Filed under: Parenting | Tags: Boston, family, parenting, superheroes, tragedy
I have a six year old. She is a sponge. I know that seems redundant, every six year old is a sponge. She soaks up information from me, her dad, our families, school and the world at large and regurgitates it with a six year old spin. I know that things get lost in the translation from time to time. Somewhere in that beautiful and brilliant little brain of hers the information gets jumbled and comes out slightly off kilter. Most of the time it’s funny; it’s a game for mommy to try to pick apart the fact from the filter.
There was the time, around president’s day that she explained that they learned all about the president’s. They learned about Washington, who was first but now he is dead. They learned about Lincoln, who made everyone the same but sadly got shot so he is dead too. She worried about Obama, since he seemed nice and didn’t want him to be dead like all of the other presidents. History is complicated, especially to a 6 year old. I could only imagine the thought process there, almost like the American people send the president’s off to some “farm” when they complete their tenure. It took a little bit, but I managed to explain that they were simply learning about some of the older presidents, that died because they lived long ago. That it wasn’t a job requirement to die at the end of your term, and there are plenty of living presidents still around. She told me it was a good thing, since there was a volcano by the White House that Obama would have to worry about first. Her friend Ben had told her so. There was no amount of convincing that could change her mind. So now she believes that Obama’s job as president is to keep an eye on the volcano. He is kind of like a super hero. Oh, and he is my boss. Apparently the only person that can trump a mommy ruling is the president of the United States. I am okay with this logic.
I know she picks up lots of stuff from the media; the radio, movies and television. I can tell by her uncanny ability to pick the most annoying pop song currently on the radio and sing it ad naseum. I try to limit her exposure to this because I find it overwhelming sometimes, and I have a fully formed frontal lobe. (At least I think I do.) But there are the moments we forget, the weather report she is regurgitating to me as I give her brother a bath… “There is a line of thunderstorms approaching the St. Louis metro area, mom,” she says. “Please be aware of the potential for hail and high winds,” she repeats; echoing the weather man word for word. She takes her cues from me. If I am not flustered by it, all is right with her world. And so she watches the pretty colors on the radar, deciding she really likes the dark purple the best even if it means lots of thunder. She goes to bed secure in the idea that nothing can happen to her, her parents will keep her safe.
Then Monday happened, the Boston Marathon Bombing; one of a series of horrible events to occur in her short lifetime. The news played in my kitchen on a loop while her brother napped and she was in school. I was shocked and horrified at the wanton violence, the reckless and callous disregard for human life. I was angered as the events unfolded, an eight year boy and two young women among the casualties. I tuned into Twitter and the radio to learn more over the past few days. I did all of this while she was away, careful that my little sponge would pick up on this tragedy. I sheltered her from the news; instead playing outside, reading books and coloring pictures. She is young enough that I can do that without worry that some classmate will bring it up at school.
I know that time is not on my side, that the world will find a way to come crashing in. I know that I can’t prevent every tragedy nor do I want to shelter her from life in all its nuances. I want her to learn to cope with a scary world; I want her to process not only the good but also the bad in life with equal parts sadness, empathy, balance and hope. I want to help build her foundation so she knows that despite the evil in the world there will always be more good as long as there are people like me, and her daddy, her teachers and our family. There will always be those helpers who rush in to protect the innocent and fight the bad guys. I will teach her this every chance I can by reading books and playing games, reminding her always that I am here. She knows now that her parents will keep her safe, no matter what. It is my job right now to keep the world at bay. But when she is at school, and her brother is napping I sit, I watch the news and sometimes I cry.
I cry for the families wrenched apart by senseless violence. I cry for happy moments denied. I cry for a world that is a little darker today. I cry at all of the wonderful stories of human kindness unfolding from tragedy, proof that there is indeed more good than bad in this world. I cry for a moment for all of these things, and then I stop because above all the last thing I want my little sponge soaking up is my tears. Some days it tough to be a mommy.
So now I will go, for the hundredth time, try to convince Madison that there is no volcano at the White House. And if there is, well we can remain calm; at least Obama is there to protect us.
Photo Courtesy of Jib Jab
Today is the first day of school. For the first time in her short life, I put my little girl on a bus and sent her off to school; by herself. No walking her into class, no helping her hang her coat up and no last kiss before she sat down. Needless to say I am a bit of a wreck. I think the best way to describe this feeling is through a story. (I am Irish after all.)
This story begins when I was five. I had an imaginary friend, Snoopy. He was my playmate and confidant, my partner in crime and the dog I didn’t have; even if no one else could see him. I always knew he was there. Snoopy scared away the monsters under the bed at night and woke me up in the morning so I wouldn’t miss a moment of playtime. He was my best friend.
On the first day of school in little Atchison, Kansas I woke up with Snoopy. I got dressed and ate breakfast. Backpack in hand I walked out the door and began my two block walk to school with mom looking on from the sidewalk. Two houses away I turned around and yelled at the thin air, “Go home Snoopy. You can’t come with me to school. Go home.” My mom sat on the front porch and cried; that was the last we saw of Snoopy.
Growing up I had heard this story a lot. For me it was a funny story about my cute quirkiness as I ventured off into the world of school. Now, as a parent I realize that this story means so much more. What I left behind on that sidewalk so many years ago was not just my imaginary friend, it was the first little bit of the complete innocence of youth. It was the last moment that my parents would be my entire world. It was the last moment that pure fantasy and imagination would be as real to me as ground beneath my feet. What I left behind was just the first of many moments leading me to this moment now, a grown-up with kids of my own.
Today my daughter starts kindergarten. She will go off into the world, armed with the values and confidence that I hope that I have taught her (and will continue to teach her), but for 7 hours a day she will go without me. This is a good thing, a wonderful first. It will be followed by new friends and first sleepovers. The first time she gets in an argument with a friend, the first time she realizes what a BEST friend is and the first time she thinks that her parents just don’t “get” her are all around the corner. These and all of the tiny little moments of childhood that will shape her into what I hope will be a strong, confident and happy person; these moments make up a wonderful life. This is what every parent wants.
But today, standing on the bus stop as my daughter drove away I realize that she leaves behind a tiny kernel of her childhood with me. On the walk home I thought about all of her firsts, her first real word (Dodo, for dog. Okay, it is only kind of a real word but we knew what she meant.) Her first ride on an airplane, trick-or-treating for the first time, her first trip to see Santa… all of these firsts came with me at her side. Today she starts a world of firsts without me. Today I really understand why my mother cried over an imaginary dog that ran away and never came home. Today for the first time in almost thirty years I want to stand on the front porch and yell, Come home Snoopy. Come home. I could really use an old friend, even if he is just in my imagination.
I have heard it said that you get the child you deserve. After a day like today I think I tend to agree. It started with my typical foray into my daughter’s room to get her going for the day. It had been a few days since I had taken a really good look at the place. The middle of the room looked clean enough, but lurking under the bed and tucked in corners was all of the remnants of a few days worth of play. No big deal, right. Just a few minutes worth of tidying would wrap it up and we could begin our day. Behold some of the fights conversations from our four hours of cleaning.
Let me preface these conversations with a few facts about me as a child. I was a master negotiator. I think I learned early on that a reward today was much sweeter than the promise of a bigger payoff tomorrow, especially if your parents forgot and you could finagle double the payday. This was good for postponed bedtimes, procrastinated chores and plenty of five more minutes. I also believed that it was much more cost effective to persuade my siblings to pick up my slack than it was for me to put forth the effort myself. What can I say, I am a natural leader.
That said, I usually make my kiddo clean up most of her room by herself, even though it would be way more efficient if I helped her. I figured if she can make the mess she can clean it up. A logical thought that usually goes out the window about an hour in since logic and five year olds are often like oil and water.
Before she had even begun I heard, “Mom, how about I watch a few minutes of Sprout and then clean my room.” No, Madison. Didn’t you just tell me that you learned on Sprout that you have to clean up your messes? “Yes, but I think I need to learn more about it so I will just watch a few more minutes.”
Go clean, Madison.
Then she came up with, “Mom, how about I surprise you with my room. I will just close the door and you can wait and see what happens.” She is a tricky one, isn’t she? I told her I would be just as surprised if she cleaned her room with the door open. (Or at all.)
GO clean, Madison.
Next I hear, “I am just going to go outside to play with the dogs for a few minutes.” No, Madison we have to clean up BEFORE we get to play. “No, no… did I say play with the dogs? I meant I need to go outside and take care of the dogs. It is not playing, I am helping.”
GO CLEAN, Madison.
Then I get the lecture that Jack doesn’t have to clean his room, because he is a baby. Yes, Maddie, I know. (I have a feeling poor Jack is going to be subject to a lot of Madison’s “leadership” as well.) But Jack also doesn’t make the messes that she makes. He doesn’t have the same amount of toys that she does either. This launches a spirited debate on why Jack needs books if he can’t read. (Neither can she.) Or why her old baby books should live in Jack’s room. (Yes Jack can share them with you, but no you do not need anything else in your room.) And finally, why they are called baby books if they are not made out of babies… I am not even sure where this one came from, but we will just ignore it.
GO CLEAN MADISON!
It is about this point that I start to lose my patience. The project has already taken 45 minutes longer than it should have and we haven’t even started yet. That is when I tell Madison that if she doesn’t get in there and pick up her stuff I am going to go in her room and clean it with a trash bag… and she won’t like the results. It is at this moment that I realize I have repeated something my mother would say to us as kids, verbatim. I head to the kitchen to pour another cup of coffee and seriously consider adding equal parts Jameson to the mug, but I opted for chocolate instead since my perception of clean is directly proportional to the level of alcohol in my system. (The proof of this is in the infamous Thanksgiving incident of 1998; but that is another story I think may have already blabbed on this blog.)
Properly chocolate-ly medicated I head back to Madison’s room, ready to help her tackle the mess. At this point I catch her in the cubby hole under her bed (it is a half-bunk… I don’t really make my kid play under a regular sized bed, at least not yet.) She had dumped her entire crayon box and approximately 25 sheets of paper under there. She had also managed to smuggle in a pair of scissors from the kitchen drawer and was happily cutting said paper oblivious to the angry mommy behind her. Once she realized I was there (and after she jumped a mile) she realized her only option was to cry, a dumb negotiating move if you ask me. Although my husband was quick to point out that I have been known to use the same technique to try to weep my way out of a ticket or two.
The tears did not have the desired effect on me, however. All it prompted from me was the urge to pile all of her mess into one big pile in the middle of the room. A move also made famous by my mom, which prompted another needed dose of my chocolate “medication” to help me cope with the fact that despite my best efforts I am turning into my mother. Madison’s room now looked like a cross between a deranged fraternity party and a ticker tape parade.
All told, it would take a few more hours and at least eight “how about’s” from Madison, trying to negotiate a lighter sentence than the few minutes it would take to finish. After seven more, GO CLEAN MADISON’s and five more pieces of chocolate we finally finished cleaning her room. Now it is time to tackle the laundry. (sigh) Pass the chocolate… and the Jameson. If I can’t clean ‘em, join ‘em.
It happens to me all of the time. That “Oh Duh” moment when I see a product that is destined to make my life so much easier; a product that I totally should have thought of myself. I am not talking about huge technological leaps that better mankind for decades to come. I don’t have any allusions that I could have invented the I-pad or put together Facebook. I know as much about computer programing that my grandma does, and since she doesn’t even own a computer that is saying a lot.
I know the odds of me being the next Steve Jobs or Mark Zuckerberg are about the same as me winning the next multimillion Powerball drawing (with the same monetary rewards I would imagine) and I am okay with it. What makes me crazy though, are those products that I run across out in the world that I totally could have come up with… and didn’t. The products that I am sure have made their inventors a small fortune despite their simplicity. Most of them seem to be products for my kiddos, and area in which I seem to drop a lot of cash. (I am a sucker, what can I say.)
The first one that comes to mind is the “Little Taggies” blankets. My daughter is what you would call a tag aficionado. She samples tags the way a sommelier samples a fine wine, and like a sommelier has an unique nose for determining only the best tags. We have carried around blankets, dolls and even washcloths based on their special tags; a blend of softness, silkiness and thickness all adding to the delicate balance that makes the PERFECT tag. So when I discovered the “Little Taggies” blankets I had to ask myself, why didn’t I think of that?!
Oh the tag heaven...
After having Jack, I have been introduced to a whole new world of creative and yet simple products. I must admit that when I saw “Sock Ons” for the first time I was a little peeved. They are just little pieces of stretchy fabric that fit over a baby’s foot and prevent those little baby socks from falling off. Until I saw these I was convinced that baby feet and baby socks had magnetic properties, but with different polarities destined to repel each other for eternity. (I am the daughter of a science teacher, nerdy science references are par for the course.)
Inevitably the socks always fall off in the middle of the grocery store or the parking lot of the mall, and only noticed twenty minutes after they are gone and never to be found again. My friend, Liz, gave me a couple of pairs of “Sock Ons” when I had the baby and we haven’t lost a sock yet. Well, we haven’t lost a sock in public… I am convinced the dryer has eaten a pair or two. I chalk it up to the price you must pay to the dryer gods to keep everything in working order, similar to the sacrifices of my Aztec ancestors but far less gory and gross. I imagine that my sacrifice of a sock or two prevents the dryer gods from shrinking my jeans or stretching my sweaters; totally worth it.
So simple, so perfect and so not my idea.
Finally, my pediatrician introduced me to “Wubbanubs” a brilliantly cute way to help keep a pacifier in your little baby’s mouth. It is a small stuffed animal with a pacifier attached to the end. Basically it can rest on baby’s chest or next to him in the car seat and it provides just enough support to keep the pacifier in when the baby starts to drift off, but not so much that the baby can choke. Not to mention that they are SUPER cute, I can picture this becoming Jack’s lovey as he gets a little bigger. And the technical know-how required to invent this miracle product? A pacifier, a small stuffed animal and a glue gun. No engineer required.
Seriously?! It is so cute it almost makes me want to take up a pacifier...
Although mine will be dipped in bourbon.
So now I have a new retirement plan. For the next month or two I am going to walk around the house armed with a glue gun and some creativity. My house has no shortage of little irksome problems just waiting for someone with the next big idea to miraculously come up with a wonder product to fix it. There is a whole “As Seen on TV” market dedicated to these BRILLIANT ideas, although I think every idea looks a little more brilliant at three in the morning. Lets face it the target viewership is people who are up with a crying baby who won’t sleep (trust me we are not in our right minds in this scenario) or people who are up due to some liquid encouragement. (I have also been the person up at this hour, after a couple of bottles of wine and a party pizza you really want a knife that can cut through a tomato AND a tin can.)
Now I just need to find a problem and solve it in a brilliantly simple manner. Maybe I can invent an alarm for hidden sippy cups that still have milk in them. Trust me, you want to find those in a timely manner. Or maybe it will be the automatic toilet paper changer, since I seem to be the only person in the house properly trained to perform this duty. I would tackle the whole missing sock in the laundry conundrum, but I don’t want to anger the dryer gods. There are some things that aren’t the risk.
I sometimes wonder how the world looks to my daughter. Simple things I take for granted she is trying to figure out on a daily basis. Even things as mundane as the syntax of a phrase can take on a whole new light through her eyes. For example, she had a really hard time understanding why we had to take a bath BEFORE we went to a baby shower. After all, we were going to a shower! I had to giggle at the type of party she thought we were going to.
She was watching television with my husband when an ad for a UFC fight came on. (I am not sure what they were watching come to think of it, since this commercial hardly seems child friendly. Water under the bridge I suppose.) She looked at Greg and asked him why the two men were mad at each other and was shocked to find they weren’t. “Then why are they fighting with each other?” she asked.
“That is just what they do honey, they get paid for it.” he replied. (Not sure I like the idea that he put this thought in her head… that she can make a living punching people, but again I will pick my battles.)
“Then why are they naked?” she asked. “Do they have to be naked to fight?” To be fair, the gentleman were wearing shorts but to my five year old shirtless means naked. Greg’s jaw just kind of hung open for a minute before he told her to come ask me. I changed the subject. Some questions are better off brushed under the table. Again, I pictured what must be running through her head. Men who must be naked but aren’t angry at each other get paid to punch each other while people watch. When you put it that way it does sound a bit insane.
This week though, we caught a rare glimpse into how her little mind works. She took my husband to VIP day at school and presented him with a picture she drew just for him. Along side it was a verbatim translation of who her father is to her; penned by her teachers straight from the horse’s mouth.
My husband, as drawn by my daughter. I assure you his hair is not multicolored.
The caption reads: “This is my dad. His name is Gregory. He looks like a big giant but he is actually 30. In the spring we go fishing. My dad likes to eat crab and sometimes he drinks water and sometimes he drinks iced tea. He likes to watch deer hunting. Sometimes we go to the grocery store we have lunch and breakfast. When my mom is at the hospital he tucks me in. My dad loves me as all the stars in the sky and I love him more than all the houses”
You see every night when we put her to bed we have the same ritual. We say, I love you all the way to moon and back or I love you more than all the stars in the sky. She replies with the largest thing that she can think of, like all of the butterflies on the planet, all the leaves on the trees or all of the houses in the world. We play this game a couple of times; adding all the fish in the sea or all the flowers in world before we kiss her good night.
I may not always know what she is thinking nor do we always do the best job of explaining the weird quirks in life, like a shower without water or two naked men fighting for no reason. At the end of the day though, she has picked up on something absolutely true. We do love her more than all the stars in the sky and we would go all the way to the moon and back for her. This she knows for sure.
So I have been missing a while. I have a valid excuse, I promise. I am pregnant and due in less than a month. Not that pregnancy is an excuse in and of itself, I am a modern woman who can do just about anything with a gestational tag-along. Anything except process simple sugars apparently. In the beginning of December I was diagnosed with gestational diabetes and for the past two months I have been pretty obsessed with food. This pregnancy has been a little bit high maintenance to say the least.
I have always loved food, carbs in particular. Little did I know that carbohydrates would become the enemy and my obsession. When my doctor first called, they were pretty confident that they could tackle this with some simple changes in my diet. By simple changes, I mean a highly restrictive diet with a strict time table for eating. From the morning when I wake up to the time I go to bed I have to track everything that goes into my body. For the first few weeks I was a total nut-bag, it is amazing what carb withdrawal can do to you. (Especially when your drug of choice is a big fat cinnamon roll.) Over time though, I slowly learned what I could and could not eat and tracked my blood sugars four times a day. I tracked them steadily rise, diet be-damned.
I am a little type A when it comes to my personality. I truly believe there is nothing I can’t do if I put my mind to it. (My siblings think I was Napoleon in a past life, but I am sure that is because I am such an inspiring leader and not because I am bossy and domineering at all.) So when my body decided to completely revolt I was flabbergasted and frustrated. I couldn’t figure it out. The low-carb dieting didn’t work, a bevy of medications didn’t work and even insulin shots have been less than effective. To a type A person like myself this is tantamount to total failure.
I have wavered between absolutely guilty to incredibly frustrated touching on every emotion in between. Food has become my obsession and my enemy. The worst part of this has been the uncertainty, not knowing how this is affecting my little bundle that I am over-sugaring in my oven. I stressed on the size of the baby, the stress on his body (yes it is a little boy) and the constant warnings from nurses and doctors alike. Its a pretty crappy feeling to think that you are already messing up your kid before he even leaves your body.
I started to withdraw from life, taking daily naps for hours at a time and using the television to entertain my four year old. I was snappy with my husband and rarely wanted to leave the house. Let’s face it, I was depressed. Then I went in for another ultrasound, to check on the status of my son. I learned two things that day, one I have HUGE babies. He is already pushing eight pounds with a month to go. Two, and by far more importantly, I learned that I am human… and I have limits.
The ultrasound tech may have helped with this epiphany, she was kind and compassionate and most of all she made me smile. She showed me a picture of my little boy and for the first time I didn’t just see a little blob looking back at me. (I admit I can never really read those pictures. I could never do the magic eye things at the mall either.) For the first time I saw my son, and I realized why I was doing all of this. I understood that the best I can do is ALL I can do, and so far he is doing okay.
It also reminded me that I am incredibly lucky to be able to have a child, no matter how difficult this process has been. I am very lucky to already have a smart, funny and very loving daughter, who is both excited and apprehensive about having a new addition to the family. I have a husband who has been supportive and sweet during the process (most of the time) and who has done his best to balance out my insanity. I have friends and family who will love and support me no matter how nutso I get too.
I guess, I finally realized that I have it pretty good. It is time to pull myself out of my pity party and take a good look at how lucky I really am. Now I will just have to remind myself of this when I am working on no sleep with a new born and a demanding five year old… although I wouldn’t have it any other way.
I have run into a conundrum and I am turning to the internet to gather my thoughts.My four year old has become slightly obsessed with death. You heard me correctly, my darling cherubic daughter has become a burgeoning Wednesday Adams. I am not sure what to do.
It started innocently enough, with Disney; some of the Disney Princess movies to be precise. I guess I never noticed this, but there is a lot of death in fairy tales. Many of the princesses are missing a mother or a father or both. The movies gloss over this morbid fact, but from Tiana in the Princess and the Frog to Snow White, it is not uncommon for one of these heroines to live without at least one parent. I guess I understand this, without a missing mom you can never have an evil stepmother which is a catalyst for many of the stories. I mean, what would Cinderella be without her horrible stepmother? I learned from watching Tangled with Maddie that I would much rather have the villain be a stepmother than an actual mother. (That opened up a whole other issue. Madison STILL calls me MUDDER when she is displeased with me, in her best Rapunzel voice.)
In addition to the death of parents Maddie also was influenced by a term she made up called deaded, another something she learned from these movies. “I’m deaded,” she says and then flops to the ground awaiting a kiss. Two of her favorites, Sleeping Beauty and Snow White, both fall under a curse and slip into… well I guess they are in a coma? Huh, never really thought about that either. It is deeper than a sleep, but not quite dead and quite confusing for a four year old. And all these beautiful princesses need to be revived is a kiss from her true love; simple right?
Simple until you lose a couple of fish… and mommy doesn’t want to kiss them. I don’t know which would have been more traumatic, watching mommy make out with a dead beta fish or seeing that mommy’s kiss isn’t as magical as she has sold it to be. Added to the mix, is an avid hunter for a daddy. A daddy who thinks nothing of calling us out to take picture with his latest kill, smiling proudly with a dead duck, buck or turkey. It takes some getting used to. (I revert to my mantra… find a happy place find a happy place. I am not quite altogether used to it.) The first time Madison witness one of Daddy’s deer she asked him to fix it. So between a liar for a mommy (no magical kisses) and a killer for a daddy (he has an entire photo album devoted to his conquests) we have unintentionally scarred our child for life.
So began the questions. “Why do fish die?” Hmmm, it is just a part a life and it is sad but your fish is in heaven now. “Do people die?” Well, everyone dies honey, but don’t worry. Most people don’t die until they are very old. “So when is great-grandma Kate going to die? She is old.” That question I side stepped with candy.Don’t judge, you would have done the same thing.
Yesterday, while sitting on the toilet, she asked when she is going to die. After a momentary thought that my child was the reincarnated Elvis (she really really likes music and swaying her hips AND peanut butter) I stammered out why? She looked at me like it was a ridiculous question. “I just want to know, if everyone dies…” she let the thought trail off. I told her not for a long time I hope. I told her that mommy and daddy would really miss her. All the while I am panicking, WHY does my kid keep asking me this question? Then she says, “Well, I want to know about heaven.”
Heaven, I think I can handle. I mean, it’s paradise right? So how hard can that be to explain to a four year old? Apparently very. I started off saying that heaven was a place filled with happiness and love. It was everything that she could ever want it to be. Seemingly satisfied she went off to play for a bit. She came back a few minutes later with her swimming suit.
“Mom, tomorrow we need to go to heaven to swim in the pool.”
What?
Looking annoyed she said, “Well you said heaven could be anything I want it to be. I want it to be a big swimming pool. Can we go tomorrow?”
So, to my four year old daughter, heaven is a swimming pool where her fish and her long passed family all swim together. It’s as good a thought as any I guess.
So I hurt myself this week. I pinched a nerve in my neck. I would love to say it was doing something exciting, like making a spectacular dive in flaming dodge-ball or rescuing a family of four from a freak runaway golf cart accident. In reality I slept on it funny. In my defense I was hopped on Nyquil when I went to bed so I could have been sleeping on my head in a box of nails and I wouldn’t have noticed at the time.
When I woke up Monday morning I couldn’t move. I looked like a cross between the Hunchback of Notre Dame and Medusa. (Oh I fell asleep with wet hair too, not a pretty look the morning after.) After a trip to the doctor I was put on medication and sent straight to bed, leaving my husband in charge of the kiddo.
Greg is not what you would call the domestic type. Granted, he is great with a grill or a take-out menu so I knew that we wouldn’t starve; but I was a little concerned. You see I tend to be pretty, well what’s the nice way to say it… Type A. You could call it bossy with a touch of controlling on the side. So relinquishing the reigns to dear old hubby took some restraint, pain be damned. Here is what I learned this week:
1. It doesn’t really matter if your daughter’s clothes match completely… or at all. She will function just fine at school even if she is wearing black leggings with a brown, pink and blue striped shirt and orange socks. On the plus side we can always just tell people she dressed herself.
2. There is always an episode of Law and Order on somewhere, and there is nothing better if you are stuck in bed for a couple of days.
3. Even though it seems like it, the pile of dirty laundry can never actually get taller than you. Gravity has a way of fixing that. Living with a ginormous pile of laundry for a few days is better than nagging your husband into doing it, especially if he has the tendency to shrink sweaters and turn white t-shirts pink.
4. There seems to be a trend with the girly pop stars’ videos. One that involves explosive bras… shooting sparks, fireworks and whipped cream. I am not sure where they purchase these bras and what purpose they serve… Oh and I need to buy some new bras. Your mind tends to wander weird places when you are on pain medication.
5. It is really sweet to sit and listen to your husband and your child just play. This week they had a tea party and a wrestling match. They watched some movies and she colored pictures for him. I have to remember how important it is for her to have some time with just Daddy, important for both of them.
6. It is also important to remember how hard Daddy tried this week; cooking, “cleaning”, and taking care of me in general. Even when I was crabby and mean and only wanted to point out that he got more food on the stove then he got on the plate. Or when he spilled milk all over the counter and “forgot” to clean it up. Instead, I have to remember he spilled cooking for me and caring for our daughter.
7. Even if I am hurt I need to reign in my crabbiness. It is hard for anyone to want to take care of you if you snark at them non-stop. This is the toughest lesson to learn, one that I am still working on. So today I am looking for a sweet little thank you for my dear husband. I am thinking nothing says I love you like chocolate covered bacon… But then I may be nursing him back to health from a heart attack. Maybe not. He can be such a bear when he is sick.
I am writing this post on a brand new laptop, which seems like good news. The circumstances that required the purchase of said laptop were less than ideal, however. Last Tuesday I had a bad day of epic proportions.
The day started innocently enough, Starbucks and school, a typical running-around morning. After preschool I walked into the house to discover the back door standing wide open. My beagle, demon that he is, managed to jiggle the lock and worm his way inside. Once inside he managed to tip over the trash can and help himself to rancid ravioli. He also spread coffee grounds all over the kitchen. How fun.
I started to clean the mess up and heard an awful sound from the office. The sound of sick beagle… on my brand new carpet. I think I moved in hyper-speed to the other room just in time to see my adorable dog soil my brand-spanking-new floor.
Madison, curious to see what the commotion was about came running behind me. She tripped over the cord to my laptop and sent it crashing from the table to the floor; shattering the screen. In the span of 15 minutes my day took a nosedive.
I found myself in an unusual and new position. For the first time in Madison’s life I felt completely out of control. I wanted to scream or cry or yell profanities; none of which I like to do in front of my kiddo. Greg wasn’t home so I couldn’t rely on him to take over parenting duties while I had a mental breakdown. I was on my own.
I asked Maddie to play in her room for a second, while explaining she wasn’t in trouble. I threw the dog outside and while I was there I let loose some very loud four letter words. I sent my husband a profanity laden text message and then I sat on the couch for a minute before I tackled the mess around me.
I bring this up because it is in this moment that I realized how hard parenting can be sometimes. It is these moments that can set the tone for how a child deals with conflict and mistakes, how they chose to handle issues in life. It is also in these moments that it is hardest to keep your cool.
It is kind of hard to admit that for a split second I wanted nothing more than to yell at my child or hit my dog for being so bad. I wanted to yell at my husband for not closing the door all the way and I wanted to kick myself for leaving the laptop cord hanging off of the table. But in truth, these things just happen. No matter how crappy, it is just a part of life.
I had to remind myself that it was just carpet, and with a little cleaning I was able to get the stain out. I was able to sweep up all of the coffee grounds and get my kitchen clean again. And I was able to buy a new laptop, one that I have to admit, I like a little more than my old one. All of this was just stuff, and it is either fixable or replaceable.
My daughters peace of mind is not as easily fixed and I am glad that I did not damage it by losing my cool in front of her. I can’t guarantee that I will always take the right track or that my daughter won’t hear me slip a four letter word every now and then. But in this moment, right now, I am glad that I didn’t react the way I wanted to. I guess that is why parenting is so hard, because it involves years of putting your own needs and basic instincts aside for the betterment of your child.
When I walked into my daughters bedroom, happily playing with her princess dolls I had a realization. Parenthood is hard because it is worth it.
a life just ordinary 