In Which the Emerald City Persuades Me to Send Extra Clothes
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When I arrived at the Emerald City last night to pick up the little angel, I took one look at her and thought she was wearing a costume:  red and white gingham pantaloons and a red, Peter-Pan-collared tent with flowers and more of the horrid gingham.  This with her tennis shoes. 

I found out that this is what happens when you don't send extra clothes to daycare.  I've known for a while she was out of extra clothes, but since she rarely has accidents anymore (she's still in diapers), I didn't really worry about it too much. Obviously, they sensed this in me.  They could smell my apathy. And they struck back.

When we arrived home, my beloved was sitting outside, ready to go to the park.  I called him over and told him he needed to go back inside for extra clothes.  "Why?" he said, exasperated.  I pointed him to the backseat. At this point, the little angel had added hot-pink Dora the Explorer sunglasses and a Cubs hat.  He drew back in horror.

"What is THAT?" he said.

"That is what revenge looks like."  He went back in for more clothes.

Today she went to daycare with three extra outfits. 

Parenting Comments
Ponies: A Love Affair
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I was one of those horse girls.  I saved my money every year to go to Bar-L Ranch in Iowa, a magic place where I got to take care of a horse every day for a week - brushing, saddling, bridling, riding - ah, it was bliss.  I went every year for five years, from the time I was about eight until my parents finally gave in to my wheedling and begging and convinced my grandfather to let us use the empty pasture between our houses to put up an aging but lovable Quarter Horse named Cutter.

Before I could get the horse, I had to help my father build a fence.  This took an entire summer, and involved a post digger, a lot of wire and considerable lost time at the swimming pool.  After we built the fence, I tore up sheets and tied pieces of them to all of those wires so my new friend would not run right into them while gallivanting in the dirt. 

Cutter lived in a converted hog shed.  I covered the concrete floors with straw so they would feel softer and lovingly removed all the dirty straw each and every day after school.  My parents told me if I stopped taking care of Cutter, he would be gone, and it happened three years after I got him.  I'd joined cheerleading in high school and was no longer making it home in time to feed Cutter after school.  It was my first experience with knowing something is best but still hating every minute of it.  I knew I couldn't take care of Cutter anymore, and I knew he deserved to be with a little girl who would take care of him, but I was sad to grow up and realize it wouldn't be me anymore.

I rode Cutter bareback for a long time.  I wish I'd had a friend closer who could go riding with me, because it was kind of lonely riding him around by myself through the fields.  I admit I was a wee bit afraid sometimes when he would get feisty and want to gallop.  After all, I'd learned to ride at a camp where the horses had to be coerced to move at all, and neither my mother nor my father rode. I was never really quite sure what I was doing, but I felt it was important to fake it well enough that people would let me do what I wanted.  I still do this.  It's called "parenting" now.

I loved that horse.  I love all horses. I love them with the gusto of a little girl.  So yesterday, when I saw there were ponies - PONIES!!! - at the Prairie Village Fourth of July festival, I knew the little angel had to have a ride. She had to have a ride because I had to get to touch those lovely, lovely ponies. 

I talked them up quite a bit as we stood in line, sweating.  I saw a lot of other kids getting freaked at the last minute, and this could not happen.  She'd been riding the mechanical horse at Hy-Vee since birth, and fortunately the saddles on the ponies looked just like the one on the horse.  When we got up to the ponies, she hopped up and grabbed the saddle horn like she was ready to herd sheep, not one bit afraid.  As we walked around and around, she waved to my beloved, petted the pony's mane and laughed.  I don't think I've ever been as proud of her as I was when she was on that pony, so brave for a two-year-old.  That's my girl. 

Parenting Comments
A Time and a Place for Self-Censorship
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All the world is not your blog.

I've been learning that one the hard way, again. 

When I was in my first two jobs in the world of public relations, I was often coached to keep my extroverted mouth shut.  My second boss, in fact, gave me a wicked review in which my work was praised but my personality was not.  I was deemed a tad too "exuberant" for the firm.  I left a few months later to no one's surprise.

As I started progressing through various different jobs, though, I began to be rewarded for my outspoken ways and hyper-vigilant observations.  I notice obscure details, something that often surprises my friends and family.  I notice details of people's appearance, and this often freaks them out if I mention it.  I don't usually judge most of the things I notice, but I can't help but note them.  This technique was emphasized in my graduate writing program, as my teachers deigned it highly important to note every specific detail about a person or place before the writer was allowed to pick up a pencil.  My fiction professor told me if I didn't know what a character had for breakfast that morning, he or she wasn't ready to make it into the story.  My magazine writing professor told me if I didn't know the color of the house in which the story's subject lived, I couldn't begin.

The fact that I notice this stuff and consequently analyze it has brought about anxiety in my life.  It's made me hypercritical of myself as a mother, because I notice so many details about other mothers and their children, things I am not doing.  It's made me better as a manager, because I do tend to pick up on nonverbal cues and tacit messages and then can address them in what I hope is a helpful way.  It's probably also made me more difficult to deal with as a co-worker, though, because when I notice something that seems to be making other people uncomfortable, I point it out.

This past week I learned that while my blog is a great place for observation and discussion, sometimes work is not.  Sometimes it's better to keep your mouth shut, particularly when your observations may bother other people.  The blog forum may have freed me to the point that I forgot this basic rule of coworkerdom.  Just because something is not going as I see best does not mean I need to note that verbally, a painful rule for me to accept, though a pretty normal one for civilized society, all the same. I don't think anything I said was harmful, per se, but perhaps unnecessary to my particular role in the company.  I said what I said in the spirit of improvement, but again, not in an area that was my job to improve.

Self-censorship.  God, I hate it.

When I told my beloved what happened, he said, "I know this is going to be hard for you, because you like to participate, but you should probably just be quiet."  An interesting point,that I like to participate.  I do.  I was that annoying kid in class that couldn't shut up during class discussion. I remember making rules for myself in college, that I would only speak three times in class. I didn't want the other kids to think I was a dork (which they probably did anyway).  Some writers are very quiet in person.  Not me.  My shut-off valve for observation doesn't seem to work very well, and I'm like a slow-draining bathtub in that once I see something, it's hard for me to just let it be sucked down the tubes.

Blogging has made me a better writer, but also probably a more difficult person.  The forum has released me to be honest about a lot of things I used to keep inside or only discuss with my closest friends and family members. In that way, I HAVE been able to let a lot of insecurities and drivel just slide away down the tubes.  It's been a wonderful release.  Unfortunately, though, the side effect is that I want that release in my offline world, and sometimes it's just not appropriate.  All the world is not a blog.

Eating Through the Ages

The little angel loves to eat.  Some toddlers refuse to eat - not my girl.  She's never turned down a meal.  When she was a wee mite, I worried about her, because she was a robust baby.  So robust, in fact, that complete strangers would stop me on the street to tell me how fat my baby was.  I heard someone doing this to another mother on an airplane when we went to Chicago last weekend, and it was all I could do not to hold the old woman down and beat her with a wet noodle in the name of fat-baby mamas everywhere.

Anyway.  My little angel slimmed down perfectly, just as everyone assured me she would.  I personally think she's the best-looking kid out there, but I do understand that I am blinded by the same God who tells me my sock drawer is organized enough.

And now...a montage.  Please ignore my bad HTML - I am too weary to try to fix it anymore.


The little angel on her due date - she was a week early.

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Hey, bitches!  What is with all the pink?


In this photo, she's about two months and nursing a wicked hangover.

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Here, we skip ahead to when people really started to make the nasty comments.

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What.  WHAT?


But despite her food efficiency, she was still the world's most perfect child.

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How can you resist my drooling perfection?  Give me another bear.


She learned to walk and discovered high fashion.

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I am too sexy for this hat.


And driving.

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Get out of my grill.


And though she still loves to eat, she's now quite svelte, and still...perfect.

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Take that, stupid Grocery Store Lady. 

Parenting Comments
Eating Through the Ages

The little angel loves to eat.  Some toddlers refuse to eat - not my girl.  She's never turned down a meal.  When she was a wee mite, I worried about her, because she was a robust baby.  So robust, in fact, that complete strangers would stop me on the street to tell me how fat my baby was.  I heard someone doing this to another mother on an airplane when we went to Chicago last weekend, and it was all I could do not to hold the old woman down and beat her with a wet noodle in the name of fat-baby mamas everywhere.

Anyway.  My little angel slimmed down perfectly, just as everyone assured me she would.  I personally think she's the best-looking kid out there, but I do understand that I am blinded by the same God who tells me my sock drawer is organized enough.

And now...a montage.  Please ignore my bad HTML - I am too weary to try to fix it anymore.


The little angel on her due date - she was a week early.

Img_0049


Hey, bitches!  What is with all the pink?


In this photo, she's about two months and nursing a wicked hangover.

Img_0189


Here, we skip ahead to when people really started to make the nasty comments.

Img_0596

What.  WHAT?


But despite her food efficiency, she was still the world's most perfect child.

Img_0765

How can you resist my drooling perfection?  Give me another bear.


She learned to walk and discovered high fashion.

August0022

I am too sexy for this hat.


And driving.

Img_1217

Get out of my grill.


And though she still loves to eat, she's now quite svelte, and still...perfect.

Img_2090

Take that, stupid Grocery Store Lady. 

Parenting Comments
The Devil Wears Pampers
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The little angel, she loves the sidewalk chalk.  The funny thing, though, is that even more than she loves to color with it herself, she loves to demand that a parent color things to her specifications.  She is extremely picky about color, size and location of these drawings. 

Last night, I drew a map of the world...to scale. (No, that's a line from a comedian I saw like ten years ago and stole, STOLE, but isn't the idea funny?  Maybe it's just funny to me.  Ahem.)

I did, however, draw a picture of the little angel.  It was approximately the same height as she was, but since we don't have red sidewalk chalk (and really, why not?), I had to give the drawing sort of hot-pink hair.  When I was finished, the little angel selected a piece of her own hair and studied it, then looked at the picture.

Little Angel:  "Mommy, RED HAIR."

Me:  "We don't have any red chalk, honey."

Little Angel:  "RED HAIR."

Me:  "Look at the chalk. Do you see red?  I don't see red.  I used pink because that's the closest color. Sometimes in life we have to fake it a little, and that's okay."

The little angel studied me dubiously, then stomped off.  I could just hear her inner monologue:  Please don't bore me with your excuses, Mommy.

Parenting Comments
How Dare You, George Bush?
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I haven't listened to or read the news in a few weeks.  I admit, I am so pissed about the war in Iraq and the behavior of W., I can barely stand to listen to the latest.   I have always been so proud of my country, but lately, I'd claim to be Canadian if I traveled abroad. I'm that upset about our behavior.

Even feeling that way, I was blown away - BLOWN AWAY - when I heard on NPR this morning that we seized the seven- and nine-year-old children of the 9/11 mastermind and flew them to this country for "interrogation."  The link I included above is definitely left-leaning and political, but NPR isn't.  My hands were shaking on the wheel and I almost had to pull over just thinking about two young boys being interrogated over something they had no idea about when they were already dealing with the loss of their father.

Now, don't get me wrong - screw Khalid Shaikh Mohammed, if he did it. He can rot in the fiery abyss for all I care.  But seriously, seriously, how can we as a country hold his two young boys responsible for telling us about Daddy's latest escapades at work?  Especially when he's like super-secret cover terrorist operative?  WTF?  ARE WE SERIOUS???

I am livid.  I am angry. What happened to my America, where we had morals and observed human rights issues and accused other countries of behaving improperly instead of running rampant across the rest of the world, secure in our stupid economic stronghold and military might?  How can this president, who publically attends church and has beautiful twin daughters and is, according to the interviewee on NPR, avidly engaged in the granular activities of day-to-day terrorist interrogations, authorize, no, encourage this behavior?  This kidnapping of a first-grader and a third-grader?  Have you seen any kids this age lately?  Do they seem particularly well-versed in world politics?  Who the hell do we think we are? 

As a mother, I can't help but see the world through the eyes of children as well as my own.  I can't ignore crimes against children the way I used to be able to do.  I don't care who the hell's kids those are, they didn't do anything wrong, and you don't get to pick your parents the way we pick our presidents.  Is transporting these children to America and scaring the shit out of them going to really make them think, "Hmm.  You're right, Daddy was wrong. I shouldn't grow up to be a terrorist just to get back at you for torturing me when I was seven?"

I really never thought my country would sink to these depths.  If there are any international readers out there, please accept our apologies.  I'm sorry, world.  Please forgive us - he knows not what he does.

Politics Comments
The Twittery Sleepless Mother Report
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I can't BELIEVE I was talking yesterday about whether or not I should stop taking my medication.  All it takes is one sleepless night for me to completely freak out about my parenting choices again, for no apparent reason.

Yesterday after work, I visited my friend M., who has a gorgeous two-month-old, D.  He is a beautiful baby, very happy, and he's already sleeping a million gazillion hours a night.  I stared at his little face and thought about my friend A. saying that her daughter had begged for a sibling.  We drank wine and talked about how easy her labor had been.  When I got home, I asked my beloved if he thought we would ever want another one, a question he and I revisit about every six months, and usually we look at each other and laugh, because we are So Not Baby People.  Ha!  We think.  Never again.  And he feels good about it, and gives it no more thought.

Still, as I drifted off to sleep, I thought, well, MAYBE another one wouldn't have so much trouble sleeping as the little angel does. MAYBE lightning doesn't strike twice.  I started reading my favorite sleep book again, and with every page the horror of sleeplessness came back to me, the nine months we spent forging through every day with five and a half hours taken in two-hour increments, trying to meet deadlines, be nice to people and not die in traffic accidents.  It was the ultimate in survival mode for me.

Sister Little pointed out how quickly it had gone on the phone this morning, although in the same breath she asked why the heck I would let anyone other than me, including the little angel, make that decision for me. And in all truth, the little angel has never indicated she is aware that other humans might exist in our family unit.  I thought about Sister Little's statement, and I realized that part of my life did not go quickly for me. Don't get me wrong - the happy parts didn't, either - but the sleeping problem was so severe, so completely life-disrupting that at this point, every moment I spent on the floor of her room, listening to her cry and staring at the sixteenth nightlight I'd tried to get the ambiance of the room just right, is seared permanently in my brain.

We've been out of town every weekend in June, and she slept pretty well while we were traveling.  It sort of fell apart once we got back. She's been up every night at two and five again, although usually she goes back to sleep pretty fast.  Last night, there was a cat in heat outside her window, and so she woke up every time it yowled from two until about six a.m.  I took the first shift, but I couldn't stand it anymore by about 4:30. I remember looking at the clock thinking at least I could get two hours of uninterrupted sleep before getting up for work. It was an eery flashback to the bad days last winter. 

So, there you are.  Sister Little keeps telling me the only person putting pressure on me is me, and she's probably right, although I know there are those out there, maybe even you, Gentle Reader, who thinks it's a parent's duty to provide every child with a sibling that they may love or hate.  I did think about it when I accompanied Sister Little to her CT scan last Friday.  Who would accompany the little angel if she had one? But then I also thought hey, I don't have an extra husband or an extra mother or father in case something happens to one of them or they are not available when I need them, so why should I apply that logic to siblings?  I am twittery on this subject, always have been.  And for some reason, every time I don't get sleep, I start questioning everything about my parenting style, not just how I handle her sleeping problems.  I wish I didn't.  I'm confident in the other choices I've made in my life, so why can't I just feel good about this one?  My stomach seizes up with fright when I contemplate going through this sleep battle again.  So why would I even think about more babies?

Parenting Comments
How Do You Decide If You're Not Crazy?
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This morning I went to see my psychiatrist.  Yes, I admit, I have one.  I've had a few therapists over the years.  I've also had a few bouts with depression, every eating disorder in the book and extreme anxiety. And those were in the golden years of teendom and early adulthood!  What awaits me in old age?

Anyway, I'm not above admitting this, obviously, because though it seems we live in a pretty self-medicated world, I also think we live in a pretty obnoxious and overstimulated world.  And that, my friends, is our own damn fault.  1984? We're living it, minus the rats at the end. I don't mean to be negative - I love modern conveniences - but let's not fool ourselves that those very conveniences aren't making our lives even more hectic, our goals more unobtainable and our expectations for ourselves, our children, our marriages and our happiness Just. Plain. Ridiculous.

Tangent over.

This morning I went to see my psychiatrist, which I have to do every three to six months to keep getting my medicine, only to find out that though her office takes my health insurance, my health-insurance provider has outsourced the mental-health portion to someone else, who they don't take. Meaning my psychiatrist is out-of-network. Which is medical profession for "fuck you."

So...decisions.  Do I go find a new psychiatrist and try to explain that the only reason I sought help in this particular chapter of my life was the extreme lack of sleep I was getting last holiday season?  That I spent two hours a day crying because my daughter spent two hours a night doing the same?  That I wanted to kill the next person who asked when I was having another baby because the toddler I had hadn't started sleeping as well as a newborn at 22 months?  It all just seems like so much work. Plus, I'm feeling better now that the little angel only wakes up a maximum of once a night and usually goes right back to sleep.  Oh, and I got a new contract that goes until January, and it's even doing editorial stuff which makes me happy, happy, happy.  And I like my husband and my daughter and my friends and family, and really the only thing off in my life right now is my fear that Sister Little's head might explode or something, but that will probably be rectified with no issues soon.

So with nothing going wrong, am I still crazy?  I know, that's harsh.  I was never crazy.  Extremely anxiety-ridden, but not crazy.  The anxiety does seem to be gone, although after a weekend spent with four pregnant women, I did find myself having dreams about an adult little angel looking at me and asking why I never gave her a brother or sister.  I do have some anxiety about the fact that I don't want another child, but I feel like I should have one just because.  But other than that, pretty good.  Of course, the more I ponder whether or not I'm anxious, the more anxious it makes me.

You can only stop flying missions if you're crazy, but you prove yourself sane if you want to stop.

So here I am.  I don't think I've ever felt normal. From the age of eight I had horrible self-loathing and body issues.  Then Ma's cancer and the years and years of eating disorders and more self-loathing, followed by the anxiety that is your early-to-mid twenties.  I capped that off with marriage, home ownership and the birth of my first child.  I seem to be taking things easier now, but is that because I'm a) medicated, b) 32 or c) I've already faced a lot of Life's Big Decisions?

What does it feel like to feel normal?  How do I know if I'm better?  Anyone?