Recently, Blythe has discovered that she doesn’t have to do a damn thing I ask her to, if she doesn’t feel like it. Or anyway, she doesn’t have to do it willingly. Or quietly.
Car seats are for suckers! So are booster seats, bibs, baths, breakfasts, lunches, dinners, diapers, pants, shirts, pajamas, clean hands, clean hineys, socks, shoes (unless she decides it’s time to go), sitting on my lap, teeth brushing, nose wiping and any other thing that doesn’t interest her at the moment.
What I want to know is, which one of you clued her in? She was a perfectly compliant child until just a couple of weeks ago, and now it takes me half an hour just to get her dressed in the morning. Don’t mind those bruises on her knees, lady from CPS, that’s just where I have to pin her down with my elbow to get a diaper on. You try it, and see if an elbow doesn’t come into play.
The hardest part for me is that half the time, she’s laughing. Have you ever tried to keep a straight, stern face while a 17 month old is giggling up in your grill? It’s not so easy. Occasionally I lose control for a second and let loose a smile, which only serves to encourage her behavior. Letting your kid see a crack in your armor is a death sentence when trying to assert your (ever dwindling) authority.
Blythe has also starting biting and pinching when she doesn’t get her way (mostly with her sister, unfortunately), which leads to some alone time in her room, which leads to a meltdown of epic proportions. Oh freaking hell, the terrible twos came early.
Send lots of wine. I’m in for a long winter.
Category: Parenting
Categories
Laughter Trumps Tears
Instead of writing about how those two mommies at Alison’s gymnastics class were nasty and rude to me, again;
Instead of blogging about how both of my kids finally, after 17 months, slept through the night for two consecutive nights, only to follow it up by waking up every night since, one of them for hours;
Instead of telling you all how my sweet baby girl has suddenly become a tiny terrorizer;
Instead of focusing on how tired and frustrated I am;
Instead of even thinking about how messy my house is;
I’m going to talk about what made me laugh out loud today.
I got Blythe out of her crib this morning, and she went out to the living room, calling, “Dad-dee! Dad-dee!”. This one’s a daddy’s girl, I’m telling you. She can never get enough of that man.
Next she ran into our bedroom and called, “Ba-abe! Ba-abe!” And is it scary to anyone else that my 17 month old kid knows mommy calls daddy “babe” in the bedroom?
Having no luck there, Blythe ran to the office, where she called out, “Jem-mee! Jem-mee!”. Who knew she notice that at work, he’s “Jeremy”, not “daddy” or “babe”? Not me, although I think maybe I need to stop underestimating her powers of observation.
Having run out of names and places to try, she turned her face toward me with a hilarious look I can hardly describe. Eyebrows up, lips pursed, cheeks puffed out, she said, “Gah mo-nin? Gah Mohhhhh-nin, Jem-mee?” in this exhasperated little voice. Clearly, the child needed to say good morning to her father.
Through my laughter I told her he must have gone outside. She shrugged her shoulders, ran for the fridge and said, “Juice? Juice, pease?”.
Because, everyone knows – if you can’t find your daddy, juice is a perfectly logical substitute.
Categories
Rude or Reasonable?
Alison goes to gymnastics on Monday evenings, and we all love everything about it. Except that (you knew there had to be something, right?) I have to keep Blythe occupied in a very small waiting area for an hour, dangerously close to her bedtime.
There are usually a few other siblings in the waiting area as well, and two in particular usually catch my eye. They are both around 3 years of age, and their moms are very obviously friends. Typically, the moms sit at the dividing wall, facing the gym, and the kids play, behind them. All very well and good, right? I’d be chatting with my friend too, if there was one around.
However. I had to draw the line on Monday and I tried to do it in the absolute best manner possible. What I got in return was out and out hostility.
Here’s the scene:
Blythe and I are playing on the little 4×4 rug that designates the “play area” of the waiting room. I see one of the moms open a huge tub of something for the two girls to share. Oh, crap! It’s popcorn. No matter, I’ll just make sure Blythe stays on this side of the very small waiting area.
The two girls play and eat, play and eat – and if you’ve ever seen little kids eat popcorn, every third or fourth kernel falls to the floor, where it gets ground up by their shoes. Oh well, right? I’ll really keep Blythe over here by me. But I do hope they’ll help the kids pick up that mess, for the gym’s sake.
Oh good! One of the moms told her daughter she needed to clean up the popcorn mess. So she runs past us, into the gym to get some paper towels. And then she runs back, forth, back, forth across the little rug at least ten times. Because: a three year old thinks that getting paper towels wet and then wiping down the bench IS cleaning up. Still, the two women don’t notice.
Sh*t, now the other little girl is in on the action. Back and forth, little shoes covered in popcorn are running across the little rug. I place Blythe on my lap, and hope she won’t squirm too much. Only 15 minutes to go.
Now the girls have noticed I got out goldfish crackers for Blythe, and they stand in front of us. They ask if they can share Blythe’s snack. I only brought a few, so I tell them that next time I’ll bring enough for everybody. They are cool with that, but now they want to sit with us and touch Blythe’s toys. Touch Blythe’s hands and legs and arms and face and head with their popcorn-covered hands, leaving bits of popcorn in their wake.
I start to panic. I get out Blythe’s bottle and tell the girls that Blythe is done playing. We leave the rug to sit on the only available bench, directly behind the two women, with Blythe on my lap. The little girls go tell their mommies that Blythe has only a small amount of snack (so nice of them, really). One mommy turns around to face me and smiles.
I say, “Are you the one who brought the popcorn?” in the nicest, friendliest way possible.
“No,” she replies, pointing to her friend, “would you like some?” again, so nice!
“Thank you so much, but no… my daughter is allergic.”
By this time, the other mom has turned to face me, as well.
“Do you think you could do me a favor?” I ask, in my sweetest, kindest voice, “Would you mind not bringing popcorn on Mondays? She’s allergic and now she can’t play, because there’s popcorn on the floor. I’m really sorry, I know it’s a pain, but it’s so tough to keep her occupied on my lap!”
Eye roll. Scowl. Huff and puff as she slams the lid closed on the popcorn container and barks at her kid to start picking up the popcorn.
“No, no! It’s OK, she’s already on my lap for the rest of today, don’t worry about it! I’m just asking for next time.”
Eye roll. Scowl. Huff and puff as she picks up handfuls of popcorn off the ground. No answer.
Then they have their girls sit next to them at the half wall, the bottoms of their little shoes pointing at me, revealing little bits of popcorn. I sort of smile.
The two women lean toward each other, whispering. Before, I could hear every word of their conversations, because they were talking over the noise of the gym. One of them turns completely toward her friend, her profile toward me.
Good thing I can read lips, huh? She said, “I know, what a bitch.”
So tell me, was I rude or reasonable?
Categories
A Glimpse
As Kia so lovingly pointed out, I said posting would be light, not non-existent. I do apologize; it’s much harder to be a part-time blogger than I thought. It’s a way of life: either you’re in, or you’re out! At least, that’s the way it is for me – if I’m going to write, I want to read and comment as well! Time with one of my very best friends? Check.
Last Friday, I celebrated my 31st birthday. Jeremy was already out of town, so the girls and I were on our own. We baked some delicious oatmeal chocolate chip cookies (egg and corn free, of course).
Blythe enjoyed her very first cookie, ever. She liked it, but didn’t ask for more.
Quite the celebration, huh? Much, much different than my 21st birthday, one whole decade ago, when Jeremy took me to a bar and I got drunk on tequila shots until 2 am.
The next morning I took the plunge and left the kids for two whole days while I went down to San Bernardino to meet up with Jeremy, Rick and Natasha at the X Arm Premier Event.
(Sorry it’s blurry – those lights made my camera take fuzzy pictures for some reason. Also? Natasha gave me posing lessons! But I forgot to suck in my tummy. You can’t win them all.)
I’m working on my X Arm post, but it’s taking me a little while because there are eleventy-billion links, and apparently Quick Blogcast doesn’t like those, so it keeps freezing up on me. Gah!
After a weekend away with nothing but adult company and an adult agenda, I’m feeling a little nostalgic for my pre-kid days.
Much needed time with husband? Check.
Laughter, food and booze? Check, check and check.
A kick ass time? Check.
Any questions?
* It took me 11 months to get up the courage to write this post. So if you need to be judgmental – fine, but keep it to yourself. I’ve judged myself enough for all of us, thanks. *
I talk a lot with other parents about the woes we will face as parents of teenage daughters. Often, the new vaccine GARDASIL comes up and we discuss whether or not we will vaccinate at the suggested age of twelve.
There are many parents out there who plan to refuse the vaccine, stating that they will teach their daughters about abstinence, and therefore their child will not need it. Further, I’ve heard that giving them the vaccine against HPV will give girls a false sense of security about sex in general.
Anytime I hear these arguments, I want to say a lot of things but mostly I want to tell my story. But I don’t. Because it’s painful and personal and I’ve spent a lot of years trying to get over the way it made me feel about myself.
But it’s time. My hands are shaking as I write, and I know that I’ll hesitate before hitting “publish”. If my story helps convince even one parent to vaccinate their child, however, it will be worth it*.
———–
When I was twelve, I was raped by a friend’s older brother.
It was on a cool, crisp winter day during Christmas break. A day that started out like any other for a girl in that wonderful stage between playing with dolls and wearing make-up.
The end of the day showed a different person, one who didn’t feel she had any choice but to go on with life and pretend she hadn’t been raped by an 18 year old man while her friend laughed from the top bunk.
In my 12-year-old mind, I couldn’t tell my parents because they would never look at me the same way again, would stop loving me, or find some way to blame me for what happened. In short, everything would change. I wanted to hold on to the hope that despite what happened, I would still be the same young girl I was when I woke up that morning.
My parents knew something was wrong – but I wouldn’t talk to them. They sent me to see a psychologist who, for lack of any concrete information, determined that I had an unhealthy fascination with black people (and by the way, you spell quack Q-U-A-C-K).
Over time I learned to wear the face of a normal person. I also decided that it was better to give something away than to have it taken without permission. During the ten years that followed, I made a lot of choices, both good and bad. Each and every one of them was shaped in some way by what happened to me that day.
As a teenager, I finally told someone – my best friend Rachel, who continues to be one of the rocks I lean upon for support. As time went by, I told a couple of boyfriends, my husband. Eventually, my mom.
I’d like you, please, to imagine you are my mom for a moment. Listening to her grown daughter tell her what she went through at the age of twelve. What she continued to go through on her own, letting one incident that she had no control over shape who she became. Imagine how my mom felt, wishing that somehow she could go back in time and make everything alright. Understanding her daughter in a whole new way. Wishing she could have been there to hold her daughter close and tell her that a mother’s love is forever.
Now imagine that, instead of sitting on the couch in my mother’s living room, we’re sitting together in a cold waiting room. Holding hands and talking about the future. I look to her and confess the secret I couldn’t tell her for fifteen years.
A nurse calls my name, and my mother leads me in to have my first round of chemo, because I’ve got cervical cancer. Already, doctors have removed my cervix because, despite yearly pap smears, the cancer was already at stage 4 when they caught it. I’ll never be able to have children, but hopefully I’ll survive.
I don’t have cervical cancer. I was lucky I didn’t contract HPV. The man who raped me robbed me of so many things in life – fortunately, my health and my ability to have children weren’t one of them. Please don’t leave your daughter’s future in the hands of luck, when you can take it by the horns with a simple vaccination.
Sexual activity, at any age, is not always a battle of abstinence versus promiscuity. Most rapes are committed by someone the victim knows. The rapes of young girls are especially under-reported because they are children dealing with something most adults can’t handle.
Don’t be the mom holding her daughter’s hand in the waiting room, please. Unless she’s twelve, and you’re waiting for her GARDASIL vaccination.
* I am all for a parent’s right to refuse vaccinations. My own children have not been “fully vaccinated” according to standards because I exercised that right. However, if the reasons for refusing the GARDASIL vaccination are purely because a parent believes a child will abstain from sexual activity, I disagree – heartily.