Loopty-lou of life: Some seminal moments

 

Hawk 'n Rooster.  My dudes, redefined.

There have been some seminal moments in my life since I last posted.  All good, some sad.  I'll list them in order of precedence in my mind:

Numero Uno:
While at Rooster's house, Hawk grabbed a curtain rod (don't ask) and pulled the two pieces apart.  He handed me one, kept the other for himself and started making light saber noises with his.

"Mommy," he says between "vhooms", "you're Luke Skywalker and I'm Darf Vader."  And he raises his sword and strikes mine down.

My freakin' heart exploded.  I mean, intelligent, imaginative play; a worthy opponent; Star Wars!?!

♥

No. 2:
Rooster and I officially filed for divorce.

The day it happened I was in tears.  I felt like each cell had a tiny string attached to it and they were all being slowly pulled in different directions.  It was a feeling of implosion and explosion all at once.

I spent the evening at Rooster's eating chicken tetrazzini and sharing the documents with him.  It was at once horrifically sad and wonderfully exciting.  I love the way our relationship is transforming and molding to our situation.  As adept as we were at communicating through our marriage, we're equally agile in dissolving it.

I'm proud of the way we're handling things and I am eternally grateful for his support, intellect, kindness, and devotion.  We have our moments, for sure, but honestly I'll take our "moments" over other divorcing couples' any day.

No. 3:
Hawk has become very popular at school.  Numerous times teachers have come up to me to tell me that the other children like him very much, particularly the girls.  One little girl he's always with, Fleur, even told the teachers that she loves him "very much."  And whenever she's around when we pick him up she races over to hug him.  Sometimes multiple times.

Ok, that deserves another ♥

I can't tell you how happy this makes me.  For kids to be successful, they have to be liked in some manner.  Either it's a spirit they have or a talent, but it's something other kids are drawn to.  And by "successful" I mean navigate through life towards their own goals with as little barbarism as possible.  Likeability is a key factor in this.  I know some people are born with it, others have to learn it, but I'm glad it's coming naturally to him at this point in his life, because who knows?  it may not last his entire school career.

Hawk's two best friends at school: Keenan on the left, Fleur on the right.

 

 

   

 Spiderman. 

  

 

 Spiderman again.

 Today it's a cape.

 

 

  

Safety first, yo.

No. 4:
Hawk wrote his name (with some direction from me).

 

No. 5:
I took my body measurements and I'm 41-32-43.  This makes me very happy; I've never been so content with my body in my life.  The numbers aren't what I used to want, but I love them now.   It's true what I've heard about your 30s all along: they really do fucking rock.  I think the days of hating my body may very well be over.  Woooooo!

No. 6:
Hawk prefers Rooster over me, in a major way.  I'm toughing it out, but it hurts like a bitch.  I'm finding little moments to connect with him and keeping a stiff upper lip about the whole thing, so it's not too fucking awful (no, wait.  It actually really is), but it still sucks ass.

In Hawk's eyes, it must seem like I've abandoned him -- we spend so much less time together than before.  It's another hurdle we have to get over, I guess.

I often repeat, "It's a phase, it's a phase, it's a phase."

 What I woke up to one morning.  Yay!

  

A cupcake after dinner. There may or may not have been a meltdown incident after this.

 

A Wednesday morning (on an off-week) spent reconnecting over pancakes.

It's been an eventful week or two, for sure.  I can do this, though.  I'm feeling the momentum building...

Locking horns with a 3 year old: Are there winners?

A wild Hawk captured.

 I remember growing up and hearing about "the terrible twos," this mysterious time of defiance and confusion for parents and their toddlers where nothing made sense and rules were thrown out.  As I closed the gap to adulthood the story shifted to, "It's not The Twos, it's The Threes you should dread!" Once a parent this new idea was pretty much confirmed by everything I read and heard.

The Threes are an interesting time for everyone.  Our children can speak to us in English (or whatever language it is they've learned), they understand rules, expectations, and relationships.  Their emotional development can at once leap ahead to tenderhearted concern then recede to vicious tyrannical tantrums (and I use those loaded terms "leap" and "recede" deliberately - you'll see why in a minute).  And despite their supposed understanding of things they continue to defy, push, taunt, and sneer in our faces as often as they caress, kiss, fondle and massage our hearts.

So.  What the fuck do we do??  How do we handle these tiny mercurial beings in a way that keeps our values in line with our own hearts, goals, and ideals?

Here's what I've learned:

First, you're gonna feel like shit.  Some days you'll actually get dragged into a knock down drag out with your tiny dictator and be left reeling.  Did you really drag him into his room and lob him onto his bed, then oh so maturely slam the door behind you?  Yep.  You really just did do that.

And you know what??  It can't be helped.  The most important thing I've learned throughout this process is that I am only human.  I can only be taunted, defied, kicked, hit, screamed at, and generally dismissed so much, especially when it concerns a rule regarding a non-negotiable, such as safety.  Picking up spilled food is another matter; I'll be pushed around to a much great degree before I start feeling that prick in the back of my mind that this bullshit ain't flyin'.  But safety in the kitchen?  Not following the rules when there's raw chicken and knives laying around??  Forget it.  Mama's puttin' the kibosh on that shit, and fast.

So, there we were.  Hawk screaming on the floor, refusing to leave the kitchen, me firmly explaining the rules and why he'd been banned - repeatedly - and then he starts jumping in the kitchen just a foot, then another foot, and at that point I had to physically remove him.  Tantrums ensued, kicking, punching, yelling.  Then I told him he needed to cool off in his room, but he wouldn't go of his own accord, hence the dragging by the wrists (as gently as I could, naturally).

I was angry, but I didn't feel my reactions were angry towards him.  I disconnected as best I could, though I still yelled back.  I'd just reached my limit.  I'm just a woman, not a saint.

Second, he's going to forgive you.  I never leave Hawk alone too long after a spell such as this.  I don't want a pattern to develop where he acts perfectly normally for a 3 yo and then I unduly punish him for it.  I just want a period of separation to get my own cool, mostly.

This particular time I went back in and straightened up his room.  He said he was cooling down and he felt much better.  I said, "Good, Mama's not quite there yet, but I will be."  He says while sucking on his paci and clutching his blankie, "Ok, Mommy.  I do love you."

And when we talk I remind him of the rules and that when he defies me like that it frustrates me because I'm trying to keep him safe; that it's ok for him to be mad and frustrated with me, but he may not strike me in any way.  He solemnly nods his head and we hug fiercely and tell each other we love one another.

Third, perfection is a myth.  Sometimes you react badly to a situation.  It's human nature.  No one is above reproach, but every situation is a launching pad to learn something new about yourself, your limits, those of your child, etc.  What you may judge yourself on is settling; settling for the status quo, for what worked for your mother even though it doesn't feel right to you, for not educating yourself about the development of this tyrant at your knees, for giving up hope that you can do what feels right the next time it happens - because, oh lord, it will happen again.

It's easy to think they're forging ahead in development whenever they're soft and pliant and kind, and taking steps back when they're bullheaded and unreasonable, but really it's all a push forward in development.   That's right.  It's a movement of growth, truly.

When a young child defies his caregiver it's as integral to his development as following the rules.  You can't draw a chair without the negative space after all.  They have to discover the depths of the emotional spectrum as well as the highs; no one is all or nothing and certainly not children.  They're incapable of such emotional blandness.  They're programmed to feel all of it and it's our job as parents to help them navigate it, fights and all. 

Lastly, when you're in the middle of it try to remember how much power you have.  It's a trick that always seems to help me keep my cool for a ridiculously long time, if not entirely.  You are these kids' everything: their sun, moon, and stars.  Tread as lightly as you can in the scare-/mean-factor to get your point across.  It's all too easy to loom and boom and knock them around to drive home your point, but finesse - even loud finesse - works, too.

So, yeah, I fought with a 3 year old and technically won, but really I felt like I'd lost.  Then, later, I felt like we'd all won.  Funny how that works, but that's parenting in a nutshell: two steps forward, one step back, and another half-step forward.

Scary movies, childhood trauma, and Halloween

[Warning: Graphic horror descriptions included in this post.  No joke.]

When I was 10 years old I was in 5th grade and had the very great honor of being invited to a 6th grade slumber party.  Carol Addison was also granted this highest of 10-year-old-girl honors.

Jacqui Green lived at the end of my cul-de-sac in a two story house that was the mirror image of mine.  She had long black hair and green eyes and was a soft spoken, yet fierce tether-ball competitor.   She was mostly a loner on the playground, but had decided to have a big bash of a birthday party and invited a dozen classmates.

Long story short, it was the most traumatic, terrifying night of my childhood, without exception.  From what I can remember we had three movie choices: a Nightmare on Elm St (it was '85, so whatever version of that movie it was at the time), a Friday the 13th, and Sleepaway Camp (the original, first movie).  I can vividly remember thinking, "Oh, shit."

The girls decided to watch the least scary movie first: Sleepaway Camp.

I sat on that couch, wedged between bony butts eating cheese balls, mortified by what I was seeing.  Kids were mowed down by boats, a sexy girl had a knifed dragged down her back in a locker room, a man had boiling water poured on his face.  I did my best to be cool, to not look scared, but it was no use.  I tried watching the movie in the reflection of the fireplace panes, but after some children were hacked to death in their sleeping bags during a camping trip in the woods I got up to find the other group of girls who'd opted out of the scary movie.

They were playing on a Ouija board.

I sat down and joined in, but when someone asked, "Who here in this room will die first?" I returned to the movie and finished it.

It has one of the most horrifying, vile, terrifying endings of any movie I've ever seen.  A pubescent boy with hair on his genitals, long, flowing hair and stark, raving, psychosis in his eyes standing spread eagle with a severed head in his hands; his mouth agape and ape-like.

I have chills running all over my body even describing it now.

That is how the movie ends.  With the frame frozen on that sick image.

I don't remember cake.  I don't remember singing "Happy Birthday."  I only recall fighting tooth and nail to not be in a sleeping bag on the very end in the living room.  I got that far, but as I lay there trying to sleep all I could feel was my heart pounding in my ribcage.  I couldn't get those images out of my mind.  I knew it wasn't real, but my little body couldn't make the disconnect.  I thought I was going to die for my heart fluttered and skipped and my breathing was irregular. 

I got up and asked Jacqui to use her phone and called my parents.

"Daddy," I said, "I want to come home."

"OK, sweetie," he replied groggily, "I'll leave the door unlocked for you."

"NO.  You have to come and get me."

He drove our Chevy Celebrity the block and a half in his underwear.  "I let Whiskers in.  She can sleep with you," he said.

"No, Daddy.  I want to sleep with you and Mommy."

And it was like that for the next year.

Yes.  YEAR.

(As it turns out, if my memory serves me, Carol also called her parents for a ride home.  Was it because we were 10 and needed an extra year of development?  I'll never know.)

That movie affected so much.  It affected my relationship with music, with being a teenager, with my sense of safety in the world.  I had never even imagined things so graphic, so evil, in my entire life.  For years I could only fall asleep listening to classical music; I convinced myself that the entire episode happened in Maine (as far away as I could think of from California).  Years and years later I realized that my jumpiness, the easiness with which I was scared, and my general disconnect from music was due to mild PTSD.  From that stupid fucking movie.

Every Halloween I remember that night and the years of climbing out of that pit of terror.  I'm a grown up now, but it all rushes back to me when I see the ghoulish, bloody costumes hanging in Target aisles.  And I wonder if Hawk is being at all affected by these things.  I want to say, No, he's not, since there's no emotional connection for him, but he's not stupid.  These things are inherently scary.  They're supposed to evoke a primal emotion.  That's what they're designed to do.  Just like a scorpion looks scary to anyone from anywhere in the world, a bloody, hacked up zombie face will do the same.

And yet, I encourage my baby three-year old to be bold.  To walk up to what he fears and to touch and smell these awful things.  I have to walk up to these things boldly, too.  I have to hit the "TRY ME" buttons attached to robotic witches and ghosts that make scary noises and my skin tingle to show that I am able to look beyond the obvious and solve the riddle of their existence; lift up their gowns and show the metal rods and the ridiculous recorded loops of their howls.

Seeing Hawk dance and skip in sheer joy at these novelties helps to take some of the fear away.  I want him to know the difference between real and imaginary, but to also work out his fears and not ruminate on them like I did.  I know he's still little and there's plenty of time in his life for nightmares, but until then I want him to feel safe and like an adventurer.  Like he's the pilot in his life.

I imagine that whenever he feels that prick in the back of this neck from fear it's when he calls something "spooky."  It sucks that I won't be able to protect him from darker terror later in life, but I guess that's not really my job anyway.  My job is to give him the tools to navigate it.

And frankly, I don't think they should have this awful shit out in broad daylight, but a semi-naked woman's body wrapped in plastic and out of reach.  I'd much rather him see human sexuality -- even if objectified -- than decaying faces and body parts that might haunt him for years to come.

I dunno, what's up with that??  What do you think of the horror that's so accessibly displayed in stores?  Do you think it's ok?  Does it bother you?  Am I the only weenie out there?

The "Guys" as Hawk calls them.  Whenever we go to Target he insists we visit them.

Brave enough to pat it.

Pleasant, no?

The package says it all. 

These masks scare me.  (I told you I was a weenie.)

Learn this: A child's body and mind are his own, not anyone else's.

My little man-in-training.

A few random things came together over the last couple of days:

• I promised myself I would watch every Oprah episode this year since it's her last
• I've started studying for my counseling exam
• I've recommitted to being present with Hawk
• Hawk leaped ahead in cognitive and verbal development

The first is incongruous enough, but the episode I saw had Wynonna Judd on it along with her mother.  Apparently, they've had a contentious, undifferentiated relationship for years and have been struggling to sort it out in therapy.  Wynonna has been lost as an individual and unable to know when her wants and needs started in relation to her mother's and she poignantly pointed out that as a child her body was never her own; she was never allowed to ward off a hug, a pat, or a squeeze whenever an adult wanted it.  She was scolded for trying to protect her personal space -- a very powerful concept that struck me deeply coming from a family that often chased me down (literally) for physical attention.

The second, also incongruous, involves the first chapter of review in my study-guide book -- child development -- so there has been lots of talk about the cognitive abilities of children as they grow, their limitations, their understanding of their world and the people and relationships in it, and of themselves.

Third, on occasion I find myself wishing for the end of the day when I can shut down from being 100% "on" with Hawk.  Of course this is immediately followed by piercing guilt, then love, then re-ignition of my presence of mind to the moment: this moment, the larger moment, all of it.  But it's happening all the same and I need to reel myself back in and check myself.

And last, Hawk is more present in his world.  He notices who is where and when (though the why is happily still beyond his grasp).  His language has improved, he understands complex thoughts such as "tomorrow" and a little more about cause and effect.  It's this last piece that is most important to me because I don't want him to start laying pathways to self-destruction such as: I'm doing X and Mommy is distant and unavailable because of it.

All of these things have conspired to remind me of one unalienable right that many of us forget entirely:

Children are their own person and their bodies and emotions are their own to govern, express, and share as they see fit. 

As adults we often overlook the fact that they have the right to be who they are regardless of their control.  In fact, because of their utter lack of control in their worlds we should go especially out of our way to let them be who they are. 

I've taken this to mean a couple of things:

1. If I am in a good mood and Hawk is determined to be in a bad mood, I should let him do so with no consequence other than acceptance and giving him a space in which to do it.  I certainly feel any way I choose when the mood hits, so why should I have the right to deny him the same freedoms just because it's inconvenient to me?  And since he can't go lock himself in a closet and scream, I have to provide that opportunity to him.  

If Hawk has a melt down because God-knows-why, then he is doing exactly what he should be doing.  He is the center of his universe, can barely wrap his head around "Not now, later," and is only just now developing coping skills.  It is wholly cruel of me to expect him to stop an untoward behavior simply because I am over it.

Case in point, we were at Old Navy yesterday having a swell time when, out of the blue, his mood tanked about an hour earlier than it normally would.  I was caught unawares and lost my cool.  I stormed out of the store with him in my arms curtly telling him to "Stop it," every few steps as he sobbed and yelled and hit my chest and back to go back.  He fought me getting into the car seat and lest I force him in it by brute force alone I had no options.  At the thought of physically over-powering him I felt slapped.  I sat back and took a deep breath, looked into his tear-streaked face and said, "Baby, I'm so sorry for scaring you... come here," and pulled him onto my lap.  He continued to sob as I patted his back and apologized for losing my cool and getting angry.  He choked out, "Mama not angwy, me angwy!  Me sowwy!"

I said, "Yeah, baby, we're both angry and being angry is ok.  But it's not ok to be mean to someone you love when you're angry.  And I was a little mean by being scary."

I kept holding him and tried to kiss him, but he refused the touch and sternly said, "No kisses!"  He wanted only the hugs and pats.  I said, "Ok, you tell me when you're ready for a kiss," and he agreed.

As we began the drive home he continued to be upset, still sobbing "I wanna go baaaaack!" mixed in with completely unintelligible whines.   I snapped again and yelled angrily, "What is it that you waaaaaaant!?!?!"  He cried harder.  I took a couple more deep breaths for few beats and asked again, "Baby, what is it that you want?  Mama wants to help make you feel better and she's frustrated because she doesn't know how to help you," to which he replied, clear as a bell,

"Me not want to feel better.  Me saaaad and maaad!"

I swear you could have knocked me over with a feather.  He wasn't ready to be placated, to feel better.  He wanted to be upset.  I rode back home in silence chewing on my thoughts.  Hawk intermittently whimpered and watched the word whiz by his windows.

This was a major epiphany for me.  I've been protecting his right to his physical space since his birth, but the truth of the matter is, I haven't been protecting his emotional rights quite as much if they threw a wrench in my day.  

2.  I need to remove the concept that some emotions are "good or bad."  Emotions inherently have no value.  They are neither better or worse than others, just more or less accepted.  But here I was determined to help him feel better because the whining, crying, rage was pissing me off, when ultimately he was quite happy being unhappy and it was my own personal comfort level that was being affected.  Nothing else.

If I had it to do over again I wouldn't have engaged my own anger with his and I would simply have taken him to the car, told him to let it out via screaming and kicking (though, not at my person, specifically) and then told him I'd be there for a hug whenever he was done.

I'm not advocating letting your children tear about the planet expressing every emotion they have at any given time, but I am advocating a deeper understanding of their developmental levels and what, exactly, it is we're expecting of them.  Would an adult appreciate being scolded for being grumpy?  Would an adult appreciate tacit nonacceptance of her feelings?  Would an adult understand the nuances of social expectations and the role he had in society in general as visitor to a new planet?

These questions could play an important role in getting along with children exploring emotional boundaries with their caregivers, and within themselves, by allowing them the room to do so without internalizing shame or criticism given because it wasn't convenient to the adult.

I don't know... it's complex, I know.  I'm just trying to stay plugged in and present, but it's hard when I'm shredded most days.  I have hardly anything to give, but I hate more than anything to let myself or Hawk down when I know I can always dig a little deeper.  I want him to see the effort even if the execution is imperfect because that's part of the lesson I want him to take away: perfection isn't the goal, it's growth; mistakes happen, we can talk about them; and, most importantly, he is worthwhile in every shade of emotion he has, not just the ones that are easier for me.


(And if you've made it this far, you deserve a gold-fucking-star.  Thank you.  Truly.  I love that you're here.)

When "feminist/breastfeeding blogs" are bad words

I can't even remember what the big hullabaloo was last year with moms, but I do know it was the first time I'd ever heard of the "Mommy Wars."  It could have been about stay-at-home-moms vs. work-out-of-home moms, or mothers vs. non-mothers, or moms who aren't employed, but have their kids in daycare vs. moms who are with their children all day long... the list goes on (and on).

Today, the war of words has drifted to style of parenting and all that falls under certain categories - or, at least, perceived categories and their associations.

On one side, we seem to have the group of mothers who dedicate their public spaces (i.e., blogs) to breastfeeding advocacy, natural child-birth practices, cloth diapers, organic foods, baby wearing, a mother's rights to knowledge and support via legal channels, gentle and non-physical discipline, bed-sharing, not letting their kids cry it out, Cesarean-section avoidance, and keeping their sons' penises intact.

The other side includes mothers with space devoted to telling other mothers that it's ok to formula feed, opt-in for the epidural and scheduled C-section, that disposables are a God-send as are the jars of baby food at the grocery store, a woman should go somewhere private to breastfeed for modesty's sake, spank, have their babies in a separate room from day one, let them cry themselves to sleep, and who circumcise their sons.

Pretty black and white, right?

Wrong.  So wrong!

Not one family is all or nothing.  There are mothers who breastfeed the first, but not the second child; who have an epidural, but refuse inducing; who spank, but don't do CIO; who formula feed, but make their own baby food.  Nor is anyone "wrong" for doing what fits best for their situation and personality.

I don't know why we've done this to ourselves (pitting mothers one against the other, yet again), but we have.  Sure, I might never spank my son and I could give you 100 reasons why, but I would never tell you you were a piece of shit for deciding to do it with your family.  Of course I think MY way is better, it's why it's MY way.  I mean, of course!

And therein lies the rub for all of us: We all think our way is the best way.  It's a necessary job requirement when it comes to parenting.  We have to be married to our methods - and also flexible if the outcome is not what we were expecting - in order to be consistent, fair, and stable.  We have to commit!

I hate it that a blogger I really like because she's witty and wry got absolutely FLAMED for first, a guest post saying it's ok to use formula, and second, for an interview she gave about using over-the-counter drugs for uses it's not intended for.

Jill's whole shtick at Scary Mommy is that she's devoted, but also out-numbered, and sometimes chooses the path of least resistance (like letting her youngest eat like a dog), and yet other bloggers I also esteem (for entirely different reasons) feel entitled to go after Jill's posts with the fury of a mother scorned.  And beat up and with the wind knocked out of her Jill writes this:

For all of you perfect parents making perfect decisions in your perfect lives, this isn’t the place for you. Why don’t you look up some of the feminist/breastfeeding blogs? Those folks always seem to have the right answers.

And, don’t let the door hit you on the way out.

 Ouch.

I get that breastfeeding is intrinsically linked up with feminism, but why do feminism and breastfeeding always seem to be linked up with bullying those who choose differently?  And likewise, why do the women who formula feed bully us, too (I've seen it and it's not pretty, either)?

The reason, I think, that feminist/breastfeeding bloggers go so hog-wild whenever anyone ever says that it's ok to formula feed is because they're thinking of protecting that one woman out there who's on the verge of giving up on breastfeeding because (and no one argues with this) breast milk is the best thing for a baby.

Ok, I get that, but going after a humor blogger whose main goal is to entertain and be light isn't the way to do it because breastfeeding might not be the best thing for every woman and her family.  (And let me tell you that I practically choke on those words, but I also believe it.)

If I were that breastfeeding mom whose nipples were bleeding and baby was crying and whose mother kept telling me that she used formula and all 5 of her kids were fine I don't think I'd read Jill's guest post and think, "Hey!  She's right!  I guess I'll stop!"  I would do more research and really ask myself the hard questions.   Breastfeeding is intrinsically linked up to more factors than simply a woman's desire to breastfeed or not.  She needs support, she needs will power, she needs determination, she needs love, she needs focus, she needs education, and she needs examples. 

We haven't always been such an "enlightened" group of parents.  So many used to be hit, beaten even, children were sold to be apprentices, girls were given to old men to bear him heirs, families were split up, children were treated worse than livestock in many cases (the Dark Ages, anybody?).  And certainly NOT to say that any of that was ever ok, but I feel like I need to remind people that WE SURVIVED THE IMPERFECTIONS.  We still created amazing human beings capable of great love, innovation, art, wonder and intellect despite their deplorable childhoods.  Just because not everyone parents the same particular way today does not mean the fall of civilization as we know it.

This is how I think it should go:  I'll tell you about my life, my decisions, and my reasoning if you care to hear it.  I will show you what I think should be done by example, not by badgering or belittling and not by humiliation or condescension.  And you do me the same favor.

I don't know... I'm just so sick and tired of all the animosity between these two camps.  Mothering is hard, the most painful, soul-searing, isolating, and important thing I'll ever do in my life.  The last thing I need is to feel like I have to defend my decisions to women who've made different ones.  I beat up on myself enough as it is.

(Side note: I linked to some blogs that I think are good examples of those "camps", but  I could be entirely wrong, so please let me know and I'll revise.)

Converting to a toddler bed also converted Momma into a toddler

 

This is some seriously exciting stuff!

  

Tools!

It took me four hours to get Hollis to take a nap and in that four hours, which I depict above in photographs as nothing short of painfully cute and adorable, I was reduced to a yelling, temper-tantrum-throwing, hair-pulling lunatic.  I found myself on a merry-go-round of emotions where a petulant, exhausted, and frustrated toddler took turns ebbing and flowing in and out of my emotional frame of mind with an educated, sedate, patient woman.  

What a surprise it was to discover that not only was there a 3-foot toddler in the room, but there was also a 5'5" toddler there as well: Me.

This whole thing started because potty-training is going swimmingly.  We spend the mornings pantsless, diaper-up to leave the house and for naps, go pantsless for the evening, then get re-diapered for sleep.  Lots of peeing and pooping in the potty going on around here and it's been ridiculously easy, and, dare I say, fun.  I mean, clapping my hands and doing a little jig because there's a giant toddler turd in the potty evokes something primordially excited in me.

Occasionally, he would call for me to come get him out of his crib and I didn't hear him or couldn't come right away and I'd find that he'd peed or pooped in his diaper - sorta counter-productive with the whole potty-training thing.  Also, he's been climbing out of (and into) his crib a bunch this week.  Therefore, the conversion from crib to toddler bed felt spot on.

Anthony converted it in the morning and Hollis clamored all over it, squealing in delight.  He bounced on the mattress and touched all the tools as Daddy talked about how exciting it was to have a "big boy" bed.  I talked about how once he was put in it he had to stay in it, "Just like Mommy and Daddy do in theirs."  He nodded and clapped his hands and was, what I thought, very sophisticated about it all.

Oh, how wrong I was!  

And it's not a reflection on Hollis, on the contrary, it's a reflection on me and my wildly out of line expectations.  Did I really think I'd be able to baby-whisper him into a bed the first go around?  I read a couple of books to him in the rocker and tucked him in.  I even dragged his book box next to the bed so he wouldn't have to "get up" to get more.

An extremely exciting book (and a glowing Bus-Owl on the dresser).

(Hours since nap time started: 1/2)

 (Hours since nap time started: 1/2)

 

Note the book box beside the bed (yeah, not a very good idea).

(Hours since nap time started: 1/2)

In the end, he did eventually sleep, but not before I'd completely embarrassed myself.  When I was shouting at him, then apologizing for being cranky, he would just look at me as if to say, "I know how that feels," and then smile gently at me.  I lost all sense of control, of who I was as a parent.  

In the first hour, I felt good: full of energy and ambition.  Hour Two was a little less romantic and I was reduced to "if this/then that" statements.  I struggled mightily with age-appropriate/consequence-appropriate statements, such as, "Hollis, here are the rules.  You can only ever have your blankie and paci IN the bed, not out of it, so if you get out of your bed, you have to leave them here [in the bed]," or "If you touch Bus-Owl, I will turn Bus-Owl off," and "If you open and close the door again, I will take the blankie away for a while."

And then I found myself saying ridiculous things like, "If you get into this drawer again, I will have Daddy change the bed back to a crib."  Yeah - I said that last one in a fit of desperation and hated ever syllable that came out of my mouth.

 (Hours since nap time started: 2 3/4)

 (Hours since nap time started: 3)

Yeah... just wasn't working out.

(Hours since nap time started: 3 1/4)

I threaded all this negativity with lots of encouraging statements like, "I know you can do this!  This is so exciting!" and "I know this is such a great thing!  I'm so excited for you!  I know you're just bursting at the seems!"  I knew how big this was for him.  I knew it was practically like moving to a different country or sticking his hand into [insert gross/dangerous thing here].  I have a feeling that me asking him to fall asleep within the normal amount of time (30 minutes or so) was tantamount to someone asking me to not go shopping immediately after cashing a winning Lotto check.

But ask I did, and answer me he did.  And perfectly.

By the third and fourth hours I was just hanging by a thread.  I thought my face was going to split open and an alien pop out of my face.

In the end he did sleep.  I think I was equally as exhausted as he was.  My back was killing me again, I didn't get to work out (because of the nap time drama), and I felt like the biggest shit on the planet for wantonly expressing every emotion I had to a 2 1/2 year old.  

  So now he's tucked in, but the curtain is pulled back like a canopy.

(Hours since nap time started: 3 1/2)

 

Who needs a dark room in which to nap??

(Hours since nap time started: 4)

Later that night I literally hissed at Anthony about something and slammed a couple more doors and locked myself in the closet to contemplate my navel.  I don't like feeling like I didn't do my best.  Likewise, I don't like feeling my best wasn't good enough. 

The next day, however, was grand and so was today.  It's as if our ugly interlude never happened and the crib never existed - which, of course, makes me feel worse for even losing my shit like that in the first place since I should have trusted my little guy and his mysterious ways - and we have always slept in beds and napped with freedom to run about the cabin.

A couple of days past all of this and I can now admit that I was under duress due to pain and my own fatigue and that I was seeking order and control from a toddler with entirely different ideas.  Hollis had his own plans for the day and Mommy's fragile ego and self-control be damned, he was going to execute them with delight (and right he should).  His abandon upset my order.  Plain and simple.  I'm really going to have to work at integrating his enthusiasm and energy into my own plans, otherwise I'm looking at a lifetime of shitty days.

Next up, remembering all of this the next time I get tangled up in my desire to control things and lose my shit like a crazy lady under a bridge.

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Sucking it - the fuck - up: Moms are warriors

Attie Poo McJigglechops workin' a tie like no other. (We make cute babies, no?)

Yesterday my little sister went back to work after giving birth at the end of November.Her son, Atticus, is a lively, chubby, easy-going three-month old who will now be in the care of his father for the next six weeks, then a combination of mother, father, and grandmother from there on out.

The three months was a very gracious offering. Ordinarily, my sister would have gotten approximately 6 weeks paid, but her company gave her an extra two, and she used a month's worth of vacation time to patchwork 12 weeks of time to have her first child.

I don't think I have to tell any of you how cruel this is. More so for my sister than for Atticus.

She's being a soldier about it, though, and in all honesty I really admire and appreciate her attitude about it all. She can't change it, she has to make it work, and ultimately she knows (as do I) that Attie and his new parents will be just fine, if not a bit shaken up for some time as they all get used to the new de rigeur. But she's been blessed with a baby that happily takes her breast milk from anyone, who is colic-free, and who will good humoredly try out new things such as a bouncer or a warm stranger's shoulder while mommy or daddy takes a shower. I'm hopeful that the transition will be an easy one.

When Atticus was just a week old I was talking to my sweet sissy poo on the phone and I asked her when she had to go back to work. "February 22nd," she choked out and I could hear her breath catching as she quietly sobbed with her baby at her breast. "You'll be ok, Gabby. I promise," I gently replied not really able to understand what she was about to go through and hoping I was right.

I imagine leaving your infant with anyone when you've spent every moment thinking and/or touching him up until then nothing short of unnatural. And I don't mean that in a judgmental sense, not at all. On the contrary, I'm just looking at it from an objective, historical point of view. No 12-week mother-baby pair would be separated if it weren't for modern day imperatives and responsibilities (or the luxury of at least a wet-nurse prior to pumps and formula).

Gabby loves her career and happens to be the major bread-winner and so such is her journey. I told her it was ok to cry in her office, to ask Maury to bring the baby to her to nurse or cuddle, to even leave early to be with her baby. Of course, even I understand that there is a cut-off for this kind of behavior, but I say go for it for as long as necessary with no compunction. Fuck it. It's your baby and really nothing is ever as important after they appear in this world. It's too bad that no company would allow that kind of flexibility forever, but so far they're being very understanding of their first-ever pregnant employee (amazing, isn't it?? And they've been around for over a decade!), and have also even given her the option of working 4 days a week.

I haven't talked to her yet, so I don't know how her first day back went, but I remember clearly the first time I was separated from Hollis. I cried off and on for roughly 24 hours, and then I was fine, but it was still heartbreaking. I couldn't figure out WHY I was crying; I just did. But he was also 27 months old. I don't know what I would have done at 12 weeks. Probably what thousands of other mothers do: suck it the fuck up.

And that's why I'm not going to wallow in my current state of loneliness. Hollis and Anthony are currently en route to Boston to visit Anthony's twin sister for 7 days. I've stayed behind to reclaim a semblance of sanity and just relax for the first time in over 2 years. I miss Hollis keenly, but won't allow any tears because, really, what's the point?? He's with his dad, he's going to have an amazing time, and I have been BEGGING for this alone time forever so why ruin it with yearning for something that isn't here?

So I plan on drinking wine, watching chick flicks, reading stupid magazines, working out, sleeping in, never getting dressed, and eating ice cream for dinner for a week. I'm going to think about my sweet baby sister who's going through one of the worst things all working moms have to go through and send her good vibes. I'm going to write every day until my eyes blur and I start repeating myself. I'm going to research what I can do to start changing the current mat-leave policies here in America to more closely resemble those of Canada and Europe because 12 weeks is far too short. I'm going to sit and spin on how lucky I am to stay home with my son, regardless of the unique struggles it brings because it's an amazing gift to be able to participate in every part of his day. And, of course, I'm going to contemplate my doughy navel some more. I'm sure I can come up with some more interesting posts than what I've been generating and it's my goal to fill up my queue with witty, droll musings.

What have your experiences with maternity leave and separation been like? Is it always this hard for moms to be away from their kids not matter what? Or am I just being a weenie?

Spending some quality time with Mama at breakfast yesterday.

Getting ready for his big trip.

You'll have to trust me when I tell you it's snowing.

See? Snow!

Heading to the airport and [truly] snowy Boston.