Dear Little Brother
21 Sep 2011 Leave a Comment
Dear Little Brother,
I may not tell you this very often but you are a heck of a special guy and I want the world to know it! You have such a sweet and tender heart when you play with your nieces. It brings me so much joy to see their faces light up when you walk in the room. They adore their Gunkle Ray! 
Tomorrow you turn 19. I can’t believe that much time has passed. It seems like yesterday you were sleeping with a Mickey Mouse blanket and playing in the dirt with your Tonka trucks. I miss those days, but I am so proud of the young man you have become. I am looking forward to watching you graduate this year, and I am also dreading saying goodbye when you leave for military training. It makes sad that I won’t get to see you when I want, but I’m excited to see all the great things you will do!
And thank you for coming to my house on a minutes notice after a long day of work and school to entertain my kids so I could pack! You were a lifesaver! That’s why I love you, Little Brother…because I can count on you!
Thank you for insisting I let you dig through the POD to get my mattress too. I was totally set to put the kids in their travel beds and sleep on the floor. No biggie! But you wouldn’t have it! You moved a table and chairs, random boxes, and a washer and dryer all by yourself to make sure I could sleep comfortably. That rocks and my back will thank you!
I should remind you, though, that I, too, was in the military and I spent a three day field exercise sleeping in a foxhole (that I dug) with a gas mask on during a lightning storm that nearly drowned me in rainwater while I was attacked by fire ants. True story! After that, the dry and carpeted floor sans fire ants doesn’t sound so bad. Just remember that image as you make your final decision to join. I mean…I’m not trying to selfishly talk you out of it or anything…Did I ever tell you the story about how they made me drink water until I threw up? Then I had to drink more…
Okay, I’ll save it for later.
I love you and I hope you have the best birthday yet!
Love,
Big Sis
Time to Move!
20 Sep 2011 Leave a Comment
I have been waiting for this week for four long months. The longest four months of my life!!! Tomorrow, we close on our new home and we are MOVING! I am so grateful. The Lord has poured out blessings on our little family that I would never had imagined possible in the weeks that followed our loss. To be able to give my sweet baby girls a home that we will fill with good and wonderful memories just brings me to tears of gratitude. Thank you, Jesus!
But, oh boy! I totally forgot what a pain in the rear it was to connect services to a brand new home. Each utility of course has it’s own automated phone number where you spend thirty minutes pressing numbers so they can best direct your call, only to be asked the exact same questions once you get a real person, and then you are put on hold for another hour while that person transfers you to another department. I did this at least ten times today. God forbid, you’ve been on hold 45 minutes when you finally get to a real live human being who can help you and suddenly there is a freak solar eclipse and you lose your service! And what I hate even worse are those voice recognition lines. You know what I’m talking about, “please say your blah, blah, blah…for example, say ‘blah, blah, blah’…” Then, after the automated monologue, you say your answer only to hear it repeat something completely whacked and ask you, “Is this correct?” No! That’s not even close to what I said! “Okay, let’s try again. Please say blah, blah, blah…” Usually, if it didn’t understand you the first time, it’s not going to get you on the second-take. Sometimes those things end and sometimes they don’t and you have to just admit telephonic defeat and hang up. It’s even worse when you have kids because every squeak they make in the background puts the automated system into overdrive, “I’m having trouble understanding you. Please repeat that.” Hannah! Shut up!!! (spoken silently with a glare and a sharp finger to the lips which sends her into a fit of giggles) “I’m sorry. Let’s try again.” Ohhhhhhhh, forget it!
Because of this I am definitely not looking forward to calling and changing my address. For one, I live on a street with a ridiculous name that’s a throwback to an eighties movie. I can almost guess someone’s age based on whether they hear it and giggle or ask me to spell it. The other reason is that I have mail going to half a dozen separate addresses, most of which are also being forwarded multiple times. I’m sure there are more than a few important pieces of mail that are just being passed in an eternal circle at the post office right now. “Steve, didn’t I give you this same catalog yesterday?” For all I know I could have a warrant out for my arrest because I did not respond to a jury duty notice from three months ago. “Please don’t arrest me, officer! I swear I just got the notice today. See these seventeen yellow forwarding stickers on it? I think the post office was confused!”
Ah, but as crazy as dealing with the phone and the mail can be, it’s easier than having to go somewhere to take care of something. Never mind the fact that I have two kids and it takes an hour and an army just to get them fed, dressed, changed and loaded into carseats twice just to run a “quick” errand. Let me assure you, the world would end before I ever ran to the store for just a gallon of milk. If we leave this house, we come back with the Mothership LOADED. So it bugs me that I have to make a personal appearance to get water service and a trash can. Yes, water, that wet stuff that falls from the sky for free? Well, in order to get the filtered version from your tap it requires a face-to-face interview, copy of your deed, and a driver’s license. I’m sure they’ll want a blood sample before they turn over my BFI can.
But as much of a headache as all this has become, it is truly a blessing! I’m giving my girls (and myself) a home. I can honestly say, you never know what home is until you’ve lost yours. It goes so far beyond four walls! It’s sacred. I look forward to the days my girls and I will spend together transforming our new house into a safe, comfortable, and loving God-centered home!
Close calls
14 Sep 2011 Leave a Comment
in General Nonsense, Stupid does not descriminate
I almost died today. No, really. I almost choked myself to death trying to swallow a headache pill. Swallowing pills are typically not that hard to do. There are only a few basic steps: place pill on tongue, sip water, swallow. Repeat if necessary. That’s not so hard unless you are like me and you are trying to make an appointment with the pediatrician’s office, swallow a pill, and breathe all at the same time. There are just certain things you should not multitask, I suppose. Lesson learned.
I spent ALL day in the car, which led to a headache, which then turned into a massive migraine by the end of the day when I finally got home. I couldn’t get to my bottle of Aleve fast enough. And of course, it took me another ten minutes to get into the childproof bottle. Let me just say, when you are tired and can barely focus because of massive head pain that feels like someone is trying to crush your skull with a mallet…well, that’s not the time you are best able to line up two half-crooked little plastic white arrows that BLEND in with the rest of the bottle. Ever had that moment when you felt like you needed the jaws of life to break into a plastic pill bottle? I could have opened it faster if I had just run over it with my car. I am sure at least one or two pills would have survived.
No sooner than I had the pills in one hand and my glass of water in the other, I suddenly remember I needed to schedule Baby K’s six month check-up with the pediatrician. So, I set my pills down, right? Nooooo. I do what any other rational moron would do and call the office with my head cocked to the side holding my phone against my shoulder and pop that pill right in! Yes sir! Let me assure you that is not the prime position to swallow just in case you were wondering.
I felt the pill get sucked straight back to my windpipe like somebody turned on a Hoover vacuum cleaner inside my mouth. Then it just sort of teetered there, threatening to cut off my air supply. I froze in terror! I couldn’t breath or I’d suck it down. I couldn’t gag because I was mid-sentence and my brain hadn’t caught up with the reality of the situation. I had an appointment to make. I just sat there for a minute in shock before I finally started to panic!
What if I choke to death right now? Is this how I am going to die, death by stupidity? How can I call for help when I can’t talk? The kids are here!!! What if I die and no one comes to check on them??? All manners of dire scenarios played through my mind in a span of seconds!
I don’t know what the woman on the opposite end of the line was thinking. All she heard was, “Hi, I need to make an appointment for-” followed by a very long silence and finally some bird-like gagging until I got the pill out and started to cough like I was hacking up a lung. I’m surprised she didn’t think it was a prank call and hang up on me.
I probably won’t be able to take headache pills for months now. I definitely won’t be attempting it while talking on the phone. Maybe this is a lesson that maybe I should slow down and not try to do so much at once. Or that I should switch to BC powder. That sounds like a more realistic goal.
Fast Food Part II
07 Sep 2011 Leave a Comment
in Stupid does not descriminate
I always wondered if I wrote a book, what would I write about? I mean, just read through my blog…it’s completely random, right? Sometimes it’s about parenting, sometimes about my life in general, but most times it’s about what irritates me. Well, worry no more. I have an answer. I think I will dedicate my first book to the absolute retardedness that is the American Fast Food industry. Oh yes, it’s time to rip on McDonalds, my friends. They’ve had it coming for a while now.
Considering I haven’t cooked (microwaved) a real meal in months, I have to say I’m pretty proud of my restraint up until this point. Pat yourself on the back for me. Go ahead! No one’s looking. I have become a regular patron at your local drive thru and let me tell you, they are all created equal. However, this morning I had the ultimate experience of, “Did that really happen? Seriously…”
So, I was a little early for an appointment and decided coffee and a breakfast burrito would kill some time. I pull up to the window and the young lady hands me my coffee with a regular top. Like for a straw. Who drinks coffee through a straw? Now, there are days I wish coffee came in IV form, but never once have I thought to myself, “I think I’ll suck down some burning hot coffee as fast as I can through a straw the size of a PVC pipe.” Nope, never crossed my mind. I prefer to sip my flaming mocha through a coffee lid. Spoiled that way, I suppose. Sad story.
When she attempted to hand it to me, I asked her, “What’s that?”, with a puzzled look on my face that must have read: are you retarded? She fumbled for a minute with her words before she said they were out of coffee lids for the medium cups. Okay. So I asked her to put it in a small cup. Again, she just garbled at me and tried to clarify what I was saying and what she was supposed to do with the rest of the coffee. Clearly, she was in shock that a regular lid was a sucky substitute for a coffee lid. Bless her heart. I tried to be as specific as I could. “Pour that coffee in one small cup and dump the rest down the sink. I don’t care that I paid for a medium. I really need a COFFEE lid because I will make a huge mess. Thanks.” She seemed satisfied with the step by step instructions and went to fix my coffee.
Then, with a smile, she hands me a small coffee with a REGULAR lid. Again, my response was, “What’s that?”, only my non-verbal communication was screaming, “Why did they put you in the drive thru??? Please go scrub a toilet.” Not nice, I know. I have great control over what I say…what I think, not-so-much. I feel bad for her. A little.
Then she tells me, “I told you we were out of coffee lids?”
Really?
Anybody else want to finish this story…
My monologue that followed went something like this: “Noooo…you told me you were out of MEDIUM lids so I asked you to put it in a small cup with a small lid. If you had told me they were the SAME size coffee lids, I would not have asked you to pour out half of my coffee I paid ten dollars for. Give me a coke please.”
At this point she was so overwhelmed, I think I could have gotten a Big Mac out of her if I hadn’t been afraid she would pack it in a cup holder because they were out of boxes or something else stupid. “Here’s your Big Mac, ma’am. Sorry, we ran out of sacks but I put it in a trash bag for you.” Thanks.
Soooo…instead of my yummy mocha, they gave me a half-gallon sized cup of watered down flat coke. Awesome! It went well with the stale burrito that tasted like filet-o-fish. I can’t get too mad at the drive-thru girl. She looked pretty young and I worked drive-thru, myself, as a teenager. It’s my own fault that I keep going back like they will spontaneously learn how to function between today and tomorrow.
I definitely won’t be going back to THIS McDonald’s. Mostly because the last time I was there (to get coffee), the same chick was working drive thru when I ordered my mocha only to wait twenty minutes to pay and then hear, “Sorry, but we’re not selling the mochas right now because we have to clean the machine once a day, so we can’t make them.” I told her 8:30am was a really dumb time to clean the coffee machine and thanks for not telling me when I ordered so I could wait in line 20 minutes for NOTHING!
Ugh…did that come out of my mouth??? Yes, yes it did. This is why I need coffee. I should not be allowed to interact with people until I have some.
To the girl in the drive-thru, I’m sorry that you have had to deal with ne undercaffeinated. From now on, I’ll harass the people of Starbucks. That’s the REAL reason they charge so much for their coffee, I think. It’s because they have to pay their employees double to deal with crabby jerkwad customers, like me, who can’t function socially without their morning caffeine fix.
Tall Tales
01 Sep 2011 Leave a Comment
The only people who truly believe that children are inherently good or innocent have never had a three year old. Three year olds are amazing weapons of mass destruction. Why Al Qaeda hasn’t tapped into their uncanny ability to cause widespread havoc and chaos is a mystery we will never solve! Possibly because three year olds can induce terror in even the deadliest of extremists…somewhere there is a toddler running around with his Dad’s turban and AK47 playing jihad while his mother hits the deck yelling, “I said ‘Put that down!!!’ That’s not a toy!” Maybe not. But it’s a pretty funny image.
The great thing about threes, though, is that they always seem to tell on themselves when they’ve done something wrong. It’s a natural progression that occurs from the time they are one. At one, it’s “uh oh!” as the point their fat finger at the light socket hole they’re about to shove it into. That at least gives you a chance to nab them before they fricassee themselves. At two, however, they get a little smarter and make sure they complete their wrongful acts before they alert you. You may be minding your business, catching up on your latest Reality TV obsession, when they toddle into the room covered head-to-toe in Gold Bond powder and wreaking of men’s cologne, as they say, “I didn’t make a mess in Daddy’s bafroom.” Fabulous. Someone broke in and assaulted you with men’s self-care products? What kind of neighborhood is this?
But at three, they begin to wise up to the facts that: (1) there are consequences to their actions, and (2) “It was an accident” don’t fly like it used to. And if your three year old is REALLY smart, they will learn to blame someone or someTHING else for the alleged crime. Chairs in our house have been responsible for the most atrocious and curious things, as have innocent relatives and playdates, and the all-to-infamous invisible monster. One time Hannah even blamed my mom’s dog for dumping all the shampoo into the toilet along with her toy boat, a screwdriver, and one of my shoes. Nevermind the dog was three cities away. Sneaky dogs!
Today it was this:
Hannah: (as she comes running out of my mom’s room) “Why is mammaw’s bed all wet?”
Me: “I don’t know…why IS mammaw’s bed wet?” (seriously hoping she didn’t pee in it)
Hannah: “That ice melted and made her bed wet, I guess.” (smiling)
Me: “Ice?? Hannah, did you put ice in mammaw’s bed?”
Hannah: (looking like a deer caught in the headlights now) “I didn’t do it.” (looks at Jayden with those ‘don’t-rat-me-out’ eyes)
Jayden: (looking like a deer caught in the headlights as I stare at him with my ‘you-better-own-up-to-it-or-rat-her-out’ look) “I didn’t do it either.”
Then they both stare at me with satisfied faces in their united lie.
Me: “Well somebody put ice in mammaw’s bed. Who was it?”
Them in unison: “Not me!”
Then they look at each other and the explanations begin…
Hannah: “It wasn’t me and Jayden didn’t do it. Maybe that monster did!”
Jayden: “yeah, that scary monster! Let’s go get him Hannah!” (pretends to shoot a gun)
Hannah: “Yeah, let’s go get that creepy little green monster!” (shooting noises are heard as they run to the hall closet to exterminate the monsters)
But just as they go, Hannah turns and declares: “I’m thirsty!”
Me: “Where did you leave your cup?” (of ice water)
Jayden: “She left it in mammaw’s room!”
Ahhh…of course. Why did I even ask?
The Family Bed
30 Aug 2011 Leave a Comment
This is actually a very controversial parenting topic. Co-sleeping refers to parents and children sleeping in close proximity to each other, and bed-sharing is when that “close proximity” means in the same bed together. In the world of attachment parenting, a style of parent-child bonding, it is the norm, especially among breast-feeding mothers who find their baby feeds better, bonds quicker, and everyone sleeps more soundly with this arrangement. The proponents for “the family bed”, as it is being so named, argue that this practice has been safely in use all over the world for centuries. Those who argue against it cite SIDS statistics and claim it’s too risky.
I am not a supporter of the family bed, mostly because I’m selfish. I like my body to myself and room to spread out when I sleep. I carried my children for nine (ten) months a piece and had them rolling and kicking me from the inside all night long. I couldn’t wait to get them OUT of my body! Once they were out, I did not lose my mind and suddenly want them in the bed with me so they could roll and kick me from the outside all night long.
What I want is sleep, and I can’t sleep with my children in the bed with me. It makes me so nervous that It keeps me awake all night worrying I will roll over and smother them. This isn’t some third world country where parents sleep on the floor with their kids to stay warm for sheer survival and because they have no alternative. My bed is several feet off the floor and could cause a serious head injury if my six month old were to roll off. And then I would feel pretty stupid knowing I had a perfectly safe crib I could put her in.
Anyway, just my personal opinion on the matter. I know many people feel differently and I don’t need to be “educated” as to why (TPG). I don’t really care where your kids sleep, that’s your business. I hope you don’t smother them. That would suck. For me and mine, separate beds and rooms is the goal.
I say “goal” because, to my dismay, we are currently sleeping in the family bed. Literally, as I type, I have a toddler knee shoved in my back. And it’s not comfortable. The baby doesn’t sleep in the bed, luckily, because her big sister would beat her in her sleep. Hannah is like a mini Mike Tyson in bed, I swear. She throws herself all over it, kicking the blankets off (both of us) like they attacked her, and most nights ends up completely sideways with her head hanging off the side and her feet in my back. Trying to reposition her in her sleep is like trying to lift a sack of potatoes that weighs 500 pounds. And she gets so angry, hitting and pulling hair while she demands her duck and shoves her thumb in her mouth. Her little body radiates more heat than the surface of the sun and the more I move away the more closely she wants to sleep. Sleeping with her is like being part of a hot, sweaty UFC match (that your losing).
The only reason we share a bed is because that’s all we have. Soon we’ll be moving and each of the girls will have their own rooms with their own beds and I will be able to rest peacefully in my bed alone. Hannah will be resistant to that so I will have to wean her gradually back to sleeping alone. And if I’m honest, the transition is going to be hard on me too. I will have to adjust to being without the security of having each of them within arms reach, not being able to watch them sleeping, or to check they are safely still breathing by merely opening my eyes. For someone who doesn’t support the family bed, a big part of me will miss mine.
Screaming in the rain
18 Aug 2011 Leave a Comment
in Stupid does not descriminate
I love rainy days, don’t you? The sound of rain and thunder are so soothing. Right now it’s dark outside and pouring. I’m snuggled up in bed with my PJs on comfortably sipping my morning mocha, courtesy of McDonald’s, with Katelynn happily cooing and chewing her toys beside me. For once, I have no pressing plans for today other than laundry and dishes (maybe…napping sounds better). Life is peaceful at the moment so I am enjoying the rainy weather.
If you had caught me around, say eight-ish this morning, however, I probably would have lost my religion on you over the torrential downpour I had to walk through to get Hannah to her preschool class. I’m pretty sure Desoto County had a hurricane this morning. I think I saw Geraldo in the parking lot in a poncho. It was awful and kinda scary. If I had cable, maybe I could have prepared and constructed an Ark. Although, as many cool things as the Mothership (my new name for the van) can do, I wouldn’t be surprised if it could morph into a Carnival Cruise Ship.
Anyway, it wasn’t raining when we left the apartment this morning and I only vaguely remember some dark clouds to the north of us on the way there, but keep in mind this was pre-McMocha. I’m not functionally human until I get my coffee. As soon as we hit the parking lot, though, things changed. Raindrops the size of small asteroids began threatening to shatter my windshield and before I could take my next breath we were having a full-on monsoon. So, I sat there waiting for the worst to pass, but after 15 minutes I couldn’t wait any longer since I had an appointment to make and Hannah was growing increasingly anxious about being left at school. So in my infinite mommy wisdom, I decided to grab both umbrellas, my kids, and make a mad dash for the safety of the covered walkway.
I obviously underestimated that we were parked three miles from safety. I opened one full size umbrella and handed it to my preschooler, while I manned the other in one hand, carrying Katelynn and Hannah’s school bag in the other. Hannah did pretty well for about two seconds until lightning and thunder were crashing all around us and the wind caught under her umbrella and threatened to carry her off to Oz. With both my hands full, I was forced to catch her with my body and force her against the wind, as she screamed in terror, towards the entrance. It took us what seemed like an hour to make it to the covered walkway and by that time we had been soaked with approximately 2,000 gallons of cold rain. How we didn’t get hit by lightening, I’ll never know!
Once inside, we squeaked down the hallway, sopping wet and shivering, towards her class. I caught the teacher’s assistant outside and asked her, in exasperation, what my options were for drop-off during days like these. Could I pull under the awning and walk her inside? Did they have staff or volunteers that could walk her from the carpool line to her classroom? She just stared at me for a second with wide-eyes like I had asked her to bare my next child for me and finally said, “Oh, nooooo…you have to park in the parking lot and walk her in. I’m sorry. I know that means you’ll get a little wet…” A little wet?! Lady, I just dodged 15 strikes of lightening, nearly dropped my infant trying to prevent my other child from being blown into the next county, and I’m soaked down to my socks and underwear! In what capacity does that qualify as a “little wet”?! Luckily, that string of word-vomit didn’t leave my lips, but my face said it all too clearly. So she said, “Well, you don’t have to drop her off so early.”
NEGATORY!
At that point, I lost it. I told her that I had important appointments to keep, a schedule to adhere to, and would eventually have job hours to abide by. What did they expect working parents to do? Wait in the parking lot until lunchtime when the rain passed? Humph! Ridiculous! Especially when the other students can be dropped off near the door, but they don’t want the preschool parents holding up traffic. I think I startled her, because she just walked away as I mumbled some half-hearted apology about being irritable because I was wet and hadn’t had my coffee. Then I kissed Hannah goodbye and carried Katelynn back to the car in Hurricane-screw-with-Brittney-Lee. I was so hot I’m sure the raindrops were evaporating in steam as soon as they made contact with my body.
So I made it to my appointment on time and then stopped to get my required cup ‘o Joe. I’m a little better now that I’ve dried out, but it still makes me angry and I’ll probably be sending a lengthy email to the school administration with suggestions that would be safer for the children who are expected to walk three miles to class in a severe lightening storm.
The first day
12 Aug 2011 1 Comment
In my child’s life, there are many “firsts” that I have waited for with joyful anticipation. The first tooth, her first words, the first time she walked, her first birthday…and so on…all these things bring an intense sense of happiness as I watch her grow and experience the world. Then there are other “firsts” that I absolutely dread. Firsts that rock me with fear and anxiety, robbing me of sleep, and putting gray in my hair at a premature pace. They suck. Like the first time she fell and scraped her knee, the first time she was sick enough to take to the hospital, and the first time she threw an all-out toddler tantrum in the middle of the Wal-mart check-out line over a toy. There’s nothing more embarrassing than trying hold onto a gallon of milk with one hand and using the other to wrestle a three year old while nine months pregnant as she kicks you in the stomach, tells you she hates you, and screams like somebody set her on fire. Here, have the stupid toy!
Yesterday was one of those dreaded firsts. It was her first day of preschool by herself. I had already prepared her teacher for it, because I know she’s a clingy child but her separation anxiety has been even worse lately. I also spent time preparing Hannah. We have talked about school all summer, she took a tour a few weeks ago, and we dropped-in for a “meet the teacher” day on Wednesday. She seemed excited, but I could see the uncertainty on her face at times, so I knew it was going to be hard.
I was right. The first drop-off yesterday morning was awful. I am so envious of the parents who drop their kid at the door and their child takes off before the can even blink. No tears, no hugs, no fear. What the crap? Your kid is a freak of nature, I swear. Does your kid not have toys at home? Do you lock them in a box and only let them out when you have to go into public? What’s the secret, because I will try anything at this point.
MY child had to be peeled off of me! Oh, she did fine getting out of the car and walking to class (which surprised me). I expected WWIII before we got out of the parking lot. But once we were inside, all bets were off, and the waterworks started. She buried her face against my blue jeans, clutching the fabric for dear life. “Mommy, don’t leave me!” she pleaded. I tried to soothe her, reassuring her I would come back in a little while. That only increased the volume of her crying. The teacher’s assistant tried to rescue me by attempting to distract her with toys and activities. No luck. Sorry lady, my child is way too smart to fall for your tricks. She knows what your ulterior motive is and she’s not biting. Or she mite bite you, so don’t get too close. I tried to give her a snack in hopes it would at least free her hands from my body. And that’s when she started to climb me. Like a tree, clawing and kicking the whole way up.
By this time, the baby was crying too. Don’t you love how they do that in unison? It’s so calming. So the teacher made a grab for Hannah, pulling her off me, and I calmly told her I would see her for lunch. Then I pushed my stroller of screaming baby away from my, now shrieking, three year old’s classroom as people looked on in shock and pity. Come on? I know I’m not the only parent whose child does this, right? So I walked to the parking lot and cried along with Katelynn as my tears fell beside Hannah’s tear stains left behind on my pants leg. I felt like the most horrible mother in the entire world and I sat in the parking lot waiting for them to call me because she wouldn’t calm down.
To my surprise, that call never came. But I kept a death grip on my phone until lunch time when I promised I would pick her up. Of course, I showed up early, expecting her to be a puddle of tears as soon as she saw me. I caught them at recess so I just hung back and watched her for about ten minutes. To my intense joy and satisfaction, she was having a blast! She was running and playing on the playground, swinging from the monkey bars and laughing with her new friends. The trauma of the morning drop off was a long forgotten memory. And when she saw me, she came running, grinning ear to ear and yelled, “Hey Mom!” and then took off to play some more. She even told me she didn’t want to leave yet. The relief I felt was heart melting. She’s a normal kid after all and I’m not scarring her for life I suppose.
Today’s drop off was even better. We hung her lunch box in her cubby and she sat at the table with the other kids waiting to paint puppy dogs with the teacher. Not one tear or hint of resistance. I think she’s going to really enjoy herself. Now I’ve just got to figure out what to do with myself all day so I don’t sit around wondering what she’s doing all day.
Am I doing this right?
09 Aug 2011 Leave a Comment
in Blessed be the children, Family Matters
It’s the age-old question every parents ask themselves: Am I doing this right? Or am I setting my child up for a lifetime of therapy to cope with all my stupid parenting decisions? Since my child is already in therapy, I guess it shouldn’t matter much…but to me every choice I make for her, especially now, is so critical. I find myself wondering if I’m doing all that she needs me to do or if I’m pushing her too fast into something she’s not ready for yet.
We start preschool this week. She will be in class, away from me and everything she’s ever known, for 7 hours a day, 5 days a week. My stomach is in knots just thinking about it! She’s only three. Aren’t three year olds supposed to wake up with bed head, run around in their underwear half the day, and eat their boogers while they watch “The Wonderpets”? Shouldn’t they have unlimited access to Mommy when they get a boo-boo, have a scary dream at nap time, or just need to cuddle? I wonder if this is really the best thing for her so early. Then again, I wonder if I will ever be ready for her to be away from me that long. Probably not.
So, I’m sending her. School starts Wednesday. I get to be there with her the first day, to help orient her to the environment and get comfortable with her teachers and her classmates. Sounds like a fabulous idea! In theory. MY child will probably have a bigger meltdown the second day when she is faced with the reality that Mom doesn’t go to preschool with her every day, which we’d honestly BOTH prefer.
In my heart, I know this is best for her. She’s insanely bright and will thrive in a learning-enriched environment that provides structure and normalcy. If she stayed home with me everyday, she’s not going to get as much of that as she needs (refer back to the part about hanging out in your underwear half the day). I can’t provide the peer-to-peer social interaction she will get either without adopting twelve other three year olds and that just sounds like a nightmare. God Bless Preschool Teachers! So for her, I feel it’s in her best interest.
For me, I dread the adjustment period. The first few mornings when I drop her off and leave as both of us cry (me, silently… her, not so much). She’s my little buddy and I’m going to miss her while she’s away, wondering what she’s doing all day. I pray that, with time, she and I will adjust and this will suddenly feel like the right thing. For now, I will try to ease my anxiety by remembering that if it is just too hard, I can always homeschool. In homeschool, it doesn’t matter if you graduate in your underwear, right?
Meet my Grandma
02 Aug 2011 Leave a Comment
So I decided, I needed a break. Desperately. So desperately, I decided to drive all the way to Gurdon, Arkansas to spend the week with my grandma. Now, if you have never been to Gurdon, well, you’re not missing much. It’s one of those small towns, with one stop-light, a truck stop or two, and plenty of old folks. The population is roughly over 2,000 and that number is quickly dwindling as such-n-such passes away of cancer, heart disease, or what have you. My grandmother is like a walking obituary page and I swear she’s related to almost everyone in town, sometimes in two ways. Not kidding. You can save your jokes. She calls it a “double-cousin”, the rest if us would call it something else.
Let me introduce you to my grandmother, Doris Ann (pronounced in Arkaneese as “DarseAnn”). She is probably known as the town busy-body because she knows just about everything about everyone and wants you to meet them all so she can talk about them under her breath and behind their back as they walk away. This person just got out of jail, that person is divorced, this one is cheating on her husband, and so on.
Doris is a wealth of knowledge when it comes to all things medical as well. I honestly think she’s a borderline hypochondriac. Her life revolves around her medical ailments, her medications, doctor’s appointments, and surgeries. The last time I saw her she wanted me to add her physicians’ office numbers to her Fave-5, she calls them THAT often. The woman is going to cure herself to death! She called me as I was driving here so I could possibly diagnose her bladder infection because she couldn’t wait another hour. I wasn’t even through the door 15 minutes and she was offering to show me pictures of the inside of her colon and from her hernia repair. Grandma, there are just some parts of you I don’t care to see or even know you have! Thanks for offering, though, especially right as we are discussing what to have for dinner.
I’m glad she’s so concerned about her health. She really puts a lot of effort into staying healthy. For example, she refuses to drink the water in Gurdon because it’s too “hard.” What does that even mean, Grandma? Maybe it’s like gangsta-thuggin’ on her colon, I don’t know. I didn’t look at the pictures, remember? But what I do know is that this is the reason I have to load four or five milk crates of glass bottles the size of Hannah in the car every visit so we can fill them with natural spring water from Hot Springs in 102 degree heat. That’s what she has planned for us tomorrow.
In fact she’s planned out the entire trip. That’s why I never come here with an itinerary. I just show up and let her know what day we are leaving, which usually bugs her because if we “woulda stayed just one more day, then we coulda (insert random thing she’s been meaning to get done here).” Audible sigh of irritation from her, “oh, well. Maybe next time.”
As quirky as she is, I absolutely adore my grandma. I love the way she says Wal-Mark, instead of Wal-Mart. I love that she is allergic to all dairy products except ice cream. I love her homemade biscuits and gravy. I love that she and Hannah “watered” the flowers and came in soaking wet and giggling. I love that no matter what happens, she is there to love me unconditionally, never runs out of hugs, and is the first to tell me everything will be okay. I love my Grandma!
And I know she doesn’t have Internet or a computer, so if any of my relatives read this to her, I will cut you.
