We leave on Saturday morning for my mother's annual Easter celebration.  We would leave earlier, but that would mean witnessing the chaos that is my mother preparing for the Easter celebration.

She begins months in advance, cleaning sections of the house, baking complicated things "from scratch," cooking scary-sounding things like "hamballs."  All of this must be done in preparation for the twenty-plus family members, family members' girlfriends and boyfriends (the young people are all married - it's the grandparents that are dating) and other hangers-on and stragglers that she invariably invites and next to whom I have to sit.

I feel for her.  Really, I do.  The time I hosted Thanksgiving for about half of my beloved's huge family plus my parents, I thought I was going to die from the stress.  Of course, then I was newly married and the stove broke.

However, I also think she's a victim of her own perfectionism.  Hell, at the little angel's first birthday party, I hosted more people than at my own wedding.  But I didn't try as hard as my mother does.

My mother's Easters are something to behold.  There are special treats for the kids.  An Easter-egg hunt.  Homemade goodies galore.  Special plates.  Special decorations.  A sparkling house.  Tablecloths. 

In other words, stuff that I would never do.

I feel for her, I do.  She throws a hell of a party.  And for the last two years, she's thrown in a birthday party for the little angel on top of all this.  But it does make her cackling, stress-induced, don't-you-dare-show-up-on-Friday-night batshit.  Because that is what trying to be the perfect mother will do to you. Beware, Grasshopper.

Sorry, Ma.  I had to do it.

I've read that all toddlers go through stages when they prefer one parent or the other.  I am the Chosen One right now for the little angel.

The other night, she woke up crying with The Poopy.  I sent my beloved in, since I had done night duty for the past several nights. 

The little angel, she was not having this strange blond man from whose loins sprang the seed that would become Somebody Little.  She ran away from him, or at least, she ran the five steps across her Very Small Bedroom.  She clung to the footstool at the base of the rocking chair, screaming for me to save her from the kindly stranger who offered to put her back in her bed.

"MOOOMMMMY!" she cried, as though the Elmo had been shot at point-blank range by an insomniac, trumpet-playing Ernie.

I gave in, as I do so many nights, because me?  I just want to sleep.  Tax season is wearing me down, friends.

In the purple light of morning, they are always friends again.  She usually only loves me best when it's dark out.  Perhaps she remembers the comfort of my womb.  Perhaps she just does it to make him feel like The Most Useless Piece of Shit Ever.  Which is how he feels.

Plus, there is this little, evil part of me that LOVES being the preferred one.  LOVES being the apple of her shiny blue eyes.  LOVES that, as they should, mommies sometimes win.

 

This afternoon, I left work a bit early, ran home to change, and jogged over to pick her up in the stroller.  We had a lovely time on our way back.  She wanted to play in the SandBacchus (the god of wine and sandiness).  As she stuck out all of her piggies, including the one that wanted to go wee-wee-wee all the way home, she allowed me to help her remove her Mary Jane tennis shoes.  My beloved, who I swear engineered the death of our twenty-five year-old, hand-me-down lawnmower, had gone to get more gas for it so that he could make that one last pathetic effort to start it that would convince me to let him buy some Cadillac of Lawns. 

As he pulled out of the driveway to go fetch more foreign oil, the little angel looked up from her digging in the pristine play sand. 

"Bye-bye, Daddy!"  she trilled cheerfully, waving her purple shovel.  "See you next weekend!"

I've read that all toddlers go through stages when they prefer one parent or the other.  I am the Chosen One right now for the little angel.

The other night, she woke up crying with The Poopy.  I sent my beloved in, since I had done night duty for the past several nights. 

The little angel, she was not having this strange blond man from whose loins sprang the seed that would become Somebody Little.  She ran away from him, or at least, she ran the five steps across her Very Small Bedroom.  She clung to the footstool at the base of the rocking chair, screaming for me to save her from the kindly stranger who offered to put her back in her bed.

"MOOOMMMMY!" she cried, as though the Elmo had been shot at point-blank range by an insomniac, trumpet-playing Ernie.

I gave in, as I do so many nights, because me?  I just want to sleep.  Tax season is wearing me down, friends.

In the purple light of morning, they are always friends again.  She usually only loves me best when it's dark out.  Perhaps she remembers the comfort of my womb.  Perhaps she just does it to make him feel like The Most Useless Piece of Shit Ever.  Which is how he feels.

Plus, there is this little, evil part of me that LOVES being the preferred one.  LOVES being the apple of her shiny blue eyes.  LOVES that, as they should, mommies sometimes win.

 

This afternoon, I left work a bit early, ran home to change, and jogged over to pick her up in the stroller.  We had a lovely time on our way back.  She wanted to play in the SandBacchus (the god of wine and sandiness).  As she stuck out all of her piggies, including the one that wanted to go wee-wee-wee all the way home, she allowed me to help her remove her Mary Jane tennis shoes.  My beloved, who I swear engineered the death of our twenty-five year-old, hand-me-down lawnmower, had gone to get more gas for it so that he could make that one last pathetic effort to start it that would convince me to let him buy some Cadillac of Lawns. 

As he pulled out of the driveway to go fetch more foreign oil, the little angel looked up from her digging in the pristine play sand. 

"Bye-bye, Daddy!"  she trilled cheerfully, waving her purple shovel.  "See you next weekend!"

Toddler High (otherwise known as the two-year-old room at the Emerald City) is doing WONDERS for the Blog That Never Sleeps.  The little angel has slept until 6:30 in the morning three nights in a row.

It is a minor miracle.

I'm not sure what they are doing in there. I do know that the school is sponsoring a jog-a-thon to raise money later this month. I am a bad mommy. I actually garnered some pledges but then completely forgot to turn in the sheet.  I may try to sneak it in late, but then again I may not, considering that my offering for the March auction actually sold, unlike one hundred other useless items donated by parents who are even bigger losers than I.  I wonder about toddlers (and even waddlers!) doing a jog-a-thon. I picture them warming up in their infant Adidas, doing deep knee bends and squats, pushing their muscles to the very brink.  Oh, wait, that's walking across the room when you are a year old.  WTF??  They start 'em young, folks.  They start 'em young.

Even if she's not doing a few practice laps around the playground, she must be doing something to be so tired.  And I love them for it!  Because then I do not have to make her do laps with me around the block so that she will be tired enough to Sleep! All! Night!  Maybe I can even do my OWN excercise, which does not involve walking only slightly faster than a caterpillar down the sidewalk, pausing every time one sees a dandelion.

Me, sleep AND exercise in the same week?  What's next?  Television?

It seems these days that some things aren't coming out of some people that should be and some things are coming out of other people that shouldn't.

For those of you that were concerned, the little angel both joined Toddler High full-time yesterday (farewell, Waddler B) and pooped TWICE.  Rock on.  You've got to love a daycare that, when you tell them your child is constipated, puts little smiley faces next to the circled letters "BM."  Ah, parenthood.

So anyway, I've got my own problems.  I called my OB-GYN yesterday to tell them about an unexpected event that happened a week early.  It sort of happened last month, too. I've suspected for a while that my birth control pills really don't work, but I'm loathe to change them because I hate the side effects of a new Pill.  The bloatedness, the tiredness - any little hormonal change wreaks major havoc on me, and I'm too damn busy to deal with it. I know - how irresponsible, especially considering that I don't want any more children.  So anyway, I wasn't too concerned about the whole thing until I mentioned this to two of my girlfriends/co-workers during a discussion of B's allergic reaction to Gain Hawaii Scent or something like that.  They thought I should call my doctor.  This was not really the "hell's bells, everything's normal" reaction I was hoping for.

I called my doctor.  The nurse called me back, told me nothing, then called me back again.

Nurse: (not Nurse Ratched - she works for the Judgmental Pediatrician, whom I fired last year) "The doctor wants you to call back when you're on your first day on the sugar pills and schedule a sonogram."

Me:  "A sonogram?  Why?  I'm not pregnant."

Nurse:  "He wants to look at your uterus." (implied:  You dumbass.)

Me:  "I understand.  Why does he want to look at my uterus?"

Nurse:  "Because you've been on the birth control pill for eighteen years without break-throughs, and because of your age."

Me:  "My age?  Am I old or young?"

She laughed.  I was genuinely confused.  I'm thirty-two.  I know they consider anyone over thirty to be "old" and anyone over thirty-five to be "ancient" in the OB's world, but in my head, I am still a pretty young thang of eighteen. 

The knowledge that "because of your age" might mean "because you are old and your ovaries may very well be drying up like raisins" was a little daunting and put a check on an otherwise sunny day.

I called my mother to see how old she was when she had HER uterus REMOVED. 

Ma:  "Why are you asking?"

Me: "Because I'm older than you were when you were done having children."

Ma:  "No, you're not. I was like THIRTY-TWO when I had your sister."

Me:  "MA, I'M THIRTY-TWO."

Ma:  "You are?"

Ugh.

So am I young or old?  And what is wrong with my uterus?  And do I care? Gah.

Childhood constipation.

Yes, this post is about constipation.  You might want to just stop reading now.  It's not going to be for the faint of heart.

The little angel's favorite foods are, in order:  mac & cheese, milk, yogurt and bananas.  See a pattern here?  She also eats a lot of fiber, but it seems that her favorite foods are interfering with her digestive tract.

It just started a few months ago.  She would cry, and stare pathetically off into the distance as she grunt, grunt, grunted.  Then she would look at me with crocodile tears streaming down her face and utter one word:  "Poopy."

My best friend's mother once told me (when she witnessed one of these spells) that I should help her.  At the time, I was all "no way am I doing that.  NO WAY."  Then about two weeks ago, I had to do it.  She was so uncomfortable.  She was doing everything right, and alas, it was just not working.  I laid her down on the changing table to check for progress.

I saw it crown.

I thought NO.  There is NO WAY that I am doing it.

Then you know - I did.  I helped.  It was sort of like pulling baseball-sized modeling clay out of an eel.  It was the most disgusting and loving thing I have ever done in my entire life.  I was so grossed out that only watching my best friend pick up a decomposed mouse with a baggie when I was three months pregnant and very sick beats it out for Most Disgusting Event Ever.  But I did it, because I. Am. Her. Mother.  And this is the sort of thing that only a mother will do.

Last Tuesday, one of my students broke off in the middle of a group project to tell me about her three-year-old who had an X-ray to reveal an abdomen black with withheld waste.  I have no idea why she chose that time or me in general with whom to share this little tidbit, but it scarred me to the point that at the little angel's two-year appointment with the Benevolent Pediatrician, I inquired into whether or not they make Baby Metamucil.

Turns out, of course they do!

We bought some of this disgusting, brown Little Tummies stuff, and today, after a day and a half of No Poopy, I gave her the smallest amount.  The bottle said there would be lift-off in six to twelve hours.

I gave it to her at one when she woke up from her nap. It is now ten p.m.  No poopy yet.

I'm scared.  She ate beans, peas and peaches for dinner.

Scaaaaarreeed.  But hoping for poopy.

Childhood constipation.

Yes, this post is about constipation.  You might want to just stop reading now.  It's not going to be for the faint of heart.

The little angel's favorite foods are, in order:  mac & cheese, milk, yogurt and bananas.  See a pattern here?  She also eats a lot of fiber, but it seems that her favorite foods are interfering with her digestive tract.

It just started a few months ago.  She would cry, and stare pathetically off into the distance as she grunt, grunt, grunted.  Then she would look at me with crocodile tears streaming down her face and utter one word:  "Poopy."

My best friend's mother once told me (when she witnessed one of these spells) that I should help her.  At the time, I was all "no way am I doing that.  NO WAY."  Then about two weeks ago, I had to do it.  She was so uncomfortable.  She was doing everything right, and alas, it was just not working.  I laid her down on the changing table to check for progress.

I saw it crown.

I thought NO.  There is NO WAY that I am doing it.

Then you know - I did.  I helped.  It was sort of like pulling baseball-sized modeling clay out of an eel.  It was the most disgusting and loving thing I have ever done in my entire life.  I was so grossed out that only watching my best friend pick up a decomposed mouse with a baggie when I was three months pregnant and very sick beats it out for Most Disgusting Event Ever.  But I did it, because I. Am. Her. Mother.  And this is the sort of thing that only a mother will do.

Last Tuesday, one of my students broke off in the middle of a group project to tell me about her three-year-old who had an X-ray to reveal an abdomen black with withheld waste.  I have no idea why she chose that time or me in general with whom to share this little tidbit, but it scarred me to the point that at the little angel's two-year appointment with the Benevolent Pediatrician, I inquired into whether or not they make Baby Metamucil.

Turns out, of course they do!

We bought some of this disgusting, brown Little Tummies stuff, and today, after a day and a half of No Poopy, I gave her the smallest amount.  The bottle said there would be lift-off in six to twelve hours.

I gave it to her at one when she woke up from her nap. It is now ten p.m.  No poopy yet.

I'm scared.  She ate beans, peas and peaches for dinner.

Scaaaaarreeed.  But hoping for poopy.

On Tuesday night, my class got into a post-break discussion of labor.  The representative students were almost all female, and two of the students have four children.  One of my students is seven months pregnant.  Somehow we started talking about Britney Spears and her non-necessary but scheduled C-section.  I mentioned a discussion I'd heard on the radio about the new trend in scheduling births even for those women not requiring a C-section for medical reasons.  I quickly regretted the decision to mention it.

The pregnant woman, who earlier during a group project had approached me on the subject of her son's constipation, started talking about how happy she'd been to have a C-section with her first son.  Another student, who has a three-year-old, launched into her horror story of twenty hours of pushing.  I tried to bring the conversation back around to grammar.

Me:  "Okay, poor K. (one of the lone men, and the only heterosexual man in the room) looks like he's about to jump out the window.  Let's talk about grammar."

K:  "No, I'm down with the C-sections."

Me:  "Really?  Why?"

K:  "No pushing, no 'fuck you,' just two beautiful babies."

Well, there you go.

Thursday is the little angel's second birthday.  The past two years have changed me more than the thirty that came before them.

Today I thought for a few hours that the little angel had beaten up one of her Waddler B friends.  It was a case of mistaken identity.  When J's mother told me that she thought the little angel had been the one to attack him and scratch his face so much that it swelled, I almost threw up on my keyboard.  I found myself in tears in front of six co-workers over it.  I think I was in pain not because I thought she had struck out at another child - she's two, after all - but because I thought she had done it unprovoked.  I thought perhaps she was harboring some anxiety of which I was unaware.  I thought maybe it was connected to me going back to an office and giving up an hour and a half of the time we spent together each day, an act that was not entirely my choice.

At lunch my friend B. pointed out we were both born under the sign of Aquarius.  I pointed out that that made sense, not because I put any faith in horoscopes - I am the great-granddaughter of a Lutheran minister, after all - but because the water sign is traditionally thought to be torn between the yearning for creative expression and the practicality of needing to provide a good living, the awareness of the reality of it all.  B. is a talented artist.  I am a struggling writer.  But he has a wife who has had medical problems, to the extent that she had to rebuild her whole life and identity, and I have over-analyzed my role as provider and mother to the point where sometimes I can barely breathe under the responsibility of it all.

Tonight as I waited SIX MINUTES TILL NIGHT-NIGHT four times, I watched the little angel toss and turn in her little Carter's short set, thinking how incredibly insane it was that I had grown her in my innards for ten months and successfully pushed her out into the world, for better or for worse.  The world may be a terrible and beautiful place, a sublime place, in every sense of the world, but I think it is a better place because she is in it. 

She is a beautiful, loving person, already at two.  She is my finest work.

Happy birthday, little angel.