tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1826685639179694842024-03-14T04:36:54.578-07:00whereswalderI said "I do", changed my name, and had two kids. Almost 9 years later, I still don't turn around naturally when they call me by my married name. whereswalderhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03947868970077803668noreply@blogger.comBlogger34125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-182668563917969484.post-30344589136639338952016-09-25T21:17:00.001-07:002016-09-26T16:58:56.800-07:00Attn Kids: Four Things to Know About Our Home<span style="color: black; font-size: large;"><b><i>To the small, technologically
savvy people living in my house</i></b>,<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<span style="color: black; font-size: 13.5pt;">I know that this is 2016, and
your generation is all about the screens, electronics, and instant
gratification. I have no idea what your world will look like when you are my age,
but for now, I want to point out a few things about our home that you may not
have known about simply because they are not "high tech".<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="color: black; font-size: 13.5pt;"><u>The handle on the toilet</u></span></i></b><br />
<span style="color: black; font-size: 13.5pt;">You know that specifically
placed, little handle that you pressed down ad nauseam (that means a lot) before you were potty
trained? You know, the one that makes the water in the toilet spin around and gently
disappear into the hole at the bottom of the bowl? <o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="color: black; font-size: 13.5pt;"><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;"></span></span><br />
<span style="color: black; font-size: 13.5pt;"><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="color: black; font-size: 13.5pt;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirj6TRj4bvJJUe2n3bd0FCX9So5LU1c_qXiDsNaRDv-Fff-ZSurH-dslRYd3jGioLQmVQhnw8sKLIFy7PL_4s4mnvbTB1BeEVqjgUCMIQVCFFagycHzaSwVKqw4UroDnec3mipQJ9QTa6u/s1600/Toilet+handle.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="138" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirj6TRj4bvJJUe2n3bd0FCX9So5LU1c_qXiDsNaRDv-Fff-ZSurH-dslRYd3jGioLQmVQhnw8sKLIFy7PL_4s4mnvbTB1BeEVqjgUCMIQVCFFagycHzaSwVKqw4UroDnec3mipQJ9QTa6u/s200/Toilet+handle.jpeg" width="200" /></a><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">Well, I'm about to rock your
world. That special lever does more that make me yell at you that you are
wasting water. You'd think you'd know this given how upset you were when the
potty "ate your poopy," and I gave you M & M's to make it better
while we did the potty dance.</span></span><br />
<br />
<br />
<span style="color: black; font-size: 13.5pt;">It seems though, that as you
mastered the skill of the potty and wiping yourself (most of the time), you
have forgotten about that very important lever. So, to refresh your memory, the
lever makes your pee-pee and poopy – I won't stop calling them that until you
start using the lever – go away. When you use it, our guests don't have to be
surprised when they visit the guest bathroom, your dad and I won't have to
listen to the bickering when you both tell on each other, and I won't have to
be doubly disgusted when the dog drinks out of it.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<span style="color: black; font-size: 13.5pt;">It's called flushing. You should
do it after "number 1" or "number 2", or hey, both! I'm
sorry, no "swipe right" for that. It's just a quick push down and then
watch your elimination sail away. I'll even bring back the potty dance if
that'll help.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="color: black; font-size: 13.5pt;"><u>Lights</u></span></i></b><br />
<span style="color: black; font-size: 13.5pt;">It's funny, because my experience
with you both is that you love to push any button, flip any switch, and turn
any dial when you don't know what they do. Well, guess what's just as much
fun... doing any of those things when you know what's going to happen. And get
this, the tiny switch on your wall in your rooms right inside the door turns
the lights in your rooms on and off. <o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="color: black; font-size: 13.5pt;"><br /></span>
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhh4pl5O6JAQvdV5NEF0eBsDk3zYw-qD-sGMDT2zPHKvD6zF2W1ny8PbJdpugO-oEdaBRS845DsoWCmo_jEAQ1WkO7ikVoGLWIOB_wYR7slfDx5jBslYCPA_4fJ9DUvU56XdyHJQHmSV44e/s1600/light+switch.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhh4pl5O6JAQvdV5NEF0eBsDk3zYw-qD-sGMDT2zPHKvD6zF2W1ny8PbJdpugO-oEdaBRS845DsoWCmo_jEAQ1WkO7ikVoGLWIOB_wYR7slfDx5jBslYCPA_4fJ9DUvU56XdyHJQHmSV44e/s1600/light+switch.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; display: inline !important; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="color: black; font-size: 13.5pt;">On. and. Off. </span></a><br />
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;"><br /></span>
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiB-jXu0plk3322dNADhZQxMsR-1Mu3FwZE1FBDmAcw6zRzDS5Uw7NjQY7ygYLnx6oCu6IxSyym-nnZDVfDokXtdQJZT8nazizAUDOmqN9SrppclIp9RX6au3Po7RbP4UhJNnMsMVvJEKce/s1600/light+switch.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="133" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiB-jXu0plk3322dNADhZQxMsR-1Mu3FwZE1FBDmAcw6zRzDS5Uw7NjQY7ygYLnx6oCu6IxSyym-nnZDVfDokXtdQJZT8nazizAUDOmqN9SrppclIp9RX6au3Po7RbP4UhJNnMsMVvJEKce/s200/light+switch.jpeg" width="200" /></a><br />
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">No technology needed. Not even a
clap. Just, flip! and you can see the chaos that is your room. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="color: black; font-size: 13.5pt;">Now I realize that you might be
confused about when they should be on or off.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<span style="color: black; font-size: 13.5pt;">Here's a good rule of thumb: if
you aren't in the room, they should be off. <o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="color: black; font-size: 13.5pt;">In the room and awake? On.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="color: black; font-size: 13.5pt;">In fact, if you do that much, I'm
happy to troubleshoot the rest of the options with you.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="color: black; font-size: 13.5pt;"><u>Doors</u></span></i></b><br />
<span style="color: black; font-size: 13.5pt;">So, you know how they open and
close?</span><br />
<span style="color: black; font-size: 13.5pt;">Oh, you do? Hmmm. Ok. <o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="color: black; font-size: 13.5pt;"><u>Laundry Baskets</u><o:p></o:p></span></i></b><br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5DY6-NFGW0XDerxLm-viiIGpZCDPwygQ_S7eUYnBys9RakRE95EHXdNo28YQHAt1Aa9J94fh-BDb_Ktlg83pzYZIrDmibLjHRAXaSMr1lVaZKD544h02-54KijvZj1Ta-uRDXY1YxGBIt/s1600/laundry.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5DY6-NFGW0XDerxLm-viiIGpZCDPwygQ_S7eUYnBys9RakRE95EHXdNo28YQHAt1Aa9J94fh-BDb_Ktlg83pzYZIrDmibLjHRAXaSMr1lVaZKD544h02-54KijvZj1Ta-uRDXY1YxGBIt/s200/laundry.jpeg" width="129" /></a><span style="color: black; font-size: 13.5pt;">I bet you were wondering what
that large fabric basket in the corner of your room is that isn't the garbage.
Have you seen it? It's so cool. You can put your dirty laundry into it INSTEAD
of the floor. What??? I know. Mind. Blown. <o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<span style="color: black; font-size: 13.5pt;">Of course it doesn't take care of
the cars and legos I gouge my foot on when I go in to lovingly pull the covers
up over your sleeping body, but hey, I'm picking my battles.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<span style="color: black; font-size: 13.5pt;">Wait, are you wondering if Siri
is the one who takes all that to the laundry room in the basement? Believe it
or not - no. <o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="color: black; font-size: 13.5pt;">If we asked her to do it, she'd
offer to call Uncle Steve or give you directions to the pyramids. <o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<span style="color: black; font-size: 13.5pt;">Nope, it's me. Or your dad. Or…
it could be you. <o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<span style="color: black; font-size: 13.5pt;">HAHAHAHA! Good one, huh? <o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<span style="color: black; font-size: 13.5pt;">Dreamers can dream.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<span style="color: black; font-size: 13.5pt;">Thanks in advance for your
valuable time away from Minecraft, egg opening videos, or Garfield episodes. I
feel special that you tore yourself away for a moment to listen to your dear
old mom.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<span style="color: black; font-size: 13.5pt;">Hello? Hello?<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="color: black; font-size: 13.5pt;"><br /></span>
<span style="color: black; font-size: 13.5pt;">Whatever. Love you. <o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
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<span style="font-size: 18px;">Me</span>whereswalderhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03947868970077803668noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-182668563917969484.post-328702017308066492015-07-24T22:35:00.000-07:002015-07-24T22:35:21.294-07:00Can I get a reset button please?<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgaWUluYPewdDz72f2xa0gNqPqDaDkvxO9Wv9kvZG7KE9jYBATpmy19m-WSdBnBiMnT8RWz1Gg77uGT1N0sW73cnvswDuyo_5GUgvoNZM8v6twSvlqS8nJwwPJ9vIz_Vy0bTzCLMUJLsIbo/s1600/reset+button.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="165" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgaWUluYPewdDz72f2xa0gNqPqDaDkvxO9Wv9kvZG7KE9jYBATpmy19m-WSdBnBiMnT8RWz1Gg77uGT1N0sW73cnvswDuyo_5GUgvoNZM8v6twSvlqS8nJwwPJ9vIz_Vy0bTzCLMUJLsIbo/s200/reset+button.png" width="200" /></a></div>
<br />
I start most of my days as a working mom out fairly strong. Especially the weekdays. The kids and I have a routine, and it works. I'm not saying that it doesn't involve some yelling and crying sometimes to get out the door, but it's manageable. Many times, however, the day's edges begin to fray as the day progresses. By 5 pm I'm pretty ready for that glass of wine that feels like a "Power Up" to get me through the rest of the evening until the kids are, adorably, asleep.<br />
<br />
Unfortunately, yesterday was a day that went began to fray too early to wait around for 5pm. I needed help from the moment I woke up. I try to practice daily gratitude, but today, I tried to muscle it from the moment I woke up.<br />
<br />
Does anybody feel me?<br />
<br />
It started about 4:15 with a daughter walking into my room barking like a seal from the Shedd. Who gets croup in the summer? Steaming up the bathroom was super-popular with the sleepy 3-year-old, but she had been less than receptive to the idea of sticking her head in the freezer. So from 4:15-4:30am, we sat and sweat together. <br />
From my chest I heard, "Mommy, this is girl time. No boys"<br />
No, apparently not, since no one else was up and listening to her breathe like an 80-year-old and wondering when we have to make the call to go to the ER.<br />
<br />
<b>Good news</b>: No trip to the ER. She fell asleep for 3 more hours. <br />
<b>Bad news</b>: I did not.<br />
<br />
Once everyone was up, and the first cup of coffee was ineffective as water, I assumed the second cup would fix it all. And it did. I was awake... and on edge. Perfect for a smooth send off to camp.<br />
<br />
As I made my son's lunch in the requested paper bag for a field trip, I started to put his name on it and a little special note to him on the bottom corner. Well! You would have thought that I had dyed the bag pink. Real tears came up in his eyes, and the convo went like this:<br />
<br />
Him: "Only put my name on it."<br />
<br />
Me: "But I'm just putting something on there so you know I'm thinking about you all day."<br />
<br />
Him: "I know you are, you don't have to write it."<br />
<br />
In my combination state of tired and jacked up, I was unable to be the grown-up. The truth is that my tired-ass feelings were hurt and so were his. On a regular day, I might have sighed, pulled out a fresh bag and complied with his request, as I am the parent, and he is the child. Sadly for him, I'm not in that place, but I do agree to put a sticker over the note, which isn't perfect, but he reluctantly takes it.<br />
<br />
In my state, though, I'm clearly not just going to let this roll like water off my back. I will most likely pull out my crazy later and bring it up again. He probably needs to learn how this works anyway.<br />
<br />
To his future wife: You're welcome.<br />
<br />
Finally, after much car bickering between tired, sick daughter and crabby, 6-year-old son who is apparently embarrassed by his mother already, we got to camp relatively unscathed. <br />
<br />
As we get out of the car, my son and I hug it out. As we embrace, I glance at my car to see a tire that looks like a flat in the cartoons.<br />
<br />
Sweet moment over.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIX0oVzSNMnLMKNj86gyQ4mvOFDSuleORTg5k33qJPvhy0MW1mVfMnm7HJL3dWiWPF5RW_5sofu30wUhoM5LKfYCic4szacWGSsmJ5fXs8QFxAZMF1ohdy0oF_E6gfpccSptf0mEh7o2VA/s1600/muffin+top+spanx+.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="140" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIX0oVzSNMnLMKNj86gyQ4mvOFDSuleORTg5k33qJPvhy0MW1mVfMnm7HJL3dWiWPF5RW_5sofu30wUhoM5LKfYCic4szacWGSsmJ5fXs8QFxAZMF1ohdy0oF_E6gfpccSptf0mEh7o2VA/s200/muffin+top+spanx+.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>
<br />
After his drop-off, daughter and I hobble into the nearest gas station (luckily around the corner) to fill said tire with air. After finding a previous plug in the tire that appears to be squeezing out of the hole like me in a pair of Spanx at the end of a night, I hurry over to my "car guy". He informs me that not only is a new tire is essential, but in fact, I need all four replaced, of course, because the car is 10 years old.<br />
<br />
<br />
I make a plan to get new tires the next day and double check with him that the sad plug will hold until then. Yep. I should be good. But we know that's not the day I'm having.<br />
<br />
I get not five minutes away and the tire bursts as only it could in the movies. I hear the air quickly escape from it's container into the air and the car tilts to the side as I slow down and pull to the curb. I turn to look at my daughter and she says, "Why'd you stop, Mama?"<br />
<br />
<b>What I wanted to say</b>: "Oh, I just thought we'd slow down and look at this community garden."<br />
<b>What I actually said</b>: "We have a friggin' flat!" (This is where you can nominate me for mother of the year)<br />
<br />
On top of all of that, a woman who was having trouble getting by my car took the time to roll down her window. To help, you think? Let's see:<br />
<br />
Her: "You can't park there!"<br />
<br />
Me: "Seriously, you don't see I have a flat tire?"<br />
<br />
Her: "Oh, I didn't know. You should put your hazards on."<br />
<br />
Me: (yelling as she drives away) "The hazards are on, but thanks for the super advice."<br />
<br />
<b>The good news</b>: I wasn't on the highway, and we were both safe in a car that had the ability to provide air conditioning while we waited. ...and I didn't throw pry bar I had in the trunk at the woman.<br />
<b>The bad news</b>: My daughter had to pee. Bad.<br />
<br />
The rest of the day followed suit:<br />
<br />
<ul>
<li>I dropped everything I got my hands on.</li>
<li>I tried to get some work done, but hit walls at every turn.</li>
<li>Went to do two simple errands and both stores were closed for random reasons.</li>
<li>Etc. Etc. Etc.</li>
</ul>
<br />
Finally, as the coup de grace, the last words my son says to me as he drifts off to sleep are, "Can I please just have my name on the bag next time?"<br />
<br />
Breathing deeply in my wine, I knew that there had been many ways this day could have gone severely wrong that would have been more life altering. It had simply been a day that I couldn't get enough positive momentum to turn it around.<br />
<br />
This day needed more than a glass of wine. It needed a shower to metaphorically wash it off.<br />
And a glass of wine.<br />
And then I did what I should have done 16 hours prior. I went to sleep.<br />
The most effective kind of reset out there.<br />
<br />
Anyone have days they'd like to share?<br />
<br />
Shameless plug: If you like this, please share it with your friends, "Like" and share my facebook page and posts, and follow me on Twitter.<br />
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whereswalderhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03947868970077803668noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-182668563917969484.post-67832098585549952912015-05-22T05:39:00.002-07:002015-05-22T05:39:13.126-07:00Motherhood isn't for Sissies<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEja_aMxDdTwhreooYYOEUIquPD329rgLNR9O1TUHzg8sCgHd-lza8s5qSV9NlzLa9KWSyA_SYfpzCTQuxyeKAkm5a0p5bvebHxYVmV6UYm3tsC5EoqrZ5VU3rd6y1GD5jvKatijVYmxwSi4/s1600/no-sissies.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEja_aMxDdTwhreooYYOEUIquPD329rgLNR9O1TUHzg8sCgHd-lza8s5qSV9NlzLa9KWSyA_SYfpzCTQuxyeKAkm5a0p5bvebHxYVmV6UYm3tsC5EoqrZ5VU3rd6y1GD5jvKatijVYmxwSi4/s200/no-sissies.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>
I don't even know if I'm allowed to use the word "sissies" anymore, maybe "courage challenged"? Regardless, I did and motherhood is not, so let's move on (I can think of several other even less appropriate words I could have used by the way).<br />
<br />
When I was in my 20's, single and "on fleek" - assuming I used that correctly - I moved to LA from Chicago with no friends, all my stuff in a Toyota Celica, and a dream to be an actress. I thought that this would be one of the toughest things I would do and prayed that I came out whole.<br />
<br />
Hahahahahahahaha!!!!!!!<br />
<br />
I mean, I had to work, and then there was going out after work and sleeping in the next morning. And I had no one to focus on but myself. How awful. There was not one person relying on me to raise them into functioning humans except myself.<br />
<br />
I later became a mom and had no idea the kind of challenge and growth I would endure during this metamorphosis. This little thing that so many people do is maybe the most challenging, isolating, and rewarding thing that I have done in my life.<br />
<br />
I have a single friend with an amazing job where he shoulders a lot of responsibilities and makes many high-level decisions in a day that have potentially large financial repercussions for the company. He only has to spend one phone call with me with kids in the background to leave him shaking in his shoes. Sometimes he even comes to visit, and as he looks around him at my chaotic house, hears loud screams coming from upstairs, endures constant interrupting, sees spilling of whatever they are attempting to eat on the rug, and in general experiences the continuous melee, he keeps the visits short. I think I even saw him running to his car a little last time. As the godfather of one of my kids, I bet he's banking on our longevity, but after seeing us in action not convinced we are going to make it.<br />
<br />
My point is that being a parent is hard core. My three-year old can take even the biggest and boldest person down to their knees when she wants to, but the longer I'm in it, the more resilient and determined I have become. I have come up with several pieces of evidence that parenthood isn't for sissies. There's by far many more, but since I can't hold my attention in one direction for very long, this is as far as I got:<br />
<br />
1. <b>Bodily function conversations.</b><br />
<br />
"Mom! I pooped!"<br />
"Congrats. I'll alert the media"<br />
"Can you wipe my butt?"<br />
"Be right there."<br />
<br />
"Mom, you need to look in my underwear."<br />
<br />
"Stop poking your brother's penis."<br />
<br />
"Get you hands out of your vagina!"<br />
<br />
All things that I've actually said or had said to me. You can't giggle or they'll keep doing or saying it, and you have to let them know you mean business to really shut it down.<br />
<br />
2. <b>The Sybil</b><br />
They hate you, or they love you forty-two times in a day, and you have to remain calm and cool in response because it can turn at any moment. Staying effectively caffeinated is important to remain alert and ready, but not TOO caffeinated or you start to get reactive.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwOh1lpXNr471RqS7FkqsAfzOhf7tpd76Hi7-PhJJgV28IoW6UEHLXNmSruHK40HpQXSXlBnhtJdCKqWk8d0sD_wsgL1uxmS4_2bYoV3_VdbMk1dMdNPnyuxnnfXzUn8x__Kpnsdw4fJDJ/s1600/honey_badger_dont_care_infant_and_toddler_shirt-rece54284036149108dfd002b2f5edcfe_iozth_1024.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwOh1lpXNr471RqS7FkqsAfzOhf7tpd76Hi7-PhJJgV28IoW6UEHLXNmSruHK40HpQXSXlBnhtJdCKqWk8d0sD_wsgL1uxmS4_2bYoV3_VdbMk1dMdNPnyuxnnfXzUn8x__Kpnsdw4fJDJ/s200/honey_badger_dont_care_infant_and_toddler_shirt-rece54284036149108dfd002b2f5edcfe_iozth_1024.jpg" width="200" /></a>3. <b>Toddlers are like honey badgers.</b><br />
They don't give a damn where you are in public when starting a tantrum. They want it, and they want<br />
it now. Whatever it is. Their self conscious meter is about at a one. Plus, they aren't afraid to blurt out any conversations from #1. Anywhere - anytime. It is always on.<br />
<br />
4. <b> Sleep.</b><br />
There's a myth out there that when they become 3 or 4, you are over the sleep hump. And you are, the night waking is down to a minimum, but instead, they wake up and need things:<br />
<br />
"Mom, I need water."<br />
"Mom, can you cover me?" (That's right, can you get out of bed come into my room and pull my covers up which I am actually touching right now?)<br />
"Mom, I had a bad dream."<br />
"Mom, my vagina itches." (See, the #1 conversations come up anytime!)<br />
<br />
They might even sleep some nights all the way through to give us a false sense of security, and then wake for 3 nights in a row, several times a night, to really mess with us. The middle of the night is like a sitcom that would be funny if it wasn't your life.<br />
<br />
5. <b>The other moms.</b><br />
Some of these moms will be your amazing friends who get you through everything by providing a box of wine to enjoy, and an ear to listen whenever you need. Others will leave you feeling like you're failing miserably, and you'll be lucky if your kid gets into a online college.<br />
<br />
6. <b>The secret.</b><br />
This whole raising of kids is hard. I clearly don't have a problem talking about it, but in certain circles, it seems taboo to admit it. We post on facebook all our perfect moments in order to lead others to the conclusion that we have it all figured out, but we know that that's about 30% right. More and more blogs are coming clean on the craziness that is parenting, but when you are face to face with moms and complain about your kids, some give the pitied look as if to say, "Oh, my kids don't do that. They are amazing. Little blessings everyday. You must be doing something wrong."<br />
<br />
7. <b>Tweens and Teenagers.</b><br />
Look, I'm not even there yet, but I've seen my sister and my friends go through some things that make tantrums in the grocery and poop on a plane when you forgot to bring a change of clothes look like a cake walk. Sometimes I have to look away because it's too hard to imagine. It seems to me that if you can survive your teenagers -- the eye rolling, the friend drama, the getting caught with illegal substances, the fights, the total disregard for you as a person, the heartbreak of relationships, and the college application process -- you can really feel accomplished.<br />
<br />
8. <b>Your heart is split.</b><br />
The minute they exit your body, your kids are like pieces of your heart running around the world making mistakes, getting hurt, and having wild successes. You, as a mother, will feel all of these as if they are your own. It hurts to see your kids hurt, but it's also your job to help them learn how to navigate those feelings. Since your coping mechanism is to sit in a dark room with a bottle of wine and a pint of ice cream until it's better, you probably haven't perfected it. You have to simply fake it until you make it.<br />
<br />
9. ---- sorry, I just got derailed by naked children running across my line of sight who are supposed to be ready for school!<br />
<br />
Feel free to chime in with a few yourself. I'd love to hear them!<br />
<br />
<br />whereswalderhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03947868970077803668noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-182668563917969484.post-84318907258157925792015-05-08T09:05:00.000-07:002015-05-08T09:05:40.571-07:00Screen time drama<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYbNq6ftZ2hhb9cAHJAnorj8lAhSv6_BugrMt17ZddTtSYf5Mpc_gUSEynqd6L6Dckp2BzA3lZ8iSxXZ-pk2p-uzfAc8_w4kPfYcAXBOhBcuW1qVM9Tt9evv3jZrY3DROTzXT0BUtyp_Xr/s1600/kids-watching-tv-clipart+pixgood.com.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYbNq6ftZ2hhb9cAHJAnorj8lAhSv6_BugrMt17ZddTtSYf5Mpc_gUSEynqd6L6Dckp2BzA3lZ8iSxXZ-pk2p-uzfAc8_w4kPfYcAXBOhBcuW1qVM9Tt9evv3jZrY3DROTzXT0BUtyp_Xr/s1600/kids-watching-tv-clipart+pixgood.com.jpg" /></a></div>
<br />
As I sit here at my computer, I'm listening to my favorite kind of background noise. My son is in the living room playing with his Ninja Turtle legos with such intensity. "Pizza! Pizza! Sensei, we have to have our pizza!" He is so engrossed, and his world is so real that he hasn't even broached the subject of breakfast yet. Upstairs, I can hear my daughter playing in her bed caring for her "babies", singing "Do You Want to Build a Snowman," from Frozen, and creating her own imaginary world up in her room.<br />
<br />
This is not a post about how perfect my kids are. It took me 20 minutes, some tears and a short tantrum to get here.<br />
<br />
See, the moment he woke up, my son snuck over to my bed, pried my eyes open with his fingers and whispered, "Can I have the iPad? ...Play Minecraft? ...use your phone?" My daughter then piped in loudly from the other room, "If Tommy gets to use the iPad, can I use your phone?!?" (she is all about evening out the injustices of her world)<br />
<br />
My answer, as always in the morning, was "no". <br />
<br />
This is not because we are a family who doesn't have a TV, or is so disciplined that we just read books and only play imaginative games together.<br />
<br />
I say no because I don't want them to be so reliant on a screen to entertain them. ...and I want them to learn to make their own stories instead of watching things with all the imagination filled in for them.<br />
<br />
...and ...well. Truth?<br />
I want to save screens for when I really need to get something done that requires quiet in the background such as work, a conference call, or the end of the day when I'm worn thin.<br />
<br />
I'm not one of these parents that has no screen time in my house. In fact, I love my shows -- full disclosure, I still watch Grey's Anatomy. But in this age of iPhones, Gameboys, Xbox, and the literally unending amount of content to choose from, when does it naturally stop?<br />
<br />
If you'll excuse me for a moment, I'd like to channel my inner 80-year-old grandma.<br />
Okay, here goes:<br />
<br />
--In my day, when I was a kid of school age, I came home from school to watch Brady Bunch. I think there were two episodes in a row. No question, I was riveted to the TV for that hour, but when that was over, I went outside to play. Why? Because I was a kid with impulse control and knew to make choices that were good for my body and my brain?<br />
<br />
NO!<br />
<br />
Because the news came on, or at least something that didn't interest me, and there were no other options. See, as some of you may remember, there were only 5 or 6 channels of note that were available, and you had to watch shows when they were on. ...and go to the bathroom or get a snack (you didn't have time for both) quickly during commercials.<br />
<br />
When I tell my kids this, and they gasp as if I'm telling them about surviving Armegeddon.--<br />
<br />
There, I feel much better.<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgb8LH1UVRw6adri6Z6Fl9YrMwq-QFzqxsMFo99SKGQ5Avm9nK-dD8gLjdNCNe5lMeIzi83evIspy6XzNwULZ4Y1i__wwnb2hSnXNrPmuZwA9Rmw_R2XkH3QkcTJbKjdjVZEKzNW9H-sdg/s1600/stuck_on_tv_001+Alen+Lauzan+Falcon,+Cagle+Cartoons.gif" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="151" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgb8LH1UVRw6adri6Z6Fl9YrMwq-QFzqxsMFo99SKGQ5Avm9nK-dD8gLjdNCNe5lMeIzi83evIspy6XzNwULZ4Y1i__wwnb2hSnXNrPmuZwA9Rmw_R2XkH3QkcTJbKjdjVZEKzNW9H-sdg/s200/stuck_on_tv_001+Alen+Lauzan+Falcon,+Cagle+Cartoons.gif" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Alen Lauzan Falcon</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
The truth is that if I had the choices that kids today had back then, I would have been like the kid from Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory going from one show to another for hours on end, probably yelling to my mom to bring me my Salisbury Steak TV dinner to me.<br />
<br />
When I had my first kid, I was all, "I'm not even going to have him in front of Baby Einstein."<br />
Then he started moving around, and I changed my tune drastically, "When will a 30-minute show keep his attention for the full show?"<br />
Now, I can't even get an answer about dinner unless I pause the TV in order to jolt him out of his trance.<br />
<b>The lesson: be careful what you wish for.</b><br />
<br />
Stepping away from the TV is the other issue. One 30-min show isn't enough. It's, "One more? One more? Yes or no?" When the answer is no, there is a full breakdown, me threatening to give away all their toys if they aren't going to play with them, and a warning from me that if they only watch TV, their brains AND their muscles won't grow. (Drastic? Maybe, but they want to grow big and strong right now, so a mom's gotta do what a mom's gotta do.)<br />
<br />
Seriously though, I want my kids to have creative brains. I want them to be able to create their own interesting worlds. I want them to be able to think their way out of a problem when they are able. I want them to make up dance shows, play soccer outside, write stories, build a fort, make inventions, and, in general, develop a mind that can add to the world down the line.<br />
<br />
...and I want to use TV to my advantage when I need it. Did I mention that already?<br />
<br />
I also don't think that our public schools, for all the good they do, give kids time to use their imagination. There are plans and how-to's and directed writing and learning, of course, but they've shortened individual play and outdoor recess, so I'm pretty sure it's up to me to help them develop into creative individuals. The pressure of parenting and not leaving it all up to the teachers! Sheesh.<br />
<br />
On top of all this, I have to set a good example and turn the TV off myself. I like it as background noise while I cook or clean. Don't laugh. I do those things occasionally. I would continue being a hypocrite except the TV is like a bright bug light to my children, and the next thing I know, they are in the room with me riveted to HGTV or a cooking show... or something wholly inappropriate, and I have to switch it off quickly before they see something and I have to explain sex or violence... or what "bitch" means.<br />
<br />
The invention of the Tivo, DVR, DVD, iPhone, ipad, etc. had me so excited when they first came out because the idea of watching anything, anytime was A.W.E.S.O.M.E. Until "screen time" became another thing I had to manage along with sugar and activities. Now I long for the channels to be limited to 5 choices.<br />
<br />
At least until the kids go to bed. Then I want it all back for myself.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />whereswalderhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03947868970077803668noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-182668563917969484.post-18373246387533115282015-04-30T05:04:00.000-07:002015-04-30T05:04:14.717-07:00To my neighbors that installed cameras<div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbffTqKjXy4N2sVzJQs4IuD1yWcsjR0MK4fmoCcLIpxSw3nf9-b3hspCn4t77SxYvNPFtznZahzb2RvVniNeOoofMje-9y8h0qo7NgNYChSAWUFobCTJOOuOkc5U2_MmZFRaun3zvyVi_U/s1600/neighbors+camera.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbffTqKjXy4N2sVzJQs4IuD1yWcsjR0MK4fmoCcLIpxSw3nf9-b3hspCn4t77SxYvNPFtznZahzb2RvVniNeOoofMje-9y8h0qo7NgNYChSAWUFobCTJOOuOkc5U2_MmZFRaun3zvyVi_U/s1600/neighbors+camera.jpg" height="320" width="240" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Neighbors can be awesome. And they can be a pain in the ass. I happen to have the latter. When you live in a town home that shares a wall, not getting along can be a challenge. I could list the ridiculousness, but really, that's it's own post. Until then, let's just say that we can do no right and they are always watching. So much so that they installed cameras just under their roof pointing directly back at our back and front door. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">So, to our neighbors watching us in their monitor, I have a few spoilers:</span><div>
<ul>
<li><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">We will be walking back and forth throughout the day to our back yard and car pad. Sometimes we will even walk to the front of the house where the second car is parked. Don't worry, your front camera will catch us as we get there and you can see us get into that car too.</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I will be taking our the garbage once a day. --okay, once every other day. --okay, sometimes less. Enjoy the view as my husband or I carry big bags of garbage or recycling to the back. It will be riveting viewing.</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">As you know, I do have kids, so they will run around the front and side walkway of the <b><u>shared</u></b> part of the property. We don't have a neighborhood with kids in it, so they will make their own fun by making up races and different games. Don't worry, they know about your thing about your grass and they are vigilant about staying off of it, but please continue to watch and monitor this so you can be sure no sneaker or bare foot touches your spotty lawn.</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I do let my kids play with chalk in the back and the front concrete. It's that or listen to them repeat over and over, "Can I watch a show? Can I play on the ipad? Can I play on your phone? Can I play on the Wii?" It's about to be summer, and they should be outside, so be sure to watch my budding artists draw things like haunted houses, ninja turtles, and penises. Yep.</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The death cry of my 3 year old may keep you pretty busy checking your monitor as it happens multiple times throughout the day. I don't encourage it. Believe me. If I knew how to make her knee jerk response be something other than screaming, I would do it, but she has a big brother and this is currently her only line of defense.</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">As you know, we also have a dog. We will walk him. He too knows your thing about the grass, and so do I. Feel free to watch me walk him away from the house and then as I return, be sure to tune in as I throw the poop in <b><u>my</u> </b>garbage and come inside. Do you have a recorder on that thing? I hope so because that's worth replaying over and over.</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Finally, don't come cryin' to me when you glance at your monitor, which you apparently watch 24 hours a day, and see my husband in night vision video peeing in <u><b>my</b></u> garden. He read on the wonderful inter-webs that peeing around the perimeter is a natural and effective way to ward off bunnies from eating our flowers. <a href="http://www.lifehack.org/articles/lifestyle/8-reasons-why-you-should-pee-your-garden.html">Actually, it has many other advantages</a>. I'm not making this up. I wish I could say it didn't work, but we had a lot of success last summer so... I just count my blessings that we are in the back, and he keeps this to a late-night activity and out of view of anyone passing by. Small miracles.</span></li>
</ul>
</div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">There are other things we might do such as take a family picture, have a birthday party, invite family and friend over, etc. Don't be offended that we don't invite you. You seem to have made it clear that you aren't interested in neighborly activities. We really got the hint when we would say hello, and you acted like you didn't hear us. We know you heard us by the small flinch and speed up as you walked by.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">So, enjoy your own true reality TV show called "The Stewarts Do Stuff". I hope we live up to the cost of the camera installation. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Sincerely, </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The Stewarts</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Do any of you have neighbors that you don't get along with? I'd love to hear the stories. They'd make me feel better about the craziness we live with everyday.</span></div>
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whereswalderhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03947868970077803668noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-182668563917969484.post-77248907525387003152015-04-14T04:29:00.000-07:002015-04-14T04:29:09.264-07:00The day I rocked it as a parent<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0kjEtCKkctkRge3kWATEA_AWepk6m2cWuTIZjpN6m-Q6kOBI6WWgoZJys8mzcKtjNCVdfJ5ARvKp7QsO9QQ_AzRCg2sfJKObvhuIEMQXfbgBbhp5qvucUhv2knTo17_ESIoXAdMw1d-mD/s1600/wonder+mom.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0kjEtCKkctkRge3kWATEA_AWepk6m2cWuTIZjpN6m-Q6kOBI6WWgoZJys8mzcKtjNCVdfJ5ARvKp7QsO9QQ_AzRCg2sfJKObvhuIEMQXfbgBbhp5qvucUhv2knTo17_ESIoXAdMw1d-mD/s1600/wonder+mom.jpg" height="238" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">There are days like the one I’m about to tell. </span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I had heard of them.</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I thought they were only for “good moms” who were patient and kind and crafty and... well, perfect.</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Don't get me wrong. I'm not fishing for compliments. On most days, I waiver right around "decent" on the parenting scale. There are those better than normal days where I hit "pretty good", but "wondermom" is a phenomenon that I had only heard about on Pinterest and Facebook.</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I’m not sure what had gotten into me, but it’s like when a pitcher throws a perfect game or a basketball team goes undefeated in March madness. I was in the groove, and when that happens, you don’t ask why, you just thank God or the Universe or assume there was an anomaly in the time-space continuum and go with it.</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I was with my 3 year old in the grocery store. </span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">That sentence right there would send shutters down any normal mom’s back, but it happens, and you steel yourself for the experience. </span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">However, this particular day, as if taken over by aliens, I entered the store with the attitude that this was going to take as long as it would take and I wasn't going to rush it. </span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Imagine.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="s1"></span><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">We enter the produce section first and, par for the course, she wants to help. Without thinking or trying to shove her in the cart seat where I have more control, I agreed to let her do so. </span></span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="s1"></span><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I look at my list and say, “Okay, we need apples. Let’s get a bag and you can pick them out.” </span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">With that one simple statement, I completely blew her mind. Walking over to the bags, she looked at me as if to ask, “Who are you and where is my mother?” At the same time, you could see her shift into not caring that my body was being used by someone else. She was going to help and that was enough.</span></span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="s1"></span><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Her eyes wide, she took the bag as if it was gold in her hands and walked over to the carefully stacked apples. She looked at me, waiting for me to say, “Don’t touch that!” as she reached for the only apple she could, which was on the bottom of the pile. We all know that one apple from the bottom could send them all tumbling to the ground, and I usually would have announced that to the world, but instead, I said, “okay, now let me show you how to pick the right apple.”</span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">We looked at them, lightly squeezed one, and talked about what makes a good apple to bring home. </span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“Look momma! If I put my nail into one, it makes a mark!”</span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Without flinching, that one went in the bag.</span></span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="s1"></span><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">We continued around the store in this same fashion. Me, the teacher, her the student. She was learning real world things from me, and get this, I didn’t once say, “hurry up!”</span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Then, magically, as we were waiting our turn at the deli counter, a woman turned to me and said, “You are a good mom.”</span></span></div>
<div class="p2">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhj7CTsLk5_dXx2FMqtk6OrbT3h4KoR3dG3qd5BzMdq1MeELxBZ2O9jVTvjOUI8Tw3OXUDqo8x35qTGzdijF7r0xV6tnmKN38avZ4H46dCAK6viHAiJ0NxmyX7G4Nlc5LfQkIcmWQa_AUis/s1600/little_angel_2.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhj7CTsLk5_dXx2FMqtk6OrbT3h4KoR3dG3qd5BzMdq1MeELxBZ2O9jVTvjOUI8Tw3OXUDqo8x35qTGzdijF7r0xV6tnmKN38avZ4H46dCAK6viHAiJ0NxmyX7G4Nlc5LfQkIcmWQa_AUis/s1600/little_angel_2.png" height="182" width="200" /></a><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="s1"></span><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I looked at that woman, and I swear, she was surrounded by white light, a halo over her head and angelic music playing around her.</span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I said, “Excuse me?” I needed to be sure I heard her right.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">And maybe turn on my phone’s voice recorder.</span></span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="s1"></span><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">She said it again only slower and more pronounced somehow knowing that this was new for me, “You’re a good mom, the way you are in the store with her." </span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">"And you, my dear,” looking at my daughter, “are an excellent helper!”</span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">My daughter beamed! I wasn't really ready to stop talking about my achievements, but she’d already moved on to my kid. Anyway, I said, “Thank you. It’s a good day.”</span></span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="s1"></span><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">She nodded at me knowingly. I think she understood that one of those golden days was upon me and the more we talked about it, the more likely it would be to disappear. </span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">My number at the deli was called. I ordered what I needed and asked for samples for my daughter. We moved on, but I walked on air for the rest of our time in the grocery. </span></span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="s1"></span><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I felt as if everyone was smiling at me. Cheering me on. As I navigated towards checkout line, I started to tense up knowing that the beautifully stacked goodies lining the rows as you funnel towards the checkout counter are traditionally a battle zone of “no you can’t have a chocolate bar or a bag of swedish fish." In another magical moment, there was no line, and I strategically kept her engaged past it all. Man, was I in the zone!</span></span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="s1"></span><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“Now help me get these groceries onto the counter please.” She too, was floating on air, and this was another coup for the day.</span></span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="s1"></span><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">We paid for the groceries (she swiped the card and “signed”), she got a lollipop from the cashier and we stood there just about to exit the store. I took a deep cleansing breath and smiled down at lovely child.</span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZ98yhXvvjEdiFATPyjcjyITgktxDHRO0081HHfAznqYVbD-iTciyr8YrMVZFuZu5_XdO34t8_iAMCbtPQd190R4kn3m8yDBXKcviL4H0vqNpDqxGJt5I1CSf36KfFqaXh0GiHyJ6AZkE7/s1600/Mom+of+the+Year+meme.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZ98yhXvvjEdiFATPyjcjyITgktxDHRO0081HHfAznqYVbD-iTciyr8YrMVZFuZu5_XdO34t8_iAMCbtPQd190R4kn3m8yDBXKcviL4H0vqNpDqxGJt5I1CSf36KfFqaXh0GiHyJ6AZkE7/s1600/Mom+of+the+Year+meme.jpg" /></a></div>
<div class="p2">
<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">She said, “Can I push the cart to the car?”</span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I said, “Not in the parking lot sweetie, it’s not safe”</span></span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="s1"></span><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">And the tantrum began. “I WANT TO PUSH IT!!!”</span></span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="s1"></span><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The golden moment was over, but I was still basking in it’s glory. So, as people walked by gawking at me pushing the cart and carrying my sweet, screaming girl under my arm like a football, I just smiled and kept going. </span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I wouldn’t get annoyed or frustrated for at least three more minutes.</span></span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="s1"></span><br /></span></div>
<br />
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">It was a good day. It was a glorious day. Or part of one. </span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I'll take it.</span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">If you haven't had one of these. You will. If you have, tell me about it. I need to know that it can happen again.</span></span></div>
whereswalderhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03947868970077803668noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-182668563917969484.post-36358287391726762992015-04-07T07:48:00.000-07:002015-04-07T20:30:43.143-07:00Being a mom and having control. Not. Ever.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBUKGK8wY6qUhU810mXrFJCkwKPNBekVtSZdBm7Ia4ilEEqlsc-bliuiBJvc0bOLoTwBSLeuvLxmiPdRBRx89V0OwifHOcWHfTT9efobFmJfvirQtKxPZunW_Oj-eAQjHdeBSvM6e3IwoS/s1600/harper+mad+face.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBUKGK8wY6qUhU810mXrFJCkwKPNBekVtSZdBm7Ia4ilEEqlsc-bliuiBJvc0bOLoTwBSLeuvLxmiPdRBRx89V0OwifHOcWHfTT9efobFmJfvirQtKxPZunW_Oj-eAQjHdeBSvM6e3IwoS/s1600/harper+mad+face.JPG" height="200" width="200" /></a></div>
<br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Control.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Janet Jackson sang about it.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Kids are struggling to get it.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">And, dammit, in my own house, I thought I would have it.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">mwahahahahahah!</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">In truth, the thing that I've given up the most since having kids is control. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b><br /></b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b>1. I never knew sleep was optional.</b></span><br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgP9QEG_hp2gsFnEcxpiHIHI1xoKkzSZKgEb1ke5nhi9Bn-b7q05tYZ2gtHOmkWYYouD8WbxG0lrYbecZGM5w0-9yynk7UHcRVtmGQ6Vbqf3Z7uKy89cRCDFvmP0y0vPfv9M9PhYE_LNiNx/s1600/sleeping.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgP9QEG_hp2gsFnEcxpiHIHI1xoKkzSZKgEb1ke5nhi9Bn-b7q05tYZ2gtHOmkWYYouD8WbxG0lrYbecZGM5w0-9yynk7UHcRVtmGQ6Vbqf3Z7uKy89cRCDFvmP0y0vPfv9M9PhYE_LNiNx/s1600/sleeping.JPG" height="150" width="200" /></a><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">When the kids were infants, whether it was nap time or evening, I wanted - nay, I needed them to sleep, but apparently they can smell desperation. I found out the hard way that I couldn't physically MAKE them sleep. This was a real ass-kicker. Sure, there were things I could do to encourage sleep, and I studied every technique in every book, but short of hitting them over the head or giving them enough bourbon to sedate them, they would sleep when they were good and ready. This was maddening, and they would push me just to the end of my rope. As I was about to lose my mind from sleep deprivation, they would close their eyes, but I swear I could see little insidious smiles on their faces.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b>2. Then there's eating. Or not eating.</b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">As babies, when I was first adding real food to their diet, they ate everything. Clearly they were playing the long game. Getting me confident. Making me feel like I could rock this mom thing.</span><br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirvs-edxwVu-AplEVHMevrUxjM71V_dtG0RHWq7dpGAJj4dWRPy5_FcCxv1FPBGAHKkngo1nFTh8593U-WSK0gGykwTuUuZbPlj5_SD3Inii4ThJrIc-iZ86xluPFk3vnb8AK81ynz3Pnq/s1600/Harper+hat.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirvs-edxwVu-AplEVHMevrUxjM71V_dtG0RHWq7dpGAJj4dWRPy5_FcCxv1FPBGAHKkngo1nFTh8593U-WSK0gGykwTuUuZbPlj5_SD3Inii4ThJrIc-iZ86xluPFk3vnb8AK81ynz3Pnq/s1600/Harper+hat.JPG" height="150" width="200" /></a><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">And then, just when I thought I'd figured out what my kids would eat, I would get bold and make one meal for all of us. Rookie.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I'm convinced they watch me spend time and energy working on a meal and decide proportionately how to difficult to be around it. I'm not a natural cook, so I'm sure they see the struggle unfold and think, "Nice! This is going to be a good day."</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I serve it, and almost immediately, they tell me why they wouldn't, in a million years, touch the food that they liked when it was on my plate a week ago.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">So, as my dreams of a family dinner such as the one on Blue Bloods fades away, I pour a glass of wine - oh, who are we kidding I've had one through meal prep - and make some mac and cheese. ...and oh so faintly, I swear I can hear the slap of the children giving each other five under the table. Maybe it's my imagination...</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b>3. The battle of getting dressed.</b></span><br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjB-xn9uj6BOKwSPGPzFkrqlf-ABJwuHu3wcG180cOcBlaSv0jZkcIaHRO3pC_LVA9GbyTQ_7trYhlZSBT8YF0YoZyWMrECzl8X5TT3qC0AUo7Mbsq8NKG3sL-X6oGJRVVg_W0wbcdnfpTY/s1600/dressed.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjB-xn9uj6BOKwSPGPzFkrqlf-ABJwuHu3wcG180cOcBlaSv0jZkcIaHRO3pC_LVA9GbyTQ_7trYhlZSBT8YF0YoZyWMrECzl8X5TT3qC0AUo7Mbsq8NKG3sL-X6oGJRVVg_W0wbcdnfpTY/s1600/dressed.JPG" height="200" width="150" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The bandaid on her chin is <br />
purely cosmetic</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I want her to wear clothes. She does not.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I want him to wear underwear to kindergarten. He does not.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I want her to pick an outfit that doesn't make her look like she's on the show "Toddlers and Tiaras". </span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">She is clearly hoping to qualify.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">And so it goes every morning. I've tried timing them. Bribing with TV. I've even shoved clothes on them only to have them peel them off and run around naked crying because, "I never let them wear what they want!" Simply isn't true, but there is no rationalizing with a toddler. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">They wait until they see me curled up in the corner looking at facebook at all the families who have it together to throw me a bone and get dressed or </span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">let me get them dressed.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Control.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">This struggle for control can make me feel so powerless and frustrated, but I am able to see it for what it is. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">For a while. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I mean, I'm the parent, right? I'm the adult, right? They are so little and their brains are just beginning to develop. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I know this. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I'm a rational human being.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Until...</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I've been patient. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">It's the end of the day. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">We have been battle picking...</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">All. Day. Long.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I want to get to my wine, Blacklist, and, oh yeah, and to spend some time with that guy that got me in this predicament.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">We are almost there when my son says, "You pick the story tonight, Mom."</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><i>Wow. I have the green light to choose something! Maybe we are getting somewhere, I think to myself. He is learning to give and take!</i></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">So, I go over the bookshelf, and I pick out a book. It doesn't matter which one because the result would be the same, but for the record, it's one he likes, so this feels like a safe pick.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Just as I'm about to sit down...</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">"I don't want to read that one."</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><i>oh no</i></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">"But you told me to pick the story tonight."</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">"I didn't know you'd pick that one."</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">"Yes, but you asked me to pick and so I did. Now this is what we are going to read"</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><i>Do you see it? I'm on the verge of picking a ridiculous battle. I could have just picked another book, but apparently I need control too.</i></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">"I don't want to!"</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">"We are reading this book. It's a good book. I've read it a thousand times to you. Now lay down!"</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><i>Yep, this happening. I can't give in one more time today. My sane part of me is looking down at this scene and shouting, "Just let him choose a different book!"</i></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">"Noooooooo! I'm not listening!" </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><i>The tears begin. His. Not mine. ... Yet</i></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">"Fine! I will sit here and read this book to you. You can listen or not."</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><i>I begin, and as I do, he covers his ears and starts ranting to himself.</i></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">(under his breath) "You always make me read what I don't want to. I don't want to read this book. It's the worst book. I'm not listening. I won't read this book...." (and on and on and on)</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><i>I continue to read the book, but I'm human, and it's the end of day. I can't ignore the sound of his little voice one more page. </i></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">"That's it! I'm done. Pick a book. Read it to yourself, and I'm going to put your sister down!"</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><i>Which certainly will go well, right? I'm in a great mental place for it.</i></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">"Noooooooo!!!!!! Mommy! I want you to read me a book!"</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><i>What??? Seriously? </i></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><i>O</i></span><i style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">h yeah, it's all about control.</i><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">We do finally read a book. Or, in a tizzy, I send my husband up to read. But regardless, it gets done, and as I sit down with my glass of wine, the toll of battle washes over me. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I wait for them to quiet, and then I go back up to watch them sleep. Partly, because I feel in control for the first time in my day, but also because the love I feel for them when they are sleeping is unmatched. This is how I regenerate for the next day. I charge my battery with loving thoughts.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Sometimes I have to go in a couple times.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Do you feel the battle of control in your house?</span><br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />whereswalderhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03947868970077803668noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-182668563917969484.post-82225713902041264902015-03-30T07:03:00.000-07:002015-03-30T07:03:20.638-07:00Conversations with the kids 1<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I go back and forth about whether I would prefer to be a working mom or a stay at home mom. Mind you, this is not a choice at the moment, but balance of the two leaves me really feeling between two worlds so much of the time. (This is a topic for a whole other post.)</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">However, since becoming a parent, there are conversations I never thought I'd have and questions I never dreamed I would have to answer. These </span><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">make me think it might be a good thing that there are moments in my day when I talk to adults since keeping sane is key to good parenting I hear.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">For instance, the other day:</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">"Mom, do you think huge robots are real?" </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I think a moment and answer, "Well, I certainly don't know how to build one, but I could send you to a camp that does." </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">It's then that I start dreaming about my rocket scientist at NASA, and how he might change the world. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I will have created that. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I swell with pride.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">He replies, "Well, I only want to go if you can come too." </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Awww. Right? </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Then I start to wonder what NASA camp costs. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Should we move to Florida to support his dreams? </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I'm not really psyched about living in FL, but for him...</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">--- wait a minute!!!! </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">No one, as this point, is going to robot camp... if there even is such a thing.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">You see how quickly I get sucked in???</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Then - "Mom, if I become a Ninja Turtle, do you think I will need to live in the sewers?"</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I decide it's a little premature to move to Florida.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">________________________________________________________________________________</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">There's also the constant and mind-numbing debate about the all-consuming "screen time". </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">He could easily watch TV or play some sort of video game all day long if I let him. No joke. Remember, the kid from Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory? </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I am convinced that my resourceful munchkin is going to somehow find a golden ticket, be sucked into a TV, and taken away by the strangely over self-tanned Oompa Loompas. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
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<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">"Mom, can I have one more show to watch?"</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">" no, you already watched an hour long movie."</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">"Just one tiny one?" </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">(He pinches his fingers together to show me how small. I don't tell him that movies and TV aren't measured in that increment. It's kind of besides the point.)</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">"No sweetie."</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">"Pleeeease! Just this many short?" </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">(He holds up three fingers - again an inaccurate unit of measurement to use, but lets not mess with the details)</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">"No, and please don't ask me again."</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">"Mom, if you let me watch one more show, I'll eat my dinner, and go to school."</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">His negotiation style, while good, needs some improvement in the counter-offer.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I think, "Wait! Maybe he'll be in merger and acquisitions!"</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">_________________________________________________________________________________</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">With my three-year old, the conversations get pretty basic, but in no way less insane!</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">"Harper, please get your hands out of your vagina."</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">"Yeah, Harper," says her brother, "you can get it sick that way!"</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Maybe he'll be a doctor?</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">"My hands weren't in my vagina, they were in my butt."</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Oh good, that's much better.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">"Well, the poop can make you sick."</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">"No, not IN my butt. On the bump!"</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Semantics.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">________________________________________________________________________________</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Have you gotten sucked into a conversation this week with your little lunatics?</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Please say yes. </span><br />
<br />whereswalderhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03947868970077803668noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-182668563917969484.post-25404303422648892982014-10-06T21:38:00.001-07:002014-10-07T06:05:13.124-07:00The mental state of a mom of a toddlerHey, I'm not saying I'm over 40. <br />
<br />
Not that there's anything wrong with being over 40. <br />
<br />
Some of my best friends are over 40. <br />
<br />
But, hypothetically, could an over 40 year old go through a midlife crisis? <br />
And if so, <strike>it's possible that I am</strike> "my friend" is definitely going through one.<br />
<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhiOU3UYMbDZ6mIH4BC4WkLS7Qx80kQyst2bLulFY8uZSpb_PGIEm3tY7i8P87TVhXDkQLsFDkl45eLuVf0O3CXXJQE-m0e7WFQUjsSa2Xq65NZXZ9dfmCeG4yqdyFg4sqm2akKvfkQQB1Y/s1600/AS+Clients+Full+List.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhiOU3UYMbDZ6mIH4BC4WkLS7Qx80kQyst2bLulFY8uZSpb_PGIEm3tY7i8P87TVhXDkQLsFDkl45eLuVf0O3CXXJQE-m0e7WFQUjsSa2Xq65NZXZ9dfmCeG4yqdyFg4sqm2akKvfkQQB1Y/s1600/AS+Clients+Full+List.jpg" height="212" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">WTF??? This is where that would apply.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<br />
Seriously though, given my emotional roller coaster this past week, I have confirmed that there are pros and cons to having had a "geriatric pregnancy", or being a mom of "advanced maternal age".<br />
<span style="text-align: right;"><br /></span>
<span style="text-align: right;">By the way, thank you to the gynecological society for coining those terms of support.</span><br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
I mean, having my kids towards the end of my 30's was great because:<br />
<br />
<ul>
<li>Giving my social life over to my children wasn't such a trial since I already cashed in all my tequila coupons, and my ability to stay up until 2 am had passed.</li>
<li>I'd done so much therapy that I'd run out of material. </li>
<li>I had lived a lot. Made a lot of mistakes. A lot. So, now my kids wouldn't be able to pull the wool over my eyes with their teenage manipulation. (However, I had the luxury of not growing up with every mistake documented on the internet. So I don't know what that's like. Thank God for small miracles.)</li>
<li>I'm such a believer in therapy, it was time to groom the next generation to perpetuate the industry.</li>
<li>Supposedly, during my 20's and 30's I built emotional skills to now parent with patience and wisdom in my 40's. (I just can't say that without giggling a little.)</li>
</ul>
<br />
But it hasn't all been a bed of roses:<br />
<br />
<ul>
<li>Every time I leave my keys in the refrigerator, start a sentence only to fade off in an effort to remember what I was hoping to say, or forget my loving husband's name, I silently wonder if these are early signs of dementia. (A thought I'm sure my 28 year old counterparts don't entertain.)</li>
<li>As I weather bouts of significant mood swings, my doctor has to remind me that I'm the mom of two kids under 6 because I'm grilling her on the early symptoms of "the change".</li>
<li>Never mind that I'm just tired. I know all moms are tired, but through observation, the younger ones are navigating it a hair better.</li>
</ul>
So, if "my friend" was worried about her status of possible mid-life crisis, I think I can just make her feel better by telling her it's not that, she's just an older mom.<br />
<br />
Ouch!<br />
<br />
Any opinions on whether it easier to me an older mom or a younger one?<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />whereswalderhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03947868970077803668noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-182668563917969484.post-4096074587392704372014-02-13T21:29:00.001-08:002014-02-13T21:29:25.843-08:00Welcome to Groundhog DayWhen my first was born, one of my closest friends, who had a head start on parenthood by about 4 years, came to my house to visit me. First thing she did was to swoop Mr. T out of my arms and give me a needed moment to breathe. Immediately T started crying, and exhausted, I slowly started to get up and grab him from her, but she put up her hand and told me to sit. She then expertly, shushed and patted him within an inch of his life until he quieted from her dance-like of moves. I fell back into the couch, she looked at me and said,<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b><span style="background-color: white; color: purple; font-size: large;">"So, welcome to Groundhog Day!"</span></b></div>
<br />
As I was a new mom, I couldn't begin to understand what that meant. I mean, to me, it was a new moment every freakin' minute, and I had no idea what to do with any of it. All he had to do was to breathe the wrong way, and I would dive into the all-knowing baby books while my mind set to spiraling down the rabbit hole. If he did anything that seemed, well, un-baby-like, I'd check WebMD, and as we all know, if you look far enough, all roads lead to cancer. So, the idea that every day could be the same completely befuddled me.<br />
<br />
Since then, after child number two and with some parenting experience under my belt, I have passed those same sentiments on to new mom friends of mine only to be greeted with the same "What the hell are you talking about?" gaze.<br />
<br />
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Life with a two small children is just exactly that. Each day consists of getting up, dressing them, making food, cleaning up, putting boots on, going to school, going to activities, laundry, feeding the dog, working, picking up from school, hanging up coats, longing for the 5 o'clock hour to deliver my glass of wine, bath time, bedtime (oy, the bedtime routine is enough to put anyone in the looney bin), and on and on it goes. And that's just one day. The weeks have a repetition to them too.<br />
<br />
But, today, I had a "bad mom" day. I yelled in the morning, I apologized for yelling, I yelled at night, I didn't apologize, I gave them both "the eye" which was really just a passive-aggressive way to make them feel bad, and I cried during his swimming lesson feeling like I was once again providing material for their therapy for years to come. (I'll have to offer to pay for that.)<br />
<br />
Then my daughter had a nightmare, and I was able to hold her while she settled back into a peaceful slumber, and I vowed to be better, act better, be a better role model for conflict resolution, and stop letting the little things piss me off.<br />
<br />
It was then, in that moment, that I thanked God for "Groundhog Day", because tomorrow gives me another opportunity to right my wrongs, do better, and overall have a do-over. I'm not saying that it's okay to lose my shit, but I did, and to wallow in self-hatred for my behavior doesn't serve me or my kids. The truth is that every time I have a day like today, I reflect and make a plan to make the next day more successful than the last.<br />
<br />
I've never learned and changed from my behavior more than I do for my kids.<br />
<br />
I've never wanted to be a better person more in my life than I do each day for my kids.whereswalderhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03947868970077803668noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-182668563917969484.post-57141392567525493882014-01-30T05:48:00.000-08:002014-01-30T05:48:10.938-08:00Things I never thought I'd say. (Part 1)Being a dog trainer, I talk to perfectly normal adults about poop, poop habits, pee habits, poop consistency, odor, etc. more than I'd like, to say the least. However, it's part of my job and, the truth is, the people I'm talking to about these things are riveted on my answer. When you have a dog, poop and pee descriptives are fairly important. In fact, you don't have to be much of a dog person to think that way. When you have a dog in your house, at the very least, you are vested in that dog being successful on the potty training front. If everything else goes to shit, as long as they are... well... doing it in the right place, life is good.<br />
<br />
So, I have really gotten over the embarrassment of having to ask a person, "so, was the poop runny or soft?" or "when they peed in your living room, did they lift a leg?" or "are they pooping routinely in a particular spot?" See? The ease with which I speak on this subject has really become my normal... that's not a skill I'm putting on my resume, but talking about the elimination habits of a dog in order to get the bottom of how to make them successful has been honed into an art.<br />
<br />
But now, being a parent of two, I've reached a new level of communication, and I'm saying things each day that I never thought I'd say. Ever.<br />
<br />
<b>"Honey, please don't touch your brother's penis." </b><br />
<br />
This one was a doozy and happened while they were bathing together. I had turned around for a second to pick something up and when I turned back, I saw my daughter with her finger out like ET headed towards my son's "junk". I mean, from her perspective, that thing must be kind of mesmerizing since she herself doesn't have one. Not to mention, he can't stop touching it, so she must wonder what all the excitement is about.<br />
<br />
<b>"Stop eating off the bottom of your boot!"</b><br />
<br />
We were driving and I turned around to glance at my precious girl and what was she doing? Literally, eating the dirty, dirty snow from between the grooves of her boot. It made me seriously wonder about whether she's going to survive two. I mean, Darwin would be all over that!<br />
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<b>"Don't eat your boogers! The bugs in your nose will bite your fingers!"</b><br />
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Now, I really need to give credit where credit is due. I got this from a friend of mine who has three boys, and she said that once she told them that, the picking and eating ceased completely. Unfortunately, my little one doesn't seem to be phased by the bug possibility. She may even dig more for a possible sighting.<br />
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Actually, truth be told, I was a little relieved in her lack of gullibility in the bug idea. She just might make it to three.<br />
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<b>"Did you poop? Let me smell your butt."</b><br />
<br />
Now, if you're a parent, this is very familiar. We've all done it. It's efficient in getting the answer you seek. It's just that if you told me I would be saying it before I had kids, I would have laughed you off.<br />
<br />
<b>"We only poop in the potty, not in the bathtub!"</b><br />
<br />
This a was a dark and disturbing day. I had gone to brush my hair in the mirror when I hear, "Mom! Harper pooped in the bathtub." I turned around assuming he was joking. I was about to tell him that was the opposite of a funny joke, when I glanced down, my heart stopped, and <a href="http://youtu.be/TPxiXGr9nFM">this scene played</a> in my head.<br />
<br />
I quickly jumped to action scooping the poop out of the tub with my bare hand. (Hadn't really thought that through, but now I know I'd really throw myself in front of a bear to save my kids.) Frantically, I got them out of the tub and bleached it before getting them back in to scrub them within an inch of their lives. They thought this was a lot funnier than I did, so I'm hoping my reaction didn't scar them for life.<br />
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Fellow parents, care to chime in with things you've said recently that you never thought you would? Let's hear 'em!<br />
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<br />whereswalderhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03947868970077803668noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-182668563917969484.post-88333239608378699982013-04-29T20:01:00.001-07:002013-04-29T20:01:59.916-07:00I think my dog's new friend is using him...I started out the care-taking process as a dog mom. I did a couple trial runs early before I was married and had kids in order to make sure that I could keep a living being healthy and alive. To be honest, my past with plants was not a good omen.<br />
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There are so many wonderful things about creating a relationship with a dog. In fact, the love at first sight I had with my Golden Retriever was magical and lasted right up to her last breath. But I would be lying if I didn't acknowledge that having a dog also strengthened my gag reflex. Like I said, my dog was special and lovely, but she still pooped outside requiring me to pick it up. That's part of the gig. There's also vomiting that is foreshadowed by a workup of heaving so violent that you're sure a small child might be produced. There's breath that is rabbit poop scented, ingestion of toilet paper that sometimes can result in a human having to assist a poop out with her hands, ear gunk to end all ear gunk and much more, but I think you get the point. </div>
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The sad part is that this doesn't even touch the nasty-factor that comes with kids, but it gets you a little raw in preparation.</div>
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However, just as I had thought nothing could faze me, I recently came head-to-head with a tick. No, seriously, there was a tick on my dog, Finlay's, head. Between his eyes to be exact. </div>
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Let me just preface this by saying, "I don't dig bugs." That, by the way, is the understatement of the year. My whole body puckers when I see anything with multiple legs and a pincher apparatus for a mouth. So, when my husband said, "Hey, what is this between Finlay's eyes?", I thought, "eye booger. No problem. I've got this."</div>
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<div>
I'll admit that my heart dropped a notch when I saw what appeared to be a skin tag to end all skin tags hanging from his brow line The most frightening part was that this lovely had not been there the day before which meant is was a very fast growing skin abnormality. You see where I'm going, right? Cancer. </div>
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As I spread the hair away from the protrusion, I mentally prepared to scoop Mr. Fin up and hold him until I could get him to the vet the following morning. I got a magnifying glass to get a really good look of size, color, and texture so I could look it up on the internet and really work my self up into a good panic. It was then that the world stopped spinning for me because when I got an enlarged view, I saw the unexpected... a couple of tiny legs at the point of insertion in the skin! It was the size of a corn kernel and had legs! Let the dry heaving begin! </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzG-aK1LEEivJ0NIzGZhpNgIHS9o6T3ltIGPHtsgyQ3WHbqdwQ9CyzapxafgClTC0KoTMZFU7IKkzchrQ4IpT0VpPRX6frT5hcIebBP6eP0uAn7KUsi7MUmbkrOKCNO2Xq1OrCO1Auz8iw/s1600/Tick+Attached.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzG-aK1LEEivJ0NIzGZhpNgIHS9o6T3ltIGPHtsgyQ3WHbqdwQ9CyzapxafgClTC0KoTMZFU7IKkzchrQ4IpT0VpPRX6frT5hcIebBP6eP0uAn7KUsi7MUmbkrOKCNO2Xq1OrCO1Auz8iw/s1600/Tick+Attached.JPG" height="200" width="161" /></a>I <strike>called</strike> screamed at the top of my lungs to my husband, "It's got legs! It's a bug! It's got legs! You have to come down!" Thinking that I was potentially having the psychotic break that he's been waiting for, he came down and we got to business on handling our dog's lastest tenant.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div>
As you may or may not know, ticks are best removed with tweezers at the base, although I have also heard talk of getting fire involved. Since I figured that a flame headed between Finlay's eyes would not be well received, we went for the tweezer and then bag to suffocate technique. Between gagging, I held the magnifying glass while my husband extracted the blood sucker, and this is what we got:</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhORev8XSDWG5YQBnmG7XYrdpRoTgmF4gnZKyRzkEjC7L-dPd6u9mwNKnGDyl-PWyyrV16NiHnws2pLIPF4qOH7NL882FrVDET55boJCi8Td_XsLJzry6wKZpNT4j_TwPqO4aq339cnlX1/s1600/tick+in+a+bag.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhORev8XSDWG5YQBnmG7XYrdpRoTgmF4gnZKyRzkEjC7L-dPd6u9mwNKnGDyl-PWyyrV16NiHnws2pLIPF4qOH7NL882FrVDET55boJCi8Td_XsLJzry6wKZpNT4j_TwPqO4aq339cnlX1/s1600/tick+in+a+bag.JPG" height="200" width="168" /></a></div>
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Since I wasn't looking to have another pet to take care of, I evicted Finlay's new friend and chalked the experience up to an exercise building strength in my gag reflex which was good because vomiting hit the Stewart household this week!<br />
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Turns out, I do pretty well with animals and humans. I'm still lacking in the plant department. </div>
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whereswalderhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03947868970077803668noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-182668563917969484.post-35626979133813195892013-04-11T21:57:00.000-07:002013-04-12T11:55:52.011-07:00Cukoo as ever!I've been off the blog grid for a few months now, and I could give you a hundred reasons why that's so, but just recently I was inspired to get back on the horse and write away. (pardon the pun!)<br />
<br />
My step-grandmother passed away last week after a very long battle with Alzheimer's. The truth of the matter is that I really didn't know her all that well. By the time she came into my life, I was a teenager ('nuff said) followed by being away for college and finally moving out on my own. I knew her, of course, but after the small service where her youngest daughter delivered a eulogy that chronicled "Nana Kay's" life, I found I knew very little. And about 4 notecards in, I realized that I missed out on an interesting and surprising package of a person.<br />
<br />
Divorce brings a lot of heartache in its wake, but sometimes the bigger family that you are dealt in that second hand, turns out to be a diamond in the rough. I'm lucky on both sides to have gained great family as my parents remarried, but it was only really after her death, that I find myself wishing I had hung out with this cool woman and had some of her strength rub off on me.<br />
<br />
Here's what I learned about this tour de force :<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZ0cauTfU2m7KGT8_kOsrTQEr31xLlCdXXLug8nQFy2EIoF3mysl9PGimCCEsth4Yn1Hdsu7NsHiLykevy_Q4jPOXEcK7_RIn7zmtR0vZVztI0xs1SanngOpcbI-Qid5HtkwvfVU0Q3XsW/s1600/auntie+mame.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZ0cauTfU2m7KGT8_kOsrTQEr31xLlCdXXLug8nQFy2EIoF3mysl9PGimCCEsth4Yn1Hdsu7NsHiLykevy_Q4jPOXEcK7_RIn7zmtR0vZVztI0xs1SanngOpcbI-Qid5HtkwvfVU0Q3XsW/s1600/auntie+mame.jpg" height="200" title="" width="160" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Auntie Mame</td></tr>
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<br />
<ul>
<li>She had style and grace coming out of her pores...</li>
<li>...but she knew how to shoot water through her teeth to get someone's attention at a party.</li>
<li>She wasn't always handed an easy deck, but she carried heavy burdens with class.</li>
<li>Kay married "the one that got away" (her high school sweetheart) <u>45 years</u> after he asked her to marry him the first and second time.</li>
<li>She didn't let anyone tell her something couldn't be done. In fact, when someone said to her that it was "just so hard to get a job" (right before WWII), she went out that day and got 7 jobs just to prove it could be done.</li>
<li>Her children's friends referred to her as "Auntie Mame".</li>
<li>She weathered Alzheimer's in a way that touched everyone who came in contact with her, and continued to be the consummate host even in the most advanced stages of her disease.</li>
<li>Often, when asked how she was doing, esp. later in life, she'd reply, "Cukoo as ever!"</li>
</ul>
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<br />
So, if she were my peer, and I was whining about not having time or energy to write (as I have been lately), she would probably go write three screenplays and a book just to prove it could be done! Her stories have inspired me to live life a little fuller, encouraged me to stay strong when the turkeys come knocking, and remember that you can have an elegant package on the outside that's filled with spunk on the inside. ...And well-timed peeks at the spunk are the memories that you leave behind.whereswalderhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03947868970077803668noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-182668563917969484.post-33456366150100067212012-11-26T21:22:00.000-08:002012-11-26T21:22:18.413-08:00Abu Ghraib has nothing on my one-year old<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">She seems so harmless here...</td></tr>
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I'm thinking of sending the 15-month down to Langley for some intense training on eliciting confessions out of terrorists. She has a unique way of sleep torture that she is currently using on my husband and I, but I think that her talents could be better used in a proper facility. I mean, there's a reason that sleep deprivation is a form of torture. It works. ...and my little girl has some mad skills.<br />
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She starts by several sessions of night waking 2-3 times each night. She then gives you a taste of only one waking that is very short, and she easily goes back to sleep. Finally, there is one morning that you wake up at 7:30am feeling strangely rested, and you come to the slow realization that she has slept through the entire night. Erroneously you think, "things are on the right track." In fact you get another night just like this one, and you begin to feel like this is the end of a sleepless era.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzaPorGe_Bweig7p8VNbB1r_RKzrK3s4DMh4T-s59mX8HNUDf6D2WRDoTAQ4DngID0PAn2B9HcC30ZIMsQgvLd3xfmha8IhS53ve_LDknDn0rwxcbdPh1waTaiWnXFsCMy7N_9gvE8A889/s1600/Harper+bruiser.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzaPorGe_Bweig7p8VNbB1r_RKzrK3s4DMh4T-s59mX8HNUDf6D2WRDoTAQ4DngID0PAn2B9HcC30ZIMsQgvLd3xfmha8IhS53ve_LDknDn0rwxcbdPh1waTaiWnXFsCMy7N_9gvE8A889/s1600/Harper+bruiser.jpg" height="320" width="124" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">... but, don't mess with her.</td></tr>
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D'oh! You just jinxed it. <br />
<br />
The next night and the week thereafter, it's 2-3 wakings in a night. You see, she gets you rested and out of the swing of being unendingly tired. Just as you get used to sleeping again and feeling like a human being, she slams you again with sleep deprivation.<br />
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The only thing keeping me from sending her down to Langley to hone her skills, is that unlike some children who get teeth two at a time at regular intervals through the age of 2, my child's body feels the need to present all the teeth at once. ...and apparently, it hurts. Another blogger I know likened it to imagining if your tibia slowly started to grow out of your skin. Though I've no direct experience with this, I can imagine that it would hurt. A lot. So, I have some empathy.<br />
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Some of her sleep torture techniques are saved for when we are away from home as we were for this past holiday week. My little one does not have adaptable sleeping habits, and I always enter into a trip as if she does. If I remembered each past trips sleeping debaucles, I'd never really travel until they were 10. <br />
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You know that a particular night is not going well, when in the middle of the night you are reciting the words to the Samuel L Jackson narrated children's book, "Go the F*** to Sleep," in your head. When this happens, I know that it's time for Dad to intervene and give me, and my breasts, a break. These are not the mom thoughts I want to have... Harper, in that moment, has unleashed my Mr. Hyde. It is not pretty.<br />
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So, here's my offer, if you want to get some solid info out of your teenager about their escapades last weekend, while at the same time scare them into safe sex, I'm renting the 15-month-old out for a low, low price, if you act now... but wait there's more! I'll throw in my 4 year-old who sleeps well, but joins you in the middle of the night from a bad dream, and then proceeds to kick and slap you in his sleep as he rests perpendicular to your bodies. <br />
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That'll really scare 'em straight! Any takers? I'm even open to (and encourage) a full weekend!<br />
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I know I'm not the only one with sleep issues... care to share?<br />
<br />whereswalderhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03947868970077803668noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-182668563917969484.post-71685534711361555892012-11-22T10:01:00.000-08:002012-11-22T10:04:21.756-08:00Giving ThanksToday is Thanksgiving, and this is the platform where I normally write about something my kids have done that just might put me straight into the looney bin if I didn't share it. However, I just read <a href="http://mom2my6pack.blogspot.com/">this blog</a> from a mom who has six kids, has been blogging for 5+ years, and she's been through a tremendous amount of changes in those years. I'm sure there were days that felt like they'd never end, or that she'd never get her kids through puberty. But as I read her blog today, I realized that with all the worry, frustration, lack of money, harried mornings, sleepless nights, little tiny hugs, giggles from the back seat, smiles at just the right time and more... life just continues to plod on. Even when there doesn't seem to be an end, there is. For good and for bad. The toddler will go to elementary school, to Jr. high, and to high school (knock wood), because we just can't stop time. <br />
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So, today I would like to reflect on some things I'm truly thankful for:<br />
<br />
<ul>
<li>My husband, for so many reasons, but who, without him, I would have cracked up long ago.</li>
<li>My son, who randomly says "I love you mama," just before asking me for ice cream. (Guess I don't have to teach him the theory of "you catch more flies with honey than vinegar".)</li>
<li>My daughter, who, right as I'm about to strangle her for screaming for one more thing, shoots me the best, most amazing smile every time. (I mean, do these kids have survival skills, or what?!?)</li>
<li>My mom, who I finally understand why she didn't take that job that would have had her gone for months when I was little.</li>
<li>My dad for his sayings that I pass on to my children now. The most recent mantra being, "Treat everyone the way you would want to be treated." For future use, I've banked, "For every beer your drink, drink a glass of water." --- sage advice when sending them to college (knock wood).</li>
<li>My step-mom for being the go-between me and my dad when I was a teenager. We had a relationship because of that.</li>
<li>My sister (who is technically a "step") for making me a sister and a friend after a fairly rocky start. I depend on her as if we were blood, especially as my parent sounding board. (Anyone who has weathered a child who painted the wall with their poop has some valuable advice to give.)</li>
<li>My aunt and uncle in South Carolina, my aunt and uncle in Mississippi, my husband's family, and my extended family from my step-parents for continuing to create a family filled with love for my children.</li>
<li>My dog Finlay, my fur child, who never lets me be in a room alone... even, and especially, the bathroom.</li>
<li>Finally, to the step-cousins who let us stay with them for this Thanksgiving holiday in Atlanta, GA, out of the goodness of their heart, not obligation. (Unless, there was deal struck between their family and mine that we don't know about.)</li>
</ul>
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I'm thankful for all of the above and more. I am blessed.<br />
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What are you thankful for?<br />
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<br />whereswalderhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03947868970077803668noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-182668563917969484.post-27783955575903533652012-09-26T20:09:00.000-07:002012-09-26T20:09:09.599-07:00Some people have a pool, we have a bathtub.
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For those of you who don’t know, my day job is Director of Training at a dog training company. As I see people and give advice on a daily basis, I’m a big advocate of the phrase, “A tired dog is a good dog.” I also apply this theory to my children.</div>
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<span class="s1">Now, please sweet baby Jesus, don’t start commenting about how a child is not the same as a dog. I’m acutely aware that dogs are not people. Let me show you:</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9nmJbcAYBIoVZK0iIlLbXZ655JM_bwhrC1G5UcLf58-g6aQt9P1jFdNmZLud2_cdUkWJRE5BS2T4-sS0pTxRCS1PRW_GESmwSyMy9WWKaxO89MZPRXNyGti3VgZV0q8gtD6tLZNNq20oz/s1600/dog+dressed+like+baby.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9nmJbcAYBIoVZK0iIlLbXZ655JM_bwhrC1G5UcLf58-g6aQt9P1jFdNmZLud2_cdUkWJRE5BS2T4-sS0pTxRCS1PRW_GESmwSyMy9WWKaxO89MZPRXNyGti3VgZV0q8gtD6tLZNNq20oz/s200/dog+dressed+like+baby.jpeg" width="167" /></a>
<li class="li3"><span class="s1">A dog has four legs, a child has two.</span></li>
<li class="li3"><span class="s1">A dog has fur and people have hair.</span></li>
<li class="li3"><span class="s1">A dog’s brain is simpler than ours. </span></li>
</ul>
<div class="p2">
See? </div>
<ul>
<li class="li3"><span class="s1">A dog pees outside and people... oops! <span class="s2"><a href="http://wheres-walder.blogspot.com/2012/09/lessons-in-potty-ettiquette.html">This blog post</a></span> negates that statement!</span></li>
</ul>
<div class="p2">
Anyway, I spend my days getting people to see that their dogs are not little children wrapped up in fur suits. It actually behooves (I love this word, btw) a dog for people to expect them to do dog things. But I digress.<span class="s1"></span></div>
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<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1">For more insight on dogs being dogs, check out a <span class="s2"><a href="http://animalsense.com/2012/04/be/">blog post</a></span> from my job on this exact point.</span></div>
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<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1">Aaaanyhoo... all summer I’ve been going with a friend of mine to the beach with our kids. As you can imagine, there are many bonuses to taking kids to the beach. I especially enjoy going with this particular person because her son is in my son’s class, so entertaining Tommy is one thing off my list when I go there. On top of that, there’s fresh air, open space, sand, water and sun, all of which will wear out a kid fast! And yes, that’s my goal. </span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1">As Fall has slowly been approaching, we have had a few chillier days so I’m faced with the dilemma of what to do to exorcise the unending energy from my four-year old, so when it’s time for bed, I don’t get much of an argument. </span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1">The other day, I needed to do work, and Tommy needed a bath I told him that he was going to bathe during Harper’s nap, and he asked me if he could “play” while he was in there. A bright light went on in my brain! </span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1">“Sure,” I said begrudgingly, “you can play for a little while.” </span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1">I wanted to make it seem like I was really doing him a favor. </span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1">Little did he know, I was thrilled because I knew that he would play in the tub, and I could get my work done. It was win/win! (Before you call DCFS, I was in the room next door, I could hear him the whole time... and he's 4.)</span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1">Finally, I heard him say, “Mom! Watch what I can do!” I looked at the clock and he had played for an hour! I ran upstairs and feeling small pangs of guilt as he showed me his severely pruned hand. Then he said, “Ready? Watch this!”</span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1">He put his face in the water and then pulled it out with pride. My first thought was, </span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p3">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixdhf7jiDkVBtQzOQaTRBn6bDB9s13aOWY0_a6fYe_nc8ZnjhAeU9x6n8uWiwqYvvJY9gcEx9BpJ1bu4qHVCn-sJ-M_osAa1ol5O0ZAi6jDL4une2AUHOTOqYCO0nVGBs_sMvxMk9ymoZp/s1600/tommy+bath.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="122" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixdhf7jiDkVBtQzOQaTRBn6bDB9s13aOWY0_a6fYe_nc8ZnjhAeU9x6n8uWiwqYvvJY9gcEx9BpJ1bu4qHVCn-sJ-M_osAa1ol5O0ZAi6jDL4une2AUHOTOqYCO0nVGBs_sMvxMk9ymoZp/s200/tommy+bath.jpg" width="200" /></a><span class="s1">“Oh, I hope he didn’t pee in there,” </span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1">and my second was, </span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1">“This is better than a pool!” </span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1">I realize this isn’t a daily solution, but in a pinch... country club Stewart is open all year long!</span></div>
whereswalderhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03947868970077803668noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-182668563917969484.post-19939693365685090112012-09-03T20:56:00.000-07:002012-09-03T20:56:22.468-07:00Lessons in Potty EttiquetteA few weeks ago, on my son's 4th birthday, we said a final good-bye to the "little potty". <br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyX6Jg0oL3alSjJYW9tSO_148QpIM0l90MgadgSIJ2IROwwR-92ayu23xhYIAVMfQm5Np5ErHBIMBLl9e0DlIfqKgf4xyBYFnCp-QJEB7yQou851vflrBPBNqSmPrvfEirivs7wvlpqwUN/s1600/bj-002_1z.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyX6Jg0oL3alSjJYW9tSO_148QpIM0l90MgadgSIJ2IROwwR-92ayu23xhYIAVMfQm5Np5ErHBIMBLl9e0DlIfqKgf4xyBYFnCp-QJEB7yQou851vflrBPBNqSmPrvfEirivs7wvlpqwUN/s200/bj-002_1z.jpeg" width="170" /></a></div>
For those of you who are perhaps not in the "little potty" stage of life, it is, in fact, a little potty for children to learn how to go "number one" or "number two" without the fear of falling in the giant hole that makes up the grown-up potty. It's also the thing that allows boys to experience the advantage of their feet touching the ground clearly creating comfort for maximum play or reading time while pooping. This, ladies, is where it begins. Tommy actually would gather up toys to take with him each time.<br />
<br />
Personally, I think of it as the item that helped me build up my gag reflex each time I dumped human poop from the potty's base into the real potty where it could then be flushed, but not before---oh no, my friends, not before---the poop's descent into the water created a geyser that spurted up the middle and landed "poop water" on the seat, and if I was very lucky, on my hand. There's also the matter of washing it out, because unfortunately, physics works against you as the bin is turned over and the heavier item sinks to the bottom and then slides along the side creating what we, in this house call "poop streaks". Highbrow stuff today, right?<br />
<br />
So, just when I thought that we had gotten through the milestone of getting rid of the "little potty",<span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.292969);"> I found out that there was more wisdom to impart.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.292969);"><br />First of all, with boys, there's the whole standing up factor. Up until this summer, he hadn't done it </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.292969);">and I blame my husband who doesn't lead by example on this front since he's convinced that the bathroom at home is the best place to brush up on his Sudoku skills whether or not "number two" is </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.292969);">involved. Cut to me one day on a walk and Tommy is anxiously crossing his legs needing to pee. I look around, channel my college days of keg beer, and point him to the nearest tree. He walks over and starts to squat. Well, I don't have a penis, but my geometry is pretty good, and the straight line is </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.292969);">pointing right at his shorts as he's crouched over, not at the ground. Houston, we have a problem.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.292969);"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.292969);">I run over to him, stand him up and his panicked look reminds me of the first time sex was explained to me. </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.292969);"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.292969);">"Just let it go, honey."</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.292969);"><br />He starts to squat again.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.292969);"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.292969);">"No. Standing up."</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.292969);"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.292969);">He looks at me, does it, then a grin spreads across his face in relief. Just as I'm reveling in a little parenting success, I realize that as he's ending his pee, and I'm about to be taught another physics lesson. As the stream weakens, it begins to fall and veers quickly towards his shorts. I never knew there was skill and mastery to this standing up thing. Not knowing what to do, I grab him and lean </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.292969);">him forward so he's basically horizontally in my arms as he finishes. </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.292969);">I learned later my husband knows more than he shows at home and that with a little hip jut out and a </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.292969);">shake, the whole thing can be avoided. Who knew?!?</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.292969);"><br /></span>
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMmLWu-IIPNShhqvByPijbW3tmXTTCS520XbCzAJ8xTK20v92AnmB01n1BeWvHvRHqtrFs7f6ZFb83QyRYtaMq6bxv6WzbwCW3xaqzNQChf2JKp4xfuH3pUPU1WwNf04PsVqOhxoNkWnrY/s1600/Calvin1.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMmLWu-IIPNShhqvByPijbW3tmXTTCS520XbCzAJ8xTK20v92AnmB01n1BeWvHvRHqtrFs7f6ZFb83QyRYtaMq6bxv6WzbwCW3xaqzNQChf2JKp4xfuH3pUPU1WwNf04PsVqOhxoNkWnrY/s200/Calvin1.jpeg" width="176" /></a>Little did I know that there were more potty lessons to come...<br />
<br />
Once he learned that standing up was an option, it was as if I had unleashed Pandora's Box. Now there was no reason to wait for an actual bathroom. In fact, for a few weeks this summer, he and his <span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.292969);">friend would wait until the end of camp to announce that they were going to "pee in the bushes". Now, I could have made a fuss about that from the get-go, but doing so would undoubtedly make the allure that much more appealing. So for the next several days as we left camp, two moons could be seen facing out of the bushes as they relieved themselves because they still hadn't gotten to the lesson about not having to pull their pants down to their ankles in order to pee. Miss Manners might have something to say about that.</span><br />
<br />
The coup de grace came a couple of nights ago while we were enjoying the best time at the beach from about 4-7pm. After a couple hours there, Tommy came running up to me, once again doing the pee dance. <br />
<br />
"Just go in the water," I said and turned to continue my conversation.<br />
<br />
As I finished my sentence, I turned around to check on him since he's not a stellar swimmer yet, and what do I see?<br />
<br />
Tommy has his suit down to his ankles and has started the process at the edge of the water, not submerged as we do in polite society.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-tV4hS90cR5aEd-i_6JSErAPtASaLZoFQLbJ21Q2bCKoUvwfvvti6v-Ul078ESPjhL96mFJBEBDxzEorrCX0r3oMStsAemUo6fNRMhsJ1DouGVRN3912DR4944z4ncf4xsiFQtafHyFBf/s1600/Tommy+peeing.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-tV4hS90cR5aEd-i_6JSErAPtASaLZoFQLbJ21Q2bCKoUvwfvvti6v-Ul078ESPjhL96mFJBEBDxzEorrCX0r3oMStsAemUo6fNRMhsJ1DouGVRN3912DR4944z4ncf4xsiFQtafHyFBf/s200/Tommy+peeing.JPG" width="150" /></a>Apparently, there was one more potty lesson I had forgotten.<br />
<br />
I quickly ran over to him pulling his very wet suit, which was sticking to him, of course, and walking him into the water as he screamed, "I can't pee in my pants, Mama!"<br />
<br />
Well, he has a point, right? So, as there are so many exceptions in life, Tommy has learned his first and as we walked back up the beach, I could be heard saying, "Only in the lake, not in the pool. You understand? Not in the pool. ...or the bathtub."<br />
<br />
Who said life is clear?<br />
<br />whereswalderhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03947868970077803668noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-182668563917969484.post-66050118969159731472012-08-29T12:18:00.001-07:002012-08-29T12:18:53.690-07:00Shafted!!!...said Harper, my second child, on her first birthday.<br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.292969);"><br /></span>
I<span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.292969);"> am having tremendous pangs of guilt about the "double" dinosaur themed birthday I held a few weeks ago.</span><br />
<br />
A friend of mine said once, "do your best as a parent... And then pay for their therapy when they're older." Sage advice considering I'm pretty sure this is where her first session will begin...<br />
<br />
"Well, you see I'm the second child and on my first birthday there is only one picture/video of me enjoying my cake. The rest of the documents from this day revolve around 'the prodigal son' -Tommy and his friends," she'll say with great disdain as the therapist nods and takes notes documenting this first misstep.<br />
<br />
Their birthdays are 5 DAYS apart, for God's sake! I can't have two separate parties so that the one-year old, who won't remember a thing will be able to look back at pictures and know she was loved. <br />
<br />
I really hope she doesn't see the picture (I mean pictures - there were many) from Tommy's first. It was a bash. Ridiculously so.<br />
<br />
She did, however, get her own cake. This may or may not be because I'm kind of a sugar nazi, and I wanted her to have a less diabetes-inducing experience for her first taste of the vice we call sugar, but it was her own cake nonetheless.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEje_VwirfYkEgUdnqFy5NW9nCU_YU8XwgaJ4SWGDwzPIaqwtraaJFDy861LEQhPh4D8fHfnpCg9ZcFpPjgfeuZWBBCT8UKyaRFckTbu2uj3ipkNIG_WN3GHpxJ9hV2-5i3T5DaU5R9EldQB/s1600/Harper+and+cake.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"> </a>For the record, I would like to point out that this "poor neglected child" came 16 DAYS LATE!!! Let's not forget that little tidbit. I know I won't. If she had come on August 1st as my biological clock said she would, we would have been able to have a little separate party for her in late July saving me at least one 50-minute hour with a Jungian student.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEje_VwirfYkEgUdnqFy5NW9nCU_YU8XwgaJ4SWGDwzPIaqwtraaJFDy861LEQhPh4D8fHfnpCg9ZcFpPjgfeuZWBBCT8UKyaRFckTbu2uj3ipkNIG_WN3GHpxJ9hV2-5i3T5DaU5R9EldQB/s1600/Harper+and+cake.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEje_VwirfYkEgUdnqFy5NW9nCU_YU8XwgaJ4SWGDwzPIaqwtraaJFDy861LEQhPh4D8fHfnpCg9ZcFpPjgfeuZWBBCT8UKyaRFckTbu2uj3ipkNIG_WN3GHpxJ9hV2-5i3T5DaU5R9EldQB/s320/Harper+and+cake.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">She doesn't have a clue that....</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj90q7FIKsNAgpzKQwfnajeVPmahP4WBGPDSPaXzJcCBWVx3rmXxjxYGVJRiOysLKYsNMAarVBfXknO_u7A76BRvWE01OlXd0yYQ5uvadqZpslKdSW2mCDnLbNRfFBOi6cRSQyxMKcohF7t/s1600/Tommy+blowing+out+candles.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj90q7FIKsNAgpzKQwfnajeVPmahP4WBGPDSPaXzJcCBWVx3rmXxjxYGVJRiOysLKYsNMAarVBfXknO_u7A76BRvWE01OlXd0yYQ5uvadqZpslKdSW2mCDnLbNRfFBOi6cRSQyxMKcohF7t/s320/Tommy+blowing+out+candles.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">...the rest of the party is watching Tommy's cake!</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div style="text-align: right;">
To her future therapist: <i>You're welcome!</i></div>
whereswalderhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03947868970077803668noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-182668563917969484.post-7856075617579180742012-08-06T13:39:00.000-07:002012-08-06T13:39:00.539-07:00Glamor is My Middle Name<br />
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">If you look at Angelina, Gwyneth, Madonna or any of the paparazzi-tracked moms, it would lead you to believe that motherhood is borderline glamorous - and easy. It especially irks me to see the section in Us Magazine titled, "Celebrities families are just like us."pictures that have quotes like:</span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">"They clean up ice cream cone disasters." (yes, on the day the nanny has off)</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">"They manage their 6 kids at the airport.". (to their private jet)</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">"They go back to school shopping.". (at Hermes and Henri Bendel on Rodeo Dr.)</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">"They go to yoga." (when above mentioned nanny is back and private yoga instructor is off)</span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">First of all, I can tell you that when I'm shopping with my kids (at Target), they aren't patiently sitting in the cart pointing to cereals on the shelf. The one that can walk is running ahead, declaring his inner tiger and growling/roaring at complete strangers as they pass us. </span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">The same child rarely leaves the beach with a smile on his face, in a stroller being pushed by his hard body mom. It's usually some variation of me in a t-shirt and skirt cover-up (that I swim in because my body is more semi-soft) sweating like a man, pushing the baby in the stroller and carrying a tall 3 year old under my arm like a football while he screams "I just want ice cream Mama!" The ice cream cart is placed directly out the exit of the beach, thank you very much!</span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">Second of all, do they really get a call from the sitter when they are at work that the 4 year old's poop is green, "I mean really green, Mrs. Stewart!". To follow that up, do they say, "OK, save it for me to look at," in response to this call? I think not.</span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">I'm also pretty confident that at a family wedding, they do not find themselves locked in a bathroom stall with their little black dress pulled down to their waist as if they are trying to acquire beads at Mardi Gras, hand expressing milk from their overly full lactating breasts. Just when I started to feel individually human again, a perfectly normal adult event turns into a human 4H demonstration.</span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">Finally, do they ever find themselves dry heaving in front of their kids at a hairball the size of a guinea pig that they find in their tub drain? </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><br /></span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHZ-IRqfTVYCxApGZ3zEHqAdP-6vb6URh2rhcxnNdw7yscgesgNB0sVbMEBYtppzvjZe3ZmhlwMm8cm5nuDKf9R4-oKyUu55RQojzGVVH2mDqYUCULfF5IBJCbMnfy6y2x-FifTrb6QZti/s1600/drain+disaster.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="133" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHZ-IRqfTVYCxApGZ3zEHqAdP-6vb6URh2rhcxnNdw7yscgesgNB0sVbMEBYtppzvjZe3ZmhlwMm8cm5nuDKf9R4-oKyUu55RQojzGVVH2mDqYUCULfF5IBJCbMnfy6y2x-FifTrb6QZti/s200/drain+disaster.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sorry, I just didn't want to be the only witness to this.</td></tr>
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<span class="s1">Really? They don't just let their handyman weather the wave of nausea this produces? </span></div>
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<span class="s1">Look, I'm sure being a celebrity has its downsides, but I can say, without hesitation, that they are not just like us.</span></div>whereswalderhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03947868970077803668noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-182668563917969484.post-82109780557287440852012-06-29T12:09:00.000-07:002012-06-29T12:09:37.575-07:00The Mental Patient<br />
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<span style="background-color: white; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">So, for anyone that knows me, I loooove my kids. They are what get me out of bed in the morning...</span><span style="background-color: white; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> </span><span style="background-color: white; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Literally.</span><span style="background-color: white; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Well, the fact that they wake me up before 7am, is not actually the part I love, but I look at their faces and often see what's right in the world in their eyes. </span><span style="background-color: white; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> </span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">That said, it can't be overlooked that I absolutely feel like my daily conversations with my 3 year old are similar to those you might have with mental patient. Now, before you start to judge me for calling my sweet, innocent boy a mental patient, let me present you with exhibit A:</span></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2SJFbaq9kxOn5Ax-te6fhRLEeLHiR5ZVPF0EHmtnHVLJ_flVNUtxD4pKglq8dGlb06YnOcpfue9mmY8HMfx2b7Mf0lGQiFfaNE4Dx6OTvf81g9t2HOvxqjHb9CHFftFh-0DRs6RlzRdh2/s1600/Tommy+Mental+Patient.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2SJFbaq9kxOn5Ax-te6fhRLEeLHiR5ZVPF0EHmtnHVLJ_flVNUtxD4pKglq8dGlb06YnOcpfue9mmY8HMfx2b7Mf0lGQiFfaNE4Dx6OTvf81g9t2HOvxqjHb9CHFftFh-0DRs6RlzRdh2/s320/Tommy+Mental+Patient.jpg" width="213" /></a></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Me: Tommy, what do you want for breakfast?</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">T: Roooooaar!!!</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Me: Okay Mr. Tiger, what do you want for breakfast?</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">T: I'm not a tiger, I'm a wolf soldier! (a Kung Fu Panda 2 reference, FYI)</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Now mind you, I'm probably still working on getting my coffee infused in my system, so I really just want to friggin' know what he wants for friggin' breakfast.</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Me: Got it. Sorry. Wolf Soldier, what do you want for breakfast?</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">T: I don't know. I'm thinking about it.</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">(I wait, assuming - a thing you should never do with a mental patient or a 3 year old apparently, see the similarity? - that an idea for breakfast will erupt forth.)</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Nothing.</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The good news is that this pause has allowed me to sip a little of my coffee. </span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Nothing. It's okay, we only have to be at camp in an hour.</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Nothing.</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Me: Okay, I'm making you cheese eggs.</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">T: Nooooooo! (then, tumbling into a crying, tantruming mess) I don't want cheese eggs!</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Me: Stop! Reset. (What? It works with my computer!) What do you want?</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">T: I don't want cheese eggs!</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Me: (In my best therapy voice) I hear that you don't want cheese eggs. What do you want?</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">T: I don't want cheese eggs!!! (Tears still)</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Me: (I get down in front of him and am now on my knees. I too am yelling) I won't make you eat cheese eggs! That's off the table! What do you want to eat?!? (since he's irrational apparently I'm going to be too)</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">T: I just don't want cheese eggs!!! (for god's sake! I'm not running a prison camp here.)</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I just stare silently at him willing him to stop whining. (a Jedi mind trick)</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">T: (quietly) I want cereal. </span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">It worked! I had channeled Yoda, and it worked. </span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Me: (in my best Yoda voice) Cereal you will have young Tom. </span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">T: huh?</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Me: never mind. </span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The truth is that cereal is a perfectly reasonable request. Its amazing we both had to get so worked up. </span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">T: (teary) Mom, I just don't want cheese eggs.</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Me: (not wanting to go backwards) Yes, I think I understand that.</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">T: I don't want cheese eggs. Not off the table either.</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Me: Got it. No cheese eggs. Not on the table, not off the table. (I feel like I'm in the Dr. Suess book "Green Eggs and Ham")</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Then, as if nothing has happened... He goes back to "guys" and returns to battle.</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">See what I mean? Mental patient. </span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Exhibit B:</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">We had a sitter over who is great, but I was trying to figure out If Tommy had broken something the other day or if my sitter had. </span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Me: Tommy, what happened here?</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">T: It broke</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Me: Yes, I see that. What happened?</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">T: I didn't do it.</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Me: Okay (I say breathing) What happened?</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">T: It broke. I think Carrie's mom did it.</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Me: Was Carrie's mom here? </span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">T: No.</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Mental Patient. </span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">These conversations are peppered with ones that make total sense, and I'm momentarily led to believe he's capable of adult reasoning. </span><span style="background-color: white; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Then, I'm shot back to reality when I see him walk by my bedroom door naked and talking to his penis.</span></div>whereswalderhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03947868970077803668noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-182668563917969484.post-58455609121567861792012-05-11T21:44:00.000-07:002012-05-11T21:44:52.857-07:00Waiting Room Angst<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTll-r4zMPD4s66duNY_oU_lHEoV4UMJ_PFyss2nodPpYXpNpJWixeNcQVRqSEj7s8kN-tJrwZ5BmuhR1l1yz6uDmwW5Jir7wZpzbiQS4c3k2hV9XIZSv-fdndckc60-MByvH_a6bfXIYs/s1600/istock-saturday.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="132" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTll-r4zMPD4s66duNY_oU_lHEoV4UMJ_PFyss2nodPpYXpNpJWixeNcQVRqSEj7s8kN-tJrwZ5BmuhR1l1yz6uDmwW5Jir7wZpzbiQS4c3k2hV9XIZSv-fdndckc60-MByvH_a6bfXIYs/s200/istock-saturday.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Now that I have two kids, theres really no excuse for a rookie move like going to the pediatrician for a regular check-up on a Saturday when you have other options during the week. That is a day designated for sick children and all the families who are unable to come on a weekday. And there are a lot of them. From both categories. And they are all in the waiting room. Playing and hacking all over the toys so generously displayed. I have the fortune of having a flexible job where I don't have to subject myself to the Saturday Horror Picture Show, and yet, I put this in my calendar willingly. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Now I know lots of people say this, but I'm really not a germaphobe in the least. My 8-month old crawls on a floor that is trafficked by a dog who gives a whole new meaning to shedding, a three-year old, and two adults. The other day I found her crawling to me with what looked like a mustache, but was actually a tumbleweed of dog hair from under the fridge in her mouth. (she's a quick little thing, don't judge me) Gross as this is, none of it had me investing in a Roomba and putting my daughter in a human hamster ball, but after my weekend jaunt to the pediatrician, I was really hoping to create a whole body antibacterial dip for my son. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Not only is it busy in general with your average petri dish of a pre-schooler, it's also smattered with people who simply wouldn't be there if it wasn't for their poor luck of a sickness hitting on the weekend. Therefore, when my son eagerly jumped into the pile of toys that I'm sure no one is rushing out to sanitize between strep, diarrhea, and stomach flu cases, I felt as though I was playing a very high stakes game of Russian roulette with his health. </span><br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhINpV7z-VPZR4EyioHVm5VHYsOTZl_Vc1tpXCJUhpsp2PJdKWCQi4m2lVe4dh5YqHwkzL4NYtQxBbVT1egZ7z64IX-hQwnTAdV9iNHe1237BuP7zqvaUoCtygRrzrEuIMnavAfto8xXSlw/s1600/mucinex.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="193" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhINpV7z-VPZR4EyioHVm5VHYsOTZl_Vc1tpXCJUhpsp2PJdKWCQi4m2lVe4dh5YqHwkzL4NYtQxBbVT1egZ7z64IX-hQwnTAdV9iNHe1237BuP7zqvaUoCtygRrzrEuIMnavAfto8xXSlw/s200/mucinex.jpg" width="200" /></a><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">You know those Mucinex commercials with the little green cartoon guys representing phlegm balls? I'm pretty sure they were running a casting call for them from this waiting room. </span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">We survived, but since then, every time we go to the doctor, Tommy asks to play in the playroom, and I flinch at the flashbacks of that Saturday as I pass him the iPad to play Angry Birds. The lesser of two evils, as I see it.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Bottom line, if you don't have to, avoid it like the plague. Literally.</span>whereswalderhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03947868970077803668noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-182668563917969484.post-217816343133055942012-03-28T20:13:00.000-07:002012-03-28T20:13:40.251-07:00I'm baa-ack!So, you may or may not have noticed that my last post involved a very pregnant me waddling my way through getting on a train with 3-year-old, stroller and coffee in tow. That was 7 1/2 months ago, I think. Time seems to have a very shapeless form at the moment.<br />
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The good news, I did have the baby - it would be a sad state of affairs if she was still gestating, however, I'm convinced that given the option, she might still be in there. 16 days late - yeah, you heard me. ...and she still had to be kicked out via induction (but that story is for another time). <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyxv-tnDPz2hSJ091dH7ranxtRutY66TEFGT5DRBoFTSWiBgpdcovGgc8LTiHre7-qeFaAbjjFRnKJ3XLdggWvc5HMRwDWnz7pnamgeN3yvIgIvCze-pUIil71tumpaCUbUyDaF_DhoSWv/s1600/Sleepy+Harper.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="161" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyxv-tnDPz2hSJ091dH7ranxtRutY66TEFGT5DRBoFTSWiBgpdcovGgc8LTiHre7-qeFaAbjjFRnKJ3XLdggWvc5HMRwDWnz7pnamgeN3yvIgIvCze-pUIil71tumpaCUbUyDaF_DhoSWv/s200/Sleepy+Harper.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">She was worth the wait.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>The bad news is that seems to be the last time I had time to myself. I definitely should have enjoyed the hospital stay a little more. We slept, we ordered food, they brought it to us, and, we watched TV. What more could a girl ask for?!?<br />
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Needless to say, there hasn't been a lot of time to blog about anything, especially about jump starting my creative juices. The only juices I've jump started lately have resulted in leak stains through my shirt at very inopportune moments. Being sleep deprived has me walking through my days like a zombie with a caffeine drip being the only thing to power me forward. <br />
<br />
When I started this blog, I really hadn't planned on this being a "mom" blog, because, quite frankly, there are so many good ones out there, like <a href="http://www.babysideburns.com/">this one</a> and <a href="http://www.becauseisaidso.com/">this one</a>. However, I'm truly in the thick of it. "It" being motherhood. Most of my life experiences lately seem to involve lack of sleep, spit up, or tantrums. Sad as that may be, I must write about what I know in order to have a prayer of getting to the stuff in my head that I actually want to write about. So, from here, I let the blog be what it will and see where it leads me. Kinda fun, right?whereswalderhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03947868970077803668noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-182668563917969484.post-26501911528870635442011-07-27T13:03:00.000-07:002011-07-27T13:03:04.554-07:00Coping mechanism down!<div class="p1" style="font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Helvetica; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">I know, it's been a while since you've heard from me, but let me share a recent train ride that made me feel the angst of being a mom... </span></div><div class="p1" style="font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Helvetica; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div class="p1" style="font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Helvetica; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">Since I've been pregnant, especially in the last few weeks, I admit, my coping mechanism has been less than stellar. I feel more like my mother on days like these. Being like my mom isn't a bad thing, by the way, it's just that she isn't very zen when things go awry (I think/hope she'd agree) nor am I. I long for the calm and in control look that I see in some moms that have two kids, eight bags and a coffee in their hands. They seem to cope with such steel resilience. I, apparently, do not have that. At least not at the moment. </span></div><div class="p1" style="font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Helvetica; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">Evidence is in Exhibit A:</span></div><div class="p2" style="font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Helvetica; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div class="p1" style="font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Helvetica; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">Here was the plan: Tommy would come downtown with me on the train while my husband went to an interview that would overlap an hour into my workday and then he could come pick Tommy up and all would be good. Simple enough, right? Easy peasy. </span></div><div class="p2" style="font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Helvetica; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div class="p1" style="font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Helvetica; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">Well, yes, that is until I remembered all the crap that comes along with making an almost 3 year old happy at the office. The trick was that in order for it to be there, I had to get it on the train. This would be easy if I was traveling with a boy who actually is as "big boy" as he claims. What I found out was that his motivation to be a big boy hasn't grown so big that it helps him conquer his fears. He's only a big boy until he has to do something hard. Then he's “just little” and has no shame in being carried. So, along with two bags, a stroller, his Thomas the train backpack, which he promised he'd carry by the way, we waited for the train to approach hand in hand.</span></div><div class="p2" style="font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Helvetica; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div class="p1" style="font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Helvetica; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">Our first attempt at the 8:51 was an epic fail. To really provide full disclosure, I was also attempting to carry a full coffee amongst my many bags and stroller which, in hindsight, was a bad idea. So, at 38 weeks pregnant, I got three bags, a stroller and coffee on my person like an alpaca headed out for a climb of Mount Everest when suddenly my son is "little" and needs to be carried onto the train as well. In my best “Im in charge” mom voice, I say no and hold his hand to walk up the stairs like a big boy. But I'd forgotten about the secret weapon that my son has at his disposal. The death scream. </span></div><div class="p1" style="font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Helvetica; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRmmKgZ8bvQKhgWaJngzuaaa3QoS3EjQ0OhFLM2SAc_RNgVUzVmggSeSKhIMGvWpErkCdOXUmzec1sVvb01lWvE4iaK6jTfzAxAIunwFm-qrUT1-wBdpg_1AZI1ryhJa1PrWw7Zjy8EG-1/s1600/Birthday+Scream.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRmmKgZ8bvQKhgWaJngzuaaa3QoS3EjQ0OhFLM2SAc_RNgVUzVmggSeSKhIMGvWpErkCdOXUmzec1sVvb01lWvE4iaK6jTfzAxAIunwFm-qrUT1-wBdpg_1AZI1ryhJa1PrWw7Zjy8EG-1/s320/Birthday+Scream.jpg" width="213" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The scream being used to get his cousin <br />
away from his cake on his birthday.<br />
No, I didn't teach him that maneuver...</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="p1" style="font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Helvetica; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">The death scream has a radius of about 1/2 a mile and can take down your average person in seconds. He pulled it out just as we started to get on the train causing even the person cozily wrapped in a car far up front look up and cringe. As well, this was a rush hour train and it was filled to the brim with people who were embracing the quiet of the train because they had happily left their children at home. It was then that I, cowardly, decided to abort the mission until the next, less crowded train came 30 minutes later. The relief on people's faces as the train eased away was audible. I, on the other hand, in response to my son's meltdown, decided to have my own on the phone to my unsuspecting husband. </span></div><div class="p2" style="font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Helvetica; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div class="p1" style="font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Helvetica; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">So, I turned around,head hung, with my son crying and yelling next to me, "you hurt me mama! You hurt me!" loud enough to summon DCFS. Yes, I had probably squeezed his hand too hard when I saw that getting on the train wasn't going to happen, and perhaps less than gently, guided him down to the bench that would harbor us for the next half hour. Judge me if you will. Don't worry, I'll willingly pay for it in therapy appointments down the road. In a true life ending fashion, I told my husband that we couldn't come downtown and this was a disaster of epic proportions. There was a silence on the phone of a man trying to find the right words, who truly realized that this had been a mistake to let his swollen bellied wife attempt, but she had insisted... unfortunately, there was no going back. He was already half way downtown for an interview for a very much needed job for our family. Now, he had to figure out how to make it better and cheerlead me through getting on the next train.</span></div><div class="p1" style="font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Helvetica; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">"I'm sorry about this babe. We really shouldn't have planned it this way. I'm sorry. Next train, ask the conductor for help and if he doesn't help, get his name and <strike>I'll beat him up</strike>, I'll have words with Metra. Seriously, promise me."</span></div><div class="p2" style="font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Helvetica; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div class="p1" style="font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Helvetica; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">I hung up vowing to to do that and sat in silence, tears flowing down my face, my kid leaning against me with tears drying on his face, and drinking a coffee in 95 degree heat, sweating like Blagojevich on sentencing day. Defeated. </span></div><div class="p2" style="font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Helvetica; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div class="p1" style="font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Helvetica; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">The beauty of me, if I do say so myself is that I can get really down on a situation in one moment and then really buck up in the next. I got five minutes of quiet from my son, finished my cup of coffee, and by the time the next train was approaching, I was determined to make this happen. I loaded my stroller and my computer case on one arm, the Thomas backpack (did I mention that he said he'd carry it) and the diaper bag on another and, this time, when my son balked at getting on the train, I heaved him up on top of my large belly and got on the train. It was much emptier than the previous one so we found a spot and hunkered down for the half hour ahead of us. I sent a text: "Made it on the train. Sorry for the panic. Good luck!" hoping this would make my earlier scene a little better. </span></div><div class="p2" style="font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Helvetica; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div class="p1" style="font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Helvetica; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I had conquered this episode of mommy-hood and felt pretty accomplished. I was one more step towards seasoned motherhood So, when we got to the station, I put Tommy in the stroller for our 95 degree walk to my office, and I was actually able to have a giggle about the fact that my pregnant thighs were rubbing together to a most uncomfortable beat.</span> </span></div>whereswalderhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03947868970077803668noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-182668563917969484.post-20765625055736228322010-09-08T15:42:00.000-07:002010-09-08T15:42:32.881-07:00Murder at 3514<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">One of my son's favorite stories is titled, "A Fly Went By". It's cute and involves a various amounts of animals as well. But, I have recently decided that flies are not funny, cute, or in any way, shape or form something a children's story or nursery rhyme should be written about. Flies have been more accurately depicted in the movie "The Fly" with Jeff Goldblum. Now that's the reality of a fly. They're gross.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">To be honest, I feel the same way about rats. I'm a huge Disney fan and will go see almost anything they put to film, but when I went to see "Ratatouille", I left the theater disappointed and realizing the truth --- Rats, especially in the hundreds, don't warm my heart, even when Disney has gotten a hold of them and makes them as human as possible. Once you've seen a rat run across an alley, scurry out of the way in a restaurant, or leave rat droppings behind in your apartment hallway, their humor ceases. <object height="385" width="640"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/c3sBBRxDAqk?fs=1&hl=en_US"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/c3sBBRxDAqk?fs=1&hl=en_US" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="640" height="385"></embed></object><br />
I say this for ants as well. Though clever, the movie "Antz" left me itching. Ants moving as a group, animated or otherwise, are just creepy. By the way, mice get a pass... don't know why, but those guys in "An American Tale" & "Stuart Little are just down right charming. I think Mickey Mouse really paved the way for the mouse. </div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">Okay, sorry, I digress. The fly. Not funny. Not cute. My feelings about this recently increased 10-fold.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">You see, the days following a recent party at my house, we have been overrun with flies in the windows. The buzzing alone is enough to make a woman lose her mind, but when I opened the blinds to find 15... that's right... FIFTEEN flies attached to my window, I actually lost time. I became a crazy murderer armed with a section of the newspaper. I had an out of body experience as I watched myself maniacally slam the window over and over screaming, "Die, you bastards! Die!"<br />
<br />
I'm a peaceful person. Really, I am. I like my husband to send spiders, moths and other things not welcome in my home, out the door to let their life unfold as it should naturally. We have a rabbit problem where they are eating our grass and garden like we were holding a dinner party for them, and still, I won't let my husband use anything toxic to deter them.<br />
<br />
So, you can imagine my distress when, once out of my hysteria and back safely in my own consciousness, I saw the remnants of my massacre lying on the floor below the dining room windows. <br />
<br />
There were bodies everywhere. <br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipRuEbi835Z46GXrCTB8VrAt5o3vVdidV-w93wiXIdc2RlClLR89Ssl3TWa-r5p1san2rjMtQu9J371V4fvSZ3jryw4I0XPIUs96TrfZ7tV4QW_INQ-fBD8DhAbLVAQKStXS65bOJcMHo8/s1600/dead+fly.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipRuEbi835Z46GXrCTB8VrAt5o3vVdidV-w93wiXIdc2RlClLR89Ssl3TWa-r5p1san2rjMtQu9J371V4fvSZ3jryw4I0XPIUs96TrfZ7tV4QW_INQ-fBD8DhAbLVAQKStXS65bOJcMHo8/s320/dead+fly.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>I know how many there were because I counted as I picked them up with a paper towel, and I'm almost sure I heard little tiny bagpipes playing "Amazing Grace" in the background.<br />
I half expected Horatio from CSI Miami to come in with his high tech equipment eying me as a primary suspect above his sunglasses.<br />
<br />
I cleaned them up worrying that Karma would come to haunt me sooner than I would like.<br />
<br />
Twenty minutes passed, and I had begun to recover from my temporary insanity, which I had decided to plea if Horatio actually did appear. Then, suddenly out of the corner of my eye, I heard a buzzing against the window. <br />
<br />
They were back. There were four of them! I put my husband on execution duty after that. They continued to reappear for the next three days as if out of nowhere. I was worried that Karma really was a bitch, so I Googled "Reappearing Flies". The answer I got was something to the extent of something dead in the wall that had grown maggots which turned into flies --- followed by "the good news" of once they had eaten the dead thing completely, the flies would disappear with nothing to feed on. <br />
<br />
Wow. I feel so much better.</div>whereswalderhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03947868970077803668noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-182668563917969484.post-25930693978094356012010-08-22T15:04:00.000-07:002010-08-22T15:04:12.578-07:00a 21st century problem<div>Today, I did the unthinkable. I forgot my cell phone at home! Gasp! <br />
<br />
You need to understand, I am of the age where I actually do remember when phones only had cords and in order to talk to a friend, you had to commit to that activity alone for the duration of your call. That is, unless you had known you were calling your best friend and pulled your laundry over to the phone area so you could fold and talk!</div><div><br />
</div><div>Now, I know I'm not the only person to realize the important role cell phones play in our lives on a day- to-day basis. I'm the first to admit that I have an unnatural relationship with my iPhone today. My parents are, no doubt, nodding their heads and rolling their eyes as they read this. <br />
<br />
I coveted my first cell phone, the Motorola Star-Tac Flip Phone (I am, most assuredly, dating myself) which was purchased for emergencies only.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgo7tgrjieramg1dUAEkUsbK2xXZYoQXjZVPB4ZYfyo96K6Nm5-OkCqkqrSU27Oi86fp-2bfP54jTE-5-lJQ4XA3nDjUPN-Q1-Z20mDoGlguD9zgXtqssthcjmTM1kMB_B_U9aZ8zCgpNxK/s1600/motorola-microtac-led-1_.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgo7tgrjieramg1dUAEkUsbK2xXZYoQXjZVPB4ZYfyo96K6Nm5-OkCqkqrSU27Oi86fp-2bfP54jTE-5-lJQ4XA3nDjUPN-Q1-Z20mDoGlguD9zgXtqssthcjmTM1kMB_B_U9aZ8zCgpNxK/s320/motorola-microtac-led-1_.jpg" /></a></div><br />
<br />
It stayed in my car, turned off, because the battery life was about 3 minutes if left on, but I loved it. I then, went through a phone progression that went with the times, with an interim of pager and cell phone so you didn't run your bill up too high. My move to LA took my cell phone addiction to a new high. It seems that those of us in LA had propelled to a level of cell phone use that bordered on rude. (Again, do you hear my dad nodding?) We all talked on the phone anywhere, anyhow, anytime. It didn't help that we all had our own cars everywhere we went even though we were all going the same place -- very Swingers! <br />
<br />
Recently, a little late to the game, I got my iPhone. 3G, no video capabilities, but awesome! When I first got it, you would have thought Gollum from Lord of the Rings had taken over my body. No one could touch it, hold it, look at it or, god forbid, play with it. It was "my Precious". I have since loosened up and let my 2-year old play apps that I've downloaded for him. It seems that I have been served many cups of the Apple brand cool-aid. I not only love my iPhone, but my husband would tell you that I'm having a sordid affair with my MacBook Pro, and I have spent the past several months trying to conjure up a logical need for the iPad. (I'm almost there ;) When I saw this clip, I laughed so hard because, unfortunately, I see myself in it. If you're offended by swearing or don't know what an iPhone is, feel free to skip this:<br />
<br />
<object height="385" width="480"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/FL7yD-0pqZg?fs=1&hl=en_US"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/FL7yD-0pqZg?fs=1&hl=en_US" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="480" height="385"></embed></object></div><div><br />
</div>But I digress... I really started this post to tell you about my "incident". So, I headed out to my dad and step-mom's house yesterday to pick up my son who they had been babysitting for all day. Love it! It is about an 7 minute ride from my door to theirs, even in traffic. As I got on the road, I realized that I had forgotten my precious iPhone.<br />
<br />
As you can imagine, I struggled with the dilemma of possibly turning around to go get it, but that was silly... it would be safely in my hands in 20 minutes. I couldn't possibly be that dependent on my iPhone. I then continued on my journey to my Dad's feeling proud that I made the choice and telling myself, "See, I'm not that addicted, I can stop any time." <br />
<br />
At about 1 minute in, I realized that I had gone to check my phone for new emails for a 5th time and still did not have it in my car. I began to get a little irritated at my choice not to go back. I was expecting some important email responses, not to mention a text from a colleague of mine.<br />
<br />
At 3 minutes in, I turn up the radio to distract myself from the fact that all I'm able to do in the car at a stoplight is wait and drive when it's green.<br />
<br />
At 5 minutes, a panic attack sets in because I realize that I can't call my husband to let him know that I forgot my phone at home and think he may not be able to reach in an emergency.... Speaking of emergencies, what if my step-mom is trying to get to me because Tommy has fallen down the stairs and they need to go to the ER right this minute... <br />
<br />
At minute 6, I have completely spun out of mind control because I begin to think... what if I were to get into an accident and the injuries were such that I wasn't conscious and they need to figure out who to call after the ambulance, but I don't have any phone numbers in my purse, they're all in my phone so no one knows where I am for several hours...<br />
<br />
Minute 7 hits and I'm approaching my Dad's street and I think... see! that wasn't so bad. I actually had some time in the car with nothing to do but think and decompress. This was kind of nice not having my phone with me. I certainly came up with a blog post. I should try this more often!<br />
<div><br />
</div><div>...and then I had the ride home...<br />
<br />
<br />
</div><div><div><br />
</div></div>whereswalderhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03947868970077803668noreply@blogger.com0