It's July. Thank God. I think I'm going to find it hard to look back on this last month with any sort of fondness at all. When there's a two year old in the house who can't seem to sleep, eat, or be happy, time stands still during the day, and runs out too quickly in the night. You calculate when the last dose of Tylenol was, and see if she'll be able to handle a bit more than usual cough medication, to get her a much needed long sleep. You wake up three times a night to a sobbing, weak voice calling for you to hold her, and the need to tend to your self, your sleep, your bladder, your illness, ceases. You go to work every day, riddled with guilt, pumped full of daytime medication, hoping you can make it through with enough energy for the go-round that awaits you at home. You pray to just be able to give her water without it coming back up, leaving her for even a moment becomes physically and emotionally impossible. You pick her tired limp body up and carry her to the bathroom, and sit in front of the toilet bowl, waiting for her body to lunge. Waiting for her pleading cries to make it stop. Waiting for your heart to break for her all over again.
Thank you July, for showing up right when you did. We promise to try and enjoy the rest of the summer as much as we can. We'll play in the water table, and pick vegetables from our garden when the sun goes down. We'll take early morning walks before it gets too hot on the weekends, and go look at pretty shiny classic cars on Saturdays, because for her, the cartoon ones are nothing compared to the real deal. We'll play in the sprinklers and eat ice cream and popsicles and watch Daddy barbecue hamburgers and hot dogs for dinner. And we'll sleep. We'll put Sleeping Beauty to shame.
Thursday, July 1, 2010
Tuesday, June 15, 2010
She's a Trooper.
When the conversation of Allison would come up at work, the question of day care would always be brought into play. I had no idea what other moms really meant when they said how "lucky" I was to not have to put Allison in daycare. I figured they were only speaking about the financial or emotional burden it placed on them, paying a stranger to feed, change and care for their children. No. It was not only that at all. It was the fact that we had unknowingly avoided the hazing ritual that is... childhood colds. Only one week after Allison's first part-time stint at her school did she come down with a doozy of a fever/sore throat combo that took her over to the degree where we hardly recognized her. Listless, sleepless, without an appetite for food or even water. And yet, in the moments in between, there were glimpses of sunshine in her smile. One week later, she woke from a twelve hour slumber and never looked back. Relief. I'm hoping the next cold, which I'm guessing will be in only a matter of weeks or less, will be less devastating to her.
Thursday, June 3, 2010
Thursday, May 27, 2010
Monsties, and Tars.
Yes, you heard it right. It's the first thing she asks for every morning. If the television set is not on and if Cars or Monsters is not running when she gets into the living room, it's a mad dash hunt for the remote ("'mote") and persistent repeated begging for her show. Do we watch it? Of course we do.
There's a much heated debate in the world of mothers about toddlers and television. As a new first time mom, I was adamant that my child's world would be filled every day with activities and fun play time that did not include the giant flat screen blaring. It will rot her brain! It will turn her into a zombie! A mute! An anti-social child! She'll get ADD! I stood by this credo for several months, until....
The first morning I put Sesame Street on the television. It was like taking the apple from the Tree Of Knowledge. It was forbidden fruit, but so tempting, I thought, "we'll only watch this for a little while." I think Allison was about nine months old. And she saw Elmo. She was infatuated with this red, furry, laughing, dancing little creature. She was intrigued with every word coming out of his puppet mouth. As time went by, she began laughing at things that were funny. She started mimicking dance moves and swaying to the beat. Her motor skills were improving. If other kids were around her, she'd share and play wouldn't scream with worry and possessiveness if she didn't get her toy back right away. And I didn't feel so badly that she was enjoying her time and soaking up all the things that Elmo, Big Bird, Bert and Ernie were saying.
Soon after followed Baby Einstein, Little Einstein, Mickey Mouse Clubhouse, Handy Manny, and Special Agent Oso. It was an unstoppable force. As adults we find ourselves singing the theme songs, dancing along as we brushed our teeth in the morning, or brewing the coffee, or reading the paper. And Allison is learning. She's not just mimicking. She's taking it all in and running with it.
Allison doesn't watch television all day, every day. She'd rather be outside playing in the yard, watering plants or in her playhouse. She comes with me to run errands every day we have together. When we're together, she points out planes, cars, buses, dogs, birds, bicycles. She counts items in the shopping basket. We practice our ABC's and our 123's. She knows colors and shapes. Her brain is a sponge, and somewhere along the line she's soaked up all this information, and now she's able to use it and be proud to contribute to the conversation effectively.
I'm not sure if letting her watch television is the reason that she knows all these things or not. When we were growing up, the morning cartoons consisted of a rabbit being chased by a coyote or an old grumpy miner, both of whom were trying to kill the rabbit. And we watched. We watched a lot. And we grew up (mostly) just fine. Now the children's shows are all about helping eachother and learning about what's in a neighborhood, what classical music and art is, and how to say hello and good bye in different languages. I don't think it's harmful to allow kids to sit and soak all that up.
So, when she wakes up and stands in front of the television and says "Tahhhhrs?" I know that she's asking for more than just to be able to tune out. She's asking for music to dance to, for an exciting moment, for me to sit with her during the parts she's not so sure about. And I do. Because I could use a little fun too. :)
There's a much heated debate in the world of mothers about toddlers and television. As a new first time mom, I was adamant that my child's world would be filled every day with activities and fun play time that did not include the giant flat screen blaring. It will rot her brain! It will turn her into a zombie! A mute! An anti-social child! She'll get ADD! I stood by this credo for several months, until....
The first morning I put Sesame Street on the television. It was like taking the apple from the Tree Of Knowledge. It was forbidden fruit, but so tempting, I thought, "we'll only watch this for a little while." I think Allison was about nine months old. And she saw Elmo. She was infatuated with this red, furry, laughing, dancing little creature. She was intrigued with every word coming out of his puppet mouth. As time went by, she began laughing at things that were funny. She started mimicking dance moves and swaying to the beat. Her motor skills were improving. If other kids were around her, she'd share and play wouldn't scream with worry and possessiveness if she didn't get her toy back right away. And I didn't feel so badly that she was enjoying her time and soaking up all the things that Elmo, Big Bird, Bert and Ernie were saying.
Soon after followed Baby Einstein, Little Einstein, Mickey Mouse Clubhouse, Handy Manny, and Special Agent Oso. It was an unstoppable force. As adults we find ourselves singing the theme songs, dancing along as we brushed our teeth in the morning, or brewing the coffee, or reading the paper. And Allison is learning. She's not just mimicking. She's taking it all in and running with it.
Allison doesn't watch television all day, every day. She'd rather be outside playing in the yard, watering plants or in her playhouse. She comes with me to run errands every day we have together. When we're together, she points out planes, cars, buses, dogs, birds, bicycles. She counts items in the shopping basket. We practice our ABC's and our 123's. She knows colors and shapes. Her brain is a sponge, and somewhere along the line she's soaked up all this information, and now she's able to use it and be proud to contribute to the conversation effectively.
I'm not sure if letting her watch television is the reason that she knows all these things or not. When we were growing up, the morning cartoons consisted of a rabbit being chased by a coyote or an old grumpy miner, both of whom were trying to kill the rabbit. And we watched. We watched a lot. And we grew up (mostly) just fine. Now the children's shows are all about helping eachother and learning about what's in a neighborhood, what classical music and art is, and how to say hello and good bye in different languages. I don't think it's harmful to allow kids to sit and soak all that up.
So, when she wakes up and stands in front of the television and says "Tahhhhrs?" I know that she's asking for more than just to be able to tune out. She's asking for music to dance to, for an exciting moment, for me to sit with her during the parts she's not so sure about. And I do. Because I could use a little fun too. :)
Wednesday, May 12, 2010
Not In A Million Years.
Pregnancy dreams. Are. The. Worst.
Last night, I slept through one of the most mind-boggling dreams I think I might have ever endured. Usually when they get too emotional to bear, I wake up, either crying or startled or both, and either get up and walk around the house or find a way, somehow, to fall back asleep. But the only thing that woke me up at 5:45 this morning was the peering light coming through the crack between the window ledge and the blackout drapes.
At first I blamed too much chocolate before bed as the culprit for such emotionally charged dreams. But as the pregnancy wares on, I realize it's much less to do with what my mouth is consuming, as what my brain is consuming and digesting every day. What's on television; what I read; what I sit and think about when I'm alone, or at work while I should be working. This information and these thoughts manifest themselves in my psyche, and all these extra female hormones rear their ugly heads in my dreams. They practically never, ever have anything to do with what's really happening in my life at the time.
I woke up this morning facing my husband's broad shoulders staring back at me. I shot up like a dart to see what the time was, thinking we'd once again slept through several snooze buttons. But, no, the alarm hadn't even gone off yet. And there I was, just twenty minutes from the sound of the same obnoxious radio station that he needs to jolt him out of bed each day, unable and unwilling to close my eyes again. I lay there, staring at his broad shoulders, the back of his head, his right ear. Telling myself, he'd never, ever do that. In a million years it'd never happen. That's not him. That's. Not. Him. When he finally turned over to face me - after what felt like thirty minutes but was really probably two - he didn't even bother to open his eyes before I started telling him.
"I had a bad dream; a really bad one."
"What happened this time?"
"I was pregnant, and you went to dinner with someone but you wouldn't say who; you ended up leaving me for her. You broke up with me at my parents house, in their backyard. You were so calm, and I was so heartbroken, and I didn't understand how it could be that easy. I threw a rod iron chair at you and it landed in the pool."
He smiled at the thought of my physical retaliation. "That would never happen. Not in a million years." And the strong arms that are connected to the broad shoulders on his back reached around me, held me, for the rest of the quietness that we had this morning.
Tomorrow we'll be married for four years. It took him a little while to learn me, and what I needed to hear to feel better about what my mind puts me through from time to time. But I know that I'm lucky to have a man in my life who cares enough to make sure that my bad dreams - or as I refer to it, my crazy pregnancy woman brain - stay in check. He'd never do anything to make me feel like I'm less than what he needs or wants. He's the man that men want to be friends with, that women want to have children with, and sleep next to at night, every night for the rest of their lives. And I'm the woman who's been with him for nearly six years now. From almost the first date, we've been attached, and I've never felt more at home or more myself than when I'm with him. He's made me a mother, a wife, and has given me the very good feeling of having both feet firmly on the ground, even when my head is in the clouds.
A good man makes a good woman want to be better. Not for him. For her. And that's what he does for me. I strive because he sees that I can and believes in me. I stand behind my conviction even when I have to choose my battles, and he's the only man I've ever had in my life that I know won't turn away from me when I can't contain my frustration. He'd rather see it the same day, than watch it come out after a year's worth of pain reaches the pinnacle, and becomes an uncontrollable mass.
I love him, because I know nothing like that would happen in a million years. And I believe him when he says it, even though he doesn't have to say it at all. And it makes it easier to fall asleep the next night, knowing that when I wake up there will be a set of broad shoulders always laying next to me, with strong arms to hold me, for the rest of our lives.
Last night, I slept through one of the most mind-boggling dreams I think I might have ever endured. Usually when they get too emotional to bear, I wake up, either crying or startled or both, and either get up and walk around the house or find a way, somehow, to fall back asleep. But the only thing that woke me up at 5:45 this morning was the peering light coming through the crack between the window ledge and the blackout drapes.
At first I blamed too much chocolate before bed as the culprit for such emotionally charged dreams. But as the pregnancy wares on, I realize it's much less to do with what my mouth is consuming, as what my brain is consuming and digesting every day. What's on television; what I read; what I sit and think about when I'm alone, or at work while I should be working. This information and these thoughts manifest themselves in my psyche, and all these extra female hormones rear their ugly heads in my dreams. They practically never, ever have anything to do with what's really happening in my life at the time.
I woke up this morning facing my husband's broad shoulders staring back at me. I shot up like a dart to see what the time was, thinking we'd once again slept through several snooze buttons. But, no, the alarm hadn't even gone off yet. And there I was, just twenty minutes from the sound of the same obnoxious radio station that he needs to jolt him out of bed each day, unable and unwilling to close my eyes again. I lay there, staring at his broad shoulders, the back of his head, his right ear. Telling myself, he'd never, ever do that. In a million years it'd never happen. That's not him. That's. Not. Him. When he finally turned over to face me - after what felt like thirty minutes but was really probably two - he didn't even bother to open his eyes before I started telling him.
"I had a bad dream; a really bad one."
"What happened this time?"
"I was pregnant, and you went to dinner with someone but you wouldn't say who; you ended up leaving me for her. You broke up with me at my parents house, in their backyard. You were so calm, and I was so heartbroken, and I didn't understand how it could be that easy. I threw a rod iron chair at you and it landed in the pool."
He smiled at the thought of my physical retaliation. "That would never happen. Not in a million years." And the strong arms that are connected to the broad shoulders on his back reached around me, held me, for the rest of the quietness that we had this morning.
Tomorrow we'll be married for four years. It took him a little while to learn me, and what I needed to hear to feel better about what my mind puts me through from time to time. But I know that I'm lucky to have a man in my life who cares enough to make sure that my bad dreams - or as I refer to it, my crazy pregnancy woman brain - stay in check. He'd never do anything to make me feel like I'm less than what he needs or wants. He's the man that men want to be friends with, that women want to have children with, and sleep next to at night, every night for the rest of their lives. And I'm the woman who's been with him for nearly six years now. From almost the first date, we've been attached, and I've never felt more at home or more myself than when I'm with him. He's made me a mother, a wife, and has given me the very good feeling of having both feet firmly on the ground, even when my head is in the clouds.
A good man makes a good woman want to be better. Not for him. For her. And that's what he does for me. I strive because he sees that I can and believes in me. I stand behind my conviction even when I have to choose my battles, and he's the only man I've ever had in my life that I know won't turn away from me when I can't contain my frustration. He'd rather see it the same day, than watch it come out after a year's worth of pain reaches the pinnacle, and becomes an uncontrollable mass.
I love him, because I know nothing like that would happen in a million years. And I believe him when he says it, even though he doesn't have to say it at all. And it makes it easier to fall asleep the next night, knowing that when I wake up there will be a set of broad shoulders always laying next to me, with strong arms to hold me, for the rest of our lives.
Tuesday, May 4, 2010
Beebee Eh-buh.
We're in the depths of week twenty-two of my second pregnancy. Last week we announced that Miss Eva Grace will be arriving in the beginning of September this year, and we couldn't be happier. Judging by her recent lively activity in utero, she really couldn't be happier either.
Allison doesn't really understand much of what's happening right now. I tell her, "Baby Eva will be here soon" and a blank look is the only response I get. What can you expect from someone who themselves hasn't even been on the planet for a full 24 months? So I say, "Alli, can you say 'Baby Eva'?" and the sweetest voice mutters out "Beebee Eh-buh".
This weekend only proved to me what a great big sister Eva will have on her hands, and what a great little helper for us. We visited my cousin, who's six-month old daughter thought Allison was a very appropriate teething ring for a good part of the visit. Instead of running in the other direction, Allison sidled up and positioned herself in just the appropriate place for Sarah to bend down and drool all over her hair and forehead. Instead of waiting for it all to be over, Allison laughed the entire time, going back for more. When Sarah fell over and bumped her head, Allison made a beeline for diapers, a paci, stuffed animals, anything that would help soothe the crying little baby. Needless to say, I left with a relieved heart. I knew there wasn't much room in Allison for being possessive or jealous. I didn't know that there was so much room for love and helpfulness.
It makes you wonder how Eva will be as a big sister. But that's a blog for another day, much further down the line I suppose.
Allison doesn't really understand much of what's happening right now. I tell her, "Baby Eva will be here soon" and a blank look is the only response I get. What can you expect from someone who themselves hasn't even been on the planet for a full 24 months? So I say, "Alli, can you say 'Baby Eva'?" and the sweetest voice mutters out "Beebee Eh-buh".
This weekend only proved to me what a great big sister Eva will have on her hands, and what a great little helper for us. We visited my cousin, who's six-month old daughter thought Allison was a very appropriate teething ring for a good part of the visit. Instead of running in the other direction, Allison sidled up and positioned herself in just the appropriate place for Sarah to bend down and drool all over her hair and forehead. Instead of waiting for it all to be over, Allison laughed the entire time, going back for more. When Sarah fell over and bumped her head, Allison made a beeline for diapers, a paci, stuffed animals, anything that would help soothe the crying little baby. Needless to say, I left with a relieved heart. I knew there wasn't much room in Allison for being possessive or jealous. I didn't know that there was so much room for love and helpfulness.
It makes you wonder how Eva will be as a big sister. But that's a blog for another day, much further down the line I suppose.
Monday, May 3, 2010
Okay, Someone Tell Me Where The Time Went.
It's May. Yep, May, and as a dear old friend reminded me this weekend, I haven't been here to post anything in about three months. Highly unlike me, but for good reason I suppose. Everyone's heard the phrase, "if you don't have anything nice to say, don't say anything at all." I've had a LOT to say in the last three months, but posting it into the blogosphere might not have been the most appropriate thing to do.
Being honest is like being a professional waxer. You have to calmly and clearly prepare your victim for what they're about to endure, and in one fell swoop, rip, pull and remove the bullshit from their lives. It's a dirty painful service, and whether or not we believe it, it's a necessary evil. Everyone can see when you have, or have not, seen a waxer. Just like people can smell the bullshit from a hundred yards away.
It's interesting to me how people feel so safe at times behind their keyboards. Posting mean things, saying how they "really feel", taking off the kid gloves and going for the jugular. The double-edged sword of the internet.... It makes you wonder what our children will do, what they'll say, when they're faced with situations they feel passionately about. Being broken-hearted, feeling betrayed, or lied to; wanting to lash out without actually seeing the other person's face. It's the biggest passive-aggressive movement that there seems to be. It's cruelty without consequences, it's like kicking a blind man. What ever happened to the back to basics phone call? Or conversation over coffee? The victim and the accused eye-to-eye, working things out as two human beings and not two robots. I think there's something distinctly, well, human about that. We don't all have to be friends, and we all aren't going to like eachother. But there should at least be a call for attempting a respectful conversation, not over some cable communication.
I was raised by two loving, wonderful parents. These two people gave me the most mixed messages about communication I could possibly receive growing up. I couldn't decide how I was supposed to not rock the boat, so to speak, while still getting my voice heard and my point across. As I've gotten older, I've come to the conclusion that it's nearly impossible - yes, mentally, spiritually, even physically impossible to hold my tongue. It's mostly when I'm being lied to, or when I hear something come out of someone's mouth that is so preposterous I can barely hold my breath in. Cutting words, back-handed compliments, and sarcastic delivery isn't heard at all as well as a straight-forward, non-elevated "you're full of shit", "you are acting crazy", or "what in the world is your problem?", and waiting for the response. I believe it's the reason that my marriage and any relationship worthwhile having will likely last for the rest of my life. I'd rather people know they can get the cold hard truth from me, like it or not, than to have an ample supply of smoke blown up their asses.
One would at this juncture, point out that I, myself, have been holding my tongue, doing what I've called physically impossible, for a few months now. How can I possibly stand up on my feet and walk around? I think that there's also something to be said for waiting for the opportunity to present itself. It's clearly one thing to blast your honest, uncensored opinion to whoever you feel needs to hear it. It's quite another to wait until the moment arises when it'll make the most impact, and sear itself into the brain of whoever you're pointing your position to. Because we don't always remember what is being said to us as much as we can recall where we were, how it felt to hear it in the moment it was being said, and knowing that there was no where to run and hide away from the truth.
Let the waxing commence.
Being honest is like being a professional waxer. You have to calmly and clearly prepare your victim for what they're about to endure, and in one fell swoop, rip, pull and remove the bullshit from their lives. It's a dirty painful service, and whether or not we believe it, it's a necessary evil. Everyone can see when you have, or have not, seen a waxer. Just like people can smell the bullshit from a hundred yards away.
It's interesting to me how people feel so safe at times behind their keyboards. Posting mean things, saying how they "really feel", taking off the kid gloves and going for the jugular. The double-edged sword of the internet.... It makes you wonder what our children will do, what they'll say, when they're faced with situations they feel passionately about. Being broken-hearted, feeling betrayed, or lied to; wanting to lash out without actually seeing the other person's face. It's the biggest passive-aggressive movement that there seems to be. It's cruelty without consequences, it's like kicking a blind man. What ever happened to the back to basics phone call? Or conversation over coffee? The victim and the accused eye-to-eye, working things out as two human beings and not two robots. I think there's something distinctly, well, human about that. We don't all have to be friends, and we all aren't going to like eachother. But there should at least be a call for attempting a respectful conversation, not over some cable communication.
I was raised by two loving, wonderful parents. These two people gave me the most mixed messages about communication I could possibly receive growing up. I couldn't decide how I was supposed to not rock the boat, so to speak, while still getting my voice heard and my point across. As I've gotten older, I've come to the conclusion that it's nearly impossible - yes, mentally, spiritually, even physically impossible to hold my tongue. It's mostly when I'm being lied to, or when I hear something come out of someone's mouth that is so preposterous I can barely hold my breath in. Cutting words, back-handed compliments, and sarcastic delivery isn't heard at all as well as a straight-forward, non-elevated "you're full of shit", "you are acting crazy", or "what in the world is your problem?", and waiting for the response. I believe it's the reason that my marriage and any relationship worthwhile having will likely last for the rest of my life. I'd rather people know they can get the cold hard truth from me, like it or not, than to have an ample supply of smoke blown up their asses.
One would at this juncture, point out that I, myself, have been holding my tongue, doing what I've called physically impossible, for a few months now. How can I possibly stand up on my feet and walk around? I think that there's also something to be said for waiting for the opportunity to present itself. It's clearly one thing to blast your honest, uncensored opinion to whoever you feel needs to hear it. It's quite another to wait until the moment arises when it'll make the most impact, and sear itself into the brain of whoever you're pointing your position to. Because we don't always remember what is being said to us as much as we can recall where we were, how it felt to hear it in the moment it was being said, and knowing that there was no where to run and hide away from the truth.
Let the waxing commence.
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