humor, mommyhood, parenting

Schizophrenia in the Parking Lot

WFAM

If you give your child (T.Puzzle) an Elmo sippy cup against his will (as he clearly was in the mood for one with Lightning McQueen) is that considered child abuse or are you digging your own grave? Well, I guess after a ten minute screaming meltdown (on T.Puzzle’s part not mine to be clear), I had my answer. My hole was dug. It was dug deep.

Yesterday as I prepared for Tae Kwon Do, I approached it as how I could make the situation easier. I was all about streamlining. I consolidated everything we would need into one bag and had the boys snacks and drinks ready to go in the back of the truck. I was no longer going to bring food in to the gym because it’s not allowed and it was hard to make T.Puzzle understand to leave it in the diaper bag. Therefore, I was going to allow them a quick drink and snack on the way there and that was it (T.Puzzle didn’t particularly care for this new way of thinking).

I did my best to relieve my stress. After I had picked the boys up from school, I placed them in the car feeling hopeful this was going to be the easiest Tae Kwon Do class yet. I successfully get T.Puzzle strapped in and he is munching away on his snack. Full Speed is indignant because I strapped his brother in first. “Well, if you learn to strap yourself in on your own, you could be strapped in first EVERY day,” I try to make it sound as enticing as possible. He informs me he can only strap himself in when in Daddy’s car but it’s too hard in Mommy’s (of course!).

I get ready to strap Full Speed in and a look of panic fills his face.

“Mommy! I have to pee!” he blurts out.

I start to weigh my options. I already have T.Puzzle strapped in and it might take too much time to get him undone, “Could you hold it until we get to Tae Kwon Do?” I ask already sensing that we are reaching emergency status.

“No! I have to go NOW!” he looks like he is on the brink of a panic attack.

“Okay, okay. Let’s get you inside,” I say with an air of calm I did not feel.

This is where it gets tricky. All I wanted to do was get Full Speed to a toilet as soon as I could. The way the bathrooms are set up in his school, you have to get buzzed in and it can get kind of harried as the lobby is filled with kids and parents being it’s the end of the day. I make the split-second decision to grab Full Speed and run inside. I manage to kick the truck door shut and trigger the remote lock over my shoulder as I know I have to leave T.Puzzle behind. I do this all while running at a breakneck pace across a busy parking lot carrying a thirty-eight pound Full Speed. Yeah, it’s all in a day’s work.

I manage to get Full Speed buzzed in and tell him I have to run out and make sure T.Puzzle  is okay. I’m imagining that T.Puzzle is upset at being left alone and sweating to death because even at four o’clock, it is 92 degrees and in the truck it is even hotter. So I frantically run as fast as humanly possible, pop open the door only to find him contentedly ingesting his snack. He looks up and says “Hi, Mommy!” I determine it’s probably in everyone’s best interest to keep him where he is and then lock him back in and run back to find Full Speed. I realize I must appear slightly schizo to the parents who are milling about. I am running (sweating my heart out) back and forth like a crazy person trying to meet the needs of my boys and keep them happy and safe. Schizophrenia in the parking lot, …. I wonder what tomorrow will bring?

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PS- I have to give a shout-out to Mad Dog, he surprised us and met us at Tae Kwon Do, so it was the easiest class yet. I thank you and appreciate you!

humor, mommyhood, parenting

The Doorway to Defiance

WFAM

Am I the only Mom who hates to give their children peas? I have to be in the proper frame of mind and have absolutely no other frozen veggies on hand to bust out the peas. Oh, how they roll. Those tiny suckers end up EVERYWHERE. You can find them for days and days long after a pea-based meal is complete. I am in desperate need to grocery shop…

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All peas aside, I must mention that my boys are prolific poopers. I know that can’t actually be considered a talent. However, if there was an American Idol of Pooping, they would be crowned first runner-up and the winner respectively.

Since Full Speed has been successfully potty-trained for well over a year, it has helped tremendously in our ability to get out of our home in a timely manner. I have come to accept T.Puzzle where he is on his journey to being potty-trained. It still doesn’t always excuse the frustration I feel when he poops at the most inopportune times.

Like today, for example. I am rushing around in overdrive because I need to drop T.Puzzle off at Grandma’s so I can visit Nan in the hospital (she had a little fall and is being held to have a bunch of precautionary and in my opinion because she seems so healthy, mostly unnecessary testing). Of course I have this feeling that T.Puzzle is about to poop so I check his diaper seventy-seven times. Each time he is free and clear. While I am running about throwing laundry here and there and putting dishes in the washer, he proceeds to go in the formal living room. I’m guessing it’s because he is modest and he likes to be alone when he poops in his pants. I mean, wouldn’t we all? So I rush to grab him and check his pants. Still free and clear. Whatever, I have things to accomplish.

T.Puzzle is being very accommodating. He is waiting patiently for me to wrap up all my chores so we can get out the door. When I finally focus my full attention on him, he has climbed over the couch to our front window and is walking the length of the window-sill. Back and forth, back and forth. He is having a ball and is laughing up a storm. Meanwhile, I try not to have a conniption.

I manage to get us out the door and put him in his seat (still unstrapped at this point). I suddenly remember the baggie of pull-ups and eggless cookies (as T.Puzzle is allergic to eggs) that I left on the counter. In the twenty-two seconds it takes me to run back in to grab the baggie, I return to find the overwhelming scent of poop accost me as I open up the truck. There he sits, full diaper and all, smiling from ear to ear.

Of course, of course. I yank him from the seat (I was not very gentle and yanking kind of felt good) and rush in to clean him up. We have a stand-off at the doorway. He insists on playing with the door and puts his fingers in the crack that slivers open when you push the door in. “No, don’t do that T.Puzzle, that is dangerous,” I try not to shout but I don’t want him thinking that this is okay. Especially because him and Full Speed are always messing around and by a door that can be a very bad thing. He squares his shoulders and looks directly into my eyes. Then he begins to flicker his fingers in and out of the door crack like it’s a hot flame full well knowing he is defying me. And he is loving it. Okay, so I lose it a little bit. p9153285

“T.Puzzle!” I shout, “don’t you ever put your fingers in that door again, you fingers could BREAK!” That sufficiently freaks him out. He immediately yanks his hand out and looks at it and begins to cry. Oh well, add it to the list to tell the child psychologist I may need to call (hopefully not) in the future.

We get through the door show-down and it’s time for his diaper change. The whole time I have his legs in the air and I’m wiping his tush he yells, “Stop it! Stop it!” like I’m torturing him to death. I shout back, “Stop pooping in your drawers and I wouldn’t have to do this to you!” I realize shouting at a two year old ultimately gets you nowhere. I promise, I’m adding it to the list.

As I am packing up the messy diaper, T.Puzzle (now in fresh pants) heads to the door. “You better wait for Mommy!” I warn. As I head to the garage and toss the diaper I think I hear the front door. Guess who decides to let himself out? Oh yeah, it’s T.Puzzle. I am defeated, I can’t even argue or correct anymore. All I want is to be on my way. I grab the little imp and away we go and I don’t shout once on the five minute drive to Grandma’s. I know, it was only five minutes but I guess that’s a start.

health

Ex’squeeze’ Me?

WFAM

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Do you know how sometimes the anticipation of something is far more torturous than the actual event? Well, that happened to me today. Way back in January my doctor scheduled me for a mammogram (it’s only routine, no worries). For insurance reasons I had to wait until I was legally thirty-five if I was going to be reimbursed. So, I marked it on my calendar and dreaded it for almost the entire year.

I had talked to my sister, Skee, about what to expect. I mean if you can’t talk to your sister about boobs and mammograms, who can you talk to? She talked me through the basics and even though I was dreading the nudity part, I felt mostly prepared.

I found the imaging center with no difficulty. When I went to check-in there was some sort of mix-up and the computer said I should be at the hospital instead. I apologized that I was in the wrong place and they were very understanding since it was scheduled so far back. They realized the scheduling error could be as much on their end as it could be on mine. The receptionist went to check with the radiology tech to see if she could ‘squeeze’ me in. An unfortunate turn of phrase that made my stomach flip in a not-so-good way. The great thing is that I was going to get it done today. The bad part was that I had to wait extra long as they tried to fit me in their busy morning schedule. That meant I was alone with my anticipation. I should have come better prepared and brought some antacid tablets with me.

Before I go back, the receptionist makes it clear that at the imaging center they use actual film instead of digital technology. I’m so flabbergasted by the jostling of the schedule and her use of the word squeeze, I get what she says all wrong. I envision that they are going to film me in various states of undress instead of taking a series of dignified, digital photos.

“Excuse me, what did you say?” I ask already feeling violated and ready to flee.

“We use film like they use in cameras, therefore your images won’t be stored digitally. You will have actual hard copies of the photos that will go into your file,” she says this all matter-of-factly.

“Oh, that’s fine,” my voice filling with understanding. “That’s not a problem.” I’m just thankful there won’t be an unfortunate naked video (although it could do wonders for my writing career) of me floating around that could possibly be leaked on YouTube.

When the tech calls my name, to my relief she is a kindly, outgoing sort. I’m immediately at ease. She asks me as I’m undressing if I could for any reason possibly be pregnant.

“No, thank God!” I say with such force, we break into laughter. Now we are bonding over our shared joy at never having to be pregnant again. Soon, she is sharing child-rearing stories about her daughter who was several years younger than her oldest son, that almost make me glad that I was crazy enough to have my boys so close in age. Almost.

It’s all going pretty well. I step up to the thing-a-ma-jig and ask her if it is truly possible to test me with breasts that are, shall we say, slight and delicate in nature. I tell her of the repeated image I’ve had leading up to this point that every time a tech, such as herself, tries to clamp down, all they get is air. She laughs and says that she has plenty to work with (she’s a magician apparently) and then we start with the imaging.

It wasn’t terribly uncomfortable in terms of the pressure and the squeezing. What I found to be truly disturbing was the abundant amount of fondling that went on. I knew it was going down a bad path when she boldly walks up to me and says, “These need to go on your nipples to differentiate them from the rest of your breast in the photos,” and holds up these two, tiny, circular, sticky things. The kicker is, SHE put them on me. She grabs one boob and sticks it dead-center on my nipple and repeats the process with the other. I wasn’t expecting that. When all the lifting and tucking and pressing and shoving was done, I was at least hoping she’d ask me to dinner. Well, an offer would have been nice anyway.

mommyhood

Dance Party

WFAM

The world keeps moving even if you feel sad on your birthday. You turn another year older, your children need you to get them breakfast and if you live in my house, my boys are in constant motion. That’s the beauty of my life.

As I observe the commotion that surrounds me, I am reminded that joy and energy are all around. It starts as soon as they hand me my birthday card. It is has a Madagascar (an animated movie) theme and plays music when you open it (of course!). Soon, there is a veritable dance-party taking place in my living room.
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I am soon overwhelmed by the dancing intensity and I make the decision to opt for some quiet. I head to the lanai to read my book club selection for the month (unfortunately, I’m not enjoying it). Not so shockingly, I have two visitors join me. Almost immediately, Full Speed orders T.Puzzle to push him up and down the length of our lanai on a too-small-for-him push car. This is a chaotic process and soon Full Speed is flying about and T.Puzzle is tumbling all around and laughter rises up and escapes through the screens into the atmosphere (a lovely, lovely sound).

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After this activity has run its course, we are back inside. I am at the computer working on my blog and Full Speed comes up to me. He hands me a plastic ring that has a soccer ball affixed to it. He launches in to the pros and cons of wearing the ring on each finger eventually landing on the index finger as being the best (worn on this finger, you are able to form your hand into a fist with the greatest ease). He talks to me at length about this and it is hard for me to keep a straight face. He is so seriously passionate about discerning the BEST finger, that his forehead is deeply furrowed. Oh, how I love this little guy.

Mad Dog and I need to formulate our plan to get us all safely through our day until the boys’ bedtime. Mad Dog is at the table with the paper spread before him.

“How about this for an outing?” he begins. “At 1:45 they are having a showing of Thomas the Train at the cinema,” I immediately feel my heart drop to my feet (I am not in the mood, on my birthday of all days, for a train movie). Then, Mad Dog shocks me. “How about I take the boys by myself? That can be part of your birthday present.” Uh,….. yeah, you don’t have to ask me twice. All I can say is thanks Mad Dog; you’re a brave, brave soul.

Eventually, Full Speed is back in my face asking me what a Transformer that turns into a football is called. “I don’t know,” I counter, “F-Ball?” As soon as the words leave my mouth I realize that taken out of context, ‘F-Ball’ could be negatively construed. I make a mental note to tell Full Speed to only say ‘F-Ball’ in the house (or maybe not at all) and to refrain from using it at school especially in reference to his classroom’s bully (you know who you are).

All this while, T.Puzzle is by the couch trying to do a headstand (without much success) singing “Uh-oh, Cheerios!” over and over again. What in the world is going through that two year old mind of his? Why a headstand and why sing about Cheerios?

I love that on an ordinary day (because unless a birthday is their own, the day is ordinary to them) my boys bring a liveliness to everything they do. They make run of the mill days quirky and blog-worthy. That makes me feel like dancing (cue the Madagascar-card music) even at my advanced age.

good grief, self-discovery

My (almost) Birthday Blues

WFAM

p4182669The days leading up to my 35th birthday have been incredibly sad. This is the saddest I have ever felt as a birthday has approached. Your birthday is the one day that links you inexorably to your Mom. In most ways that is a beautiful thing. If your Mom is no longer alive, it kind of makes it difficult to achieve a celebratory mood.

I keep imagining my Mom, thirty-five years ago being fully expectant with me (I was overdue), feeling as big as a house, harboring anxiety over my impending birth and the stirrings of unconditional love for a mysterious being she hadn’t even met. My Mom was a woman of few words. I know only the basic details of my birth day. I was slightly over nine pounds, my Mom was overwhelmed with relief that I was healthy (she had me at thirty-three which categorized her as an older, at-risk Mom in that day and age), that I was born on a Friday the thirteenth (which my Mom claimed to have been one of her luckiest Fridays ever) and I was a good baby right from the start (oh, why oh why couldn’t my boys have been like that in the newborn phase?).

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I don’t know much about what she was feeling. I think that now that I’ve given birth twice, I have a better perspective. That’s what I can’t get out of my head. I can’t escape the images of my Mom being young and beautiful, eagerly waiting for my arrival. I feel what she felt. I feel the hope and the fear of it all. The feelings of a power greater than yourself as you prepare to give life to another person and the feelings of absolute helplessness because you have no control over the process or the outcome. It is at once amazing and terrifying.

I was with my Mom on that day. She held me and loved me and promised to take care of me. On that day there was no inkling that we would only have thirty-four years and how our time together would end. There was only relief and joy.

I know that a year from now, the grief I am feeling surrounding my birthday won’t feel as raw as it does right now. I am trying to label the sadness I feel as simply love that is blurred at the edges. The painful connection I feel to what used to be is a reminder that I had something special in the first place. Maybe the more sadness you feel when you lose someone means the more blessed you were by the impact they had on your life. If this is true, then I am blessed a million times over. For that, I am truly grateful, deep sadness and all.

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