Morphing into Mama

What Am I Supposed to Do with This Voicemail?

"Hi, MiM.  This is Emma's mom.  Yesterday I had to spank Emma to discipline her and she tried to hit me back.  Can you please work with her on her aggression today?  Thanks.  Bye."

Ummmmmmmmmmm.......yeah.

Functioning Incompetent

Did I tell you what the kids gave me for my birthday this year?  I didn't?  Oh, well!  They were extremely generous.  Not only did I get an unlimited supply of mucous, which I spent the last four weeks coughing up, and the worst laryngitis I've ever had, I also received my very own case of pink eye.  Their generosity knows no bounds.  And, as you might guess, it was a birthday I'll never forget.  No matter how hard I try.

And though my birthday was on a Saturday, I was still celebrating on Monday with Bah-bie who had her own goo-filled eye and a nice hot yet chilly fever of 104.  We had a lovely time putting drops in each other's eyes and huddling underneath all the throw blankets in house while watching Thomas get chased by Diesel 10 for a reason that continues to baffle me no matter how many times I watch that horrid movie.   But what was even more horrid than that movie was the fact that I had to call in sick to work for the 20th time in six months.

First, there were those two weeks in November when the family had the "throw-ups."  Bah-bie brought it home, then Husband got it, then Tod-lar, and then me.  From that one illness alone, I lost 10 whole days of work and school.  A month after that, I got the flu.  A few weeks that, Tod-lar had a fever of 105 with no other symptoms.  Then Bah-bie got a cold, Tod-lar had pink eye, then we all got colds, and Bah-bie, Husband, and I had pink eye for what seemed like a week.   

So . . . I have already missed over two weeks of work in just six months.  (And this doesn't even include the days Husband took off to take care of the kids.) 

Having to take all this time off work so my kids could strengthen their immune systems got me thinking about MomsRising, an organization ". . . working toward cultural and political change to build a more family-friendly America" (as their website states).  MomsRising wants to stop discrimination against mothers in the workforce.  They want mothers to receive equal pay for the same job as men.  These are necessary and important goals.  But I can't help but wonder: Is this enough to create a more family-friendly America?

Equal pay and laws against discrimination are necessary structural changes.  But it seems to me that something else needs to change if we ever want to be truly "family-friendly."

I had a friend who used to be an attorney.  She was well-liked at her firm and was given great cases for which she had a lot of responsibility.  When she got pregnant, her partners remained supportive.  They even gave her a trial the latter part of her pregnancy.  At nine along, she may have been huffing and puffing from the weight of that baby, but she was cross-examining witnesses.  Then she went on maternity leave.  When she returned to work six months later, she decided to go part-time, which meant she would only work 40 hours per week and not the usual 60.  That's when the well dried up and she began to die on the vine.  No one gave her work.  She literally spent the next eight months writing a few research memos and doing a lot of online shopping.  Angry, frustrated, and bored, she eventually quit. 

What had happened is that the structure of the firm's benefits had changed.  The new structure enabled my friend to take a six month maternity leave and return working only 40 hours per week.  This was definitely a change from the 4 week leave and no option to work part-time, which had been the structure only a few years before.  What hadn't changed was the perception her partners had that mothers who are trying to balance work and kids are less committed to their work and, therefore, can't be trusted with important assignments. 

It seems our society values those who give their all to their work.  These are the people who are usually promoted and perceived as successful.  Sure, we talk about balance and how it's better for our well-being and all that crap, but the fact is that people who can devote what seems like endless amounts of time to their work are the ones who get ahead and all the accolades. 

This is why I felt so awful calling in sick to work for the 20th time.  I was concerned about being perceived as a "slacker" by my employer, especially when compared to all the other interns who are mostly single and childless and, thus, are able to devote far more time to work than I can.  But the awful feelings don't stop there.  Instead, they morph into guilt.  That horrid mother-guilt that wakes you in the middle of the night because you think your first priority is and should be your children and that employer be damned.  And how could you even feel bad about calling in sick to work when your little one's eye is swollen shut and she's so weak all she can do is curl up next to you and say "Mama" in that tiny voice over and over again.  Then the guilt turns into feeling torn.  You feel you can't do anything really well.  You feel as if you're a functioning incompetent.

Structural changes are a good start but, to me, it's only the tip of the iceberg. 

Too Much Living

Years ago, I heard a story on NPR about a man who was obsessed with writing about his life.  Every day he spent hours upon hours documenting every detail of his days on a manual typewriter.  A wanna-be writer myself, I was jealous of the man's discipline.  That is, until the reporter read some of the writer's work.  Detailed descriptions of breakfast, chosen socks, and the man's dog left me far more bored than jealous.  While the ol' guy had discipline, he didn't have anything interesting to say.  Writing about his life, it seemed, had inhibited his ability to actually live it. 

You may (or may not, as the case may be) have noticed that I haven't been blogging lately.  I have a good reason for that.  I have been living.  I have been living my life to the absolute fullest.  In fact, it so full, if it gets any fuller, I'm going to have to start using meth just to get through it.   

I knew life would be busy and full when my school and practicum work started this fall.  What I didn't know was that I would one day, while in class, receive a call from my children's teachers announcing they were walking out the following morning to protest the school's Board of Directors. 

Aside from sudafed, what other ingredients are necessary for making meth?

As I sat home, trying to figure out what the hell to do with my kids the next day since I was unsure as to whether or not anyone would even be at the school, I received no call, no email, no nothing from the Head of School or the Board -- the Board whose seats are occupied by mommies from one campus of the school, which is not the campus my children attend, and which campus was NOT affected by the walkout.  Unable to maintain the suspense any longer, I finally broke down and called the President of the Mommies, I mean, the Board.

"Hi.  You don't know me, but my children attend the River campus.  Did you know the teachers are staging a walk-out tomorrow?"

"[chuckle, chuckle] Oh, yeah.  I heard about that."

"Well, what do you plan to do about it?"

"Do?"

Need I say more?  Clearly, you can see where this is going. 

In any case, without boring you with the convoluted and mind-numbing details of a long-standing conflict between the Board and the founders of the school, one of whom is a teacher, I had to take the bull by horns or, rather, the bitch by tits, and get our alleged leaders of this piss-ant school to do something about this conflict.  Needless to say, I am not very popular among the Heathers who reside on the Board, but then I've never been popular with Heathers, and by the looks of them, I have a feeling they weren't popular with the Heathers either when they were in high school.  I'll be damned if I'm going to let a bunch of social-climbing nitwits who are too busy trying to make up for their odd-girl-outness in high school to effectively run a Board and make a mess of the school my kids love. 

Bitches.

That's not to say, of course, that only the Board is at fault and the founders/staff are not.  There are always two sides to every story.  But see, the Board is in a position of power to actually do something about this conflict (as is the Head of School, but that's a whole other story), something other than sitting around a t the coffee house on Friday mornings, gossiping. 

Fortunately, my revolution has been somewhat successful.  The President Heather stepped down, and the other Heathers will be replaced by the end of the year with people who have actual expertise to bring to the Board, expertise that goes far beyond that of a yoga instructor or an acupuncturist.  The bad news is that my revolution has made me President of the School's Family Association, which essentially means I'm a PTA mother.    Next thing you know I'll be driving a minivan and wearing Keds.  (My apologies in advance to those of you who own both, but if you knew me personally, you'd know why that was funny.)

In addition to all of that and my school work and my usual practicum hours and raising my kids and trying not to ignore my marriage, I've had several clients, who after only 1 or 2 sessions, have provided endless hours of drama.  For whatever reason, while my cohort at the agency seems only to be assigned to clients with encopresis, the clients I'm assigned to are being abandoned by their parents at the school (as in, "that child is not allowed to return home ever again, so you find a home for him") or are being 5150'd.  The accolades from my supervisor for my handling of these situations has been nice (yes, I'm patting myself on the back -- sometimes a person needs to do that, especially when that person was totally unsure if she was handling the situation correctly whilst in it), but at this point I'm praying I get a client whose worst issue is that he has a little poop in his pants.  I gots lots of experience with poop.

So, that's the story of why I haven't been blogging.  I haven't been blogging because I've been living -- perhaps a little too much. 

The saddest part about not blogging, however, means I also haven't had time to check in with all of you.  I miss you.  How are you?

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.

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.

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.

The Summer of Ebb

This summer was nothing but ebb.  I tried to make it flow, but the Tod-lar proved to be far more tenacious than I ever thought possible. 

He was so tenacious, in fact, that at least once a day during the past six weeks, I considered either a) running away from home (with Husband, since he doesn't cause me stress), or b) driving Tod-lar to a far away location, slowing down just enough to open the door and yell "Drop and roll!" then speeding off before anyone could take down my license plate number. 

It was as if every single thing I spent the last nearly three years teaching him was wiped from his brain overnight.  He stopped being polite and made incessant demands.  He retaliated with poop.  He challenged my Enforcer status and actually ran AWAY from me when I told him it was time to leave the park.  He cried and whined instead of using his words.  He called us names.  He even spat in Husband's face at one point.  And he opposed everything -- every little fucking thing.  Even fun, happy things.

"So, Bud, your birthday's coming up.  Should we invite all your friends from school to your party?"

"NO!  I DON'T WANT A PARTY!  I DON'T WANT FRIENDS!"

Well, that's good, cause you sure ain't gonna have any with that fucking tude, Dude. 

To make things even more challenging, in addition to being Mr. Contrarian, Tod-lar was simultaneously experiencing a very heavy mommy phase.  He wouldn't let Husband do a damn thing for him.  Husband couldn't feed him his dinner, read him a nighttime story, or wipe the kid's ass without Tod-lar pitching a fit for "Maaaamaaa!"  So, while on the one hand he tried to boss me around like he was Mel Sharples reincarnated, on the other hand, he insisted I do every little fucking thing for him.  It was a push-pull like I've never before experienced. 

Then, one day last week, as I was dropping him off at school, he said to me, "I want you, Mama!"  For a second, I was a little dismayed at his demanding, whiny tone.  But I dismissed my dismay as the meaning of his words echoed in my ears, telling me what I'd long suspected was true.      

I bent down, looked into his pouting eyes and said, "I want you, too, Bud." 

He didn't know what to say at first.  Then his brow softened, and in a quiet voice, he repeated, "I want you, Mama."

I hugged him and whispered, "I want you more."

He giggled, gave me a big a kiss and arm hug, and cheerfully went to play with his friends, blowing me more kisses all the way.

Since then, he's been less oppositional and more cooperative.  He's back to saying "please" and "thank you."  And he's hugging his daddy instead of spitting at him.

For Tod-lar, you see, this summer wasn't the summer of ebb, it was the summer of major change.  In the last six weeks or so, Tod-lar has learned to do the following unassisted:

• pee and poop in the potty (well, he still needs a little help with wiping)
• remove and put on his clothes, including his socks and shoes
• wash his own hair and body
• brush his own teeth with an electric toothbrush

He's even pouring his own milk, drinking out of actual glasses instead of plastic cups, and this afternoon he made his own peanut butter and jelly sandwich for lunch.  For a little boy who was used to having mommy help him with all these things, this is major change.  And, while he was pretty enthusiastic to do these things himself, I think he was also wondering what it meant for mommy to stop doing them.  He loved the taste of more independence, but I suspect he also feared I wouldn't be there for him, or that I might even actually stop loving him.  And, of course, it didn't help that I'm still providing Bah-bie assistance with most everything. 

Tod-lar is moving from passive to more proactive member of our family.  He's learning to rely a little more on himself and a little less on Mama.  This is both exciting and frightening.  To me, his behavior (or misbehavior) this summer was his way of processing this profound change.  It's what he needed to do.  And my job was to manage it.  I had to keep behavioral expectations high and follow-through on consequences, while providing a little more reassurance than usual that I still loved and supported him, but without giving in to the mommy phase.  This balancing act is difficult, especially when the misbehaviors occur constantly for weeks on end, and you have another child who also needs your love and attention. 

The teenage years are going to be fun, eh?

Now, Tod-lar is worrying less about mama and is focusing more on his excitement about growing older.  Yesterday morning, when Husband, Bah-bie, and I awakened him by singing "Happy Birthday,"  he smiled and proclaimed, "I'm big now!  I'm 3!" 

Yes, you are, my little man.  Yes, you are.  And I couldn't be more proud of you.

Beware of the Thing

For the last four nights and four days, my entire family has been held captive by a horrible monster.  It followed us home from the park on Wednesday, and it refuses to leave.  This Thing is so stealthy, we didn't quite notice It at first.  We went through our usual Wednesday night routine without even realizing It was there.  But later, in the wee hours of the morning, the Thing made its presence known. 

Since then, It's been torturing us with tactics so heinous, I'm sure they've only been used on "prisoners of war" in Abu Ghraib.  No, we aren't being photographed naked with a high school misfit experiencing the popularity of a beauty queen because she's the only female within a hundred mile radius.  No.  In fact, that would be preferable.  Instead, the Thing favors a torture technique equivalent to melting one's brain on something only the likes of George Foreman could make. 

First, It lulls you into a sense of security, allowing you to blissfully slumber for about an hour or two.  Then, in Its oh-so-crafty way, It uses the children to ensure you are awakened every hour on the hour thereafter.  It begins with the smaller child then moves on to the older one.  And It doesn't do this for merely one night.  No.  It continues to do this for the duration of Its visit.  And given Tod-lar can't even take this afternoon's nap without waking every ten minutes, I suspect the Thing is settling in for yet another night. 

I've tried everything to get rid of the Thing: rest, fluids, Tylenol, Ibuprofen, cough medicine, tequila, vodka, rum (those last three were for the grownups, not the children, so you can put the phone down).  But nothing will make this motherfucker go away.  And just when you think It's gone, you touch the neck of one of the children only to feel the return of Its far too warm presence. 

So, if you and your children suddenly sound like you've swallowed a frog, and you're hot then cold, cold then hot, but you don't feel horrible, you just feel blah, then run for help!  Find someone to take care of you and your entire family immediately!  Because the Thing may have arrived to torture you slowly, but surely.

Good luck.