Possession of a Deadly Weapon

Ever have one of those moments when you laugh out of fear of another even bigger emotion settling in? Yeah, that's been my day. Except I didn't laugh. But I am now, via letters on a screen. I will not write a sob story. I will tell the only semi funny part of it all.

Alice's school is a five minute drive from home and today after picking her up I had a four minute phone conversation with my doctor that left me worried and concerned and having to make another appointment. It's nothing too alarming yet, but needless to say, I'm not an individual that worries well.

I had one minute to try and process the phone call before I heard Alice's best friend in the back seat say, "Look! The door's open." In the middle of parrel parking, it took me a second to register what he was saying, what he had seen. I turned and saw the front door to my house wide the fuck open. My mind hit overdrive, thoughts racing trying to decide my next move. Why was the front door open? Was there someone inside? Had someone broken into my house? Oh my god, was someone with a gun in my house?! Was is just Hatta? Was he home sick from work? Had Hatta left the front door open?

Not knowing what was inside, to keep them safe, I left the kids in the car and locked the door. I ran up the front steps and was greeted by a scared Marley dog just on the other side of the threshold. Frozen in place, I looked around, tv still there, nothing disturbed. I saw one of two cats lying on the dog bed. There was still an entire house to be checked and with kids in the car I had to be fast. Heart pounding I looked for a weapon, anything I could club a guy over the head with. Shoes...no. Pillows, pictures frames...no and no. I had nothing. I could have run to the kitchen to get something deadly but in the interest of time, I took off empty handed. In a split second decision, I grabbed the guitar that resides on the first landing up the steps. I can now laugh, my weapon of choice to defend myself was a guitar. And the sad thing, as I was climbing the steps I was mentally preparing myself to use it. I even repositioned it in a way to get better leverage if I needed to start swinging. Thankfully, I didn't need to use it. The house was empty. No intruders. Nothing missing...except one cat.

In a total brainless move, Hatta didn't shut the front door before he left for work. He didn't shut or lock our front door. At all. I was already gone for the day, not to return until after picking Alice up at 11:45. In that time, Ellie cat had wandered out the door in search of adventure. For Hatta's sake, since I was ready to kill him with something more powerful than a guitar, maybe there is a God after all, because Ellie was found within a few hours of searching.

Strength in Numbers

In everyone's life there are usually a few moments when they feel they can not possibly make it, they can't go on, they just can't do it.

For me, the birth of my daughter comes to mind. By hour twenty I wanted to give up. I didn't think it was humanly possible for me to continue. I didn't know how I was going to endure any more pain, exert any more effort, push any longer. I wanted to quit. I was begging for help. I wanted the doctor to save me from my hell by insisting a caesarean was necessary. I didn't say it out loud, but I wanted to. I imagine many first time marathon runners experience a similar feeling at some point during the race. That point at which you don't think it's even possible to take one more step.

In every scenario it ultimately goes one way or another. Either you take one more step, push one more time or you don't. You either will you body, your mind to go on or you stop.

In my story, the birth of beautiful, stubborn baby Alice was made possible by a wonderful support system. Left to my own devises, I would have quit. I would have waved the white flag insisting someone else do the work I couldn't. Thankfully I had the most supportive and powerful coach in my OB doctor. I can still, four years later, hear her booming voice demanding "Hard as you can! Hard as you can!" She was not allowing me to quit. My doula was at my side just about every minute of the twenty one hours. She made me feel so brave and strong. She showed complete faith in my ability to birth my daughter. Hatta was there, scared and unsure, but in awe of my strength. Together they told me how wonderful I was doing and what an amazing woman I was. I didn't believe them, if I had been doing so wonderful wouldn't she be out by now? But it was still the encouragement I needed to keep pushing. The marathon runner, I imagine if he had to run the race entirely alone completion would be unlikely. Even those that aren't running with friends find strength in the comrades running around them. Together a lot more is possible.

You may remember a few posts ago when I stated I was swimming in heavy, heart crushing thoughts. I'm still there, barely staying afloat. I was informed last night that not everyone enjoys my analogies, and if this is true for you, I really am so sorry, but I'm afraid I'm sticking with the swimming one. For, I am anchored in this pool. All around me, as far as my eye can see is heartache. And I am stuck. I don't know where to go, or even which direction is shortest. I remain where I am, treading water. I know I must swim soon. But where to? I could always swim back to the shallow end, I'll still be stuck in the pool, but at least I know I won't drown. Or I could take a leap and swim toward the edge and hope I make it. Hope I have the strength to swim.

I wish someone else could save me. I want someone to dive in and pull me to safety. End the pain I feel. If only it worked that way. Even though I don't want to, I have to do this on my own as hard is it may be.

What I hope more than anything, is that I have a few people poolside cheering me on, shouting words of encouragement when I need it most. I'm afraid once I start swimming, I may find the journey too treacherous. I may find it easier to quit, allow my head to sink beneath the waterline or swim back to the shallows. I pray that if this happens I have a friend who recognizes the distress I'm in and throw's me a life ring, if even just to momentarily hang on to until I can swim again. I know I will not make it alone.

Cubby Time

"I had to sit in my cubby," she told me completely out of the blue.

"Yeah? What do you mean, you had to sit in your cubby?" I asked.

"I was naughty."

"When were you naughty? Today at school?"

"Uh huh. I had to sit in my cubby, at school," she informed me with the same lackadaisical attitude that started the conversation.

"Okay. Well. What did you do that was naughty?"

"I was carrying my chair around."

"You had to sit in your cubby cause you were carrying your chair around? Alice, I'm confused. Why where you carrying your chair around? What were you supposed to be doing?"

"Me and Forrest were carrying our chairs around on our back. I had to sit in my cubby and Forrest had to sit in Jude's cubby. Ricki was carrying her chair around too but Miss Sharon didn't see her so she didn't have to sit in her cubby."

I almost laughed at this part. Already, she senses the unfairness of life.

"Alice, why in the world were you carrying your chair around on your back?" I asked still trying to sort the story out.

"I dunno. I didn't want to clean up. It was funny. Forrest was doing it too."

When Alice told me this story last week I felt two completely different emotions, one was worry and the other was relief. Worry for Alice. She has a lot of strong willed, spirited, defiance in her and I think this initial cubby timeout is only the tip of the iceberg. I predict many incidents like this in her future, for it seems she's of the mindset that rules are made to be broken. While I felt worry, I couldn't help but feel relief. Finally I had the confirmation I needed. It wasn't just me. A little piece of me has always thought maybe her and I butt heads and this is the cause of her defiance. Maybe under someone else's leadership she would toe the line. Ha ha, not the case! It's her!

I was not surprised when we had this conversation in the car the following day.

"I didn't have to sit in my cubby today!" she told me with great exuberance.

"That's awesome Alice! I'm so proud of you! Great job following the rules."

"Oh, wait. I forgot. I did have to sit in my cubby a tiny bit."

"What for?"

"Hehehe...I don't even remember, Mama."

 

Before the questions begin, since the idea of sitting in her cubby seemed to confuse some family members. Their cubbies are not closets or lockers. They don't have to climb inside, there is no door. It's not cruel punishment and nothing like Harry Potter living in the closet under the stairs.

Addicted to a Certain Kind of Sadness

Bless me followers, for I have strayed. It has been seven days since my last post.

I haven't been able to write. Well, that's not entirely accurate...I haven't been able to write anything nice and as the saying goes, if you have nothing nice to say, say nothing at all.

Over the weekend, I drove to Hershey, Pa to attend the sold out Farm Aid. The line up was stacked with well known artists, young and old. It was an amaaazing festival, a great cause and mostly great music. One act, Dave Matthews and Tim Reynolds, stood out from the rest.

Dave Matthews is a brilliant musician, I don't think anyone can dispute it. I will go above and beyond and say he's far more. He's a captivating storyteller and one hell of a performer. I watched him bare his soul again and again, song after song. Don't misunderstand, I'm not claiming Dave Matthews is all feelings, he has silly songs of fluff just like every artist. But, I found myself mesmerized by his uninhibited emotion as he sang lyrics that clearly meant something to him. And at that moment I realized maybe the saying should be changed.

If you have nothing nice to say, make sure you say it brilliantly.

Life has been hard for me lately. Eh, maybe it's been a little longer than lately. I feel as if the dominating thoughts in my mind are not nice, pleasant, peaches and cream kinds of thoughts. I'm swimming in the heavy, heart crushing ones. I've shared a few with you fine readers, but frankly I'm very concious of drowning my sorrows in my blog. No one enjoys reading a sad, woeful mess day after day.

I have no crystal ball and I haven't met with a physic; I have no knowledge of when my life will flip. But it has to happen. Eventually something has to give. Right? There's a lyric in Gotye's now famous song that concerns me. "You can get addicted to a certain kind of sadness." I think there is validity in that thought. I do not enjoy turmoil and drama in my life. I am, without a doubt, sure of this. It is fact. However, when you live something for too long it can become you. I experienced this with my mother's illness and as a new mom, it took a lot for me to pull myself out. As life tries to spin out of control, I do my best to mantain equilibrium staying focused on my sun and my moon. All my daily efforts working towards remaining grounded on her. When I embrace it, Alice can brighten the dreariest of days and I count my lucky stars she's in my life.

Think Again Before You Offer Judgment

I couldn't decide what I wanted to write about today. Two topics are in the forefront of my mind. One where I ask the Judgey McJudgerson's to kindly back away and come back another day, so I can tell my tale. Or the other one where I talk to them personally.

I'm opting for the latter. This post is for those who judge. Nay, since judging is human, this is for those who feel compelled to voice their judgment.

As my loyal readers know, Alice has recently challenged me as a parent concerning her pink medicine. We (Hatta and I) have received various forms of criticism from friends and family on our parenting skills, or lack there of, because we couldn't make our daughter take her medicine. I have a few things that I would like to get off my chest.

How dare you criticize my parenting! I'm a damn good mom and I know my daughter and what is best for her. I know her temperament. I have learned her strengths. I was the one that learned her needy cues when she was a newborn. I was the one that learned the exact floor board to stand and bounce on that gave just the right amount of give and squeak to calm her insistent crying. I learned to read her face to know just how much stranger anxiety she could handle before I had to intervene. It's been my job for over four years to keep my daughter happy and safe and now you're going to tell me how to do my job. I DON'T THINK SO!!

I don't care one iota how your father used to parent you. I don't give a flying fuck what you used to do when your kids were little! All I care about is my daughter and her physical and mental well being.

Do you think we didn't try to force Alice to take her medicine? What do you think we said, "Hey Alice, if it wouldn't be too much trouble do you think you could possibly, maybe take your medicine honey baby?" Of course when our attempts at reason didn't do the trick we tried what worked in the past when she was little. I'm not sure what amount of power and force you are okay using on a 35lb child, but my goal as a mom is not to teach Alice that I am bigger and stronger than her. I do not enjoy using my body against hers. So when after several attempts at forcing medicine down her throat didn't work, I stopped trying.

Funny thing, when I called the pediatrician, who by the way has been in countless medical publications and has won numerous awards, he never once suggested I hold Alice down and use force to get her to take her medicine. No. That wasn't what he said at all. Instead, he, the medical expert on children, suggested something else entirely. Something more civil.

So the next time you feel like offering your opinions on how I should raise my daughter, I suggest you just don't. Find something else to do with your time that you actually know something about. Cause, trust me, you don't have a clue about how best to parent my daughter.

You Can Lead a Horse to Water

You know the old saying, "You can lead a horse to water, but you can't make it drink the got damn pink medicine." So that's not exactly how it goes, close enough. That's been my life since Friday. Words do not do justice to what my sick life with sick Alice and sick Hatta has been. Let me share the ailments as they pertain to the individual, starting with Hatta: strep, bronchitis, and conjunctivitis, myself: strep, mild swimmer's ear (wtf?) severe inner ear infection, and sinus infection, and lastly, Alice: strep, stubborn, strong willed, defiant, bullheaded, relentless, persistent...shall I continue?

The list of ailments required medication: eye drops, ear drops, antibiotics, and perscription strength cough syrup. I shudder at the thought of how much, as a family, we've dropped at CVS in the past week. Alice was prescribed one simple antibiotic, Cephalexin, the pink medicine. In her previous years, my daughter worried me with her strong love for drugs, pink medicine included. She always wanted more. She'd fake an illness just to take more purple medicine. I thought surely we had a drug addict in the making. Suffice it to say, I'm not longer concerned.

I've struggled to get Alice to take her antibiotic, wait...I think that's a bit of an understatement. It's vastly greater than an understatement. Over the course of the weekend, I learned even though she is small I can no longer control what she does or does not do. To my novice, childless readers who are questioning my words right now, who think surely you can be the parent and make her...to you I say, if only it was that simple. Yes, I can force her to lie still. Yes, I can force her mouth open. Yes, I can force the medicine into her mouth. That's the point in which I no longer have control. What happens once the pink gooeyness hits her tongue is up to her. No matter how much I attempt to close her mouth, she still has the power to spit it out. All over my hands, all down her hair, all over the floor.

Plan B, hide that shit! First attempt, smoothie. Success. But, I can't make her drink two smoothies every day for ten days. Maybe I can reason with her. That was where I went wrong. Hatta warned me; I chose not to listen. I ruined the secret. I told her she had taken the pink stuff when she drank her smoothie. Alice was ecstatic! She was overcome with joy and wanted her morning medicine in a smoothie for sure. Seriously. I'm not being sarcastic. There was high-fiving all around. The next morning the warm and fuzzy feeling of the previous night was replaced with an air of gloominess as Alice began what would become a three day fast. No food. Little water. She was boycotting life. The mention of medicine would send her running to bed. From her mouth I heard, "No. I don't want to. I don't like it. I wanna go to bed." That's it, on repeat for three days. I offered her a chocolate milkshake. Wouldn't take a sip. Vanilla ice cream with chocolate syrup and Reese's Pieces. Spoon didn't touch it. I found myself attempting to bribe her with the new Princess Tianna doll complete with carriage or a new Barbie is she just took the medicine. Nope. She was standing her ground, her coughy, achey, fevery, sick ground.

Plan C, finally the pediatrician has given the okay to switch antibiotic, since to date she has consumed merely one full dose and a couple partials. A new prescription has been called in, more money added to the shudder inducing total. The new drug is a capsule that when opened the tasteless powder can be sprinkled on anything. Thrilled to find out how tonight goes! Thrilled I tell ya!

My Relationship with the Jehovah's Witnesses

I have trouble saying no. I'm sure my husband, if he read my blog, would laugh heartily at that statement, but it's true in some respects. When people ask me for a favor, it's like this impossible force within me, I must say yes. Need me to watch your kid? Sure, no problem. Going away and forgot about your dog? No worries, bring him over. I already have a dog and two cats, what's one more? The list goes on. Ordinarily, I don't think it's a big deal, except at 2 o'clock when I hear a knock on the door and I'm not expecting guests. Then my ability to say no is a gargantuan big deal.

What some of you 9-5ers may not know, while you're away at work, people are standing outside your door knocking. It's constant. Every week someone for some reason or another knocks on my door.

That fateful day, four years ago, someone knocked on my door. Itty bitty baby Alice in my arms, I opened it to find a young (17?) male African American...with a book in his hand. Not just a book, The book. In his other hand was The Watchtower. At the bottom of my front porch steps stood his grandmother with her summer hat on. He was nice to me, so I listened to him spread his belief. He gave me the required pamphlets and went about his day. That's where I went wrong. I should have nipped it in the bud that first meeting, but I didn't. I couldn't. He was so kind, I couldn't say no. So he came back. Again and again and, oh my God, again. He knew my name. He knew Alice's name. Always the same, he talked while I nodded and answered his questions, his grandmother always within ear shot. I started to like the kid. I even found myself reading some of the articles in Awake!. I remember the day I realized it had gone too far, I was in the middle of nursing Alice when he knocked. I should have opened the door and said, "Enough's enough already! I'm not buying into your belief! I celebrate Christmas and my birthday!" Not having the required amount of balls to do so, I unlatched a very furious Alice, put my boob away, opened the door and greeted my new friend. I listened, all the while bouncing Alice to keep her whines to a minimum. I didn't want to interrupt his preaching. Then, at the end of this particular visit, he said it.

"Next time, why don't my grandmother and I come inside for some bible study?"

Holy, oh my eff, what had I gotten myself into?! I had no intentions of allowing this kid in my house for bible study, no matter how nice he was. If I had just said no from the get-go, I wouldn't be freaking out about how I was going to politely sever my new friendship.

I consulted my friends. They all said the same, "What? You're meeting with the Jehovah Witnesses on a regular basis? Seriously?" Thanks, guys. Then, my sister in-law told me her mother has regular Bible study with the Jehovah's, even lunch. I knew then and there, I didn't want to be making egg salad and lemonade for this kid and his family. I needed to end it. Maybe I could just leave a note on the door.

Like ripping off a band-aid, I did it on our next meeting. As soon as I opened the door, I told him thank you for the kindness but I liked my faith the way it was. Just like that my many month long problem was gone. I was removed from the list and the Jehovah Witnesses haven't stopped by since.

I learned a very big lesson that day. If you can't say no when you open the door, don't open the door.

I spend quite a bit of time hiding behind my door, glancing through the peep hole to see if the most recent solicitor has vacated my porch yet.

Which brings me to yesterday. There was a knock at the door, and since just last week I had succumb to the temptation to be normal and opened the door to a 15 minute presentation where I wishy-washily told the guy to come back later when the man of the house would be home, I decided it best to go back to what works...don't open the door. Alice came from the kitchen, where we had been painting pre-knock, to find me cowering behind the door. Quickly, I tried to mime to her to get back in the kitchen. It wasn't working. I tried again in that voice that wants to be a whisper but just isn't.

"What Mama? Who's at the door?"

"Shh, Alice. Be quite. See, it's a stranger at the door and we don't open the door for strangers."

"Are we hiding from them so they don't come in our house?"

"They're not gonna come in our house. We just don't want them to know we are here."

I don't know if I'm scarring Alice for life by teaching her that sometimes Mama hides behind the door when people knock. I hope I'm not encouraging her to be a hermit or anything. However, until I grow a backbone and learn to say no to college kids selling magazines to fund their trip to NYC, it's not worth the risk in opening the door. I do love me some Joe Corbi's though, so if you know of anyone selling, send them my way!

Love Hate Relationship

There are two sides to everything. Take for example, the sun. If you're thinking to yourself, the sun is the sun, no two sides about it...then, my friend, you are wrong.

All in one day I was reminded that the sun can be a relaxing, pleasure inducing star or a bright, blinding, headache inducing, bitchass ball of plasma.

This past weekend, we took a trip to the beach town where Hatta and I grew up. I spent hours and hours in the sun, relaxing carefree. Riding on the bow of the boat, basking in the warm glow, surrounded by delightful memories. The moment was perfect. The sunny sun made it perfect. The sun glistened on my skin, tricking me into thinking all my physical flaws were gone. Wonder sun. With family around doting on Alice, I was able to step back fom my full time job and chill. I laid on the tube in the bay, drink in hand, eyes closed, listening to my daughter's sounds of delight, sun shining it's happy rays down upon me. Life was good, courtesy of the brightness in the sky.

Alas, as I said, everything has two sides.

Tonight, car packed with kid, dog, and far too many bags of shit that I would have to unpack upon our arrival, I drove three hours, with traffic, home. In the sun. The mothafokking sun was the bane of my existence for three straight hours, no relief. I drove, Alice and Hatta slept. And by drove I mean did my best to try and block the sun glare without ramming into the car in front of us. Let me break the annoying ass shit down for you (please excuse my language, I'm still a little high-strung from the stressful drive.) Put visor down, flip it to the side, push back to the front, sun still blinding my vision, pull out visor extender, push visor to the side, extender in the way knocking my rearview mirror, pull visor back to the font, flip visor up thinking the sun is finally behind the trees, realize it was a cruel trick, flip visor back down, pull out extender again, push to the side. It carried on like this for hours, three to be exact. Mostly, I enjoy driving. I find it peaceful and cathartic. Tonight, because of the punk ass sun, I hated it. The sun tortured me this evening and seemed to find pleasure in it. It laughed at me as I tried to hide from it. Mocking me as it retreated behind the trees just long enough for me to breath, then bursting back out, snickering as I scrambled to try and block it from my sight so I didn't sideswipe the neighboring car. Tonight, as I drove, the sun sucked. Period.

Every now and again, in this life, you are reminded of life lessons. Some days it's crap about a body at rest staying at rest unless a force acts upon it. Today, the life lesson is there are two sides to every story and one of them is usually sunshine and daydreams while the other side is full of a nasty power hungry star that wants to see you total your car creating a five mile back up leaving you stranded on the side of the road while passerby's rubberneck to see what idiotic, moron was done in by sun glare.

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The Tragic Tale of Ariel's Disappearance

Something tragic happened today. Someone took Alice's Ariel book.

**gasp**

This is how it went down. After canceling our zoo plans on account of the rain, we decided to go to Storyville. For those of you not in the know, Storyville is this amazing play space, complete with 8 different themed rooms, inside of the public library. And it's free. It's really great, except on rainy days when school is not in session. Which, coincidentally, today turned out to be. When you don't have a school aged child you forget about things like summer break. Since they only allow a certain amount of people in at a time, we had to wait. They even give you the light up buzzer thing to notify you when it's your turn.

While we waited we visited the libary, which was also ridiculously crowded. Note to self: Get your shit together and get out of the house earlier if you don't like waiting with swarms of loud screaming crying children or stay home and just listen to one loud screaming crying child. Even though I wasn't looking to check out any books, Alice's friends were allowed to and I'm not ready to be horrible mean mommy out in public yet, so I let Alice pick out a few. Her picks were a children's baking cookbook, Tinkerbell, Fancy Nancy, Strega Nona Takes a Vacation, The Story of Darth Vader, Snow Dog Marley, and The Little Mermaid.

When our light up vibrating thingamajig went off, we checked out the books and headed into Storyville. I put our books in the coat and bag room. Knowing that princess books are a high commodity, I put Ariel to the bottom of the stack and put boring Marley on the top. This was my best effort at deterring theft.

Apparently I shouldn't be left to guard prized jewels, because my theft deterrence system failed. When it was time to leave Storyville, we went to gather our things when I noticed the Marley book was no longer on top. It didn't take Alice long to realize Ariel was no longer in the stack.

Commence full hysterics.

"Someone took ARIEEELLL!! Mama, someone took my book. Who took my book? Mama, I WANT ARIEL!"

"I know, Alice. I'm sorry someone took the book you picked. I'm sure they didn't know you had already picked that book. Come on. We already checked it out, we need to go let the libarian know what happened."

"Then we'll get my book back, right Mama? Cause I picked Ariel first. It's mine, Mama. Are you going to tell them it's mine?"

Ignoring Alice, I needed to deal with a bigger matter. I didn't want to be responsible for a book I didn't have. After settling the issue with the librarian, I held Alice's hand and walked her to the door. That's when it hit her. He mother, the person she trusted the most, was going to walk out of the library without locating the book in question. She stopped in her tracks and started sobbing. Scream sobbing.

"But Mama! WE CAN'T LEAVE WITHOUT ARIEL!! No Mama! Go get her! GO GET HER MAMA! I picked Ariel! She's mine. Tell them to give the book back to me MAMA!"

I tried to explain that I didn't know who took the book, therefore I had no way of getting it back. She wasn't listening, she couldn't hear me over the sounds of her overly dramatic crying. Holding her hand we left the library sans Ariel. On the ride home, Alice continued to grumble under her breath. At one point I heard her say she should have picked Snow White instead of Ariel. I suppose in the preschooler crowd dimwitted Snow White is not as desirable as flirty Ariel, ergo less likely to be stolen. I'm glad she picked Ariel. One less princess book I have to read over the next three weeks.

The moral of the story, eh, there's no moral. Theft happens. Move on. That's what I did when someone stole my jogging stroller 373 days ago. I certainly haven't thought about it every day since then. I've moved on. I'm sure Alice will, too.

I'm Not Judging, Really I'm Not

Dearest Mom of the 7 year old boy I nearly brawled with at the pool,

I want to take a moment and let you know your son was dropping it like it's hot, the f-bomb that it. I'm sure you're not aware of it, being the awesome mom you are. Obviosly, he didn't learn it at home since you would never use such profanity in front of him, rather from that pricey private school you send him to. I thought you ought to know what your money is buying you. For the reasonable price of 20K a year, your son has learned to curse like a sailor in front of 3 year olds. I've heard other mom's in your position use soap or hot sauce in the mouth to fix such problems.

I saw your dear, sweet boy run to you to tattle on me after I embarrassed him in front of all his friends. I'd like to express my apologies. Normally I'm not the type to meddle in other's parenting, but since you were preoccupied with your fourth cocktail of the morning, I thought I'd do you a favor and shut your kid up. I don't want my little girl exposed to such vulgarity at such a young age, and, really, when she learns it I'd like it to be from me.

I was going to confront you in person regarding this matter. But, just as I was about to, your little angel slipped from your sunscreen covered hand and cannonballed into the pool. You seemed to have your hands full trying to order him out of the pool, threatening time out. When you finally waded into the pool to fetch your delinquent, I figured it was best just to let you handle the matter you were currently dealing with. No need to overwhelm you before your fifth drink.

Again, my sincerest apologies,

Nelly

P.S.

I'm not judging you. If your child was my son, I'd likely be drunk before noon, too.




***I'm not condoning hot sauce or soap as behavior modification. But, hey, soap seemed to work for Ralphie's mom. I'm also not endorsing drinking before noon. Even though Mimosas are packed full of vitamin C. On second thought, maybe soap and pre-noon binging should be a case by case decision.

There Will Be Cake

A very important birthday is coming up in a few weeks. No, not mine...Alice's. She's turning 4.

What the what!? When did that happen? How is it even possible that she's almost 4 all ready?

Anyway. Any mother knows a birthday and a party go hand in hand. It's expected. People start asking about the impending party weeks, even months in advance.

Suffice it to say, I'm actively planning a birthday party. Except, I'm not. Let me elaborate, I'm having a party for Alice, but I'm not actively doing anything about it. It's refreshing!

The previous years, I have found the party planning to be exhausting, daunting really. I'd create lists and lists within lists, spreadsheets even. I was worried about having enough food, too much food, and foods to feed my picky eater. I'd lose sleep thinking about the entertainment planned for the party. Will the little kids be entertained and the big kids engaged at the same time? What about the adults? At a 2 year old's party, you tend to have a fair amount of adults. Then, there are the party favors. What do I give that kids will enjoy and isn't going to be broken or thrown in the trash the next day? You'd think I was planning Kendal Jenner's sweet 16 party, and frankly, that may have been less stressful.

Something happened this year. Something clicked. Maybe it's my attempt to be more carefree and easy going. Maybe I'm figuring this mom thing out, finally. I don't know. I do know I haven't made one list, not even a mental note in preparation for this party. I didn't send out invitations. I told a few people the date and time, and I finally got around to send out an evite yesterday. I'm not allowing this birthday party to stress me out. Kids will attend. They will have fun. There will be cake. And isn't that all that really matters anyway?

Breaking Point

breaking point: noun

1: the point at which a person gives way under stress

2: the point at which a situation becomes critical

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Today, I hit my breaking point. Maybe, quite possibly, I had previously thought the same. I stand corrected. The early "Alice incidents," however destructive they were, did not cause me to give way under stress. In other words, lose my mind. Screwdriver in hand, today, I lost my mind...momentarily.

Anyone know what that is? And if you say, merely a hinge with a bad paint job then you are wrong my friend. That's a glorious photograph of my breaking point.

Alice is a door slammer. Place her in her room for time out and she slams the door repeatedly. Pissed off and stewing, over and over again..slam, slam, slam. It's maddening to listen to. MADDENING!! I try to ignore it. Negative attention is still attention...they say. I've tried confronting her, appealing to her voice of reason. "Alice, if you keep slamming your door, the angel hanging above it is going to fall on your head and break your skull and blood's going to gush out. And I'm not taking you to the doctor if that happens." No matter what I say, it doesn't matter. She keeps slamming the damn door.

I had threatened before. Several times actually. Finally, either I had enough balls to do it or I had gone mad, but I had had enough! The door was coming down. In time out for some reason or another, maybe she yelled at me or hit me. Maybe she kicked me. I don't even remember. All I remember is the sound of the door as she, pissed off, slammed it shut over and over again.

As I was unscrewing screws that had been permanent fixtures for more years than I know, I heard Alice's tear filled lament.

"Mama, NO! You can't take my door. No, Mama! That's my door! What am I going to do without my door. I NEED my door, Mama! Papa's going to be so mad at you."

I have to admit, momentarily, I did have that thought...is Hatta going to be pissed at me for potentially causing us more work down line. You never quite know with these old homes, maybe when we try to reattach the door, the screw holes will be striped...but just as quickly as I thought it, I dismissed it. She's a defiant terror and drastic measures need to be taken. Down it came. I was in charge, oh how the tides had changed. Quickly I realized what a privilege it had been for her to have a door. Maybe, just maybe, I stand a chance to win this battle against my 3 year old. Here's to hoping.

Yesterday Was My Day

I know what the problem was, yesterday was the best day I'd had in awhile. Not sure what it was, maybe the stars were aligned properly and the cosmos was working in my favor. It set the bar entirely too high for today. Silly me, woke with brilliant optimism, thinking today could be another yesterday. Ha!

I should have known better, right from the start, when Alice broke her 8 night record and woke me up at 6am with pee soaked sheets and pajamas. Hind sight. Instead, I got out of bed with a spring in my step. Opening the windows, breathing the crisp, morning air, the day held the promise of possibilities.

I'm not sure when it started to deteriorate. Maybe when Hatta called and told me he had been pulled over on his way to work for the very same expired tags he received a ticket for a week ago. Or possibly when I knocked a snack cup of Goldfish on the floor. Perhaps when I over watered 2 house plants and the water poured over the radiator down to the floor. Maybe it was when I, yet again, spilled water all over the floor in an attempt to water the front garden. Perchance it happened when Alice, jumping on the dog bed, smacked her head into the wall leaving a lump. On her head, not the wall.

No. It wasn't that. At that point I was still naively thinking today could be a close second to yesterday. I hadn't given up, as my tweet said, "I'm trying really hard." I had every intention of rocking it at the mom job. I wasnt defeated. I took Alice to a playground near the airport. We usually have a picnic and watch the planes fly in to land.

Nice pic, huh? Except, I didn't take that today. No. See, today, the planes were not landing for our viewing pleasure. Instead, they were departing, over top of our heads, at the rate of 1 plane every 15 minutes. Not nearly the impressive impact on a 3 year old as the usual, 1 plane landing every, I dunno, 3 minutes. My outing was a bust. Alice was bored and tired. I was finally defeated.

Ready to concede, I told Alice it was time to go home. She burst out sceaming "NO!" repeatedly and as loudly as possible. Everyone was watching, I'm sure. Whatever. I was so done, I wasn't even embarrassed as I climbed the playground to drag her naughty behind out of there, crying the whole way. You know what? She cried the entire 25 minutes home, too. Icing on the cake.

Today, Friday, May 18th, you win. Today was not my day. I was its bitch. And sadly, I still have many hours left before I can pull the covers over my head and wishfully hope tomorrow is better.

In Case I Die

Alice loves fruit...sort of. If you give her a bowl of blueberries and strawberries, she won't eat them. But if you take that same bowl of fruit, add other fruits, tofu, and yogurt, throw it all in the food processor, she'll eat it. I make smoothies and popsicles daily. I'm a good mom. It occurred to me over the weekend that my husband has never made Alice a smoothie. Because I was short on time and had other things to do in the kitchen, I had to verbally walk my husband through the process. And I said to him, "now if I die, at least you know how to make a smoothie."

Tomorrow morning, I will be having my wisdom teeth removed. I've read that things that can go wrong. I could have permanent nerve damage, never being able to move my tongue again, or worse, death. Even though I have been reassured that the odds are in my my favor I will not die of anesthesia and many people endure this rite of passage and come out unscathed, I find it better to err on the side of pessimism caution.

I present to you my list of things someone needs to know in case I, um, well...just in case.

• The sewing kit is on the second shelf in the hutch.
• Water my plants. If my ficus tree or the orchid in the bathroom dies, I'll haunt you.
• Library books are due Friday. Late fees suck.
• Ramen noodles rock. I expect someone to teach Alice the fine art of making an oodles of noodles sandwich.
• White vinegar and baking soda will clean just about anything.
• When making aforementioned smoothies, don't add raspberries or blackberries. She hates the seeds.
• A little MSG will not kill you. Moderation is the spice of life.
• I have hand-me-downs organized in the basement up to size 6. After that, you're on your own.
• Pine shats are the best type of mulch.
• I wish to be cremated. Do not spend money on a fancy urn to hold my ashes. A cardboard box is a sufficient container to transport me. Please spread my ashes in my grandmothers cottage garden and in the ocean.
• Speaking of ashes, the remains of my childhood dog is in my basement. Please spread him in the garden with me and also in the pond behind my mother's old house.
• Wear sunscreen. Alice, like myself, is fair skinned. Don't let her burn.
• When life is shitty, there's nothing wrong with getting ice cream or cake to try and cheer yourself up.
• On Valentine's day, send Alice balloons to school...every year.
• You can never spoil a child by buying too many books.
• I'll save you the time looking. I do not have a 9x13 baking pan.
• The upholstery attachment for the vacuum is under the kitchen sink.
• Don't wash the black cloth napkins with anything else. No matter how much I wash them, they still bleed.
• Continue to remind my daughter that she is brilliant and beautiful and unique.

I suppose that will do for now. Besides, I'm sure I'll be just fine tomorrow. Nothing to worry about. Piece of cake.

Everyone Heals Differently

I've been playing this game for awhile, maybe you've heard of it? It's called "How Long Can I Avoid Having My Wisdom Teeth Removed?" It's similar to another game I like called "How Long Can I Avoid a Tetanus Shot?" I rock at that game. I'm the reigning champion. I think the last time I was forced to get a tetanus shot was middle school. College was a close call with it being mandatory for admittance and all. I dodged it as long as I could. Just as I was about to be forced to forfeit, luck turned up on my side by way of a vaccination shortage.

You might ask why one would choose to play these games. Let me enlighten thee. It's rather simple. Either a.) You're afraid of needles, b.) You're afraid of hospitals and doctors offices, c.) You're afraid of pain or d.) All of the above. I can attest, avoidance is always easier.

Anyway, back to the original game I've been playing for quite some time. It seems, sadly, my time playing was all for nothing. I must graciously bow out, admit defeat. All four of my wisdom teeth will be forcefully sliced and ripped from my mouth a week from Thursday. Nevermind the months I patiently suffered while my wisdom teeth tore every filament of my gums just so they could break the surface and join the rest of my teeth. Forget about the extra minutes I was forced to spend every week brushing and flossing four extra teeth. All for naught, I tell you. All for naught.

Today, I found myself in the oral surgeons office, sitting in an uncomfortable chair, filling out pages 1,2,3, and 7 where I'm sure I agreed not to sue them if they cause me pain and suffering by accidentally removing the wrong teeth. I was trying to complete the paperwork with my legs shaking the clipboard (see letters a, b, c, and d from above,) when up to the counter walks this small, dark haired college girl. I guess she was about 19. I listen to her conversation with the office assistant and instantly, I'm sucked in like a moth to a flame. I could have given up rights to my second child in the paperwork for all I know.

She's trying to make an appointment to have her wisdom teeth out.

"I have an 8, a 9:45, and a 10:30."

"Don't you have anything later, I have class in the morning."

"No, I'm sorry we only do them in the mornings. Blah blah blah dehydration. Blah blah blah. And you know you have to have somebody here to drive you home after surgery," the assistant tells her with a tone in her voice.

"Oh, okay. I guess my mom could bring me and my friend could pick me up."

"No, no that's not going to work. Someone has to be here in the office the entire time of the surgery and then drive you home." This time she's a touch rude with the meek girl.

"Um, okay. I'll be able to go back to school after the surgery cause I have class, right?"

"No, no. You're going to have to stay home the rest of the day,"

"But the next day, I'll be able to go to class the next morning, though."

"It all depends, everyone heals differently," she says. And I have to applaud her for not laughing aloud in the poor, foolish girls face.

Has this dewey-eyed girl never known anyone who's had their wisdom teeth removed? I nursed a boyfriend during college through his recovery, I still shudder at the blood and the pain. I was friends with my husband when he had his removed. I watched him eat mashed potatoes and jell-o for days. This little girl has clearly not been playing the game. She's one of those that never even knew the game existed. I feel for her. On Wednesday, at 8:00am, she will experience what my mother referred to as worse than childbirth. She delivered three babies, naturally, without drugs. Wisdom teeth extraction worse than that. And this girl hasn't got a clue. Had she, she would've been playing the game right alongside me.

The Worst Thing Ever

My daughter has a strong passion for drama and the worst thing ever happened to her Tuesday at dinner. She scraped the top of a toe. My reenactment of the episode will surely not do it justice.

"Oh Mama! Look what happened!" Alice whines to me as she holds her foot up in the air.

I glance quickly. I see a scrape the size of a pencil eraser on the top of her middle toe, not even as big as a lima bean, more like a green pea.

"Put it in my lap, let me look at it. It looks like its bleeding."

"Noo Mama! Dont touch it! You can't clean it. Oh no!"

"Alice, just put it up here now. I'm not touching it. We'll clean it when we go upstairs to brush your teeth."

"I don't want Papa to come home. He can't hold me down! Hurry let's go to bed before Papa gets home."

"Well, if you just let me clean it a little, then no one has to hold you down," I try reasoning with her.

Alice stews over this injury for the rest of dinner. She is visibly stressed and anxious about the impending doom. As she goes potty and brushes her teeth, it sounds like this.

"You can't clean it Maamaa! Please don't. Oh Mama, it hurts. This is sooo awful. I don't know how I'm going to brush my teeth with this ouchie on my foot. This is sooo bad!"

Now she's in and out of tears, sad and pathetic and I can't help laughing, though I try to hide it.

"I don't ever want that to happen again, Mama. It's the worst thing ever. I don't want to get a splinter again either." She had her first splinter two days prior. "What am I gonna do, Mama? This is so bad. I don't want you to clean it. Pleeeease, Mama don't clean it. It's fine. I don't want a band aid. Oh it's gonna hurt. Please, no band aid."

My child is the only child I know that hates band aids. They are so feared that she would rather just sit and hold a tissue on the wound until it stops bleeding. Dora couldn't even persuade her. Without saying anything to her, because I'm laughing aloud now, I get a cotton ball and the bottle of hydrogen peroxide, shut the door so she can't escape, and make my way towards her.

"Mama NOOOO!! Please Mama, no. Oh this is the worst thing ever! It's gonna hurt. Oh it's...oh, please no Mama."

"Alice, you're fine. Just sit on the stool and be still."

"Oh it's so ouchie! It's ouchie! It stings. How am I gonna sleep tonight? This ouchie is so terrible! I'm not even going to be able to sleep. It's so bad! I don't want to get blood on my pajamas. I can't wear pajamas to bed or a pull up! Don't EVER let this happen again, Mama! I don't EVER want to get another ouchie AGAIN! This is just so terrible!"

It continues like this the entire time she gets dressed for bed and off and on during book reading. It's the last thing she whines about before I kiss her goodnight and walk out of the room. And don't you know, the first thing she tells me when she wanders into my room the next morning is..

"Mama, I don't like ouchies. They are the worst thing ever. I don't ever want to get one again. Splinters are terrible, too. But Mama, you know what I do like? Ladybugs. Except they don't think we're cool and they fly away."

God forbid, she ever truly gets hurt and needs real medical attention, we are all in trouble. She will be the child strapped down and sedated and yet still putting on an Oscar worthy performance.