When Mama Went Off the Deep End

It seems that I went through a paranoid phase when The Bud was three. I think he was winning...

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Hey. This is The Bud, here. I hijacked my mama's computer to have a bit of a heart-to-heart with all the preschoolers out there. I can't read, yet, so I can't say for sure what she's been posting on this blog,  but I can hazard a guess that not all of it is...shall we say...complimentary to those of us in the 2.5 to 5 yr old set. It's time to fight back with the tools we have at our disposal.

Where my people at? Whaddup, playas??!

Why the gangsta lingo? And how am I able to type and spell, when I've just told you I can't read? Don't ask me questions you already know the answers to! I'm three. Why do I do anything? Because I can, that's why. And you'd better believe it. In fact, for the adults who may actually read this post, I pity you the mind f**k that'll have you trying to come to terms with the possibility that a three year old could actually hijack an adult's computer and write a blog post. Admit it: in some of your more paranoid moments (like after he figures out how to escape his bedroom in the middle of the night, after you've turned the doorknob around so that very thing would stop happening), you wouldn't put anything past the little bugger. Crazier things have happened.

But I digress. This post is to empower the powerless. We'll start with Tips To Avoid Bedtime:

1. Request that Mama read ALL the books to you before you can sleep. Every. Single. One.

2. Fake a stomach ache, requiring a parent to apply "tummy wotion" (rosemary essential oil--may as well be snake oil, for all its tummy soothing properties) to the skin over the offending organ.

3. Go pee, again, but not until you've announced your need to do so to both parents and gotten their buy in on the plan.

4. Ask for more dinner.

5. Ask for more drinks.

6. Ask for a snack, your missing blanket, or for help to find your favorite stuffed toy-which is only missing because you don't know (read: care) to look under your blanket for it. 

7. Ask to be tucked in. Again. You can't help it if Mama and Daddy have already fallen asleep. You need their help!

And if, by some fluke, your maligned parents are unmoved, and all these deflective techniques fail, fall asleep for a half hour, then fall out of bed and scream the house down. That'll do it. Ain't NObody gonna sleep for a while after that. 

I've given you my best stuff. Make me proud. And DO NOT tell them where you learned this stuff. Even if they offer you chocolate. 

Love, The Bud

Poopageddon

We've had a bit of pooping regression in these parts, lately.

Since we started potty training, The Bud has never been truly on board with a daily toilet constitutional. Peeing is no problem, but since we took his precious diapers away, he's preferred a more stealthy approach to #2. It's not uncommon to find him ready to skulk behind a cabinet, or secreted behind a closed door to do his business, according to his preference. Which is in his pants.

And that's if we're able to anticipate him at all. More likely, he comes out of hiding after the dirty deed is already done to inform one of us that he needs his bottom cleaned.

Dread of having to rinse out dirty underwear every day has turned The Artist and me into a two-man, crack pooping face detection team. We've become adept at reading his social cues, facial expressions, and even the tone of the silence in the house, either of us ready to jump at a moment's notice to get him to the pot on time. I'd say we're working with about a 90% success rate. It's not a perfect system, but I call it progress. We've been tripping along, hoping for that magic day other parents in the trenches talk about: the day when their unwilling charges decide that pooping in the potty is all of a sudden ok, and start doing it. Without a fight. No muss, no fuss.

Sadly, The Bud's not there, yet. Maybe nowhere near. He's changed it up a bit, though. NOW, he holds it for as long as he can--up to 5 days (yes, I count)--then gives in to the pot when the pressure becomes too great. He's driving us nuts. Five days is waaay too long to go without...well, without. So, of course, when he finally goes, it's so gigantic that, let me just say, there is much wailing and gnashing of teeth. And stopping up of toilets, and fruitless plunging, and swearing daddies.

It's ugly ya'll.

Last night was bath night and The Artist was in charge. After a few minutes of splashing, I heard a desperate cry for help from the bathroom. I ran in to find that The Bud had skittered out of the tub to stand, naked and wet, next to his father. They were both staring in horror into the tub of water. I looked in the bathtub to find about a thousand makeshift tub toys floating in brown water. Yep. There was doody in the tub.

Apparently, The Artist hadn't checked for dingleberries, of which there were many, before depositing the kid in the water. How many, you ask? Let's call it a prohibitive number.*shrug* Could've happened to anybody, right? I have no idea. All I know is, I feel like we're stuck in a neverending loop of a sitcom episode called, 'You Can Lead a Toddler to the Pot, But You Can't Make Him Go.'

It didn't take long to realize that if the tub (and the boy) was going to get cleaned any time before 5 o'clock the next morning, Mama was going to have to step in. I put aside my disgust and innate germaphobia and did everything except set a blowtorch to the porcelain, the bath toys, (and the boy), and eventually it all did end, in a blur of scrub brushes and non-chlorine bleach. I've blocked out the details.

Blech.

A moment I do remember, though, was after I saw what I was up against, I left the bathroom, headed for the basement and the big gun cleaning supplies. The Artist, fearful that I'd left him alone to deal with the filth, called out to see where I was. My instinct was to call back to him, "I am running away to a place where nobody can find me and nobody poops in tubs!"

I didn't say that, of course. I was too worried that I actually meant it.

Conversation Between The Bud and Me, Today

The Bud [watching me clean the kitchen]: "Mommy, what you doing?"

Me: "Sweeping the floor, Bud."

The Bud: "Oh...I see. You vewy tired?"

Me [marveling over how I'm raising the most sensitive and empathetic child on the planet]: "Oh, yes, I'm very tired, Buddy. But the job's gotta be done. Thank you for asking!"

The Bud: "..."

Seconds later, I replayed our interaction and realized my three year old pronounces the word sleep, like sweep, and rarely uses prepositions without prompting. This probably meant that when I'd said "I'm sweeping the floor," he'd translated that to "I'm sleeping on the floor." I dove back in to repair the damage.

Me: "Oh, Buddy, I didn't mean I was going to sleep, I meant I was using the broom to clean the floor. That's called sweeping."

The Bud [turning his attention back to his snack]: "..."

Note to self: pull out my Toddler to English Dictionary before assuming I know what my kid is saying. #languagedevelopment

Don't Poke the Sleeping Bear

Last weekend, we converted The Buddy's crib to a toddler bed. The novelty of being able to get up and out whenever he wants is still fresh, so as you can imagine, many hijinks have ensued...

 

The first night, he climbed into his bed 10 minutes early, with no whining, begging or requests for "more books, pwease?" We congratulated ourselves on our prodigy and broke out the sangria and trash television to celebrate. 15 minutes later, we were reminded that we had a wily toddler on our hands.

 

He ran out with a delighted-to-be-free smirk on his face, asking to go pee pee in the potty. That was the only legitimate excuse.

 

10 minutes after that, he needed to poop. False. Back to bed.

 

5 minutes later, he was thirsty. He knows the no drink after 7:30 rule, so, since he wasn't a kid we'd just met for the first time, we again called false.

 

5 minutes after that, he cried hungry. He'd eaten a lot (for him) at dinner and the snack he requested was a chocolate Clif Bar, so his pajama-covered butt was marched back to bed, only 45 minutes after his original bedtime. Not bad, we thought, and commenced to drinking sangria. That was Saturday, and each night since has been pretty much the same, with variations in the time lengths and excuses. Not too terrible, really.

 

The other morning, however, was the proverbial straw. I can suffer many a fool--gladly and at great length--but even I have my limit. He woke up two hours early; while I was still sleeping. Before sunrise. I awoke to his warm, little body draped across mine, where he commenced to wriggle and squirm and kick until I could no longer ignore him and gasped deperately for consciousness to make the torture stop. Needless to say, I was pissed.

 

Don't get me wrong, I see how it all went down. He probably wakes up at 5 am all the time, but when he was in a crib, he understood he could either stay awake in his cage, bored and lonely, until a parent rescued him at sunup, or go back to sleep. He chose sleep. Now, he wakes up, gets a charge when he realizes he can get out of bed all by himself, and chooses to wander instead of slumber. The only problem with that is that his toddler logic requires a playmate and who better to call on than dear Mama? In case you haven't picked up on it, I find this all completely unacceptable. I had to take drastic measures to insure that it (insert: voice of the guy who growls over the trailers for suspense movies) Never. Happened. Again.

 

A friend of mine says the only time her children fear her is when she's asleep. This is brilliant and was, in my case, very easy to execute. I already had the melty face (see this post, #3), the crazy hair, the sleep-raspy voice, and, oh yeah, RAGE to fuel my performance and believe me, it was Oscar-worthy. I sat up in bed, hinged at the waist a la Linda Blair, and yelled, "what on Earth do you think you're doing?? Get out of this bed and go back to your room, right now! It's still sleeping time!" I think the skin peeled back from my skull at one point.

 

He did slump his tiny shoulders and leave the room, but I didn't go back to sleep.

 

He's only three years old, for crying out loud! What, did you think I'd leave him alone to tear up my house while I slept? No, thank you. Besides, he can't do anything without my help, yet. He'd have come back in there a hundred times asking me for stuff anyway, which would've just pissed me off more. But he won't wake me again without serious, prior consideration.

 

I hope.

 

You Did It! You're Three!

Dear Miles,

I can't believe how much you've changed and grown this year! I hope you know what a pleasure it is for Daddy and me to watch you discover and master your world. You attack life with such joy and curiosity that it keeps us joyful and curious. There's so much I want to remember (and to remind you of) from this last year. I'm sure there are things I'll leave out because you're moving so fast, it's taking all my effort just to keep up with you let alone take notes, but I've got the rest of my life to watch you and to remember, so be prepared to go nuts from all the stories I'll tell your dates some day. What can I say? I'm your mom: it's what I do.

For one thing, you've grown. You're much taller now, because you finally got your legs. I'm not saying you were born without legs--you had 'em; believe me, I checked--they were just really stumpy there for a while. You had all this head and torso with these sawed off, little legs. We weren't sure how you kept your balance. Now, they're deliciously proportional to the rest of you. I'm never more conscious of how big you are than when you crawl into my lap for a cuddle. You used to fit neatly into the space between my chin and waist. Now, you overflowing my lap with skinny arms, legs, elbows and knees. Such a big kid...

You're so affectionate. I'll look up from a task sometimes to find you standing there quietly, waiting with your arms thrown wide. When we make eye contact you say, "hug, Mommy," then run into my arms when I reach for you (I always do and I always will). Then we both sigh with happiness. You like to repeat that 5 or 6 times before moving on to something else. I call it a hug attack. You're indescriminate with your kisses. Doesn't matter what time of day, what we're in the middle of, whether I'm awake for it or what foreign substance you may have on your face, you're always ready with a kiss.  For me, anyway, not so much for Daddy. I think his beard might be too scratchy for you. Either that, or you already think you're too manly to kiss him. I've mentioned before that he's got some feelings about that, too, but as for me? I love it. Makes me feel special. :) Regardless of the stubble problem, in the circle of Daddy's arms is one of you're favorite places to be. And believe me, he's oh, so happy to have you there.

You're very kind and care about other people. You've always been sensitive to others' feelings, and now you're learning the words to describe them.  It's not unusual to find you hovering near a crying baby, offering a toy to calm them or to feel your small arms wrapped around my legs if I raise my voice in a way that makes you concerned, or patting my back if you think I'm sad. You've learned to say I'm sorry if you make a mess, if you hit someone by accident (we're working on saying sorry when you hit on purpose), or if you knock something over. Please and thank you are coming along nicely, too.

You're strong and stubborn. Your name means gentle warrior and it fits you to a T. People think you're passive because mostly you're content to go with the flow and don't make a lot of waves or noise but Daddy and I know different. You're the scrappiest person we know and you always have been. You quietly manipulate and maneuver your environment to suit your purpose. It's a skill you honed early. A diplomat or a third world dictator could learn a lot from you. We were just reminiscing recently about the day you were born. There were so many reasons to worry that you might not thrive: you were 7 weeks early, you weren't growing well inside me because I was so sick, boys develop a bit more slowly than girls do in their mama's tummies...the list was long, and a bit scary. But we shouldn't have worried. You came into the world, against all odds, a 3-lb tornado, screaming and peeing for all you were worth, and put all our fears to rest. We knew then that you were a fighter and that nothing was going to hold you back. So far, nothing has. Anybody who has come against the business end of your will knows exactly what I'm talking about.

You are eager to learn and take in new information like a sponge. I can't believe what you know already. You know lots of animals by sight and sound, shapes, the colors, all the numbers, the alphabet and can recognize all of the letters in words that you see. You have an incredible memory, especially for where we put the cookies, the iPad or anything else we don't want you to have. You know tons of words. I kept a list for a while, then stopped when I realized you weren't going to stop learning them. You can count to 20 by yourself and loved it when I showed you how counting to 100 was really just counting to 10, over and over again. You have all of your books memorized and love to "read along" when we have reading time. Your current favorites are, The Very Hungry Caterpillar, Thomas' Busy Day (or any other Thomas and Friends book), and The Giving Tree.

You love nature. When we're outside, you stop to smell every flower, hug every tree, swing every stick, throw every rock and step in every puddle. Walks are long, drawn out affairs with you. You point out the moon during the day, clouds in the sky, the sun and flowers wherever they may be. There's a huge rock in a yard on our walk route that you stop to hug and kiss every time we pass it. I have no idea why, but I love this quirk of yours.

You're a man's man and a lady's man. Daddy is your best friend and you love to be wherever he is. You love to wrestle, to run and jump, to be thrown high in the air, to destroy things and to jump on my furniture. I don't love that so much. If there are big kids around, you love to chase them and to do what they're doing. If there is a room full of girls and the only boy is a baby, you gravitate toward the baby. In fact, your favorite playmates at daycare are two boys, both younger than you, because they're the only other males present. That will change one day, my son. I know this because you're also the most incorrigible charmer (other than your father) that I know. Grandma W calls you a lady killer and she's so right. You've got an eye for a pretty lady and make sure to show your appreciation in the form of smiles, "jokes," dancing, showing off and the offering of toys. And these chicks fall for it, every time! Lord, help us all.

You love robots, books, sidewalk chalk, parks, percussion instruments of all kinds,  animals, chocolate, bugs, spaghetti, cartoons with lots of music in them (The Little Engine That Could, Transformers Rescue Bots, Charlotte's Web), trains, trains and TRAINS. You're talking up a storm, from the time you wake up til you close your eyes for sleep. I think we're only getting about a third of what you mean right now, but when your words get clearer, look out! Daddy says you get that from me. I have no idea what he's talking about. ;)

You take joy in the the mundane. "Yay, you did it!" comes out of your mouth multiple times a day. Regardless of how small the accomplishment (eating an unfamiliar food, climbing a slide by yourself, helping with clean up, surviving a bath with suds) we know it's our cue to commence with the celebrating. Because of you, we no longer take a single success for granted. You've taught us to clap, to cheer, to jump and to dance as if no one has ever lived this day better than we have.

And frankly, no one has.

So in honor of your special day, we raise our chocolate milk cups and dance our happy dances to you, Buddy, because you did it!   You turned 3! Here's to many, many, MANY more such celebrations. We love you!

We're In This Together. Really, We Are.

I love reading blogs, specifically parenting blogs of all kinds, and the reason is simple:

Misery loves company.

I don't mean I'm miserable. I love being my son's mama. I've enjoyed every stage of his short life more than the one before. Except when I didn't love it, that is. Because this s*** is hard, man!

I don't have enough fingers to count the number of times a day I second guess a decision I made, wish I'd handled a moment better, wallow in guilt over something I did or didn't do, or throw my hands up, thinking, "Am I the only one who doesn't know what the HELL she's doing around here???" Being a parent is one of the most isolating and crazy-making things I've ever done, so when I read about another parent in the slog, I feel better. This complete stranger knows how I feel because they've been there. They are there and it looks pretty much the same for us all.

That's why it bugged me to read Sydney Steiner's post on memes of kids crying. You can check it out here. If you don't have time to read it, to sum up, she finds cruel what she perceives to be parents laughing at the expense of their children and posting it for public ridicule. She thinks we should spend more time helping our little ones understand and deal with their very real emotions and less time making them feel bad about them.

You can see the heart and earnest care for children behind her post and I agree that yes, we have a responsibility to our little people to validate their experiences from an early age when they're too young to understand or control them on their own. Even their more irrational emotions. This helps them grow up confident in their inherent dignity so they know that how they feel matters, regardless of the circumstances.

I just disagree that it's unhealthy to choose laughter over tears to cope with this crazy-hard job every day. Her post, while well meaning and spot on in many ways, supposes that parents are laughing and shaming their children instead of engaging with them, mid-meltdown. To that, I say, I'm here. I'm in it, and I don't buy it--for myself or a lot of other parents. That's not what I do and I don't believe most other parents do, either. It's healthy to find the ridiculous in tense moments. It helps deescalate things. It's healthy for kids (even really young ones) to learn that while their emotions are always valid and real, they don't always accurately reflect a given situation, nor should they be treated as the center of the universe even when they do.

It's also healthy for a parent who's had it up to here with all the weirdo things that upset their child(ren) that day to step back, stop taking it all so seriously and laugh. That way, nobody gets yelled at, shamed or punished for no reason, no child is confused or frightened by adult anger, or heaven forbid, nobody is physically hurt in a fit of frustration.

Most mamas and daddies aren't sitting by with their phones waiting for the chance to catch their children helpless and upset so they can post it on Instagram to publicly humiliate their toddlers (who last time I checked, didn't have Instagram accounts, anyway, though mine might--at two years old, he's more tech savvy than I am). We're in there wiping noses, soothing fears, kissing away tears and trying to figure out some age appropriate way to demystify bath suds for a terrified toddler so every bath isn't so damned scary--for everybody.

We all need the benefit of the doubt and some grace from other parents who trust that when we upload pictures or "can you believe this??" posts, we're not making fun of the people we love most and work the hardest for in the world. We're reaching out for a lifeline of brother/sisterhood that helps us feel just a tiny bit less alone and crazy while we figure out how to do this (which, sadly, I hear we never do, completely). And we're doing it at 1 am, well after the kid's asleep, not during play/dinner/homework/bath/reading/night-night time, because we desperately need some alone time but would actually rather steal time from our own sleep than from our time with them, no matter how much they act like tiny nut jobs.

So, let's cut each other just a small break, shall we? I, for one, really need one.

The Food Wars

I am currently elbow-deep in a death match with a two year old over dinner, which pretty much means every night between 6 and 7, I have the prospect of hard work and frustration, with no chance of a positive return on my investment.

I'm lovin' them odds.

Tonight, my patience for the IF/THEN game ("If you eat a bite, you'll get a drink of milk!") wore thin quickly. Instead, he's watching Yo, Gabba Gabba on the Kindle in my bed while I catch up on my blogging.

I don't intend to harbor even a second of guilt over this. We're both happy right now and nobody's screaming or crying. Least of all, Mama.

Deal with it.

Frazzle Dazzle

Due to childcare issues beyond my control, I've needed to stay home with the man-cub for the last two days. He's been frustrated with the amount of attention that I've been devoting to my work and has decided to let me know it.

He just put his entire foot into a glass of juice. That I was drinking. On purpose. My only response has been to consider drinking what's left in there. You know, so I don't waste it.

I think it's time to go back to the office now.

The Discipline to Discipline

We've in a new phase of parenting around these parts and I'm not gonna lie, it gets ugly.

There was a time, not too long ago, where my son did everything I wanted him to do, no questions asked. There may have been some unwillingness on his part, but I rarely noticed it and it was nothing I couldn't get around. It was rare that setting boundaries of behavior for my kid caused me to break a sweat. Before you write me off as a smug mama with a big mouth, let me share my secret. He was immobile and had no facilities to attempt to assert his will over mine. Times have certainly changed.

Now he's a rip-roaring almost-2-yr-old who's got all these new tricks up his sleeve--saying (screeching) no, whining and begging, running away, arching and struggling, or my personal favorite, scrunching up his little face and hitting the object of his ire. That would be me.

I'm quibbling over semantics, I'm sure, but when I could tell myself, "he doesn't understand what no or stop means," or "He's just curious about his environment, he's not being disobedient," I was a lot more patient when he ignored my directions or corrections. It was also easier to have patience with re-directing his attention away from the outlets over and over again, when he had the attention span of a gnat and boundless curiosity. He still has boundless curiosity, but now he has developed a focused intent, by fair means or foul, to do whatever he wants, whenever he wants. My patience is seriously running thin. And the biggest injustice of all? By some completely unfair imbalance of parental power, daddy doesn't struggle to the degree that I do. If he even raises his voice at the kid, he melts into a penitent puddle. Or, (possibly even worse) he asserts his will, realizes upon eye contact w/dear, old dad that this isn't a battle he's prepared to join, and concedes. Concedes, I tell you! I wrestle to the death with him over every little thing, and dad gets the belly presentation. Balls.

Since Miles has all this will but limited common sense, motor skills, discernment or impulse control, my job as his mother is to make sure he's scared of me so that when I tell him not to do something that could kill him, he listens and obeys. He needs to fear death-by-mama more than death-by-running-into-oncoming-traffic. I'm over-simplifying, but you get my point. This is also supposed to work in other areas, like teaching politeness, or cleaning up after oneself, or even just saving mama some time and effort by not resisting every, stinking diaper change or morsel of food I put in front of you, for crying out loud. I'm not finding it to be quite that simple, though.

I heard someone say that parenting will reveal more about you, the parent, than it ever will about the kid(s) you raise. It couldn't be truer for me than in the area of consistent discipline. Most things I like to do come easily to me. Not because I'm a prodigy, but because I don't do stuff that's too hard. I'm lazy that way. I'll always seek the path of least resistance to accomplish a task and if that's not possible, I'll pick something else to do. Discipline is hard and there's no way around doing it well, so in this case, I'm stuck. Also, I've discovered that while I have high expectations of behavior, apparently I'm squeamish about corporal punishment, especially at his age. I worry that he doesn't understand what it's all about, since he can't repeat back what I say to him. It doesn't make much sense to me that when he hits me in defiance of a direct request, I should turn around and hit him back. Seems to reinforce that hitting is okay, since I can't explain to him the subtle nuances. Can you imagine me hunkering down to say, "Kid, it's not okay for you to hit me, so I'm going to hit you to make sure you don't do it again. You don't understand why I'm hitting you? Well, let's just hope you get it when you're older." Asinine. Also, it seems to shake his idea about my place in his world. He sees me as the one who fixes hurts, not causes them. Each time I swat his little hand, which I only do when he's defiant or doing something that puts him in danger, it about breaks both our hearts. He looks up at me in shock, starts to cry, babbles something that I translate to "why do you haaate meee?!" and reaches his arms up for comfort. He needs to know that I still love him and, by golly, I need to know that he still loves me! Sadly, that's all he'll respond to from me, so I have to knuckle down and keep at it. Or he'll have to start thinking of me as an alpha-female in his life real quick, so I can stop punishing us both. Hell, I think I'm supposed to stay consistent w/it, regardless of how much we both hate it. That's the real point.

Maybe it's okay and I'm not scarring him for life. I mean, if I enjoyed it and looked for opportunities to beat the stuffing out of my sweet boy, I guess then we'd have a real problem. We'll see which of us ends up in therapy, first.

Wait! I've already got him beat on that score.

Tonight, We Spun Tupperware

I wage a near-daily battle with mommy guilt.

I have to work to support us and I'm glad to do it. I'm also grateful that I have skills that someone is willing to pay me to use. A lot of people can't say that these days. But even considering that, it bugs me that I don't get much quality time with my boy during the week and that our weekends are swallowed up with errands and chores I couldn't accomplish during the week. And the time we do have (about 3 hrs a night between pickup and bedtime) is fraught with land mines.

Both of us hand it all out during the day--him with play and me with work--so by the time we're together, neither of us is at our best, to say the least. He's tired and crabby, I'm tired and crabby. And, I'm in a hurry (Ever tried to rush a toddler? How 'bout a crabby one? Yeah. Super fun). Because it takes the better part of an hour to get home at night and I KNOW he's going to whine and crab for his dinner until it's served, I get it started right away, leaving him to entertain himself as well as he can. I won't mention his hunger is because of his stubborn refusal to eat anything all day but crackers and Nilla Wafers at daycare. That's how generous a mother I am.

Anyway, we sit down to eat. Well, I eat. He makes a mess with some chewing and interjections of "nummy!" or, "no!" thrown in there. Then there's time for a bit of rough housing, a bath depending on the day of the week, a book, a prayer and bed. This is the Cliff's Notes version of the story. The unabridged version also describes tantrums, head bumps, diaper wars, messes and broken stuff (always mine). In my effort to take care of him, I might only make eye contact with him 4 or 5 times before I put him to bed. Even typing that crushes me.

I walk a fine line. On one side, keeping to a rigid schedule with him because every parent I meet, parenting book I read and motherly instinct I have tells me that structure and consistency give a child a feeling of safety and security, two things I desperately want to provide for him. Possibly because they're the only things I can afford. On the other side, giving in to the urge to let it all go, either from exhaustion or a simple desire not to plan every, blessed thing. I'm sure neither of those is good for us, nor are they sustainable over the long haul, so I'm working on finding some semblance of a middle ground.

Sometimes, though, through the white noise of all my struggles with balancing work and parenthood, there are moments of clarity. Moments where it feels like the stars align and I get it right. Like tonight, for example. Most of the time when I'm making dinner, Miles plays around my feet. He doesn't mind independent play as long as we're in the same room. I kind of like it, too. He mills around the room, moving all the kitchen-y things he's allowed to play with from place to place. He babbles, sings the ABC song, jumps in circles, dances and occasionally wraps his arms around my knees for a cuddle and a smile. He also empties the Tupperware cabinet. Nobody says Tupperware, anymore, they use Rubbermaid, you say? I say, get your own blog post. Tupperware is like Kleenex to me. It covers all plastic storage containers and also has the added benefit of dating me. But I digress. Tonight, I made a casserole, so after dinner prep, I had 15 minutes of oven time to kill. I looked down to find Miles spinning plastic bowls on the floor. With a flip of the wrist, he gets upwards of 30 minutes of cheap entertainment. He loves spinning things; especially circular things--bowls, lids, coasters--he's spun 'em all. I decided to join him. I didn't think he'd pay me much attention since he can be so focused on the task, but it turns out he was thrilled to have me--as a jungle gym, as an obstacle to dance around, a fellow bowl spinner and best of all, a lap to crawl into for a cuddle. He put down those bowls to snuggle and to play Name-That-Feature on mama's face. When we got to cheeks, he cupped mine with his chubby little paws, looked closely into my eyes, babbled something I couldn't understand and planted two, sweet kisses on my mouth.

I swear to God, that kid knows how hard I'm trying.

My Mystique Has Lost Its Mystique

Spoiler Alert: this post is very whiney.

I'm enjoying a rare moment of solitude. The buddy has a cold--one of those slimy, sniffle-y, cough-y, whiney ones--so I can't take him to church. Church ladies frown on bringing carrier monkeys into the nursery, even if they look like cute, little men in their sweater vests. He's sleeping, so I could nap, but I think I'd rather be awake while it's quiet for a change.

I'm an introvert--in the need-to-recharge-by-time-spent-alone kind of way. Every now and again, I like to slip away some place solitary to refuel, but that doesn't happen a lot these days. From the moment my eyes open to the time they close again, I'm on duty. My life is constant interruption, and frankly, I'm not handling it with much grace, lately.

When I was single with no kid, this wasn't a problem. After a long week, or even just a long day, I could disappear any time I needed. Now that I have a toddler and a baby-daddy to love on every day, it's become a tad more complicated. I'm never alone--not to eat, to watch tv, to shower, to pee--unless I'm asleep. My life is on a constant loop of family time + full-time work + chores/errands - solitude - sleep = terminal exhaustion. Lather, rinse, repeat. And the worst part? I miss them when they're gone, so I'm complaining about stuff I really wouldn't change. I hate when I do that.

I guess I just wish I could sneak off for a few hours to plug in somewhere every now and then. What is that reminding me of? A movie where the characters plug into an external power source? Seems like it was an outlet or maybe a glowing orb...doesn't matter; I'm too scatterbrained to focus on it long enough to figure it out. THE MATRIX! Thank God. That was going to drive me nuts.

If I ever get to meet Betty Friedan, I'm gonna give her a stern talking to. She didn't say having it (or doing it) all would be this hard.

Thanks for stopping by. Good talk.

What on Earth Was I Thinking??

In a moment of blind sentiment, I decided to take my 1 year old on a date for Valentine's Day.

I planned to do a little window shopping at the mall, eat at the food court and play at kiddie land, all while I smiled benevolently at my busy, beautiful and well-behaved offspring. When it was time to leave, I would quietly give him a five-minute warning, after which he would walk over to me, reach for my hand and we'd go home. There I would help him wash his face, brush his teeth, we'd read a book, cuddle and pray. Then, I would tenderly tuck him into bed for the night.

What happened was quite different. At 5:30, I picked up a surly toddler who'd had a very long day. He was hopped up on sugar from his daycare Valentine's party an hour before. He was also ready to eat dinner and be left alone. Instead, it took us an hour to get to the mall (note: he sucked down 12 oz of milk on the drive), where he protested (loudly) to being confined to a stroller while I looked at earrings. I rushed through a purchase I now regret then moved on to dinner. I eyed our choices at the food court and realized, "yeah, he's not gonna eat any of this crap." Instead, I spent $10 of a hard-earned gift card for a turkey and swiss sandwich and more milk.

I rode the elevator up to the food court to eat (did I mention he's terrified of elevators?), where he objected (loudly) to being confined to a stroller while we ate. Seeing a pattern, here? I scarfed down my food. He scarfed down his. Then he loudly protested that there was no more milk. I wasn't spending $2 on another carton--he'd already had sixteen ounces in two hours. I told him he wasn't getting any more damned milk (no swearing; but I felt like it). He knocked over his stroller in impotent rage. I dragged him, kicking and screaming, back to the elevator, decided it wasn't worth it, and did what I swore I'd never do. I hauled my screaming toddler, an overstuffed diaper bag and an umbrella stroller down the escalator. He wasn't in the stroller, but still...I work for an escalator manufacturer where I get almost daily reports of escalator injuries due to stupid choices that passengers make. Even before I worked here, I judged parents harshly for doing what I was doing. I learned a valuable lesson in humility last night.

During that ride, I discovered his diaper was soaked (Remember sixteen ounces?) and toted him to the family changing room. Thus ensued a 5-minute death-match over changing that diaper. I won, but not without collateral damage and a great deal of sweat. Thank God there were no mandated reporters in there.

Then I thought, "let's end this trip on a high note and go to the play place, instead of going straight home!" Dumb idea. Apparently, Valentine's evening is when fathers take their smart phones and their children to the play place at the mall, so they can ignore them in an enclosed space. These kids, like mine, are also wound up from earlier candy binges. I chased my ecstatic and blissfully unaware boy around a 20-foot enclosure for 25 minutes, begging much bigger children not to step on, roll over, push or otherwise maim him in their sugar-induced euphorias. After his last narrow escape from death, I decided to call it quits, which is when the top of his head exploded.

Okay, it didn't, but it surely seemed like it. I dragged him--arching, screeching, and hitting--out of the mall and into the car. He babbled angrily at me all the way home, where I stripped him, shoved him into jammies and tossed him in bed--no book, no cuddle, no prayer.

Yep. Mother of the year, right here.