Morphing into Mama

Far From Gullible

Last week, I had a session with a father and his teenage daughter.  At one point, the father was complaining how his daughter questions him all the time.  When the father tells her to do something or not do something, the daughter responds with questions rather than just doing what she was told.  When I asked the daughter what her perspective was, she said she just wanted to ensure she had all the information so she could assess for herself whether or not she should do it.  The father saw this as defiance, but she saw it as thinking for herself.

I thought about that session the other night, after I put Bah-bie to bed.

"Honey, Dada's not home.  Dada's on an airplane.  You will see him in a few days.  Understand?"

"Yesh!"

"Okay, so you need to lie down and go to sleep.  It's time for night-night."

"Night-night.  Bye-bye."

"Night-night, Honey."

I closed the door and went downstairs to call Husband.  His plane had just landed, and we chatted while he waited for his luggage.

"I thought you were going to take your truck to the airport."

"I was.  But when I went to leave, it wouldn't start, so I had to strap my suitcase to my motorcycle."

"Ohhh --"

"OWSIDE!  OWSIDE!" I hear Bah-bie screaming from her crib.

"Great.  Bah-bie's screaming now.  She's probably upset because she didn't get to see you.  I'll call you back.  I have to go talk to her."

"Why don't you take the phone upstairs, and I'll talk to her."

I went into Bah-bie's room.  She was standing, facing the door, with her arm pointing behind her towards the window overlooking the street.

"Bah-bie, Dada is not here, but he's on the phone.  Do you want to talk to him?"

"Yesh!"

I held the phone to her ear.  She started talking immediately.

"Iagiah aghae yhgh tuck owside.  Iagiah aghae yhgh tuck ouwside."

That's when I realized she didn't believe me when I told her Dada wasn't home.  How he could be gone when his truck is parked right outside? 

She was quiet for a moment as she listened to Dada.

"Yesh!" she said.  Then she waved at the phone and said, "Bye-bye."

I kissed her one more time and shut the door. 

I went back downstairs and talked to Husband.

"What did you say to her?"

"Well, I could tell she thought I should be home because my truck is parked outside.  So I told her I was far away, and I would see her in a few days.  Then I told her to stop screaming and go to sleep."

"What did she say 'yesh' to?"

"I asked her if she was going to go to sleep."

"Well, she must be asleep because she's quiet now!"

After we chatted for a few more minutes, I thought about the father and daughter I'd worked with last week.  Bah-bie's not even TWO years-old, and she's already questioning me, unwilling to take me at my word.  She needs all the information so she can sort things out in her own mind.  She's already thinking for herself, critically.  This made me feel so proud. 

And scared.

Talking to Myself

I am tired.  I am sick.  I am cranky. 

My "to do" list is miles long.  I cross items off, but they seem to replicate on their own as soon as I turn my back.  Much like the fucking laundry.

I should be sleeping to help me get over the illness my little-walking-cesspools-of-germs brought home over the weekend.  AND I should be folding laundry, doing homework, writing progress notes, reviewing the academic and discipline records of clients, and writing myself reminders to pick-up the dry cleaning, diapers for Bah-bie, and, of course, more fucking laundry detergent.

I should be doing all of the above right this second so that when I pick up the children from school tomorrow, I can spend stress-less time concentrating on them, listening to them chatter about their paintings, playing outside, and how Alex called Tod-lar "butt-head" to which Tod-lar responded with "pizza-butt," which prompts Bah-bie to shout "PIZZA DAY BUTT!"  Sadly, I'm too tired to do anything.  I'm so tired, in fact, that I really need to get off my ass and get a tissue but instead, I sit, feet up on the coffee table, leaving "snail trails" on my black cotton sleeve.  There's so much laundry to do anyway, what's one more shirt?

For much of my mothering life, I have worked or gone to school, but it was always part-time.  Now, I do both.  How the FUCK do full-time working mothers do this?  How do they work, groom, prepare meals (well, not every meal since Husband cooks), clean, fold, and put away laundry, water the garden (since we don't have automatic sprinklers), food shop, Target shop, feed, clothe, and bathe the kids (at least Tod-lar can clothe himself, Bah-bie's still working on it) and still manage to spend quality time with their children when the kids are only awake 12 hours a day and mom is gone 8, possibly 9, hours of that time?  HOW?  More importantly, how do single mothers do it?  I, at least, have help from Husband.

Sigh.

It's time to wave the white flag and surrender.  No more waking at 6:00 a.m. like some tight-lipped Desperate Housewife to jog, fold laundry, water the garden, and prepare beef bourguignon for dinner that night.  From now on, it's pork and beans.  Or chicken nuggets and beans.  Or hot dogs and beans -- with some sort of green item thrown in for good measure.  If the laundry must sit in the basket, wrinkling instead of being immediately folded and put away, then so be it.  I'll just toss an item in the dryer for a quick "ironing" when someone wants to wear it.  I am not running for super-fucking-woman of . . . whatever dumb-ass planet those bitches think they rule.  Husband doesn't expect these things of me, thus, I am only torturing myself, and Self, that is just stupid.

So instead of doing all the things I "should" be doing, I'm going to take my weary body with its plugged-up nose upstairs.  I'm going to take a HUGE shot of NyQuil.  I'm going to sleep in my snot-covered shirt.  And, if I'm lucky, I'll have a sweet (and innocent) little dream about John Krasinski (Colin deserves and night off now and again), after I kiss my sweet husband goodnight (just don't mention the sleeve thing). 

Good night, you little voice of wanna-be perfectionism. 

You're dead to me.

Blogging Keeps Me Sane

If it wasn't for blogging, I would have thrown my laptop against the wall after reading this article.  But because I blog, I was able to harness that energy and use it, hopefully, for good. 

You decide.

Parents Do Not Have a Duty to Warn

When I was pregnant with Tod-lar, people were always saying really annoying things to me.

"I bet you're having a girl."

"Nope.  It's a boy!"

"What?  Are you sure?  See, I usually have a sense about these things, and I'm sensing a girl."

Maybe you should just have the sense to bag my groceries and shut the hell up.

"Now, if the heartbeat is around 150, then that means you're going to have a very active boy.  Watch out!"

What the fuck?

"If you feel the baby hiccup a lot, that means he's really smart.  In fact, he'll probably outsmart you!  Good luck!"

Again, what the fuck?

Really, though, the quotes above, usually spoken by people without kids or really old grandmothers, were only slightly annoying.  Parents with actual kids still living at home, however, said things that were even more annoying.

"Better sleep now, 'cause you'll never sleep again!"

"Just you wait.  Once that baby arrives, everything changes."

"Better have lots of sex now, 'cause you'll never have sex again!"

"You're going to be up to ears in poop."

"You have no idea how much your life is going to change [bwahahahaha]."

Every time a parent said something like this to me, I'd think (in a German accent), "Fuck you, asshole."  Who wants to hear this shit when you're pregnant and you have constant indigestion (which is code for "heartburn" and "gas"), and your ankles are so swollen, they've moved beyond "cankles" into "thankles," and your feet are larger than Fred Flinstone's?  One of the only things keeping your spirits up is the fact that once the baby is born the indigestion will go away and your ankles and feet will return to normal size so you can wear something other than the same pair of sandals your husband has now glued back together for the fourth time. 

The other thing keeping your spirits up is the thought that having your adorable little baby and moving from "couple" to "family" will make all the discomfort of pregnancy worthwhile (obviously, if you had a comfortable, easy first pregnancy, then this post does not apply to you).  This means you don't want to hear the word "change" followed by "bwahahahaha."  You only want to hear things that are happy, happy, HAPPY.  You don't want to hear how you're going to move from one smelly situation (remember "gas" is code for indigestion) to another (babies poop -- I get IT).  And you certainly don't want to think about how you're never going to sleep again since if you're really pregnant, you're probably having trouble sleeping anyway because you're so physically uncomfortable, which is so frustrating because you're beyond exhausted.

Then you have the baby and discover why those parents said those annoying things: because they're true (to a certain extent anyway -- we sleep now and we still have sex, thank you very much). 

Our next door neighbors are due to have their baby next week.  A couple of weeks ago, I invited them over to dinner.  As I was verbalizing the invite, I said, "We'd love you to have you over, you know, before your life totally changes."

What are you doing?  Shut the hell up!

"Uh, I mean, for the better.  Before it changes for the better."

Just stop talking now, you moron.

"Yeah, the change is good.  You may not sleep much at first, and you'll be up to your eyebrows in poop . . ."

Do you hear yourself?  Close your mouth and walk away.  WALK AWAY!

What was that all about?  Why couldn't I just invite them to dinner without saying all the annoying things people told me when I was pregnant?  Did I secretly want the opportunity to do what others did to me? 

After much thinking and self-ridicule, I finally decided that the change from child-less person to parent is so huge, so profound, that you have no idea what it's like until you're actually experiencing it (at least for many of us -- I can't speak for all people, of course).  You spend a lot of time imagining what it'll be like when you're pregnant, but really, most of us have no idea.  Not a fucking clue.  And, we don't have any idea what our reaction to it will be either. 

So, I think when parents say those annoying things to people who are just about to become parents, it's like we're trying to warn them.  But really, we should just keep our mouths shut and let them find out for themselves.  Especially if they're our neighbors, and we're hoping to be friends with them.

Um . . . Yeah

Here's, um, the link, um, to the archived radio show:

http://www.worldtalkradio.com/show.asp?sid=363

Um.

On The Radio

If you would like further proof that I am, in fact, who I say I am and not a convict sitting in San Quentin getting my rocks off on tricking the Internet, then I invite you to listen in tomorrow (that would be Tuesday) at 1 p.m. PST to World Talk Radio.  Mary and I are being interviewed by the CEO of KidsMomsDads.com, a company that helps you find the best toys for your child based on his or her specific developmental level (we plug them, they plug us, it's all good).  Mr. CEO actually stumbled upon our little ol' PiP when he was researching one of his other esteemed guests (btw, check out their show on brain development, it's pretty interesting). 

If you're unable to listen in live tomorrow at that time, then you can listen anytime you like after the taping as the show is archived for a couple weeks. 

Tomorrow's topic will be -- surprise! -- blogging as an information resource for parents. 

Click here if you have any desire to listen to my nasal voice.

Destiny

"Isn't it incredible that the GAP wedded my love of AC/DC and your love of Audrey Hepburn in the same commercial?  It's all destiny and shit."

"Destiny?"

"Yeah, it's further proof our love was meant to be."

"You are so romantic."

[making-out ensues]

I'm Scared of What I Don't Know

There are some things in life that truly baffle me. 

The cost of housing in California (does it really need to be so high?).  Donald Trump's hair (is some of it sprayed on or what?).  Soft porn movies with far too much dialogue and plot on late night cable (what is the point?).  Angelina Jolie's lips (real? fake?).  The fact that I had to sign more paperwork and show more proof of my ability to own a car before I could even drive it off the lot than I did to take home my newborn babies from the hospital (you want me to take home this baby and not only keep it alive but raise it?  properly? do you people even know who I am?) 

But the thing that has me most baffled at the moment is my internship. 

Next week, after only one year of graduate school, I'm going to start providing therapy to elementary and high school students.  By myself.  Well, I'll be supervised -- but not while I'm with the students.  Supervision occurs after I've met with the students, back at the agency with which I'm interning.  When I'm at the schools, I'll be there by myself.  I will be the only therapist -- other than the school psychologist, who really only does testing and assessments for intelligence and learning disabilities and the like -- providing counseling for emotional and behavioral problems. 

Frankly, I think this is a little weird.  I mean, shouldn't someone be there with me to ensure I don't fuck up some kid for life?  Okay, I'm exaggerating a bit, I suppose, but seriously.  Isn't it just a wee bit strange to release us into the wild without us first practicing on real people under the keen eye of a seasoned therapist? 

What's interesting is that my cohort appears to be fine with this.  They're fine with providing education to parents about proper ways to discipline their children.  With helping teachers manage disruptive kids (our clients) in the classroom.  They act as if they're more than capable of helping kids gain better impulse control and providing emotional support through divorce, death, pregnancy, drugs, relational aggression, suicidal ideation, etc., etc., etc. 

I wish I had their confidence. 

Or is it naivete?

My cohort, while very bright, is very young, ranging in age from 23-25 years-old.  Only one is married, and none of them have children.  Honestly, I don't think they know what they don't know. 

All I can think about is what I don't know. 

When I was in high school, I sought the help of a therapist.  Looking back, she must have been an intern.  I was depressed.  Extremely depressed.  After seven years of listening to my step-mother tell me I was a worthless piece of shit who should be institutionalized for mental retardation, I actually started to believe her.  All I wanted to do was sleep, and I'd feel angry and sad every time I awoke.  Sleep was the only thing that gave me a reprieve from her screams, which continued to play in my mind like a tape without a stop button when she wasn't around.  It was the only thing that protected me from her kicks to my chest, or her stabs to my skin with her nails. 

When I spoke about wanting to die to the therapist, she interrupted and said, "Laura, if you talk about suicide anymore, I'm going to have to hospitalize you."  I never spoke of it again.  In fact, I never went back to see her again. 

What this young, untrained therapist didn't know was how alone I felt.  She didn't know I didn't have close friends because I'd isolated myself from my classmates.  She didn't know that even though Husband and I were sweethearts, I didn't dare tell him about my sadness.  We went to different high schools, so I rarely got to see him, and when I did, I only wanted it to be happy.  But truthfully, I didn't want anyone to know my feelings.  I didn't want them to judge me. 

She also didn't know that not only did I have a plan to end my life, but I also had the means.  Every night, before going to sleep, I'd hold the large bottle of pills in my hand.  I'd lay them out on my headboard one by one.  I'd count them to ensure they totaled 300.  A glass of water stood on my nightstand. 

Thankfully, every night, I'd put them all away, and tuck the bottle back behind my bed.  Then I'd close my eyes and dream of a different life.  The life I have now. 

The depression stayed with me for the next seven years.  But instead of pills, I thought about driving my car into the side of a mountain.  I took unnecessary risks in most everything I did, hoping I would die as a result. 

What that therapist didn't know is that her words would stay with me for a very, very long time.  They reaffirmed my conviction to never speak of my ache for death to anyone.  Maybe if I had spoken to someone, I wouldn't have felt so shitty for so long.

I hope to God I do a much better job than she did.

Some Seriously Scary Shit

This morning, Husband told me he dreamt last night I was pregnant.

That's scary. 

But you know what's even scarier?

At least four times in the past two weeks, Bah-bie has pointed at my stomach and said, "Baby." 

Given we don't have any pregnant friends right now, I'm not sure where she found out babies grow inside mommy bellies.  But it has me concerned.  Very concerned.  I mean, if kids can see dead people, then maybe they can see unborn people, too.  Right?  Well, it's possible.  Yes, I know I'm slightly paranoid, but if anything is possible, then that's possible, too.

Right?

Right.

But you know what's even scarier than that? 

This:

No, that's not me auditioning for the Rocky Horror Picture Show.  That's me with rubber bands in my mouth.  Apparently, wearing only wires across my teeth isn't quite doing the job.  Nooo.  According to my orthodontist, who, I am quite convinced, gets pleasure out of torturing me, I need these bands of rubber to properly align my bite.  Not only do I look like a vampire when I open my mouth, causing everyone I talk to to do a double-take, but they hurt like hell. 

And this morning while talking to Bah-bie, she reached out her index finger and tried to strum those bands like guitar strings. 

She is so not helping.

But you know what's the scariest thing of all?

In two weeks, I start providing therapy to students at a local high school.  And I've been ordered to wear these latex pain-inducing bands 24 fucking 7. 

What a Crock

Given my last post, I'm sure you think the reason I haven't posted in nearly a week is because my children have figured out how to lie and have told Husband I was eaten by wild squirrels when really they have me wrapped in saran wrap in the basement with a teddy bear stuffed in my mouth.  Surprisingly, that is not the case. But there is always tomorrow.   

To be safe, I moved the saran wrap from the bottom drawer to the cupboard above the counter.  And all teddy bears have placed in loving foster homes. 

But no.  I am not trapped in the basement, far from my computer.  Rather, I've been busy with . . . life, which can so get in the way of blogging.  And, come to think of it, blogging can really get in the way of life.  But I still love it.  Blogging that is.  Oh, yes, and life.

Anyway, part of  my time has been taken up with high-brow intellectual pursuits, like determining who will be the next lead singer for the super shitty Supernova.  While engaging in this complex analysis (Husband, btw, is convinced it will be the Tobster), requiring two hours each week, I've also been simultaneously busy being outraged that companies keep inventing products, which after only one use, can be thrown into the garbage and, ultimately, a hole in the ground. 

Commercials do upset me so.

But seriously, it's bad enough I use yards and yards and yards of paper towels, cling wrap, toilet paper, and Kleenex every year.  But do we really need disposable cutting boards?  What about crockpot liners?  I mean, how hard is it to clean a cutting board or a crockpot?  Sure, I may have to let that pot of crock soak for two days to even be able to scrape the chard bits of barbecue sauce with a butter knife from its black porcelain, but it's worth it if it means my grandchildren's grandchildren will be able to experience pristine land with several hundred-year-old trees rather than experiencing life in a housing development seeped in toxins.

How convenient must our lives become?  What's next?  Disposable dishes? 

Oh.  Wait.  We have those. 

So, okay, nice disposable dishes you'd feel comfortable serving at an elegant dinner party? 

Shit.  We have those, too. 

What I'm trying to say is, will my children never have to wash anything because everything -- including underwear -- will be disposable by the time they're in college? 

Obviously, the answer is yes.

Lucky bastards.