Dear Diary,
Once again, I find myself increasingly frustrated with the restraints placed upon me due to my age. I don't think that just because I am four it means I am incapable of making major decisions for myself, especially when I suspect those who are saying things like "YOU NEED TO EAT HEALTHY FOODS" often sneak m&m's when I'm not looking. (I can hear the distinct crinkling of wrappers and smell the chocolate-y goodness on their breaths, I swear I can.)
But really, I would like to discuss bedtime. Is there anything more restrictive, anything else designed so efficiently to strip me of my very basic rights of liberty and the pursuit of happiness?
No. No, there is not.
Apparently, I "used" to be a good sleeper. I hear my mom and dad talk about it. "Remember when he would take a nap, every day, from 1 to 3, and then go to bed at 8 and sleep until 7 in the morning?" my mom will sometimes say in wistful tones after she has forced me to lay back down for the 23rd time.
Yeah, I remember it myself, Mother. THAT WAS WHEN YOU USED TO PUT ME IN A BED WITH BARS ON IT.
I won the no-nap battle at the tender and precocious age of 2. Admittedly, though, winning this battle of no-naps often left me tired, and I would succumb to sleep around 6:30, and sleep heavily for 13 hours or more. Mom even started to like this better than naps - called it a "hell of a trade off" and got used to doing things like taking long baths, watching Law and Order: SVU and enjoying the evening in general. Lol.
Because I was still "such a good sleeper!" Mom didn't say much when I started to stay up until 7:00. And then 7:30. She would tell Dad "It's winter. He can't go outside and play like a maniac and wear himself out." Although I object to the term "maniac," I will agree that winter does curtail my intense activities, and may contribute to a later bedtime.
But then I wanted to stay up until 8:00 or maybe even 8:30, and Mom was like, "No."
That's it. Just "no."
And thus began our battle.
I usually begin by offering her reasonable excuses of why I can't really be expected to go to bed. I patiently explain that my pillows are dangerous, or that my eyes simply won't close - because they won't. I cannot be expected to control that. I offer to do chores for her, or get up to helpfully remind her to do her own chores. I try to convince her that I have an illness, such as iritis, which needs to be tended to immediately, or that I obviously cannot be expected to sleep without a very specific Hot Wheels, which, although I have 2,987 Hot Wheels, it's a specific make and model that I actually and truly need in order to sleep.
None of that has ever worked.
But lately, I'm pretty sure bedtime has become an even graver matter, and she doesn't understand, Diary. First of all, my bedroom may be awesome during the day, but after dark, it is the most dangerous place on earth. The toys that I love so much in the clear, shining light of day become threatening, unknown hulks of danger at night. They move. And there are, without a doubt, monsters in my closet. Giants, as well. My closet has long been a din of supernatural and super-terrible activity after sundown - that is an established fact.
If the doors are closed, I can hear them. I sit up in bed and scream, "MOM, I HEAR SOMETHING WRONG IN MY CLOSET! MOOOOM! I HEAR SOMETHING WROOOOONG!"
And so she slides open the doors (I have to hand it to her - she is very, very brave), and, of course, all the bad things flee momentarily. She'll leave the closet door open, but it's a sliding door, so only half of it can be open, and even with the light on, that is sometimes worse, and so I sit up in bed and scream, "MOM! MOM! I SEE SOMETHING! I SEE SOMETHING WRONG, MOM!"
And although this isn't a trick, per se, I have learned that timing can sometimes work in my favor. Early on in the night, when I can still hear Mom roaming around the house (probably eating secret m&m's), she responds to my desperate cries...but leaves me in bed until I finally pass out, probably from fear or some secret sleep trick the monsters do. But if I accidentally fall asleep with no fuss, and wake up to a silent house...or wake up when Daddy's alarm clock goes off in the middle of the night because of "work" - and then start in about monsters, she usually just stumbles into my room, all willy-nilly and banging into walls (she could consider opening her eyes, but who am I to criticize?) and either collapses into my bed (good) or picks me up and stumbles back into her bed (even gooder).
But last week she had an "idea." I'm sure others will agree that there is nothing quite as horrible as a mom with an "idea." She foisted me off on my Mina, talking all excited about "You get to go to the movies! Mina will get you popcorn! Yay, Mina and Bubby time!" and, like an idiot, I got all excited, too - not knowing that she was going to destroy my life while I was gone.
Diary, she wrecked my room.
Admittedly, the new design leaves me a lot more floor space, where I can build gigantic structures using every available clean piece of linen and then stash a massive number of kitchen utensils in them, but I also suspect that the reason there is more floor space is because there are less toys. I can't put my finger on what, exactly, has disappeared, but many, many things have, I am certain.
She also had the nerve to organize my things into categories that may make sense to her, but not to me. For example, she put all my Hot Wheels into one container. Why would she do that? She completely stripped me of the joy I get when randomly coming across a long-lost Hot Wheels when I least expect it. She also put all my tools into another box. I ask you, why would I need 4 hammers in one spot? Doesn't it make more sense to have them stashed in various places throughout my room, so that one is always handy?
And, worst of all, she had Dad remove the closet doors...which, I can see where she was going with this and all, but then she moved my bed so that it's partly in the closet. My books are "conveniently" located on one side, and a light, and a shelf that now holds all my stuffed animals that I love-love-love during the day but morph into menacing creatures with beady eyes that prompt me to demand Mom remove them nightly. It looks cute, I'm sure, all cozy and inviting...like, "Oh, come lay on me and look at books and maybe you'll get sleepy and sleep and sleep and sleeeeeeeeeeep."
Ugh.
What would make Mom think that placing my bed in the place where the monsters come from would be a good idea?!? This is a fail, even for her.
So the battle continues. Lately, my excuse has been "My bed smells like grease." I thought it was a good one - a few weeks ago, my dad "fried" something and my mom spent the next two days in a frenzy of cleaning and laundering, muttering that the whole place smelled like a bad fry-kitchen, and even opened up all the windows and we stayed outside so the place could "air out." But apparently she's the only one who has a sensitive enough nose to detect grease, because she didn't even bother to sniff my bedding, but said "I just washed everything yesterday. It does not smell like grease."
But I think it does, Diary. It smells like grease. And what does she say? "Breathe through your mouth and close your eyes, Justin Ryan."
Heartless.
I'm stumped for now, but I won't let this defeat me. She may have won the battle, but we are still at war.
Sincerely,
Junior
Because it's my brother's birthday, I thought I would share a story about him. Plus, this is probably the only birthday "gift" he's going to get from me.
We grew up in a farmhouse, outside of Smithville. We didn't farm it, though - the land surrounding it was rented out to a cattle farmer, but we were allowed to roam freely on the nearly 400 acres, and we did. We spent our summers fishing and hunting frogs and crawdads, catching tadpoles and being generally awesome.
Justin often roamed alone, armed with his BB gun and slingshot, coming home filthy and stinking and happy. He was a scrawny little kid, all wiry strength and unable to hold still for longer than 2 minutes, and I think he fancied himself as some sort of mix between Daniel Boone and the Karate Kid.
From our kitchen door, you could see out over the yard, beyond the chicken coop (which didn't house any chickens) and past the big pond...the land was parceled into separate pastures, delineated with strands of barbed wire that we had learned early to climb over or shimmy beneath.
And in the distance, we could see Justin, slowly trudging homeward...dragging something unrecognizable behind him. He would stop at each line of barbed wire, hop the fence, then patiently reach beneath it and pull whatever it was underneath it.
"What does he have?" my mother asked, a mixture of despair and resignation in her voice.
"I don't know," one of us said. "But whatever it is, it's big."
Even as he reached the last fence, exhaustion evident as he slowly climbed it, then bent over, seized hold of whatever he had been dragging, and gave it one final, triumphant tug into our backyard, we could see he was also elated.
"GUYS!" he yelled. "COME LOOK! I THINK IT'S FROM DINOSAUR TIMES!"
"Oh my God," Mom said, but the rest of us went running. Dinosaur times? We were in the middle of a childhood, being raised by a father who took us "treasure hunting," who helped us dig in forgotten places and pronounced every rail tie, piece of broken glass, old penny we found as possible treasure. It surprised us not at all that our youngest brother had, perhaps, stumbled upon something prehistoric.
He couldn't drag his bounty in further, so we met him at the fence line...and stopped before we got to close. Whatever it was, it was massive.
"Is it alive?" we asked, before getting any closer.
"I don't think so," he answered. "It hasn't moved."
Cautiously, we moved closer. It was a turtle of some sort, but much bigger than any turtle we had ever seen. It was, in fact, massive - even to kids who had grown up watching snapping turtles. In my child's eyes, it seemed like the biggest turtle ever. In reality, I would guess that it weighed around 80 pounds...nearly as much as the boy who had dragged it home, his skinny, mud-splattered arms still shaking with exhaustion. Along the massive spine of its shell ran rows of spikes, giving it a look that really was distinctly prehistoric.
(Due to my extensive research that I just did in 5 minutes with Google, I'm pretty sure it was an alligator snapping turtle, which has recently been granted the endangered status in our state. Which makes sense, because they are probably dinosaurs.)
"MOM! MOM! JUSTIN FOUND A DINOSAUR!" I screamed...half-exalting, half-tattling. Because finding a dinosaur was cool, but getting my younger brother in trouble for finding said-dinosaur was maybe even cooler.
I honestly don't remember if Mom came to look at it or not...but I do remember her saying that she would let Dad handle it. Not in a threatening way, but more in a "I have 4 kids and one of them just dragged home a gigantic dead turtle" way.
And so we waited for Dad, cautiously poking at the gigantic dinosaur turtle with sticks, because although it was probably dead, we all knew that a snapping turtle could take your fingers clean-off, and that if it bit, it wouldn't let go until it thundered. (Duh.) Eventually Justin dragged it up to the concrete pad behind the chicken house, where we could better appreciate its strangeness and size and possible prehistoric-ness.
When Dad came home, dressed in suit and tie, briefcase in hand, he followed his youngest son to look at his dinosaur. Patiently, he explained that although it was not prehistoric, it was still pretty awesome, and as big as it was, probably very, very old. Casually, he said, "You should keep the shell. It would be neat to have," and then he went inside.
Justin agreed - the shell would be neat to have. And so with one last, loving look at the 80-pound alligator snapping turtle that he had dragged up to the house, he went inside, as well, leaving it on the concrete pad.
For a few days, the turtle was forgotten. It was summer, and there were creeks to play in and ball games to go to, and the library to visit. We were busy.
And then, one evening, there was a smell when we pulled up the driveway. A smell we all knew, because we were country kids. It was a dead smell. But it was faint, and beyond maybe one of us saying "Something stinks," that was it.
And the next day, the smell was stronger. And the day after, stronger still.
Early morning, hot summer, we all ran out the backdoor...and then backed back into the house. The smell hit us full in the face, like a meaty smack. A rotten meaty smack. It had gone from a vague death smell to a stench that induced dry-heaving. "What is that?" we cried...except for Justin. I'm pretty sure Justin knew.
"Justin," Mom said calmly, "what did you do with your dead turtle?" which is one of those questions that sounds strange to ask, unless you have a son. It was like we all suddenly remembered that Justin had dragged an 80 pound turtle carcass up from the pastures...and no one had asked what he had done with it after.
"Dad said I could keep its shell," Justin said.
"What did you do with it?"
"It's behind the chicken coop."
"Oh my God."
Putting our shirts up over our mouths and noses, we made our way to the chicken coop. Even with covering, the smell was overpowering. (Seriously, if we had neighbors, the cops would have been called to investigate the origin of the stench.) And as we got closer, we could hear a buzzing.
And there it was. Belly-up, marinading in its own glory, covered with a thousand flies and emanating a death stench that brought tears to the eyes and our breakfast up our throats. Justin's dinosaur had gone from curiosity to monstrosity, too foul and rotten to now move out of the yard.
"What are we going to do?" Justin asked.
"I don't know. Hose it off, I guess," Mom said.
And so Justin spent several days dutifully pulling his shirt over his nose and dragging the hose behind the chicken coop, where he sprayed his rotten dinosaur. I am not certain that this helped or not, or if just...you know, spread the turtle around.
And he never got to keep the shell, either. After days of serving as the bowl that held 80 pounds of soupy, rotten, frothy turtle carcass, I think the stench somehow permeated the shell. No amount of hosing could rid it of the stink.
When my sister became a mother, we all became aware one evening, sitting on our parents' deck, laughing and talking the same way our own parents did with our aunts and uncles, watching my sister's little ones tumble around and chase after each other, that we were now the adults. It was a heady feeling, a sweet one, too, to think that our children would grow up hearing our laughter in the background as they played. Justin himself became a father just a few months ago, to a beautiful baby boy, whom he named for our father. To no one's surprise, Justin is a great daddy, hands-on and involved and absolutely smitten with his tiny son, and he gave our family one more child to throw into the growing mix of kids to run around playing, while we sit on one of our decks and laugh.
My siblings and I could tell you a thousand stories...which I know makes us exactly like any other set of siblings, because that's what makes the brother-sister bonds so deep. It's not that you have common history, it's that you are each other's actual history. You share a code, a secret language, a blood-deep bond that goes beyond friendship and beyond family and is a mixture of both, and that mixture makes it both stronger than just friendship, and just family. It's the privilege of being able to say something like, "Remember the turtle" and know, at that moment, everyone is briefly assaulted by the memory of that smell, and hearing our small brother's triumphant yell of "I THINK IT'S FROM DINOSAUR TIMES!"
Being told "You're a good mom" makes me feel good...but it also makes me feel awkward, sometimes. Mostly because I worry that the reason someone is telling me this is because of the very limited view I show of motherhood through facebook statuses and carefully chosen videos and pictures. Because, like everyone else on social media, I am quick to share the funny moments, the moments when my son says something brilliant or quirky, the pictures we took of our son playing at the pumpkin patch, the videos of him singing country music.
I also have a video of him pulling down his pants and running backwards, butt-first at the camera while he yells "YOU ARE BAD-LOOKING!" Not sure why I haven't posted that one yet...just kidding. I totally know why. Because it's a video of my kid, pulling down his pants, running butt-first at the camera while screaming "YOU ARE BAD-LOOKING!" That's why.
My mom said once that it would have been so amazing to have all the information at the few touch of a keystrokes when she was a mom with young children, rather than having to call the pediatrician fifty times or rely on an old medical book of symptoms and remedies, and her well-worn copy of Doctor Spock. And she's right - if I am having an issue with Junior (and God knows, we have a ton of issues with Junior), there are millions of answers right there on my computer. And that can be really helpful - the way I potty-trained him, for example, was something I got directly off of a website, and you know what? It worked like a charm and was something I would have never thought of myself.
But one of the reasons I was so stressed about potty training him was because every child his age had long been potty trained, it seemed...and I knew this because of the internet. So it's kind of a double-edged sword, sometimes. And to me, the fact that my son was still happy in diapers at the age of three reflected on one of my failures as a mother.
Luckily, I'm confident enough in the person my son is and is in the process of becoming that, for the most part, I never got sucked into the whole "Oh my God, so-and-so's child is doing this. My child is not doing that." I call it mompetition, and it does run rampant on social media. But I am not always confident enough in myself to not be sucked into the other type of mompetition - where moms themselves compete, rather than their kids.
Junior was pretty average - he walked a little early, talked a little late. When we ran into a friend of ours, whose little girl is the same age but was highly verbal, listening to her chatter like a big kid and my son's one-word responses didn't make me worry, it made me laugh. I know children my son's age who can write their names - my son cannot. Does it worry me? Yes and no.
Yes, it worries me because maybe it's my fault that he can't write his name. When I try to help him with letters, he usually ends up screaming that he hates letters, and then I get all paranoid that I am setting him up to hate reading forever, and I back off, but maybe I shouldn't, maybe I should think of some new way to approach this, maybe I should google this shit and figure something out.
No, it doesn't worry me because I am absolutely certain that he will write his name in time. He only just turned four. There is plenty of time. He can't write his name, but he is bright and imaginative, and very much within normal cognitive ranges for his age.
And although the stuff I throw out on social media is true, and indicative of the kind of child my son is, and indicative of the kind of mom I am...it's only part of the story. It's only somewhat indicative. The internet allows us to edit, and although I think we're all aware that we're only seeing a narrow slice of someone's life - a narrow, carefully selected slice of someone's life - it still sometimes leaves me feeling inadequate, and less than truthful. Even knowing that the mom who posted a picture of their child eating carrot sticks dipped in hummus may have bribed the kid into trying it with m & m's, I am still sometimes envious as I hand my son yet another package of fruit snacks. (But they are made with real fruit juice!)
But when I started my blog, besides just having a funny, creative outlet, I also wanted to be truthful. Because I am certain that most of what I feel and do and think is pretty common to what other moms feel and do and think. Because sometimes, even after I hit the "share" button on facebook, in my head, I add another line that both completely undermines and explains what I have just posted.
So here are some unedited facebook statuses:
Early morning snuggles with my boy...because he woke up at 2 a.m. with wet pants and it was easier to change him and then take him back to my bed, because sleep.
Taking my son to the park...because we've done nothing but sit on the couch in our pajamas and watch Garfield on Netflix for four hours straight.
Ice cream sundaes for an after-dinner treat! And by "after-dinner," I mean that technically, because the dinner hour has passed, not because my son actually ate anything substantial for dinner. Because he didn't. Again.
Friday night movie and popcorn date with my son...which makes this exactly like every other Friday night, because my husband goes to work at 3 a.m. every Saturday morning, and what other option do I have?
Love rocking my boy to sleep...because it makes me feel better after I completely lost my shit when he dumped out all the utensils and gouged the linoleum with a fork, which I didn't realize he was doing exactly because I was reading on my Kindle and even though I heard him doing crap that I knew he probably shouldn't be doing, I really, really wanted to finish that chapter. And we both cried.
Awwww. Random flowers from my husband...and by "random," I mean that last night I cried on his shoulder for twenty minutes and got snot all over his shirt because lately I feel nothing like a woman and a wife and only a mom and a housekeeper, and I don't feel pretty, and did he still think I was pretty, and I burned the meatloaf and I hate meatloaf now forever and it probably scared the hell out of him and I hope to God he didn't use the credit card to buy the flowers.
I don't think any of those moments make me a bad mom or wife, anymore than I believe that the edited versions that actually make it to facebook make me a good one. It's just that when someone tells me I'm a good mom, I hope they know that these moments exist. In fact, they are abundant.
I am not, by any means, trying to be all self-righteous and say "Don't post the good shit unless you are willing to post the bad!" That's not what social media is for - I get that - and, just like everyone else, what I post on facebook is selected with care. It gives us a unique opportunity to edit our lives, and a platform to capture the good and the sweet and the funny, and to share those moments with our friends and family. And I want to know about your good, your sweet, and your funny moments, just as I want to share my own. I just want to admit to the unsaid things that often follow (with mental ellipses) after I post a status, because I have a feeling we all have explanations behind certain statuses that would probably put a whole new perspective on things, a perspective that is neither good or bad, but simply honest.
(One more example...the whole reason I wrote this blog? Because my house is completely a wreck - and I mean a complete and utter disaster, with dried macaroni noodles under the kitchen table and Play Doh crumbs all over the living room rug - and writing this seemed much more pleasurable than doing anything about that.)
Once upon a time, a thousand years ago, I asked my mother a simple question about something I had seen on that paragon of virtuous comedies - Roseanne.
"Mom...what's masturbation?" I asked. I was maybe eleven or so.
"Oh, you should ask your dad about that," she replied, quickly and without hesitation.
And I did.
I will spare you my father's pained, difficult, drawn-out, beyond awkward answer, but you do have to understand that, for my father, in his world, nothing related to sex existed when pertaining to his daughters. Nothing. That meant every movie or show that came on that had a sexual reference or joke was met with stony silence and an unmoving face from my father, my sister and myself - even when we were well into our twenties. No eye contact, ever. In fact, when my sister became pregnant with her first child, she was nervous to tell our dad about it, because then he would know that she had been doing "it" - despite the fact that she had been married for two years and chances were, he may have already suspected. But that was our family.
Why did my mom tell me to ask my dad? Because she's my mom, and I'm sure that, as I walked out of the room to find my father and ruin his entire week, she was laughing uncontrollably.
So, fast forward twenty-plus years, and I'm often the one who sends my kid to go ask his dad - less out of awkwardness and more out of sheer exhaustion from fielding his constant questions.
But the other day, I made a mistake. My husband was being a complete jackass. And by that I mean he was laying on our dining room table, in the fetal position, making these horrible squirming movements and declaring that he was a mosquito larvae. Yes, he does stuff like this often. No, I don't know why. Yes, he's lucky that most of the time it makes me laugh.
I told him to quit being a dick...just as our four year old walked in.
"I don't know what a 'dick' is," he piped up. "What is it, Mom?"
Justin and I were already laughing, and hearing that sent us off further...so, of course, like any other four year old, Junior started laughing, as well, and asking repeatedly, "What is this dick?"
Finally, I said, "It's a horrible word that no one should use. Mama shouldn't have said it."
"But what is it?"
"A bad word."
"BUT WHAT DOES IT MEAN?"
"Oh God. It's just a bad word."
"I'll call my Mina and she will tell me what a dick is." (Mina, by the way, is what he calls his grandma - my mother.)
And, of course, I handed him the phone. Because I am a horrible parent, and an even worse daughter...and because my mom made me go ask my dad was masturbation was, twenty some years ago.
The phone rang. I could hear her say "hello." My son breathed heavily into the phone for a minute, and I waited...and then, in gloriously clear and loud tones, he asked, "MINA, HAVE YOU EVER EVEN SEEN A DICK?"
Luckily, I only had to remind him twice the next day that we don't say that word, and I did end up telling him what it was, but it was worth it. It really, really was.
Dear Diary,
I love the holidays. L-O-V-E. There's something about Christmas decorations and the smell of pine that sends me into a frenzy of circle-running and random holiday potpourri-snacking. Put me in front of a Christmas tree, and I will sing "O Christmas Tree" until people stop laughing and clapping and begin to cry and beg me to understand that there are more words to that song than "O Christmas Tree" repeated over and over and over.
Haters gonna hate lol.
Mom tries her best to teach me about Christmas. She set out this man and woman, wearing bathrobes and kneeling. She told me they were the Nativity her mom used when she was a kid. I got confused. It's your mom? No. My mom? No. Her name is Mary? Oh, like Nana Mary? No? Mother Mary...and Joseph. Okay. Who is Joseph? He's what? - That's too confusing. What are they doing? They're waiting for a very special baby. Oh, I get it - my uncle's baby that's on his way. No? Not that baby? Oh. Are you sure they're not kneeling to pick up Lego's? Still waiting, huh? And it's not my new cousin, right? Have you noticed that Joseph is shaped a little like a Dustbuster? Like if his head was the handle and his knees...no? Quit touching them? Fine. Maybe you should consider not having them in my reach. Amateur.
And then, on Christmas morning, it's my job to give them their baby. I do it like a total boss, too. I hold the baby Jesus in my hands, cupping him carefully...Jack, right? My new cousin? No? Jesus. That's right. I say "I have a surprise for you!" only I say it "pruprise" because that's cute. I put him down between Nana Mary and Joseph, the sort of dad. And then I turn my focus on what really matters, because frankly, despite Mom's tender and touching efforts to make faith a focus, I am just four. Very recently, as a matter of fact. And although I do find Nana Mary and Dustbuster Joe to be fascinating, I'm really most interested in presents. For me.
I'm at that age where I am still easy to buy for. Oh, you got me a bunch of cars from the Dollar Tree? THEY ARE FUCKING AMAZING AND I WILL LOVE THEM FOREVER OR UNTIL I RIP THE WHEELS OFF OR LOSE THEM IN THE SANDBOX! Oh, you dropped $65 on the latest electronic toy? IT IS FUCKING AMAZING AND I WILL LOVE IT FOREVER OR UNTIL THE BATTERY DIES AND MOM DOESN'T REPLACE IT OR I LOSE IT IN THE SANDBOX!
(The only difference is if you get me a vacuum. Then I will simply refuse to even consider any other gifts that are left to be opened. I'm done. Mic drop. Anything else will be anti-climatic.)
Anyhow, we have a lot of family. That means lots of Christmas. I have five Christmases every year. Mom usually ends up saying that's four more than I need, but she also screams she sucks at math when balancing the checkbook. Personally, I think five isn't enough. Twenty wouldn't be enough. Twelve might be, though - I'm not sure. I suck at math, too.
On top of this, my birthday is on the 22nd of December. (Remember how I said my mom sucks at math? Lol.) On my actual birthday, Mom and Dad always give me a little present and a cake to "mark my special day." Like I know how to read a calendar. Tell me it's April - I surely won't know the difference. I'm four. But anyhow, so between five Christmases, I have my "special day" and then I have my "party day." And guess what that means?
More presents.
Man, if there is one thing I'm good at, it's presents. Is that a talent? It should be. I fall on presents like a starving man on a cheeseburger. I rip off that paper with a savage beauty, like a primitive poem in motion. I shred, I demolish, I toss fistfuls of wrapping paper in the air like I'm the Cookie Monster of presents...I find something I love. (And I love everything, Diary!) I need it out of the box. I need it out of the box now. It won't come out of the box. Dad. Dad. Get this out. Dad. Dad. Dad. Get it out. Dad. Dad. Daddy, get it out. No, I don't want to open something else while Dad gets it out. I want that. Dad. I want it. Dad. Dad. Oh, thank God. Oh, thank God, he got it out. It needs batteries? Oh no. Dad. Batteries. Dad. Batteries. Dad. Batteries. Dad. Daddy. Dad. Batteries, Dad. He gets the batteries in. I play with it for 4.2 seconds. I drop it and move to the next gift. And repeat.
Amazing experience all around, for all involved, I think. Mom's job is noodles. Dad's job is batteries. My job is to demand everything. And it works.
But, Dear Diary, it's January. I had my last Christmas yesterday, and even though there is snow on the ground, Mom insists that it really is over. My birthday, too. I try to cheer myself up with one of the 184 toys I got this year. I do love them so much. I feel like some of them are missing, though...Mom tells me not to worry about it, but I do, Diary. I worry about my toys a lot.
I have the holiday blues, I am afraid. Post-present depression syndrome. I love my toys, but I don't feel a real connection to them right now. I can't even dustbust the end-table with Joseph because Mom put him up, and frankly, that's a real let down.
So tonight, I wandered over to the fridge, leaving a trail of Lincoln Logs, a remote control rattle snake, one skate, three vacuums made out of Lego's, one red Dirt Devil Junior and one small Dyson behind me. Perhaps there would be something in there to cheer me up - doubtful, considering how much I hate food, I thought, but maybe I just needed to cool off. I opened the door...and I saw it.
Daddy's empty cardboard box of Bud Light.
Diary, my soul had been crying out for something that I knew not what - until I saw that box. I seized it with hot, feverish, desperate hands. In joy, I put it over my head and ran blindly into the kitchen wall, scattering Lincoln Logs as I went. I sat on the box and crushed it out of shape, I punched it back into shape with my fists. It was a house. It was a vacuum. It was my new cousin. It was a car, then a boat. I reveled in the box. My parents looked at each other and said, "It never fails," and they were right, Diary - my box never fails me!
So, as I lay me down tonight, my room overcrowded with shiny new toys, my closet bursting with new clothes, I am thankful in my heart...for the slightly crushed Bud Light box that lays beside me.
I love you, Christmas.
Amen.
I have a picky eater.
He wasn't always this way. When he was little, he would eat almost anything that I put in front of him. Cantaloupe? Thanks, Mom! Diced up raw bell peppers? Super. Tomatoes fresh from Papa's garden? He'd eat them like an apple. "Oh, a dinner invitation? Great. Oh, no, don't worry about making something separate for the baby - he eats what we eat!"
How proud. How smug. How short-lived.
His palate started shrinking around 17 months, and at first, I had no concerns. Oh, baby doesn't want fresh avocado? No worries. You don't want that organic plum that costs twice as much as a normal one? Okay, here's some banana. And before I even fully grasped what was happening, he was down to about 15 or 20 foods that he would eat. Now I only wish there were 15 or 20 foods he would eat.
And it's not just traditionally "yucky" things like vegetables. My kid won't eat pancakes. Or chocolate cake, for that matter. He eschews more traditional kid-fare, the old stand-bys. Hot dogs? "Bisgusting." Mac and cheese? Nope. Chicken nuggets...sometimes. And only from McDonald's. Yes, I have kept the box and tried to put different nuggets in there. No, it did not work. Speaking of McDonald's - french fries? That's a big no, too. Who doesn't like McDonald's french fries?
My kid. That's who.
Sometimes he will try new foods. In stages. First, he smells it. That's a big step. Then he licks it. That's huge. Taking a bite is obviously the third step. Sometimes we don't get there. But sometimes we do. And when we do, he usually gags. He'll lick a peeled plum or apple slices all damn day, but actually chewing it? No, Mom. That's bisgusting. Are you nuts?
(Nuts are also bisgusting, by the way. Even to include peanut butter. Flipping peanut butter.)
We have gone old-school - you eat what's offered, or you go hungry. He goes hungry. I have tried giving him control - allowed him to pick out new things at the grocery store himself. No. Bisgusting. I have had him help me prepare his food. No. Bisgusting. Fun, but still bisgusting. I have tried "hiding" new food into acceptable food...only to have Junior recognize the difference, begin to gag, and then refuse to eat the previously-acceptable food for months. I have made food into shapes, into boats, into faces, increasingly difficult and elaborate presentations. I serve food in muffin tins, each item chosen for looks as much as taste.
So, for your pleasure, I have collected a few of Junior's favorite recipes in order to share with you.
SCRAMBLED EGG (Difficulty: Intermediate)
1 egg
2 tbsp. milk
1/2 slice American cheese
Help Mom crack the egg. Help Mom stir in the milk. Beat egg and milk thoroughly. Make a mess as you do so. Tear the cheese into strips and add. Help Mom spray a pan with cooking spray. Dance with happy anticipation as Mom cooks it. Allow to cool on plate. Scream bloody murder when it becomes apparent that you are expected to eat it. Demand frosted shredded mini-wheat, name-brand only, milk separate. Enjoy!
FRUIT SALAD (Difficulty: Beginner)
Fruit
Go to the store with Mom. Gasp in apparent delight when told you can pick out whatever fruits you want. Find something with a slick skin - apples are fine, but think plums and grapes, as well. In fact, insist on grapes. Grapes are great. Tell Mom you love grapes. Help Mom wash them off. Put them in your favorite bowl. Eye them with growing mistrust and distaste, slowly curling your lip. Compromise - convince Mom you will eat them if she peels them, but ask in the cutest way possible - consider something like "Make them nakey, Mom, and then I will eat them really, really good." Applaud her efforts as she carefully peels each one. Encourage her to stick toothpicks in all of them. But only blue toothpicks. Allow Mom to encourage, beg, bargain, plead. After 30 minutes, lick one. Ask for noodles.
WHOLE WHEAT TOAST w/ NUTELLA (Difficulty: Beginner)
One slice whole wheat bread
Nutella
Sprinkles
Preparation is done in secret, but results in a piece of whole wheat bread that has been toasted, cut into a circle, with a hole punched out of the middle, spread with something that Mom says is chocolate, but isn't. It is not a doughnut, either. You will not be fooled. Remind Mom that you hate bread. And that the only acceptable chocolate is Hershey's. But...ask for sprinkles - you might eat it if it has sprinkles. Just kidding. You won't. It's still bread. And you hate bread. Demand white crackers (Saltines). Enjoy!
PIZZA (Difficulty: Intermediate)
English Muffin
Pizza Sauce
Shredded cheese
Various toppings
Carefully spread pizza sauce over English muffin. Enthuse about the "Bubby-sized" pizza. Sprinkle shredded cheese over top. Reject all other toppings firmly. Dance around the kitchen, laughing and clapping while your Bubby-sized pizza cooks. Allow to cool on plate. Once Mom indicates that you are to eat it, begin to cry. Demand a slice of American cheese. Reject the first one on grounds that she unwrapped it. Accept second slice, wrapped.
TACOS (Difficulty: Intermediate)
Ground beef or turkey
Taco shells - yellow ones only
Shredded cheese
Various toppings
Help Mom assemble a taco, just for you. Follow her lead, be enthusiastic. YOU LOVE TACOS! Allow taco to remain untouched throughout dinner. Ask for a new taco. Fill only with one slice of American cheese. Bon appeitit!
VEGETABLE SURPRISE (Difficulty: Beginner)
Surprise! I won't eat them. Any of them. Ever. Lol.
Four years ago, I gave birth to a red, wrinkly, slightly cone-headed baby boy, who was covered in baby acne and whose skin was peeling because he had cooked an extra week. Even after months of reading baby books, I was unprepared. Overwhelmed. Lost. Terrified.
We brought Junior home on Christmas eve. I still had 30+ staples in my stomach, but I didn't want to stay in the hospital another night. I wanted to have our first Christmas at home, and the nurse I had kept telling me I was fat. Seriously. I mean, I was fat before I got pregnant, and pregnancy certainly wasn't a slimming process for me, and I had just given birth. I didn't need to hear it. I was living it. Fuck that nurse. I went home.
My boobs hurt. My incision was a fiery brand between my pelvis and my now-soft, empty stomach. I felt worse not-pregnant than I had ever felt pregnant. My son wasn't sleeping. He was sleeping too much. My husband had to help me pull my pants up because bending over was agony. I took a pain pill my first evening home, fell asleep holding the baby, and woke up just as he tumbled off my lap, rolled down my legs, and landed in a heap of tangled blanket at my feet. I had dropped my fucking baby. My milk didn't come in for 5 days. I couldn't do this. Why did I do this?
We had visitors. My husband took a picture of me with a digital camera and showed me. I went to the bedroom and leaned against the wall and cried until the visitors left, awkward and silent.
I cried a lot, as a matter of fact. I was tired, I didn't feel good, I had given birth but nursing my newborn was far more taxing than pregnancy those first few weeks. And I was ashamed. I loved my son, sure - but I had yet to feel a connection to him. I tried to will it to come. I would nurse him, concentrate on him, the heft of him in my arms, the sweet curve of his body, the smell of his head. But it was all so abstract. I cried more. I would have never done anything to hurt my baby, but if someone had offered me a couple of thousand bucks for him, I would have had to sit down and seriously consider their offer.
I became an avid sleeping baby watcher. Not because I was enamored of him, but because I became convinced that God knew I didn't love my baby enough, and that He would take him from me.
Honestly, I should have asked for help. Much of it was hormonal, and beyond my control, and even though I had skimmed the sections in books on postpartum, it still never occurred to me that I was suffering from it. Because I did only skim them - when I was pregnant, I couldn't imagine not having an immediate, soul-deep connection to the miracle I was growing inside me. I already loved him, you know? I was already in love with him. I had no idea that the reality of him would be so different, and so much harder, than the concept of him.
But I got better.
Because all though I was all full of doubt about me as a mother (and still am, all the time), my son was not. He had confidence in me. Six weeks into motherhood, when I got up at 3 a.m. for yet another marathon nursing method, I finally felt it. I settled down on the couch with him, got him latched on, and watched him nurse. I sang to him, because singing was what moms were supposed to do, and you see, I did all the things that moms were supposed to do, even when I didn't feel like doing them, and he pulled back from my breast and gave me a gummy, unformed smile before stuffing my boob back in his mouth. But even as he was nursing, he struggled to keep eye contact with me. I smiled, and he would smile, and smiling made him lose his latch, and I would laugh.
And I realized that, finally, I finally felt it. He went from being a burden to a gift, and we never looked back.
I bathed him not because the baby books suggested it, but because I loved washing each tiny toe and finger, loved wrapping him up in a fluffy towel fresh from the drier and inhaling his scent as he nursed. I sang to him not because I felt I was supposed to, but because he loved it, and I loved that he loved it. And as he grew, each age was the best age, and four years later, that still holds true. Age one was perfection, two was amazing, three was even better, but so is four - four will be the best age, too.
I love my son. I realize that makes me exactly the same as almost every other mother in the world, but still, our love is always special, isn't it? Even that most universal of loves - the love we have for our children. And we don't even think about it that much, because concentrating on it, examining it, makes us realize anew just exactly how amazing and powerful that love is, and seriously - who has time for that shit? But we should take some time, every once in awhile, to reflect on it. It's a love that makes us incredibly vulnerable, weak at the knees and humbled before it. But it's also a love that makes us strong, too - it is the love that will literally move mountains, if that mountain stands between us and something we want for our children.
I see all of you moving mountains. The mom who takes her daughter to dance, even though she is sick and she is tired. The mom who, with a stab of fear in her heart, watches her son run out on the football field the first time and covers her fear with a smile. The mom who stays up all night to hold her sleeping child's hand because she is sick, and even though holding her hand won't reduce her fever, it makes you both feel better. The mom who takes her child to take his driver's test, her daughter to buy her first formal, who puts her five-year old on the bus for the first time and watches him go out into the world and manages to wave happily until he is out of sight before bawling. The mom who stays up until 1 a.m. making 28 cupcakes for her child's school party. The mom who stays home to be with her babies, the mom who goes out to work to take care of her babies...
The moms who make mistakes, and lay awake at night worrying. The moms who second guess everything they're doing, because they want to do it right, the moms who, in a moment of stress and temper, lose their shit and have to lock themselves in the bathroom to cry. The moms who do the things that we're supposed to do, when they are the last things in the world we feel like doing, when even the act of doing them makes you feel lost, overwhelmed, terrified...
Mountain movers, all of you.
So although I have many regrets for those first 6 weeks of my son's life - mostly over missed opportunities, my inability to enjoy my newborn, my firstborn - I now have the perspective to understand that even when I was filled much more with fear and resentment than anything else, I was doing my best to not show it, to act in love, even if it felt false and stilted and scripted at first, even though it exhausted me and frightened me, and that, in itself, was love. I can't change it, but I know in my heart that I would if I could, and that today, the one thing I never doubt - even when I am doubting everything else - is that I love my son, with the whole entirety of my heart.
And frankly, I also regret not punching the nurse that called me fat 18 hours after giving birth.
