Being a mom and having control. Not. Ever.

Control.
Janet Jackson sang about it.
Kids are struggling to get it.
And, dammit, in my own house, I thought I would have it.

mwahahahahahah!

In truth, the thing that I've given up the most since having kids is control.




1. I never knew sleep was optional.
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.

2. Then there's eating. Or not eating.
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.
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.
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."
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.
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...

3. The battle of getting dressed.

The bandaid on her chin is
purely cosmetic

I want her to wear clothes. She does not.
I want him to wear underwear to kindergarten. He does not.
I want her to pick an outfit that doesn't make her look like she's on the show "Toddlers and Tiaras". She is clearly hoping to qualify.
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. 
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 let me get them dressed.

Control.

This struggle for control can make me feel so powerless and frustrated, but I am able to see it for what it is. 
For a while. 
I mean, I'm the parent, right? I'm the adult, right? They are so little and their brains are just beginning to develop. 
I know this. 
I'm a rational human being.

Until...

I've been patient. 
It's the end of the day. 
We have been battle picking...
All. Day. Long.
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.

We are almost there when my son says, "You pick the story tonight, Mom."
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!

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.
Just as I'm about to sit down...

"I don't want to read that one."
oh no

"But you told me to pick the story tonight."
"I didn't know you'd pick that one."
"Yes, but you asked me to pick and so I did. Now this is what we are going to read"
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 don't want to!"
"We are reading this book. It's a good book. I've read it a thousand times to you. Now lay down!"
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!"

"Noooooooo! I'm not listening!" 
The tears begin. His. Not mine. ... Yet

"Fine! I will sit here and read this book to you. You can listen or not."
I begin, and as I do, he covers his ears and starts ranting to himself.

(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)
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. 

"That's it! I'm done. Pick a book. Read it to yourself, and I'm going to put your sister down!"
Which certainly will go well, right? I'm in a great mental place for it.

"Noooooooo!!!!!! Mommy! I want you to read me a book!"
What??? Seriously?  
Oh yeah, it's all about control.

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. 

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.
Sometimes I have to go in a couple times.

Do you feel the battle of control in your house?

Conversations with the kids 1

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.)

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 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.
For instance, the other day:

"Mom, do you think huge robots are real?"  

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." 

It's then that I start dreaming about my rocket scientist at NASA, and how he might change the world. 
I will have created that. 
I swell with pride.

He replies, "Well, I only want to go if you can come too."

Awww. Right? 

Then I start to wonder what NASA camp costs. 
Should we move to Florida to support his dreams? 
I'm not really psyched about living in FL, but for him...
--- wait a minute!!!!  
No one, as this point, is going to robot camp... if there even is such a thing.
You see how quickly I get sucked in???

Then - "Mom, if I become a Ninja Turtle, do you think I will need to live in the sewers?"

I decide it's a little premature to move to Florida.
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There's also the constant and mind-numbing debate about the all-consuming "screen time". 
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? 
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. 

"Mom, can I have one more show to watch?"
" no, you already watched an hour long movie."
"Just one tiny one?" 

(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.)

"No sweetie."
"Pleeeease!  Just this many short?" 

(He holds up three fingers - again an inaccurate unit of measurement to use, but lets not mess with the details)

"No, and please don't ask me again."
"Mom, if you let me watch one more show, I'll eat my dinner, and go to school."

His negotiation style, while good, needs some improvement in the counter-offer.

I think, "Wait! Maybe he'll be in merger and acquisitions!"
_________________________________________________________________________________

With my three-year old, the conversations get pretty basic, but in no way less insane!

"Harper, please get your hands out of your vagina."
"Yeah, Harper," says her brother, "you can get it sick that way!"

Maybe he'll be a doctor?

"My hands weren't in my vagina, they were in my butt."

Oh good, that's much better.

"Well, the poop can make you sick."
"No, not IN my butt. On the bump!"

Semantics.
________________________________________________________________________________

Have you gotten sucked into a conversation this week with your little lunatics?
Please say yes. 

The mental state of a mom of a toddler

Hey, I'm not saying I'm over 40.

Not that there's anything wrong with being over 40.

Some of my best friends are over 40.

But, hypothetically, could an over 40 year old go through a midlife crisis?
And if so, it's possible that I am "my friend" is definitely going through one.

WTF??? This is where that would apply.

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".

By the way, thank you to the gynecological society for coining those terms of support.




I mean, having my kids towards the end of my 30's was great because:

• 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.
• I'd done so much therapy that I'd run out of material. 
• 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.)
• I'm such a believer in therapy, it was time to groom the next generation to perpetuate the industry.
• 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.)

But it hasn't all been a bed of roses:

• 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.)
• 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".
• 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.

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.

Ouch!

Any opinions on whether it easier to me an older mom or a younger one?

Welcome to Groundhog Day

When 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,

"So, welcome to Groundhog Day!"

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.

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.

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.

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.)

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.

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.

I've never learned and changed from my behavior more than I do for my kids.

I've never wanted to be a better person more in my life than I do each day for my kids.

Things 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.

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.

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.

"Honey, please don't touch your brother's penis." 

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.

"Stop eating off the bottom of your boot!"

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!

"Don't eat your boogers! The bugs in your nose will bite your fingers!"

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.

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.

"Did you poop? Let me smell your butt."

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.

"We only poop in the potty, not in the bathtub!"

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 this scene played in my head.

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.

Fellow parents, care to chime in with things you've said recently that you never thought you would? Let's hear 'em!

I 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.

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. 

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.

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.  

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."

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.  

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!  

I called 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.

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:

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!

Turns out, I do pretty well with animals and humans.  I'm still lacking in the plant department.  

Cukoo 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!)

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.

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.

Here's what I learned about this tour de force :

Auntie Mame

• She had style and grace coming out of her pores...
• ...but she knew how to shoot water through her teeth to get someone's attention at a party.
• She wasn't always handed an easy deck, but she carried heavy burdens with class.
• Kay married "the one that got away" (her high school sweetheart) 45 years after he asked her to marry him the first and second time.
• 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.
• Her children's friends referred to her as "Auntie Mame".
• 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.
• Often, when asked how she was doing, esp. later in life, she'd reply, "Cukoo as ever!"

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.