35 Silly Things About Me

I need to shake off the sappy, depressing mush that has invaded this page lately. So, since today is my 35th birthday:

35 SILLY THINGS ABOUT ME

1. My nickname as a toddler was "Crash Pits" because I purposely rammed my walker into everything in sight.

2. Up until a few years ago, I kinda hated St. Patrick's Day, because I felt like it took over the whole month of March, when people should be focusing on my birthday at the beginning of the month. Lately, I have decided to embrace the green within myself.

3. I was so nervous to join Facebook because I imagined that it would be scary to reconnect with people I haven't spoken to in years or decades. Now I am an addict. I can admit this.

4. I hate olives, and anything that olives have touched.

5. I paint my toenails and wear toe rings year round, because my toes make me happy.

6. It is March, and by the end of the month I will most likely have switched to flip flops and open toe shoes (see #5) and won't confine my tooties again until October.

7. I spent the majority of my summer vacations during Junior High and High School with my nose in a book. I have always preferred reading to just about any other pastime.

8. I didn't explore my "wild side" until my twenties. God, I miss those days sometimes!

9. I swear-to-God, I didn't take a sip of alcohol until after my 21st birthday.

10. I don't like to be in a state of altered-consciousness. The very thought of being drunk or high makes me a little sick. That's not to say I'm not up for a little crazy-sh*t stone-cold sober, though.

11. I strongly dislike coconut...but not as much as olives.

12. I have lived in the Greater Binghamton Area all of my life (since before it was the GBA) and honestly, I can't imagine living any where else. That may make me small minded, I don't know, but this is home to me, and say what you want about the Bing, I love it.

13. When I was little, I didn't like peanut butter and jelly. At all. Weird, huh?

14. When I was little, I also didn't like the color pink. At all.

15. I didn't own a cd player until I was in college, but I was the first person I knew with internet access, thanks to my techy dad. (1994 for both)

16. The only honest-to-goodness physical fight I have ever been in involved a bottle of strawberry syrup and shampoo.

17. I'm so picky about music, even I don't know what I like. My ipod is a schizophrenic collection of pop, country, hippie, classics, 80's and 90's.

18. However, as eclectic as it is, my husband can't find one thing he likes on my ipod. Not enough Pink Floyd, I guess.

19. I'm kinda jealous of my daughter. She has an awesome life.

20. I hate snow.

21. It just snowed about 2 feet on my birthday. Phtttttttttttp!

22. My first wedding was in the middle of May. It snowed. That probably should have been taken as an omen.

23. I have two tattoos and I recently realized that I appropriately have a flower on my ankle (ground) and the moon and star on my shoulder (sky). I totally didn't do that on purpose. But I'm glad it's not the other way around!

24. As much as I like to read, I really have no desire to have a Kindle or Nook, etc. There's just something about having the actual book that I can't imagine giving up.

25. Consequently, I have books in every room of my house. Literally.

26. I will probably end up that little old lady with so many books crammed into my house that the fire department has to come in with a crow bar to get me and my cats out.

27. That was a joke. I hope.

28. My favorite time of day is bedtime. Mine.

29. My second favorite time of day is Giuliana's bedtime, when we say her "Thank You Prayer" and pick one or two things from the day that we are thankful for.

30. I'm trying not to repeat my 25 Random Things About Me or my list of 100 Blessings, and this is harder than I thought. Guess I'm not silly enough! Wait...that can't be true.

31. I didn't have my first real kiss until I was 19. I was such a freaking good girl.

32. I'm a bit of a neat freak. I have a reputation for stealing cups and plates to put in the sink before people are done using them, because I can't stand to have them just sitting around. I think the reports of this habit are highly exaggerated.

33. I also pick up my daughter's toys at least 2 or 3 times before bedtime because I can't deal with them all over the floor. But I gotta tell ya, she's learning to pick up her stuff!

34. When I was in high school I had clothes all over my room and kept a collection of shoes under the dining room table. I have no idea how my mother put up with me. I couldn't have put up with me.

35. I make up random little songs for my daughter about everyday things we do. We have a song for brushing her teeth, for getting up in the morning, for eating, etc. I inherited this trait from my mom, who also makes up silly little songs. She and G have a song for school days, for example. I haven't followed in her footsteps and made up a song about changing dirty underwear, though. That's just going too far, mom!

Re-Run

I've been quiet lately because I have been struggling, mostly internally, with a lot of sh*t I can't discuss. This old post, from 2 years ago, sums up pretty well how I feel. The difference is, this issue is mine, not his. This pain is inside me, not him. And finding the serenity in the middle of my own storm is twice, no...three times as hard, it seems.

Today is a bad day. I'm still trying to find my balance. It's there, I know it is. But it's so hard to find it when your heart is upside down.

Saturday, February 21, 2009

The Way It Is

Not to belabor the point, but I find myself whispering this to myself daily, practically hourly, as things continue to fall apart.

God grant me the serenity

To accept the things I cannot change;

Courage to change the things I can;

And wisdom to know the difference.

I struggle to find balance in my nature; I am happy and content by design and it is so at odds with our circumstances...with my husband. I find myself awaking each morning, tired and exhausted, yes, but still hopeful, happy. Only to get knocked down by each new wave in this sea of anxiety and dread that finds a way to keep filling my days even as I struggle to push it out. If you have ever been in the ocean you know that pushing against the waves is futile. It is like the wave that (literally) swept me off my feet and underneath a few summers ago. Just as I thought I had found my balance another, stronger, wave came up behind it and turned me upside down, throwing me into the hard, scratchy sand littered with pebbles and jagged rocks. The wave that stole my engagement ring and threatened to steal my wedding rings too.

I struggle, too, with that feeling of wanting to control everything, to fix it somehow and make it better. To make people be and act the way I would have it. That, of course, is a futile effort. I find myself talking about futility and wasted energy a lot these days. Because, of course, as I have had to learn over and over in my life, the only control you ever have is over your own reactions to things, people, events. To spend time worrying, agonizing, fighting what is is wasting your own limited energy. But the feelings persist. They are there moments after I awake and threaten the peace that I found overnight.

And then, as the prayer says, there are the things I can change. I can change my own angst, my own despair. But, oh, after that initial optimistic waking, it can be so hard to regain my footing. That bigger, stronger wave always seems to be lurking, waiting to knock me down.

So, I pray. This simple prayer that reminds me that I can't control much, can't change much, and it is hopelessly exhausting to try. Instead, I need to accept things as they are, examine and adjust my own attitude and responses to situations and other people. To find peace in being, whatever is. To make sure that I am true to myself, to my own nature. To change the things that I can change, and find peace with the things that I can't.

Serenity.

In My Daughter's Eyes

This is one of those songs that I haven't listened to in years, that periodically pop up on my iPod and turn me into mush. That happened last Friday night while I was driving home. Tears were just streaming down my face.  I had a particularly rough time last week. I was feeling like I had had "enough," without really knowing what that even meant. I just felt fed up, used up, chewed up and spit out, whatever cliche you choose. But what to do about it? There really is nothing to do about it. You have to keep on keeping on, right? But I'd had about enough of that stoic little attitude, too.

Enter this perfectly timed reminder. In my daughter's eyes, I see what is important. I see the reminder that life is about "hanging on when your heart has had enough, giving more when you feel like giving up." If I hadn't hung on and given more, my daughter wouldn't be here in the first place. She is my incredible, perfect miracle. She is my blessing. And I would give anything for her. And some day, she will be grown, she will be gone from my home, and these hard days will be a hazy, happy memory with the difficult times thankfully whisked away with the paint brush of time. And I will miss them, intensely, I'm sure. I hope that I will still be (or be again) her hero. I know she'll be mine.

In my daughter's eyes I am a hero
I am strong and wise and I know no fear
But the truth is plain to see
She was sent to rescue me
I see who I wanna be
In my daughter's eyes

In my daughter's eyes everyone is equal
Darkness turns to light and the
world is at peace
This miracle God gave to me gives me
strength when I am weak
I find reason to believe
In my daughter's eyes

And when she wraps her hand
around my finger
Oh it puts a smile in my heart
Everything becomes a little clearer
I realize what life is all about

It's hangin' on when your heart
has had enough
It's giving more when you feel like giving up
I've seen the light
It's in my daughter's eyes

In my daughter's eyes I can see the future
A reflection of who I am and what will be
Though she'll grow and someday leave
Maybe raise a family
When I'm gone I hope you see how happy
she made me
For I'll be there
In my daughter's eyes

Contortions on the Tightrope

** Disclaimer #1: This post is about my thoughts and decisions and struggles as the parent of a girl. It is not a judgment of anyone else's choices. We all do our best as mothers and parents and your decisions for your daughters are your's to make.
** Disclaimer #2: This post is all over the place, I'm sure. It is a jumble of thoughts and perspectives that, three years into having a daughter, I am still working out, and probably will be working out until she is 30.

As I promised on Facebook last week, I have been reading Cinderella Ate My Daughter by Peggy Orenstein.  It's a continuation of my decades-long discussion with myself about girl culture, aided by books like The Body Project, Survival of the Prettiest, Pink Think, Reviving Ophelia, Wasted, Dying to be Thin, Growing Up Girls, Daughters of Suburbia, Delinquents and Debutantes among others. Mostly, I've been having this discussion with myself in order to figure out where my own adolescence derailed enough to drive me to an eating disorder and other whacked out thinking. It's the journey that lead me to be interested in human services and make the decision to minor in Women's Studies in college. I wanted to help adolescent girls who were struggling with those same tough issues I dealt with. It's not where I've ended up, but it's still where my heart is. But this may be the first time I've purposefully mulled over little girl culture and what impact it is having or will have on my own daughter. Oh, of course, I've thought about it, as I've made purchasing and media viewing decisions for her. But I'm talking about analyzing those spur of the moment, gut-led decisions and the influence, good and bad, they have on her. And this is the first time I've really, really taken a hard look at little girl culture versus adolescent girl culture. Because that's where it all begins, of course, with each and every interaction she will have with society and society's expectations of her. Even as a little girl.

Even before I knew I was pregnant with a girl, I had made it known that I really wasn't down with the Disney Princesses. For reasons I couldn't even necessarily verbalize competently, they just seemed to send all the wrong types of messages to little girls. When I did find out I was going to be raising a girl, I made promises that those princesses wouldn't find their way into my house. Guess what? They sneaked in anyway. We have a DP playmat with four princesses in coy profiles. Somehow, Giuliana knows all their names. She has pink pom poms adorned with DPs on the handles. We have a few of the movies, The Princess and the Frog, Cinderella, and Snow White. The Princess and the Frog DVD broke recently, and though it's probably my favorite of the bunch given it's comparatively positive quasi-feminist messages, I'm not heartbroken to see it go. Confession: I personally ordered Cinderella on eBay and Snow White used to be mine as a kid. Since they are both VHS, they don't get much play time and I'm ok with that. But I ordered Cinderella for her because, another confession, she enjoyed the book so much.

We have other non-Disney princess paraphernalia in our house. She has a shiny silver tiara with glittering pink gems. A frothy pink tutu that, yes, I bought and coerced her into wearing one Halloween. She puts that on when she wants to be a princess. And of course, we have a pink Little People castle with a prince and a princess.

Pink. Pink, pink, pink. That's another taboo I thought I could vanquish. Nope. I purposefully decorated her bedroom in neutral colors. Green, blue, yellow. A touch of hot pink for a bold, fun statement (though my mother smirked over that choice given my aversion to anything pink for my little girl. But I was thinking, you know, cotton-candy-Barbie pink. Anyway...) But her Nana lovingly made her a cotton-candy pink blankie which is her favorite thing, and I wouldn't have it any other way. When I bought her big-girl bedding for her twin bed, I wanted polka-dots for my circle loving kid, and there was very little escaping more pink. She recently was given a play doctor set...in, you guessed it, pink.

And "girlie." Our house is stuffed with "girlie" toys. Shopping carts, kitchen sets, purses, necklaces, baby dolls in strollers. Domesticity, fashion and mothering.

So what does all this mean? Have I failed as a feminist mother? Have I compromised my principles? I don't think so. But I am learning that compromise can't be avoided. And probably shouldn't be avoided. For all those pink, girlie, princessey toys, she also has firetrucks and toy cars, a rocket ship, musical instruments of every variety, blocks, trains...typical "boy toys." This past Halloween she chose to be a "Firefighter Giuliana" and was so proud of her fire engine red hat, boots, coat, and real siren. This past weekend she had a sleepover with her cousins at Nana's house where the girls played princess dress up and put on makeup (while I sat at home reading my book! Irony...) But when I asked her what her favorite part of the weekend was, she told me it was playing with the train set.

What I worry about, of course, is not the individual toys and movies, but the messages they subliminally, and overtly, send to my daughter about her role in society. Is she a princess to be adored for her beauty? Is pink the only color she is allowed to enjoy? Is there anything wrong with enjoying playing mommy and grocery shopping, two things she may well end up spending a significant portion of her life actually doing? I don't know. I know I don't want her to spend as much time as I have (and, honestly, still do) thinking about appearances and how her body measures up to impossible standards. I made a pledge to myself before she was born to never criticize my body in front of her. So far, I've done pretty well. And I made a pledge to myself shortly after she was born not to comment on her body in anything other than a positive manner. No teasing little comments about being too skinny or her tiny little tushie. Even though I worry to myself sometimes that she needs to eat more, that she is on the skinny side. I worry about that from a health stand-point, but when I'm being honest, I can admit that I'm secretly glad that, so far, it appears that she hasn't inherited my tendency to overweight. God, I'm disgusted with myself for admitting that, but there it is. (By the way, if you read Cinderella Ate My Daughter you will find several similar comments in there. Peggy and I were sooooo on the same page.)

I want desperately for her to be proud of herself - of her talents, strength, ambition, independence, intelligence, and, yes, of her body. The whole package, not just pieces of it. And I want her to find strength in herself in ways that honor the fact that she is a woman, not distort or exploit it. I spent some time the other night on youTube watching various girl-power music videos, and I have to say, emphatically, that if this is girl-power

we have a long, loooooong way to go for our daughters' sake.

I knew these issues would crop up when she hit those weird tween years. I guess I just didn't expect to be fighting this battle on her behalf so early. Influences to be thin, demure, and hyper-sexualized seem to begin practically in the womb these days. And it's certainly not just the Disney Princesses. Take my beloved Strawberry Shortcake for instance. I loooved SS as a kid. I had a whole little set with Strawberry, Huckleberry, Blueberry Muffin, the Purple Pie Man and Sour Grapes. I was thrilled to they were staging a comeback and I could introduce them to my daughter. I knew they had changed over the years and was fine with this variation

but this one

(the version all of Giuliana's actual Strawberry Shortcake toys come in) gives me pause. Why so tall and thin all of the sudden, Strawberry? Why do you suddenly, after 30 years of being a sweet little girl, have to look all sweet-16? What was wrong with being a little girl, you know, your target audience? And it's not only SS, either. As Peggy Orenstein points out, what happened to Dora? This,

to this.

Most Dora merchandise comes in the latter form nowadays. And though they say they wanted Dora to grow up with the girls who fell in love with her, who are now tweens and teens, that's not who they're marketing her toward. They still target little girls. So why all this rush and pressure to grow up? Why can't little girls just enjoy being little instead of all these quiet, subtle messages that it would be so much cooler if they were older, prettier, thinner, and maybe even sexier? Those are NOT the messages I want my daughter to absorb, but sometimes I feel I don't have a lot of control over it.

I do my best to walk that tightrope of being a good role model, making good choices for her, and not falling off on one side or the other of hyper-femininity or banning all things pink. Some days I feel like I have to contort myself to stay in that narrow space I've tried to carve out, the space to allow her to enjoy being a girl without falling into the trap of only being a "girl."

*****************
Edited to add: After re-reading this several times, I want to make one point clearer.It's not that I want to keep Giuliana from any and all images of femininity. I do think it's important for her to be able to integrate femininity with all the other aspects of her personality. And I don't "hate" the Princesses. I actually like most of the movies...they are fun, I enjoy the songs, the humor is cute. But I don't want that to be the over-arching representation of femininity in her life at this impressionable age. What I am afraid of is if I give into all the Princess hype and marketing, that it will make a stronger impression on her that I would like. Does that make sense?
Also, as I was re-reading this post last night, G crawled up into my lap and saw the pictures of SS and Dora. She wanted to look at them, so I scrolled over them several times. She did not recognize "new Dora" as being Dora. She said, "Whose that, Mommy?" She has definitely seen "new Dora" several times before, so I am glad that "old Dora" still has the stronger impact. (BTW, I did NOT show her the "Lady Marmalade" video :)

Writing for Myself

Hello, Blogland. How are ya? I’ve been good. I took a hiatus from you and honestly? It felt kinda nice. It wasn’t intentional and it was nothing personal. I hope you forgive me. See, this blog of mine…it became this THING that began to feel like it was swallowing me. I stopped writing because I enjoyed it and started writing because I felt like I needed to get a post up already, my Lord, it’s been 2 weeks, 2 months, why oh why haven’t I written anything?!? And suddenly it’s been 6 or more months. And to be honest, I haven’t even looked at this page in at least 3 of those months.

Last night I sat down at my newish computer. I bought it over Thanksgiving when my last laptop crashed. And I typed in www.gsblueeyes.blogspot.com into my browser and sat there, astonished, when my newish computer didn’t even recognize the address while I typed. I’ve never visited this site on this computer?

I lost myself for a few hours in old posts. My old posts. My thoughts and memories. My worries (some of which seem so silly now, some I still carry). And I began to miss you all; I began to miss this. This whole THING. This space that I own, it’s mine. I can say, in theory, what I want. (Anyone who blogs, especially if they blog unanonymously, knows they can’t REALLY say anything they want. But still…) I can be me. I can write for myself, even if no one else reads it. Bessie.viola reminded me of that, and that’s why I love her. She’s so like me. She gets me. And I never would have met her without this space. And I miss that, too. Making friends with people I would never have met in real life because they live in Michigan and Canada and other places that are NOT upstate New York.

So, Blogland, I think I’m back, if you’ll have me. I might not post as often. I’ll try not to get sucked up by ads and obsessing over readership and all the other niggling little annoyances that made me just feel so….gah! And I will write for myself. So my future self can sit down, have a cup of coffee, and re-live these moments that are passing my current self by so quickly. That’s why I began this space. That’s what I love about it.

**********
A brief update on my life:

I am now the mother of a 3 year-old. She’s still amazing. She is in preschool 2 days a week. She’s potty trained. She is my joy.

My husband’s health has made a dramatic turn-around. In May he began seeing a naturopath in New Jersey named Roland Ramos. He doesn’t have a website (!!) so I can’t link you there, but he is a miracle worker. That is not hyperbole. We drive 3 hours one way once a week to see him, and it has been life changing. John is also in graduate school working on a Master’s of Social Work.

Not much is new with me, really. My job keeps me very busy, which also cut into my blogging time. I am not expecting baby #2 and probably never will be. And, honestly, I’m ok with that. My family feels right. I’ve been working on me, my internal life, my thoughts and fears. I haven’t shared a lot of it with anybody. I’ve been trying to create some cohesion between my past and my present, who I was and who I am. And all the imperfections I’ve discovered along the way. Ahh, maybe that’s a post for another day. Maybe not.

Aspects of Her Emerging Personality

This little girl here, even smeared in spaghetti sauce and chocolate pudding, is my heart. She is the largest part of my soul embodied, walking around outside of my body. I would give my life for her, in a heartbeat. She is my future.

But day by day she is becoming, or perhaps I'm just realizing, her very own person. She is NOT a part of me, not really. She is a separate and unique being. She makes decisions without me. She goes places I don't go. She has thoughts and reactions I don't like. She is Giuliana, her very own.

Oh, she has so many wonderful qualities. She's so brilliant. Very funny and silly. Adorable in every way. She is loving and affectionate. She's creative. I don't want you to get the idea I'm not aware of all of these things. I truly am. And I love her more than I ever would have believed possible. But this girl, she has me at a loss...already. I'm honestly a bit nervous for her teenage years. She's becoming quite a handful.

She's two, and I know that. I'm sure that a lot of what I'm seeing these days can be attributed to that fact. I've read about sweet little babies morphing into wild aliens on their second birthday. I guess I just didn't think it would happen to me.

But more than that, I feel like I'm discovering certain aspects of her personality that trouble me. I fear for her a little bit. It seems she has an independent streak a mile long. She wants to do EVERYTHING herself. She does not want anyone to come near her while she tries to do whatever it is, and, tonight, she didn't even want us to look at her. She does not handle instruction AT ALL. I mean it, at. all. You can't show this girl anything. She expects that she knows how to do it and can and will do it herself, even if she's never even seen the thing done before.

Exhibit A: Tumbling Class. If you follow me on Facebook you know I recently signed Giuliana and I up for a Mommy and Me toddler tumbling class. We began on Saturday. Now, the major reason I decided to enroll us in this class was not for the exercise, not from some desire for G to become a gold-medal gymnast, not even so much for the opportunity to be around other kids (though that was definitely a factor.) My motivation was largely to get this kid in some sort of mildly structured environment so she begins to develop an understanding of how to listen, how to behave when someone is teaching her how to do something. I've also recently begun investigating preschool options and I had a revelation the other day. Holy Crap. If I don't start now with helping her learn how to behave in a class setting, she's going to shove a glue stick up the nose of the first teacher who tries to help her make a collage.

So, tumbling class. It went predictably. Giuliana was bouncing on her trampoline when it was time to leave the house. I'd prepped her all morning, but of course she didn't want to stop bouncing and go the gym. Cue screaming and crying. Ok, I get her in the car, I talk up how much fun we're going to have. She calms down. We arrive. She's shy and nervous at first. But then we enter the gymnasium and she eyeballs all the fun equipment.

"I do! I do it! I do the tunnel!!" She skips asking, heads straight for whining. It went downhill from there. We attempted to sit in a circle with the other kids and their parents and the instructor and do some easy stretches. She wanted nothing to do with it. She would NOT let anyone show her how to do a somersault. She refused to allow anyone to teach her how to hang on the bar. She didn't want to do the obstacle course, she only wanted to climb through the tunnel. And she was whining and stomping her little feet the whole time to a chorus of "I do it, I do it!!"

The part that breaks my heart a little bit is that the few times I coaxed her into listening and she actually tried something she was so proud of herself. She bent down and touched her toes with all the other kids and her face just lit up. She jumped and smiled and beamed pride. But she wouldn't repeat it. It wasn't her agenda.

The other part that breaks my heart? When she can't do something. She seems to think and expect that she knows how to do everything. All by herself. No help required. But, well, she's two. So obviously she can't. And she is so easily disappointed in herself. She bursts into tears, the whining dissolves to wailing, "I can't do it, Mommy. I can't do it. I never ever do it. I sorry I can't do it." She's so very hard on herself.

These are the personality traits I fear. Yes I know that it's typical for little kids to want to do things themselves, to be stubborn and never want to do anything according to Mommy's plan. But this insane NEED to be completely independent, this over-the-top expectation of herself scares me. I worry she's going to have a rough time of it. And I have absolutely no idea how to help her. I've tried giving her a wide berth, lots of time to try to do things herself before I ultimately have to help her. I've tried setting a short time limit and letting her know I'm going to help her after a certain amount of time. I've tried the 1, 2, 3 trick. I've gotten stern when the tantrum gets out of hand. None of it has made a bit of difference. She decides she wants to do something and she starts yelling and whining about doing it herself, before anyone has said a word contradicting her. She dissolves into a stomping, tantruming mess and doesn't even try to do whatever it is she wants to do, she just argues. Even when no one is arguing. Sometimes I can say "Go ahead, you can do it" enough times that she actually tries/does it. But often she just keeps it up and I end up having to step in. And of course that never ends well.

I just don't know what to do next. I feel like I'm missing a puzzle piece. There's something here I'm not getting. If I could only figure it out I could make things so much easier for her. So, friends, I'm asking for your advice. How do I help little G help herself? How do I structure her day/my requests so she can be successful and feel good about herself? Help!

How To Break A Mother's Heart (Toddler Version)

I know I'm not the only parent to resort to The Stern Voice from time to time. Like when your child is being especially exasperating. Yeah. I know I'm not alone.

Here's the scene: Giuliana is fresh from her bath. For some reason this is a particularly touchy time for her. Probably being cold and wet doesn't help the situation. But for whatever reason, she gets really cranky about having lotion put on. She wants it on, and she wants to do her tummy by herself. This gets no argument from me. I'm flexible, she can do her tummy-no problem. But she gets in one of her moods. Oh, I dread and hate this mood. Nothing makes her happy. She has decided she wants to do something herself and no amount of "Go ahead" or "It's OK, you can do it" or "Giuliana, I'm not arguing with you, stop yelling at me, go ahead and do it yourself" pleases her. For whatever reason, she is expecting an argument and she's ready for it with a good, loud whine and cry session. So, even though I give her the lotion and encourage her to rub her tummy and tell her what a good job she's doing, she's wailing through the whole thing.

And I snap. I break out The Stern Voice. I look her right in the eye and say (rather loudly) "GIULIANA. Stop yelling." Well. Has anyone ever known that to actually work? Because it sure doesn't work with my kid. I have know idea why I resort to it. Some maternal gene-pattern, no doubt. Anyway, she just cries and whines louder. And I figure it's still all about the non-existent argument over the lotion/tummy issue.

Then she starts repeating, over and over, "It's not fair, Mommy. Not fair. 'Giuliana.' It's not fair. I crying. No, 'Giuliana,' Mommy."

At first I don't get it. What's not fair? Finally, after she repeats it about a dozen times it dawns on me. I ask her, "Do you mean it's not fair that Mommy yelled at you and said, 'Giuliana' when you were crying?"

"Yeah. I sad."

Stab me in the heart! I hurt her feelings. For real. Not just 'cause I wouldn't give her a lollipop before dinner or let her climb up into her car seat by herself because we were running late. I hurt her feelings because I yelled at her when she was crying.

I apologized a few thousand times and told her that I loved her very much and I was sorry for hurting her feelings. She told me "It's o-tay, Mommy" and gave me a hug and we're all cool now. But, man! That one? That was rough. I know I'll stop and think before giving into my frustration the next time.

Happy (34th) Birthday To Me

It's that time again. Another year, come and gone. You know what, though? I'm still pretty happy with my little life. I am grateful for so many wonderful people and circumstances that have blessed my life this year. So I don't have EVERYTHING that I want. Eh. I guess if I did that would be it, right. Game over. Nothing left to work towards. I'm feeling pretty zen today. It's sunny and warm outside. People who love me will wish me a beautiful birthday this weekend. My daughter has learned to sing

"Happy Birthday, you. Happy Birthday, you. Happy Birthday, my mommy, Happy Birthday, you. Fffooooooooo!! (that's the blowing out the candle noise)"

and has been singing it to me for the last few days.

I have another beautiful weekend planned. As I reminded you all last year it is springy and wonderful in Upstate NY this weekend, as it always is on my SPRING birthday (the link is evidence of me in flip-flops on March 7th last year. And further proof.) This year we shall surely try to make it to the St. Patrick's Day Parade (some...unfortunate...events prevented us from going last year. This year I'll have two sets of car keys.) So, Happy Birthday to me, and Happy Spring to you. Enjoy it for me :)

Letting Her Go (just a little bit)

Giuliana is growing up so fast, it literally makes my head spin sometimes. Just a second ago I was struggling with nursing and buying size 1 diapers. Now I have a girl who runs around the house playing "Twinkle Twinkle" on her kazoo and is practicing climbing in and out of her (really HIGH) big Big Girl bed.

I posted this picture on Facebook the other day and my friend (Hi, Kate!) wrote back, "cute pics of a little girl, but where is Giuliana...I don't see a baby anywhere?" AHHHH! She's so right! Look at that face-no trace of a baby anywhere!

Lately I've been trying to let myself allow her to grow-up a little bit. Just a little bit. She's such a good girl. She's so careful. And she enjoys her freedom. But, man, is it hard to let go. I've been allowing her to play by herself for short periods of time, even if I can't see what she's doing. I've even permitted her to be on a different floor of the house by herself for a few minutes! I'll admit, putting that in print fills me with anxiety. Am I a terribly negligent mother?!? What do you mean you don't have your eyes on her EVERY MOMENT! But then I remember, again, she's not six months old anymore. She is growing up and deserves the freedom, and responsibility, of a little independence.

Right at this moment I am sitting in her bedroom, on the laptop, while she plays her toy piano and sings "Old MacDonald." She sings about good Ol' Mac and his duck, and she stops suddenly and asks where her little toy duck is.

"It's downstairs, I think" she says, "I go get it, be right back!" And then she runs away.

"Be careful," I call out as she heads for the stairs.

Be Careful. I must say that a hundred times a day. Enough that she often looks at me as she is about to do something risky and says, "Be careful, Giuliana!" just to save me the effort, I guess. But then she usually does take her time with whatever it is she is trying to do and is careful about it, so the reminder must stick somewhere in her brain.

I know it's just a matter of time before she is driving away on her own. I just want to make sure she's always careful, whether I'm there to remind her or not.

Just Me, My Bowl of Ice Cream, and My Thoughts

Friday night and I'm all alone. Well, not entirely alone. There is a sleeping two year old who until a half an hour ago was climbing all over me, kissing and hugging and generally trying every trick in her Cute Book to weasel out of going to bed. Ha. She doesn't know who she's dealing with. Obviously.

And there's the dog and the cat. But their both snoozing, too. Other than THAT, I'm all alone. Which really just equates to my husband being out of the house. He and his dad went to see local wrestling. Not local high school wrestling. Just local, adult men, wrestling. Ewww. John was NOT psyched about this plan. But when his dad gets an idea, there really is not saying "no, I'd really rather stay home and clean the eaves. In the dark. And in frigid weather. While it's snowing. Thanks anyway."

So, it's me and my ice cream. It was me and my Dove Chocolate Truffles a few minutes ago. I'm indulging a serious need to douse my troubles with chocolate. This week has suuuuuuuuuuuuuuucked. It was my first week as department supervisor at work. That in and of itself wasn't so bad, but coupled with every other stressor in my life at the moment it was really all I could do not to quietly unplug my phone, cart it to the garbage room and hide it under a pile of shredding. After smashing it with my shoe. Or a hammer.

I feel like I'm losing my grip. Just a little. I came home from work this evening, left G playing with Daddy downstairs, changed into sweats and flopped on the bed. And stewed. That is so very unlike me. Usually, to my own peril, I am a busy little worker bee when I get home. I just can't relax right away. There's dinner to make, a kid to play with, Facebook to check, chores to do...I don't actually sit down until sometime after G has been tucked in and the dishes have been done. I admit, some nights I have to push myself along as I longingly look at the couch, but most nights I'm on autopilot. Tonight, I'd just had enough. I really didn't care if anything got done or if we ate at all. I didn't even give G a bath, just put her to bed grimey.

I'm just fed up with things being so hard. This is so very cliche, I know. And shallow and selfish and stupid. But I'm just angry that things that seem* to come pretty easily for most people cost John and I dearly. It costs our mental health. Both of us are feeling the effects of all this stress and depression is setting it. It costs our relationship. It's so very hard to feel romantic or spontaneous when you are living according to a damn clinical chart. It costs us financially because of all the freaking copays to multiple doctors and pharmacies that add up over time. Believe me they add up.

Some days I really regret this decision because I knew it would be like this. I just knew it. Then I think about all the things I'm hording up in the attic and imagine giving them away, giving up so quickly and never needing them again. That breaks my heart.

I admit, though, that a quick perusal of my blog list will find several women who have what I want. And they didn't have that when I started following them. It seems every one is on the same page as I am, but my page is still blank. And it's beginning to hurt. Again. This is how it was the first time around. So very hard. So frustrating. So all consuming.

I just wanna get drunk, have sex and get knocked up. Why can't it be that easy?


*Disclaimer: I KNOW it only seems that way. Everyone has their own struggles, yada, yada, yada...I'm just not there right now. Right now, this is how I feel.

Fun In A Box

When I was a kid, my cousins and I had in the toy room an ancient steamer trunk that was filled with tossed off dresses, scarves, hats, shoes, purses, necklaces, gloves, and other assorted and random articles of clothing from my mother, grandmother and aunts. There were even a few donations from my grandfather in there. Our dress up box looked exactly like this.


Now, I can't tell you what my grandma and my mom were thinking when they put this monolith in a room dedicated to our toys and imagination, but I can tell you that none of us ever lost a finger or suffocated climbing in and out of this thing. And we did climb in and out of it on a regular basis. I can also tell you that playing dress-up for hours on end with my cousins is my very favorite childhood memory. We would spend all day creating different outfits for each other, playing "house" and "school" and "store" in full regalia. We would eventually string up an old sheet on the front porch and drag all the adults out to the driveway to watch our costumed "plays."

I played dress-up when I was alone, too. I lived with my parents in my grandparents' house, so I had the advantage of having the toy room and all its treasures to myself most of the time. I vividly remember donning "gowns" and bedazzling myself in necklaces, bracelets, and a glittering gold scarf and spending the afternoon running around the yard pretending I was Maid Marion ala Robin Hood.


Giuliana's dress-up box is currently housed in an old picnic basket. I have plans to upgrade her collection of accoutrements to a larger trunk-style home eventually, but haven't found the right combination of steamer-trunk-without-the-threat-of-potential-dismemberment-and/or-death yet. And for now, it all fits nicely.

The other night Giuliana ran to her dress-up box and, all by herself, whipped up what I already know is going to be one of my very most treasured memories of her toddlerhood. We had finished dinner and she had cuddled up on the couch to watch a little pre-bath Max & Ruby. Max and his bossy big sister were playing "detective" and searching for clues to solve a mystery. They were decked out in trench-coats, hats and magnifying glasses. The moment the show ended Giuliana jumped up and raced to her dress-up box. She started throwing scarves and purses left and right out of her way until she dug up her own magnifying glass. Next she located one of her hats, a pair of sunglasses, and a scarf. She asked me to get out her coat, and I finally realized what she was doing. I handed her her tweed trench-style coat out of the closet and helped her put it on. She accessorized herself and then began running around the house looking for clues with her magnifying glass and trying to solve a "miss-ry!"

Sigh. (Sorry for the blurry picture, but I couldn't get her to stand still for more than 3 seconds.) I love this girl. And I love her childhood.

Revealing Vague Insecurities

I don't even know what I want to say here, in this space, right now. I have a lot of thoughts swirling around in my head, emotions running loose around my heart. I just got out of a long, hot shower. You know, one of those were you just let the water pound on your brain, hoping it will bring some clarity along with a cleansing, but somehow the healing water doesn't penetrate to your insides. One of those. And now, hair dripping, I just feel like I need to get it OUT somehow. But I don't even know where to begin. Or what to say. The internet is a very big place and these feelings are very personal. Blogs are so strange, aren't they. So self-important. So easy to put waaaaay TMI about yourself out there for absolutely anyone to read. So we self-censor and somehow it defeats the purpose of this space. But that is a topic for another time. This is how my brain seems to be functioning lately. Spinning, jumpy, preoccupied.

I'm feeling incredibly selfish this week. But at the same time, I feel like it's not time to give it up yet. We've had the long talks, are in agreement. But I can't help feeling that his pain is exacerbated and prolonged because of me. Because I feel like there is meant to be something else. This can't go on for too long. It's just not fair. But I have no control over my own body, let alone his. I keep getting slapped in the face with that truth, over and over. Over and over. For years now. No control. No control. I can't WILL things to happen, no matter how hard I think about it. No matter how meticulously I plan. My body and my mind have a disconnect. They don't communicate. I'm sitting here, prescriptions in hand, a perfectly conceived plan to be followed. But my body is ALREADY not cooperating with itself. How am I supposed to get there when I can't even get past here?? I'm stuck. He's stuck because I'm stuck. And yet I can't give up. I can't just stop. It doesn't feel right. It's not time to make that decision.

In August, if all goes well, he'll be returning to grad school. There needs to be some changes before then. We'll keep the status quo for now. The doctors assure us it's the right way to go. There's a time table. A vague deadline, looming out there. And I have no control over what happens between now and then. But each attack, each "episode" as we call them, will feel like a selfish act on my part. I guess that's all I know for sure right now.

God. I hate this. I'm so exhausted from big, life altering decisions. For wishing and hoping for things I can't will into being. I get it. I have no control. It's all an illusion. I get it, already. Can we get beyond this lesson? Does it need to keep beating me over the head?

I'm going to bed.

Reflections

My little family has survived another week.

That's about the only way to sum up our crazy life lately.

I went to work 14 hours this week. Giuliana had both pneumonia and a severely acute (no, that's not redundant or hyperbole) double ear infection. John had electrical devices implanted in his back. I've taken to providing a sound track for him every time he moves: "na-na-na-na-naaa," ala The Bionic Man. (Google it, I'm old. I know this.)

So, what, you might ask, is life like with an acutely sick toddler? Oh, let me tell you. For one, I am on Nick Jr. OVERLOAD! She hasn't had much energy for playing, so the TV has been on pretty much constantly. I couldn't take it anymore and called for TV-Free Day today. I got my wish for the most part, with a concession to my headache. I let her watch Sesame St. On Demand while I napped on the couch. Also, for two, the whining? It has hit all new levels. A two year old with a fever and a constantly painful earache is rarely happy. And lets you know it. She screamed at me because she wanted to do everything herself. Then she screamed at me because I wasn't helping. Then she screamed at me when I tried to help. Lather, rinse, repeat. For 2 WEEKS. For three, remembering to dose this child with Tylenol every 4 hours for her fever, Motrin every 6 hours for her pain, 2 different antibiotics every evening, homeopathic ear drops, fill her sippy cup with juice on demand (which felt like every 5 minutes) and heat her "nice pillow" (one of those microwavable corn pads) for her ears every 10 minutes just flat out wore me down.

But all of that pales in comparison to having to hold your daughter down three days in a row while she sobs and pleads with you as the nurses puncture both of her little thighs with a painful dose of antibiotics. Or lying in bed with her fevery little body smooshed up against yours, sweaty and shivery, as she thrashes back and forth in pain you really can't do anything about. Or the terror that grips your heart when you pull the thermometer out and read the temperature- 104.5. That can't possibly be right, can it? Strip her down to her diaper, give her cool juice. Sit and sing and pretend you're not freaking out. Coax her into a bath and lean over the edge and hug her while she cries and shivers and grips you tightly and generally breaks every inch of your heart. Or making the decision to allow the doctors to place your precious child under anesthesia and lance her eardrums.

Yeah. Those. Those are not good times. Especially when those things coincide with your husband traveling 400 miles round-trip to have surgery on his back and have electrical leads places on his spine. A trip you were supposed to take with him, to help him, to talk to the doctor and get the straight story. A trip you ended up having to skip and trust his father to get the straight story while you sat at work for 8 of those 14 hours worrying and fretting.

But, we all made it through a very long and unenjoyable week. John and his dad drove down to Manhattan early Thursday morning and made it back by 12:30 Friday morning with wires running from the middle of his back to a device he carries in his pocket. He dragged himself out of bed again at 5:30 AM so we could take Giuliana to the hospital for her surgery. And today, we've all caught up on our sleep, no one had a fever, medication regimens were much less stringent, and Thank God the TV was off. The whining subsided throughout the day, there were more giggles and less tears. Next week. There is hope for next week to be much better than this week.

****************

I thought I was finished with this post. I sat back and re-read it. And a horrible thought occurred to me. My little family survived another week. There are many families that didn't survive this week. They weren't anticipating not seeing each ever again. They didn't get to comfort each other. Some didn't even get to worry and fret over each other.

My little family survived another week. For that, I am blessed. For that, I am grateful. For that, I'll take what life hands me. Just as long as we all survive another week. Together.

Family Roots

Partial Thurston family tree

Hello? Anyone still around? Sorry for the dust-bunnies and tumbleweeds floating collecting on the floors. I've been a little...busy.

Busy, you say? Work, motherhood, cleaning house, Christmas shopping, birthday party planning...that's probably enough to keep anyone busy this time of year.

But me? No, that wasn't enough. No, I had to go and loose myself in a new and time-consuming hobby. Remember how I told you about how I get a little "obsessed" at times? Yeah. I've found a new one. And we haven't even had G's big birthday party yet. Hmmmm... attention deficit much?

What was I saying? Oh, yes! My new hobby. I've fallen into the rabbit hole of geneology. I've always been interested in all things historical. History was my absolute favorite thing in school. A few months ago I acquired a book all about the history of Broome County, my hometown. I devoured it. I love trying to figure out where everything was/is located, what's there now. I relish reading all the details and secrets of long dead people's lives and the impact they had on my community. I frequently walk or drive past quiet neighborhoods lined with old, fading houses and wonder whose homes they were and what their stories are. But somehow the intrigue of geneology study had escaped me. Until last week.

Last Wednesday, the day before Thanksgiving, I was at work, bored out of my mind. It was deathly quiet. Phones weren't ringing. Faxes weren't humming. Nobody seemed to need anything. My supervisor actually came into my office and said, "If you have Christmas shopping to do online, help yourself." That would have been a productive use of time. That Christmas list is collecting dust and I haven't done much about it. However, I had already been occupying myself online and by that point, I was long gone. Let me try to explain how I arrived at
Ancestory.com

This is vintage Kami. I don't know how you all surf when you have nothing else to do, but I tend to jump from topic and link to link as things pique my interest. So, I believe I began on The New York Times site, looking at the news. An article on the history of "Jewishness" caught my eye (the history thing, I guess, I'm not jewish.) From there I began researching an obsure Turkish empire in the Middle Ages called the Khazars. This led me to a very interesting article on the Samaritan people. On that blog site I stumbled upon an article about the history of a woman's husband's last name. Aaaaaaand, we've made it. She linked to Ancestory.com. I hopped over and was immediately absorbed in the surname message boards.

Arthur Thurston and his draft horses, circa 1925

By the end of the day I had done some significant research on my mom's father's family, the Creerys. I worked my way back several generations to an infamous guy named "Cherry Tree" Joe McCreery in Western PA. Apparently he was a friend of Johnny Appleseed and a real-life Paul Bunyan. I also solved the mystery of when and how McCreery was shortened to Creery. Turns out "Cherry Tree" Joe's son, Morgan Rheese Banks McCreery, was a dentist. When he moved to a new town and set up a new practice, the man hired to paint the office door mistakenly painted "Creery" rather than "McCreery." I guess it was easier to change his name than change the door. (Credit for that story belongs to my mother's cousin Clark Creery, who I stumbled onto online.) I was HOOKED!

I printed out a bunch of information and when I stopped by my parents' house to pick up Giuliana I ended up showing it all to my mom and pestering her to fill in some of the blanks. She didn't have all the answers, but she said she'd try to remember what she could and would dig up some pictures, too. We ended up spending all day at it on Friday.

I went home and set up shop in a corner of my kitchen with my laptop on the counter, and I remained there for the next 5 hours, lost on Ancestory, digging up whatever I could find on both of my parents' families. I came across some pictures of my father's parents when they were quite young and had no idea who had posted them or how they were related to me. I sent the woman a message and it turns out she is my father's cousin's daughter (second cousin? I never remember these things.) She and I have been corresponding ever since and she has sent me 40+ family photos and filled in many missing pieces about my father's family that even he didn't know. Turns out my family on his side has lived in Broome County almost since it was founded 1806. I had no idea. All of the sudden that fascinating book on the history of Broome County took on an entirely new meaning to me. This is not only the history of the area I live and love, it's my family's history. They were here and were apart of all of it. How incredibly cool is that?

Bessie Jones Thurston and Arthur Thurston and family circa 1922

Now that I've filled in most of the names several generations back, I've been focusing on my dad's family and the places they lived and worked. I've been driving around town, taking pictures of old houses that are still standing and empty fields where they used to be. I have a lot more work to do. John and I are off the week after Christmas and I have plans to spend a day at the Broome County library's geneology center. I hope to find birth, marriage and death records. I plan to dig up whatever I can find about my great-grandfather's company, Binghamton Warehouse & Terminal and the grocery store he owned later. I will look up deeds and census data so I can explore all the addresses and homesteads. (Might need more than one day!)

245 Clinton St. Binghamton, (one of) my great-grandparents' home

I suppose I'll have to squeeze a birthday party for a certain two year old and oh, yeah, Christmas in there somewhere this month. But for now I'm far gone and preoccupied (obsessed?) with my new hobby. Pass that deed book over here, would you?

I'm Missing You

My Dear Sweet Baby Girl,

Giuliana, I can't believe it's been very nearly two years since you made your entrance into this world and changed me forever. Your birthday, your second one!, is just a week and a half away. So, tonight I dug out the rarely used video camera to capture a few moments of your YOUness, right now, so I never forget. You indulged me by being very cute. You helped me empty the dishwasher and we sang the ABCs together while we did it. You banged on some pots and pans and played with the dog. You danced for me, "read" me a story, and colored me a picture. You chatted up a storm, which was exactly what I wanted to document. Thank you for cooperating.

After we were done recording we decided to watch some of the old tapes of you as a baby. We had to watch them on the little screen on the video camera because Mommy and Daddy still haven't managed to buy one of the VHS tapes to stick the little tapes in. (YES! we are still recording you on VHS, I know, I know...we will convert them all to DVD one day, I promise! We even have the machine to do it...it's the time that's a problem.)

You were facinated when I put in the tape from a year ago. You watched your first birthday party and recognized yourself in that barely-still-baby on the screen. You were excited again watching Mommy help you open your presents, recognizing all your now familiar toys. You pointed out all your favorite people and drooled over your birthday cupcakes (you begged for one, but, I'm sorry, honey, we don't have any cupcakes in the house.)

Next I put in the very first video tape. It starts with Mommy opening mail and finding your Social Security card. I laughed at myself as I got all excited, holding up the envelope to the camera, your first piece of mail, the documents that prove you are alive, a citizen, you have a name (and they spelled it right!) Daddy also indulged me as I held our health insurance statement up to the camera, showing off that you didn't cost us a dime when you were born, dispite choosing to come into the world the hard way.

And then, the camera pans to the main event. You. Your almost two year old self doesn't recognize that baby. Oh, but I do! There you are, days old. You are lying in your pack and play, skinny little arms and legs twitching and flaying uncontrollably. Your eyes roam, in and out of focus. Your little pink tongue darts in and out of your mouth. You make little squeaks which are the cutest thing, but don't really mean anything. But you are here. In our house. In our world. This sweet, adorable, completely foreign little person. And instantly I am transported.


With an aching like a physical punch in the gut I instantly miss you, though you are sitting right here on my lap. I am lost, once again in those first days of your life. Reliving those moments when I learned how to be your mother. It was a strange mix. I had known you from the moment you were concieved. But I didn't know you at all. I spent weeks just getting to know you. Learning every curve, every bump, every wrinkle. I learned every sound you had in your repitiore and what they all meant. You and I worked hard on communicating with each other. It wasn't easy at first. I remember, vividly, wanting to somehow impress you. I needed you to believe in me, trust me that I could do this job, be your mother.


We spent every single minute together in those first days. I'd even cart you into the bathroom with me, swaddled and strapped securely in your car seat. What else was I supposed to do with you? Daddy had to go to work. I didn't dare leave you alone with a dog and two cats in the house. You were probably at least several weeks old before I dared to leave you sleeping in your bassinet while I ran downstairs to make you a bottle. I remember racing to the kitchen, getting half way through the adruous task of making a bottle (that took all of 1 minute) and then anxiety getting the better of me, I would run back to the bottom of the stairs and listen intently to make sure you weren't crying. Then I would hurry back to the kitchen, finish the bottle prep, and run back up the stairs to your side. You were two and a half months old before I ever let you take a nap in your crib. I had the baby monitor stapped to my hip and I still went up to your room to check on you and make sure you were breathing at least 6 times in your hour long nap.


Yes, you and I did everything together. The Christmas you were born nesting took over me and I decided it would be a good idea to dust off an old family tradition and make homemade eggnog on Christmas Eve, after church. I used to help my mom make eggnog when I was little, standing over the stove and stirring, stirring, stirring it for her. So, with you in your sling, I stood at the stove and stirred a large vat of eggnog for hours late into the night, eventually perching on a stool, stirring with one hand, cradling you and giving you a bottle with the other hand.

The video jumps to another scene of you in your pack and play. You are older here, by weeks. I have filled your pack and play with stuffed animals, a soft blanket, many hanging toys. You are achingly cute in a little pink hat with a teddy bear face on it, teddy bear ears sticking out the sides. Your little sweat suit has another cute bear on it, your pant legs have ridden up to your fat little knees. You have filled out. I remember how I could never keep your pant legs down. They would scoot up your legs in seconds. Those legs were in constant motion, bending and stretching. They end in adorable white bunny slippers on your tiny feet. The camera smartly zooms in on those bunny clad feet for a few seconds, just to rub in how unbelievably cute you are. And then I hear myself talking to you, cooing and making funny noises that you attempt to repeat. You swing and bat toward the hanging toys, still not able to actually make anymore than incidental contact, yet it's more than you were doing a few weeks ago. I am caught up in how beautiful you are. The most beautiful baby I have ever seen. I remember that was my first conscience thought of you when the doctor pulled you from me and held you up for my inspection. You are beautiful. And here, several weeks old, you are coming into your own. Your skin is perfect. You have a suitable layer of chubbiness filling you out. Your cheeks are blushing pink, your eyes a sapphire blue, your lashes miles long. Today, my heart longs to be able to cuddle that little baby one more time.

I've been reflecting on the fact that those first few days and weeks with you are a time in my life that I will never relive, never experience again. You are the child that made me a mother. That only happens once in a lifetime. If I ever give you a brother or sister, it will be special and miraculous in it's own way. But it won't be the same as those days with you. Every second was new, every breath a learning experience. When I watch you on video I can grasp those feelings. Exhaustion. Exuberance. Wonder. Sheer terror. Absolutely overwhelming love. I miss those days with you. Getting to know you.

But, my Chicaboo, I wouldn't trade a second of these nearly two years for anything. Every single day you manage to outdo yourself. You are a wonderful child. No, you're not a baby anymore. Not even a little bit. You are fully, wholly a child. You can do so many things by yourself. You learn new words everyday, I couldn't even attempt to keep count anymore. You have been sitting in your booster seat lately. We still have the highchair out, but I expect by your birthday I will tuck it away, another artifact of your babyhood. The attic is full of all the things you have already outgrown.

But, Baby, you will always, always be my baby. My angel. My gift from God. I am more thankful for you than I can put into words. I love you. You are my joy.

Love,
Your Mommy

Another Frightening Look Into My Brain

I’m not saying that I’m OCD or anything. But I love me a good, ol’ fashioned obsession now and then. Don’t you?

Past obsessions have ranged from major life altering events: “Here Comes The Bride,” “Let’s Buy A House,” “BABY! Baby, baby, baby…” To smaller time-suckers: “This Old Blog,” “Our Gross Yard,” “What Color Should I Paint The Living Room?”

My current, post-Halloween, obsession has become “Planning Giuliana’s Second Birthday Party.” I am a planner, you see. And I’m a little disconcerted that I only have 4 weeks to plan. But I have been living in denial of the fact that, yes, indeed, this kid is going to keep having birthdays. So, it snuck up on me. There are invitations to pick-out (obsess, obsess, obsess…) buy, fill-out, send. A birthday party dress splurge on (check! Did that last night.) A cake to agonize over decorating (I am not a baker, I just play one in my kitchen.) Decorations to make (I am, however, crafty.) So much to do! At least, there is if you live in my head. I think my husband is wishing that he didn’t. Live in my head, that is. I like to torture him by sharing all my obsessive thoughts, at all hours of the day and night. For example, this morning, as he was getting out of the shower and toweling off, I walked in and described, in detail, my ideas for using paper plates as hanging decorations. Lucky guy, my husband.

A “theme” has also been checked off the To Do List. We decided on that a couple of days ago. It was actually John’s idea. I asked him to think about Giuliana’s favorite things and list them off to me. There were the usual Elmo, Abby Cadabby, Dora ideas. But I don’t like the idea of using doing a character theme. Then, he hit upon the perfect one. I’m not going to share it just yet. But, for those of you who know my little girl, when you see it, you’ll understand.

Geesh! Look at the time. I should be googling cake decorating tips! Oh, and working. Gotta go!

I'm Going Crazy

I’d forgotten (repressed?) just how truly horrible, no fun, insanity-inducing and nerve-wracking the “two week wait” is. Living under a magnifying glass and examining every real or completely imagined “symptom” 100 different ways. Googling random twinges and cravings to see if they may give you a hint. Working yourself up into a total state of hysteria convinced it finally happened and then ridiculing yourself for being a twit…way too soon to know, duh!

Or is it just me?

Masquerade

I’ve been pretending lately. Pretending to be a Stay At Home Mom (SAHM). And I like it.

Last week, I didn’t have to go to work on Monday because we were closed for Columbus Day (I know, hate me if you want.) I had to go out of town overnight on Tuesday and Wednesday, so by Friday I only needed to work a half-day and was able to go home at lunch. Yesterday my parents needed the afternoon off, so I took a half-day of vacation time and again left work at lunch.

Oh my, how I have enjoyed spending all that time with my daughter! It almost feels illicit. I’m totally getting away with something here. I keep looking over my shoulder for the spoiler who is going to come and squash my fun. “Don’t you know, Young Lady, that you are a WORKING MOTHER, not a SAHM. You do not get the privilege of playing in the park in the middle of a Thursday afternoon! You gave up that pleasure for the sake of a paycheck. Get thee back to work!” Or something like that.

I ran into some SAHMs at the park yesterday. I felt like a total imposter. Giuliana happily shared the slide and swings with the few children around at 2pm in the afternoon. And I was absorbed into a conversation about seasonal and H1N1 flu shots and local pediatricians. The other moms were very friendly and open and shared all sorts of concerns about thimerisol and autism fears related to the vaccinations. I share these concerns. I still haven’t made up my mind about which shots, if any, Giuliana will get this season. I voiced my opinions and issues into the conversation. I have a slightly different perspective from these moms because I work with several children with autism. Some of their parents are convinced that vaccinations played a role in the development of the syndrome. And because of my work with medically and developmentally compromised kids, I know a lot about most of the local pediatricians, who’s good, who doesn’t really care about disabled kids and their quality of life, things like that. But I didn’t voice this side of my perspective. I didn’t want to call myself out and mention that I am a working mom who just had the afternoon off. I somehow felt a little guilty about it.

The conversation wrapped up, the kids were winding down and the other moms bundled them up to go home for their afternoon naps. We exchanged names and shared hopes that we run into each other again at the park. But I probably won’t run into them. I can’t take my daughter to the park in the middle of the day very often.

I drove home and wrestled with the issue of getting my daughter down for a nap. Of course she fell asleep in the car the minute we pulled into the driveway. She was exhausted, but woke up as I was gently trying to pry her loose from the car seat. And for this girl, there is no going back. She was up for good. I gave her some milk, rocked her, put on soft lullabies, placed her in her crib for some “quiet time,” but there was no sleeping to be had. As I rocked her, conflict roiled inside my head. “If I was able to really mother her, spend more of my time with her, I’d have this nap issue resolved. My mom doesn’t have trouble getting her to sleep. I’d be able to do that if I was with her more. Like those park moms.”

After I put her down for her “quiet time” I went downstairs and began making the time-consuming risotto I had planned for dinner. I thought I was going to make it Wednesday night. But Wednesday turned into a rush after work. We played outside, and decided since it was so beautiful to take a family walk with the dog. We didn’t get back home until 6pm. No time to make fancy, work-intensive risotto. We ordered take-out. Giuliana had a pb&j and yogurt. So, Thursday, I had a little more time to spend on dinner. And again, as I was stirring the bubbling risotto, the quiet resentment crept in. “If I didn’t have to work I’d be able to feed my family home cooked meals more often. We wouldn’t have to rely on take-out.”

I thoroughly enjoyed my afternoon with my girl, and I hate it when these dark thoughts and doubts creep in. I do the best I can for her. She’s healthy. She’s quite happy. She’s loved and cared for. She’s intelligent and learning new things everyday. But when she cries for me in the night and I know it’s only because she needs a few more cuddles, it breaks my heart. It makes me fear that she’s missing me during her days and the little time we spend in the evenings, even though I try like crazy to not let myself get wrapped up in dinner-prep and chores and to spend “quality time” on the floor playing with her, coloring and drawing endless circles, running around the yard, snuggling on the couch and watching Dora together, that that time isn’t enough.

The rub in all of it, the slap in the face, is that the “choice” for me to work is one of necessity. I’m not one of those mothers who feel like they’d go insane if they stayed home with their kids, who craves being able to go to the office and have some relevant adult interaction and then return home to be a better, more focused parent. I have nothing against these parents and wish I was one of them. Then maybe I wouldn’t feel so guilty about all the time I am missing from my daughter’s life. If I felt like working made me a better parent. But I don’t feel that way. I feel working makes me a more unbalanced parent. There are so many things I would do with her if I had more time. I can only cram so many things into a weekend. And some weekends, we feel like we all need to just stay home and relax and enjoy each other.

Sigh. I could go on and on. I’ll stop here because I’m making myself upset. I know it’s useless to dwell on “if only.” I have to work and that’s the way it is and the way it’s going to be. And I just have to suck up the rest of it and be the best mom I can be on nights and weekends. And the guilt and the self-incrimination doesn’t help me do that. It just makes me depressed.

But I think I know what I’m going to pretend to be for Halloween. Anyone have any tips for a good SAHM costume?

Away and Back Again

I had a quick trip for work this week. Just overnight. Just up to Saratoga Springs. But, hands down, the best part of my trip was my bedtime call home, when John put the phone up to Giuliana's ear as she was snuggled in her jammies, rocking with him, and she told me "ni-nigh, yuv oo!"

I arrived home after dinner last night. Just in time to gets some great big messy hugs and kisses. We played a little bit. Peek-a-boo. Cars. Coloring. She climbed in Daddy's lap and strummed the guitar. We cuddled. I put her to bed and was again rewarded with "ni-nigh, Mommy. Yuv-oo, Mommy." Sometime, over the last 2 days, she learned to call me "Mommy." It made my heart truly soar. But it also felt strange to my ears. "Mommy?" What about "Mama?" Will she never call me that again?

This morning, as I dropped her off on my way to work, her bye-byes came a little too easily for me. Doesn't she miss me when I'm away? The selfish part of me would have loved for her to cry and cling to me. But she didn't. She was in a great mood and happily went to Nanny with kisses goodbye.

Tomorrow she's coming into work with me. I only have to be there for 4 hours. And then my girl and I will spend the afternoon together. I can't wait. This coming and going, going and coming is hard on my heart.

Do I Let Her Fall? And other parental quandries...

Thud. Thud. Thud.

That's the sound of my blood pounding in my brain, my adrenaline all jacked up and ready to propel me across the yard to swoop up my crying baby.

She's climbing again, higher and more confidently every day. There she goes, scaling her way to the top of the fort, looking back at me for approval and applause. If I don't clap, she'll be upset. If I do, she'll let go and clap with me, which causes my blood pressure to soar and sparks that jolt of adrenaline. When I remind her to hold on, she'll yell at me and possibly stomp her feet, which makes me even more nervous. I'm caught in a no-win situation. So, I clap for her, I force a proud smile on my face. "Good job, Sweetie! Hold on, don't fall!"

Whew! She's down on the platform. Safe. But wait! She's turning around, working her little tush onto the top step, wedging herself in where she KNOWS she'll get "stuck!" She's done that before, and then I help her hop down, safe in my arms. But this time, she looks at me, "stuck!" she says, then she JUMPS out, almost before I can catch her! The adrenaline, it's flowing full-force.

She runs over to the first step to do it all over again. And again.


And I'm left asking myself, do I let her fall? Should I just let her jump down on her own? It's only a two foot drop, she won't get seriously hurt, maybe just bang her head against the fort, or land hard on her feet. Enough to scare her a little. But is that good parenting? To let your child do something a little risky, knowing the outcome, letting it happen anyway? I can't protect her forever. There are consequences to our actions. She needs to learn this. But she's so little! I'm there to keep her safe while she explores, figures out what she's capable of doing.

I'm pondering all of this while she keeps climbing. Now it's the slide. She's walking up it, not holding on, ducking her head to fit through the arch. She almost falls off the edge, but catches herself. She laughs a little nervously. She knows that was a close call. She looks at me to see how I'll react. I tell her, "Good catch, be careful, Chicaboo."

I'm weighing all of this against my own memories of childhood. I was a "climber," too. I would routinely climb high up into the tree tops and then get stuck, not knowing how to get down. I'd yell at my dad, "should I just jump?" "No, don't jump, Kam! Hang on, I'll come get you!" And he always did. Except for the one time I fell and broke my arm. But that didn't teach me not to climb. I had this insatiable need to scale things. So, you see, she gets it from me.

Later, after she's safely in bed, with no new bumps or bruises, I ask my husband. "Should I let her fall?" "I don't know...maybe."