The New Girl

When I Stop Crying, It Might Actually Be Funny, A Little.

In the time it took for me to put the video tape back onto the shelf, she had sprinted out of the room and around the corner, toward the doors.  I dropped my bag on the floor and raced after her, catching the first automatically controlled door just as it was closing.  I saw her, across the vestibule, press the button for the second door, the door to the outside. 

And just like that, my two year old daughter was running away from me, down a ramp and toward the library parking lot.

My heart racing, I caught her mid-way down the ramp.  I picked her up, pointed my finger and yelled into her face.  My fear flipped to instant-anger and the smile that she often sports when being scolded froze and then faded.  The two little kids in the vestibule scurried to the side as I went back into the library to get my bag.

My heart was still pounding and my breathing was a little ragged, as I picked up my things and walked back out, toward our car, neither of us talking.  About halfway there, my anger flipped back to fear.  She put her head on my shoulder and said, 'Sorry Mommy.'

I repeated my admonition about running away from me or going outside without me (in a calmer, friendlier voice.)

And then I cried my eyes out.

I don't know exactly what it was about the situation that had me so rattled.  I've been extra weepy anyway but it was crazy how fast she was, how absolutely quiet the whole thing was (until I caught her, I mean.)  It was sobering to think about how easily and thoroughly she could have disappeared when I had turned my back for a second. The knowledge that the moments that I would have spent looking for her inside would have been measured in distance covered outside, toward moving cars and who knows what else, leaves me cold even now.

I spend a little time these days wondering how in the hell I'm going to do it with two.  Forget the pangs of longing and sadness that I feel because my little Houdini is used to having BOTH parents for a bedtime routine and pretty soon, her world is going to be rocked HARD by the demands of an infant.  Forget the wondering how I'm ever going to be on time for anything ever again or how I'm going to handle sleep issues when I have more than one.  I know that these are normal anxieties and that they will work themselves out.

But today scared me.  You can't drop a newborn on the floor while you chase your toddler out of the building.

Today?  Scared the shit out of me.

Fun Fact Friday!

Whew!  Okay!

Lets, er--lighten things up around here (pardon the pun).  I don't know how Fun these Friday Facts are but naming a post Friday Facts just doesn't appeal.  Before I get going with the [Mundane Fact Friday] post, let me thank you for the emails about the post about my mom.  I intend to write you all back (don't SNICKER).  It was, well, it was amazing to hear your perspectives and I thank you for taking the extra effort to share them.

KAY!

* Currently in my life, I have water coming into my car (through the door that the dealer *fixed*), I have water coming into the back of my house (through a window, due to an ancient gutter thingie) and I had my washer shit the bed and spill GALLONS of water into my NEWLY REFINISHED BASEMENT.

* Yesterday, I packed up The Littlest New Girl and hauled my (ever-increasingly sizable) ass to the shore to see my BFF and her family.  It was the longest trip that I've ever taken alone with her (in a car) and I was very nervous about it.

* The Man and I have very different styles when it comes to taking road trips (surprise!), especially in the area of *getting on the road.* 

* When going on a trip, I am the kind of [organized, sensible, highly energetic] person who likes to be all packed and ready to walk out the door at the butt-crack of dawn, proceed directly to the highway and drive straight and fast until we get where we are going.  The Man is [a completely disorganized, laissez-faire, dawdler] the kind of person who likes to take his time, packing things up until we [pull back into the driveway for the third time] that morning, stopping to get coffee and snacks before we proceed to the highway.

* As a result, The Man and I frequently, er, have [raging, hostile arguments] spirited discussions before trips.  During one of these, I may have called him something related to being disorganized and something else and he turned to me and said, 'Yeah, well, YOU are a Frantic Mess,' a term that I found so creative and hilarious that we've kept it around as the gold standard for my pre-trip frenzies.

* Although my kid seems to have inherited my hate/hate relationship with sand, she has inherited her father's penchant for charging, head-first into the ocean whenever she sees it, along with his habit of wanting to stay IN! IN! IN! despite blue lips and shivering and goose-bumps and TIME'S FUCKING UP, YO.

* I got sunburned at the beach.  As in, BURNED by the SUN.  I haven't had a genuine sunburn in YEARS.  I can only think that my obsession with making sure that my kid didn't get burned obliterated my own fear of the sun.  Bizarre side effect of parenting.

* The fans that are constantly blowing downstairs (to dry out the basement water tragedy) sound EXACTLY like my washer in spin mode.  RIP washer.

* Although I was [a frantic mess] incredibly worried about the trip, TLNG did AMAZINGLY well.  It's so hard for me to let go of the image of her as the teeny weeny meanie that she was and realize that she's a totally different kid in almost EVERY circumstance.

* And while I was willing to trade the afternoon nap for the love of a day with my friend, my kid also fell asleep for a little on the way home (no music with windows slightly open when you're going 80 sounds JUST LIKE her white noise maker, heh heh,) an occasion so rare that I still take a picture of it on my phone every time it happens.

Hope you all have a DRY weekend!

Big.

During my last pregnancy, I was literally too sick to register the multitude of typical but 'lesser' pregnancy aches and pains as annoyances.  I remember the nausea, the barfing, the reflux and the no-eating with a small side of posterior pelvic pain, which I think I only registered because it felt like someone was impaling me through the ass with every step I took.  Due to the lack of nutrition and severe anemia, I was tired, slow weight-gaining and miserable.  I was also pregnant through fall/winter/spring, giving birth in early summer.

This time around, things are quite different.  I still have consistent digestive *issues* but NOTHING like last time.  I am slowly but steadily gaining weight this pregnancy and I will be pregnant (in my last trimester, gah help me) throughout the summer.  As a result, I am more *tuned in* to the kind of physical discomfort that oft heard tale of the first time around.

Plus, there's this: 

I feel Big.

I feel so big now that, as I enter my third trimester (already!) I am wondering how it's possible that the Biggest three months are still ahead of me.  I have to scoot sideways in bed before I roll myself over and get up.  I have to make room for my belly when I lean forward.  I stand so far away from the sink when washing dishes, that I bend from the waist and rest on my elbows. I lumber upstairs, slowly, and sit down to catch my breath when I get there.  It is wearing on me.

And lest you think that I am [complaining about this] writing this out of concern for my current (or post-partum) waist line, fear not.  I am relatively unconcerned with the actual numbers on the scale or the way I look.  (At least so far.)  The sensation of being Big and the labored, physical maneuvering that I employ to move around conjure for me an all-together different type of discomfort.  It is a re-enactment, very familiar.  For years and years I awkwardly watched that kind of maneuvering, adjusting and compensating from the sidelines. 

It is how my mother lived her everyday life.

My mother was a Big person, in every sense of the word but it was her physical bigness that drew strangers' attention.  As I imagine that it is with obesity in general, I watched as my mother grew out of her individuality and into 'The Fat Lady' in the eyes of strangers.  She became invisible to them.  And then, as she kept gaining into the territory of morbid obesity, there came a (very sharp) point in time when she became visible again.  I can't adequately describe the painfulness of the experience of standing across a crowded restaurant lobby, watching one adult nudge her companion and then nod in the direction of your mother, making a face that should be reserved for the occasion of realizing that you just stepped into a pile of dog shit with your bare foot.  It is one of a hundred painful memories that I don't like to think about.

Watching her struggle with her weight, not just emotionally but also physically took up such an enormous part of my core being that when she died and that died along with her, it left me feeling lighter.  Like I could breathe deeply for the first time in a long time.  Gone was the (unrealized but perseverative) worry that she would be incapacitated and that we wouldn't be able to care for her at home.  Gone were the restrictions, the inconveniences, the awkward situations.  The pain, the awful, chronic, throbbing pain that I felt for her, for us, when we were together.  And although it was and still is desperately hard to let go of my mother, letting go of all of that other stuff proved a much easier task.

*Poof*

Gone.

I believe that my mother's issues and struggles with her weight (which were a portion of the sum of her issues and struggles in general) affected me and my attitudes and ideas from the earliest possible time.  I could probably write a memoir.  If I actually liked to remember this shit.  Maybe one day.  But not now.  I've worked through a lot and like I said, letting it go wasn't all that hard.

Until now.

Now, I have these unbidden and uninvited images flashing from wherever it is that I stuffed them, right on into my consciousness.  An unforeseen side effect of pregnancy.

Like the posterior pelvic pain isn't enough.

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Guys, I'm turning off the comments because it's all too...I don't know.  Full of awk and ick.  If you are so inclined, you are welcome to email me...I don't mind hearing what you have to say or having a discussion about it, I just don't want you to feel obligated to say something here, in the comments.

All We Need Is Just A Little

Wikipedia defines patience thusly:

Patience (pā-shəns) is the state of endurance under difficult circumstances, which can mean persevering in the face of delay or provocation without becoming annoyed or upset; or exhibiting forbearance when under strain, especially when faced with longer-term difficulties, such as when your crazy-ass toddler repeatedly pushes and hits other kids (or you) for no reason whatsoever.

Okay, so I added that last part, there.

My favorite part of the definition of this *virtue* (whatever) is the part about persevering in the face of provocation without becoming annoyed or upset.

Um.

I can't do that.  I've never really been able to do that.

And I'll tell you this: nothing brings home the pointed end of this character flaw like having a child. 

As it is with lots of our own faults, I suppose.  It's not just that I see it come to life right before my eyes, when The Littlest New Girl [whips her fucking shit across the room while screaming, 'IIIIII CCCAAAANN'TT DOOOOO IIIIIIIT!'] becomes annoyed or upset in the face of provocation when she's not able to get her toys to do what she wants them to do.  I get that.  I do.  I'm the one STILL wanting to slam the cabinet door (repeatedly) when it hits me on the head and makes me see stars.  She comes by that part honestly, having been given a double dose of that shit when the gene cocktail was being mixed for her.  Neither The Man nor I is known for the length of our fuse. I know that sounds vaguely dirty but try to stay focused.

Anyway.

The pointed end of the 'Very Limited Patience Trait' comes home to me in a far worse way than trying to help my kid while she screams and yells because she can't get her Pony to balance on a 1in piece of baseboard trim.

It turns out that the face of provocation is pretty much where you live while parenting a feisty toddler.  And although I have yet to haul off and smack her (and don't think I haven't been tempted, despite a no-hitting type parenting style) I have been and continued to be ashamed at some of my instinctual, visceral reactions to the, uh, strain that comes with just the basic parenting territory.  (I have very little to no forbearance.)  You know, perhaps, the insane snap-and-yell-at-close-proximity or the upper arm-squeeze or the none-too-gentle putting down onto the rump, or the semi-toss into the crib?  This is what I'm talking about, here.  The teeth gritting, anger-bubbling, semi-automatic reaction that 13 seconds later makes [me] you feel like the world's biggest douche.

I cut myself enough slack to know that I'm human, I'm tired and I have limitations.  I am not wallowing in guilt in my every day life.  But I also know that despite my own genetic make-up (there is an OBVIOUS deficit in patience/forbearance department in my family tree), that I am the adult and the responsibility falls upon me to try my best.  To try, not only to teach her how to handle her frustrations and her anger appropriately but also to try my best to show her how.

So, you know.

I close my eyes.  I take deep breaths.  I try to walk away if I can.

But mostly, I apologize later.

*Sigh*

Tech-Babies: Who KNOWS What They'll Be Doing By Kindergarten?

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Um. Blogging, maybe?

Things That Scare The Hell Out Of Me.

* Tractor trailers that are weaving all over the road, drivers clearly in need of sleep.  Or sobriety.  I guess that you could make that any kind of car, but somehow gigantic semis have more scare power.

* The thought of losing all my pictures to fire or technical failure.

* Trying to walk/hike/move on high-up, exposed places.  It's not a fear of heights, per se, but if I try to walk up a steep, narrow, hiking trail, my body will involuntarily drop onto all fours.  I once tried to walk across a train trestle (where I could see down to the creek WAY BELOW) and my feet wouldn't move.  Even though the space between the ties was only roughly an inch or so.  I also pretty much had a panic attack walking up the steps in a light house.  Once I got to the top, outside, I was fine but being able to see down, through the metal steps (while people were coming down the narrow-ass steps right next to me) almost paralyzed me.  This shit scares me so much that I can't believe that it doesn't scare EVERYONE.

* Forgetting the name of someone that I OBVIOUSLY know.  That, or accidentally calling someone by the wrong name in a social situation.

* Balls whizzing by at baseball games.  It doesn't even have to be that close to me to scare me.  All the [knuckle heads] enthusiasts are running toward the stray ball and I am [hiding under my seat] staying a safe distance away.

* Forgetting and missing a meeting or other important appointment.

* When I ask The Littlest New Girl where The New Baby is and she points to her own belly and smiles and then proceeds to open her little hand, wind up and smack herself on the tummy.  'BAAAAAAAAHF!' (So  not kidding.) (And, yes, there's totally an 'F' at the end now.  Now, it's BAAAAHF!)

[Edited to add (it's a working list):]

* Children with no conscience.

* People who seriously maintain that the Holocaust never happened.

* Fast food workers who wear protective gloves to make the food AND take the money. WTF?

In Sickness And In Health.

Do you know why they put that shit in the VOWS that you say when you're getting hitched to someone for life?

They put that shit in the vows because it TOTALLY SUCKS when someone you love is sick, that's why.  It sucks so bad that they actually have to make you PROMISE not to haul ass.  And, you know, even though it's bad, The Man Cold isn't enough to make [me] you actually haul-ass.  It's the bigger, scarier stuff that they're talking about, I'd imagine.

When you have kids, though, you don't make any vows that promise that your ass will stay put when they get sick.  I think that the universe knows that most mothers are, uh, bonded to their kids in a way that makes taking vows to clean up the puke and whatnot a little redundant.  But I have to tell you, it's one of the things that I hate about being a mother, the nagging worry that my kid is going to get sick.

And I'm not even talking about the big and scary.

On that kind of craziness, I have a reasonably well-tightened lid.

And although MY brand of craziness may be even crazier, I'll out myself.  What I'm talking about, is the regular, run-of-the-mill, middle of the night, fever-spike-accompanied-by-copious-puke that is the standard signal that all is not well with The Littlest New Girl's immune system.  If she's got no appetite at dinner, if she's laying down while watching tv, if she's sniffling or coughing or otherwise not tip-top health-wise, I start to spin some serious dread.  Capital D dread.  And I hate it.

HATE.

Anyway, I have a friend who has three kids who are substantially older than mine.  She told me once, a long time ago, that every time they plan their yearly vacation that she starts to worry that one of her kids is going to get sick.  I responded, 'What do you mean?  That they'll get sick and you won't be able to go?' and she said, 'No. That they'll get sick while we're there.'  As a childless woman, I admit that I just didn't get that.  I didn't get it at all.

But now?  Oh, ho ho!

I have a DOCTORATE in that shit.

That, along with my conspicuous lack of patience are the two Dark Spots on the Sun of My Motherhood, yo, and I'm NOT being dramatic.  Well, all right, that's a little dramatic but it's fucking 2:58 in the AM and I'm starting to smell a little puke on my hand from the insta-regurge of the meds that I [tried to] put into my kid to help her to stop coughing and get back to sleep. 

So, I feel I'm ENTITLED to a little drama.  Sue me.

Just wait until I'm better rested.

Like, sometime in 2022.