L has started kindergarten, which means I am now old enough to have a child in school. Okay, fine, so I was old enough for that a decade ago, but that’s not the point. I have been making fun of all the moms I know who boo-hooed over their kid’s first day of school and mocked their sentimentality over something so silly. And to answer your next question, no, I did not cry on L’s first day of school. JAO, however...
But I would be remiss if I didn’t take a few moments to reflect on this momentous occasion in L’s life. Our nearly six years together has been interesting, to say the least. So, in honor of my daughter's new role as a matriculator, I thought I’d share some of my favorite Little L Moments from the past. I hope you enjoy reading them more than I enjoyed living them.
Our first tale takes place in May of 2007 just two weeks after the birth of Z. L was two-and-a-half. Thus the stage was set for misery.
With a newborn Z to look after, I hadn't been getting as much sleep as I needed and so I really, really wanted a nap. I got the baby boy to sleep and read some books to L. She was acting pretty tired so I hoped she'd go down without a fight. Schyeah, right.
I put her in her bed and threatened her life if she got up and then I went to my room to collapse. Sure enough, a few minutes later, I heard her get out of bed. I marched back down the hall, made her get back in bed and wearily trudged back to my room. This time, I fell asleep myself as soon as my head hit the pillow.
Fifteen minutes later, I awoke from a dead sleep to find L standing next to my bed with her hands covered in blood.
Blood!
Inwardly, I freaked out -- but she was so calm that I quickly realized she was not in danger of bleeding out. Nor did she appear to be feeling pain. I rushed her into her bathroom where I washed her hands and discovered a small cut on her thumb. I put a bandage on it and decided that she would live.
Then, I walked into L’s room to discover the source of the cut -- broken glass was littering her bed and floor and there was blood all over her sheets. The child had stood on her bed and wielding a plastic, yellow maraca, shattered the globe covering the light on her ceiling fan! And this was no accident. While she was tall for her age, she still had to jump up in the air in order to make contact with the light! This was a deliberate Mariachi attack on her light fixture.
I had to treat her sheets (which were brand-new Pottery Barn sheets, by the way) with stain remover and throw them in the wash. Then I had to do a super-duper vacuuming job on her carpet to remove the tiny shards of glass. Then, I had to follow and remove the trail of bloody hand prints that led from her door, down the hall and into my room.
Needless to say, I never got that nap.
Our next tale takes place the following New Year's Day. JAO, the kids and I ventured out to the mall to exchange some Christmas gifts. L was tired and irritable and basically being quite difficult. Baby Z was still in his sweet, agreeable baby phase and was content to ride in the stroller. (It would be another year or so before Z would fully embrace his Spawn of Satan persona.)
In an extremely crowded Macy’s, we split up -- I went with Z to one side of the store and L and JAO stood in line at the Men’s department to exchange a sweater. I finished first and returned to my husband and daughter. As Z and I were approaching, I could tell that JAO was irritated with L for continuously having to tell her to stop messing with all the things around the register.
When the exchange was complete, L turned to walk away. From my vantage point, a gentleman and his young son were between me and her. The next thing I saw, a little hand reached out from nowhere and punched the little boy square in the face. For the tiniest second I thought, “Oh, please don’t let that have been L.” But, the very next second, sure enough, here comes L sauntering around the man and the now-screaming boy, looking as though she hadn’t a care in the world.
The father was on his cell phone and didn’t even see what happened, but his mother, who was standing a few feet away, did. We both ran up at the same time -- she trying to comfort her child who was the victim of this random act of violence and me apologizing profusely for mine, the random act.
Even worse, the little boy and his parents were obviously of Indian descent. L could have been charged with a hate crime!
Fortunately, the assaulted boy’s parents could not have been more gracious. She assured me that her son was fine and she was not going to call the ACLU. I drug my demon child out of the store by the arm, fuming and ready to ship her off to Russia.
(It should be pointed out that this was not the first time L has randomly assaulted some other child. I couldn’t even relax at a playground because I never knew when she was going to haul off and smack the preschooler next to her.)
Outside the store, JAO asked a now contrite L why she hit that boy. Through her remorseful (whatever) tears, she replied, “Because I’m mean.”
She got no arguments from me.
But now Little L is a kindergartener and I am pleased to announce that she has not smacked anyone in the face (except for her little brother) since that day. And as crazy as she has made me, I can honestly say that being her mom has been a lot of fun. I am very proud of my girl and I’m looking forward to seeing the amazing young woman she will become.
Though I hope she doesn’t become that woman any time soon. Because I am way too young to be the mother of a woman.
Friday, September 10, 2010
Thursday, September 9, 2010
Paying for a Summer of Sin
Hey, Jenny, it’s me, Regina.
Yeah, it has been a while.
I’m fine. Well, sorta.
My summer? It was good. Too good, I guess. That’s kinda why I’m calling. You know how last Spring I was looking all hot and feeling good about myself? Well, I’m still looking hot -- but it’s really more of an over-weight, sweaty-hot. Perhaps it would have behooved me to be a bit more vigilant over the summer.
My activity level? Well, how many calories do you think you burn carrying a cooler of beer down to the beach?
Not that much, huh?
It was a case, you know, not just some dinky six-pack.
Oh.
Did I make good choices? Sure! When the choice was between fried shrimp or fried scallops.
Yeah, I know. I use humor to mask my shame. So, um, I was thinking...can I come back in?
That’s swell. Wait...you won’t have to weigh me, will you?
You will? Crap. Can I at least weigh in the nude?
No? Man, you guys are really sticklers for that rule, aren’t you?
Fine. I’ll see you at 11:00.
Yeah, I’m really looking forward to it, too. And afterward I’m thinking about going for a PAP smear and a mammogram just to round out the day of fun.
Yes. That was my humor.
Bye.
And here we go again.
Can someone please explain to me how it can take four months to lose the same amount of weight you can gain in only one month? And don’t go saying it was the laying around and eating fried foods and drinking fruity drinks all summer that did it. If I wanted brutal honesty I would have called my mom.
I guess I feel like it just happened so fast. One minute I was buying the first two-piece swim-suit I’d bought in nearly seven years, and the next minute I was searching my drawer for the pants I wore home from the delivery room. It’s so frustrating.
I simply got too comfortable with myself. Sure, that’s supposed to be the touchy-feely, everyone’s a winner, we accept all kinds attitude. But, let’s be honest -- it’s that type of mentality that allows a 200-pound woman to wear a thong bikini and a 300-pound man to wear a Speedo. I don’t care how at-one with yourself you are, Oprah --suck it in or cover it up!
Wah, wah, wah. I'm too fat. Blah, blah, blah.
I suppose I can continue to bitch and complain or I can throw away the Chex Mix, pour out the wine, take the wrapper off the “Dancing With the Stars Workout DVD” and get back at it.
Yes. That was my humor again.
Because I don’t care how much weigh, it is NEVER okay to pour out wine.
Yeah, it has been a while.
I’m fine. Well, sorta.
My summer? It was good. Too good, I guess. That’s kinda why I’m calling. You know how last Spring I was looking all hot and feeling good about myself? Well, I’m still looking hot -- but it’s really more of an over-weight, sweaty-hot. Perhaps it would have behooved me to be a bit more vigilant over the summer.
My activity level? Well, how many calories do you think you burn carrying a cooler of beer down to the beach?
Not that much, huh?
It was a case, you know, not just some dinky six-pack.
Oh.
Did I make good choices? Sure! When the choice was between fried shrimp or fried scallops.
Yeah, I know. I use humor to mask my shame. So, um, I was thinking...can I come back in?
That’s swell. Wait...you won’t have to weigh me, will you?
You will? Crap. Can I at least weigh in the nude?
No? Man, you guys are really sticklers for that rule, aren’t you?
Fine. I’ll see you at 11:00.
Yeah, I’m really looking forward to it, too. And afterward I’m thinking about going for a PAP smear and a mammogram just to round out the day of fun.
Yes. That was my humor.
Bye.
And here we go again.
Can someone please explain to me how it can take four months to lose the same amount of weight you can gain in only one month? And don’t go saying it was the laying around and eating fried foods and drinking fruity drinks all summer that did it. If I wanted brutal honesty I would have called my mom.
I guess I feel like it just happened so fast. One minute I was buying the first two-piece swim-suit I’d bought in nearly seven years, and the next minute I was searching my drawer for the pants I wore home from the delivery room. It’s so frustrating.
I simply got too comfortable with myself. Sure, that’s supposed to be the touchy-feely, everyone’s a winner, we accept all kinds attitude. But, let’s be honest -- it’s that type of mentality that allows a 200-pound woman to wear a thong bikini and a 300-pound man to wear a Speedo. I don’t care how at-one with yourself you are, Oprah --suck it in or cover it up!
Wah, wah, wah. I'm too fat. Blah, blah, blah.
I suppose I can continue to bitch and complain or I can throw away the Chex Mix, pour out the wine, take the wrapper off the “Dancing With the Stars Workout DVD” and get back at it.
Yes. That was my humor again.
Because I don’t care how much weigh, it is NEVER okay to pour out wine.
Thursday, July 1, 2010
The Manson Family Summer
For the love of all that is Mark Harmon, I wish my kids were in summer school.
Now I understand why my mother was never as excited about summer vacation as I was -- and why her mood seemed to suddenly lift on the first day of school. If I have to spend any more time alone with these two people who insist on calling me “Mom,” I truly don’t think we’ll emerge from this summer vacation with any semblance of a healthy mother/child relationship.
I resent how being a stay-at-home mom in the summer is essentially like having another part-time job. During the school year, I have my normal mom duties -- laundry, meals, applying the occasional SpongeBob band-aid, maybe reading a book or two if I’m in the mood. But that is when I have a limited number of hours alone with the children each day. Over the summer, however, they are always here! I wake up in the morning, and they are here. I turn around at lunch time, and they are still here. I go to cook dinner and they are still, freakin’ here! All day! Every day! They never go anywhere else! Why didn’t anyone ever tell me about this?
So, my summer job has become entertaining these children. And, I don’t mind admitting -- I should be fired from this job.
Sure, I could pack us up and head out to the park, but guess what? The park is boring. At least it is for me. Like I want to sit on a hard bench and sweat in the blistering sun just so they can run around on playground equipment that has been touched by every snot-nosed, germy, virus-carrying kid in the county? At home, they may fight with each other, but at least I have my computer. And my air-conditioning.
And yes, I could arrange for play dates, but that requires me to take a shower and put on makeup and try and look presentable to the other moms.
Museums require everyone acting civilized and mannerly -- and that simply ain’t gonna happen. The Aquarium costs a bazillion dollars, the movies cost even more and all those bouncy, jumpy places are loud and smell like dirty socks.
So, my laziness and my -- okay fine, it’s just my laziness -- has left us stuck at home for the majority of the summer with nothing to do but get on each other’s nerves.
As a result, we have all slipped into behavior that is almost feral with regards to how we treat one another. There has been screaming, hitting, biting, crying, name-calling and mocking. And that’s just from me. The kids have been much worse. Nothing I do seems to evoke a positive response, so I have sunk deep into the negative just to exact my revenge.
Our house is plenty big enough to allow two smallish children to coexist without having to ever come into contact with each other. However, they will not stay away from each other! There is a constant display of acrobatics and professional wrestling that inevitably leaves one of them crying. I have heard myself say more times than I care to admit, that grand old Cosby line, “No one in this house is allowed to touch anyone else in this house ever again!!”
But it never works.
If one of them turns on the Wii, the gaming console sends out a high-frequency vibration that only another child can hear and causes that child to come screaming into the room crying, “I want to play! I get the white remote! No, I don’t want to play bowling!!”
I know we’ll never be the Von Trapp family, but we could at least stop resembling the Manson family.
Last night, I decided we needed to have an emergency family meeting to deal with this growing problem.
Before the kids were to go upstairs and get ready for bed, I sat them down on the sofa, summoned all of my years of parenting website research and attempted to reach their little hearts and minds. I began all Dr. Spock-like by telling them that I, too, was guilty of bad behavior. I apologized for yelling and being short-tempered and using an ugly voice with them. I then asked them if they thought they could help by being better listeners and being kind to each other and showing JAO and I more respect.
L was the first to nod and respond. “Right,” L agreed. “We need better manner. New ones.”
“That’s right, L, we do.”
“Because mine are old.”
“Oh. Well, then we definitely should get you some new ones.”
I turned to Z, “Z, are you going to use your manners?”
L answered my question instead by saying seriously, “I’ve never seen any manners in Z’s room.”
Well, that explains a lot.
“Then we’ll have to get him some.”
“Good idea, Mom.”
After we all agreed that we would start over anew, fresh-family-faced and full of love and mutual respect, L jumped up from the couch and announced, “Okay, now I have something to say.”
“That’s wonderful, L, we would be happy to listen.” See what a great, loving, supportive mom I am already becoming? After only one, good, After School Special chat, the kids have fallen in line and jumped whole-heartedly on the Ozzy and Harriet bandwagon.
L ran across the room saying, “Give me one second;” followed closely by her parrot who intoned, “Gib me un second!” They ducked behind the recliner to prepare for their speech. I took a seat next to JAO on the sofa. We exchanged loving smiles that seemed to say, “Aren’t our children wonderful, Darling?” “Yes, Love of My Life, we are truly blessed.”
After a few moments of whispers between the two, L walked proudly out from behind the chair to take her position right in front of her father and me. She stood tall and began what I was sure was going to be a mature, respectful message full of promises of obedience and deference toward her loving parental units.
This is what she said:
“Mom, Dad, I love you. And you love me. And...” She whipped herself around, flung her tutu up in the air, and stuck out her back end to reveal her bare butt.
I am not kidding.
Next came Z with his Toy Story Pull-Up down around his ankles, saying, “I lub you!” and he, too, bent at the waist and mooned us.
JAO and I did the only thing we could do -- laugh. We laughed until tears came. We laughed until the kids were rolling on the floor with their shiney hineys flashing also laughing hysterically.
In the end (pun intended) I guess I would prefer a house full of zany laughter than one of strict, rigid obedience.
How better to say, “I love you” than with a good, old-fashioned mooning?
Now I understand why my mother was never as excited about summer vacation as I was -- and why her mood seemed to suddenly lift on the first day of school. If I have to spend any more time alone with these two people who insist on calling me “Mom,” I truly don’t think we’ll emerge from this summer vacation with any semblance of a healthy mother/child relationship.
I resent how being a stay-at-home mom in the summer is essentially like having another part-time job. During the school year, I have my normal mom duties -- laundry, meals, applying the occasional SpongeBob band-aid, maybe reading a book or two if I’m in the mood. But that is when I have a limited number of hours alone with the children each day. Over the summer, however, they are always here! I wake up in the morning, and they are here. I turn around at lunch time, and they are still here. I go to cook dinner and they are still, freakin’ here! All day! Every day! They never go anywhere else! Why didn’t anyone ever tell me about this?
So, my summer job has become entertaining these children. And, I don’t mind admitting -- I should be fired from this job.
Sure, I could pack us up and head out to the park, but guess what? The park is boring. At least it is for me. Like I want to sit on a hard bench and sweat in the blistering sun just so they can run around on playground equipment that has been touched by every snot-nosed, germy, virus-carrying kid in the county? At home, they may fight with each other, but at least I have my computer. And my air-conditioning.
And yes, I could arrange for play dates, but that requires me to take a shower and put on makeup and try and look presentable to the other moms.
Museums require everyone acting civilized and mannerly -- and that simply ain’t gonna happen. The Aquarium costs a bazillion dollars, the movies cost even more and all those bouncy, jumpy places are loud and smell like dirty socks.
So, my laziness and my -- okay fine, it’s just my laziness -- has left us stuck at home for the majority of the summer with nothing to do but get on each other’s nerves.
As a result, we have all slipped into behavior that is almost feral with regards to how we treat one another. There has been screaming, hitting, biting, crying, name-calling and mocking. And that’s just from me. The kids have been much worse. Nothing I do seems to evoke a positive response, so I have sunk deep into the negative just to exact my revenge.
Our house is plenty big enough to allow two smallish children to coexist without having to ever come into contact with each other. However, they will not stay away from each other! There is a constant display of acrobatics and professional wrestling that inevitably leaves one of them crying. I have heard myself say more times than I care to admit, that grand old Cosby line, “No one in this house is allowed to touch anyone else in this house ever again!!”
But it never works.
If one of them turns on the Wii, the gaming console sends out a high-frequency vibration that only another child can hear and causes that child to come screaming into the room crying, “I want to play! I get the white remote! No, I don’t want to play bowling!!”
I know we’ll never be the Von Trapp family, but we could at least stop resembling the Manson family.
Last night, I decided we needed to have an emergency family meeting to deal with this growing problem.
Before the kids were to go upstairs and get ready for bed, I sat them down on the sofa, summoned all of my years of parenting website research and attempted to reach their little hearts and minds. I began all Dr. Spock-like by telling them that I, too, was guilty of bad behavior. I apologized for yelling and being short-tempered and using an ugly voice with them. I then asked them if they thought they could help by being better listeners and being kind to each other and showing JAO and I more respect.
L was the first to nod and respond. “Right,” L agreed. “We need better manner. New ones.”
“That’s right, L, we do.”
“Because mine are old.”
“Oh. Well, then we definitely should get you some new ones.”
I turned to Z, “Z, are you going to use your manners?”
L answered my question instead by saying seriously, “I’ve never seen any manners in Z’s room.”
Well, that explains a lot.
“Then we’ll have to get him some.”
“Good idea, Mom.”
After we all agreed that we would start over anew, fresh-family-faced and full of love and mutual respect, L jumped up from the couch and announced, “Okay, now I have something to say.”
“That’s wonderful, L, we would be happy to listen.” See what a great, loving, supportive mom I am already becoming? After only one, good, After School Special chat, the kids have fallen in line and jumped whole-heartedly on the Ozzy and Harriet bandwagon.
L ran across the room saying, “Give me one second;” followed closely by her parrot who intoned, “Gib me un second!” They ducked behind the recliner to prepare for their speech. I took a seat next to JAO on the sofa. We exchanged loving smiles that seemed to say, “Aren’t our children wonderful, Darling?” “Yes, Love of My Life, we are truly blessed.”
After a few moments of whispers between the two, L walked proudly out from behind the chair to take her position right in front of her father and me. She stood tall and began what I was sure was going to be a mature, respectful message full of promises of obedience and deference toward her loving parental units.
This is what she said:
“Mom, Dad, I love you. And you love me. And...” She whipped herself around, flung her tutu up in the air, and stuck out her back end to reveal her bare butt.
I am not kidding.
Next came Z with his Toy Story Pull-Up down around his ankles, saying, “I lub you!” and he, too, bent at the waist and mooned us.
JAO and I did the only thing we could do -- laugh. We laughed until tears came. We laughed until the kids were rolling on the floor with their shiney hineys flashing also laughing hysterically.
In the end (pun intended) I guess I would prefer a house full of zany laughter than one of strict, rigid obedience.
How better to say, “I love you” than with a good, old-fashioned mooning?
Wednesday, June 2, 2010
Papa, Can You Hear Me?
It’s funny how differently two people can view the exact same situation. Take into account that one of those people is a female and the other a male, and the view of the experience becomes even greater.
This past weekend, JAO, L and I attended a retirement party for some friends. Z was relegated to my brother and sister-in-law’s house because, well, I wanted to enjoy my evening. I wasn’t concerned about L, however, because she has now reached the age where she can occupy her time and basically take care of herself. I knew that our friends’ 8-year-old and 13-year-old daughters would be there and that L would enjoy spending time with them.
As I expected, L hung out with the big girls and seemed to be having a great time. I didn’t feel the need to hover or to constantly inquire as to her well-being. I trusted the two girls she was with and I trusted her. I knew she wasn’t going to head down to the street and hitch a ride to Alabama. (Like anyone would voluntarily choose to go to Alabama, right?)
Oh, I’m kidding. Don’t go all Midnight in Montgomery on me.
I noticed, however, that JAO seemed more concerned with her whereabouts and went in search of her several times. He would say, “Where’s L?” And I would respond, “Um, out there somewhere.” Then he would look disgusted at my lack of maternal concern and then go look for her. Of course, she was always just around the front of the house or up near the tree line in the back yard. Only once was she found hanging with the crack heads on the street corner.
When it came time to fix our plates for dinner, I attempted to assist her in this effort. I was quickly rebuffed with the proclamation, “Mom! If you’ll just leave me alone, I will make my own choices.”
I backed off and said, “Okay, Ms. Thing, go to it.” She then proceeded to fill her plate with one hotdog bun, a scoop of pasta salad and a pile of sliced watermelon. I dared to call out from the other side of the room, “L, you know there are hot dogs there, too, right?” I was shot down with a withering look and a roll of the eyes. I was like, “Whatever, Diva, go all vegetarian if you want.” I then fixed my own plate and sat down to enjoy a nice dinner complete with adult conversation. And I didn’t have to cut up anyone’s hot dog into non-choking-sized bites.
I did take a few moments to reflect on how grown-up she seemed sitting around chatting with the Big Girls. She’s really tall for her age and I will forever be jealous of her willowy figure and curly, blond hair. She had her Dora purse on her arm and a ton of Silly Bandz on her wrist and I was struck with a sense of pride at how beautifully mature she was acting.
Yes, she pouted when I told her it was time to go, but that was to be expected. That’s how I respond when JAO tells me it is time to leave the mall. So, I didn’t hold that reaction against her.
On the ride home, however, JAO seemed distracted and slightly upset. I finally got him to admit that his feelings were hurt by L’s behavior. Apparently, he didn’t appreciate her new-found maturity like I did. I didn’t laugh at him (at least not out loud) because I could tell he was really upset by this. I tried to tell him that it was all a part of her growing up. That it was natural for her to establish her independence and begin to do things on her own.
There is a difference in how fathers view their daughters and how they view their sons. The same holds true with mothers. I will go to my grave insisting that Z needs to be cuddled and loved-up. And JAO will forever see L as his baby girl. Maybe that’s the way it is supposed to be. I don’t see L as my little girl. I see her as the other woman in my house whose mood swings and dramatic flair rival my own. I’m also not the touchy-feely, sentimental mommy who laments the passing of each stage of her kid’s life. Instead I celebrate each graduation as a step closer to their independence and my freedom.
I don’t need to be needed. I need to be left alone.
I told JAO that I know for a fact that little girls will always need their daddies, even when they insist they don’t. They don’t call us “Daddy’s Little Girl” for nothing. A father’s place in his daughter’s heart will never be replaced. There may be rivals, but never any that pose a serious threat. JAO secures his place in L’s heart every time he reads her a bedtime story or let’s her stand on his feet while they dance. Or every time he pushes her on a swing or plays Duck, Duck, Goose in the living room or wears a tiara while enjoying some imaginary tea. Every hug, every smile, every soothing whisper tells her how much he loves her.
Yes, JAO, L will always need her Daddy. Well, at least she will always need her Daddy’s wallet.
HAHAHAHAA! You thought I was going to go completely Hallmarky on you, didn’t you?
Whatever.
This past weekend, JAO, L and I attended a retirement party for some friends. Z was relegated to my brother and sister-in-law’s house because, well, I wanted to enjoy my evening. I wasn’t concerned about L, however, because she has now reached the age where she can occupy her time and basically take care of herself. I knew that our friends’ 8-year-old and 13-year-old daughters would be there and that L would enjoy spending time with them.
As I expected, L hung out with the big girls and seemed to be having a great time. I didn’t feel the need to hover or to constantly inquire as to her well-being. I trusted the two girls she was with and I trusted her. I knew she wasn’t going to head down to the street and hitch a ride to Alabama. (Like anyone would voluntarily choose to go to Alabama, right?)
Oh, I’m kidding. Don’t go all Midnight in Montgomery on me.
I noticed, however, that JAO seemed more concerned with her whereabouts and went in search of her several times. He would say, “Where’s L?” And I would respond, “Um, out there somewhere.” Then he would look disgusted at my lack of maternal concern and then go look for her. Of course, she was always just around the front of the house or up near the tree line in the back yard. Only once was she found hanging with the crack heads on the street corner.
When it came time to fix our plates for dinner, I attempted to assist her in this effort. I was quickly rebuffed with the proclamation, “Mom! If you’ll just leave me alone, I will make my own choices.”
I backed off and said, “Okay, Ms. Thing, go to it.” She then proceeded to fill her plate with one hotdog bun, a scoop of pasta salad and a pile of sliced watermelon. I dared to call out from the other side of the room, “L, you know there are hot dogs there, too, right?” I was shot down with a withering look and a roll of the eyes. I was like, “Whatever, Diva, go all vegetarian if you want.” I then fixed my own plate and sat down to enjoy a nice dinner complete with adult conversation. And I didn’t have to cut up anyone’s hot dog into non-choking-sized bites.
I did take a few moments to reflect on how grown-up she seemed sitting around chatting with the Big Girls. She’s really tall for her age and I will forever be jealous of her willowy figure and curly, blond hair. She had her Dora purse on her arm and a ton of Silly Bandz on her wrist and I was struck with a sense of pride at how beautifully mature she was acting.
Yes, she pouted when I told her it was time to go, but that was to be expected. That’s how I respond when JAO tells me it is time to leave the mall. So, I didn’t hold that reaction against her.
On the ride home, however, JAO seemed distracted and slightly upset. I finally got him to admit that his feelings were hurt by L’s behavior. Apparently, he didn’t appreciate her new-found maturity like I did. I didn’t laugh at him (at least not out loud) because I could tell he was really upset by this. I tried to tell him that it was all a part of her growing up. That it was natural for her to establish her independence and begin to do things on her own.
There is a difference in how fathers view their daughters and how they view their sons. The same holds true with mothers. I will go to my grave insisting that Z needs to be cuddled and loved-up. And JAO will forever see L as his baby girl. Maybe that’s the way it is supposed to be. I don’t see L as my little girl. I see her as the other woman in my house whose mood swings and dramatic flair rival my own. I’m also not the touchy-feely, sentimental mommy who laments the passing of each stage of her kid’s life. Instead I celebrate each graduation as a step closer to their independence and my freedom.
I don’t need to be needed. I need to be left alone.
I told JAO that I know for a fact that little girls will always need their daddies, even when they insist they don’t. They don’t call us “Daddy’s Little Girl” for nothing. A father’s place in his daughter’s heart will never be replaced. There may be rivals, but never any that pose a serious threat. JAO secures his place in L’s heart every time he reads her a bedtime story or let’s her stand on his feet while they dance. Or every time he pushes her on a swing or plays Duck, Duck, Goose in the living room or wears a tiara while enjoying some imaginary tea. Every hug, every smile, every soothing whisper tells her how much he loves her.
Yes, JAO, L will always need her Daddy. Well, at least she will always need her Daddy’s wallet.
HAHAHAHAA! You thought I was going to go completely Hallmarky on you, didn’t you?
Whatever.
Friday, May 21, 2010
Full Contact Parenting
You know those days when you just can’t wait for it to end so you can enjoy the relaxing bliss that is that first glass of wine? Tuesday was one of those days.
Okay, fine -- so practically every day is one of those days. Don’t judge me.
It started when JAO announced that he really needed to catch up on some work and, therefore, would not be home until late. Uggh.
Whenever I know not to expect JAO home until late, the afternoon seems to stretch on endlessly. It’s not that I mind being around my children that long by myself, it’s just that -- okay, it is that I mind being around my children that long by myself. They seem to fight more and get on my nerves more when I am flying solo.
When both parents are present, the burden of parenting can be equally shared. One parent breaks up the first fight while the second parent gets the next dirty diaper. Parent One prepares the food while Parent Two wipes off the faces and hands -- and table, chairs and walls. Single parents have my utmost respect. How they do it without going all rifle-in-a-clock-tower is beyond me.
So, I began to formulate a plan: We would swim in the pool until they were ready to drop, then we’d enjoy a nutritious dinner of hot dogs and carrot sticks before retiring to the den for popcorn and Movie Night.
All seemed to be going according to plan; L and Z frolicked in the pool and I chatted with my friend on the phone while attempting to soak up some sun. Let’s face it, cellulite looks so much better when it is tan. I was just beginning to think I would survive my solo flight unharmed when the stench of pool poo filled my nostrils. That little (insert expletive here) pooped in the pool once again. It was mostly contained by the swim diaper and rubber pants that he was wearing, but I was still too grossed-out to allow L and Z to continue playing in the water. My plans for an afternoon in the pool were shot and so I was faced with the dubious task of entertaining these little people until bedtime.
After an hour of bickering and whining from all of us, I decided to bump up Movie Night. We watched “Charolette’s Web” and I was instantly reminded of why I had avoided seeing the film when it first came out. I cried like a freakin’ baby! Stupid spider.
When the movie ended, we still had time to kill before the nutritious hot dogs and carrot stick dinner. So I decided it was time to reattempt the removal of the splinter Z had in his foot. After all, it had been there since Sunday. JAO and I had tried to get it out the afternoon it happened, but to no avail. If you have never had the occasion to remove -- or attempt to remove -- a splinter from any part of a child’s body, let me help you understand the situation. It’s like an Olympic event. It involves strength, endurance and determination. Picture the Crocodile Hunter (God rest his soul) laying on top of a giant crock and wrestling it to the ground all the while trying to keep his limbs and extremities out of the flailing creature’s mouth. It’s kinda like that.
Our first attempt at the splinter removal involved JAO pinning Z down, L holding a flashlight and me wielding the tweezers. I couldn’t even get to the splinter because Z was wriggling and kicking and screaming. I looked at JAO and said, “What kind of a man are you? This kid weighs 35 pounds -- can’t you keep him still?” My husband replied, “Fine! You hold him then!”
People, that kid is strong. Especially when he doesn’t want to do something. We gave up after about 15 minutes when we were all too exhausted to continue.
This was no ordinary splinter, however. It was really a thin sliver of metal that had come off the rotary drill bit thingy JAO had used when he was repairing the grout on the pool. So, I knew it couldn’t stay in his foot for long. What if it became embedded and then infected and what if he then had to walk around with a piece of metal in his foot and constantly be stopped walking through metal detectors and having to explain that he wasn’t carrying a weapon but rather his foot contained a splinter that his weakling parents were unable to remove?
No, it had to come out.
As soon as he saw me coming with the tweezers, he freaked. I tried calm cajoling, I tried bribery, I tried threatening -- nothing would convince him to simply sit still and allow me to do what needed to be done. Finally I said, “screw it” and I laid my entire body over his and pinned him to the floor. He was on his stomach facing one way, and I was laying on his back facing his feet. Even in this position, he was still able to squirm and kick and flop around enough to hinder my efforts. He was screaming and shrieking and trying to bite my leg. Then he twisted his upper body enough so that he could start pounding his fist on my back. All the while, poor L is holding the flashlight and saying, “I don’t like this Mommy! This is scary!”
Another therapy session added to her list. And his.
At last the tweezers hit their target and the metal sliver came out. I released Z and sat up. He was so far beyond upset that he continued to furiously scream and cry. If he knew any curse words, I’m sure I would have heard a litany of expletives. He grabbed a shirt off the back of the couch, thrust it into his mouth and bit down on it in a rage.
I still had the metal shard in my hand and didn’t want to drop it on the floor lest anyone else step on it and we’d have to go through this all over again. So, as I was rising to properly dispose of the offending piece of metal, L reached out to her hysterical brother in an attempt to give him a calming hug. The next thing I saw was his foot flying through the air to land a kick squarely on his sister’s mouth.
Instantly, she let out a screech and blood started flowing from her mouth. She had bit down on her tongue -- hard. So, now I have two screaming kids, one bleeding and the other one crying to near convulsions and I’m still holding the metal splinter in my hand.
I quickly ushered L into the kitchen when I dropped the splinter on the counter and grabbed some paper towels to hold over her mouth. Z followed right behind us. His cries had progressed to the sniffling and whimpering and rapid intake of breaths that usually follows a major kid crying jag. Once I was sure I didn’t need to take L to the emergency room for tongue stitches, I sat down on the kitchen floor and held both my upset babies in my arms and rocked and shushed and tried to restore peace.
I even shed a tear or two.
In the end, everyone went to bed splinter and stiches free. Being a single parent sucks. And some days so does being a kid.
But at least the parent has the wine.
Okay, fine -- so practically every day is one of those days. Don’t judge me.
It started when JAO announced that he really needed to catch up on some work and, therefore, would not be home until late. Uggh.
Whenever I know not to expect JAO home until late, the afternoon seems to stretch on endlessly. It’s not that I mind being around my children that long by myself, it’s just that -- okay, it is that I mind being around my children that long by myself. They seem to fight more and get on my nerves more when I am flying solo.
When both parents are present, the burden of parenting can be equally shared. One parent breaks up the first fight while the second parent gets the next dirty diaper. Parent One prepares the food while Parent Two wipes off the faces and hands -- and table, chairs and walls. Single parents have my utmost respect. How they do it without going all rifle-in-a-clock-tower is beyond me.
So, I began to formulate a plan: We would swim in the pool until they were ready to drop, then we’d enjoy a nutritious dinner of hot dogs and carrot sticks before retiring to the den for popcorn and Movie Night.
All seemed to be going according to plan; L and Z frolicked in the pool and I chatted with my friend on the phone while attempting to soak up some sun. Let’s face it, cellulite looks so much better when it is tan. I was just beginning to think I would survive my solo flight unharmed when the stench of pool poo filled my nostrils. That little (insert expletive here) pooped in the pool once again. It was mostly contained by the swim diaper and rubber pants that he was wearing, but I was still too grossed-out to allow L and Z to continue playing in the water. My plans for an afternoon in the pool were shot and so I was faced with the dubious task of entertaining these little people until bedtime.
After an hour of bickering and whining from all of us, I decided to bump up Movie Night. We watched “Charolette’s Web” and I was instantly reminded of why I had avoided seeing the film when it first came out. I cried like a freakin’ baby! Stupid spider.
When the movie ended, we still had time to kill before the nutritious hot dogs and carrot stick dinner. So I decided it was time to reattempt the removal of the splinter Z had in his foot. After all, it had been there since Sunday. JAO and I had tried to get it out the afternoon it happened, but to no avail. If you have never had the occasion to remove -- or attempt to remove -- a splinter from any part of a child’s body, let me help you understand the situation. It’s like an Olympic event. It involves strength, endurance and determination. Picture the Crocodile Hunter (God rest his soul) laying on top of a giant crock and wrestling it to the ground all the while trying to keep his limbs and extremities out of the flailing creature’s mouth. It’s kinda like that.
Our first attempt at the splinter removal involved JAO pinning Z down, L holding a flashlight and me wielding the tweezers. I couldn’t even get to the splinter because Z was wriggling and kicking and screaming. I looked at JAO and said, “What kind of a man are you? This kid weighs 35 pounds -- can’t you keep him still?” My husband replied, “Fine! You hold him then!”
People, that kid is strong. Especially when he doesn’t want to do something. We gave up after about 15 minutes when we were all too exhausted to continue.
This was no ordinary splinter, however. It was really a thin sliver of metal that had come off the rotary drill bit thingy JAO had used when he was repairing the grout on the pool. So, I knew it couldn’t stay in his foot for long. What if it became embedded and then infected and what if he then had to walk around with a piece of metal in his foot and constantly be stopped walking through metal detectors and having to explain that he wasn’t carrying a weapon but rather his foot contained a splinter that his weakling parents were unable to remove?
No, it had to come out.
As soon as he saw me coming with the tweezers, he freaked. I tried calm cajoling, I tried bribery, I tried threatening -- nothing would convince him to simply sit still and allow me to do what needed to be done. Finally I said, “screw it” and I laid my entire body over his and pinned him to the floor. He was on his stomach facing one way, and I was laying on his back facing his feet. Even in this position, he was still able to squirm and kick and flop around enough to hinder my efforts. He was screaming and shrieking and trying to bite my leg. Then he twisted his upper body enough so that he could start pounding his fist on my back. All the while, poor L is holding the flashlight and saying, “I don’t like this Mommy! This is scary!”
Another therapy session added to her list. And his.
At last the tweezers hit their target and the metal sliver came out. I released Z and sat up. He was so far beyond upset that he continued to furiously scream and cry. If he knew any curse words, I’m sure I would have heard a litany of expletives. He grabbed a shirt off the back of the couch, thrust it into his mouth and bit down on it in a rage.
I still had the metal shard in my hand and didn’t want to drop it on the floor lest anyone else step on it and we’d have to go through this all over again. So, as I was rising to properly dispose of the offending piece of metal, L reached out to her hysterical brother in an attempt to give him a calming hug. The next thing I saw was his foot flying through the air to land a kick squarely on his sister’s mouth.
Instantly, she let out a screech and blood started flowing from her mouth. She had bit down on her tongue -- hard. So, now I have two screaming kids, one bleeding and the other one crying to near convulsions and I’m still holding the metal splinter in my hand.
I quickly ushered L into the kitchen when I dropped the splinter on the counter and grabbed some paper towels to hold over her mouth. Z followed right behind us. His cries had progressed to the sniffling and whimpering and rapid intake of breaths that usually follows a major kid crying jag. Once I was sure I didn’t need to take L to the emergency room for tongue stitches, I sat down on the kitchen floor and held both my upset babies in my arms and rocked and shushed and tried to restore peace.
I even shed a tear or two.
In the end, everyone went to bed splinter and stiches free. Being a single parent sucks. And some days so does being a kid.
But at least the parent has the wine.
Tuesday, May 11, 2010
The Talk
When I was young and thought my mother was crazy and out-of-touch, I promised myself and my future daughter that I would be a cool, laid-back, understanding mom. I’d be the kind of mom that my daughter’s friends would look at and say, “Wow, it is so stellar that your mom is, like, so totally awesome.” I was a child of the 80s. Back then, that was the hip way to talk.
But then I grew up. Well, kinda. And I have discovered that I don’t need to be L’s best friend and be a part of all the gossip and late-night talks about which boy is the cutest in class. I just want her to see me as someone she can come to with any problem or question and trust that I will give her an honest and direct answer.
I have struggled with this idea of truthfulness and how it extends (or doesn’t extend) to Santa, the Tooth Fairy and all those other harmless lies we tell our children. I play along, but will always fear that these untruths will taint my image as someone who can be trusted. But this past weekend, when my baby girl curled up on my lap, looked at me with those beautiful, blue, trusting eyes and very sincerely asked, “How does a baby come out of your stomach?” the last thing I wanted to do, was to give her an honest and direct answer.
I paused only slightly and then said, “Well, when it is time for the baby to be born, you go to the hospital and the doctor gets the baby out.” Ha! I did it! That was an honest and direct response that only answered the question asked. No need to elaborate, right?
Wrong.
“Yes, Mom, but how does the doctor get the baby out?”
Damn. Now what? Do I really want to get into this right now with a five-and-a-half-year-old? Is she old enough to know where babies come from? Of course, she’s not asking how the baby got there -- at least not yet. But, if I open up this discussion won’t it lead to The Talk?
Crap, she’s noticed how long I’ve been silent. Now any answer I give her will take on a magnified sense of importance simply because of the time it took to answer it. What if I tell her and then she goes and blabs it to all the other kids in preschool and I get angry phone calls from parents who weren’t even thinking about The Talk, but now must have it because obviously our household is one of sin and promiscuity and our daughter is a fountain of sexual knowledge?!
Okay, say something -- anything!
Speak, woman!
I know! Maybe she’ll accept the c-section explanation better and will be easier to comprehend. Okay, fine...go with that...
“Well, um, sometimes the doctor will have to get the baby out by opening up the mommy’s tummy. See, he makes a cut from here to here and -- ”
At this point, L burst into tears. Clearly, that was not the right direction to take.
I was hit with a litany of “I don’t want the doctor to cut open my tummy! I don’t want to have a baby! Don’t make me, okay Mommy! Promise I don’t ever have to have a baby!”
I was trying to calm her down and assure her that wasn’t a decision she had to make right now. The only way I could get out of that situation was to promise her that I was not going to make her have a baby now or any time in the future. That stopped the tears, but we both walked away from that encounter emotionally drained. And I felt like a huge failure. One of the first big moments in our relationship as trusting daughter/truthful mother was blown all to heck.
I spent the rest of the day worrying about it and trying to figure out how to rectify the situation. I simply couldn’t let her go on thinking that child birth was the horror show she was envisioning.
That night, before I tucked her in, I sat down on her bed beside her and said, “L, can we chat for just a minute about something?”
“Sure, Mom.”
“Well, you know how we talked this morning about how babies are born and you got so upset?”
“Yes. I cried and cried." She began to look concerned again and asked, "I don’t have to have a baby, do I?”
“No, honey," I replied. Then in a lighthearted manner I continued, "Look, L, there’s something else I need to tell you. See, there are two ways a baby can be born. One of them is for the doctor to open up the mommy’s tummy, but the other way is for it to come out from somewhere else.”
“Oh. Where?”
“Well, you know how our body has a lot of different holes, right? And each one is for something different; our nose is how we smell, and our mouth is how we eat, and our ears are how we hear. Well, you know that you have a hole in your hiney where the poo comes out -- ”
People, the disbelieving look on her face said, “Cheese and crackers! Lady, do not tell me that babies come out of your butt!”
Quickly I said, “And then there is your hoo-hoo. Babies come out of your hoo-hoo.”
Her response was to pause for a moment and then crack up laughing and say, “They come out of your hoo-hoo?! Ooooh, that is so gross!”
To which I replied, “Well, yes, it sorta is.”
(On a side note: I know that it is considered the progressive way of parenting to use the correct anatomical words for body parts. And we do use the correct words for everything but the hoo-hoo. I hate the V-word. It just sounds icky to me and I never use it. Perhaps it was all the years of being taunted with the horrible nickname Vagina-Regina. Whatever -- hoo-hoo it is.)
“Does it hurt?”
Yes, it hurts worse than anything you could ever imagine and you will wish someone would club you over the head with a metal hospital stool just so your could focus your attention on some pain other than the excruciating sensation of Mac truck trying to drive its way out of your hoo-hoo.
“No, it’s not that bad. The doctor can give you some medicine that makes it not hurt at all.”
“Do you drink the medicine?”
“No. Brace yourself...it’s a shot. But, the shot doesn’t even hurt.”
“You don’t feel the shot?”
No, because you are already writhing in so much pain to the point where a gigantic needle being shoved into your spine is hardly even noticeable.
“Nope. Don’t feel it at all.”
Then, my little girl let out a huge sigh of relief and a big grin spread across her face. She said, “Okay, Mom. Maybe I will think about having a baby after all.”
“That’s great, L. Just don’t think about it for another 20 years or so, okay?”
She threw her arms around my neck and said, “Thank you for making me feel better, Mommy.”
I hugged my baby girl and said, “You’re welcome, Monkey. Now you get some sleep, okay?”
For the love of all that is ovulating, please fall asleep before you remember to ask me how the baby gets in your tummy in the first place...
“Good night, L. I love you.”
“I love you, too, Mommy. Good night.”
Whew!
Being truthful is hard work. Where’s the stork when you need him?
But then I grew up. Well, kinda. And I have discovered that I don’t need to be L’s best friend and be a part of all the gossip and late-night talks about which boy is the cutest in class. I just want her to see me as someone she can come to with any problem or question and trust that I will give her an honest and direct answer.
I have struggled with this idea of truthfulness and how it extends (or doesn’t extend) to Santa, the Tooth Fairy and all those other harmless lies we tell our children. I play along, but will always fear that these untruths will taint my image as someone who can be trusted. But this past weekend, when my baby girl curled up on my lap, looked at me with those beautiful, blue, trusting eyes and very sincerely asked, “How does a baby come out of your stomach?” the last thing I wanted to do, was to give her an honest and direct answer.
I paused only slightly and then said, “Well, when it is time for the baby to be born, you go to the hospital and the doctor gets the baby out.” Ha! I did it! That was an honest and direct response that only answered the question asked. No need to elaborate, right?
Wrong.
“Yes, Mom, but how does the doctor get the baby out?”
Damn. Now what? Do I really want to get into this right now with a five-and-a-half-year-old? Is she old enough to know where babies come from? Of course, she’s not asking how the baby got there -- at least not yet. But, if I open up this discussion won’t it lead to The Talk?
Crap, she’s noticed how long I’ve been silent. Now any answer I give her will take on a magnified sense of importance simply because of the time it took to answer it. What if I tell her and then she goes and blabs it to all the other kids in preschool and I get angry phone calls from parents who weren’t even thinking about The Talk, but now must have it because obviously our household is one of sin and promiscuity and our daughter is a fountain of sexual knowledge?!
Okay, say something -- anything!
Speak, woman!
I know! Maybe she’ll accept the c-section explanation better and will be easier to comprehend. Okay, fine...go with that...
“Well, um, sometimes the doctor will have to get the baby out by opening up the mommy’s tummy. See, he makes a cut from here to here and -- ”
At this point, L burst into tears. Clearly, that was not the right direction to take.
I was hit with a litany of “I don’t want the doctor to cut open my tummy! I don’t want to have a baby! Don’t make me, okay Mommy! Promise I don’t ever have to have a baby!”
I was trying to calm her down and assure her that wasn’t a decision she had to make right now. The only way I could get out of that situation was to promise her that I was not going to make her have a baby now or any time in the future. That stopped the tears, but we both walked away from that encounter emotionally drained. And I felt like a huge failure. One of the first big moments in our relationship as trusting daughter/truthful mother was blown all to heck.
I spent the rest of the day worrying about it and trying to figure out how to rectify the situation. I simply couldn’t let her go on thinking that child birth was the horror show she was envisioning.
That night, before I tucked her in, I sat down on her bed beside her and said, “L, can we chat for just a minute about something?”
“Sure, Mom.”
“Well, you know how we talked this morning about how babies are born and you got so upset?”
“Yes. I cried and cried." She began to look concerned again and asked, "I don’t have to have a baby, do I?”
“No, honey," I replied. Then in a lighthearted manner I continued, "Look, L, there’s something else I need to tell you. See, there are two ways a baby can be born. One of them is for the doctor to open up the mommy’s tummy, but the other way is for it to come out from somewhere else.”
“Oh. Where?”
“Well, you know how our body has a lot of different holes, right? And each one is for something different; our nose is how we smell, and our mouth is how we eat, and our ears are how we hear. Well, you know that you have a hole in your hiney where the poo comes out -- ”
People, the disbelieving look on her face said, “Cheese and crackers! Lady, do not tell me that babies come out of your butt!”
Quickly I said, “And then there is your hoo-hoo. Babies come out of your hoo-hoo.”
Her response was to pause for a moment and then crack up laughing and say, “They come out of your hoo-hoo?! Ooooh, that is so gross!”
To which I replied, “Well, yes, it sorta is.”
(On a side note: I know that it is considered the progressive way of parenting to use the correct anatomical words for body parts. And we do use the correct words for everything but the hoo-hoo. I hate the V-word. It just sounds icky to me and I never use it. Perhaps it was all the years of being taunted with the horrible nickname Vagina-Regina. Whatever -- hoo-hoo it is.)
“Does it hurt?”
Yes, it hurts worse than anything you could ever imagine and you will wish someone would club you over the head with a metal hospital stool just so your could focus your attention on some pain other than the excruciating sensation of Mac truck trying to drive its way out of your hoo-hoo.
“No, it’s not that bad. The doctor can give you some medicine that makes it not hurt at all.”
“Do you drink the medicine?”
“No. Brace yourself...it’s a shot. But, the shot doesn’t even hurt.”
“You don’t feel the shot?”
No, because you are already writhing in so much pain to the point where a gigantic needle being shoved into your spine is hardly even noticeable.
“Nope. Don’t feel it at all.”
Then, my little girl let out a huge sigh of relief and a big grin spread across her face. She said, “Okay, Mom. Maybe I will think about having a baby after all.”
“That’s great, L. Just don’t think about it for another 20 years or so, okay?”
She threw her arms around my neck and said, “Thank you for making me feel better, Mommy.”
I hugged my baby girl and said, “You’re welcome, Monkey. Now you get some sleep, okay?”
For the love of all that is ovulating, please fall asleep before you remember to ask me how the baby gets in your tummy in the first place...
“Good night, L. I love you.”
“I love you, too, Mommy. Good night.”
Whew!
Being truthful is hard work. Where’s the stork when you need him?
Monday, May 10, 2010
Things Z Taught Me
Z turned three-years-old yesterday. I think I am now supposed to pause and reflect sentimentally on the past 1095 days this boy has been in my life. I should pull out all the standard clichés about the rapid progression of time and the “it seems like only yesterday” phrases. But tearing up at my kids’ baby pictures and lamenting the official end of my role as a mother of and infant/toddler is not my style.
I’m not made of stone, people -- I love that boy more than I ever thought it was possible to love someone who was so destructive. JAO accuses me of being soft on Z and falling for his little boy, cute manipulative ways. And I freely admit to my guilt. When he was first born, I had this overwhelming desire to retreat to my bedroom with my sweet, swaddled baby son and lock out the rest of the world. Now, of course, it is my overwhelming desire to flee to my room and lock Z out.
Nah, I’m kidding. No matter what, that kid is my favorite baby son and nothing will ever change that. I used to tease JAO about how much his mother still dotes on him and looks at him as though he could do no wrong; when I, in fact, know better. But now I understand her looks of adoration cast on her now-grown son. I used to tell my mother that she liked my brother best and she would always deny it. Now, however, I have a sneaking suspicion that I might have been right all along. You don’t mess with mothers and sons. There is a bubble around them that seals their special bond and protects it from the rest of the world.
Inside the bubble, however, a war of frustration and determination -- and sometimes poo -- rages.
Begrudgingly I will admit that I have come to, somewhat, enjoy the new form our relationship has taken. It’s a “him vs. me” game that both of us are determined to win. Z is trying to come up with new and creative ways to destroy my home or display some type of crazy-in-the-head shocking behavior and I, of course, try to thwart his efforts. Who is winning? I like to think that arguments could be made for either side; however, my guess is that you would all put your money on Z.
At the very least, life with Z has not been boring. In fact, it has been quite educational. The following is my list of Top Ten Things I Have Learned Being the Mommy of Z:
I know there are more lessons to be learned from my favorite little man and I look forward to whatever the next 1095 days have to bring. I am a better mom and perhaps even a better person because of Z. And yes, I teared-up a little bit during that last sentence. Like I said, I'm not made of stone. I love my son -- poo and all.
I’m not made of stone, people -- I love that boy more than I ever thought it was possible to love someone who was so destructive. JAO accuses me of being soft on Z and falling for his little boy, cute manipulative ways. And I freely admit to my guilt. When he was first born, I had this overwhelming desire to retreat to my bedroom with my sweet, swaddled baby son and lock out the rest of the world. Now, of course, it is my overwhelming desire to flee to my room and lock Z out.
Nah, I’m kidding. No matter what, that kid is my favorite baby son and nothing will ever change that. I used to tease JAO about how much his mother still dotes on him and looks at him as though he could do no wrong; when I, in fact, know better. But now I understand her looks of adoration cast on her now-grown son. I used to tell my mother that she liked my brother best and she would always deny it. Now, however, I have a sneaking suspicion that I might have been right all along. You don’t mess with mothers and sons. There is a bubble around them that seals their special bond and protects it from the rest of the world.
Inside the bubble, however, a war of frustration and determination -- and sometimes poo -- rages.
Begrudgingly I will admit that I have come to, somewhat, enjoy the new form our relationship has taken. It’s a “him vs. me” game that both of us are determined to win. Z is trying to come up with new and creative ways to destroy my home or display some type of crazy-in-the-head shocking behavior and I, of course, try to thwart his efforts. Who is winning? I like to think that arguments could be made for either side; however, my guess is that you would all put your money on Z.
At the very least, life with Z has not been boring. In fact, it has been quite educational. The following is my list of Top Ten Things I Have Learned Being the Mommy of Z:
1.) Nothing cracks me up more (or disturbs me as much) as watching Z roll his eyes back in his head to the point where his pupils almost entirely disappear from sight.
2.) Washable markers are not, in fact, washable when applied to carpet.
3.) If you’re bored, throwing toys down the heating and air vents in the floor is a fun distraction.
4.) If you try hard enough, you can wedge a wooden train into almost any crevice to the point where it is impossible to retrieve.
5.) A running child can cross the entire length of a Super Target in 12 seconds. A running mom pushing a buggy needs at least 20.
6.) Spill-proof cups are not, in fact, spill-proof when hurled at the wall with the intent of a major-league pitcher.
7.) The command “faster!” screamed by an excited Z being pushed on a swing can make passers-by think he is commenting on the marital status of their parents at the time of their birth.
8.) An open container of anything -- water, Coke, a can of Spaghettioes -- should never be left out unless you wish to see the contents of the container dumped out onto whatever surface is available.
9.) Even after he has had a complete, nutritious meal, if you walk into the room carrying anything remotely food-like, he will rush over to you and hold his mouth open like a baby bird. “Bite? Me, bite?” “Z, this is a plate of fish head and cabbage.” “Me have some?” Sigh.
10.) A little boy dressed in a pink tu-tu and sporting a head full of pink hair bows still looks like a boy.
I know there are more lessons to be learned from my favorite little man and I look forward to whatever the next 1095 days have to bring. I am a better mom and perhaps even a better person because of Z. And yes, I teared-up a little bit during that last sentence. Like I said, I'm not made of stone. I love my son -- poo and all.
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