I Love You, Therefore I Hold The Bowl

This weekend was the weekend I got to hold the bowl. Yes, the puke bowl. Not only that, but I got to hold back the hair, and rub the back, get the water, and say "it's OK, you're going to be OK." Because that's what us moms do.

Even us moms that HATE puke. And I mean, hate. With a capital "H." Like, would avoid puking or being in the vicinity of puke at all costs and is almost verging on PHOBIC about puke. But, when you become a mother, there is this clause at the bottom of the paperwork that you have to sign in the delivery room that says "You, the undersigned, realize fully and of sound body and mind that there is a shitload of poop, urine and vomit in your future and you will have it on your person, will have to dispose of it, clean it up and watch it coming out of various orifices on your child/ren and must not, under any circumstances, run screaming out of the room, cry or break down emotionally when confronted with said bodily fluids." And even though you are still all drugged up and exhausted from pushing a baby out of your vagina, you sign it and you are trapped. Trapped into the job of the "Bowl Holder."

But, the thing that you don't realize, is that when it is your kid, it's different. Yes, puke is still disgusting. It smells bad, it looks gross and you definitely don't want it on you or near you. But when it does get on you, you don't gag and think you might actually drop dead from absolute disgust. You are more concerned about the fact that YOUR BABY just THREW UP. And OH MY GOD, what is wrong with them??? And instead of running from the room when your child starts gagging and you can see the vomit starting to come out of their mouth, you run TO them and push the bowl under their mouth, pull their hair back (because God forbid they get puke in their beautiful hair) and rub their backs. Because that's your baby. And you feel bad. You feel really bad.

It still sucks. Don't get me wrong. My stomach does flips and my heart races and I sweat like a fat guy running a 5K. But most of the distress I am feeling is just because I am worried about my child. I can't stand to see my children sick or hurt, and I would take it from them in a heartbeat. And after about the fifth time, sometimes I have to hold back the tears because I feel like I just can't take one more puke session. But I get through it. I always do. Because I love my kids.

Puke and all.

My 3-Year-Old Musical Prodigy/LOML

During times of stress and strife, I always look for things that make me feel good to help me get through it. Spending time with old friends lately has been really helping me. Reconnecting and getting to know who they have become over the years has really been a great pick-me-up and has not only cheered me up, but has expanded my support system. I really do believe that people come in and out of your life at certain times for a reason, and I think lately I have found some people that I was supposed to find, and for that, I am immensely grateful. But, the other thing that really has lifted me up lately has been something that I had seemingly neglected, and I am not quite sure why. My intense love of music. So I decided to change that.

My 3 1/2 year old daughter and I have been spending A LOT of time lately indulging in music. And by a lot, I mean, we spend almost all day listening to it, singing, dancing, and playing instruments, and I have been using most of my free time downloading new music to play for her. I must say, she has IMPECCABLE taste in music. So far, some of her favorites (other than The Jonas Brothers, Miley Cyrus and Demi Lovato of course) are:

-Johnny Cash
-The Pixies
-The Violent Femmes
-They Might Be Giants
-The Lemonheads
-The Beatles
-The Cars
-Hall and Oates
-The Flaming Lips
-Ben Fold's Five
-David Bowie
-Letters to Cleo
-Queen
-Squeeze
and Weezer

How can you not love a child that has an appreciation for such incredibly awesome music? She not only knows the words to many of these artists' repertoires, but can also rock out on guitar, and rock a killer kitchen dance party while we cook dinner or do dishes. It just makes life so much more fun.

I am really looking forward to moving ahead with one of my goals for 2010, which is for both her and I to learn how to play guitar so we can play and sing some of these songs together. I think it is an amazing thing to be able to share music with your children.

What do you share with your children, other than colds?



Check her out, rockin' to The Pixies. I think she might be the next Patti Smith, what do you think?

1-2-3 Magic, Thank You For Being You

We have been having quite the crisis around my house lately. No, not the one where I lost my jobs. No, not the one where I have lost my mind with stress and depression over having lived with my in-laws for five years, the entire length of my marriage. No, the one I am talking about is the one in which my 3 1/2-year-old daughter, the former angel baby, glorious sleeper and perfectly behaved little model child decided that being well behaved was, like, totally 2008 and she was going to do what all the "cool toddlers" were doing and make everybody's life miserable.

What a little joiner.

I've talked about it before; how the week before she turned 3 it was like a switch flipped and she became a different child. Well, that was nothing folks. Because that child was Cindy fucking-Loo-Hoo compared to the Damian clone that has been running our household for the past month or so. She's bossy, she's obnoxious, she's whiny, she's demanding. Oh, and did I mention she was abusive? Yeah, mommy was getting punched, hit, kicked, scratched, bitten, and pinched on a daily basis, and was about ready to run away from home and join some welcoming group of gypsies if it didn't come to an end.

But all this began right about when my hours increased with work. And, working from home, as you can imagine, this meant that less attention was paid to her. Also, I was more stressed and had less patience. This created a vicious cycle of her feeling ignored, acting out, me overreacting and losing my patience, her getting out of control, then me giving her her way just to get some peace so I could work.

Not good. Not good at all.

Then I lost my jobs. Bad news, yes. More stress? Yes. Toddler's behavior? Ten times worse. We all know that kids are like dogs and bees. They can smell fear. And she could tell something was wrong with the family and acted out accordingly. So last week was probably the worst week we had ever had and an all time low in my parenting career. But I got smart, and remembered what we did when my stepson was completely unmanageable as a toddler. We called on people much smarter, more experienced and less messed up than we were. Out came the parenting books.

The one parenting book that we found to be extremely helpful with my stepson, who happens to be ADHD and had severe speech and developmental delays and learning disabilities as a toddler (now only struggles with the ADHD, has a come a LONG way and doing really well) was 1-2-3 Magic. It was easy and effective and we ended up using it for years with him. We even used a modified, watered down version of the technique of it up until now with our daughter, but had gotten away from being completely consistent, which is key with this program. So I made a command decision this week, that I was going to get the new edition of the book, read it cover to cover and devote myself to carrying it out and making a positive change in our household.

I forgot how hard the first few days were. I felt like a zookeeper in a crazy zoo full of psychotic animals who won't stay in their cages. One, two, three, time out. One, two, three, time out. One, two, three, time out. All. Day. Long.

Good thing I was out of a job.

Day 2 wasn't much better. We spent most of the day counting and putting her in time out. But she seemed to understand the system better and would anticipate the third count and know she was going to time out and wish she hadn't pushed her limits. This was promising. It gave me hope for Day 3. And at least I got 3 minutes of peace every time I put her in time out in my bedroom about 50 times a day which equals approximately 150 minutes of peace for mommy. That's not bad for a mom who has not been getting ANY peace for months. I savored it.

Day 3 (yesterday) yielded much better results. It started off on shaky ground, and she was in time out within 30 minutes of waking up, but then she went to preschool and came home a different child. She didn't get a time out ALL AFTERNOON. Yes, she got to 2 quite a few times, but never got to 3. And there were a few times she said out loud, "if I get to 3, I get a time out," almost like a little toddler mantra, reminding herself to behave, and not only was it adorable, but it was a perfect little internalizing tool for self monitoring. I almost cheered out loud when I heard her say it.

So I think we are going to be OK. I know it isn't the end of the road. I know we are still going to have a lot of tough days, and she may regress to her rotten behavior and we will have to start all over again, but at least I know I have a plan. I know what to do.

And as a wise man once said, knowing is half the battle.

This Little Piggy Went to Market, This Little Piggy Stayed Home...With Swine Flu

OK, I am officially freaked out.

I was remaining so calm and level headed about the whole swine flu epidemic, and wasn't giving into the mass panic that the media seemed hell bent on creating on the outbreak. I decided to give my kids the vaccine, and even when the doctor's office called me the day before their appointment and told me they were out and did not have any idea whether they would be getting anymore, I still didn't get nervous. But now, it has hit close to home, and it is now safe to say that I am worried.

My cousin's daughter, who we trick or treated with, hugged, kissed, and shared air with all night Friday and who hung out with my kids all day yesterday, has H1N1. She was diagnosed this morning and since it is contagious for up to 24 hours before symptoms begin, we may have been exposed and my kids were definitely exposed.

Ugh.

This is all I need right now. I am already up half the night unable to sleep because of all my anxieties about money, work and getting our house done. Now I get to have scary visions of my whole household coming down with swine flu, totally disrupting whatever semblance of balance we currently have. I know that most people only get a mild version, and that most people who get really sick or die have pre-existing conditions that make them at-risk, but I have to admit, I AM FREAKING OUT.

I thought maybe we would float through this pandemic like immunity rock stars, that maybe, just maybe, the universe had decided that we had enough shit on our plates and they might let this shit storm slide. My fingers are crossed. I am saying a novena and doing a Wiccan spell tonight. And I am going out to buy a CASE of Purell tomorrow. I will BATHE my children in it if I have to.

You better watch out Piggy Flu. You don't know who you're messing with. A mommy scorned is NOT one to mess with.

Not Even Close To Wordless Wednesday: Good News/Bad News

OK, so we will start with some good news. My daughter started dance class on Monday and she LOVES it. Here she is showing off some of her sweet moves:

But now we move on to some bad news. My debit card got hacked and some loser scumbag asshat charged about $250 worth of Boos Mobile minutes and Asian food using it. Thankfully, I found the first charge last Friday night and called immediately so it could have been much worse. Also, thankfully, I did not have much money in there so they couldn't make any big purchases. One of the only times when being broke is a good thing. But what really sucked was that I was planning on buying some Jonas Brothers tickets for me and my daughter, and since it was going to take seven days to get my money back and the concert is this weekend, I was pretty sure that dream was down the toilet. HOWEVER, a little angel who restored my faith in humanity made it possible. So, yes, the next piece of good news is...

My little girl and I are taking a girls road trip and going to The Jonas Brothers this weekend!!!!!!!!!

We are just a little bit excited. And by just a little bit, I mean that she has woken up every morning this week asking if it's time to go see The Jonas Brothers. And I might be putting quite a bit of thought into what to wear and how to do my hair so I don't look like an old, desperate cougar amongst all the screaming tween girls. But no matter what, we are going to have a blast, because they really do put on an awesome show and live music is always AWESOME.

Ok, now for some more bad news. Yesterday I started getting sick. So I have been pumping myself full of fluids, taking Vitamin C and Zinc and hubby came home and made me chicken soup last night. So I am working very hard on getting better by Saturday so I am able to fully enjoy the Jonas Brothers experience.

Good news! The Sex and The Suburbs blog is going to launch next week! I know, I know, you just can't contain yourselves! So Monday, I will be posting a link to the very first Sex and The Suburbs post at its new home, and I expect all of you to come, read, comment and get in on the discussions. I really need you. And you. Yes, you too. Don't try to hide over there in the corner, I see you. And I need you too.

So, I will end on that positive note, instead of the other piece of bad news I have cause it's really not THAT bad and I am all about looking on the bright side. Heh.

Happy Wednesday!

A Day Late And a Dollar Short

This summary is not available. Please click here to view the post.

Learning From Our Mistakes

"It was just a mistake!"

This is what my daughter now immediately responds with when she does something to get in trouble, such as turn her Playdough bucket upside down, thus covering the livingroom floor in little pieces of dried up playdough and gazillions of little plastic molds and cookie cutters or squirting her juice box creating a six inch stream of juice, or as she just did literally five seconds ago, eating half a bottle of fluoride free toddler toothpaste.

Apparently she has figured out that, in this touchy feely age of parenting in which we are raising our spawn, "everyone makes mistakes" and they are always forgiven. So now wreaking havoc on the household is not, in fact, the acts of a depraved, heathen-esque toddler, but just the mis-steps of a misguided, misunderstood little girl. But because she is sweet, says she is sorry and calls her acts of depravity "mistakes," it's OK and Mommy is going to say "Oh honey, don't worry, everyone makes mistakes."

Unfortunately, this Mommy responds with putting her in time out with a puzzled look on her face as she screams "But Mommy, it was just a mistake!!!"

So how do you explain to a 3-year-old that there is a difference between doing something undesirable without the intent to create chaos and doing something naughty, all the while knowing quite well that it's naughty but then backpedaling by using the "mistake" excuse? A mistake is something you shouldn't have done, correct? In her mind, it's all the same. On one hand, my daughter is very, very smart, but on the other hand, she is still 3. And 3-year-olds subscribe to their own brand of logic that is not easily penetrated by adult rationalization.

So I guess until the day that I can sit her down and explain the difference between intentional actions and unintentional actions, I suppose she is just going to have to learn from these "mistakes." Perhaps she will see a trend in the fact that she gets in trouble for hitting her brother in the face and she doesn't get in trouble when she accidentally spills her cup of juice. And maybe one of these days she will remember how much trouble she got into for pouring Mommy's coffee on her laptop and realize that that is one mistake she does not want to make again.

And in the meantime, I will not be keeping any liquids anywhere near my laptop when my daughter is in the vicinity. See, I can learn from my mistakes too.

Summer, Where Are You Going? Get Back Here...

Is anyone else incredulous that it is going to be August in a mere four days? I mean, really, where did the summer go? I am freaking out about the fact that in just over a month, it is going to be time to send my stepson to third grade and my 3-year-old to (GULP) pre-school. There is school shopping to be done, schedules to get back on track and anxieties to be soothed (specifically mine). I am not sure about this whole "letting go" concept and have severely mixed emotions about sending my baby off to be taken care of by strangers. She has never been to day care and never looked after by anyone other than family, so this is going to be a big transition for her. And especially for mommy.

I know she will be fine. She is dying to go and talks every day about going to school. She regularly gets her Dora The Explorer backpack on and tells me "today's the day to go to school." But my heart sinks every time I think about dropping her off with her little backpack and having to drive away home, without her. But another part of me is thrilled to have a few hours a week to be able to get work done without the constant toddler chatter in my ear and the ever present sounds of various cartoon characters on television in the background. I may actually get to sit in silence and work without interruption, and that is a beautiful thing.

But what if she doesn't like it? What if there is a mean kid in her class that takes her toys and pulls her hair and she cries for me, and I am not there? Intellectually, I know that these are all things that every small child may deal with in their first experiences at school, but emotionally, it terrifies me. Right now I am the one to kiss her boo-boos and hug her when she is sad. She relies on me for everything from taking her to the potty to getting her something to drink. And soon I will be passing those responsibilities over to someone else that I do not know. Can I go with her? Please?

They might just have to forcibly remove me from the room on the first day. And maybe on the second too. However, on the third day, I might--just might--go get some coffee and work on getting over it--totally alone.

Yes, that might be nice.

We'll Sleep When We're Dead

My 3-year-old has decided that sleep is for losers.

Because for the past three nights, she has woken up anywhere from three to five times during the night, each time staying awake for hours at a time, crying and screaming hysterically. She needs to go potty. I go bring her to the potty and put her bad in bed, but she wants me to stay with her and cries when I go back to bed. Then she cries that she has to go potty AGAIN 10 minutes later, and when I don't come get her, it turns into screams of terror because she thinks there is a monster in her room. When that goes unanswered, she tries the potty tactic again, and then starts with "it's too dark in my room!" despite the nightlight right next to her bed that illuminates the whole room.

I lay in my bed, listening to her anguish, my stomach in knots and my heart breaking with each wail. I do everything in my power to keep myself in the bed and not upstairs to rescue her from her room and bring her to my bed where she will find peace. When she finally ends up in complete hysterics, I go up to try to soothe her and convince her that she needs to sleep in her own bed and that she is keeping everyone awake with her crying. She asks me to spray the "monster spray" that we have especially for keeping fears away, so I do. She clings to me, pulls me to her bed and begs me to take her downstairs. I lay with her for a few minutes, stroking her cheek and running my fingers through her hair, and as I see her eyelids begin to droop, I ease myself out of the bed.

But then she wakes up and begins crying. And the cycle starts all over again.

This went on from 3 a.m. last night until 5:30 when I finally went and got her out of bed and let her sit on the couch and watch television. I just couldn't listen to her cry anymore. I feel like the worst mother ever, letting my kid cry rather than let her sleep in my bed, but I don't want to lose this fight. We want her to sleep in her own bed, and I know if we let her sleep in ours that she won't learn to feel safe on her own and it will be a bigger fight down the road to break the habit. But I have run out of tactics and know that I can't go on much longer like this. I am sleep deprived, frustrated and angry, which is not a good combination. I am having a hard time concentrating during the day and my patience is wearing thin because I am so tired.

I need some advice. Please, if you have any words of wisdom about toddlers and night waking, I would greatly appreciate you sharing it. We already do a soothing bedtime routine, she goes to bed nice and early, we spray lavender spray in the room to calm her and keep the "monsters" away, and she gets soothing music. When she wakes up, I let her cry unless she needs to go the the bathroom, and then I go bring her to the bathroom and put her back in bed. I soothe her, tell her there is nothing to be afraid of and that mommy and daddy are right downstairs and she is safe. Then I leave her to her crying until she gets too hysterical and if I think she is really getting out of control, I go back to check on her and soothe her a bit more. Is there anything else I can try? Should I completely ignore her crying and never go see to her unless she is sick or hurt? What else can I do?

Please help. I know there is probably no magic answer for this problem, but if you have any suggestions or things that have worked for you and your children, I would love to hear it.

Thank you from this very tired mommy.

The Sound of Silence

As I sit here this morning, with a fantastic cup of coffee at my right and my laptop at my fingertips, I am enjoying something that I very rarely have the pleasure of enjoying.

Silence.

We take it for granted, don't we? Just being able to sit in peace and quiet, allowing thoughts to come in and out of our heads in a complete evolution, without the interruption of a whine, a cry or a call for help. There were days many years ago when I would enjoy silence for hours at a time, and would usually try to fill the silence with music, television or conversation. Now I yearn for it, and bask in it when I am lucky enough to be surrounded by it.

In other words, thank you, my sweet, darling daughter, for sleeping late this morning.

Silly Questions

At swimming class today, my 3-year-old daughter was swimming and having a grand old time. Her swim instructor and I got to talking and I told her how she had been playing her new guitar that we got her in San Diego non-stop and that she had told us of her new desire to be a rockstar. To prove to her that she had, indeed, said this, I asked her "Baby Girl, what are you going to be want you grow up?"

She looked at me like I was the 3-year-old and had just asked the most ridiculous question she had ever heard. I repeated myself, thinking maybe she hadn't heard the question, to which she sighed, rolled her eyes and replied matter-of-factly:

"A grown up."

The look on her face clearly said "Mom, you ask the silliest questions, what do you think I am going to grow into, an aardvark?"

I laughed about this all the way home.

9 Years Ago Today...

My stepson pushed his way into this world.

A year later he pushed himself into my world, and it has never been the same.

Happy birthday Big Boy. Thank you for changing my life.

Love,
Mimmy

My Sweet, Perfect Daughter...Kinda

This summary is not available. Please click here to view the post.

Choking on My Phlegm: A Whiny Rant About the Injustice of Motherhood

I woke up this morning (at approximately 2:10 a.m. by my husband groping me, but that's another story) with that heavy, rattly feeling in my chest and a tickle in my throat that made tears well up in my eyes. I still had sex with my husband, cause I am an awesome wife like that, but then quickly realized after the randy act that I was coming down with something.

Grrr.

Doesn't the universe realize that moms just do NOT have the time to get sick? That the rollercoaster that is our life does not slow down nor come to a complete stop EVER, not even when we are hacking up a lung and having fever dreams right out of Trainspotting?

The alarm went off at 7 a.m., just like it always does, but my head inexplicably felt like it weighed 50 pounds (as opposed to the typical 30 that it usually feels like at 7 a.m. on a weekday). I dreaded climbing out of the safe, warm haven of my sheets and blankets and the memory foam mattress topper that hugs me and makes me feel like I am sleeping in my very own cocoon. I sniffed and realized that the oxygen did not travel through my nostrils like it should and I groaned. I was definitely getting sick. How I longed for the days when I could roll over, pick up the phone, call in sick and go back to sleep for the rest of the morning. But there is no calling in sick for motherhood, a real flaw in the job description if you ask me. When a dad is sick, the mom gets up quietly and closes the door to the bedroom, shushing the children so that Daddy can get some rest because he is not feeling well. When a mom is sick, it's just another day.

So I get up. I throw my greasy, unwashed hair into a ponytail and attempt to wipe the sleep from my eyes. I blow about 2 pounds of snot from my nose and splash cold water on my hot, flushed face. And it's on with the lunch-making, breakfast preparing, bed changing (from the 2-year-old who wet the bed the night before), and the coffee brewing. The fighting with the 8-year-old to brush his teeth is that much more wearing on the old patience, and the 2-year-old's indecision on what to eat for breakfast is exhausting and makes the head pound harder in the ears.

But nobody notices. Nope, nobody asks "Mom, are you feeling OK?" "Do you need to sit down?" "Can I get you anything?"

No, nobody notices at all. It is just another day.

Which means I guess I have done my job well.

I think it is time for a raise.

No More Poop Under My Fingernails. And How is This Sad?

It is sad because the reason I won't get poop on my fingernails anymore (or at least as often, cause you never know what could happen, especially when you're out of toilet paper. Don't judge me) is that my little baby, the larger, more talkative version of the tiny peanut that grew in my belly a mere three years ago, is now potty trained. I think. I mean, again, life is unpredictable, and the only thing more unpredictable than life is toddlers, so things could change, but I am pretty sure that she is going to be consistently evacuating like a big girl on the family throne from now on.

My heart hurts a little bit thinking that this is one of many steps that discontinue my daughter's need of my services, and I almost can't breathe when I think that next it might be that she won't need me to dress her or read her bedtime stories or give her bubble baths with mountains of foam and plastic tubby toys. The day is not so far away that she is going to take her cute little underwear butt to school and share the day with some other woman (or man) who will take over my position of head teacher. She may even think this teacher is pretty with her long, blonde hair and pretty blue eyes and think how much smarter she is than her dear old mom. She will make friends that, all of a sudden, are so much more worthy of her time and understand her deepest, darkest fears and emotions more than I ever could, and she will fall asleep at night anxious for the next day so she can return to her friends and the sanctuary of learning at school.

I fold her miniscule underwear which looks like it should be on a baby doll and finger the scalloped edges with my shaking fingers, imagining that in a few short years, I may not be able to tell the difference between her underwear and mine, and that she may rifle through my drawers frantically looking for a clean blue shirt for Spirit Day at school. Then there is the day she realizes that the rosebuds gracing her chest are blooming into roses and she needs more womanly structures in her underwear drawer that will support her into womanhood. No more will she race to the potty to avoid an accident, but she will yell to me as she slams the door, "Mom, leave me alone, I need some privacy!" until she one day finds something strange on her underpants and needs me momentarily to transition her from girlhood to a potential mother. But that won't last. Just like her needing me now to help her pull her pants up and down and wipe her tiny bum won't last mere moments longer.

No more diapers. No more baby powder. No more bum rash. And then no more stepstool and no more me.

Alone, in the bathroom, she is growing up. Before my eyes for now. But soon, I won't be witness to it all.

No more diaper changes. So many other changes to come. I hope I am invited to some of them.

The Shower Scene

No, this post is not about what you are thinking--you dirty people.

Yesterday my 2-year-old daughter took her very first shower--with mommy of course. Here is a list of things you would have overheard from my daughter had you been standing outside the shower stall.

"There's water in the shower!" (Thank goodness, I thought. Otherwise we were really wasting time in there.)

"Don't drop the soap Mommy!" (I am pretty sure she was just trying to be helpful, but I couldn't help but think of prison movies...)

"Your bum is wet. Your hairy bum is wet too." (I took care of that for you honey, don't worry.)

"What's that on your belly?" (I had to clarify this one, it could have been many things: stretch marks, fat or a tattoo. Turns out it was the tattoo.)

"You have a lot of tachoos!" (Yes, I do. And a lot of fat and stretch marks--thank goodness she didn't point that out as well.)

and finally, my favorite--

"Did you pee pee in the shower Mommy?" (For the record, I did not. But I can't speak for her).

*Just another edition of the Adventures of The Wise (Young) Mommy, brought to you by Soap on a Rope, helping mommies and prisoners worldwide since 1962.

**For the record, I have no idea when Soap on a Rope was invented. But anyone who actually knows will win a very special prize...

Do You Like Me? Circle Yes or No

Last night my 8-year-old son, lover of all things boy and self proclaimed hater of girls, girl cooties or anything associated with girls, did something that I wasn't expecting for at least another four years or so...

He called a girl on the telephone.

(Insert dramatic soap opera music here.)

Yes people, he has a new "friend" and her name is Janie, which I think is just the cutest little name ever. They both love Pokemon and Nintendo DS and she has been helping him "level up" in the game, which I think is fantastic, because he is already not afraid to let a woman tell him what to do. The first time he was talking about "his friend Jane," I thought I must have heard him wrong and said "Your friend, James?" which was met with one of those stares your children give you when the subtext is "Oh my God, parents are so stupid." "No, Mimmy, JANE, as in a GIRL'S name." I tried to hide my shock, not wanting to make a big deal out of it and make him feel uncomfortable while in my head I wanted to jump up and down and sing "Big Boy and Janie sittin' in a tree..." because yes, I am all immature like that sometimes. Whatever, I am a lot of fun at parties.

So he has been going on and on about his new pal for the past few weeks, and a couple of weeks ago he said he told her that he would meet her at the store up the street, because she said she would be there buying something for her brother and he needed her to "show him something" on his Nintendo DS. I thought this was cute, but wasn't about to get the toddler all bundled up and both kids in the car to go to the store where this 7-year-old little girl "said" she and her mother would be at "around 4." So today he came home with her phone number.

He placed it on my laptop table and said "I got Jane's number."

I looked at the tiny scrap of paper with the little girl handwriting, the 3 written backwards, the pencil scratches uneven and crude, and it made me nostalgic and teary eyed. Memories came flooding back of the first boys I had crushes on that I dared to call, giggly and nervous, my stomach full of butterflies. I couldn't quite believe that he was actually going to call this girl on the phone, and even more so that he was so nonchalant about it. Which reminded me, again, that the difference between boys and girls is so much more far-reaching than their genitalia. In his mind, he was calling this girl to have her help him with something; he has a need for her in his life that satisfies his interest. But I couldn't help wondering if Janie was sitting impatiently by the phone at her house waiting for him to call her, with higher hopes of her first glimmer of romance.

"I told her I would call her RIGHT when I got home from school," he said quickly. He went in the other room and got the phone to dial. I sat there, just staring, disbelieving. He has never even called up one of his male friends on the phone before, so this was a barrage of firsts for me to be witnessing. And it was just so adorable watching his face transform from calm to nervous when someone picked up and he stammered out "Is Jane there?" Then, when she got on the phone, he said "Hi, it's B., you know, from school?"

My mind fast forwarded to years to come when I would be picking up the phone to various pimpled, awkward boys and girls calling my house to talk to my kids, who wouldn't be kids anymore, but teenagers, young adults, and then full fledged grown people. One day those boys and girls would drive cars and come pick up my children to take them places where parent's eyes cannot see and where secrets would be created and innocence would be lost. I think my heart broke just a little bit as I looked at the squarer features of his 8-year-old face, which would continue to age until barely a semblance of the child he once was would remain. I'm not ready for this, I thought. This is just the first step, and the ones to come would be even harder. How can I let him go?

He began arranging a play date with Jane to go to her house. And when he asked if it was OK with me, I hesitated for just a moment before saying yes. This time, he is just going to a friend's house to play. I am not losing him yet, I tell myself. This is just the first step of many, but it is one we have to take. I can't stop him from becoming a man; it is out of my hands.

I talked to Jane's mom and handed the phone back to B. so he could talk to his friend again. They chatted for a few minutes and then I heard him say "OK, I'll call you later."

And I smiled. Because somewhere up the street, there is a little girl, sitting next to the phone, waiting for him to call. Just like I sat next to the phone so many years ago for the call from the boy who would be the one to hold my hand for the first time. And that's where it all begins...none of us can stop it. Today it is Nintendo DS and Pokemon, superheroes and cartoons...

someday, it will be love...

More Reader Suggestions: Fun With Bodily Excretions

Elizabeth over at Parenting Pink Blog suggested that I talk about poop because it's ALWAYS funny. I tend to disagree that it is 100% always funny, since I have run into some rather unpleasant experiences involving poop, however, I do agree that MOST of the time, it's funny after the fact. As parents, many of us have run across these particular situations, and there is a phenomenon I would like to explore here that encompasses our gradual desensitization to things of a disgusting nature with or without the involvement of bodily fluids/excretions.

10 years ago, I didn't mind changing diapers or having a baby spit up on me. But now, after seven years of parenting, my tolerance for the grody and revolting has skyrocketed to the point that sometimes it is mildly disturbing. Who would ever have thought that I would think nothing of picking up a nugget of poop that has rolled out of a diaper onto the floor and sinking a two pointer with it into the trash can--

SWOOSH--

--And then being proud of myself for making the shot, not completely sickened that I just PICKED UP POOP with my hand. I mean, yeah, I'll wash my hand and everything, but there's no need for the HAZ MAT suit. It's just baby poop, right?

When my stepson was almost 2 years old, he decided it was a good idea to redecorate his room. With paint? No. Markers? No. You guessed it, he artistically covered his entire room (and himself) in sticky, disgusting POO.

This was my first truly vulgar experience as a parent and all I can remember was stepping into his room to get him from his nap, the smell wafting to my nose and then the scene before me registering sickeningly in my brain. POOP EVERYWHERE.

Yes, people, I cried. Literal tears. Like. A. Baby.

I had no idea what to do in such a situation. Do I tend to the baby slathered head to toe in fecal matter or first attack the new brown decor of the room? Could I do this without throwing up and how exactly did I accomplish this without getting any on myself or anywhere else in the house?

Needless to say, an hour later, I was still crying as I scrubbed the poop out of the carpet and off the walls while the baby sat in an empty bathtub, naked as a jaybird, completely pleased with how much of a reaction he had gotten from his young, inexperienced stepmother.

It almost made me run screaming from the apartment to never return.

But I stayed. And I experienced a plethora of even more repugnant events and excretions, so that by the time I had my daughter five years later, I could deal with all kinds of bodily fluids without so much as a cringe.

For example, do YOU know what to do when your kid's nose is running and you don't have a tissue? Why, you have two perfectly good hands, why not use those? Yes, my friends, you wipe those boogers with your hand and then use a good hand sanitizer to kill the germs. That's why God gave us hands, you know. Moms have to be resourceful and use whatever's "handy."

And now I can't even imagine the amount of poop that has been on my person in the past few years, and I don't blink an eye. Poop on my hands, under my fingernails, and even an unfortunate incident in which it ended up in my hair. Big deal. I have had worse things in my hair, if you know what I mean...

Finally, we come to the dreaded of all the bodily fluids, the mother of excretions and I think you know what I am talking about. Yes--BARF. My least favorite thing in the WHOLE world. Literally. Like, my personal hell would be vomiting in a cave full of vomit. I have a PHOBIA people. I am not even kidding.

BUT...

when it comes to my daughter, my flesh and blood, I will cup my hands under her mouth to catch the puke coming out to avoid it splashing on her clothes.

UN-FUCKING-BELIEVABLE.

That is how much I love my daughter and how programmed I have become to managing her bodily fluids and excretions. I won't even think twice. I am the commander of the poop, the master of the vomit, the goddess of boogers.

I handle it all, and most of the time, it does not phase me one bit.

So if you have learned one thing from this whole repellent diatribe, it is this:

If you ever meet me in person--you might not want to shake my hand.

Just sayin.

Monsters

My little one, usually so unafraid, so fearless, bold and brave, had monsters in her room last night.

This was our first foray into a fear of the imaginary. At 2 1/2, she has always embraced anything mysterious, scary or creepy. But, the time has come for her imagination to run off with thoughts of the unknown lurking in the shadows and threatening the safe haven of her bedroom.

It started with a little voice on the baby monitor that, of course, immediately woke me from a deep slumber to keen my ears for whatever her need may be.

"Oh man," she said quietly. "There's a monster in my room."

I smiled inwardly, because it was more of a statement than a complaint. I lay there, in wait, fully expecting her to fall back to a deep, sound sleep. But instead of this, she continued to babble on and on about the monster in her room. She told her stuffed puppy dog. She told her Nunny bunny, and I listened attentively, not paying any mind to the fact that it was one in the morning. But, just as the monitor went mute and I was beginning to drift off again, I heard the wails of my baby girl and immediately shot up in bed.

"Do you want me to get her?" my husband asked sleepily as he rolled over in the bed.

I listened to her cry, analyzing the tone and vibrato, deciding whether this was a "real" cry or a temporary disturbance in her sleeping pattern that would resolve itself quickly. As the volume and urgency increased and she began to shriek, I nodded my head.

"Yes, go get her."

I waited in the bed for him to bring me my baby, my heart aching and my stomach turning over, just hoping that I would be able to give her whatever it was she needed. As soon as she saw me, she laughed with relief and the crying subsided enough for her to say "Mommy, there was a monster."

She sat next to me on the bed in the darkened room, her little body shaking with fear. I had never seen her so frightened and my heart jumped into my throat. Her eyes were big, darting around the room, searching for a telltale sign of the intruder that had scared her so. I pulled her into my arms and ran my fingers through her silky hair.

"There are no monsters, baby," I said softly. "Mommy and Daddy are here."

"Oh, Mommy and Daddy," she replied. "the monster was in my room."

I pulled her tighter, feeling her shallow, uneven breaths, as though she was trying desperately to catch up with them. I stroked her back and kissed her head. "No monsters here," I whispered through her hair. She shook and looked around, finally finding my face in the darkened room. And finally, she began to relax.

We lay there in the bed for what seemed like hours, but was in reality about 30 minutes. She fit in my arms like an extension of myself and eventually our breathing became even and in synch. But we didn't fall asleep. I listened to each breath and cough and was acutely aware of each shift in my arms. She sucked her thumb and every now and then reached out to touch my face or my arm, as if she was checking to make sure I was still there, that I hadn't dissolved into the shadows or that the unseen beast hadn't emerged and carried me away. Each time, I was there, and she breathed a sigh of relief. Eventually, I felt her turn towards me and she whispered my name.

"Mommy," she said. "I'm all done being scared."

I pulled her closer, because I knew what was coming next. "Are you ready to go back to your bed?" I asked, and she nodded.

I took her back to her bed, knowing that tonight, I had forced out the monsters and kept her safe. But there was a part of me that was more frightened than she was, because this was just the first of many monsters she would encounter in her long life to come.

I just hoped I could protect her from all of them forever. And although I knew that this was a futile desire, that I wouldn't be able to save her from every frightening experience or heartache, I knew that there would not be one day that I didn't use all that I had to fight for her. She completed me in a way that I never thought was possible and brought me more joy and unconditional love that I ever could have dreamed of existing in this world.

Those monsters don't know what they have coming to them. A mother's love is nothing to mess with.

Bring it on.

Halloween Antics

Well, I promised you pictures of my kids, but we were so busy hounding people for candy that we didn't get very many. However, here are a few so you get the general idea:

This is my son and goddaughter. She was some kind of witch-type thing and he was a combination of Batman, Spiderman and Darth Vader. I was pretty sure people weren't going to "get" his concept of a "mixed-up" super hero and that they were just going to think he was a little slow, but he thought it was pretty cool, so who am I to judge?

Here's my little monkey, off on her first actual Trick-or-Treating excursion. Notice the look on her face which says "It's already past my bedtime and I am overtired, but completely hopped up on sugar so HERE I GO TO GET MORE CANDY!" She ended up doing fantastic and she was SO incredibly excited; it just thrilled me to watch her experience it. Just the fact that she got to walk around outside in the dark was exciting to her. How can you beat that?

Here's a little bit of the aftermath. Now this face says "It's over?"

And here is my baby "reading" her Halloween card. THE cutest EVER!

There you have it! I have to go now so I can start working off the five pounds I have gained eating Halloween candy. Hope everyone had an awesome Halloween!