Goodnight Moon
17 Jan 2012 Leave a Comment
This is a live blog, brought to you direct from my Master bedroom. Remember, that room that had been taken over by my two small children which I finally reclaimed to myself after nine months? Yeah. That lasted about two weeks until somebody got the sniffles and ended up in my bed one night, and it was all downhill from there. Oh how I missed the feet in my back all night long.
So we begin again tonight with the weaning process. Step one is move child out of my bed and into her own bed. Four feet away from me. That’s all. The following account is a minute by minute live account of our journey.
7:30pm: I mentally prep her for what’s to come, talking up how great it’s gonna be to be to sleep in her BIG girl bed, while I feed her sister. She is taking full advantage of my hands being full, jumping off my bed, then on her bed, running around in circles like a wild Indian.
7:44pm: I lay the baby down and we get her pajamas on, find her stuffed animals, and get her tucked into her toddler bed. She lays down with a smile on her face, thanking me for her fuzzy blanket, as I get ready for bed.
7:48pm: I climb into bed relishing the fact that I’m getting the whole bed to myself, complete with every pillow and all the blankets I want. I can hardly contain my excitement.
7:49pm: She realizes we are four feet apart.
7:49pm and 2 seconds: She starts to cry (fake…more like a whine) and asks to sleep with me. I remind her gently that we have our own beds and I’m right next to her.
7:50pm: The whining escalates and now she’s thirsty. My method is going to be to not let her manipulate me out of bed 1000 times, because she knows this will wear me down. I tell her if she wants a drink she can get a plastic cup from the counter and get water from the refrigerator. (I prepared ahead of time) This stuns her for a moment, then the whining and “I can’t”, “I want you to come with me”, and “I’m thirsty” wails continue. I ignore them.
7:58pm: She finally stops sobbing after 8 minutes and goes to the kitchen. She comes back with a plastic cup filled with a half an inch of water and tells me it’s coming out (of the refrigerator dispenser) too fast. Fair enough. I instruct her to get her water from the bathroom sink. Again, she cries about the fact that she can’t and she wants me to do it. I tell her no and listen to her cry (fake) inches from my face.
8:04pm: She finally gives up and gets her water from the bathroom sink. She is proud of herself, and happily carries her cup over beside her bed and tucks herself in, sipping her water every few seconds. I close my eyes.
8:06pm: I feel someone breathing on me. I open my eyes. She’s in my face with her eyebrows scrunched together and her arms crossed. She tells me she’s mad because she can’t sleep in my bed. (we’ve been working on expressing our feelings with words instead of smacking people) I tell her thank you for telling me how she feels, kiss and hug her, then tell her to go back to bed. She stomps off and throws herself on her mattress.
8:08pm: She’s back with a huge grin, giggling. She smirks as she explains to me she’s not going to bed until I read her a bedtime story. She says this in the same tone I use when I tell her if she doesn’t eat her dinner, she’s not getting a snack. I can’t help but laugh a bit, before sending her back to bed. Apparently, she really thought that one was going to work. Now she’s crying (real) with howls and shrieks in between sobs. I ignore it. They get progressively louder.
8:14pm: Now she’s in my face shrieking and howling that she wants me, she never gets to cuddle, she doesn’t want to sleep alone, and so on and so forth. I send her back to bed, hoarse from all the crying.
8:19pm: Now she has the hiccups, which sends her into mega-meltdown. She blames her hiccups on the fact that I’m not letting her sleep in my bed. I tell her to drink her water because it cures hiccups. (my LeBonheur friends will appreciate that advice)
8:22pm: Her generic sobs have turned into a plea that she’s cold. I tell her to cover up with her blanket. She says she can’t, it’s fallen on the floor and it’s too far for her to pick up. She’s five inches from the floor. I ignore her. She continues to sob over and over that she’s cold, kicking her legs violently on the mattress.
8:27pm: She picks up her blanket off the floor, quietly sobbing.
8:31pm: the sobbing stops.
At 8:36 and 8:39pm, she let’s out one long wail and then gets quiet again.
It is now 9:11pm and she is still awake, but quiet. She’s turning her turtle nightlight on and off, changing his colors, and making his stars shine all over the room. I’m really thirsty, but I know if I move a muscle, much less, leave the room then we will be back to square one. This makes my thirst worse.
It’s now 9:19pm and she’s turned off her nightlight and let out a sigh. I bet she’s asleep. I feel like a heartless parent, but I don’t know what else to do. She’s too much like me: stubborn and strong-willed, but she’s got a sensitive side under that rough exterior. I hate to be tough on her, but let’s keep things in perspective… she’s sleeping FOUR feet away! It’s not like I’m abandoning or emotionally abusing the poor child. It’s going to be alright. Right?
Over the Hills and through the Woods… (Part 2 of 2)
18 Dec 2011 Leave a Comment
(Missed part 1? Click here )
What’s worse than being stuck in bumper to bumper traffic that is not moving with a van full of screaming, unhappy kids? Well, not much to be perfectly honest. I’d rather pull out my teeth one by one with a rusty butterknife than sit through that again. Luckily, we were only six miles from the next gas station exit! Oh…thank God!!! That exit seemed like an oasis in a desert with the promise of rest rooms, water for the baby’s bottle, the chance to change the little ones and feed the big ones. The only problem was we couldn’t be going any slower unless we had been going backwards!
As we inched along, we anxiously counted down each tenth of a mile. With every start and stop, the kids only became more irritable. We kept turning up the volume of the TV trying to drown out the sound, to no avail. The screams only got scarier and louder. At one point, Addison was gurgling because she was suffocating in her own tears and snot and the youngest baby was scratching desperately at the plastic sides of her car seat trying the claw her way out…juice cups were flying in all directions, the van was shaking with the motion of every tantrum, and my sister looked a little like a crazy person about to snap.
One and a half hours of this super-sized funness later and we could finally see the exit! Hallelujah!!! Then, would you like to know what happened???? Just guess…because my eye is twitching just thinking about it! They fell asleep! Are you $&@#% kidding me?! We pull into the gas station and assess the situation to make a plan: big kids are quiet but have to pee, and the babies are just sitting there like they gave up in defeat. So I grab Hannah and a baby bottle so we can both use the restroom and I can make milk, then my sister can do the same and we’ll change both babies’ diapers in the car. I look at my sister. Cool? Cool. Let’s do this!
So Hannah and I tear into the gas station like somebody set us on fire, and I realize there is a line with a few people. Damn! Well, we waited this long right? As it begins to dawn on me that the pee-line is moving half as quickly as the traffic line on the highway, I begin to worry a little about my sister being left in the car with the other three kids. By this time there are five more women behind me, five in front, and there’s nothing I can do about it. Another painful 15 minutes goes by as Hannah is pinging around kamikaze style from aisle to aisle, rearranging candy bars and knocking down chip displays, taking full advantage of mom being stuck in a stationary position. As I’m making the one millionth pitiful attempt to coax her into standing “the hell still and keep your mouth SHUT!” (how it actually came out), SHE came inside.
She, meaning someone who looked exactly like my sister, carrying three children through the gas station door. But that was where the resemblance ended. This woman was absolutely crazy! This woman had finally had enough. She blew in with the force of a category four tropical Hurricane, eyes blazing as she scanned the interior for me like the terminator hunting for his prey. I felt her eyes lock with mine, death rays singeing my eyelashes, as a devil-growl roared from her throat and hollered, BRITTNEY! Fix your baby some milk!!!”
The next thing I know, the baby car seat comes sliding across the floor stopping in front of my feet with a baby whose eyes were now as big as footballs. Something came out of my mouth as I began to yell back my reply, letting her know I wasn’t having a freaking birthday party inside either, but I’m sure it didn’t make any sense to anyone else around us. Our conversation at that point probably looked more like a scene out of Twighlight when two werewolves begin to attack each other. Miraculously, everybody in the filling station shut up, looked at their feet, and the line started moving a lot faster. I imagine we were a pretty frightful looking bunch: two women with children on the edge is scarier than a group of thugs with guns, I assure you.
I grabbed my kids, took care of my business, grabbed some snacks, and yelled at the guy checking me out. Why? I’m not really sure but it just seemed like the appropriate thing to do at the moment when you have twenty people staring at you in fear. Then I grabbed all four kids with my sister on my heels and we tore out of the gas station with as much force as we came in with. I can only image the sighs of relief that went around the room after our exit.
After loaded back into the car, with all settled in and happy, my sister and I were able to breathe for a second. Suddenly, the van was filled with fits of our hysterical laughter as we recalled the playback of what just happened and inched our way back onto the highway. One thing I am thankful for is that I am not from Carlisle, AR. Chances are there is now a warrant out for my arrest for disturbing the peace, child endangerment, domestic terrorism, or any number of things.
Over the Hills and through the Woods… (Part 1 of 2)
18 Dec 2011 1 Comment
…to grandmother’s house we go! Or, in my case, over the bridge, across the river, and through the never-ending miles of on and off construction. For as far back as I can remember, the drive to my Grandma’s house in Arkansas has been long, boring, and filled with the monotonous scenery of empty field after empty field, only broken by the occasional 30 mile stretch of orange barrels. I’m 28. You think in nearly three decades they would have completed all the roadwork. It’s like they are eternally demolishing, rebuilding, and repairing the same 250 mile stretch of highway between our house and hers. In fact, I’m pretty sure some of those barrels are the original barrels that were blocking off lanes of traffic back when I was a baby. I mean, whose crappy job is it to put out and take up those things anyway? It’s kinda like they started the project in 1980, ran out of money, and just left them there and nobody has even noticed that you never actually see any “road construction workers,” just their paraphernalia littering the highway. If I ever do see one of these mythical crew members, I will be sure to give him a special thank you for the hell I went through to get back home tonight!
As my sister and I hustled our tired kids into the mothership, complete with all our baggage and a few bags of Christmas toys, snacks for the road, and half a pound of fudge that I graciously took off my Grandma’s hands, our prayer was for a quick, peaceful trip with four sleeping kiddos worn out on good food, no naps, and new toys. What we got was a car full of cranky, overtired demon possessed children in dirty diapers with nothing to feed them but fudge and rice crispie treats for six hours! It was honestly one of the worst car rides of my entire life.
It didn’t start out that way, though. Actually, the trip back started off just as planned. We left on time. We didn’t leave anything essential behind. Everyone was fed and happy, and both little babies fell asleep before we even made it out of the driveway. The Wonderpets DVD was softly playing in the background on the the tv as my sister and I chatted about nonsense. But somewhere around Carlisle, AR we hit construction traffic and that’s where things began to fall apart. I know it was Carlisle only because I had the time to Google where the ___ am I? as I sat PARKED on the interstate wondering why nothing was moving!
A wreck?! Oh my…it must be a pretty bad one, I thought, and silently prayed no one was seriously hurt or dead and hoped the traffic was from some other source, like construction. Boy! I got my prayers answered in a big way!!! After about 20 minutes of going zero miles an hour, things began to move at a snail’s pace and we saw some “road work ahead” signs. Always annoying, yes, but better than a wreck by far. My relief was short lived, however, because right at about the same time one on the babies woke up. I’m not sure which one it was first, but the sound was an ear-piercing scream of annoyance that they were not moving, not eating, not dry, and strapped down. If you’re a parent, you know a child’s cry has a domino effect on every other child in a 100 mile radius. So, instantly our peaceful car was morphed into a cage of death reverberating with the sound of two shrieking, hungry babies and two whining preschoolers who suddenly were hungry, thirsty, and had to pee. I had to roll the windows down to release some of the force of their fury. If I hadn’t, I’m pretty sure my van would have exploded!
We were now, once again, not moving. Not even an inch!
(…Part 2 of this post will be continued tomorrow because I am too tired tonight)
‘Tis the season to shop for toys
12 Nov 2011 Leave a Comment
My friends, the Christmas Season is nearly upon us! Well, unless you are a major department store or online retailer in which case Christmas marketing started before Halloween. Is it just me or do Christmas trees and Jack ‘O Lanterns seem like they need to be separated by at least two months or even just five aisles? Somebody should let Walmart know. It’s just weird.
There are just 42 shopping days until the big event. Six weekends. Factor in that I will need to secure a babysitter to shop, wrap and hide gifts, and find a tree and it seems like I’m already behind! I’m starting today after the alarm company leaves, but I don’t have a clue what I’m looking for…and normally I find it super easy to buy for my kids. Why does buying Christmas gifts put you under so much more pressure than buying gifts at any other time of the year?
It’s because the stupid stores start pushing the idea on you in July! Seriously, Target is about to give me an anxiety attack. Actually, I think it’s because any good parent wants their child to be pleased and happy that morning. I do. But I feel that way every morning, don’t you? Maybe it’s the tradition? It’s the one day you get to spoil your kids rotten and not hear about it from their grandparents, even though their grandparents do it all year long. Only…well, if you do the Santa thing you don’t get any of the credit! Who came up with that retarded idea? There’s definitely alot of anticipation that builds up to that one day.
So, I’m carefully considering what to get them and I haven’t got many ideas. It’s easier to make a list of things NOT to get them. Maybe it’s just me, but I peruse the aisles and reject anything that is too messy, easily broken, could be a choking hazard, or used as a weapon. For example:
Markers, paint, crayons…not on my walls, thank you very much!
Roller skates…can you say head injury?
Polly pocket, winkies, little pet shop, etc…I can clearly picture how these toys would show up on an abdominal x-ray. I’ll save my kid the radiation and bowel obstruction, and myself the ER copay.
Anything motorized…refer back to ‘head injury’ and note that I will never remember to charge it, so I’ll save myself the whining.
Bowling pins, bats, tennis rackets, drumsticks, etc…methods of assault, both against me and each other. Enough said.
Anything with four legs…this would only add one more victim for ‘assault.’
Candy…pretty sure we’ll have Halloween candy left at Easter.
So what’s left? Barbies minus the small accessories, stuffed animals, and Nerf balls? I cringe as I point out to you matted hair, a ‘one eyed duck’ cousin, and projectile weapons of mass destruction.
I don’t know how my parents survived the aftermath of Christmases past.
Happy Shopping!
What’s for dinner?
12 Nov 2011 1 Comment
I am a really GREAT cook! Really, I’m something like Rachel Ray…well, without the money…or the tv cameras…oh, or the time or the behind-the-scenes prep guys. All that fanciness aside, I can roast a pork tenderloin that will make you wanna smack your mama! I make a mean lasagna from scratch and 4-alarm chili that is on fire, meaning, it’s delicious. Man, I miss my homecooking!
One day I will cook like that again. One day. That day is NOT today. And it probably won’t be tomorrow either. It takes way too much time to cook the way I want to. This makes me sad. My hat goes off to all the moms I’m FB friends with that are always posting the four course meal they made complete with mouthwatering pictures. These moms also post pictures of the latest coordinating wardrobe they embroider for all their adorable children, and somehow manage to post a status about taking a nap too.
Nap? What’s that? I can assure you that if I found the time to nap, I wouldn’t waste precious sleep time posting about it on FB. Just saying.
But kudos to them because I’m super jealous!
My cooking habits have become so awful that today I asked Hannah if she was ready for dinner and she asked for lunch instead. School lunch is probably the most nutritious meal she gets in a day. Poor kid. Tonight, she had Captn Crunch. Two bowls actually. I’m sure there’s a food group in there somewhere, right? And hey, I put it in milk. After complaining to my friend how awful of a parent I was, she gave me this advice: Give her a spoon of peanut butter for dessert and call it a well-balanced meal! Grains, dairy, and protein.
I like the way she thinks! She’s either a really great friend or one heck of an enabler. Whichever way you swing it, I’m cool with that and slightly less guilt-ridden.
I just can’t muster up more energy than what is required to microwave some leftovers or heat up some chicken tenders. Most of the time, Hannah’s not going to eat it anyway and ask for suckers.
That reminds me…I should really make her a dental appointment. I’ll add it to my list of “Things Good Moms do that one day I’ll find time for.” Do you have that list? Weird things go on there like make homemade playdough, return the toy that Parenting Magazine announced a recall for, subscribe to Parenting Magazine, don’t give the recalled toy to the kid whose birthday you forgot to buy a gift for…you know, stuff like that.
Anyway, I need help. What’s your go-to meal? What do you make your kids that’s simple to prepare, semi-nutritious, and doesn’t strand you in the kitchen for three days prepping, cooking, and cleaning? I mean, I appreciate a hot meal for myself sometimes and those are rare when you are trying to meet the demands of two-under-four at dinner time after they haven’t seen you all day. You’d think I had moved to Alaska for a year the way they cling and whine for my attention!
Share your meals! My three year old will thank you!
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.
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?
The War has been won!
21 Jul 2011 Leave a Comment
Okay. It’s been about a month now so I’m somewhat confident I can post this. I think we are finally through potty training. Oh my gosh…I actually held my breath as I typed, terrified I may jinx myself. Let’s hope my child doesn’t read this blog and discover my sheer joy and excitement over the fact she now uses a real toilet. I think I’m in the clear…she still can’t tell the difference between the letter S and the number 2. But you never know what they’re teaching them on Nick Jr. these days. She can already hold short conversations with our downstairs buddy, Juan Carlos, thanks to Dora and Diego. Hola, amigo.
I have to give credit where credit is due: a huge thanks to my bestie, Tara, who sent me a very helpful article about fear of potty-training being caused partly by a need for control and partly by separation anxiety. Yes, separation anxiety over losing your poo. Out of your body. Gone forever. Brings a tear to your eye, doesn’t it? Really??? Yes…my strong-willed child who would hold her poop for days, negotiate her way out of pooping and into getting snacks anyway, and would scream at the top of her lungs that “It’s not FAIR!!!” when I made her sit on the potty was sad to let go of the poo. I know that sounds CRAZY, but when I actually considered helping her through the anxiety…voila! Potty trained!
So here’s my little speech playing to her little hearts concern over what happens to the poo:
“Hannah, when you say your belly hurts that’s because you have to poo-poo. The Poo-Poo (capitalized because he has now achieved a human persona)…the Poo-Poo wants to come out of your belly so he can go in the potty and get flushed. When you feel your belly hurting, that’s the Poo-Poo knocking on your tummy to tell you he needs to come out. Once you flush the Poo-Poo down the potty he gets to go to a poo-poo party (something like a birthday party?) with ALL his poo-poo friends.”
Okay, now I’m the crazy one.
Her response made me almost poo my own pants, and thankfully I did not, as that would have been somewhat counter-productive to my goal. She SMILED. No tears, no cries, no screams. Absolutely no defiance whatsoever! In fact, her little eyes gleamed with excitement as she climbed on the potty and asked me all sorts of questions. Why did the Poo-Poo live in her belly? Can he swim? What does he do at the poo-poo party? Will he be sad if he can’t see his friends? Do they have cake at their party? And then, my friends, Mr. Poo-Poo got to attend what only Hannah and I could have imagined to be a grand fiesta! (because of course, he speaks Spanish like Juan Carlos and Dora)
Whose crazy now?
She has done so well since that night! I am very proud! She never wears pull-ups, even at bedtime. She sometimes goes without me reminding her, or even better, she reminds ME. And she has only had one accident. ONE. In a month. About which she informed me that it was not she who pooped her pants, it was someone else. When I asked who, she blamed her cousin Jayden. Of course, nevermind he wasn’t even with her that day, she blames him for everything.
