Hyperbole

"Considering the asshole that Charlie was today, I am super proud of myself that when she ran directly into the cupboard that I had just opened, I did not point at her and go "HA HA! Serves you right, jerk!"--My actual Facebook status yesterday.

I had more comments on this post than I thought I would, both private and public.  It surprised me, to tell the truth.  I was a little harried, a little flustered, a little frustrated, when I dashed off those words.  I was letting off steam.  I had no idea people would be so shocked.  I figured people would know enough about my warped sense of humor to know that I was exaggerating slightly.  

I was wrong.

I don't know if people thought I would actually call my child an asshole.  I don't know if people thought that I would ignore my child after she just got injured.  I don't know if people saw an opportunity to make them selves feel better about their shortcomings as a parent or a person and grabbed it with both hands to give it a big ol' French kiss while dry humping its leg.  I do know that I got a heaping dose of judgment.  It surprised me.

 Any parent that says that they never get frustrated with their child is, as I retorted on my comments, "a damn liar or a saint".  People are not perfect.  Charlie can be an asshole.  Elizabeth can be an asshole.  Alexis can be an asshole.  I can be an asshole.  Charles can be an asshole.  Every single person, on this planet, has had a bad day at some point and been an asshole.  In fact, probably the only people who can't claim to have been assholes are babies that are pretty brand spanking new.

I fully understand that my daughter is a toddler.  She is unable to reason.  Unable to regulate her emotions like a sane person.  Unable to put her pain, hurt, fears, and wants fully into words yet.  I get that.  

But.

That does not mean that her behavior is acceptable.  That does not mean that I am not going to give her a consequence when she acts on her aggressive impulses.  That does not mean that I won't give her a consequence when she throws a fit.  It does not mean that after a particularly trying day I won't look at her and not like her very much.

Like.  I said like, not love.  I will always love my children.  The implication that I got from someone, that my children will ever question my love...that is extremely offensive to me.  I would take a bullet for my kids, no questions asked.  I will not eat lunch for a week so they can get new shoes when money is tight.  I will make them ridiculously elaborate cakes for their birthdays because the days that they were born were among the happiest of my life.  Each of my children is a miracle in their own right.  The fact that they are even here is a miracle, and more so than children even are.  They should not exist because the odds were stacked against each one of them.  And yet here they are.

I will always love my children unconditionally.  And yet, when they are being jerks, I might not like them.  I might not want to deal with more of their bullshit.  I might want to sell them to the gypsies.  But I can guarantee you,  I would be running after that caravan not 5 minutes later, ready to sell my soul to get them back.

What I did not say on the post, what I did after she ran into the door, was what was appropriate.  I picked her up, gave her a hug, kissed the boo-boo, and set her back down on the floor to redirect her.  I tried not to show her my impatience at yet another distraction from making dinner.  I was successful that time.  I am not always.  I am human.  I make mistakes.  I snap at my kids, even yell.  I hurt their feelings.  I am not perfect.

The so-called "Mommy wars" drive me nuts.  I really don't have any commentary about that subject that is new, so I won't bore you.  People will probably say, well, don't put it out there for the public to comment on.  

My response to that is:  What about all the people out there who feel guilty as hell because they feel the exact same way on occasion, but are too afraid to voice it?  I don't lie to myself and pretend that I have some huge audience or something...but a lot of my friends are parents.  And parents sometimes struggle.  And sometimes, knowing that you are not alone makes a world of difference, even if it is just to one person.  And that makes it worth all of the bullshit that I have to take...because I know both what it feels like to feel that you are alone, andthat you are horrible because of your feelings.  

If I can help it, my kids will know they are loved.  If I can help it, someone out there will know that parenting sucks monkey balls sometimes, and that is OK.  So all the haters out there can suck it.  We don't always have to agree...but that does not give you license to try to make me feel like shit to make yourself feel better.

 

 

Texting III

Me:  Did you feed the doggies?

E:  Ya

Me:  Cool beaners.

E:  Wow

Me:  What?

E:  Cool beaners?  Seriously?  Lol

Me:  Yes. All the cool thirty something's are saying it.  You should too....start a trend.

E:  That's an old trend.

Me:  I am an old lady

E:  Not really

Me:  U r my favorite daughter now :)



Later that evening:  (and yes, she was upstairs in her room...feel free to judge me...)

Me:  R u going to homecoming?

E:  Ya probably its sept 15th

Me:  U have a date?

E:  Nope

Me:  What r u wearing?

E:  Probably clothes

Me:  Good plan.  I like ur thinking!

E:  Ya I know I am pretty much a genius!

Later on, talking about shopping for a dress:

E:  Can we go to aunt alicias mall?

Me:  I guess

E:  you dont sound excited

Me:  I hate the mall.  It ranks right up there with Katy Perry.

E:  Where else would we get a dress?

Me:  IDK?  Marc's (local discount store that has, in fact, sold formal wear)?  Goodwill?  

E:  Lol fantastic idea!  Ill take aunt alicia then

Me:  I will come with u.  Just remember this moment when I am old and senile.

E:  Alright I will

Teeth II

In an attempt to pretend that I am a conscientious parent, I make Charlie brush her teeth twice daily.  She has her own little tooth brush and fluoride free toothpaste, and we have this "brusha brusha BRUSHA!" song that we sing while shaking our asses and brushing our teeth.  Beyonce, step aside; there's a new booty shaker in town and her name is Char-rizzle.

Today a new twist was put on our little song and dance number.  As we were singing the brusha song (well, I was; Charlie had her toothbrush in her mouth) she pulled it out of her mouth and stuck it in mine to "brush" my teeth.

Time froze.  I have revealed on here several of my neuroses and phobias...food touching, water, my obsession with post it notes, my hatred of Katy Perry.  In an attempt to fool people into thinking I am saner than I am, I have not revealed yet another one of my phobias until now.

I hate teeth.  Rather, I hate teeth that are not clean.  When I took some time off work to stay home and care for my father, if I had to handle his nighttime routine, we soaked his false teeth versus me brushing them.  I would struggle to not gag when he would brush his remaining teeth in his mouth and spit the toothpaste into one of those kidney shaped bed pans (cause the wheel chair did not fit into the bathroom).  I barely held back waves of nausea when I would take those false teeth and put them into the cup to soak.  My very own special circle in hell will surely involve me being up to my neck in water, being forced to do a dental hygienist's job while watching people mix their food on their plates.

You get the picture.  I gave up trying to figure out what I ever did to karma to deserve this torture and tried to keep the panic out of my voice when I told her, "OK!  Mommy's all done brusha brusha!  Charlie's turn!"  She happily stuck the toothbrush back into her mouth and kept brushing her teeth.

That, bitchez, is love.  I better get put into a damn fine nursing home.

Hugs

Today Charlie threw a fit.  This in and of itself is hardly news because she is at the age where she throws fits for everything. Stop playing with your toys because you  have to eat dinner?  Throw a fit.  Mama grabs your arm to keep you from running into traffic?  Throw a fit.  Your parents have expectations of you, things like EATING and BREATHING?  Throw a fit.

What was different today was that while she was in the process of running into the living room to overturn the laundry basket of freshly folded clothes in her fit of rage (and if you know me and my abhorrence of folding laundry, that is a big fucking deal in this house...) I grabbed her and on pure instinct just folded her into my arms for a hug.  I just held her for a moment.  She then pulled away and asked me, "Pizza?" in a hopeful tone.

Just like that, the fit was over.  It was almost as if she needed an anchor in that minute, someone to just hold her and make her feel secure.  I don't know if it was a fluke, if it just was novel enough to catch her off guard, or if it was and is truly what she needs when she is that upset.  I do know that some days, there are times when I wish someone would just grab me and hold on because I feel like I am in such a whirlwind.  Like I am flying by the seat of my pants; like I have no right being an adult because I am totally faking it.

I can only imagine what it is like to be that young.  Everything is new.  Everything has the potential to be really cool or really scary.  It is simultaneously exhilarating and horribly frightening.  I need to remember that more often.  Maybe she does really just need a hug when I feel like throwing her across the room.  Maybe she does just need to know that she is safe.

Elmo

I have a confession to make.

I am not a fan of Elmo.  I was secretly relieved when Elizabeth and Alexis skipped over the whole being in love with Elmo thing.  I could put up with Blue's Clues, watch hours of Phineas and Ferb, and play Miss Clavelle all day long (though really, Elizabeth, a nun?  You had a great imagination...).  I was so glad that they did not get bitten by the whole Sesame Street bug.

Then came Charlie.  One day, the girls were bored and we were looking up videos on you tube because why the hell would I actually want to PLAY with my children.  I decided to go and look up this kinda cute video I had come across once:  a parody of LMFAO's "I'm Sexy and I Know It" called "I'm Elmo and I know It".  This was back before Charlie became obsessed, when the idea of a fuzzy red monster was cute in an arm's length sort of way.  You know, like when someone shows you a baby Tasmanian devil...adorable but definitely not something you want to get involved with long term.

Charlie took one hit off of the crack pipe called Elmo and was hooked.  Had he been a real drug she would be pawning her stuff and trading sippy cups of milk for her fix.  It was that instantaneous.  Now every time I try to ignore my children and go on the computer, she is all "Elmo?  Elmo?".  No, child, how the fuck am I supposed to ignore you if you are sitting on my lap smacking my arm every five seconds during the video that is playing?  Don't you know Mommy has important things to do on the computer?  Like Facebook?

I don't know what it is about Elmo that irritates me so.  He is my favorite color, after all, and at first glance is pretty cute.  Maybe it is his annoying laugh.  Maybe it is his inability to refer to himself in the first person.  Maybe it is the whole Tickle Me Elmo thing, where he looks like he is either epileptic or making inappropriate body movements.

All I know is...Elmo has made it so that I can put Charlie's ear drops in without sporting bruises worthy of a cage fighting match.  For that alone, I am eternally grateful to the little fuzzy bastard.

Tosh

I guess recently there is a huge uproar about comments that the host of Tosh.0 made towards a female in the audience when she challenged him on rape jokes he was making.  He responded by inviting people to rape her back.

My job exists, in part, because of people who are raped, who are sexually abused, who are victimized.  Survivors are some of the hardest cases for therapists to work with sometimes.  Yet, on a daily basis, I am left helping people pick up the pieces from a rape.  From being molested.  From maybe having had one too many drinks and being taken advantage of.

Very few of these people have had their perpetrators come to justice.  Very few reported it.  An astounding number still have to interact with the person who victimized them...sometimes daily.

Sexual assault is a boundary crossing to the max, amongst other things.  It is a symbol of the misogyny in our culture.  What man regularly has to "be aware" of being in a parking lot at night because someone might jump them?  What man has ever had to leave a room, cross a street, call a friend,  because a stranger was creeping them out?

Rape is not funny.  Extorting someone to commit this violent act is not funny.  Doing so to silence someone who dares to challenge you...isn't that part of what rape is?  Keeping people, mainly women, in their place?  Power and control?  Objectifying?

Pretending rape jokes are humor is no different than pretending that drinking a case of beer daily is normal consumption.  Both reek of denial.  Both take a huge cost...unseen at first, but eventually devastating in what havoc it wreaks.

I admit that I thought Tosh.0 was funny.  Not so much any more.  I can't support someone without basic decency.  I am sure the next outcry will be about how he really is a nice guy.  And so is that rapist sitting in the audience who is taking your jokes about it as normalizing rape.

7/2/2008

I realized that I have never ever written out the entirety of my son's birth story (or any of the kids', for that matter).  Seeing how today is the day he was born, I thought I would do so.

His story actually starts on June 30th, the day we were supposed to find out the sex at the "big" ultrasound.  It was a really shitty day, weather wise...pouring down rain, and kinda cold.  I had to go into Fairview Hospital for the ultrasound because Dr. Gingo makes me get Level II ultrasounds because he always disagrees with me on my due dates (and for the record, I am always right...)  Charles and I dropped Alexis off at the daycare, then headed out.

We get to the hospital, and get ourselves checked in.  I had to drink the 12 gallons of water that they make you drink and of course had to pee.  We get called back to the room, and they ask if we can have a student observe.  Sure; why not?  That student sure got a lesson that day, poor girl...

They put the gel on my belly and start.  Here, Charles said that he immediately knew something was wrong.  There was no flickering heartbeat on the screen.  I was just smiling at seeing my baby.  The technician starts to take measurements.  The head is around 15 weeks.  I say, "No, I am about 20 weeks."  I start to get worried.  Is there something wrong with my baby?  They measure the arms.  17 weeks, 3 days.  OK, a little better...maybe I am wrong on my dates.  They they try to get the baby to move so they can get better measurements.  Pushing, poking and prodding on my stomach does nothing.  The baby is just lying there.  They make me go pee because my bladder is about to explode.  Nothing.

The doctor comes in. At this time, I am mildly alarmed because I knew from experience that the doc does not come in till the end.  Dr. Moodley (the specialist I had to see) looks and frowns at the screen.  Then he turns on the fetal heart rate monitor.  Silence.

He turns to me and says, "I am afraid that there is no heartbeat.  The baby is very small and has died.  I am very sorry."


I ask if I will have to deliver.  He says yes.  It seems like torture to me.

Someone called Dr. Gingo's office.  We are told to go immediately there.  I am sobbing at this point.  I had texted everyone who was waiting eagerly to hear the news.  I leave the hospital and get in the car.  I call my mom.  I  make Charles call Matt to tell Elizabeth.

We get to Dr. Gingo's.  They set up an induction for the next day.  At the time, again, it seemed like torture.  What I did not realize at the time, and what I will forever be eternally grateful to Dr. Gingo for, is that waiting that one day put me at 20 weeks exactly.  I got a death certificate for my son becuase of that one day.  Otherwise, his birth could have been considered a miscarriage and it would have been a royal pain to get him cremated.

I called Elizabeth.  Besides from when I had to tell her that her beloved Papa, my father, had died, that was the hardest thing I ever had to do.  She had been so excited, and had just bought him a t-shirt.  In fact, that shirt is currently on the Build-a Bear that my sister had bought for us.  Gabe's death also prompted her to text me for the very first time, and earned him the nickname of "The Gabe".

That night, I got online and started to research.  Part of me is wondering what my son will look like.  If you ever want to torture yourself, look up "macerated fetus".  On second thought, don't.  There are some things people should not have to see.  I stumble across the statute that explains the whole death certificate thing.  I finally go to bed, and I completely lose it. I just remember begging my husband to not let me lose my mind.  I was convinced that I was going to, because at that moment I was out of my mind with grief.

I slept some.  The next morning comes.  I don't want to get out of bed.  I do; we drop Alexis off at the in-laws and go to the hospital.  When we get to the maternity ward, the first thing I hear is an infant crying.  I almost lose it as I check in.  The nurses at the hospital were fantastic.  As soon as they realized who I was, I was immediately whisked into a room.  There were two doors to this room.  I requested to have them both shut.  I did not want to hear those babies when I would never hear my own.

Dr. Gingo popped in and explained that the on call doctor would be monitoring me that day.  I was given another ultrasound.  The doctor explained to me very gently that this was just to "make sure".  I looked right at her and said, "There better not be a heartbeat, cause there is surely something horribly wrong then cause there definitely was not one yesterday."  There is none, and she confirms that the baby is really small.  They start me on the meds, some kind of vaginal suppository to start labor.  The ones that I had always been told to avoid because of the risk of still birth.  Guess it did not matter at this point.  I was told that I could get an epidural whenever I wanted.  I almost asked for it right there, but I wanted to be able to move if I wanted for as long as I could.  Then we waited.

I went into the hospital at 8 AM on July 1, and did not deliver until 2:45 AM on July 2.  I got the epidural at some point.  I had started to have some mild discomfort in my back, and asked for pain meds.  I expected to be given Motrin; they offered the epidural instead.  I sat and read my book, a marital therapy one by John Gottman.  I was still in school for my master's at that point.  We looked at the funeral information that had been discretely provided to us.  We called the first place listed and made arrangements for the cremation.  I got several more shots for my epidural, and then finally a pump.  The epidural made my blood pressure bottom out (got as low as 50/24 at one point).  My sister brought Charles lunch.  I got Jello and ginger ale.  Dinner came and went; my mom brought Charles dinner at some point too. I slept a bit.  During this sleep, I saw my dad with my son and was comforted somewhat.  I told Charles about this; he visibly relaxed too.

At about 2:30 AM, I shifted slightly and felt something between my legs.  I had started to bleed a little bit, so I thought nothing of it.  I sat up at 2:45 and delivered my son.  It was literally that quick.  At the time, I did not know that; I just knew that something had come out.  Charles got the nurse, who got the doc.  She picked the baby up.  He was born in the caul, and I delivered everything at once.  I was lucky...I did not have to have a D&C after.  They allowed me to hold him briefly, then took him away and cleaned him up.  They brought him to me again, on a tiny pillow.  He was wrapped in a blue crocheted blanket and had a tiny cap on.  I can fit three fingers inside that cap, that is how small he was.  I remember his tiny little finger nails, and that the way that his chest meets his arms is exactly the way that Alexis's was as a baby.  He had big cheeks and looked just like Charles.  One of my regrets of that day is that I did not take pictures of him. I was not aware of organizations such as Now I Lay Me Down to Sleep then. I had the camera; I just did not get it out.  We just have a really crappy one the hospital gave us.  It does not do him justice.  He did not look as bad as I feared.  In fact, he was perfect. 

Parenting

So since I am a therapist and all, one of the basic premises of my personality (besides being a glutton for punishment) is that I want to make people feel better about themselves.  Keeping that in mind, here is my contribution for the day towards that cause.  After reading these gems, you are sure to feel better about your parenting and mental stability in general.


Charlie is playing with a bunch of bowls of water and some cups and spoons.  This usually keeps her entertained for almost a full hour.  I happened to look over at her and she is standing on top of the picnic table where she is playing.  I tell her to sit down and she sits...on top of the table.  Advantage, Charlie...next time I will need to be more specific.


When Elizabeth was about five or so,we had a Jack Russell Terrier named J.D.  Charles REFUSED to get this dog fixed.  REFUSED.  J.D. was lying on the ground one day, and his balls were sticking out from under his butt.  Elizabeth, of course, notices them and turns to me and says, "What are those things under J.D.?  Those...balls?"  I lost it and laughed and probably peed myself a little.  I figure that probably tacked on a minimum of 6 months of therapy...


These weren't my children, but just to show you that my stellar skills extend to other children as well (you know, in case you were ever contemplating leaving your children in my care...)...I worked at a daycare for years on and off.  My last stint was in a 3 year old preschool classroom, co-teaching with my sister.  We were talking about traveling or some shit, and what the kids would pack.  We got all of the typical stuff...clothes, nightgown, blankie, etc. (Though one kid did throw out "ointment", which of course I cracked up about...what three year old says "ointment?")  We were almost done when this one very sweet little girl pipes up with her contribution.  Now before I tell you what it was, keep in mind that her father always complained about how old he was to all of us.  Her contribution?  "My daddy packs little blue pills when he goes out of town."  The poor children did not know why their teacher thought that was so funny.  I told them all to ask their parents, cause I am so good at deflecting like that.


Both Elizabeth and Alexis could use fuck as a noun, adjective, and a verb by the age of three.  Charlie is probably well on her way there too.


Charlie comes walking into the kitchen in nothing but her diaper and a shit load of Mardi Gras beads.  Charles turns to me and goes, "Well, I guess she earned those beads, didn't she?"


Alexis is driving along in the car with me when Rhianna's S & M comes on.  She goes, "Oh, Mommy, turn this up!  This is my song!"

Toddlers

Toddlers can be such assholes.

This was my status on Facebook today.  And it is the honest to God truth.  I have said it before, but living with Charlie is like living with a person who has rapidly cycling bipolar disorder with psychotic features and who is quite possibly withdrawing from a substance.  In this case, that substance would be the crackers and marshmallows that I have the nerve to not allow her to subsist on.  (And hell yeah I just ended my sentence with a preposition.  That is what living with a toddler will do to you.  Their assholery will make you do things like have poor grammar.  And make up words like assholery.)

I could not even begin to imagine the emotions that that child must experience, not just day to day but minute to minute.  She will go from throwing herself down on the floor in a murderous rage when I won't allow her to climb inside the stove to running up to me with those big baby blues and asking sweetly, "Outside?  Play?".  She is very good at knowing exactly which buttons of Charles's to push and will do things like look him directly in the eye while turning a cup of milk over to pour it all over the floor.  She has perfected this unholy screech that makes angels cry and shatters crystal.  She can arch her back in the midst of her temper tantrum and put the back bend of an Olympic gymnast to shame.

But then there are moments like tonight, when she calls plaintively for me from her crib.  "Mama! Mama!"  I go up there wearily, bracing myself for the onslaught of passionate, unbridled emotions that she can sling my way.  She is standing up in her crib, holding Doggie in one hand and her blanket in the other.  She wants me to pick her up and hold her.  She snuggles into the center of my chest like she did as an infant, tucking her butt under her legs and just melting into me.  And I think, "What did I do to deserve the love of such a passionate, dynamic creature?  Why does she need me so when she is so capable of doing and being whatever she wants?  How did I get so lucky?"  All is forgiven and I can laugh at her toddler antics.

Yes, toddlers can be such assholes.

Rainbows

So because I really like to put my Zoloft to the test, I decided today that I was going to join the community garage sale. That was today from 9-4.  At 11 AM.  I put my stuff out and got rid of a lot of baby shit...and made enough to go buy Alexis her bike. She wanted one for her birthday, but I am not so mean as to make her wait until the end of September (though certain other of my children may dispute this point...).

I felt a twinge or two as I was shameless giving away crap that I don't ever have a use for ever again.  It is quite public knowledge that I hate being pregnant.  I am happy about the size of our family.  The twinge was not about that.

Rather, it was more about giving the damn Bumbo seat, the red toddler bed, the Jumperoo, etc. away before ALL of my children had a chance to use them.  I had overheard Alexis telling her friend on the porch today as they colored, "I DO TOO have a brother!  He is in heaven!  I don't see him, though..."  Talk about being shot through the heart.

I went about my day.  I ran out to do the grocery shopping, and of course as soon as I get out of the grocery store, it LETS LOOSE.  I turn and look at the west...sun is shining as brightly as can be.  I am torn.  It is pretty much a tie between what I hate more...water, or being pregnant.  (This only applies to water that is on my body.  I drink tap water like I am getting paid to do so.)  Do I stay facing the east, in the rain, and look for the rainbow, or do I get my groceries, the crabby baby I  have with me, and my tired ass, in the car and headed in the opposite direction?

Practicality won out.  Plus I was cold.  I got in the car and headed home, convinced that I was not going to see the rainbow.  Disappointment was felt by all involved (which pretty much was only me).  

You see, rainbows have had a special significance for me since my son's death.  When I was in labor with him, I saw my father.  Big deal, right?  Yeah, except for he is dead.  He was holding a baby, wrapped in the God-awful receiving blankets that hospitals use, and singing this God-awful song he used to sing to all of the grandchildren:

Teera, Leera, Loora, 
Teera, Leera, Lie, 
Teera, Leera, Loora, 
Hush, now, don't you cry.

That was the first time since I had learned that I was going to have to deliver a dead baby that I felt comforted.

Fast forward about a month.  We were on vacation, and it started to storm again.  In the sky, there was a gorgeous double rainbow.  It was almost as though my dad and Gabe were saying, "Be at peace; we are here."

Since then, it has always seemed that whenever things were tough, or I was thinking about Gabe a lot for whatever reason (well, more than usual I should say...) a rainbow will come out.

It did not fail me today, either.  Looking in my rear view mirror, I saw the biggest, most beautiful rainbow against the dark slate gray storm clouds.  I almost drove the car off the road; I literally could not take my eyes off of it.  It was THAT brilliant and beautiful and big.

Thanks, son.