1. There is a schizophrenic moth in my living room. I’ve tried killing him about 15 times so far. But he’s too fast for me. He’s making me kinda crazy. Right now I wish I had a crazy kitten to chase him, instead of a sleeping dog who looked at me like I was nuts when I asked her to get the bug.
2. I’m sitting here watching my phone. Have you ever tried to will a phone to ring? I am hoping for good job news. It could be a very long day.
3. According to my ex-husband, potty training didn’t go so great this weekend. As in, it barely went at all. Basically the boy is pretty unaware of his need to use the bathroom. He also seemingly finds it funny when he needs to be changed, say on an airplane. Ahem. (Is it wrong that I laughed and though, thank god it wasn’t me?) We were going to give it another month, but at this point it’s looking like a week. Then we’ll go back into diapers for a while, although we’ll keep working on it. But all underwear all the time, isn’t working out so well.
Colorful memory boxes, on my floor.
One, two, three. Filled with treasures.
Cards: birthday, Christmas, love, just because.
Flat pennies. Concert tickets. Disney passes.
Drawings from each of my kids.
Birth announcements. Family. Friends. Near, far.
Three tiny first outfits worn home.
One outfit left unworn. Piper Isabelle.
Precious letters from people long gone.
Notes on paper, written to remember.
Kept for me. Kept for them.
This post brought to you by my absolute joy that this is a three day weekend and Six Word Fridays.
Last night while waiting in line at a Kohls a woman asked me if I was aware that my eye was crossed. Kinda rude, yes. Accurate, yes. But hello, I am 31 years old, I’m quite aware that my eyes cross, since they’ve done it my ENTIRE LIFE!
At first it made me wonder what in the world is wrong with people. Why the heck does a 45 yet old woman have worse manners than my two year old? Didn’t her mother teach her manners? Didn’t anyone tell her what I tell my kids? That everyone has feelings and some things that you think don’t need to be said outloud? ESPECIALLY RUDE THINGS? Apparently not. She’s not alone in this. People have told me about my eyes my entire life. As if they are telling me something new. As if I am somehow blissfully unaware of my own eyes. At times I’ve been rude back, but mostly I just say, yes I am aware and I move on.
It made me wonder though, what is so wrong with the fact that my eyes cross at times? How is it affecting anyone at all? Why does it matter?
The only answer I could come up with, is that we as a culture want perfection. Or the idea of perfection. Your eyes aren’t perfect, fix them. You need glasses, put contacts in. God forbid one should wear those ugly glasses.Your nose is slightly large, make it look like Lord Voldemort’s. Doesn’t everyone want a non-existent nose like Lord Voldemort? You are too thin, eat. You are too fat, starve yourself. You have two grey hairs, you’d better start coloring your hair forever. Grey is ugly, you know?
Why though? Whose idea of perfection are we trying to live up too?
In reality, I could do the surgery. But why? It’s a cosmetic surgery. It wouldn’t help my vision at all. It may only slightly help the crossing. I’ve had the surgery once. It was necessary at three years old for me to be able to see. It’s not necessary now. Why should I have a non-necessary surgery, just to please other people? It can’t really harm anyone’s life that my eyes occasionally cross, right? They act like it does. You should have surgery to fix “that” they say, like I have a third ear.
Why though? Why can’t my crossed eye stay? Why is it offensive to people?
We shouldn’t be made to feel bad about our imperfections. Our imperfections are what makes us, us. We should be allowed to celebrate them. They are a part of us, how can they be so horrible?
I think of mine like battle wounds. I’ll tell you quite honestly I’m proud of most of them.
My eyes cross. Most likely because of how sick my mom was while pregnant with me. I was a full placenta previa. She was on bed rest with me the last three months of her pregnancy and was anemic and bleeding the entire time. Back in those days they didn’t catch it as early and I ended up lacking in key nutrients. That’s the theory at least. My mother and I almost died when I was born. This is my battle wound. My crossed eyes are my battle wound. I’m proud of them. It reminds me that I’m lucky. That I could have no vision. Or something else. My eyes remind me. They remind me when they cross. They remind me when I look in the mirror and see my slightly sagging right eye lid. That eye is the worst. It reminds me and I smile.
I wear glasses, because I hate contacts. I also wear glasses because I like the way they look on me. I have horrible vision. I’ve been told it is a miracle that I can see at all. A miracle that my mom found a child eye specialist when I was six months old, instead of believing the regular eye doc who said my eyes weren’t fixable. I’ve worn glasses since 18 months old. I’m rather fond of them. They remind me of that miracle. They remind me of my mom, who didn’t take no as an answer.
Shoulder scars. Three of them from a surgery to fix my shoulder after a horrible car accident in 2002. I am proud of them. They remind me that I lived. That life is precious. That cars can be dangerous and I always need to be careful. It’s a part of me.
I have a scar on my right hand. Five stitches as a four year old, when my then two year old brother accidentally put the car into drive on a hill. It reminds me of that story. The story about me being bossy and telling him to pull the car over if he couldn’t drive it. Of him yanking on the steering wheel and running us into a truck. The truck that saved us from the very busy street below. Five stitches.
I have grey hairs that I mostly won’t cover. Why? Because I think they add character. I’ve earned them this past ten years. I got the first few after the car accident when the constant ibuprofen gave me bleeding ulcers. They’ve continued to appear since then. Maybe it’s a sign of age. Maybe it’s genetics. Maybe it’s because I worry too much. Yet, I don’t cover them. Battle wounds, you see?
I’m 31 years old. I am proud of who I am most days. I celebrate my battle wounds. They made me who I am today. Am I perfect? no. But what is perfect anyway?
I feel like I was better at this the last time. Maybe I was. Maybe my girls were easier to potty training. All I know, is we’ve only been at this for three days and I’m pretty sure I’m failing at it.
Do I care if he goes to kindergarten in diapers? I am really starting to think no.
My reasoning for starting now was simple. Diapers are expensive. I’m tired of buying diapers. It’s finally getting warmer and I’d like to get this done during a non-layer time of year. I also realized that soon I’m going to have to start buying size 6 diapers for my monster baby and that is just sad. Size 6. That’s as high as they go right? Do you know that I never had to buy size 5 before him? My girls are teeny. They were also both potty trained right at 2 years old.
But here’s this boy. My boy. Boy of a thousand words and ideas. He speaks better than some of the 3 year olds at his school. The same boy who tells me that he is a big boy mama, but my too tiny for dat. Dat of course is using the potty. He’s funny. He won’t use the potty or sleep in a big boy bed, yet he will ride a skateboard, jump off all of my furniture and most of the time refuses to use a cup with a lid. He gave up binkies a few months back, with almost no work on my part. But he refuses to sleep in a big boy bed. He’s an enigma.
On Friday I brought out the big guns. Basically I bought bribes. Stickers for peeing; matchbox cars for pooping. I even bought the dreaded Play-doh (big sets of it even) for a reward for a full day spent dry. Man I hate Play-doh. Yet, he loves it and wants it. When he’s completely potty trained? I promised him a Cars Power Wheels. I printed out the photo of it and put it on his bedroom door. Like I said, big guns.
Friday night we talked about it. He was excited about the big boy underwears. Thank you Cars and Toy Story. Saturday morning, he was less sure. No, my stay diaps mama. No bud, no more diapers. I was a bit less sure too, considering we had to go sit through a graduation that morning. Luckily it was at the girls school, so I knew exactly where every bathroom was. I brought extra clothes and I made him try to pee every 45 minutes.
Then we went to a party. We were there all afternoon. Like I said, I’m rusty at this…I forgot about potty training. Mama, I pwee. Oh yeah dude, looks like you did. Oops. No biggie. Change of pants, all was good. Till he did it again, an hour later. Right after he’d been on the dam potty.
Saturday there were three accidents. Harrison – 3. Mommy – 0.
Sunday went okay at first. We ran errands just fine. Then we got home and he peed in my kitchen. Hey, my floor needed to be cleaned anyway.
Sunday: Harrison – 4. Mommy – 0.
This morning he’s already peed his pants once. It’s not looking good.
Sometimes when he tells me he needs to go he doesn’t. Sometimes he does. When I make him go, it’s the same thing. But I don’t know what I’m doing. I don’t know if he really knows when he needs to go, or not. All I know is, I took four pairs of underwear and pants to daycare this morning. They were thrilled that I’d started this. I doubt they will be thrilled to change his pants all day. They at least are better at this than I am.
So tell me Internet, what am I doing wrong? Is my son the only kid going to college in a diaper?
1. I own all eight seasons of Charmed. What can I say, I love bad TV shows.
2. I always say that Logan is the reason that I owned own tons of Super Hero Movies…however, now he’s not around and um, I still plan on seeing all the ones that come out this summer. You know, if the world doesn’t end.
3. Sometimes when I can’t beat a level on Angry Birds, I text my best friend Liz and she walks me through it. Other times? I watch the video of how to beat it on YouTube. Yes, I am an Angry Birds cheat.
4. I toss my kids toys that annoy me when they are with their dad. When they ask for whatever it was, I always say, I don’t know…maybe you need to take better care of your stuff.
5. I had a drink last night, even though the label on my PCOS meds says not too. It was a test drink. Luckily I had no problems.
6. I spit my gum out of the car window. I only do it on highways or very main streets though. I do have littering standards. I’ve never littered anything else in my life though.
7. I bit my cuticles. I bit my nails until about six years ago and stopped, but I can’t seem to stop biting the cuticles.
8. I despise talking on the phone so much that I picked our new doctors office for the very fact that you can email them for an appointment.
That’s all I’m willing to admit to. Just in case the crazy old dude is wrong. Which I’m sure he is. If not, well I’m sure I will be able to go to brunch on Sunday without a wait. YAY FRENCH TOAST!!!
Feel free to confess if you need too.
I’d considered not calling him. I thought about just showing up. Yep. Just showing up at his work and saying, hi dad. It’s been a few years. I was in town and I thought I’d take you out to lunch.
The downfall to that, is that he has two offices and I only knew where one was. Also? What if he wasn’t there that day? Mostly, I didn’t want to call because then I could back out last second, if I felt like it. Yet, I was there, in his area. I was already planning on seeing my brother that same afternoon. So I called, after a mighty shove in that direction from a certain person. She knew why I wasn’t wanting to call. Because she knows everything. Ha.
I did though. I called. Hi dad, I’m in town. Can I come take you to lunch in a few days. Of course he said. Then he hung up. Shock. I shocked my dad. He called back a half hour later. Wait, what? Are you really in town? Yes, yes I am. Oh okay, good.
I wanted to see him, yet I want to be sure I didn’t see his wife. This was the only way I knew how to accomplish that.
That morning, I got up and drove over a bridge and had coffee with a great friend. Seeing her helped calm my anxiety a bit. Or at least keep it at bay for two hours. Before I knew it my coffee date was over and I was on my way to see my dad.
Two and a half years. I hadn’t seen him in two and a half years. What do you say to someone after that long? What will he look like? What will we talk about? What if she shows up? Can I go home now? Maybe I can call and say, APRIL FOOLS. Yeah. It’s the 18th, that won’t work. How can I have possibly thought this was a good idea?
But then I was there. Parked in the rain, across from his shop. Suddenly I was walking in, saying hey old man to my father who had his back to me. Suddenly I was hugging him and it was all okay.He looked just how he did last time, albeit a bit too skinny and with a bit less hair.
A month ago yesterday I had lunch with my dad. For two hours, I had his undivided attention, for the first time in forever. We discussed the kids, his retirement being pushed back a few years, my PCOS diagnosis, his lungs, random relatives. For the first time in years, we didn’t talk about the weather, his cars, or computers. Which was dam refreshing. I promise, talking about cars has never been my thing. For two hours, we sat in a little Greek restaurant, just us.
It was nice, yet a bit surreal.
I have a photo. Proof that it happened. A photo of my dad and I, the first one in years. The proof that I didn’t imagine it.
It could be years before we have a real conversation again. We could never have a real conversation like that again. I have no way of knowing. I am glad that a month ago, I made a phone call.
(I also got a lovely birthday gift from my step-mom…a bubble gum pooping chicken. Yeah, I gave that to a six year old boy, who found it hysterical.)
–There are only 12 days left of school. It sneaks up on me every year. Not that it really matters, because Harrison will stay where he is and the girls will go to day camp for the same amount of hours a week. But still. 12 days. No more homework. Later mornings. Knowing that my kids are having fun every day? Yeah. We’re ready.
–One of my favorite new shows from this season was canceled. Off The Map. Man, I adored it. Good story line. Great characters. It makes me grouchy when they cancel something after half a season, without even really giving it a shot. Even worse? They are bringing back Two and a Half Men. Because that makes complete sense. I now remember why I don’t watch the shows that they start halfway through the season. Those tend to be the ones they cancel first.
–I have a new grill. By have, I mean my step-dad brought it down and left it and I’m now claiming it as mine. I love it. It’s easy to use and easy to clean. I’ve used it three times already this week. Last night, after watching an episode of Barefoot Contessa, I made bruschetta on the grill. Did you know that you can do that? I surely didn’t. Everything is better on the grill.
That’s pretty much all I’ve got. It’s Monday. That’s a good reason for just about anything today right? It’s Monday?
Is she always like this? Her words vibrated through my brain for weeks afterwords. It wasn’t the words themselves. It was the meaning behind it. This, being crazy. This, meaning disruptive and impulsive. Being crazy screaming tantrum girl. Truth was, yes. She was always like that. Pretty much the entire year she was two. It could change in a moment. It often did. Her words floated through my head, because they matched some of my own words. I felt like a failure as her mother. I couldn’t stop the behavior anymore than a daycare teacher could.
She’s so needy. There are 15 other kids in this class. I shouldn’t have to spend all my time on your daughter. Maybe she doesn’t belong in daycare. Yes, that’s the answer to all of our problems. She doesn’t belong in school. I wanted to bang my head against a wall. Instead, I changed her to a different school. A better school. Didn’t change the issues. The teacher just happened to be a bit easier to deal with. The idea that a three year old would be better suited to stay home all day would have been funny. Except it wasn’t. Yet…her words stayed with me too. Because I felt the same way a lot of the time. I had this bubbly, happy, mellow six month old, who was getting the shaft in a lot of ways. Because her big sisters HUGE personality always came first.
The impulsiveness is our biggest issue. That and that she constantly gets the entire class going. I understand, I said. I did. She did that at home too. She constantly was at odds with her sister. With me. With her father. Yes, I know the impulsiveness is an issue. I’m doing the best I can. She’s four, I told the teacher. I’m doing everything I can and she’s fighting me on all of it. Because she can and because well…she’s four.
She’s so smart. How do I teach a child this smart? How can I keep her busy, if she already knows it all? What? How can I tell you how to teach? I am not a teacher. I don’t know how to teach small people. I only know how to mother them. I am her mother. You are her teacher. Figure it out. I know she is smart. I know she is ahead of all these kids. Intellectually only though. However? She’s five. She needs to be with these kids. Her emotional stability depends on it. Hell, mine does as well. She was doing so much better by then, yet here was a teacher intimidated because she was ahead. Intimidated by my child. Awesome.
She can’t sit still. She’s constantly making noises. I just can’t handle the constant clicking. Sigh. Here we go again was my thought. It’s a pen. She clicks a pen, right? Yes. I can’t handle it. Okay. I will find something else for her to mess with. You have to understand that she doesn’t even realize she’s doing it. I do, I really do. But that clicking makes me crazy. Okay. Yet again, I will find another way for my child to not be herself. To change who she is, to fit the mold. I don’t say that. I just think it. Because you can’t change a child’s second grade teacher, halfway through the year. You just have to find a way for everyone to get along. The answer that time was Adderall. It made a world of difference. In Morgan at least. The teacher never forgave her or me for the pen clicking and other miscellaneous ticks. The ticks Morgan had from trying too hard to sit still. From trying too hard to be like everyone else.
Issa wait. Wait up. I have something to tell you. She ran up to me in the parking lot of the school this morning. I’d just dropped the girls off. Hey S, what’s up? I got her. I am so happy. I got her. She’s mine. What? I’m confused. Morgan. I get to teach her next year. You aren’t supposed to know, but I just had to tell you. I am beyond thrilled. She was my first pick and I got her. I feel the tears but I blink them back. Thank you S. Thank you for telling me. I’m so glad she got you. I wanted her to get you. She hugs me and runs back into the school.
All these years, there have been teacher issues. Even at times this year, despite the teachers understanding and liking her. Because my kid, she’s amazing. She’s sweet, caring, funny and bright. She’s a challenge though, even on her best day. She’s highly intelligent and she gets bored easily. She’s opinionated and articulate and in all honesty, she’s smarter than me. She has ADHD and though she is medicated for it, it causes other issues. All these years and this is the first teacher who fully understands. She is a semi-friend of mine and she adores Morgan. She also understands her, because she is just like her.
Finally. Someone wants my daughter in her class. Finally.
I write these down, because I want to remember. I want to remember a peaceful, easy weekend away with my kids.
*************
Harrison sitting in the backseat of the car on the way into the mountains. He had a half hour, non-stop animated conversion with the Cinnamon Teddy Grahams he was eating. “No eat me. I eat you. You yummy. No pwease, no eat me. Okay you safe. I keep you safe. Hahaha. Now I eat you. No, no, I no bad guy. Yummy ears. Nom nom nom.”
(If he’s a cannibal later, at least I’ll know when it started.)
**************
Bailey: Mommy, you know what my favorite-ist part of this weekend was?
Me: No love, what was it?
Bailey: Getting to eat all the gummies. (I have an I don’t care attitude about candy/snacks on holidays and road trips.)
Me: Out of the whole weekend, out of everything we did, your favorite part was eating gummy candies the whole car ride up there?
Bailey: Yes.
Me: Well good to know. Next time I want to go on vacation, I’ll just buy you some gummies and call it good.
Bailey: Wait no mommy. I have one more favorite.
Me: Okay then, lemme hear it.
Bailey: Renaming stars with you in the hot tub.
Me: Much better babe. Much better.
Bailey: But the gummies tie.
Me: I’m so glad to know I so rank high next to sour gummy worms. It makes my heart feel all special.
Bailey: It should. They are so good mommy. Can I have more?
Me: No.
**************
Morgan: Mom what is this road called?
Me: I don’t know. It’s a number. I’m sure I should know, but I don’t.
Morgan: I am gonna rename this road.
Me: Oh yeah?
Morgan: Yeps. It’s now called mommy almost hit three deers road.
Me: Dude. I almost hit one deer. Not three.
Morgan: Those other two were in the road too.
Me: Like three football fields away. Doesn’t count. They ran off.
Morgan: Mom? I stand by my decision. You almost hit three innocent deer.
Me: They aren’t innocent. Did you see how they almost hit my poor sweet car?
Morgan: Mom, you are so wrong. The deer are the innocent ones. Your car was driving way too fast, like over the speed limit by 8 whole miles and if it hit one, they’d be toast.
Me: Well technically, they’d be more like deer kabobs.
Morgan: MOTHER!
Me: It’s true. They are a menace to society anyway. Freaking partying in the middle of the road deer.
Morgan: *eye roll* Whatever mom. This road has a new improved, very true name.
Me: I’ll be sure to let highway patrol know that.
Morgan: Okay good. It’s settled.
******************
We flew kites. Or well we attempted to fly kites. Ever try kite flying in 30mph winds? Yeah, I’m not sure I recommend it. They look like they are having a seizure up there.
The girls and I sat in a hot tub and renamed stars late on Saturday night. There is nothing better than sitting in a hot tub on a deck at night, in a mountain neighborhood without street lights. You can see everything.
We ate ice cream on a bench in the sunshine. Harrison ate his on a cone for the first time ever.
We sang all the way home in the car.
On Mother’s day, we went out to breakfast. Best breakfast spot in all of Colorado. Too bad it’s four hour drive from my house.
This weekend, the fighting was pretty much non-existent. This weekend, there was next to no whining. This weekend, there was no housework, no dog barking and no errands to run. It was a good weekend. No, it was a great weekend. One I hope to remember.
Mother’s Day…man in some ways it’s such an annoying holiday. Very Hallmark. It makes people feel bad about themselves and their life and I’ve never liked that part of it.
It’s easy for me to say that though, because I have a great relationship with my mother and I have three kids who I absolutely adore. I know this. I understand how lucky I am. I know it’s not easy for a lot of people. I know it, because I have that issue on Father’s Day. However, we’ll get to that next month.
Being a mother is the most important thing to me. Most of the time it’s the only thing I feel even half good at. As a child it was the only thing I really wanted to be. I work harder at it than any other thing in my life. Maybe we all do. Maybe that’s just part of being a parent.
Because I work at home, I don’t have to get dressed in the morning. Yet, for my girls I half do it anyway. Snce I no longer need to walk them in, I make sure my face is clean, my hair is up and my shirt is clean. I do this for them. Because I don’t care, but they do. Because they want me to look semi-presntable. It’s important to them at nine and six years old. So I do it. My son doesn’t care if I walk him into daycare in yoga pants. My sweet boy doesn’t care what he wears much less anyone else. I concede for my girls.
Because that’s what we do.
We make lunches and get snacks when we just want to watch TV. We read more and more books to our kids, even though we likely can’t remember the last book we read to ourselves. We get up early on weekend mornings and feed small people, when we’d rather sleep.
We work the shittier job because it allows us more working time at home, which at times can actually be helpful since kids are freaking petri dishes. We clean up after them. We clean them up when they get sick. We put out own illness aside when they are sick.
We get up and rub backs at 2am when someone has a bad dream. We get more water for tiny kids who we know will then be up to pee an hour later. We go and sit at dance, soccer, swimming and t-ball for hours a week…even though we take none of those things. We buy toys that make noise because it makes them happy. We buy candy that makes them turn into lunatics because we know it passes. We spend our weekends driving kids from one birthday party to another.
We play board games that we despise and play whatever game they’ve made up, even when we know we need to be doing other things. We go to Disney movies and have no clue what else is possible playing in the theater. We watch the same episode of a show or the same movie over and over and over again. We argue with tiny tyrants about which blue cup is acceptable to them. We argue with bigger tyrants about sundresses not being acceptable attire in WINTER BAILEY!
We do it because we have too. We even do it without too much complaining.
Mostly though? We do it because we love them. Because they are our babies and we adore them. Because we know that they deserve all of this and more. So much more. And that my friends? Is what being a mother is really about. It’s not really about the day that happens to be this coming Sunday. It’s about what we do every single day. I am not just a mother on Sunday. I became a mother the first time that stick showed a plus sign, a little over ten years ago. Every day since then, I have been a mother.
This Sunday, I will celebrate my mother. Because she is amazing and deserves it. I will celebrate my kids, because they are amazing and deserve it. I will be happy to just be with them, the three little rugrats who made me a mother.
I hope all of you have a fabulous mother’s day. One filled with breakfast in bed, flowers and cards. One filled with smiling happy kids.
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