Month: September 2004

No, Really, Here’s Proof I’m a Bad Mother

I know I gave a compelling reason why I’m a bad mother recently, but here is the real proof of my unfit parenthood.

Today I offered to watch a friend’s almost-2-year-old in addition to Babygirl and DaycareKid. My friend is expecting her second child in a couple of weeks and I thought she’d probably enjoy having a moment to herself before her newborn arrives.

Naptime came and I laid DaycareKid on the queen-sized bed in YoungestBoy’s room (“Do not get off this bed!”) and then I plunked Visiting Baby in the playpen in YoungestBoy’s room (and left while she screamed her head off) and then I took Babygirl to her room for her ritual viewing of “It’s Potty-Time!” a video which features a song with these lyrics: “She is a super-duper pooper. She can potty with the best. No more diapers to get in her way. We are very impressed!” Another song includes the words, “Wipe, wipe, wipe yourself, always front to back, carefully, carefully, now you’ve got the knack.”

Lucky me. I get to watch this stellar children’s video twice a day. So, the video ended and I laid Babygirl in her crib with her dollies and her blankets.

Half an hour later, I hear her calling my name. I completely ignore her. I need naptime! I need naptime like . . . well, like flowers need the rain. (That song just popped into my head.) I need naptime like I need oxygen; well, okay, maybe not oxygen, but like I need a shower every day. I just can’t function up to par when I’m all sweaty and smelly and have hair like a Before picture in a magazine make-over article. And while I can exist without naptime, believe me, I’m a much more pleasant and civilized mother when I’ve had a little break for lunch and reading.

I decided to wait until 2:30 p.m. before I answered her urgent cries. Yesterday, she cried, then slept. I hoped for the same today. Precisely at 2:30 p.m., I first rescued Visiting Baby, then carried her to Babygirl’s room, where I found my precious darling daughter with her pointer finger somehow pinched in the top railing of her crib. She was stuck. I unstuck her–it was a matter of angles, really–and held her and told her how sorry I was and she bounced back like a trooper and said, “I hurt!” and “Finger stuck!” as if it had been a Very Exciting Adventure.

See? Proof! I think she’d been standing there with her finger dented between the wood and latch while her nose ran without a diaper on for quite some time. She does not seem to have held a grudge, which is the beautiful thing about children. They always forgive you and move on. Later, they’ll learn that some people will just keep hurting them over and over again and they will stop being generous with their forgiveness, but for the very young, every day is a new chance.

Now, on to other matters.

First, thank you kind internet friends for your comments on my previous post. It’s odd how a situation will serve as a catalyst and propel a girl into a murky emotional swamp. I tend to wallow around a bit when I feel those moods coming on. The older I get, the more I am able to examine the feelings for what they are, feel them and say, “All right. Time to stand up straight and be a grown-up.” Feelings come and go, after all, but a good man who’ll just hug you when you try to cry without making a sound . . . that’s forever.

Now, just something I noticed while reading a parenting book the other day. First, I read Parenting With Love and Logic, a book I highly recommend, both for its good writing and its reasonable approach to parenting. Normally, I get really confused and bored while reading parenting books. I read a lot of them before I had kids and thought I had parenting all figured out (ha ha ha ha ha) and since then, haven’t really come across a striking book I could recommend. But this book is a must-read for all parents. I’m not kidding. I’ll wait right here while you go to Amazon and order it.

Then, I read a second parenting book, Into Their Hearts by Valerie Bell. Although it probably had sound ideas, I could not concentrate because this author overshadowed everything she said with her use of exclamation points! I’m not kidding! In one chapter, I counted 64 exclamation points! In only eleven pages! I wondered if she is the kind of chipper cheerleading chick that is excited! About everthing! And always has her hair carefully styled! Sixty-four exclamation points! In eleven pages!

This author is hereby banned from every using another exclamation point. I decree it and so it shall be. If she uses all the exclamation points, there will be none left for the rest of us when we really, really, really need one. Conserve the Exclamation Points. (See? That slogan cries out for an exclamation point, which leaves me in a quandry, really. To exclaim or not to exclaim? If Valerie Bell hadn’t already used all the old growth exclamation points and harvested them willy-nilly without regard to the world shortage of exclamation points, there might be a spare one growing in an old growth exclamation point area for such a time as this.)

In other news . . . well, there is no other news.

Loneliness

Last night, as we watched David Letterman, my husband said, “So, what’s new on the board?” Usually I regale him with stories of happenings on the message board. When I discovered I was pregnant in January 2002, I nosed around a bit and landed on this board for women expecting babies in September of 2002. I’ve participated avidly ever since, through crazy debates and educational threads and laugh-out-loud hysteria and drive-by postings by trouble-makers and the mundane, everyday stuff.

Two weeks ago, I decided I’d had enough. That was the day I wrote this. Although I had a lot of laughs and sharpened my detective skills (I’m just warning you–don’t lie to me unless you have a better memory than I do) and made some excellent friends, but I just got slapped once too many times by women who think pastor’s wives ought to be vacant, spiritual, uncontroversial and sickly sweet all the time.

And just because of my marriage. Nothing else. Somehow my marriage to a pastor requires me to be perfect, though if I were, I would most definitely hear, “You think you’re perfect, don’t you!?” Nevermind that these same women are regular church-attenders with similar religious backgrounds to mine. At any rate, lest this turn into actual Gossip, I’ll just leave it at that.

I had enough. Enough. I just shut the door without saying good-bye and crept away.

So last night. My husband says, “What’s new on the board?” and I say, “I left it.” I was on my side, facing away from him, and he said, “What?” And I said, “I left the board.”

He said, “Why?” I said, “I just had enough.”

We watched David Letterman in silence then and my heart was so solid and heavy that it pinned me to the bed. I felt like I’d swallowed an ever-expanding balloon that filled with hot breath I could not exhale. Tears began to slip from my eyes and pool on the side of my nose where my glasses formed a little dam.

I felt so lonely, so completely all alone, even lying next to my husband, just on the other side of the house from my sleeping children.

At last, his breathing deepened and I considered going into the bathroom and curling on the floor and crying until I died. But I didn’t want to wake him. So, I gingerly reached for a tissue and his soft snoring stopped and he said, “Are you all right?” I said, “Yes,” but he could hear the sadness, I guess, and so he reached over and hugged me–stiff and resistant and said, “I’m sorry about your board.”

I said, “It just sucks to have no friends.”

Even as I said it, I knew it to by untrue, but sometimes the feelings are more real than reality. He said, “I’m sorry. I’m really sorry.” And I said, “It’s probably just hormonal.” I considered telling him how lonely I felt, how alone, what a horrible wife I am and what an impatient mother and how truly, if I weren’t here only Babygirl would be damaged forever–or maybe she wouldn’t even remember me in a few months and then I thought how YoungestBoy would miss going on rides at the fair with me and so, I said nothing at all.

At last, he rolled back over and slept and I dabbed at my eyes and wiped my congested nose and felt utterly miserable and lonely.

How is it possible to feel so lonely and to long to be alone at the same time?

This morning, I woke with swollen eyes, no worse for the wear.

Out of Order

My posts are out of order due to a glitch, so be sure to scroll down a tiny bit and see my blog about blogging.

Today is the third day that Babygirl protested her naptime. She was quiet for ten minutes, hollered my name for twenty minutes, screamed and cried for ten minutes, then became silent again. I hope she’s sleeping and not dead.

She talks all day now. I love how she says “fall off,” when she means “fall down” or even just “fall.” She adores her big brothers, especially when they push her really fast in the rocking chair or when they let her ride around on their backs as they crawl.

Yesterday, after I said I was going to read the newspaper, instead I had mercy on Babygirl and sent up one of my sons to get her out of her crib. She came walking into the kitchen, then, without a diaper or any clothing and when I said, “Did you have a good sleep?” she said, “Zes.”

Funny kid. She refused to get diapered or clothed the rest of the afternoon, though she did consent to wear a pair of Barney training pants when we went outside in the backyard for a bit.

The pool is closed now, so summer has officially ended as far as I’m concerned. In a way, I feel relieved because I don’t feel guilty that we aren’t taking the kids to the pool to swim every day. The last day at the pool my neice and nephew came, too, along with my sister and her husband. The kids all had a great time taking underwater pictures of each other with some waterproof disposable cameras I found on clearance at Target. I can’t wait to see the results.

Babygirl totally cracked me up when I realized she was calling my younger sister, “Big Old Mama,” and my brother-in-law “Big Daddy.” I haven’t laughed so hard in a long time. Perhaps I need to get out more.

Why I’m a Bad Mother

Babygirl did not nap yesterday. You may recall that we had a Nap Drought last year at about this time. Babygirl skipped her nap approximately 120 days in a row, leading me to teeter perilously close to the edge of a nervous breakdown. I adore Babygirl. Really, I do. I just don’t want to adore her for twelve straight hours.

So I’m not getting the Mother of the Year award.

Today, with great hopes, I put her down at the usual time with her dollies (Dolly and Boy). I tried not to let her see my fear, because it’s well-known that babies can smell fear and will then take advantage of that weakness. She snuggled under her blankets and then ten minutes later, began calling out, “MOM!” Pause. “MOM!” Pause. “MOM!”

I’ve been ignoring her for twenty minutes now. She’s probably untaped her diaper and peed in her crib by now. She’s obsessed with taking off and putting on her diaper–mostly taking it off. And she’s newly in love with toenail polish. Just before her nap, I had to paint the toes of two of her dollies. (We painted Boy’s toenails the other night. He’s an old cabbage patch doll that’s been hanging around in the stuffed animal basket for many years now. Babygirl found him and christened him “Boy.”)

I just don’t want her to be awake now, mostly because I don’t want to share my Diet Vanilla Pepsi. And because I need a moment to be a solitary, isolated, individual person. I seriously had no idea how taxing it would be for me to be with people–even my own children–twenty-four hours a day.

I haven’t even read the newspaper yet today. But I think I will. Babygirl can wait.

Blogging About Blogging

Why did I start a blog? All thanks goes to Brandie, author of I Am Mom! Hear Me Roar! I met Brandie on-line on a message board for mothers of babies due in September 2002. One day last fall, Brandie suggested to the board members that it might be fun to start personal journals and share them with each other.

I thought, yeah, fun, but not for me! Once long, long ago, I started a diary on OpenDiary.com. I’d only posted a few entries when along came my first reader who commented, “Your diary sure is boring.” Or something to that effect.

I quit soon thereafter. Those first entries probably were boring and the fact that someone out there in the shadows was reading and judging my boring life scared me.

Yet, a few weeks after Brandie’s suggestion, I decided to go ahead and start a journal. My first journal was here. Then, in January, I moved to my present home here at Blogger.com, just in time for all the improvements unveiled by Blogger.

Most of the women from that board who started journals quit soon thereafter. But Brandie and I have continued our grand experiment in blogging, as have a few of my other board friends.

I’ve always kept a pen and paper journal, ever since I was in second grade. I hardly ever read those spiral notebooks, but I have them neatly stacked in my closet. I’ll have plenty of material to laugh and cry over when I am old woman.

During my early twenties, my journals were the support system I longed for in the real world. When I was 22 and a new bride, I moved across the country from Seattle to New Haven, Connecticut, where my husband attended Yale Divinity School. I left my circle of college friends for a job in a law office and oh, the loneliness of being in a new city with a new husband who was stressed out by his rigorous studies! I wrote and wrote and wrote, whined and complained and dreamed of having babies.

Then my husband finished grad school and we moved “home” to Seattle (his homeland is near Houston), just in time for my dad to be diagnosed with terminal cancer and die. My journals from those days are filled with anguish and blotches where tears fell. After he died, my journal entries grew even more morose and dark as we entered the overcast Land of Infertility and then trod the uncertain, windy paths of Adoption Attempts.

My husband could only stand so much of my dismal outlook on life–cruel life, how dare you pick on me! what did I ever do to deserve this!–and my fertile friends could not understand. So I wrote and wrote and cried and cried some more.

In the middle of all that agony, I thought, You know, this would make a great book. Then infertile women like me wouldn’t feel so alone. I typed it up all nice and pretty and waited until an end to my “story” appeared, wrote up a book proposal and sent it off.

I was rejected repeatedly and I could hear the hoots and howls of the editors all the way back at my childless home. You think infertility is depressing? Try having your book proposal about infertility rejected. That’s really depressing, along the lines of, God hates you and we hated hearing about it. Grow up you big baby!

Obviously, my idea was absolutely right on target, because lo and behold, along comes internet blogs and what do I come across? Amazing infertility blogs and a warm, gentle, understanding circle of supportive infertile women all reading and commenting and blogging and getting through those gloomy days together. My absolute favorite blog about infertility at the moment is by Getupgrrl who authors
Chez Miscarriage, a blog which makes me weep and snort with laughter and smile with recognition. What did those dumb editors know anyway? The truth is that people are interested in reading about other people’s lives, in viewing the interior of those lives, the mundane and the absurd and the heart-wrenching minutiae of daily life.

In another decade, I might have been the author of a college blog (“I’m so tired, I’m not sure I can make it through English Lit today and do you think that he will ask me out and what, oh what will I be when I grow up?”) or an infertility blog (“Everyone I know lives in a world of velvet toys and tiny fingers and strained carrots and I have no baby to call my own.”).

My blog reflects my thoughts and serves as a record of the monotonous and the silly and the boring, because these small things are the blocks that make up Life. These details add up to everything that matters and one day I will want to remember how Babygirl refused her nap and instead hollered down the stairs, “MOM!” while a man stood on my roof and power-washed it. I write to think, I write to remember, and I write to entertain myself. That other people find my writing entertaining or thought-provoking is a lovely bonus and reading comments is the frosting on my cake. Even those “anonymous” comments by people who do not appreciate my view of Michael Moore’s movie.

I have a blog-addiction now. Blogs give me a view into lives that probably would never intersect with my life, whether for geographical, philosophical, or practical reasons. I might never have crossed paths with Suzanne, the witty, warm and funny author of Suburban Lesbian. I woulnd’t think to seek out a blog for “suburban lesbians”, but when Suzanne first commented on my blog, I followed the links back to her hang-out and discovered we have a lot in common. For instance, we both value the snooze feature on our alarm clocks. She’s a great writer and I feel lucky to have a glimpse into her life.

One of my closest friends is MaryKay. We met back in 1985 when we worked at Heritage U.S.A., Jim and Tammy Faye Bakker’s extravaganza. She was a lifeguard and I was a children’s ministry intern. And we’ve been writing letters and email ever since. She started a blog recently called Much Ado About Nothing. Now, we can keep up with each other even though I’m near Seattle and she’s in North Carolina. MaryKay tells funny stories of working in a funeral home and raising her four kids. She’s terrific and creative and insightful.

Stacy is one of my board buddies who is a fabulous writer with a wry and humorous viewpoint. She authors Gray Matter. I can’t figure out when she writes because she is the mother of twin 2-year-old boys, a brilliant 9-year-old daughter, attends grad school, works full-time (at nights on the weekends) and is married to a man who travels. She also reads a lot and frankly, she’s amazing.

Then there is Jen, author of SissyFit, a beautifully written, often hilarious account of her life as the mother of three small children and wife of a police officer. And she’s tall, really tall, and beautiful, extremely witty and best of all, she sent my gnome-deprived, gnome-obsessed daughter her very own gnome. Jen is a Gnome Benefactor.

I include a few blogs that I randomly found. These girls make me laugh and sometimes make me wish I were young and single and living in Los Angeles or New York City, and sometimes make me thank God I’m not. A Girl Named Bob belongs to a career-girl in New York City. Wendy, author of Magic Short Bus, is an animator and good friend of Bob, as in the girl named Bob. Another young, single-with-boyfriend author is Deb of smitten. She makes finding a mouse in the house (okay, apartment) and frosting cupcakes amusing and even laugh-out-loud funny.

A new member of my blogroll is Michelle, writer of Demented Delusions of a Wannabe Writer. Take a stroll over there and see why I like her, aside from the fact that she’s a good writer. Also, it turns out she’s a Pastor’s Kid, so we have a little connection there.

Dooce is practically in a category by herself. She’s on almost more blogrolls than, well, than anyone–go ahead, check the official registers on Blogrolling.com and you’ll see I tell no lies. Read her tales of parenting her now-7-month-old baby, Leta, and giggle at her list of reasons she feels guilty. You can thank me later.

For pure inspiration and a kick in the pants, read my high-school friend, Tory’s blog. She’s a teacher, so obviously her site is called MsTeechur: From Flabulous to Fabulous. She is not only a fantastic teacher, but she also lost over 100 pounds doing Weight Watchers on-line and just recently, she ran a half-marathon and completed her first triathlon. She’s remarkable and a cheerful, bring-smiles-to-your-face writer.

So, there you have it. The reasons I blog and the reasons I list the blogs I do.

Now, it’s your turn. Why do you blog? How’d you get started? And while you’re at it, tell me I’m beautiful and that you definitely think I could win a Pulitzer Prize. Or just send cash. And a tiara.

Open Water and One Crying Girl

I wrote about going to the movie Open Water last night before collapsing into bed, but when it was all said and done, my clever, witty post disappeared into thin air.

So let me just summarize.

Saturday night.
Movie with husband.
Choice: “Open Water” or “Bourne Supremacy.”
Check reviews, accidentally learn ending of “Open Water.”
Hate stupid people, especially unprofessional, amateur movie reviewers.
See “Open Water,” start time 9:30 p.m.
10:00 p.m.: Three generation Asian family walks in, chattering.
Small children do not belong in rated “R” movies. Ever.
Wonder at stupidity of people yet again.
10:30 p.m.: Hear amazing sound effects.
Realize sound is actually snoring man in back row, not sound effects.
Movie rating: Two thumbs up. Hooray for independent, low-budget film.

Now, moving on. My now 2-year old Babygirl has become clingy and skittish and Sunday morning, I actually had to leave church to bring her home due to her hysterics in the church nursery. I can never actually leave her in the nursery because she screams as if she’s being attacked by bees, but last Sunday, I left her for ten minutes anyway because I had to sing. This Sunday, she remembered that and freaked out in advance of possible abandonment.

Then, at 3 p.m., she attended her first birthday party for her little friend named Ruby who was born a week after Babygirl. Despite the promise of birthday cake, Babygirl took one look at the decorations, saw darling little Ruby, burst into tears and begged “Go home.” I attempted to distract, to calm, to bribe. Then I took her straight home.

I guess this week “off” from watching our DaycareKid has been unsettling for her . . . especially since I dragged her to the photographer and to the doctor. My poor girl needs routine, a quiet, sedate schedule. I can only imagine if I’d had her first. I would have assumed that children are gentle, fragile creatures who must be sheltered and protected and who cling to my knees when a strange adult enters the room. I’d have thought I had something to do with creating this timid personality, this creature of habit.

If I’d had her first before YoungestBoy who was so friendly as a two year old that he once decided to eat with the family one booth over at Burger King instead of us, I would have been shocked at the typical behavior of children. Babygirl is not the norm. She is ultra-sensitive and obedient, even at this age. I can gaze at her and she will change her mind and decide to comply with my wishes.

My boys don’t even notice if I’m looking their direction.

She mimimics me in the bathroom, brushes her teeth in the same order I do (brush, brush, brush, scrub tongue, rinse toothbrush, spit, rinse mouth with water cupped in hands), puts on eye shadow, showers, picks up dirty clothes, washes dirty spots on the kitchen floor, reads books, shadows me constantly.

So far, she has not purposely played in mud or used a stick as a sword.

So, I’m glad I had her last. I can enjoy this “easier” baby, even though I have to be on the look-out for bees at all times, lest she go completely berserk. Bees are bad, very bad, worse than the church nursery.

Isn’t it amazing that all the kids in one family can be so different? That’s clear if I look back at my own family of origin. I could not possibly be more different from my siblings. But that, my friends, is a story for another day.

Gnome Update

Gnome.  Posted by Hello

Remember how I thwarted Babygirl’s plans to steal the neighborhood gnomes a few weeks ago?

Imagine my surprise and Babygirl’s delight when a package arrived in the mail just a few short days later. Inside, I found a gnome. Babygirl’s eyes lit up and she’s been taking gnome to bed with her each night.

Who is our gnome benefactor? That would be Jen, author of SissyFit.

Jen keeps a few gnomes around her house for just such an occasion. What a cool friend she is. Thanks, Jen!

Time Slowing

Babygirl did her part today to make sure that I didn’t feel the swoosh of time whizzing by. She drove me crazy. All day, starting with her wake-up call at 7:15 a.m.

Babygirl has a new obsession: the shower. She wants to take two, sometimes three showers per day. She doesn’t stay in the shower, however, but comes running out, all shivery, with chattering teeth and I say, “Hey, are you all done?” and she says, “No, I shower!” and then she swings her arms as she runs back to the bathroom. Then, just as the shampoo container says, “rinse and repeat.” She does this over and over again until I finally outwit, outplay and outlast her by turning off the hot water. Who’s the survivor now, chickadee?

Babygirl was mostly weaned until this week and the trauma of seeing the photographer, being actually touched by the doctor and having a loosey-goosey schedule has flung her backwards in time and now she cries out at random times throughout the day–while I am washing dishes or struggling to undo the bolts on the iron railing in the living room that must come out now so I can paint–“Mama chair! Mama chair!”

Today, my neighbor stopped by with her little girl who is four. My neighbor is a lovely woman who takes my son to school and this year, we actually reciprocate by picking up her son along with our son. Last year, she picked up and dropped off every single day. We are losers. I know.

Anyway, I invited her and Malini in and Malini rushed past me into the living room where Babygirl was minding her own business, watching television and when she saw Malini before she saw me, all sorts of alarms and whistles went off in her head and she completely freaked out.

She cried and cried, while I attempted to soothe her and chat with my neighbor. Babygirl does not like surprises. She handled that particular surprise so poorly that I have to wonder if she’s getting sick or perhaps suffering from an inoperable brain tumor or developing paranoid schizophrenia.

My neighbor and her daughter stayed for an hour, maybe longer, and toward the end of the visit, Babygirl warmed up and stopped her hysterics. When they left at 11:00 a.m., I was worn out.

Here are the things Babygirl prefers that I refrain from doing in her presence:

1) Wash dishes.
2) Fold laundry.
3) Put away laundry.
4) Read the newspaper.
5) Read any book, other than “Moonbear.”
6) Prepare the living/dining room walls for paint.
7) Sit at the computer.
8) Cook dinner.
9) Talk on the phone. (When the phone rings, she drops everything and runs for the phone, yelling, “I got it! I got it!”)
10) Watch television, other than Sesame Street and the Wiggles.

Oh, and she doesn’t want me out of her sight, either. I thought I’d go to the small group Bible study at church tonight. I haven’t been for weeks, maybe months. I changed into something without baby smears on it, put on make-up while she dug her fingernails into my eyeshadow compact, fixed my unruly hair, brushed my teeth while she stood on the bathroom counter and finally, put on shoes and told my husband, “You can distract her by offering her a S-H-O-W-E-R.”

He scooped her off the bathroom counter and told her she could have a shower and she began to wail, “Mommy! Mommy! No shower! No shower!”

With an exasperated throw of my shoes, I said, “Fine. Let’s get your pajamas on.”

I felt like I stood myself up. I put her to bed at 7:30 p.m. and as my husband said, “You are all dressed with no place to go.” I said, “Yes, I am pathetic.”

So, I went to Marshall’s to shop the clearance rack and then to Dairy Queen for a “Blizzard.”

At least the world wasn’t on fast-forward today. Every moment meandered by with exquisite slowness. I told my husband tonight, “You forget because you’ve been to Portland and out to lunch and out of the house all week that some of us haven’t gone anywhere or done anything for weeks.”

He said, “Are you saying I’m a bad person?” which is our standard reply to each other when we are having a somewhat serious discussion.

And, if I hadn’t been so crabby, I would have remembered the correct answer, which is, “No. I’m saying you’re fat.”

Tomorrow, what to do, what to do. . . paint the living/dining room? Get out of the house without kids? Catch up on laundry? Pay bills? Take the kids swimming on the last Saturday the pool will be open this season? My husband is officiating at a wedding at 4:30 p.m., so he’ll be gone during the afternoon.

At this point, my main goal is to sleep in, as much as is humanly possible living with these four children who have no respect for the sanctity of sleep on Saturday mornings. It’s an outrage, really.