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...?

Great Post by Zenhabits: "The Way of the Peaceful Parent"

Okay, I'm doing this at the risk of coming across as "crunchy" as I know in my heart I actually am. But in reality, this re-post has nothing to do with being a hippie, zen parent, and more to do with acknowledging that every parent strives to be a happier/stronger/more sane/more fulfilled mommy or daddy tomorrow than they were today. After just getting in from an absolutely amazing weekend in Charleston with our best friends (more on that later), I'm feeling particularly refreshed and recharged, but I don't for one second pretend to think that by tomorrow morning, at approximately 11 a.m., I'll still be feeling this way. In which case, I'll be glad to take the opportunity to re-read this blog post (and grieve the fact that I'm not still sitting on a veranda overlooking a cobbletone street, sipping a mojito).


As it pertains to getaways, all good things must come to an end.


As it pertains to parenting, if we're lucky, there's always tomorrow. ;-)

Dear Ella. . .

Dear Ella,

We have not had the best day today. My mommy brain is trying desperately to understand what the big difference is between the clementine I handed you for a snack and the one you said you wanted. They are both orange. They are both round. They are the same size. Neither one of them has splotches.

But you wanted "dat one." As in, the one that I hadn't already just peeled and painstakingly de-seeded (for the love of all things holy, why aren't ALL clementines seedless?) And because it was only 9:20 a.m. and my second cup of coffee hadn't fully kicked in, I decided I was too tired to peel "dat one right dare."

That was apparently the wrong thing to say to you this morning.

And then about an hour later, I tried ever so gently to explain to you, sweetie, that blueberry muffins don't just materialize out of thin air. I know it hurts. Mommy has wished the same would happen with peanut M&M's and Double Stuf Oreos. But now, our next door neighbors have also been made aware that we have no muffins.

Remember when we played hide and seek this morning while Milo took his nap and I was hiding behind the shower curtain in the downstairs bathroom? Well, I wanted to say I'm sorry. I'm sorry because I didn't actually tell you that we were playing hide and seek. I just went and hid there and played Words With Friends for six beautiful, solitary minutes while you took a brief hiatus from whining and danced to the Fresh Beats.

It was just one of those days, I guess. And the rain didn't help. I hated that it rained this morning, which meant that we couldn't go swing. Believe me, I wanted nothing more than to go to the playground too. All mommies know that the playground = long naps and God knows Mommy needed that kind of a nap from you today.

I just want you to know, Bug, that I'm trying to see things from your perspective- really, I am. I understand that you didn't want to put your pants on before we went to Target. And although I do want to indulge your flair for the dramatic, I draw the line at letting you hop down from the cart and walk around on all fours, pretending to be a cat while we're in Target. I'm also sorry that your legs aren't long enough yet to reach the pedals of Mommy's car that you wanted to pretend to drive when we got home, which somehow meant that I was supposed to carry you up the front walkway into the house, but in doing so, made you scream even louder that you wanted to go back outside and walk in the house by yourself all over again.

Oh, and I'm sorry I laughed in your face today when you cried so hard that you farted. Mommy doesn't mean to invalidate your feelings, sweetie. It's just that if I don't laugh, I'll cry too. It just seemed like the better option at the time. I did cry though, while you were reading your book to me at naptime. Two little wispy tears that rolled out of the corners of both of my eyes that you couldn't see while I tilted my head back and gazed at the ceiling in your room and listened to your sweet sing-songy voice. And in that moment, I prayed I wouldn't remember that, barely five minutes before, I was pleading and cajoling- practically selling my soul to the devil himself- to get you to go upstairs and take your nap. I just prayed that I would only remember you "reading" to me about the little boy and his penguin who wanted to fly.

You know how you like to pretend to fill up the gas tank in your car? Well, Mommy's tank is sitting on empty today. "Running on fumes" is probably a more accurate description. But it doesn't mean that I love you any less. It just means Mommy is tired. But that's why God invented 7:30 bedtimes. I used to think it was because that's when YOU go to bed, but now, I think it's because he knew that parents would fall into their own beds, exhausted, at ten minutes after eight on a Thursday night. I've come to terms with the fact that some days, being "mommy" to you and your brother takes extra amounts of a lot of things that I don't have even sufficient amounts of-- patience, energy, grace, humor, humility, perspective, adventure.





Oh, and blueberry muffins.






So, thanks for being patient with ME.







Love you to the moon and back....

Day 4- Oh, the Packing {Chill the Eff Out Series}

One more day until we leave for the beach. "Tomorrow, tomorrow, I love ya tomorrow...you're only a day aWAYYYYY." {Okay, moving on}.

Every year, I make a list of the things we need for the beach. (Note that my definition of "need" and my husband's definition vary slightly. Last year, he said, "what do we need a portable DVD player for? She'll be fine." Let's just say that this year, the portable DVD player was one of the FIRST things I secured for our 6 hour car ride). But that list has more than doubled over the last 3 years. And every year, I vow not to overpack. I scale down the list. I take only what's necessary. (Sort of. Because, it always turns out that I DO need 4 pairs of shoes, and I will not waver on that). And every year, I stand back and look at my car, and it always looks more like we're going to some kind of Fisher Price toy expo than the beach.

So I've spent all day today sorting laundry, packing, and meticulously planning outfits (rather than my usual tactic of throwing random things into the bags and saying, "I'll figure it out when we get there)." I'm actually quite proud of myself, regardless of the fact that it took half the day. And of course, I got a little bitter because Jake came in the door tonight, threw some boxers, T-shirts, pants, shorts, flip-flops and deoderant in his half of the suitcase in 5 minutes flat and said, "well, I'm all packed."

Hmph.

But it's all good. Even if it turns out that my sanity is packed up somewhere in the back of my car with the eleven other bags, I'm fairly confidant it will be restored around this time tomorrow evening when I'm finally able to breathe in some fresh, salt-water air. :)

Day 3 {Chill the Eff Out Series}

You know those days when you sit on the floor with your kids while they play, and everyone has woken up from their naps in a sunny disposition, dinner is already in the crockpot and you just smile and say, "ahhhh..."

Today isn't one of those days. Matter of fact, today is the complete antithesis of that day. So here, I give you, "My Life Is So Horrible and My Mommy Doesn't Love Me," by Ella and Milo.




If you don't laugh, you cry. So I'm choosing to laugh.

(...all the way to the wine cabinet.)


Happy Friday Eve everyone! :)

Day 2 {Chill the Eff Out Series}

When I was about 3, I decided to scribble a silver crayon all over the back of my parents dark orange corduroy couch. I was doing it a favor, I SWEAR.

Consequently, that was one of the first spankings I ever remember getting...

And now, 26-ish years later, I have a an artistic and extremely expressive little girl of my own who loves to prove to me, time and time again, that what goes around comes around. Thanks Ella!! *thumbs up*





That would be the back of her door in her room.

It's going to stay that way for a while too. On that note, I would like to claim false advertising because those crayons are, in fact, NOT washable. (At least, not as it pertains to soap and water). So, I guess until the door gets a fresh coat of paint, I'm just going to- wait for it- chill the eff out. ;-)

Day 1 {"Chill the Eff Out Series"}

I'm throwing in the towel.

I've been letting far too many little things get to me. I suppose that everyone's definition of "little" is different, but for me, it truly is the "little" things that drive me batty. ISFJ's like myself love to have control- all the time, over everything. (A coincidence that I've dealt with anxiety for a large majority of my life? I think not). Anyhoo, there's nothing like having kids to make you realize once and for all that control, really and truly, is nothing but an illusion. Yay! .....???

In terms of priorities, the question no longer is, "what should I do first?" (assuming I would actually be able to knock out my entire to-do list in one day. HAH). Instead, it's become, "what is the worst possible consequence if ____ doesn't get done?" All this week, I will be posting pictures of things that I've decided to chill the eff out about, for the sake of my family and my own sanity. No facades. No sugar-coating. No bitching. (Okay, maybe just a little griping, but under my breath). Some of the things that get under my skin will probably be hilarious to some, but hopefully relatable to others. We all have our vices, right?

{deep breath} Here goes.



I give you....my kitchen sink (dun-dun-DUUNNNN).




I almost always clean as I go, after breakfast, after snacks, after lunch. Can't STAND to have messes or clutter. But I've decided I don't technically need to clean them all up right away. I can wait until naptime (but not a second longer, daggone it. Hey, progress is progress). Maybe eventually I'll work up to letting them go...*gasp*....ALL DAY before I wash them. ;)

Milo Takes Flight

"It was bound to happen sooner or later, I suppose."

I've heard this phrase a good many times since the kids were born. Maybe it's just me, but I almost always have high expectations that either saying or hearing it will make me feel better, and I'm always sorely disappointed.

And hey, speaking of "sore,"... Milo got up close and personal with our stairs two days ago. Every single one of them, to be exact, all the way down to our hardwood floor. Try as I might, I cannot get that sickening thud out of my head or the sound of Jake yelling and the terrifying scream (although I think it was actually mine and not Milo's). He seemed okay, sans the hysterical crying and a growing goose egg on his forehead, but we became pretty concerned when he started throwing up and then proceeded to get sick four more times before I hurried him and Jake out the door to the E.R. I sat on the couch with Ella and cried. God love her. She rubbed my back and said, "It's okay mama. Milo fall down and bump his head. He get a bandaid, make it feel better."

Oh if only it were that easy, baby. I didn't feel like trying to explain to her that there are some things that band-aids just can't fix. I figure she'll learn that soon enough though, so I'd like to let her believe that for as long as she wants. Instead, what I'd like to have a quick fix for are the inevitable pangs of mom guilt. I've already been sensitive to the fact that my little bean has gotten the short end of the stick when it comes to attention, (although thankfully, he has nothing to compare it to). But he doesn't have his own scrapbook like his sister's, doesn't have nearly the same amount of pictures in the ol' iPhoto library, kid came into the world already missing a finger. When Ella was born, we had visitors streaming in and out of our hospital room all day, every day. I finally had to tell people we couldn't see them because I was flat exhausted. I still remember when Jake went out to announce, "It's a GIRL!!!!" to our families and it was immediately followed by hoots and hollars and all kinds of jubilant screeches, so much so that a few nurses reprimanded them for being too loud. When Milo was born, things were just different- as they almost always are with the second. Less fanfare, less attention. I spent the first day of his life lying in a hospital bed, barely able to hold him, nauseated and shaking from pain meds while my parents and Jake's parents popped in and out to meet him. Mom guilt then too, but I think the percocet took the edge off of it that day.

So to say that I've been conscious of the fact that he hasn't gotten near the limelight that his sister has (and her limelight could stand to be put on a dimmer switch, in my humble opinion) is an understatement. And a couple of years from now, I get the bonus of being able to tell him about the time he did his best imitation of a slinky all the way down our stairs. You know, just to rub some salt in that "Why Wasn't I Born First?" wound.

So a couple of realizations I learned the hard way (although probably not nearly as hard as they were for him):

1. 6 month olds who've just learned to crawl are incredibly fast.

2. Momma's with adrenaline pumping through their veins are also incredibly fast. I think I bounded up the steps by threes in about 1.5 seconds to get to him and practically pulled my hamstring.

3. A goose egg IS, in fact, a good sign.

4. Vomiting is sometimes not (although not altogether unusual).

5. It's usually not the worst case scenario. And that was the case for us as well, thankfully. But my mind still went there- and I knew it would. That's part of being a mom. The other part of being a mom is honoring that little voice that tells you to go with your gut, just in case. (It would have been nice, in my case, had that voice decided NOT to be on mute or "en espanol" when I left my child up in his room "just for a minute" to play with his toys while I went to throw clothes in the washer. Lesson learned. *sigh*

6. I don't remember things from when I was 6 months old-- and neither will he. THANK GOD.

So needless to say, there's a lot of gratitude in our house today.

That, and two more brand-spankin' new baby gates....

#%@& happens.

A lot, when you're chasing after a 14 month old. And it comes in various forms. The literal kind, that you wipe off a pair of butt-cheeks 2 or 3 times a day and that- if you're unlucky enough to have raging pregnancy hormones- will sometimes leave you gagging for the duration of the diaper change. Then there's the more metaphorical, yet very real bull#%&@ that abounds in everyday life. (If only a box of wipes could take care of that, I'd have it made, but I digress).

The point is, %@& happens. And sometimes the actual word, "s**t" happens as well. I admit, it's more of a common word in our household than it should be, and this is one that I can't put on Jake. And so at last, I "out" myself. For years, I have taken some unknown, great pleasure in saying this word. Maybe it's the way you can really get into the "ssshhhhhh" part of it, especially if you're really peeved. In those instances, I pride myself on taking a one-syllable word and stretching it into two. More like "ssshhhheeee-iiiiiiitt!" It just feels good. And I justified this for many years. I figured, it's one thing to do it by yourself and no one's there to hear you as you sit behind the wheel of your Mazda V6 Wagon (because that's the kind of car you buy when you want to dominate the highway, right?). I also had a theory that there's a direct correlation between the amount of pain I'm in and the number of times I get to say this word. So that 5 lb bag of ice I dropped on my toes? That was worth a couple of expletives. But the sneaky thing about this word is that if you're not careful, it starts to randomly show up before you have time to stop it: your computer freezes and you're right in the middle of a facebook status update. (#%@&!) Then you can't open a jar of spaghetti sauce (#%@&!) You step in dog-doo (quite literally- #%@&!) You stare at a positive pregnancy test on a random Saturday afternoon and then it's HOLY #%@&! (saved for those truly momentous occasions). 10 months and 1 week later, and you've been in labor for 16 hours when the doctor informs you that you're going to need a c-section. (#%@&! #%@&! #%@&!)

And so life continues, and #%@& continues to make an exit from your lips every now and then. And it's all good for awhile because your little girl is just a baby. There's no need to censor the Lil Wayne and Nelly CD's just yet. But the weeks turn into months, and now you realize she's starting to listen to you. She wants to communicate with you. You think this is pretty much the coolest thing ever. And you're not much worried about the few times you slip, because she's still so little. She doesn't understand the meaning of that word anyway.

But she doesn't need to.

Because kids don't need to understand what they say before they say it. Remember the show "Kids Say the Darndest Things?" Someone got seriously rich capitalizing on little kids who made total @$$es of their parents by saying things within a context they didn't understand or repeating things they had no business repeating. And most of the time, it's cute. When you wait so long to hear them say their first word, the last thing you probably worry about is whether that word will be sandwiched between some expletives. Ella has always been quite the chatterbox, and so I became accustomed to listening to her experiment with combinations of vowels and syllables and talking nonsense to her Sophie and other animal friends for months. And like any other mom, I melted the first time she said "mama" and giggled at her attempt at "banana" ("nanana") and "kittycat" ("keekah"). And then one day- whether by chance or perhaps by, ahem, some *other* coincidence- I heard a different set of syllables and vowels coming out of her mouth. At first I reasoned it must have been the word "spit," but really, how likely was that? I walked back to her room, watched her throw her binkey on the floor and then, right on cue, "#%@&."

Fabulous.

It got even better when we would go to Target or the grocery store. I was now very well aware of her newfound vocabulary and as if in slow motion, I would watch as she would animatedly point at something and then proceed to yell out the same 4 letter word before I could get my hand to her mouth or shove a cracker down her throat. We got a few looks, needless to say. I prayed it was a phase. And thankfully, it seems to have passed for now. (And you better believe I've made Jake clean up his language....ahem...)

So I guess it's time for me to come up with another word that is just as gratifying to roll off the tongue in less than happy circumstances. I think I'm actually going to miss it. But it must be done. Apparently, little cornfields have big ears.

A "Relaxing" Day at the Spa?

Remember those cartoons you watched when you were a kid (okay, maybe you still watch them now) when someone decides to cook a chicken for dinner?  Someone puts a very resistant (and very alive) chicken in a roasting pan (these are cartoons, after all), bastes it,  shoves it in the oven and cranks up the heat.  And as kids, we sat there laughing at this bird as he starts to turn shades of pink and red and sweat, all the while devising his evacuation route, which he inevitably finds, because we all know that cartoon characters don't really die. Might be a bit too morbid a message to send to young kids...I might very well have become a vegetarian at the age of 6 if I had actually watched that chicken die a slow death in a kitchen oven, then get carved open and served with mashed potatoes at the family dinner table.  Well, after a particularly dramatic episode at the spa yesterday, I can now empathize with that poor cartoon chicken.  

First and foremost, let me set the records straight about a couple of things pregnant women don't handle too well: noxious fumes, stupid comments about size/weight made by people who don't have filters, and heat.  I will be talking about the latter of those three.  Due to the residual effects of the panic disorder I had, I did not tolerate heat- or becoming terribly overheated- before I even became pregnant.  It was a trigger for me that instantly made me feel nervous and claustrophobic (which is why I had my wedding reception outside in the middle of July *smart*).   

I arrived at the spa with a good friend yesterday for a little post-birthday pampering and was ready to have my tired, achy body-turned-baby machine worked on.   I stripped down and put on a plush, velvety robe and wandered into the "relaxation room" to sip on some fresh cucumber water as I waited for my pregnancy massage.  After the massage therapist came to get me and take me back, I was instructed to take off my robe and bra and climb under the blankets on the massage table as she went to heat up the body cream she would be using.  *Bliss.*  (I don't normally indulge in packages like these- in fact, this is the first one I had ever done).   She started my massage by having me lie on one side while she worked the kinks out of that side of my back, shoulders and butt and then had me switch to the other side to do the same.  The cream she was using was unscented (thank God) but was a little warm, although it felt very relaxing.  For the last part, she had me lie on my back, semi-reclined, while she put a warm neck wrap around the base of my neck.  She started rubbing down my feet, thighs and legs with various oils and creams and we continued to carry on a jovial conversation.  She then took two heated towels (are you noticing a recurring theme yet with the words "warm" and "heated?") out of what appeared to be a tiny microwave and wrapped them around my feet.  At first, I felt like I just needed to have a sip of my ice water, so I asked to sit up and have some.  Perfect.  I laid back again, but continued to feel *off* and then a minute later, without any warning, I bolted upright (which was amazing enough considering I was almost flat on my back) and immediately knew I was going to pass out.  I didn't even think this was possible since I had been lying down.  I started hyperventilating and tried desperately to remain calm and control my breathing as the black spots started to appear and the room began to spin.  I remember uttering something about getting a fan, and luckily, there happened to be one in the room.  The massage therapist immediately turned it on full blast, went to get an ice pack and placed it directly on the back of my neck.  I was cognizant enough to remember that I should put my head between my knees, but but apparently not with it enough to remember that I had an 8 month pregnant belly in my way.  *No good.*  So there I sat, as hunched over as humanly possible in all my round, naked glory (at this point, the covers had fallen off of me and I didn't even care), wheezing and shaking and trying to find my "happy place," to keep from keeling over.  

I found out later that the bed was actually heated as well.  Lovely.  This person was supposed to be certified to do pregnancy massages.  And she was a nice girl, really, at a very well established, four-star spa.  But at what point in her training, I'm curious to know, did they tell her: "Place the pregnant woman on a heated bed, proceed to cover her with a warm cream from head to toe, then have her lie almost flat on her back (a big no-no when you're this far along) and then make sure she has a warm neck wrap.....oh yeah, and while you're at it, take 2 bath towels, stick them in a microwave until they're almost on fire, and wrap her feet in them."  

*I already felt like I'd been fattened up for the kill with my nice round belly.*  To her credit, I was given a discount because of the "drama," but as I wandered from my pregnancy massage down the hall for my facial, I was greeted by yet another warm bed and steam blowing in my face.  In not so many words, I told the nice lady to turn the bed off and point her steam elsewhere unless they were looking for a lawsuit.  Well, unless she wanted to know the joy of picking a naked pregnant woman off the floor.  The rest of the day, thankfully, was uneventful although I'm not sure how "relaxing" it actually was...