It's Not Lying. It's Choosing Your Battles.

A few days ago, Ben and I took Lila out for lunch at a cute little local diner. The place was decorated for St. Pats day with the typical green sparkly shamrocks and clovers all over the place.

One large decoration caught Lila’s eye. It looked like this:

Here is the exact conversation that happened between us:

Lila: What is that called?

Me: It’s a shamrock, or a 3-leafed clover.

Lila: No it’s not.

Me: Yes. It is.

Lila: There is no such thing as a 3 leafed clover. Only 4 leafed clovers.

Me: Actually, all clovers have 3 leaves. But if you find an extremely rare one with 4, it is considered lucky. Because it’s so rare.

Lila: Clovers only have 4 leafs.

Me: Did you hear what I just told you?

Lila: Yes, but I don’t believe you. That’s not a clover.

Me: Okay. I am lying. That’s just a weird Irish Tree.

If you have ever tried to win a debate with a four-year-old, you know that you cannot win because they have no desire to know the truth and basically don't give a shit about actual facts. Their only objective is to infuriate you.

Later that same day, we had a similar conversations in the car when Prince's 1999 was playing on the radio:

Lila: Is this the song that was played at your friend’s wedding?

Me: I don’t think so.

Lila: Yes it was.

Me: They weren’t playing this kind of music at all. 

Lila: This song was played at the wedding.

Me: If you're so sure, why did you even ask me?

Lila: I think it was.

Me: Okay, it probably was.

Lila: I KNEW IT!

Most of the time, it is best not to even try to present actual facts, because they don't care.  They just want to be right.  There are usually a thousand times each day where I  find myself just letting her think that she is right even when she is CLEARLY wrong.  I will usually tell her the truth once, and if she argues I just tell her she's right.  For example:

“ You were wearing a red shirt yesterday.” I wasn’t but I guess black is close enough to red.

“50 plus 50 equals 150.” No, but I am not going to find a calculator to prove you wrong or pull out a hundred pennies to demonstrate, so whatever.

“Macaroni and cheese is good for you.” Well, it’s not, but since the only other thing you are eating this week is Junior Mints I am going to go with it.

“When I am 12, I will be old enough to have my own house.” OH, if only that were so!

This brings me to something I saw recently on the Today Show about how often parents lie to their children and how it can apparently completely ruin their lives and give them a lifetime of trust issues.   Of course, the media ran with this as a theme and took every opportunity to have “experts” come on and tell parents that if you lie to your kids, you may even turn them into crack addicted schizophrenic sociopaths (my summary, not an actual statement).

I, for one, think this is TOTAL BULLSHIT. Childhood is specifically suited for made up stories and mythologies that help to make the world make sense. I refuse to believe that Santa or Leprechauns or wishing on a star are things that are going to destory my kid's psyche.  Plus, I don’t know you, but I learned about religion at an early age and there is no one out there claiming that any of those myths are psychologically damaging.
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Ok, this kid was probably traumatized.  She looks PISSED!

In addition to the lies by omission, where I refuse to spend spend 3 hours trying to convince Lila that she is NOT a hyena, there are the actual lies that I have told to make my life easier. 

When Lila was 2, we had to take her bottle away (don’t judge…it was my mothers fault as you can see for yourself HERE).  We decided that this was also the perfect time to get rid of her crib and get her a toddler bed.  So we concocted the ba-ba fairy.  The ba-ba fairy came one night whie she was over at Grandma’s and left her a note saying that she was taking all her ba-ba’s and leaving her wonderful new bed and a big pack of sippy cups.  It was just easier than attempting to explain that at 2 years old, having a bottle was damaging her teeth and that other moms were saying I was guilty of some backwards form of child abuse for allowing that to go on for so long. 

Is this going to cause resentment in her someday?  Probably not.  I actually don't even think she remembers it. 

And then there are the blatant lies I have told her to make her do what I want.

“You have to eat carrots or you will go blind. True story.”

"If you don't go to sleep then morning won't come."

“I called the doctor about that tiny scrape (link) you’ve been crying about for 2 hours. She says that if it hurts that bad, we can go in and she can take the leg off.”

"Mommy has a headache so you need to be quiet."

Let’s be honest. Our parents all lied to us too! And for the most part, I can confidently say that the fact that they lied about who left me Christmas presents or where babies came from did not cause me to need intensive psychological help. The fact that they were completely fucking crazy did. And I suspect THAT will be why my kid seeks therapy someday too.

Battlefield: Dinner

I am a firm believer in family dinner times. And experts seem to agree that family dinner time, where the ENTIRE family sits around a table for dinner and communicates and enjoys themselves is essential for a happy, functioning family.

This is how I imagine dinner time should be.

But what do you do when no one enjoys it?  My kid has turned dinner time into this drama-filled temper tantrum and by the end of it, her dinner is not eaten and Ben and I are the ones flailing on the floor kicking and screaming.

Lila does not like to eat.  At least not actual food.  I refuse to call her a picky eater because it doesn't really matter if we serve her the one food she is willing to eat this week (which is usually either mac and cheese or chicken nuggets) she still refuses it.  She's more like a non-eater.  Not that she isn't hungry.  As soon as dinner is cleared from the table she asks for ice cream or cake or cookies and cries because she's "starving".  We offer to heat up her chicken nuggets or mac and cheese and she cries and goes to bed hungry.  We don't give in.  But for some reason she STILL doesn't get that eating crap like ice cream and gummy fruit snacks are not acceptable dinner time foods. 

This is what I actually see at dinner time.

And this is almost entirely a dinner time problem, when we are all sitting down at the table.  At lunch time, when it's just her and I, she usually eats with no problem (although she isn't a big eater and has never finished an entire meal) and at breakfast, when she is usually eating alone, it is no problem at all.   It's as if she is completely against it, which I don't understand because this is what we have always done, and it's always been a problem for her.

In addition to refusing to eat and generally being totally bitchy about it, she also has to go to the bathroom as soon as the food is set on the table and has hundreds of excuses to get up every 45 seconds.  Even when we order pizza and eat in front of the TV, something about sitting together with us at dinner time causes her to not be able to sit still or concentrate on the task at hand, even though when there's no food in front of her she can sit catatonic for an hour and a half watching Alvin and the Chipmunks.

For me, not having dinner together isn't an option.  This is important to me.  My parents made every effort to have dinner at the table whenever they could and as an adult I really appreciate those times where no one was too busy or preoccupied with work and we got to just sit and focus on chatting. 

There is one train of thought that says that you should never force your kid to eat and should just let them do what they want and eat when and what they want and they will come around.  But honestly, I don't believe that we should work around her and her whims.  She's FOUR.  If it were up to her she'd want nothing but Lucky Charms and Popsicles and would eat dinner just after brushing her teeth, hearing a story and turning out the light at bedtime.  She refuses to "snack" when I just leave decent foods like carrot sticks out for her to nibble on and seems to only want to eat something when I am in the middle of a task that I cannot drop to prepare something for her. 

There is the other faction that says that the eating habits they learn early such as eating a variety of foods (my kid doesn't) and viewing eating in a healthy way (she obviously finds it stressful) will be carried on for life.  If this is the case, my kid is going to be either a "food is comfort" over eater or processed food junky.  Perhaps she will develop an eating disorder since her entire goal in life seems to be to use what little control she has to refuse to put healthy food into her mouth.

What do you guys think.  Should I just stop with the family dinner times? 

I aim for some kind of middle ground and it just isn't working.  I fear that my kid is going to have some serious food issues if I don't get this under control.

They really do resemble the mentally ill.

I have heard it joked that having a small child in your house is like living with a crazy person.  And I am here to tell you that I can confirm that it's absolutely true, although to be more accurate, it is like living with a ward full of psychiatric patients.  I know because I just left there.

As many of you know, my depression has been excruciating lately and I was not finding a lot of help from the professionals that I contacted.  Last Saturday, I had finally had enough and I checked myself into the psych ward at the hospital (you were wondering where I was, weren't you?).

I waited until Lila was out and about with her dad for the day and then called my mother and begged her to take me to the hospital (actually, she was more than willing and thought it was the best idea).  I didn't think they were actually going to check me in because I was not threatening to kill myself or anyone else (for a change).  When the doctor told me she wanted me to check in voluntarily or else she was going to check me in involuntarily with a required 72 hour stay, I signed the papers all the while crying and trying to convince the doctor that my child would never survive without me. 

Even in a state that can best be described as desperately useless, I was more worried about my kid than I was about myself.  I felt guilty for leaving her - for NEEDING to leave her.  I felt like I had been so removed and uninvolved for weeks now, and I was finally doing the inevitable.  I was leaving her.  My mother convinced me that she was in very able hands (her Dad is a fantastic father) and that this would truly be better than letting her see me in such a state of utter breakdown.  I knew she was right-in my head.  But my heart told me that I was a deserter.

The ward was a hospital ward with a long hallway with patients' rooms on one side and offices and other useful rooms on the other.  In the middle of the hall was a large open room with a TV and several tables in it.  The TV was always at full volume and the fluorescent lights and linoleum floors make the room harsh and uncomfortable. 

But it isn't the decor that I think was the important part of this story.  It was the people.  They don't separate the truly insane or disruptive patients from those who are depressed or anxious and the crazies ran the place. 

The first person I saw was a guy with a thick black beard and shaved head who just stood in the hall smiling to himself.  He just stood there.  Didn't look up.  Then he tentatively took half a step before smiling to himself again.  I was instantly afraid.  He was totally in his own head and I realized then that I was here with truly ill people. 

There was also a guy who constantly paced the length of the hallway all day and half the night.  When he sat down, he would try to talk to you or concentrate on something to no avail.  He would get frustrated and jump up to walk again. 

There was a woman who barked.  She mostly barked but also liked to repeat everything that people said when she was in the mood.  The first night I was there, they were watching some show on Telemundo that was like America's Got Talent but only showcased children.  At one point, a dance team came out enthusiastically gyrating to annoying techno music.  She heard the music, jumped up and started imitating the dance moves.  Here was a 50+ woman who barked doing some really athletic dance moves.  I was pretty sure she was going to hurt herself. 

There was a guy who was essentially catatonic in a wheelchair who would piss himself and then come to life fighting the nurses who tried to change his pants.

There was a girl who confined herself to her room most of the time except that several times a day (and often in the middle of the night) would come out into the hall screeching, howling and hooting as if she were at some fantastic dance party that only she could see. 

But my favorite memory will always be of The Yeller.  The Yeller was a 70 year old man who came in complaining and bitching but in completely nonsensical sentences.  He literally yelled utter nonsense for 4 entire days, quieting down for 3 hours here and there but mostly going on non-stop.  He just could not shut the fuck up.  He yelled all kinds of interesting gems and I was convinced that if I could just transcribe it, there would be some sense to be made of it.  But I doubt it.  He would walk up to you for no reason looking like you somehow offended him and he'd point at you and say something like (and I quote) "You can tell me abracadabra and put it in the dryer.  But you have to get the user's manual that's in the refrigerator because the sponges need a bath."  After 4 days of him yelling day and night, I decided that ready or not, I needed to go home.

Coming home was really strange for me.  My house looked weird.  Lila looked like she had grown up, and I just felt completely out of sorts.  I knew that the relief I felt from the excessive sadness and anxiety was mostly due to being away from my real life and I knew that it was going to be hard to disappoint Lila, who thought that since I was coming back from the hospital that I was going to be all better.  I am not. 



But all that being said, I found out that I have an incredibly well-behaved and well-adjusted child.  Lila missed me and asked about me often but only cried about it once, at bedtime on the second night I was gone.  In fact, I would often call her at my mother's house during the day and on more than one occasion when my mother asked if she wanted to talk to me she shrugged and said, "not right now, I'm playing."  When I told my doctor about this, she asked if that hurt my feelings and I had to be honest:  I was completely relieved that she was secure in the idea that I was coming back soon.  She wasn't traumatized by my absence and that freed me up to do some of the work I needed to do to get myself in good enough shape to get out of there. 

Like any stay in the hospital, coming home did not mean I was "cured".  It only meant that the crisis had been averted and that the hard work of really getting better was beginning.  Before I left, they made me a prompt appointment with a therapist and a psychiatrist, which boggled my mind since every shrink I had called in the last month told me they were either not taking new patients or wouldn't be able to see me until October.  I have new meds (which I already think need adjusting) and I am still having a ton of anxiety and sadness. 

But now I know that there is help out there.  And I have something that I didn't have when I went in there.  Hope.

The Ghost Mother

Sometimes I feel like a ghost. 

I have been struggling with my depression again and as always it threatens to asphyxiate me and drown out all the good that lives in me. 

But no one ever tells you that when you are a mother and you have depression, you do not get to suffer alone.  The thing you love, the thing that keeps you from being lost completely in the abyss suffers too.

Having a mother with depression is like being forced to be psychic.  You never know what is going to make her angry.  You never know who is going to greet you when you come home.  You never know if there is going to be someone to take care of you or if you are going to have to figure it out yourself again.  This was MY experience.  My mother was depressed.

And against everything I swore I would never be as a parent, this is slowly becoming my daughter's experience as well.

I feel like I am depriving her.  Her mother doesn't want to play.  She doesn't want to go anywhere.  She can't muster the energy many days to leave the house.  And when she does, the rest of the day is shot, because she only has so much patience and will to burn.  She loses her cool when the kid is just being a kid. 

And the more I feel guilty about being sick, the more I want to withdraw - to not subject her to me.  And this makes me more guilty and feeds into this twisted circle that is quickly becoming something of a spiral or a whirlpool dragging me down to God knows where.

The meds have not been helping so I keep going back begging for some kind of help.  "We'll find something that works for you," the doctor said to me today.  But it's hard to watch what I am doing to my kid while the battle wears on. 

And then there's the fear.  The fear and worry that I am scarring her for life.  That I am unable to teach her some essential survival skills that will keep her from succumbing to the same pitfalls and setbacks the threw me into the pit and left me there for dead.  I don't want her to have to ever feel this way.  But if history is any indication, my fears will be realized no matter how hard I work to prevent them.

It is hard to hold out hope for a turnaround.  It is hard when most of the medications and therapies have just led to brief remissions and when substantial lifestyle changes have been sidetracked by this unbearable lethargy.  But I have no choice.  I have my little girl to look after.  She keeps me from being able to give up.  I HAVE to get out of bed.  I HAVE to face the day.  I HAVE to make dinner even when it hurts and is overwhelming just to stand at the stove and stir a pot.  Even when I suck to be around.  She still needs me.

I just hope she will forgive me for all the lost time.

Mean Evil Morning Mommy

Every morning it is exactly the same thing.  Lila gets up and goes downstairs and a few minutes later I come clomping exhaustedly down the same stairs barely awake and heavy with sleep and Lila comes RUNNING to me excitedly trying to jump up onto me for a hug as if we had been apart for the length of a prison sentence or something.

Most times I barely catch her and she throws herself at one leg contentedly rubbing the side of her face against me as I struggle to keep my balance.  I pay her no mind as I limp steadily to the kitchen to make myself coffee.  I admit it - My cup of coffee is the only thing that makes me capable of putting up with the absurd amount of streaming energy that the kid has first thing in the morning.

I remember KNOWING that I was not allowed to ask my mother for ANYTHING until she had a few minutes to sit down with her cup of coffee and have a few sips in peace.  I knew it.  I understood that if I did ask for anything I would get a response like this:

That's my mother before her morning coffee.

I just KNEW this...as far back as I remember.  So why is it that MY kid, as whip smart as she is, feels the need to help me start my day with demands for 10 different cartoons, none of which are on right now and specific pieces of cereal with a certain very measured amount of milk, when I can barely function enough to remember to flush the toilet?  Have I not traumatized her enough to make her understand that Mommy needs her coffee first?  Do I have to turn into this EVERY morning:

Because no matter how many times I say nicely "just give Mommy a few minutes to wake up" I get the same whining and complaining and demanding which always turns me into the evil Mommy who won't feed her child. 

Is it wrong that I just need like 15 minutes?  Seriously.  Just long enough to brew a pot of coffee, sit down have like 5 sips so that I can be more like this:

Holy Shit! It's JUST A SCRAPE!

My kid scraped her leg yesterday.  This should not be blog worthy news but there are some things about her that you need to understand.

1. She has NEVER bled.  I am not kidding.  This kid has this weird inpenetrable skin and has never gotten a real cut.  Only bruises and bumps and scrapes that don't bleed.  Therefore:

2. Lila believes that a scrape is the most painful thing that can befall a person.  There is no way to convey to a kid her age that there are things like broken limbs, head gashes and period cramps that she may have to look forward to.

SO last night Lila was screaming like a banshee because her scrape was hurting her. 

I don't mean to sound insensitive, but I am serious when I say she cried for 3 fucking hours about a scrape.  I am not downplaying this.  See if you can spot the scrape on her little knee:

Yeah it's hard to see.  Here is a super enhanced version with scrape seeking technology so that you can actually find the thing that caused 3 hours of misery:

Yes.  It's there.  No, it isn't a shadow.  It's a little scrape.  Did I mention that she cried about it for
3 fucking hours?????

After the first hour and a half, it was clear that no amount of pain relief ointment or band aids were going to help.  Because she just insisted that it made it hurt more.  And finally I had to resort to the mean trick that I swore I would never do.  I told her that if it hurts that much, we should go to the hospital and have it removed.  The leg. 

It's funny how she calmed right down and suddenly it didn't hurt as much anymore.  In fact, it felt so much better that she wanted to run around and have some ice cream. 

CRAP-TASTIC! - No, seriously.

I dont know why Lila sees the toilet as being pure evil.  It's not like I showed her this:

Image from http://yippie-kai-yay.blogspot.com/

Well folks, after a year of begging and cajoling and trying ever suggestion (including bribery, trickery and just leaving her alone) Lila managed to take a crap on the toilet on Tuesday.  Not only that, she has crapped Wednesday and this morning as well.

I wish I could say it was her choice.  I wish I could say that I did what any loving and attentive parent would have done and let her come around on her own.  But I didn't.  I simply refused to buy any more pull-ups and it just so happened that she was sick and couldn't really hold it anymore.

I wish I could give credit to the gazillion suggestions I received from you all.  I wish I could say it was because I bribed her with a trip to Target for a new Barbie or because I told her I would take her to Friendly's for ice cream (Yes, I told her both of those things) but it wasn't.  It was just because Ben has a shitload of patience with her begging and crying that I don't have.

He was the hero in this one.  After me trying to talk her through it for about 15 minutes while she cried in sheer terror that she could not properly explain (because she is three), I gave up and called in the big guns. 

Ben went in and offered to take all the water out of the toilet so there would be no splash.  This helped but did not in any way make her want to go.  I sat in the hallway crying because this was obviously mean and cruel but I reminded myself that I had never heard of anyone so traumatized by having to shit on the potty that they became mass murderers.

Ben started asking her about school.  About who was sick and who was the "leader" and all of a sudden I heard her stop crying and squeak out a little, "I think I did it."

And she did.  She was so proud of herself and so we had to act like crapping in the toilet was the most incredible thing we had ever witnessed.  We told her she was brave and so big now and she just beamed with pride!

from cafepress.com

And of course, yesterday we went to Target where I managed to spend $22 on a Barbie and some other crap toys just to keep the momentum going.

So to all of you who reassured me it was going to be okay and that my kid would eventually stop crapping her pants, I say THANK YOU FOR THE SUPPORT.

Now I have to figure out how to properly wipe a kid's ass when she is half standing up.

Just like her mom!

All mothers love it when their little girls put on their shoes, jewelry, perfume, etc., and turn to us and say "I'm just like you Mommy!"  But I am finding that I am passing on other things.  Not just my shitty attitude, mood swings, and perpensity to swear like a trucker either.

Lila had her first "treatment" today.  For any of you who are fans of the sci-fi show "Dollhouse," you know why that makes me snicker. 

That's (not) me in the suit.

But all kidding aside, last night Lila tossed and turned all night waking up crying and frustrated because she simply could not breathe.

Lila has finally developed Mommy's asthma.

My poor kid.  Last night was awful.  It's seriously the worst feeling in the world when you can hear your kid wheezing and struggling for air but she doesn't complain enough for you to think its an emergency.  I wanted to take her to the hospital but knew it would just scare her and so I had to let her just suffer through it until morning. Until we could get her into her doctor.  Until they could give her the "treatment" and send us home with a nebulizer contraption.

It's kind of like this.  (But not really)

She did a fantastic job.  She was completely terrified by the thing.  She was scared about "breathing the stinky smoke".  But the doc and I assured her it would make her feel better so that she could play with her little cousins later on today.  So she sat there all pissed off at me for making her do this and when it was done cheerfully picked out as many stickers as she wanted because the doc was so impressed that she was so scared but never cried once.  My kid is a bad ass like that.

And so for a week, every four to six hours, I have to strap the thing onto her head and force her to breathe in the vapors and pray that she lets me.  Because with all the other fun battles (eating, sleeping, what to wear, not being an asshole) I truly don't want to have to fight another one.

And because the doc said that it is likely just a side effect of the extremely high pollen count and the moisture that is causing an outbreak of mold, she is optimistic that she will not need the treatments every day of her life. 

Which I hope is true.  Because being the sickly kid with asthma would be terrible for my kid's reputation as a trouble maker.

Selfish Mommy fucks it up again

Ben had a car accident yesterday.  He was driving home after picking up the kid because I had an appointment to see a therapist after work.  We got a monster thunderstorm yesterday which flooded the highway and so traffic was absurdly backed up all over the surface streets.

About 15 minutes into my session, my phone rang with Ben's stupid ringtone and I turned it off because HE SHOULD FUCKING KNOW I AM IN MY SESSION trying to get myself together so that I don't have to be a total bitch who screams at him about shit he already knows all the time.

When I got out, I looked at my phone and there were 2 text messages from Ben.  The first said, "call me as soon as possible."  The second said, "I totaled my truck".  Now, perhaps you understand that my first reaction was kind of like, "THAT SEEMS LIKE AN UNDER-REACTION!!!! WHAT THE FUCK!!! IS EVERYONE OKAY???" And then I thought, "What the fuck!!!! Is my kid okay?"

So I called him immediately and he assured me that everyone was okay, not a single scratch or bruise, and that the seatbelts did exactly what they were supposed to do.  By that time he had gotten home and Lila was resting on the couch watching Pingu (if you are unfamiliar with Pingu, think weird Japanese Penguin Gumby who doesn't talk but has some jibberish language).

I rushed home and was met at the door by an angry and obviously traumatized 3 year old who said, "We tried to call you because Daddy crashed and I was crying and you DIDN'T ANSWER YOUR PHONE!"

"Mommy was in with her doctor and didn't have my phone with me," I tried to explain. 

"I was scared and I cried and I wanted you and YOU DIDN'T ANSWER!!!"

Yet another failure under Mommy's belt.

Rationally I know that it wasn't my fault and I could never have known.  In my mind I assume that if I had a CAR ACCIDENT or some other emergency, that I might call more than one time knowing that the liklihood that a person would answer the phone when they were in therapy is pretty slim.  But hey, I'm the insane one going to therapy, right?

But a part of me feels sad that I wasn't there.

Later that night, I tried to talk to Lila about it to figure out just how upset and traumatized by it she really was.  And it turns out that she was more concerned about the thunderstorm and the fact that lightening is made of electricity (which scares the shit out of her now that she knows that...thanks Cat in the Hat Knows a lot about that) than she was about the car accident.

Before she drifted off to sleep, she asked me if Daddy was going to get a new truck and I told her we didn't know yet.  She said she would be sad if he didn't have that old truck anymore because he had it when she was a baby.  And I told her that we would all be just fine.

It is what it is.

Oh God. Here it comes again.


After several days where it seemed to have abated, it is pushing up through the cracks like filthy ground water. I can feel it wetting me, and turning me back into the monster who peers out of her cave at the world but never joins it, and feeds on its own misery.

I have been fighting my depression for most of my life. Even as a kid I remember being somber and morose. I was disappointed a lot. I always anticipated the worst. And as an adult that sort of “realism” won me the nickname “little black cloud” because I was always there to point out how quickly things could go wrong.

I have tried to find joy in the little things. I have managed on a few occasions to claw myself out of this vacuum and to actually breathe the air of normalcy. I gathered enough energy to make a go of moving across the country once; of going to college another time. I even tried my hand being a mother. But those times where I was doing more than just barely functioning were always suddenly drowned in a surge of mud that seemed to pour in out of nowhere and solidify itself before I had a chance to fight through it.

Every so often, as happened last week, I have a break. I have a few days where the going is not quite so tough. I can get out of bed without having to convince myself that there’s something worthwhile outside my dark room. I manage to get dressed and go to work and even play with my daughter without tripping all over myself and making everyone miserable in the process. I am a good mother then, and we read together and I hold her and stroke her hair. She doesn’t worry that I am going to start yelling over little misdeeds and she sometimes seems surprised when I laugh as she drops her (yet another) glass of milk. I love being that woman.

Unfortunately, that is not the person I usually am. Medication only seems to work for a little while. Therapy helps me to have longer stretches of sanity but then I seem to always fall further back than where I started – more sad, more angry, less Me. And I have to wonder, every time: “What did I do now to make this come back? Because I was okay yesterday, but today I am not. “

What’s worse is that it isn’t just all about me anymore. I am no longer the only one suffering, which makes my prognosis that much more unbearable. You see, I lived through my mother’s grueling struggle with this same demon. I watched her shrivel and atrophy so that she could barely move. I saw how she could transform into someone I hated at the drop of a hat. And I swore that I would never do that to my own. Not just because it is cruel and debilitating, but because I never want my baby to have to face this creature in her own world. And aren’t I simply passing all my failures to her?

Instead I hide. My mother kept her sadness out in the open and exposed us all to the constant derangement of drinking and rage and compulsive cleaning. I like to run; to put myself back into bed where I can’t hurt anyone with the things I do to them. Instead I only hurt them with the things I fail to do.

My mother never taught me to swim. She never made me take lessons from anyone else, either. And my whole life I have never felt like I can handle water that is deeper than a bath. This is not only indicative of her inability to give me the basic life skill that could save me, but also a fitting metaphor for the fact that I feel helpless and defenseless against the rising waters that threaten to overwhelm me and I know that I can learn how but I can’t get out of the deep end long enough to catch my breath. I don’t want to be rescued. I just want to be able to swim.

I want my girl to know how to swim.

I want to be able to teach her.

More Trauma by Poop

Jesus Christ.  My kid is terrified of pooping. 

No really.

She is still refusing to poop on the toilet and is really freaked out now about going in a pull up.  EVERYONE has assured me that I should just LET HER and that she will decide when she's ready to try the toilet. 

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(Many of you know that several months ago I wrote about her fear of pooping on the toilet.  If you haven't read it, click here)

I've read her the books.  I have ignored it and attempted to let her "come around herself" (for almost a full year now).  I have pleaded and tried to bargain with rewards and bribe with fantastic gifts.  I have done breathing exercises with her on the toilet.  I have let her "read" for an hour in the bathroom.  She will NOT let a number two loose on the toilet.

Recently, it occurred to me that she may be actually phobic of it.  She panics when she feels it coming.  She gets scared.  She even tries to get me not to take her pull-up off because she is afraid she (in her words) "made a bad poop".  My mother believes that I have convinced her that pooping is bad because she is so afraid of being cleaned up after going in a pull-up.  I assure you, I do nothing but tell her how normal it is.

And after today, I am convinced that she will never shit again.
(WARNING: THIS IS NOT FOR THE EASILY GROSSED OUT)

Lila spent the day at my mother's house while I was at work today and apparently complained much of the day that her belly hurt her.  She told my mother that she needed to put a pull up on and as always my mother complied.  A few minutes later, Lila was no where to be found.  My mother found her playing with a flashlight in her closet (the smell was overwhelming) and told her that it was time to come out and get changed.  Lila started to panic. 

When she tried to put her down, Lila arched her back and started screaming.



Lila told her it was "a really big poop" and my mother assured her it was okay.  Lila told her it was really messy, and my mother told her it wasn't a big deal and she would just clean it up.  Lila told her she didn't want to lie down to get changed but my mother insisted because Lila is ALWAYS freaked out by pooping.  Lila immediately started screaming that there was poop on her.  My mother then realized that there was literally a SHIT LOAD of diarrhea and it was coming out of Lila's pull up and all up the back of her.  Up her back, and into her fucking hair (how did she not realize this?  I don't know...she's old).

Lila was completely fucking freaking out. 

When Ben showed up to get Lila, she was in the bathtub crying and freaking because there was now poop in the bathtub (I have no idea why my mother didnt just shower her...but whatever). 

After getting her dried up and dressed, Ben took her home and gave her a good bath with shampoo and bubbles and all that.  She was fine.  Like nothing ever happened.

Until she thought she had to poop again.  She freaked out.  She had a pull up on and suddenly remembered and asked me, "am I going to have diarrhea again?"  I said, "I don't know, Lila.  But it's okay.  Let's see." 

She freaked and told me she didn't have to go anymore.  I tried to talk to her but she got all uptight ant weird so we let it go. 

At bedtime, she told me she needed a pull up.  I put it on her and we waited.  She got really freaked out again when she started to feel like it was coming.  Then she told me she just peed a little and she was not going to poop tonight.  I knew from the smell that she hadn't peed.  And that she still has diarrhea and was now trying to hold it.  "This is going to be AWESOME tonight when she wakes up covered in shit," I thought.  But she refused to try to go more.

So what the hell do you do with a kid who is shit-phobic?  Seriously?

All images courtesy of Google Image Search.