Hope and Earthquakes

I really dislike buying pregnancy tests.   I thought about it and it's not like I'm buying Depends or hemorrhoid cream or some other equally embarrassing hygienic item.   But I'm pretty sure part of it is because I don't just buy one box.  They're like Pringles- you can't just have one.  I usually pick up two or three boxes because I know I have a problem and I like peeing on sticks and holding my head at certain angles and taking pictures of them to text to my friends to ask, "do you see a line???" And when I don't see a line, or maybe a barely-there squinter that I can only see when I hold it up to the window and tilt it at a 45 degree angle, I'll blame the box of "faulty" tests because it's easier than blaming my body.  So, I figure I had better make sure I have a couple of boxes of tests, just in case one of those boxes is a dud and maybe they just forgot to put enough dye in them or something like that.


The thing is, I know my body isn't faulty at all.  Well, it didn't use to be.  I've done this before- twice.  And after I had Milo, I swore up and down that we were done.  After what amounted to almost three years of being either pregnant or breastfeeding and at the mercy of my ever-shifting hormones, I wasn't sure I wanted to jump on board the baby train ever again.  


But look what just pulled into the station.


And so there I stood, at the counter of CVS trying not to make eye contact with the young man who was ringing me up and I wondered why it couldn't have been a woman working that day.  She'd at least get it.  I mean, just about every woman has bought a pregnancy test at least once or twice in her life.   Why did I suddenly feel so embarrassed?   Maybe it was because he might have remembered seeing me in there the month before, buying the same tests.   As I took the box of sticks out of the basket, I might as well have been heaving the gigantic elephant in the room up onto the counter by myself.   Look everyone!  I'm trying to get pregnant!  I've actually been trying for a while now and I'm starting to feel really beat down because it's like my body doesn't work like it used to and even though my OB says it will happen, I'm just not sure I believe him anymore.


Yeah.  That elephant.


But, if I knew anything from past stick-purchasing experiences, he would be like everyone else and at least pretend he didn't notice them.  Neither of us would say a thing and I'd be on my way.


But then he did say something.   And I wasn't sure I heard him right the first time.


"I'm sorry, what?"  I stuttered.  Surely, he wasn't calling me out.  He couldn't have just asked about the tests.


"Are you hoping?" he said again, a little louder.  But there was a glimmer in his eyes.  He couldn't have been any older than 21 or 22.  I quickly did a mental checklist of what was in my bag: a package of Fig Newtons and some hair clips.  Nothing exciting about those.  I knew exactly what he was referring to.


He smiled at me- a good, genuine smile.  I laughed nervously.  "Oh."  I felt my cheeks burn a little.   "Yeah.  Yeah, I am."   


"Boy or girl?" he pressed.


"Well, I have one of each at home already, but it wouldn't matter to me in any case."  As I spoke, I felt my embarrassment start to fade, to be replaced by gratitude.


"I'm having my first," he blurted. "It's a girl.  She's due on December 20th."  And I looked at this kid (really, that's all he was) and he wasn't smiling anymore.  Now he was outright beaming.  So proud and so excited and so....real.  And I thought about all the things he could have asked me, as it pertained to the boxes of tests--  Are you trying?  Are you pregnant already?  (Are you crazy????)  

But he didn't ask that.  He just asked--


Are you hoping?


Suddenly, I wondered why I even thought it taboo for him to bring it up?  This kid is getting ready to be a father and I can see just by looking at him that he's totally eaten up with it.  He wants to talk about it.  He gets what all of the fuss is about and knows enough about life to know that buying pregnancy tests is, in fact, a big deal- no matter how you look at it.   It's not a pack of gum.  And instead of seeing a tired, frazzled woman try to pay for her stuff and run, he chose to speak a reality that I haven't wanted to claim for myself.


It's okay to be hopeful.


It's okay to get beat down and lose.  And lose some more.


It's okay to let people see you try and fail.  But keep trying.


It's okay to let them hold you up.


It's okay to think for yourself, to not do what everyone expects you to do.


It's okay to let go of preconceived notions and embrace new ideas.   Difficult- but okay.  Maybe even recommended.



And so I congratulated him.  I told him to get ready to say goodbye to his money and his will and that his world was about to be turned upside down in all the best ways possible.  For a minute, I wanted to go back in time and be having our first all over again- to not know what we didn't know and then feel the earthquake of that fiery love and hope and fear when they hand you that baby for the first time.


I've been blessed beyond belief for no other reason than that I've experienced that earthquake twice in my life.



And maybe, I'll get to feel it just once more.



I'm hopeful.




 

Forget Me Not

Yesterday, I reached my breaking point around 9:40 in the morning- at least a solid three hours before I usually reach it.  The kids were touching me and I didn't want them touching me.  They were touching each other and provoking each other and I decided that the only way to keep anyone from touching anyone else was to pile them in the car- even though it was a good hour and twenty minutes before Ella's gymnastics class.  I needed them to be restrained, I needed myself to be restrained, and I needed to drown out their whines with some Mumford & Sons.   Period.



So we drove around.  And I decided that time goes incredibly slowly when you don't have anywhere you have to be.  I refused to go into Target because killing an hour there would mean killing our disposable income for the rest of the month.  I thought about going to McDonalds for a bacon egg-n-cheese biscuit, but hadn't I already done that this week?  I considered the park that was up the road, but just didn't have it in me to run around after the kids.  So we just drove.  Up and down the interstate.  In and out of parking lots.  About every two minutes, Ella asked if we were at gymnastics yet and why were we driving so much and could she please get out of the car now and a couple of other random questions, and I think after the first dozen questions, I just started saying "yes."  I'm not positive, but I think I might have told her she could have a pony.



Finally, I decided we would just pull into the parking lot of the gym and I would let her play with my phone and Milo had a V-tech laptop and hopefully that would keep them occupied until her class started at 11.  It was 10:30, but maybe if we made it to 10:50, I would just take her in early and her teachers would let her run around before her class started.  I was actually kind of proud of myself for being early, for once.   We would be there on time- ahead of time, actually.   She'd have time to get her shoes off, find her cubby, stretch and warm up, and I wouldn't be the lame mom who was once again busting in the door ten minutes late to class.



The minutes ticked by.  Finally, it was 10:51 and I decided we could go on in.  We walked through the door, I put her hair in a pony tail, took her shoes off, and her teacher whisked her into the gym.  Wow. A lot of other kids got there early, too.  In fact, I didn't see any other parents.  That was kind of odd.  Everyone usually gets dropped off around the same time and the lobby is usually hopping.  Hmm.  I grabbed Milo by the hand and we turned to walk out the door to run some errands.


And that's when her teacher called out, "see you at 11:30!"



11:30?  Her class is only a half hour today??  And then it hit me.



Oh.


Ohh.


Her class didn't start at 11.  It started at 10:30.  Just like the other six times we had been there.



I'm not exactly sure why, but all of the sudden, I remembered the time my dad was filling up the family car on one of our many long car trips between Lousiana (where we were currently living) and Virginia.   It was late and we had been on the road for a good seven hours by then.  He walked inside to pay the cashier, hopped back in the car, and we took off.   With the nozzle still in the gas tank.  Ripped it clear off of the hose.


I tried to hold it in, but soon, both my mom and I were overcome in fits of laughter as we watched my poor dad first turn around in shock, then hang his head in defeat, and finally get out of the car, walk over to pick up the nozzle and take it inside to the cashier.   For years after that, I wondered how someone could forget something like that.  It must really suck to get old, I thought.


And now I know I was right.  It does suck.


Like when I pulled up to the bank earlier this week to return the tube that I had forgotten to put back in the machine and that I found only after I'd gotten home.  Or when I put the milk in the pantry and the cheerios in the refrigerator.  Or the times- way too many to count- when I've left wet towels in the washer for a couple of days.  Or when I made my kid show up a half hour late to a class she's been attending for weeks, when I was sitting in the parking lot for that entire half hour watching the minutes tick by.



I take small comfort in knowing that one day, parts of her brain will go dormant too.   It makes me smile just a little bit, actually.



And I will tell her that it's funny, the things she'll remember.  And sometimes, it's even funnier what she won't.

Full Circle

So it appears, my immune system has an uncanny ability to sense when I'm on vacation.  Maybe it was the salty air, or the crisp citrusy white wine.   Or, it could have been the fact that at some point in the week leading up to our vacation, I simply said, "I'm so excited to go away!" and by doing so, invited all of the surrounding germs to pack themselves away in my toiletry bag.


I'm betting that it might simply be that I have a three year old and an almost 20 month old.



Whatever the case, all I know is that for the past four years- as it pertains to vacations, all I have to do is show up, and my immune system shuts down.


So, in a state of something close to deja vu, I drove to the local Doctor's Care facility just up the road from our condo.  The same one I've visited every other time we've been here.   I pulled up in the parking lot, feeling more than a little bitter that I knew exactly where it was.  It's the one right across from the Treasure Island Putt-Putt, with its dusty blue chairs, oatmeal-and-mauve colored walls, array of retirement magazines, and 11x14 prints of random medical pictures-- cross-sections of things like the urinary tract and an esophagus and god knows what else.


I walked in to find approximately four empty chairs and decided that the only thing worse than feeling bad is having to sit somewhere and feel bad in close proximity to other people who feel bad too.   I twice scared the poor old lady to the right of me when I coughed, so I sat very still and wheezed and checked facebook and wondered if I looked as bad as I felt.  I scanned the room and took a mental inventory:  a young-ish couple- the husband had obviously done something very painful to his lower back and was twisted in a very awkward way on the edge of his chair.  The old woman next to me was apparently with her daughter.  Her hands shook as she rummaged around in her purse for something (I imagined it was probably hand sanitizer or lysol spray, after the way she had re-coiled from my boisterous coughing).  Then, a young boy- Nintendo DS in hand- sat quietly with his dad.  He  had a bucket beside him. (The four empty chairs were all located around that poor kid).   A 20-something blond and uber tan girl hobbled through the door with a cane, her right foot bruised, swollen, and jutting from her ankle in a grotesque manner.   We were a homely bunch.  Tired, worn-down, sick.   Impatient.  We exchanged sympathetic nods if our gazes met, but no one was up for small talk, understandably.  Which worked for me, because I'm no good at small talk.  I'd rather people-watch and be a busy-body.



After about an hour, a man walked up to the front desk and signed in.  Then, he went back outside and returned with a tiny woman.  She was 1/3 his size, hunched over, with a head of silvery white hair.  She clung to his elbow, walking gingerly, and her hands were splotched with sun spots and bruises.  Her face was worn, and her eyes were kind but possessed something of a confused look.  As they walked by, I heard him say, "I'm right here, Mom.  I gotcha."  They settled themselves a few chairs down from me, and I glanced out of the corner of my eye to watch as he helped her sit down.  I noticed the way he took her purse and placed it gently on the floor beside her and the way his hand found hers again in a loving, reassuring gesture.  As the minutes passed, I found myself stealing glances at them more so than the others in the room.  It's not that I had never seen a son looking after his elderly mother.  It was just something about the way he spoke to her, the way he interacted with her- like it wasn't an inconvenience for him to be there, not like it probably was for the rest of us to be whiling away the hours in a crowded doctor's office.



I thought of Milo.   I thought about how big he seemed to me last night when I went in to look at him before I went to bed- the way he was stretched out and somewhat contorted in the bottom right corner of the pack-n-play we brought here to the beach.  I remembered how I had caught a glance of myself in the mirror while I was holding him and noticed for the first time that his feet could now wrap all the way around the back of my waist and how I felt my heart break a little bit again upon noticing it.  I thought about how these last few nights when I've been rocking him to sleep that it really felt more like he was the one holding me- how his arms wrapped around my neck, stroking the back of my head with his hand, and how he sometimes caressed the side of my arm while humming something in his tiny sing-song voice.



"You'll love having a boy," all of my boy-mama friends had said after we had found out we were going to have a Milo.  "There's just something about a boy and his mama."



I couldn't have known how true that would be.   For all of the sweet moments I've shared with Ella, it seems that for the time being, we've hit a patch of butting heads and vying for "queen of the household."  And that's okay.  I want her to be strong and to go her own way and I know her spunkiness will serve her well as she gets older.  But there's something so pure about my connection with Milo- the way his face beams when I walk into his room, the way he runs up to me with his mouth gaping open and drool flinging about, the slobbery open-mouthed kisses, the way he burrows himself into my chest and belly to watch TV.  I tell people all the time that my kids are everything to me.  Because it's true.  But as I held Milo last night, I was struck by the realization that, for a time that's quickly diminishing, I am his everything, too.   And I am reveling in that while it lasts.  Because I'm not everything to Ella anymore.  Oh, I'm still a lot to her, I think.  She still needs me.  She still wants me around, and hopefully she will for many more years.  But she's becoming more and more self-sufficient.  She pours her own cereal, turns on the TV, gets her own sippy out of the fridge, runs to the bathroom when she needs to go, dresses herself (god help me).



With even these small advances in her independence, things have gotten easier in our household in the recent weeks.  But because parenthood presents so many dichotomies, it's gotten easier... but it's also gotten sadder too, in a way.  Because it stings when we recognize we're not needed as much, even if it's the natural order of things.  We strive to raise our kids to become self-sufficent, to think their own thoughts, go their own ways, and prime their wings in preparation to "fly the coop."   But that doesn't mean we don't break out the box of tissues or hope they decide they're maybe not quite ready to let go of us yet.



Everyone has probably read "I'll Love You Forever."  I'll be honest-- I've always found it a tad creepy that a grown woman is still sneaking into her son's house (and vice versa) in the middle of the night, but I get the point, and of course, I still blubbered like an idiot when I read it for the first time.  As parents, it's so easy to get stuck in the here and now.  It's easy to focus on how long the days seem, how sleepless the nights are, to worry endlessly if we're doing it "right."



And then there's an older man and his frail, aging mother in a doctor's office- holding her and loving her in a way she probably never imagined he would so many years ago when she held him.   A reminder that this parenthood stuff isn't just about what happens today or tonight, or next week, or even next year.   It's a twisting path that we walk, putting one foot in front of the other, because that's all we can do.



And it's one that, if we're truly lucky, will eventually come back full circle one day.  

Arguing With a Three Year Old: 101

Confession:  I get into arguments with my three year old.  I wish I could say I was kidding.   Some days, I find the inner strength to take the higher road, keep my voice calm and steady.  "Love, I understand you're upset, but you really need to take a nap."  Or, as I stealthily dodge a half-eaten turkey sandwich, "Wow, that must make you really angry." 

Then, there are times when I've reached my breaking point, and it's only 1:05 p.m. and I say, "To HELL with the higher road.  Love and Logic, my ass."  

"ELLA.  CLAIRE.  You WILL go upstairs and take a nap!"

"No!"

"Yes ma'am."

"NO!  I want five more minutes."

"NO, we're going up now.  RIGHT NOW!"

"NOOO!   I'm gonna hit you, mommy.  You're ugly!"  (Her new favorite phrase- isn't it charming??) 

. . .and before I know it, I get overly excited and then I over-deliver punishment:

You do, and you'll NEVER be able to drive a car, EVER!  (Wait....mental note:  Next time, it might be more effective to just take away her TV privileges).

And then, silence.  But it's not over.  Not even close.  Now, we've entered the "death-ray stare" phase.

I snarl her name slowly, through gritted teeth, stretching it's normal two syllables into six.   I lock my pupils into firing position and we stare each other down, jaws set, chins jutted out.  I also try to make my nostrils flare because I'm sure that would add to the overall effect, but I've never mastered it, to be honest.  (I'm working on it).   We stare, without blinking, and now my eyes are stinging and watering, but I won't give in.  Then, she makes some sort of guttural noise in her throat that I swear I've only heard on National Geographic.   Pretty impressive.  And still, I think:

She will. not. win. this.  

I'M the mommy.  I'M the boss.   I'M mean, damnit.   I can dish it out just as good as she can and I've got way more experience.

And so I pick her up as she's kicking, screaming, clawing.  I carry her upstairs and gently place her on her bed, tuck her in and kiss her forehead.    Okay, no.  I don't always do that.   Usually, I drop her on her bed and haphazardly throw her blanket on her.  Then, I say something menacing like, "I don't care if you stay up here and cry the rest of the afternoon because you're acting like a big baby."   And then, because I know I'm already WELL past the point of no return, I storm out of her room and slam the door, just for good measure.

I stand outside her room for a moment and wait.  I keep waiting to feel accomplished.  To feel just a little bit victorious.

But I don't.  Not one bit.

Instead, I feel defeated.  Deflated.   Exhausted.  Maybe even a little pathetic.

Then, something deep inside me starts to hurt.   And in about 90 seconds, I've gone from hell-bent to  heartbroken.  It's not the first time, and I'm positive it won't be the last.  And oh God, here comes the guilt.   Oh God, have I broken her?  How big of a check should I be prepared to write for her future therapy sessions?  Will she grow up to hate me?  Walk on egg-shells around me?  The inner dialogue is incessant.  It's utter torture.  

And so I walk back into her room, sit down on the bed with her, and even though I don't deserve it, she fumbles her way into my lap and curls up.  And I cry, too.  Oh, I wish I was always so quick to forgive people the way she forgives me.  Being a three year old is rough.  And being a mommy to a three year old might be even rougher.   

And in the end, I'm sure I've learned the bigger lesson.   Funny how that works.

Poop Art & the Art of Poop

"Is that chocolate, or poop?  Here, let me smell."


If you've ever uttered those words, you're either a mom, or someone who is entirely too curious for their own good.  (If it's the latter, please go get help).


As a mommy, I bear many titles.  "Expert of all things poop" is not one I thought I'd ever add to my collection, but alas, here I am.  I'm assuming it started the day I changed my first diaper three years ago.  As the weeks passed, what was once considered taboo became a regular topic of dinnertime conversation, right down to the nitty gritty details- consistency, color, smell, volume, and gag-factor.   "It was so weird.  Kinda orange, and I could see little chunks of sweet potato...oh, can you pass me the salad dressing?" 

Ella pooped.  I changed her.   Wash, rinse, repeat.  Several hundred times.  It was often barely noteworthy and as long as it was contained in her diaper, pretty tolerable.  But God must have sensed that life wasn't interesting enough for me, and that maybe, I needed that little extra push out of my OC comfort zone.  So, he gave me a beautiful little boy, who I'm convinced is also part canine.  There is nothing this kid won't touch, pick up, and then immediately proceed to put in his mouth.  Nothing.  So when I walked into his room one afternoon after his nap to find little brown smear stains on his crib rails and mattress, I feared the worst.   Then gagged.   The next morning, there was more of the same, now including small pellets around the floor of his crib.   When I fussed at him, he simply clapped his hands and laughed at me.  Looking back now, I think there might have even been a hint of pride in his baby blue eyes.   This, I was not prepared for.  Poop was supposed to stay in the diaper.  Maybe sometimes, it's allowed to come out, but only if they're sick.   I realized I was going to have to step up my game in order to keep from becoming a daily pooper-scooper.   It's been a few weeks now, and after searching to high heaven for onesies in a size 3T along with threatening the use of duct tape, I think he's finally gotten the message:  Please unleash your creative side, son, but by all means, CHOOSE A DIFFERENT MEDIUM.


I had barely gotten Milo's poop art under control before we entered full-fledged potty-training mode with Ella and I mentally shifted gears.  Now, it was time to learn the art of poop.  You know, how to coax it out naturally and try to make it sound fun, maybe even appealing.  Ever had those moments when you say something and pray to God that you're not being secretly recorded?   If you haven't had any of them before you start the potty training process, you'll experience a host of those moments while you sit endlessly on the bathroom floor beside your preschooler, praying to see just one floater.  Just one.

This week,  I actually personified poop:

"Poop is nice.  He (She?) wants to come out and go to the party in the potty."  



I found myself bringing every topic of conversation back around to poop:

"Mommy, when birds make nests in the top of trees, do the nests fall out?"
"No, they stay up in the tree and the birds can go to sleep there.  And speaking of birds, do you know what birds like to do?  
"What?"
"They poop."



We drew pictures of potties and pictures of poop.  I pretended not to hear Ella when she told me she had named her poop "Mr. Man."



We made up songs about it.  In case you're wondering, there are lots of words that rhyme with poop:  soup, stoop, loop, croup, dupe, group, coop, hoop, goop.  

I bought stock in every brand of dried fruit that Ella would eat.  I stuffed her silly with craisins, dried mangoes, prunes, high fiber cereals, apples, whole wheat toast and apple juice. I watched her like a ticking time bomb.   How was she NOT going?  It had been three days and I knew she was miserable. 

She sat on the potty and I read her books.  We waited for poop.  I painted her toenails.  I painted my toenails.   I made funny poop sounds with my mouth.   I made toilet paper origami.  I offered chocolate chips.  Cookies.   A trip to Target to buy a new toy.  I told her pooping was so much fun, it was almost like riding a carnival ride.   We sat.  And sat.  And nothing.

  

When I felt like we weren't making any progress, I found comfort in the wise and poignant words of a saying that has become one of my parenting mottos:

"Sh** happens."   

And in this case, quite literally, it was going to happen- sooner or later.  We would wait it out.  Keep our chins up.  Drink apple juice and pear nectar.  Then a few mornings ago, unbeknownst to me, Ella wandered into the bathroom by herself while I was getting Milo his breakfast.  Minutes later, an enthusiastic screech pierced the air: "Mommy!!!!! POOOOOP!!!!!"

Never were two more glorious words spoken.  We looked in the potty.  We danced and jumped up and down.  Milo came in and started clapping (God love that kid.  He had no idea why, but he wanted in on the fun).  

"It looks like a whale!" she exclaimed.

I stared at it for a moment, as if trying to play some twisted version of the "shapes in clouds" game.  

"It DOES look like a whale," I agreed emphatically.

I'm aware that in that very minute as I stood studying my daughter's "accomplishment," I had once again become that mom I said I would never be when I was "pre-mom."  Suddenly, I was the Clorox wipes commerical Mom.  The mom who blogs, tweets, and posts updates about her child's bladder and bowel-emptying abilities.   The mom who imagined shapes out of her kid's excrements.  

But I wouldn't change a thing about it.   We do crazy, inconceivable, yes- even gross- things in the name of building our children up and setting them up for success.   

 I'm proud of you, Bug (even though I know one day you're going to despise me for writing about this). :)

  

"Good Part, Sad Part"

For the past several months, we've been doing "good part, sad part" of our days at the dinner table.  It took a little while to catch on, but now it's a regular thing with our family and Ella is often the one who initiates the conversation, which I love.

After a particularly rough afternoon and naptime debacle,  we sat around the table and Ella said, "Mommy, ask me what my sad part of the day was."  (Usually, she asks one of us first, so this was kinda different).

"Okay, what was your sad part today, Bug?"

"When I was crying in my room and you locked the door.  I really wanted you to come in and wipe my face.  If you had just come in and wiped my face, I would have gone to sleep."


{Did you hear that sound?  That would be the sound of a knife ripping through my heart}.




She said it just like that, too.  I've always known that she's an old soul, but she sometimes speaks with such concision and maturity that it frightens me.  I looked at Jake, searching his eyes for some kind of response of my own.  Then, his mouth turned down a little at the corners.  Crap.


Yes, she had thrown another of her stellar tantrums.  And yes, I had locked the door because I had warned I would do so if she continued to get up.  From downstairs, the muffled sobs really all sounded about the same, all of them intermittently laced with "mommy.." and "come in here..." and "nap.." and well, I just tuned it out.   Eventually, it got quiet and I had patted myself on the back for sticking it out and not giving in.   Not only did I need to follow through with what I had told her would happen, but, whether right or wrong, I also felt a certain amount of entitlement to my own rest time.  

But something about the way she spoke at the table last night broke me.  After a few minutes, I realized why.  It wasn't about "discipline versus no discipline" or because I felt that I shouldn't have followed through on what I had told her I would do.  Instead, her words made me realize that often, I treat parenting as a "cause-effect" relationship, not always a "mother-child" relationship.  It's easy to do, especially in the three's, with all of it's button pushing, negotiations and boundary-drawing (then erasing, then re-drawing).   But Ella doesn't recognize this yet.  The only difference between these two scenarios, to my three year old, is a comforting snuggle or the wiping of tear-stained cheeks, even if those tear-stained cheeks had been warned, multiple times.   So, while it didn't seem like much to me, it was HUGE to her.  

I sometimes forget, from high atop my mountain of discipline justifications, to climb down and see things from her vantage point.

"Oh.  Oh....Bug, I'm so sorry about that.  I didn't know that's all you wanted.   Mommy will listen better next time, okay?"




Her face instantly brightened up.  (Man, I'm so thankful she doesn't know how to hold a grudge).  "It's okay Mommy. I know you didn't mean it....  She looked down at her plate, then back up at me.


Hey, mommy??"  




I winced just slightly, waiting for her to twist the knife a little more.


"If I eat all my pasta, can I have some mango ice cream??"






And suddenly, we're on to the good part of our day.  Just like that.   This is life with a three year old.

Just Keep Swimming

I honestly can't remember when I last wrote a post.  (bad, bad K).   It usually only takes 3 or 4 days of no writing or some other creative output to cause me to shrivel up like, well...like my plants in our brown front yard.  I've been throwing all of my spare time and energy into starting up my photography business and wow, is it overwhelming.  Fun, but overwhelming.  Between reading blogs and tutorials, studying rules of exposure, composition, color, etc., researching marketing and branding strategies, and working with Jake to launch a new website and corresponding blog, there just hasn't been much time to do anything else that I love.

But admittedly, I haven't been the best at managing my time.  When I first decided to pack in the piano-lesson teaching and shift my artistic gears into neutral, I figured I would just take things day by day.  I'd work from home, when I could.   I heard and believed rumors of phenomena like napping children and creative space.  Oh, and energy (how silly of me).  A few years from now when my babes are in school, I'll probably shed a tear or two (they miiiight just be happy ones) and be grateful to have had these precious, fleeting and frustrating years with them.  But I also think I might find myself standing in my silent kitchen, which for once isn't littered with tupperware lids and bread crusts, and think, "I saw that going differently in my mind."

The truth is, I'm not good at making choices.  Never have been.  Even now, standing in the makeup aisle of Target can nearly give me a panic attack.   Jake learned early on in our relationship to never, ever ask me where I wanted to eat.  I'd change my mind seventeen times before we finally landed on a restaurant and by that point, we were both too crabby and hungry to talk to each other for the first half of our meal.

But those are just little things.

There was the time I lost a scholarship to VCU because I decided at the very last minute that I wasn't sure I actually wanted to major in music anymore.  I decided that maybe I'd like to write, be a journalist. So I picked a track in mass communications. And precisely one semester later, I was back in the music office filling out a change of major form.

Seven years and one Bachelor's Degree in Music Education later,  I'm now using the years I spent holed up in musty practice rooms to....um, launch my photography business.  The piano is sitting dormant in the corner of our dining room collecting dust, and if given the choice, I'd still grab a pen and paper before I'd even think of parking my butt on that piano bench.  I've also decided that if Ella or Milo should tell me they want to major in music, I will probably have to bite clear through my own tongue to keep from saying anything.  It will be their choice, not mine.  (Repeats over and over).

And it's ironic, how much I hate having to choose, because I find myself in a season of life where I'm having to make more choices than ever before.  Some I make all by myself.  Some, life makes for me.  (I'm still not sure which ones I tend to resent more).  Hands down, the easiest decision I make in a given day is deciding which creamer to put in my coffee.  From there, it gets much more complicated:

"Do I sit down on the floor and play with my kids or do I turn on a movie so I can send out those emails?"  

"Do I clean the bathrooms while they nap, or do I finish editing those photos?"  

"Should Jake and I take the evening to reconnect, or should we work on our individual projects after the kids go to sleep?"  

"Do I play with my camera, or do I write?"

"Meditate, or work-out?"

And somewhere, in between every choice I make or don't make, there's that tiny voice that tells me I shouldn't have to choose.  Why can't I just do it all?   Because I can if I really try.  I'm just not doing it right yet.  

It reeks of immaturity.  A voice that preys especially on the young, the energetic, the eternally optimistic.  It dupes us into believing exactly what marketing companies around the world are paid the big bucks to make us believe:  we can do it all, have it all, be it all.  And if we can't, don't, and aren't- then we're obviously not trying hard enough.  Period.  

So this voice accompanied me out of high school, into college, through my engagement and early years of marriage, and got ever louder until I couldn't discern which was my own voice anymore.  It finally took panic attacks and trips to counseling to make me realize there was no other choice than to have it bound and gagged.  

And yet, like a cockroach in a nuclear holocaust, it refuses to die.  Although not anywhere near as loud and obnoxious as it once was, there are still echoes of it in my day to day life.  Like, my first inclination to be frustrated with myself that I let my blog fall to the wayside.  Because, why shouldn't I be able to have the time to write up my business plan, blog, have tickle fights with the kids, cook, take care of the house, go to doctor appointments, have playdates, have long conversations with Jake over dinner, visit with family, balance the checkbook, shave my legs, actually open the new Pilates DVD I ordered 4 months ago.  In reality, I'm extremely lucky if all of the above happens in the span of a week.

Big time reality check.

I don't have anything figured out.  I don't know what I'm doing.  Both my kids are screaming upstairs in their rooms, fighting naptime, I have paperwork to fill out and submit for my business license, and I haven't figured out what I'm making for dinner tonight.  But for now, I've decided that the best way to reel myself back in is with an open bag of chocolate chips and a cup of coffee.  

There are many people and forces in my life that require my steady grace and patience.  But it never ceases to amaze me on days like today, that the person who always needs it most, is myself.

And so I take comfort in the words of a beloved blue fish on Ella's current favorite movie:

"Just keep swimming, just keep swimming.  Just keep swimming, swimming, swimming. What do we do?  We swim, swim."

(And also, don't forget to come up for air).  

Wise fish, that Dory.

"How To Get Help When Your Car Breaks Down"

My car broke down in a downtown 7-11 parking lot today.  (Oh thank Heaven, my @$$).   The rest of the day was spent dodging tornadoes (and I mean that very literally). Really, it was an eventful day...

Anyway, the following is a nifty list I've entitled--

"How to Get Help When Your Car Breaks Down,"  (K-dub style):

1.  Wear a skirt and platform wedges.  This is a must.  No cargo pants, and absolutely NO denim over-alls.

2.  Turn the key in the ignition no less than 3 times after the initial failure to start.  And then again one more time, just for good measure.  Check facebook on your phone and wait 5 minutes.  Turn the key again.  DAMNIT.

3.  Kick yourself with said platform wedges that you didn't listen to your dad/husband/driver's ed teacher when they talked to you about what to do when your car breaks down.  

4.  Get out of the car and nonchalantly look at the hood of your car.  (Is that a dent?  Hmmmm....) Do not, under ANY circumstances, let anyone know that your car has broken down until you figure out a way to let someone know your car has broken down.  Call your husband/significant other/BFF.  When they ask whether or not you've asked someone for a jump, you momentarily wonder what on earth aerobics have to do with starting your car.

5.  Face facts and realize it's time to get down to the nitty-gritty.  Make sure to be meticulous when popping the hood of the car and placing the hood holder-upper stick-thing in the correct hole.  These things take time, you know.  Wouldn't want to break a nail.  Also, it's noon on a 90 degree summer day.  The hood will be hot.  Duh.

6.  Stare under the hood of car and randomly start messing with plugs and coils as if you've done this at least a dozen times.  Silently curse auto-maker for not putting labels on all of the car parts.  In the very least, it should be color coded.  GEEZ.

7.   Walk into 7-11 and ask employee (who looks slightly stoned) for a jump.   (This is, quite obviously, the biggest pain in their ass today). 

8.   Stoner/7-11 employee asks you to go ahead and hook up the two cable ends to your battery.  If you're unsure which end goes on which, go with the "eenie meenie miney mo" method.  Works like a charm.  Then, stand there awkwardly while he revs the engine and blares reggae out of his speakers.

9.   At long last, when a random lawn-care service man (who doesn't have blood-shot eyes) pulls up and asks if you need help, stutter slightly and smooth your hair.  Nothing wrong with playing the damsel in distress.   When, after multiple attempts to start your car, he tells you it sounds like "the starter," nod your head in agreement and say, "yeah,  That's pretty much what I thought it was."

10.  While waiting for the tow truck, indulge yourself in a slurpee and a taquito, guilt free.  You've earned it.

 

Oh Crap, the Three's

As Ella's third birthday approached, I actually started to feel myself breathe easier.  We're still not potty trained (not even close) but we seemed to weather the two's with only minor battle wounds to show for it.   On the one hand, a part of me was nostalgic because really, there's just no way to justify a three year old as a toddler anymore (she really hasn't been for awhile).  Now, she's right smack in the middle of her preschool years, precocious as ever, and losing more of her baby chub every day.  Ack!  How did this happen?  WHEN did this happen??  (I think I want another baby).



On the other hand, I started congratulating myself on making it through her two's.  Jake and I high-fived each other with looks of satisfaction.  "We did it!  Yaaaaaay!"


And then I started getting comments on facebook about her impending birthday:


"Good luck with that!"
"Ugh, the THREE'S."
"My children were way worse at 3 then they were at 2." 
"Just when we thought the worst was over, he turned 3." 


 Someone even skipped a year ahead to give me advanced warning of the "F*** You Fours."


I died a little inside with every comment.


It's not that I thought Jake and I could dust our hands off and be officially DONE with the hardest part of child-rearing (um, I'm terrified of her teenage years), but I was hoping for at least a little reprieve.  Besides, all I had ever been warned about were the "Terrible Two's."  What is this with the three's now?   Lord knows you don't really get anything for making it out of the two's alive- no medal, no long weekend getaway sans kids, not even a shout-out.   In the very least, we had hoped to graduate with at least a partially potty-trained kid who "slept in" past seven.  No such luck.  


I scoffed and thought, "well, maybe that happens to OTHER kids.  Her two's were pretty tumultuous though, so I'm gonna say we've been through the worst..."


And here we are.  Three years and two weeks old, and as much as I wanted to say otherwise, it's like someone flipped a switch permanently to sassy mode.  Heaven help me.  There seems to be a new level of resistance to the things I ask her to do, marked simply by the fact that she's that much more articulate and conniving.  As if that isn't enough, she's started waking up multiple times a night for reasons like, "my curtain rod is scary," or "there's a penguin in my closet" or my most recent personal favorite, "I'm afraid I'm going to grow a peanut like Mi-yo."


Really, kid?


And so I find myself battling newborn-like sleep deprivation, only this time, having to maintain a conversation with my NOT newborn--at 2:20 in the morning-- about why it's just physically not possible for her to grow a penis.  (That's my girl.  If ever there was a good reason to lose sleep, she'll come up with it).  I stumble back into the room and wonder how it is that my one year old is sleeping better than my three year old.

 Jake: "What was it this time?"  
Me: "Apparently, she's scared of penises."  
Jake: "GOOD."


If I don't laugh, I'll cry.  But sometimes even laughing just takes too much darn energy.  In the meantime, I tell myself not to be scared about the three's (not much I can do about it now anyway). That maybe, just like everything else, it's a day by day thing.  Some days will need to be conquered with extra strong coffee, or chocolate, or wine, or maybe screaming into a pillow (me, not her).  And other days will find me in stitches over her spunky attitude, or simply marveling at the fun little girl she's becoming.  


I think there will be more of the latter.

Ella-Bug Turns THREE! (And Answers 20 Questions)

Thanks to Pinterest, I have a ton of great ideas, none of which are my own.   I wish I could claim this next one as my own too, but when I found it via another mommy blog, I knew I had to do it this year with Ella.  I've come up with twenty questions to be answered by her on the eve of her 3rd birthday and hope to continue the tradition for as long as she doesn't think it's lame.  (So, maybe another 5 to 7 years?)   We'll see.

So here they are, straight from the Bug's mouth:



1.  What do you want to be when you grow up?  Why?


A doctor.  But I don't wanna see butts.




(I can't say that I blame her).



2.  What is your favorite thing to say?


"POOP!"



3.  What do you like to eat for dinner?  


Noodles and butter.




4.  What's your favorite thing to do at school with your friends?


Play with Gloria and Bryc-ee and do crafts.





5.  What's your favorite toy right now?


Mi-yo bean.




6.  What's your favorite book?  


The boy throws the kite in the tree and the ladder and then he can't get them down and he tries really hard.  


**She's referring to the book "Stuck."  Thank you Williams fam-  Ella has read that book twenty times already!** :)




7.   What would happen if all the chocolate in the world disappeared?


The whole world would be sad and then no one would be happy anymore.

(How right she is...)





8.    What would you do if Milo took your favorite toy?


I'd tell him, "Miyo, you woudn't like it if Ella took YOUR toy..."

(Nice try, kid.  I'm no fool.  You conveniently left out the part where you would smack him into next Tuesday).



9.    What's your favorite thing about Daddy?


Hugging him.




10.  What's your favorite thing about Mommy?


Playing with you.  I like tickling on the floor.




11.  If you could be an animal, what animal would you be?  


A giraffe!  


Why?


Because they like to eat.




12.  Why do you like to wake up so very, very early?


Because it's fun.  It's fun going into mommy's room.


(Fun for WHO...???)



13.  What do you think about when you fall asleep at night?


How I can get food in the night.

(Well hello there, instant pang of mom-guilt.  Is my kid going to bed hungry??  Probably so, since she refuses to eat 80% of what I put in front of her...)



14.   What is your favorite thing to do with Milo?


I yell him to STOP!!! when he cries too much.








15.   What makes you laugh?


The part in "snoopy" when his hair gets big and he sees the big pumpkin.  


(How random is her brain?  One of her favorite scenes from "It's the Great Pumpkin, Charlie Brown)."





16.  What makes you cry?


Sometimes Ella gets a little 'frust--ated'...*long pause*  I don't like it when it rains.






17.  What's your favorite song to sing in Mommy's car?


Old McDonald Had a Farm.


(For the record, not ONCE have we ever sung this song in my car.  But hey, it's her world).





18.   What's your favorite show on TV right now?


Little Einsteins!  "Climb 'aborn'...get ready to explore..."






19.   What is your favorite color?


Red, orange, and green!  Lanterns!




20.  What color is happy?


Yellow!  What's YOUR favorite color, Mommy?












Oh my spunky, sweet, Ella-bug....I love seeing the world through your eyes.  Thank you for picking me to be your mommy.  I love you to the moon and back again....

Not The Mama

Sometimes, I try to pretend that I'm not a lowly pawn in my daughter's ever-changing chess game.  I've lost count of the number of times that she's "check-mated" me.  

"Ella, it's time to eat lunch."

{whiiiiinnnnneee}

"Ella, I need to change your diaper."

{NOOOOOOO!!!!!}

"Ella, it's time to brush your teeth and get ready for bed."

{But I wanna watch Mike the Knight!!!!}

In my head, I know that every act of resistance is an opportunity for me to push back that much harder. Be firm.  Unmoving.  Unfeeling.   To say, "Tough toenails, kiddo.  I'm the MOM."  

But the reality is that I don't want to be the mom sometimes.  I want to be some obscure, favorite aunt who isn't around enough to wear out her welcome and therefore, has an endless supply of patience and energy (and candy).  She would be so much better to do all of the negotiating and coercing.  Because, truth be told, I'm just a bit of a pushover.  And I'm not so much interested in laying down the law as much as I'm interested in peace and quiet.  And sometimes, I just want a few extra minutes to muster up enough grit to forge ahead with a diaper change that could truly gag a maggot, or the ridiculous (and yet, impressive) display of stall tactics at bedtime.  

So, through a combination of happenstance and necessity, we've landed on the "five minutes" rule.  Every parent has said it:  "Fine. Five more minutes."  It's a compromise of sorts, because let's be honest:  as parents, we've met our matches.  These beautiful creatures who captivate us because we have no idea what we ever did to deserve to feel such love are also nature's pay-back for all the crap we did to our parents.   Sure, they're only 3 feet tall and can't control their bodily functions, but there's no denying that they've had us at their mercy from the day we brought them home from the hospital.  

So at times, I just like to give them the illusion of control.  Not giving in, per se, rather handing over an inch or two of the reigns without letting them take full control of the horse.  Ultimately, it buys them time to do whatever it is that's so incredibly important, and it gives me time to gather my nerves and patience.  And to top it all off, I'm momentarily spared the attitude and soul-sucking whine.  Maybe they'll forget that they didn't want to go to bed... 

But what I've found, surprisingly, is that those five minutes are often all that's needed.  Ella has now learned (and somewhat accepted) that when the timer goes off, there's no more debating.  She knows that she only gets one five minute rule at a time in our house.  And for me?  Those five fleeting minutes give me time to not be the bad guy, the negotiator, the time-out placer, the layer-down-of-the-law, the frazzled cook,  schedule coordinator, endless supplier of boo-boo kisses, and the car-pool fairy.

For five more minutes, I just get to be someone who maybe gets to finish her cup of coffee in peace.   And that's enough for me. 

 

Death by Chocolate

Willpower isn't one of my strong points.  This is one of the many reasons I loved being pregnant (you know, after I started to like food again).  "Hey, are you gonna eat that other bear-claw?" and "Yes, I will make that a Route 44-super-extra-jumbo milkshake, thank you."

However, this is why I don't often like to buy things at the store such as cookie dough or Double Stuf oreos.  Once they're in our fridge or pantry, it's ON.  (Oh, what I could do to a package of Double Stufs).  It sometimes takes all I have not to tear into them on my way home.  Then, heaven forbid that Ella has one of her special days.  Come nap-time, there's a 99.4% chance that I've already eaten an entire sleeve of oreos  (Yes, I sometimes eat my feelings.  But I do it with skim milk, so that has to count for something, right?)  My dad, on the other hand, is infamous for keeping a pack of M&M's on his desk and taking one solitary piece out at a time, munching it, then folding the package back up and leaving it for the rest of the day.  WHO DOES THAT?  And more importantly, why didn't I get THAT gene?

This is the first summer in nearly four years that I have a) not been pregnant and b) not been burning through an extra 500 calories a day just by sitting on the couch being a milk factory for someone.  And while I'm looking quite forward to not feeling pukey and/or not having some kind of swimsuit wardrobe malfunction brought on by my ever-growing mammaries, I'm also realizing that there has been little to no discipline in my eating habits for a looooong time.  My willpower, for all intents and purposes, is like a muscle that's lost it's tone.  It sags.  It jiggles.  It burns when I run up our steps (wait, maybe those are my glutes).

So I come up with ways around actually practicing some restraint.  Have you ever done this?  I figure if I can just outsmart myself, I'm golden.  It's nap-time, and I'm hitting that 2 p.m. brick wall:

...I need some caffeine.  Time for some coffee.


...{takes a sip} Hmm...One of those Ghirardelli dark chocolate-caramel things would be AWESOME with this cup of coffee.  {sip}  I want one.  


...Nope. {pours in more coffee creamer}.  I'll just make my coffee taste sweeter instead.


...{sip} Hmph.  Now it doesn't taste right.  I'll need to munch on something to off-set it.  Hey- I know! I'll have some vanilla wafers.  Those would be good.  They're low-fat.  {grabs box of wafers} ....I still really want that chocolate.  Nope.  I'm going to abstain.  Just eat these.  Hey look- they actually call them 'Nilla' Wafers.  My bad.  Wonder why they don't just say "Vanilla??"  {desperately trying to think of anything BUT the chocolates}  Wonder who invented 'Nilla Wafers, anyway?  Wonder if they make Chocolate Wafers.  Would they call them 'Colate' Wafers?  Maybe 'Choco' Wafers...{sip}  I really want some chocolate.


...Okay, I'll compromise.  Just eat something with small bits of chocolate, maybe.  Just enough to take the edge off.  A quaker chocolate chip granola bar.  Perfect!  {inhales the granola bar}  {Checks Facebook}.  {Checks Pinterest} {Sees a pin for dark chocolate caramel brownies}.  *sigh*.  That granola bar was actually pretty anti-climactic.  I've still got half a cup of my coffee left.  And I HAVE been eating healthily today up until, well, an hour ago.   Maybe I'll just eat a salad for dinner...{willpower officially disintegrates}.

So, I end up eating the Ghirardelli chocolate covered caramel square after all.  After all of that- all of the extra calories I consumed while trying NOT to eat it- when I would have been better off (calorie-wise, at least) just eating it right when I wanted it.  I'd still like to give myself an A for effort though.  I had good intentions, really.  (Okay, maybe an A-).


Bottom line: Maybe it is better to ask for forgiveness rather than permission after all (even if you're asking it from yourself).


So carry on, fellow chocolate lovers. ;-)

K

Balancing Act

Anyone who knows me knows that I am a planner.   I need to know when, where, how, why, and have the teensiest of details worked out.  Trips, events, grocery shopping, outfits, even next week's nail color.  I've been this way for as long as I can remember.

It must be true, then, that opposites attract, because I met and fell in love with a guy who loves to "roll with the punches."  It's one of the things that makes me love him so and yet annoys me to no end.   When we first met, he would sometimes ask me if I wanted to go for a drive. "Sure!" I'd say.  "Let's go.  Where are we going?"

"Oh, just for a drive.  I don't know, we'll decide on the way."

Um, what?  Who does that?  What if I'm wearing a completely inappropriate pair of shoes for whereever we end up?  Is this a long drive or a short drive?  Should I pee before we leave?  Why didn't he realize that these were important considerations?  Of course, I kept my high maintenance mouth shut for fear of scaring him away, remembering that he did come to pick me up in a jeep for our first date, after all.  (That really said it all).

So naturally, when it came time to start a family, he said, "eh, let's just see what happens." And once again, my detail-oriented (and impatient) brain computed this as, "you will be 39 by the time you have your first child."  I saw no need to waste perfectly good eggs.  Clearly, he hadn't yet familiarized himself with the latest fertility charting software and thus, needed to know how crucial the timing was.  Luckily- gratefully- we got pregnant right away.  But now looking back, I can honestly say that was essentially the last time I had some kind of control (or any illusion of it, at least) as it pertained to my life.

Because after Ella started growing in my belly, I realized that ultimately, I had no control over whether the pregnancy would be viable.  Scary.

I had a due date.  She made me wait a week longer.  Torture.

I had planned for a vaginal delivery.  (I typed up my birth "plan."  Don't judge). She apparently didn't like the shape of my pelvis.  PAINFUL (and again, scary).

And that was really just the beginning.

Of course, a few things I planned to do did work in my favor.  But I learned to view those instances as happy surprises rather than things I was banking on.

Now, almost three years into being a mommy, I realize that most of my days are comprised of minute-to-minute plans that get train-wrecked or abandoned.  It comes with the territory when your kids are 20 months apart and both under the age of three.  I won't lie- it SUCKS sometimes.  Unfortunately, there are times when I'm just selfish enough to take it out on them or Jake.   And yet, it's futile.  I could cry and stomp my feet all I want (and I'd be in perfectly good company) but it doesn't change a thing.  This is what I signed up for.  I didn't realize it at the time, but the day that I got my positive pregnancy test, I essentially took my planner, my spreadsheets, my preconceived notions- all of them- and chucked them out the window.  I still remember buying mother's day cards for my mom when I was younger (and not yet a mom).  All of them- even the funny ones- were streaked with words like "unconditional," "sacrifice," and "selfless."  I understood and appreciated (in my own way) that she gave up things for me, but those words didn't carry the same weight then that they do now.  As it turns out, Hallmark was dead on; "mother" is pretty much synonymous for "sacrifice."

I'm sure that any mom can rattle off a handful of everyday, run-of-the-mill sacrifices that are commonplace: you don't remember what good sleep feels like.  Your hips will never look the same again, for better or for worse.  Your dinner is always cold by the time you actually sit down to eat it.  You don't always get a shower.  The money that you would normally put aside for that manicure or new pair of shoes is now being syphoned into the Pampers Fund.  You planned to have a date night, but then one of the kids got sick.  You wanted to watch The Today Show, but Peppa Pig- once again- trumped Matt Lauer.  And although you're never consciously keeping score, you find yourself stopping mid-diaper change and remembering how you used to be able to leave your house when you wanted to- without any regard to car-seat configuration, naptimes, and/or lack of clean clothes.  For a moment, you're wistful.  Then grateful.  Then exhausted.  Wash, rinse, repeat.  Every single day.  And those typically are the days that you leave an exhausted and semi-coherent message on your best-friends voice-mail because you just want to hear someone else say they understand.   That, and you just want to speak to someone who doesn't crap their pants.

And then there are those sacrifices that cost a bit more, that cut just a bit deeper.  Those that your children may never fully understand or appreciate.  (Maybe you pray that they won't ever have to understand it for themselves).  The ones that find you sobbing in the solitude of your shower, or having heated "discussions" with your partner behind closed bedroom doors, or up at 2 a.m. fighting off the monsters in your own closet.  You find yourself thinking...


"My kids will always know..."

"I don't want them to ever be...."

"I don't care what it takes, I'll never...."

"I want them to remember that..."




Behind each of these thoughts is sacrifice.  A conscious decision to keep your bucket- which is filled to the brim with years of lessons learned the hard way, fears, insecurities- from spilling over onto the ones you love the most, no matter what the cost.  Sometimes it does spill over, despite your best efforts.   But over time, you learn to balance it somehow.  Some days it feels heavier than others- that bucket on one hip, a fifteen month-old on the other, and a three year old clinging to your leg.  But you manage.  You see the bigger picture.  And you hope that one day, when they have buckets of their own (because they will) they'll learn to balance them the way you did.   And on those days when their own buckets are filled with the weight of the world, you can then look at them and say,  "I know how you feel."   There is truly no substitute for experience.


Sacrifice begets sacrifice the way that love begets love.  It's impossible to have one without the other.

A Wounded Healer

There's a subtle yet powerful difference between seeing a doctor who, without so much as a second glance, writes you a prescription, and the one who actually sits down and empathizes with you (and who may or may not then offer you the same prescription). 

I saw a total of three counselors and two different psychiatrists in my initial journey to overcome emetophobia before landing (by complete happenstance) on the site of my current counselor/clinician. At first, I was wary of contacting her.  Slightly jaded, more than a little bitter, and hesitant to pay another several hundred dollars with potentially marginal results to show for it.  

But then I read her story.  And it was different.   

Her words painted a picture of someone who had been exactly where I was right at that very moment.  Someone else who had once- perhaps hundreds of times- thought that this was as good as it was gonna get.   Living life on the sidelines.  Front row in the cheering section but never dancing down the court.  I wondered if maybe marginal results were all I could ever expect and hope for.  Maybe I should settle and be content.

But this wasn't her narrative.  I dove headfirst into her blog that night and ravenously devoured her articles with a renowned sense of hope.  It was the first time in years that I could see myself on the other side of this thing.   It's now been 16 months, and to say that she has done what no one else could have done for me is an understatement.  Yes, she's a registered clinical counselor.  Yes, she specializes in CBT (cognitive behavioral therapy).  Yes, she's done years of research and works with clients and therapists all over the world.  But in my personal opinion, none of that mattered nearly as much to me as the fact that she had recovered from the same phobia I was currently living with.

She knew the fear I spoke of because she had lived with it for twenty years.  She not only had survived it, but beat it.   She is a wife and a mother.  She "got it" in a way that my other therapists couldn't.  As sympathetic and tactful as they tried to be, they just couldn't put themselves in my shoes.  And for so long, that's all I really needed.  Meds are a wonderful tool to get you from point A to point B with less damage than if you hadn't had them, but I can honestly say that there was no amount of Xanax in the world that could've worked this out in my soul.   

She and I meet once a month now- mostly as a touch-point, and it seems we spend a good portion of it talking about things that don't necessarily relate directly to the phobia.  After our session this evening, I found myself a bit tearful as I talked with Jake about our session.  Never has it been so apparent to me the need for these "wounded healers."  People who have "been there, done that."  Those who are willing to expose their own scars- no matter how deep- for the sake of helping to heal someone else's.  And it was tonight, that perhaps I realized for the first time, how fortunate I am to be surrounded by so many of these types.

My husband.

My close friends.

My women's group.

My online mama friends.

They have offered out-stretched hands to me time and time again, not only reassuring me that I wasn't alone, but in doing so, making themselves vulnerable as well.  Have you ever held out your hand to someone and had it rejected?  It stings.  It's embarrassing.  It makes you a little more reluctant to offer it a second time.  I am in no way deserving of second chances.  But I've been offered them, nonetheless.  Hell, I've been offered 962 chances.  (At least).  There's something almost transformative though, about hearing someone say, "I know exactly how you feel," or "I went through the same ordeal."

Until you've been through a divorce, you don't know the sting of that separation.

Until you've been through a marriage that's seen the devastation of a porn addiction, you don't know the demons that are lurking there.

Until you've struggled with infertility, you don't know the heartache.

That doesn't mean you can't still offer a shoulder to cry on.  (I've always believed that shoulders are pretty overrated, with the exception of this one role). ;-)  What I think it does mean, is that the dark days we have endured (or will endure)- when we find ourselves bruised, beaten and bewildered- are always for a reason.  That reason may not become apparent to us for another ten years, so maybe this requires us to trust in a bigger picture.   If you think about it, our world is chock-full of wounded people.  Pain exempts no one.  And when it comes down to it, there are really only two options: be jaded, or be empathetic.

My scars are still a bit tender.  And they absolutely, positively cost me something.  But tonight, I was reminded that they might, in fact, be my best attributes after all. 

 

How Low Can You Go?

It's never a good sign when your daughter is already crying before she sets foot in your room at 6:25 a.m. Ella had clearly gotten up on the wrong side of the bed this morning. Which reminds me, I'd like to meet the person who coined the phrase, "the wrong side of the bed." I'd like to point out to them that in our house, there isn't such a thing as the "right" side of the bed anymore. There hasn't been one in almost two years, and probably won't be one for another fifteen more. So there.



And thus began our Wednesday.



Trying to be the optimist, I thought, "well, maybe it can only improve from here."



It didn't.



It still hasn't.



But at least now there's silence. It's almost deafening. Nap-time was once again preceded by a tantrum that would make even a New Jersey housewife jealous. I shut the door to her room, locked it, and walked away, bracing myself to go for the long haul with this one. I figured I might need some help steeling my nerves so I sat on the couch and mindlessly shoved several thin mints into my mouth. (Ah, comfort food). Upstairs, I heard Ella's room being ripped to shreds. All of the Melissa & Doug food being hurled at her door. Books being torn from bookshelves. Brobee's muffled voice singing about a party in his tummy, so yummy, so yummy yu-- a thud, and then silence. (Poor Brobee). In this relentless battle of wills that is the two's (and so I hear- the three's and fours....), I may have momentarily won the battle, but the paranoid and insecure side of me often wonders if I'm just one step closer to losing the war. I wonder if she knows how defeated I feel. I wonder if she knows that, with every instance of me losing my temper or placing her in her room to "cool off," I worry that I'm inadvertently chipping away at her beautiful, fiery spirit that on most other days, I envy for myself. Oh, I complain about changing diapers, wiping noses, and picking up dried, crusted strawberries off of the floor every day, but I'm actually quite good at those things. I could do that until the cows come home. But this whole thing of taking it upon myself to raise another human being to be a kind, compassionate, loving, and disciplined individual? Some days, I don't know how that's going to turn out. (Meanwhile, I'm sure it's written in the "How to Be a Successful Mommy" manual that they gave me when I left the hospital with her, but oddly, I haven't been able to find it since we got home...)



I was reminded of the study that was published a few years ago which found that the happiest place in the world is, quite surprisingly, Denmark. (I know, I know- I still can't believe Disneyworld didn't make the cut...) The Danish people, sandwiched in between their seemingly better-looking neighbors- Sweden and Norway, with their mediocre weather, and self-proclaimed heavy smoking/drinking habits have consistently made it to the top of the happy list because they seem to excel in something that we American's have always struggled with: setting the bar low and keeping it there. It's also entirely possible that most people there truly don't give a rip about what others think. It would make sense that if you aren't expecting too much (either from yourself or from anyone else) then who cares if others are impressed or not?



If you stop and think about it, it's actually quite brilliant.



So today, I don't care that my daughter has not had any clothes on since 7:30 a.m. I'm picking my battles carefully these days, and that's not one I care to fight. She has also eaten her weight in Craisins today, and if you're good at math, you'll figure out, that's a hell of a lot of Craisins. She'll probably be pooping Craisins until her 3rd birthday, but again, not my battle. There are worse things she could want to eat.



I may have started today (and many others) with an expectation bar that was several notches higher than what it should have been. And the reasons why it was set high to begin with are actually quite irrelevant at this point. Bottom line: some days, it's enough to make sure your kids are fed and aren't sitting in their own crap. Nothing more. You may not be able to get a shower or get makeup on. This is why God created baseball caps and deoderant. You may not even get them dressed. Bonus points if you do. Triple bonus points if the outfit actually matches. Also, don't expect them to act like normal, civilized human beings. They're irrational, narcissistic, and bi-polar- at best. Of course, I'm not advocating that we should all wake up each morning with a giant chip on our shoulder, but perhaps, if we decide that, as parents, anything above and beyond the mere basics is just icing on the cake, we'll find ourselves more pleasantly surprised instead of just plain exhausted.


Maybe. One can hope, right? So, how low can you go...?