do all of that well-rested. Sleep and rest make a tough job like parenting a little bit easier. I think wine and chocolate probably help, too.
It's funny: I'll still be here all day with the girls, pretty much like I was over the past week. The difference will be that I won't be here in the mornings with Grinch or on the weekends. It's a big difference somehow. I miss my husband. I miss my best friend.
I get some more time off during Christmas week and I'm really looking forward to it. The knowledge that good times and a little extra sleep are coming my way will help make tomorrow's 1:30am wakeup call a little bit easier.
And you? Thanks for continuing to read this blog. It's not much. It's just my little corner of the internet to prattle on a bit. But I'm glad you stop by. Leave a comment and say "hi", won't you?
Being a stay-at-home Mom, even for a week is damn hard. I don't necessarily envy anyone who gets to do this full-time. That doesn't mean I wouldn't want to actually do it myself. I think I'd need some outlets, though. The blog for creativity and a place to vent, a group of friends to go out with occasionally and play trivia or see a movie, have snacks and talk, whatever and maybe a class or something to give me deadlines and challenges that I'd have to meet on a regular basis.
For all the heavy sighing, temple rubbing, teeth clenching and "deargodgivemestrength" muttering I did this week, I'm going to miss being able to do all of that well-rested. Sleep and rest make a tough job like parenting a little bit easier. I think wine and chocolate probably help, too.
It's funny: I'll still be here all day with the girls, pretty much like I was over the past week. The difference will be that I won't be here in the mornings with Grinch or on the weekends. It's a big difference somehow. I miss my husband. I miss my best friend.
I get some more time off during Christmas week and I'm really looking forward to it. The knowledge that good times and a little extra sleep are coming my way will help make tomorrow's 1:30am wakeup call a little bit easier.
And you? Thanks for continuing to read this blog. It's not much. It's just my little corner of the internet to prattle on a bit. But I'm glad you stop by. Leave a comment and say "hi", won't you?
Monday, December 8, 2008
This is a Message from Mom Corleone!
No more half eaten snacks! No more fussing and cussing about naps and baths and playing with your sister! No more going boneless when I try to hold your hand to cross the street! Do as Mommy says!
....or you sleep with the goldfishessssssssssss........
....or you sleep with the goldfishessssssssssss........
Saturday, December 6, 2008
Parents Do the Darndest Things
"Mommymommymommymommy! I found my snowshoe hare mask!"
"Great, darlin'! Want to put it on?"
"No, I want YOU to put it on. That would be so funny."
"Ok!" (tie tie tie)
"HAhahahahaha! Mommy, that is so silly! Let's hop like bunnies!"
"Ok! " (hop, hop, hop all around the house)
"Weeeehhhhhhh!"
"Come on, Do-si-do. You can hop with meeeeeeeWOOH! You need a fresh diaper. Come on, let's change that." (change, change, change the diaper)
"Mommy, I'm hungry."
"Ok, let's get a snack." (snack, snack, snack)
"Weeeeehhhhhhh!"
"Poor hungry baby." (nurse, nurse, nurse)
"Mommy! Play with ME!"
"Ok, ok!" (play, play, play, dance, dance, dance)
::DING, DONG!:::
"Oh, hi UPS man! Package for me? Great!"
"You must be really busy these days, huh? You look pretty happy about it. What's so funny?"
"Why yes, we have been playing rabbit. How'd you kno-...ohmygod. Excuse me."
So now, along with my dignity, UPS has a release to leave all packages on my doorstep without a signature.
So now, along with my dignity, UPS has a release to leave all packages on my doorstep without a signature.
You're welcome.
Monday, September 29, 2008
Guest Post: Grinch
Grinch e-mailed this to me a couple of weeks ago. I thought it was sweet and he said it was ok to blog it, so here's his first official guest post:
"This morning, on the way to school, bug asked to hear some music. Without much hope of finding anything decent, I scanned the radio stations. Much to my surprise and delight, we came upon the first bars of "Hey Jude." As I always do during that song, I got goosebumps, and cranked up the stereo as I told bug that this was one of daddy's favorite songs by the Beatles.
"A few minutes later, during the song's rousing coda, I looked back and saw bug tapping her hand on her knee in time to the music. I still can't get the smile off my face."
These two have become quite the pair lately. Dos and Bug share a room. Dos isn't sleeping through the night yet, there's still a lot of crying going on. Bug has been sleeping on the sofa bed with Grinch so at least one person in this house can get some rest. When I leave for work in the morning, I use the light from my cellphone LCD display to check on them. Bug is usually sprawled out, taking up nearly every square inch of sleepable space and Grinch is scrunched up in a corner. They're both breathing deeply and sleeping peacefully. Charlie even curls up with them. I'm happy they're getting sleep, but jealous that I can't join them. It's all I can do to keep myself from curling up beside Bug and going right back to sleep.
Kids go through this "favorite parent" stage off and on throughout childhood, apparently. I had my days in the sun a couple of weeks ago. Now, I'm regarded more as the Evil Queen than dear, delightful, sunshiney Mommy. It hurts, but I can get over it. I'm glad to see Grinch getting the love and attention he deserves....and a lot of snuggling and hugging from his little girl before she thinks it's gross.
"This morning, on the way to school, bug asked to hear some music. Without much hope of finding anything decent, I scanned the radio stations. Much to my surprise and delight, we came upon the first bars of "Hey Jude." As I always do during that song, I got goosebumps, and cranked up the stereo as I told bug that this was one of daddy's favorite songs by the Beatles.
"A few minutes later, during the song's rousing coda, I looked back and saw bug tapping her hand on her knee in time to the music. I still can't get the smile off my face."
These two have become quite the pair lately. Dos and Bug share a room. Dos isn't sleeping through the night yet, there's still a lot of crying going on. Bug has been sleeping on the sofa bed with Grinch so at least one person in this house can get some rest. When I leave for work in the morning, I use the light from my cellphone LCD display to check on them. Bug is usually sprawled out, taking up nearly every square inch of sleepable space and Grinch is scrunched up in a corner. They're both breathing deeply and sleeping peacefully. Charlie even curls up with them. I'm happy they're getting sleep, but jealous that I can't join them. It's all I can do to keep myself from curling up beside Bug and going right back to sleep.
Kids go through this "favorite parent" stage off and on throughout childhood, apparently. I had my days in the sun a couple of weeks ago. Now, I'm regarded more as the Evil Queen than dear, delightful, sunshiney Mommy. It hurts, but I can get over it. I'm glad to see Grinch getting the love and attention he deserves....and a lot of snuggling and hugging from his little girl before she thinks it's gross.
Sunday, September 21, 2008
Gotta Laugh to Keep from Cryin'
Before we had kids, Grinch and I would take long walks, hikes in the woods or trips to the beach and enjoy the peace and quiet. More than once, the tranquility was broken by the sound of screeching kid or wailing infant. Grinch and I would shoot glances at the "offending" family and mutter that people should keep their screaming kids at home or teach them how to behave in public. Harumph. We knew so much about kids before we actually had some of our own.
A couple of weeks ago we took the kiddos to a nature preserve near our house. When we got to the path, the Bug took off running, so happy to be in the forest YAY! Five minutes into the walk: stumble, bumble, crash, blood, tears and an early trip home.
Saturday, we tried again. 65 acres of undisturbed forest, paved paths, twittering birds, peace and quiet. Ahhhhh....hahahah! Not so fast! We got to the forest entrance and the bug was already whining. "I'm hungry, Daddy. I'm hunnnnngry." We tried distracting her, encouraging her, promising a fantastic picnic lunch when the walk was done. No. "I'm hunnnnnnnnngry NOW." Fine. Back to the picnic tables where it seemed like a majillion snarky, cursing pre-teens were milling around, grumbling and flipping each other off. She happily ate her sandwich. Grinch and I ate ours in steely silence while Dos dribbled Cheerios all over the ground.
Ok. Lunch is done. NOW we can go walk in the forest, right? Walking, no running. No running, no falling, right? Right. At the start of the trail, the paths go in two directions. We wanted to go to the right, the bug wanted to go to the left. She wanted to go to the left so badly, that she started crying. (Why we didn't just go to the left, I do not know. Quite obviously, parenthood has eaten our brains. I think we were "standing our ground." Knuckleheads.) She cried THE ENTIRE WALK. The serenity of the forest was broken with a low-key moan of "I don't want to. I don't waaaaaaaant toooooooooo." You would have thought the 1/4 mile stroll through the woods was the Bataan Freaking Death March for Toddlers. I even tried bribing her with an offer to run. "Wanna run? You can run if you hold my hand! Come on, let's run!"
"Nooooooo! You can't RUN in the forest! You'll FAAAAAALL!"
Grinch and I just kept walking, making small talk about family gossip, and glancing behind us to make sure the bug was still there. We thought we had a chance at calming the storm near the end of the walk when we came across a huge spiderweb and its owner. "Look! What a pretty spiderweb! And such a big spider! Oooooh, it has pretty stripey legs, doesn't it?" She smiled and nodded, her eyes wide though red-rimmed from crying. She quieted for a minute....which was Dos' cue to start crying. I hiked up my shirt, walking and nursing and grinning at how ridiculous the whole thing was.
Dos finally quieted so Bug and her wails of complaint had center stage again. The end of the path was in sight and she was still crying, "I don't want tooooooooo." She finally stopped crying when we were completely out of the woods (ha!) and Grinch was able to distract her from her trauma with a look at some petrified wood. I wandered around, shaking off the tension and wondering if we'd scarred the bug for life. She'd never want to go for a walk in the woods ever again. I was sure of it.
The car ride home was blessedly short and quiet. In the driveway, Grinch and I were unbuckling the girls from their car seats, still shaking our heads at how badly everything had gone. That's when the bug smiled and said, "That was FUN!"
A couple of weeks ago we took the kiddos to a nature preserve near our house. When we got to the path, the Bug took off running, so happy to be in the forest YAY! Five minutes into the walk: stumble, bumble, crash, blood, tears and an early trip home.
Saturday, we tried again. 65 acres of undisturbed forest, paved paths, twittering birds, peace and quiet. Ahhhhh....hahahah! Not so fast! We got to the forest entrance and the bug was already whining. "I'm hungry, Daddy. I'm hunnnnngry." We tried distracting her, encouraging her, promising a fantastic picnic lunch when the walk was done. No. "I'm hunnnnnnnnngry NOW." Fine. Back to the picnic tables where it seemed like a majillion snarky, cursing pre-teens were milling around, grumbling and flipping each other off. She happily ate her sandwich. Grinch and I ate ours in steely silence while Dos dribbled Cheerios all over the ground.
Ok. Lunch is done. NOW we can go walk in the forest, right? Walking, no running. No running, no falling, right? Right. At the start of the trail, the paths go in two directions. We wanted to go to the right, the bug wanted to go to the left. She wanted to go to the left so badly, that she started crying. (Why we didn't just go to the left, I do not know. Quite obviously, parenthood has eaten our brains. I think we were "standing our ground." Knuckleheads.) She cried THE ENTIRE WALK. The serenity of the forest was broken with a low-key moan of "I don't want to. I don't waaaaaaaant toooooooooo." You would have thought the 1/4 mile stroll through the woods was the Bataan Freaking Death March for Toddlers. I even tried bribing her with an offer to run. "Wanna run? You can run if you hold my hand! Come on, let's run!"
"Nooooooo! You can't RUN in the forest! You'll FAAAAAALL!"
Grinch and I just kept walking, making small talk about family gossip, and glancing behind us to make sure the bug was still there. We thought we had a chance at calming the storm near the end of the walk when we came across a huge spiderweb and its owner. "Look! What a pretty spiderweb! And such a big spider! Oooooh, it has pretty stripey legs, doesn't it?" She smiled and nodded, her eyes wide though red-rimmed from crying. She quieted for a minute....which was Dos' cue to start crying. I hiked up my shirt, walking and nursing and grinning at how ridiculous the whole thing was.
Dos finally quieted so Bug and her wails of complaint had center stage again. The end of the path was in sight and she was still crying, "I don't want tooooooooo." She finally stopped crying when we were completely out of the woods (ha!) and Grinch was able to distract her from her trauma with a look at some petrified wood. I wandered around, shaking off the tension and wondering if we'd scarred the bug for life. She'd never want to go for a walk in the woods ever again. I was sure of it.
The car ride home was blessedly short and quiet. In the driveway, Grinch and I were unbuckling the girls from their car seats, still shaking our heads at how badly everything had gone. That's when the bug smiled and said, "That was FUN!"
Sunday, September 7, 2008
Hearts Were Made to be Broken
People say that having kids makes you young again. That's pretty much true. You giggle madly with them at the most ridiculous stuff. You lay down on the sidewalk to get a good view of ants soldiering back and forth with their bits of food. You sing "This Old Man" and ABCs with gusto. You eat hot dogs and mac 'n cheese for dinner. You have tea parties and bake Lego bread in shoebox ovens and count it up as rollicking good fun. When your kid is having fun you have fun, too.
The flip side is when your 3-year-old gets her heart broken, yours breaks twice as hard: once for her and once for the 3-year-old you who has had her heart broken multiple times in the very same way over the past 36 years.
Bug loves her friends. I don't know if all kids latch on to their playmates like she does. My theory is that she's so shy with everyone that once she feels comfortable with someone, especially a kid, she just can't hide her glee at being around them. She wraps them with hugs, guffaws long and loud at their jokes and glows like a sunbeam when they enter a room.
As shy and reserved as Bug is, her friend Ria is outgoing. She chats up people in the park, pets strange dogs on the playground and blows kisses to everyone in the restaurant. Bug LOVES her and together they have the energy of a dozen toddler-sized hurricanes. They play wonderfully together. They share and take turns and make each other laugh. All the stuff that good 3-year-old pals are supposed to do.
Last weekend, we met up with Ria and her family for a festival. The two girls hit it off as usual and had a grand time, marching in a parade together and sharing milkshakes from Starbucks. By the end of lunch, everyone was tired and ready for naps. Ria was pouty and ignoring everyone, including Bug who wanted to share a few more laughs. We chalked it up to the heat and general toddler temperament.
After naps, we went to Ria's house for a party. Bug was so excited to be at Ria's house! For a party! With cake! And Ria! She barreled in and started peppering Ria with questions and news and proposals about games to play. Ria flatly ignored her and went to work on a craft project. Bug figured that's just what they were doing now and got to work, too. She kept up with it long after Ria abandoned her project to join other kids in the playroom. Bug couldn't bring herself to go in there, choosing to stick close to Grinch, Dos and me. While the party crew hooted it up in front of the TV in the other room, we ate alone in a quiet corner of the living room.
Bug pushed aside her fears and walked into the crowd to have cake with her friend. Ria walked away after a few minutes, leaving her cake and Bug behind. Everything Bug did to engage her friend was ignored or refused. By the time we left, Ria was in the middle of a crowd of kids, tearing into a pile of her brother's birthday presents. Bug was in Ria's bedroom with Grinch, quietly giving a gentle checkup to a pink hobby horse. I don't even know if it really registered with Bug that her friend had ditched her. Grinch and I saw the whole thing though, and it hurt as much as if we had been ditched. It hurt worse, I think.
I know Ria wasn't being mean. She was just tired and overwhelmed with all that was going on. The protective mother in me wanted to pull her aside and say, "Be nice to her! She's your friend! She's just a little girl!" But Ria is a little girl, too and the next time we see her, she and Bug likely will be back to their old tricks, giggling and hugging the way they always do.
I want so much to give my girls a full life, to let them see the world and experience all it has to offer. I want to protect them too, to keep them safe from harm and heartache. I know they'll fall and scrape knees, maybe even break a bone one day. That's what comes with adventure. Their hearts will get bruised and broken, too. I just wish it didn't hurt worse than a broken arm.
The flip side is when your 3-year-old gets her heart broken, yours breaks twice as hard: once for her and once for the 3-year-old you who has had her heart broken multiple times in the very same way over the past 36 years.
Bug loves her friends. I don't know if all kids latch on to their playmates like she does. My theory is that she's so shy with everyone that once she feels comfortable with someone, especially a kid, she just can't hide her glee at being around them. She wraps them with hugs, guffaws long and loud at their jokes and glows like a sunbeam when they enter a room.
As shy and reserved as Bug is, her friend Ria is outgoing. She chats up people in the park, pets strange dogs on the playground and blows kisses to everyone in the restaurant. Bug LOVES her and together they have the energy of a dozen toddler-sized hurricanes. They play wonderfully together. They share and take turns and make each other laugh. All the stuff that good 3-year-old pals are supposed to do.
Last weekend, we met up with Ria and her family for a festival. The two girls hit it off as usual and had a grand time, marching in a parade together and sharing milkshakes from Starbucks. By the end of lunch, everyone was tired and ready for naps. Ria was pouty and ignoring everyone, including Bug who wanted to share a few more laughs. We chalked it up to the heat and general toddler temperament.
After naps, we went to Ria's house for a party. Bug was so excited to be at Ria's house! For a party! With cake! And Ria! She barreled in and started peppering Ria with questions and news and proposals about games to play. Ria flatly ignored her and went to work on a craft project. Bug figured that's just what they were doing now and got to work, too. She kept up with it long after Ria abandoned her project to join other kids in the playroom. Bug couldn't bring herself to go in there, choosing to stick close to Grinch, Dos and me. While the party crew hooted it up in front of the TV in the other room, we ate alone in a quiet corner of the living room.
Bug pushed aside her fears and walked into the crowd to have cake with her friend. Ria walked away after a few minutes, leaving her cake and Bug behind. Everything Bug did to engage her friend was ignored or refused. By the time we left, Ria was in the middle of a crowd of kids, tearing into a pile of her brother's birthday presents. Bug was in Ria's bedroom with Grinch, quietly giving a gentle checkup to a pink hobby horse. I don't even know if it really registered with Bug that her friend had ditched her. Grinch and I saw the whole thing though, and it hurt as much as if we had been ditched. It hurt worse, I think.
I know Ria wasn't being mean. She was just tired and overwhelmed with all that was going on. The protective mother in me wanted to pull her aside and say, "Be nice to her! She's your friend! She's just a little girl!" But Ria is a little girl, too and the next time we see her, she and Bug likely will be back to their old tricks, giggling and hugging the way they always do.
I want so much to give my girls a full life, to let them see the world and experience all it has to offer. I want to protect them too, to keep them safe from harm and heartache. I know they'll fall and scrape knees, maybe even break a bone one day. That's what comes with adventure. Their hearts will get bruised and broken, too. I just wish it didn't hurt worse than a broken arm.
Wednesday, August 20, 2008
Stupid Schedule Illustrated
You know how people get a spring in their step on Friday? They smile and bound into the office bearing doughnuts, bellowing, "TGIF!" Yeah. I hate those people.
The normal person's Friday is my Wednesday, the second shittiest day of the week, Monday being the first. So when most people are ready to kick back and enjoy some downtime, I'm staring at two more days of 1:30a wake up calls and 3 hours of sleep. Forgive me if I seem really irritable on Wednesdays, won't you?
Friday 3:00am: Co-workers smile and say "Yay for Friday! What are you doing this weekend?" I respond, "Fuck you. I work weekends." Ok, I don't say Fuck you. Not every time. But I do remind them that I work weekends. "Aw, man. That sucks!" YEAH. Don't I know it, dickhead. At home: sit down to nurse the baby and fall asleep. Awaken because toddler is asking for lunch. Repeat.
Saturday 1:30am : Alarm goes off and I cry a little. Resign myself to the inevitable. At work, contemplate a breakfast of doughnuts and Coke to soothe the pain. Go with cheerios and water so I don't develop Type 2 diabetes. Go home and eat every piece of chocolate in sight.
Sunday 1:30am: Alarm goes off again. And again. And again. Dos cries. No snooze button on her. Nurse, dress, text message co-workers that I'll be there, I swear. 10:00am Quitting time: Woo-hoo! The weekend for me! Yahoooey! I don't have to got to work tomorrow! Or the next day! Suck it Monday through Friday people! Boo-ya!
Monday 7:00 am: Damn hell. Dos woke me up every hour and a half at least. I have to entertain two kids all day BY MYSELF and no TV. Grumble growl. Snap at Bug at least once. Apologize. Read books, paint, make muffins, draw, play games, build Lego towers, keep checking the clock, is it naptime yet? 9:15! Dammit. Keep Dos from turning the cat's water bowl into a Bellagio fountain. Repeat. Drag kids to the library/park/pool/aquarium/whatever. Naptime! Yay! Post-naptime: Make big plans for dinner. 20 mins to dinner: realize dinner is not going to be made by me because I don't have two free hands to actually cook anything. Order over-priced Chinese food.
Tuesday 7:00am: Awesome. I was up every hour and a half again, but I still got more sleep than nights I have to go to work. Look over to the bassinet. Dos is grinning at me. I feel so much better today. Entertain the kids with games, cooking, outings and feel great doing it. I love being at home with them. It's lunchtime and I feel like SuperMom. Post-naptime: Woooo...who woke up cranky? Daaaang, man. Ok, I can handle this. Post-dinner time: I don't want to go back to work. This feels like the end of vacation. I want to stay at home with my sweet, sweet girls.
Wednesday 1:30am: Alarm goes off. Damn. This again?Ok. At work: Eat breakfast at my desk uninterrupted and unencumbered. Take pleasure in going to the bathroom by myself with the door closed, knowing that I won't be interrupted by crying. Yes. This is good. Working and being away from home for a while. It's practically time off. At home: lunch, naptime, lonely afternoon because I'm solo, exhausted parent and the kids are bored with being at home.
Thursday 1:30am: I can do this. Sort of. Do I have to? Ok. Meh. After work: Hey kids. Mmmhmmm. Mommy's tired, that's all. Can we take a nap now? No? Ok. Whatcha wanna do? Hammer nails in the antique desk? Can you do that while I sit here on the couch and nap? Ok. Here's a hammer...zzzzzzz....
The normal person's Friday is my Wednesday, the second shittiest day of the week, Monday being the first. So when most people are ready to kick back and enjoy some downtime, I'm staring at two more days of 1:30a wake up calls and 3 hours of sleep. Forgive me if I seem really irritable on Wednesdays, won't you?
Friday 3:00am: Co-workers smile and say "Yay for Friday! What are you doing this weekend?" I respond, "Fuck you. I work weekends." Ok, I don't say Fuck you. Not every time. But I do remind them that I work weekends. "Aw, man. That sucks!" YEAH. Don't I know it, dickhead. At home: sit down to nurse the baby and fall asleep. Awaken because toddler is asking for lunch. Repeat.
Saturday 1:30am : Alarm goes off and I cry a little. Resign myself to the inevitable. At work, contemplate a breakfast of doughnuts and Coke to soothe the pain. Go with cheerios and water so I don't develop Type 2 diabetes. Go home and eat every piece of chocolate in sight.
Sunday 1:30am: Alarm goes off again. And again. And again. Dos cries. No snooze button on her. Nurse, dress, text message co-workers that I'll be there, I swear. 10:00am Quitting time: Woo-hoo! The weekend for me! Yahoooey! I don't have to got to work tomorrow! Or the next day! Suck it Monday through Friday people! Boo-ya!
Monday 7:00 am: Damn hell. Dos woke me up every hour and a half at least. I have to entertain two kids all day BY MYSELF and no TV. Grumble growl. Snap at Bug at least once. Apologize. Read books, paint, make muffins, draw, play games, build Lego towers, keep checking the clock, is it naptime yet? 9:15! Dammit. Keep Dos from turning the cat's water bowl into a Bellagio fountain. Repeat. Drag kids to the library/park/pool/aquarium/whatever. Naptime! Yay! Post-naptime: Make big plans for dinner. 20 mins to dinner: realize dinner is not going to be made by me because I don't have two free hands to actually cook anything. Order over-priced Chinese food.
Tuesday 7:00am: Awesome. I was up every hour and a half again, but I still got more sleep than nights I have to go to work. Look over to the bassinet. Dos is grinning at me. I feel so much better today. Entertain the kids with games, cooking, outings and feel great doing it. I love being at home with them. It's lunchtime and I feel like SuperMom. Post-naptime: Woooo...who woke up cranky? Daaaang, man. Ok, I can handle this. Post-dinner time: I don't want to go back to work. This feels like the end of vacation. I want to stay at home with my sweet, sweet girls.
Wednesday 1:30am: Alarm goes off. Damn. This again?
Thursday 1:30am: I can do this. Sort of. Do I have to? Ok. Meh. After work: Hey kids. Mmmhmmm. Mommy's tired, that's all. Can we take a nap now? No? Ok. Whatcha wanna do? Hammer nails in the antique desk? Can you do that while I sit here on the couch and nap? Ok. Here's a hammer...zzzzzzz....
Thursday, July 10, 2008
You lead, I'll follow
She's laying beside me on the bed. Not quite asleep, but not quite awake. We're nursing our way through naptime because it's the only way I can get more than 45 minutes of shut-eye. She's in that dreamy, happy, in-between stage. Eyes closed, nursing and waving her free arm in the air. I put my finger near her hand and she grabs it like it's a life preserver, pulling my hand close to her and clutching it to her chest.
Her cheeks are rosy and full, quickly rising and falling as she nurses, her tiny chin pumping away. I watch her eyelids flutter. Her eyelashes are growing longer and darker every day. Her forehead is smooth, skin flawless. I can lean in just slightly and give it a gentle kiss, stealing a sniff of her honey-scented hair.
She releases her grip just slightly on my finger, gently pushing my hand away an inch or two. She quickly pulls it back. Pushes my hand away. Pulls it back. Her movement finds a rhythm. Pushes me away. Pulls me back. Pushes me away. Pulls me back. I watch her and let my hand go back and forth with hers. I wonder, is this the way it's going to be our whole lives together: pushing me away and pulling me back? "Leave me alone!" "Can you fix my hair for me?" "I'm not a child!" "Can I have money to go the movies?" "Don't kiss me in front of my friends." "Do you love me?"Yes, baby girl. I love you. I'll always love you with every cell in my body and more. I don't always understand you, especially when you're ready to party at 3am and I just want to crawl under the sheets and cry. I'll always love you, though.
You find your rhythm. Show me who you are and who you need me to be for you. I can adjust. I can follow. I'd follow you anywhere.
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