Tag: moms

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.

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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marital blissishness, mommyhood

The Rookie

WFAM

It’s official, my blog is good. How do I know this? Mad Dog’s Nan told me so. She said I have a best-seller on my hands. If Nan says it, then it is so!

Mad Dog took yesterday off from work (and thank you to Mad Dog’s colleagues who are my regular readers; he’s a brave man to allow you this peek into a small window of our lives!). He claims it’s because my birthday is this weekend. I am inclined to believe it has a little something to do with the NFL kick-off (starring his beloved Steelers) that went late into the night on Thursday and so he can mentally prepare himself for the Ohio State vs. USC game on Saturday. He loves the Buckeyes even more than he loves the Steelers. Hey, a day off is a day off. I’ll take it no matter the circumstance.

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In theory, Mad Dog was going to make drop-off of the boys easier for me yesterday. I think Moms fall into this trap sometimes of believing that someone other than ourselves can do our job in our overly micro-managed way. This isn’t always possible. We Moms have to let go of some control and realize that if something is done a different way than our normal routine, we need to be thankful that it is done at all. Therefore, I was glad to have the extra muscle when dropping off T.Puzzle who has been challenging to get to his classroom due to his screaming and kicking.

When we get the boys to the school, we head into the lobby. I go over to the sign-in area to write in the time the boys are being dropped off. While I’m doing this, Mad Dog sees the door is open to the classrooms and holds it. He tells the boys (who are messing around) to head to their rooms. I tell him to hurry up because…. and even before I finish the sentence, the piercing door alarm goes off. You have to have lightning quick reflexes to get in the door before the whole world knows of your arrival.

I turn to the receptionist and simply say, “Rookie!” She smiles a knowing smile. She’s seen other Dads do the exact same thing countless times.

We head to T.Puzzle’s room first. He immediately starts screaming “No!” and hurls himself into a limp heap on the floor. Mad Dog tries to reason with him. I know that is not going to work.

“Pick him up and carry him!” I shout over the screaming. Mad Dog scoops him up and manages to peel him off and place him with his class. We exit as quickly as possible. Of course Mad Dog is amazed that Full Speed’s drop off is nearly flawless. He still remembers when Full Speed was in his terrible twos and the difficulties we used to have with him at drop off. Times have changed. I’m glad Mad Dog is getting to see this slice of life with the boys.

We head to the exit and before I can say ‘press the green exit button’ Mad Dog swings the door open and the alarm goes off. Again.

I look at the receptionist. She looks at me and says, “Rookie!”

We both smile. We all were rookies once.

mommyhood

Stamp Me Adorable

WFAM

Can you call yourself eco-friendly if you ride your bike four miles round-trip to the Post office, and then once you’re there decide you’re too tired to go the extra quarter-mile to Wal-Mart, come home and then drive to Wal-Mart later? It’s not easy being green.

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T.Puzzle started the day in one of his standard moods. He’s feeling contentious and surly. I’ve come to expect it. So after Full Speed was in school for the day I decided to hop on my bike to get me some exercise and to get T.Puzzle some fresh air to improve his mood. I was slightly apprehensive about how he would behave in the confines of the Post Office. The good news was that I planned on it being short and sweet. Even if he reached a level 9 or 10 the other patrons and the workers of the Post Office would only be subjected to it for a short time.

He’s quiet on the ride because he has a Toy Story snack container filled with Goldfish and Cheerios. You can’t throw tantrums with a full mouth (okay, yes you can and believe me, it is ain’t pretty). Anyway, he is munching and peaceful. So far so good.

As we enter the Post Office he immediately heads to the packing materials and points out the padded envelopes decorated with assorted Mickey Mouses. He loves the Mouse. He proceeds to say “Hello!” to each and every person in the building. Then he starts to feel emboldened and begins making wider and wider exploratory circles away from me. Soon he is leafing through various pamphlets (he must have important and specialized mailings to complete that I don’t know about to be doing so much Post Office reading) and attempting to knock down the rope-like dividers that show you where to form a line. I grab him as I am now at the service counter and plop him down next to my packages that I need to have weighed and mailed. I thought at least this would keep him in one spot and he might possibly be entertained with a higher view of the area.

He instantly turns and starts flirting with the Post Office worker. She quickly falls head over heels for him. He points out the Mickeys, tells her he’s two, that he was on a bike ride all while smiling a radiant, angelic smile at her (he has killer dimples). Pretty soon, the worker next to ours starts making over him too. T.Puzzle is so in-your-face-adorable that he earns a Post Office sticker. They can’t get enough of this guy.

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I can’t believe he is being so good. There is not a trace of a tantrum in his cooing, unassuming voice. I’m actually having quite a nice time and I’m at the Post Office. I didn’t know it could be like this.

“Well, you know, he wasn’t so cute this morning,” I say still disbelieving this is my surly little T.Puzzle they are fawning over. I gave the worker a Mom-to-Mom wink and a nod.

“Oh, that’s to be expected,” she pipes in. “And, you’d be upset too if you had to wear a Steelers jersey (sorry Mad Dog, she said it not me).” Everyone laughs and T.Puzzle heartily joins right in. He giggles like that is the funniest single line he’s ever heard.

We head out the door and get on the bike. We sing silly songs and he makes crazy noises which makes me burst into laughter. I’m having a blast with him.

Whoever designed two year olds is crazy like a fox. They knew enough to make sure that any two year old tyrannical attempts to overthrow parental power were equally (mostly) balanced with in-your-face adorability (I think that’s a word, right? If it’s not it should be created right here right now because T.Puzzle was that cute today).

The icing on my cupcake is when we came home; T.Puzzle entertained himself quietly with a puzzle. A puzzle of all things! No crazy car chases, no forcing me to sing the ABCs against my will (he’s very passionate about them), just quiet puzzle-play. Maybe I should go to the Post Office every day.

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PS- Giving prayers of remembrance today on the anniversary of September 11 and feeling grateful to be raising a family in a country that affords us so much freedom.