Ok. Seriously Now.

I am terrified of something. It haunts me as I lay next to Lila during story time at night. It creeps up on me when she wakes up in the morning and wants to sit on my lap on the couch. It eats at me a song I like comes on the radio and she declares, "I LOVE THIS SONG"!!!

I am afraid that this is the most I will ever like my kid.

We're not talking about "LOVING" because I am pretty sure I would (actually do) subject myself to all manner of torture to ensure that she doesn't suffer. But LOVE is not the same as LIKE.

My profile pic says it all.

As many of you know, I started this blog because motherhood is sometimes hard and sometimes boring and sometimes frustrating and sometimes just sucks. I also had pretty severe post-partum depression and spent the first several months of Lila's life not "liking" her very much. She screamed 16 hours a day for 6 months and slept in 20 minute spurts and that meant that I slept in 10 minute spurts because it took me at least 10 minutes to fall asleep. Needless to say, I was pretty sure that my child was sent specifically to punish me for whatever the hell I did in my past life.

If I invented shit like this, I probably deserve it.

The other problem is that over the last 4 years, I have struggled with major depressive disorder and that pretty much makes you not like anyone or anything. I spent a lot of time just trying to stay sane, and having a toddler around (and then a preschooler) generally accomplished exactly the opposite of that. Although I absolutely adored her and knew that she was the most wonderful child anyone has ever had (and I'm not saying that because I am her mother, I am saying it because she totally is) and I wanted to enjoy spending time with her, kids are kind of a huge pain in the ass.

As you can see, age 3 was worse than age 2.

And then last summer, something happened. It all started with my nervous breakdown and a brief trip to a "recovery resort" (read: mental hospital). When I came home, I was still weak but something had clicked while I was away. I felt different. Suddenly I felt like I was really a mother. Perhaps it was just some delayed reaction or maybe it was the drugs they had me on, but I like to think it was because Lila had turned 4, and suddenly she was learning all these cool things and not throwing so many tantrums and actually learning that it isn't okay to scream in the house.

This feeling has been a constant since then. Lila is a really good kid. She is smart and funny and loving and well behaved (when she isn't at Grandma's). I find myself excited to spend the day alone with her where before the idea of it terrified me (seriously, I would have panic attacks). I love doing bedtime with her because she talks about the things she loves and always includes me. She likes whatever I like, wants to do whatever I do, and I know everything about her.

And that's when the fear kicks in. What happens when she goes to school all day? She will learn about things that I can't control. She'll make new friends and those friends will begin to teach her things that I don't want her to know and she'll start realizing that the things that I like are actually really awful and lame and she'll tell me so. What if I just don't like the person she becomes?

What if she thinks this ass basket is cool?

YES, YES, I know this is probably not going to happen like that. That I am ignoring all the incredible things that she will be doing and that in all likelihood, I will grow to enjoy her even more. But this isn't about being rational. This is about realizing that I lost time during my darkest periods and fearing that this happiness will be fleeting (by the way, I totally got all teary-eyed typing that last sentence and that is why I am would rather just complain all the time).

This is when I need to be assured that it isn't just my medication (because I don't trust that at all) and that at some point I will realize that it isn't just a fluke (at least until she hits the awful teen years).

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.

They say they know VERY early

As a mother, I often feel the need to prescribe meaning to every little thing my kid does.  She likes to wear tappy shoes?  She needs to take tap lessons.  She wants me to buy her paint?  Maybe she'll be an artist.  Everything and anything becomes some prediction of her future.  I know this is insane but when she said what she said, I obviously raised an eyebrow.

http://monedesignz.spreadshirt.com

The other night I was chatting with Lila, all relaxed and cozy and ready for bedtime when the subject came to her friends at preschool.  Devon is her BEST friend and she has to walk out holding hands with her every day.  She has professed her LOVE for Devon on many occasions and the two often kiss on the lips.  I just chalk it up to her being best friends with this other overly affectionate little girl.

Then she said something to me that I partially applauded and which also made me nervous.  "Mommy," she said.  "I think Devon is my boyfriend but she's a girl.  Is that okay?" 

"Of course it's okay," I said, as open-minded liberal free love mother of the year.  But somewhere inside (and this is a HUGE confession because I am completely in love with the gays on every level) I was nervous.  What if she is (gulp) a lesbian???? 

When I was pregnant Ben and I joked about how we wanted her to be a lesbian so that we wouldnt have to worry about teenage boys and I totally know that when it came down to it I wouldn't care.  But being gay is still a hard life in this country.  Who wants their kid to have to grow up doubting and being made fun of and not being able to marry who the hell they want?  Or being this guy:

They always go just a LITTLE too far...
image via MSN.com

Then I stopped myself because I realized that she is not quite four and likely just has a little friend crush and isn't interested in boys yet.

But most people that I know DO say that they knew when they were VERY young...Shit.


On a totally unrelated side note, when I searched for a picture of lesbians, I couldnt get any to come up because there were too many explicit images.  There is something very wrong with that.

Another Confession about Motherhood

As I sit here I am sweating and hyperventilating and having all the typical fight or flight panic symptoms. 

Am I being stalked by a wild animal?  You could say that.

Am I about to be attacked by some crazed lunatic in the middle of the night?  Maybe.

Am I simply underconfident and know I am going to have my will and my patience tested to the point of breaking?  Yes.  For sure.

What is it that is causing me such distress?  I am alone all weekend with my three-year-old.

For most of you this is probably where you roll your eyes and click over to TMZ or some youtube video of a cat getting its little head stuck in a glass while trying to get a drop of milk (I saw it.  It's cute, right?).  Because I know that for many of you who are single mothers or full time stay at home moms, this is nothing you don't do all the time.

But for me, it terrifies me to no end.

Ben had to fly out to Arizona to take care of some things that were left undone when we moved back here.  IT was a last-minute thing,  so I only had a couple of days to prepare myself for the hell that would unfold when Lila got bored/annoyed/angry/her usual self with me and started to work my last nerve. I did not have ample time to work out a plan as to what I would do instead of just calling in The Big Guns (also known as "Daddy") to take over for a little while so that I didn't have a nervous breakdown.

Me after the FIRST
12 hours of continuous
whining.

I am afraid of a three year old. Not that I would ever let her in on that.  OHHHH No!  This is something I keep on the inside while I go about my day making sure we both eat and sleep and poop and keep ourselves in one piece.

Because I KNOW that I am the adult.  I know that I am in charge.  I know that we will be fine.  There is really honestly not a doubt in my mind that we will both survive this 4 day MOMMY-FEST relatively unharmed and only minimally emotionally drained.  And yet, the IDEA of not having backup around the house fills me with nothing short of complete and absolute dread.

Am I the only mother who feels this way?  Should I be committed?  Is it wrong that I depend so heavily on another person to keep the peace around here?  Do I need a body guard?

Parenting Fail?

Am I a terrible mom?  I try to stay on top of things.  I want my kid to eat well and get enough sleep and say please and thank you.  I want her to be smart and capable and independent and well-behaved.  And so far I have failed at all but the part about her being smart (assed) and independednt (3 going on 13). 

In trying to come to terms with just how to handle this problem of Lila being the sassiest little bitch on earth (yeah, I said it), the only thing I can come up with is that I am just too fucking tired to discipline her EVERY SINGLE TIME (which would literally be about 3 times per minute) that she does something that pisses me off. 

My kid yells at me.  She throws things and she refuses to eat.  Then she throws a huge asshole fit about the fact that she doesn't get any snacks because she refused to eat what I put in front of her (No, I don't give in and she still does not GET it). She refuses to poop on the toilet still and when I refused to buy any more pull ups, she held it for 4 days until it was so painful for her (even with the laxative) that she will probably never want to shit on the toilet again (thanks to the doctor for that award-winning advice).  She acts like an animal when we go to a store.  She manipulates me by crying and telling me she hates me (remind you, she is not a teenager - she's 3). 

In between the 3 minute hugs and the 2 and a half moments of happiness is all this SHIT.

I am at my wits end.  And all I can do is blog about it. 

Fucking kid.

Public schools here are pure evil and Day 9

I just want my kid to learn something when she goes to school.  This year we have her in a preschool we really like.  She goes 2 half days a week and LOVES it.  So next year we want her to go more.  Like every day.  But here's the thing - her school only offers 3 half days a week for 4 year olds.  Lila definitly needs more.  So we decided to try the city schools and see what's up.

My city has very good schools and very bad schools.  There is little in between.  We assumed that since we lived about 4 blocks (and over a hill) from one of the very good schools that Lila would be in the district for that school and we would have been a shoe in to get her into the pre-k program there.  So I called the district office.

Turns out that we are in the zoning for another school that is still less than a mile away but is more, shall we say, "urban" (it's in the ghetto).  It has no windows and is in a neighborhood where you can find crack at any hour of the day or night (seriously, I know because I grew up a few blocks over).  Not to mention that the scores are about half of what they are at the better, prettier school.

I would rather homeschool Lila than send her there.  That's a pretty strong statement because you all KNOW how much I just LOOOOVE spending several days in a row in the house just me and the kid...

The only other option is private school.  In our case, it means Catholic school, which I am not against because I did it and I KNOW I learned more than some of my public school friends.  But the cost...WHEW the cost!

More important is the absurdity that in the same city the PUBLIC schools that are less than a mile away from eachother vary THAT MUCH in the ability to educate the children.  I know it isn't about the teachers.  They do the best they can with what they have.  It's a bigger problem of the city not finding a better way to balance out the kids and the money to make sure that all the kids in the district, regardless of where they live, can go to a school that the parents (like me) can be comfortable with. 

I wonder why that woman in Ohio lied about her residence to get her kids into a better school?  I was thinking of doing the same. 

Moving on:

30 Days of Books Day 9 - A book you've read more than once:

My copy is underlined, dog eared, highlighted, starred and has comments in most of the margins.  I LOVE Kundera's stark scenes and philosophical look at the human condition.

Bing Shopping's description:

A young woman in love with a man torn between his love for her and his incorrigible womanizing; one of his mistresses and her humbly faithful lover -- these are the two couples whose story is told in this masterful novel. In a world in which lives are shaped by irrevocable choices and by fortuitous events, a world in which everything occurs but once, existence seems to lose its substance, its weight. Hence, we feel "the unbearable lightness of being" not only as the consequence of our pristine actions but also in the public sphere, and the two inevitably intertwine.

Day 7 and also a little rant

When I was growing up I had a friend (who we’ll call Britney to protect her identity and in case she is reading my blog) who refused to eat anything that wasn’t name brand. I would pull out the grocery store brand “W” cola and she would turn her nose up and tell me she’d just have water. She told me over and over how much better REAL Pop Tarts were compared to the generic ones that my mother bought and faked illness when my mother dared to offer her GENERIC PEANUT BUTTER sandwiches for lunch. But I liked Britney and we were friends even though I never owned name-brand sneakers or drank REAL Minute Maid orange juice. Somehow though, this ALWAYS made me feel inferior.

An artist's rendition of
my friend "Britney" as I
remember her.

Perhaps this is why I have refused to jump on the “organic foods” bandwagon. As far as I can tell, there is no point is serving Lila organic breakfast cereal, organic frozen dinners, organic cookies, organic yogurt, organic popcorn or pretty much any snack junk food that is labeled as organic.

First off, let me say that for this kind of stuff, the fact that it’s processed is far worse for her than the fact that it’s not organic. Processed foods have all the good stuff taken out and a bunch of other stuff put back in. These are not actually FOOD as people a hundred years ago would understand it, but more like “foodstuffs”, which is like food but with less actual nutrition involved. If Lila wants this stuff, (and because I want to choose my battles because she is a total fucking warrior who will win) she eats the generic stuff. And usually there is no generic organic stuff.

The second thing though, is more rooted in the mentality that I experienced as a kid. I don’t know if I believe that “organic” is necessarily any better quality than “name brand” is. I know there are a bunch of you out there who want to explain to me about chemicals and pesticides and nitrates and all kinds of other things, but truly, that was the same kind of argument the name brand girl gave me, telling me that the factories that make name-brand foods are cleaner and pass a higher standard than their generic counterparts.

Here’s the thing. I am worried that this is going to be a problem when Lila gets older and has her little friends over, just like it was to me. There are so many parents out there who would never let a “regular” apple touch their children’s lips and I worry that someday Lila will feel the same kind of inferiority that I did at the fact that her mom doesn’t buy into the bullshit marketing campaigns and that honestly, generic regular popcorn slathered in butter and salt is just as bad for you as name-brand organic popcorn slathered in hormone free butter and sea salt.

For the big stuff, I am on board. I like grass-fed meat better, I am all for not giving my kid hormone-filled milk and I truly think organic produce tastes better. But if it comes from a package and has a shelf-life of more than a couple of months, I just don’t buy it. And I just won’t BUY it.

.........................
30 Days of Books Day 7
A book that is hard to read

This could be taken two ways.  But my selection for this one made me have to stop because it was seriously disgusting me, which I am sure is NOT the intention of the author:

First off, I want to let you know that I watched the movie.  As bizarre and disturbing as the movie was, it was NO WHERE NEAR as fucked up as the book. It is NOT easy to upset my sensibilities but Bret Easton Ellis managed to completely destroy them.  I squirmed and gagged and finally gave up because it was so graphic and twisted that I wanted to slit my own throat. 

The writing is beautiful though and in some parts I was actually touched.  Like this passage:

"My personality is sketchy and unformed, my heartlessness goes deep and is persistent. My conscience, my pity, my hopes disappeared a long time ago if they ever did exist. There are no more barriers to cross. All I have in common with the uncontrollable and the insane, the vicious and the evil, all the mayhem I have caused and my utter indifference toward it. I have no surpassed. I still, though, hold on to one single bleak truth: no one is safe, nothing is redeemed"

But Ellis's ability to capture this character's total depersonalization was too much for me. 

A long slow death

I hated getting out of bed then.  I was about 13 and suffering from a pretty severe case of my own melancholy. Not the way normal teens did.  It was much, much worse.  But it was hard for her to notice.  Because of the way she just sat there.

I used to come down the stairs loudly, hoping it would make her snap out of it.  I thought that perhaps she would put on a show of being okay just for me.  She didn't.

Outside, the sky was always gray - a constant miserable bleakness that only seemed to make the kitchen more gloomy and unbearable than what it was.  I hated that time.

She always sat at the end of the kitchen table in her dark blue furry bathrobe.  It was old and worn in plenty of places and she usually had not washed yesterday's makeup off so her mascara would be smeared around her eyes.  She sat in the dark and held her head up with her right hand leaning closer to the wall, just in case she couldn't hold it any longer, I suppose.

She chain smoked with her left hand.  One cigarette after the other.  As I tried to work around her silence, I would rinse the coffee pot, trying to make some coffee for her so that she would seem more awake.  But she just sat there.  She wouldn't even move when I needed to get into the drawer behind her.  She'd just let the drawer hit her in the back. 

The tip would light bright fiery orange and she'd breathe in and hold.  As she stared straight ahead, she'd seem to relax a bit as she exhaled - a long soft sound that sent the smoke swelling out into the room and sent her back to being still for a few minutes until she suddenly put the thing back to her lips and started all over again in a simple, small, slowly choreographed motion.

She would sit there like this for hours.  Some days I wasn't allowed to turn the light on.  Other days she would just forget.  She would just sit there - sad and alone, silently contemplating some hurt that I had no way of comprehending and that she would never tell me for fear of accidentally passing that inertia on to me. 

The same way I fear I am going to accidentally pass it on to my own girl.  Like killing her slowly with secondhand smoke.

(written in response to the above photo as a prompt at the RedDressClub)

http://thereddressclub.blogspot.com/

Its' a "Fuck You" Friday!

There are no where near enough angry link ups out there. 

I am not going to sit here and pretend I have any idea how to do a link up or whatever, but I highly recommend that on Fridays, you take about 5 minutes and scroll a little note about something that happened this week and say to it "Fuck you...I'm on to my weekend."  I also want to say that I KNOW it's Thursday. But I really hope that you guys will join in because it's nothing if not totally liberating!  And if you want to leave a link to your blog saying that you did it (or are going to do it) in the comments section, please do.  OR do it on facebook. 




Fuck You Fridays photo courtesy of Johnny Cash.


Today's Fuck You Friday has to do with an old boyfriend turned buddy who I gave up on as a human being this past week.

Joe was one of those guys who I fell in love with when I was like 13 years old even though he was like 18 at the time.  He ignored me back then but as soon as I turned 18 we got together and did that whole "You're my soul mate" thing until he finally told me like 5 months later that: a) he had an 18 month old son by his last girlfriend and b) that he was going to go back to her so I should forget he ever existed.

Now, at 18 I am pretty stupid. I admit as much.  I would say that emotionally I definitely rode the short bus.  So when I run into him randomly, like, 9 times in the following 2 weeks, I am convinced that "the universe is obviously telling me something" so I hold my breath and just "know he'll come back to me."  I go on with my life and date (a billion) other guys but I always believe that some day we'd randomly meet up at some fruit stand in Morrocco just like they do in old movies and we'd fall in love and live happily ever after.  I told you I was a fucking idiot. 

A few years pass and we meet up again.  This time he claims he has left that bitch for good and did all the things he was supposed to do to keep contact with his kid and minimum drama with her (custody arrangements and all that).  So I think "now's the time!  We'll be together forever," right?  WRONG.  First he fucked some awful fat girl who I THINK is my friend but turns out to be a whore.  Then he tells me about how there's this "young chick" at his work who keeps (and I quote) "sticking her ass in my face".  I tell him he's an asshole and think that if I avoid him for a few days to prove how angry I am he will feel bad and come running back.  It doesn't work.

When I try to call him a week later, the phone number is disconnected.  I go to his apartment and it's empty. I stop by his work and it turns out he quit.  That fucker vanished into thin air. 

But dumb me, I run into him again and again and every time he professes his undying love to me and then would end up going back to the girlfriend with the ass gone wild.  At one point, he moves into my apartment for a few weeks and when the larger apartement downstairs opens up, he tells me to tell the landlord we're going to take it.  He never shows up to give the landlord the security deposit and again disappears into thin air.

Around this time I become aware that he is seriously using drugs.  Bad drugs. Crack, Heroin, Meth.  I feel so sad and helpless to do anything for him.  Soon after this, I move to Arizona, start intensive psychotherapy and begin to understand just how fucked up the whole situation actually is.  I plan a trip back to Syracuse and a week before my trip he magically finds me on the internet.  He tells me he is fresh out of rehab and would love to see me when I come home. I tell him that's awesome since I happen to have some things to tell him!  I go to see him and tell him that he's an asshole for treating me like some stop-gap for half of my life, and that he can basically go fuck himself.  I don't give him a chance to respond.  I drive away feeling like I did the right thing.

Three years later I move back.  I am in Wal Mart (of all God-awful places) in my sweats and I run into him.  He looks awful but tells me he's been clean since the last time I saw him.  He still looks at me the way he used to and I realize now why I always fell for his bullshit.  I try to make small talk and he lays into me about how much I hurt his feelings that day and how he hasn't been able to get me out of his head since then.

I fucking feel bad for some reason.  But I am honest.  I have a family now.  I have a guy who is everything he never was.  I would never leave them and I would never take him back.  He is okay with this.  I tell him to keep in touch and we do on the Facebook.

One day he wants to see me and we meet for coffee and he looks like total shit.  I suspect he's using agian but he swears he's not and he tells me about his latest girlfriend and how she got pregnant on purpose and he just "isn't feeling it" and so they ended it amicably but now he is seeing a new girl.  He tells me she's 21, which is young because he's almost 40.  I laugh and offer him my advice which I know he won't follow. But I tell him the truth.  He's an idiot.  He needs to get his shit together and stop hooking up with dumb chicks and making babies.  I am brutally honest and it makes him irritated with me. There is no weirdness.  No sexual tension.  We are friends and I am fine with this.

A few weeks later I find out from a mutual friend that he OD'd on something or other and was in the hospital for a few days and is now going to rehab.  I feel awful.  Could I have helped him?  Was he trying to kill himself?  He must have been so sad!  Why wasn't I more understanding?  Why do I always have to tell people exactly what I think?

When he gets out I call him and I see him and he tells me that him and his girlfriend are trying to have a baby.  That her parents are okay with his age, which prompts me to comment on her being 21.  He tells me she's 18.  And that they're in love and they're going to get married.

I laugh.  "Really?" I say.  Because obviously LOVE is all that matters.  I tell him that he is in NO POSITION to be making this kind of decision and that no child should have to suffer with a young and obviously insane mother and a junky father.  He tells me he is in love.  I tell him that he already has 3 kids by 3 different women and that never worked out to keep them together.  He tells me he's in love.  I tell him that if he really loves her he would let this fresh out of high school child go out and figure things out and not try to tie her down with a fucking kid because after all, he IS the adult.  He tells me he's in love.  I tell him his son is a year older than his girlfriend.  He tells me he's in love.

He doesn't get it.  He refuses to even acknowledge that the facts are correct.  He just keeps telling me that he is in love with her and wants to marry her.  I get mad.  Then he makes a stupid statement.  He says "I am going to marry her.  So speak now or forever hold your peace."  And it fucking hits me.

He wants me to beg him not to do it.  Not just because it's stupid but he wants me to beg him to be with ME!  HAH!  I laugh.  Is he fucking insane?  Is he seriously fucked up?  I know the answer is yes.

So I tell him that he's on his own.  I refuse to worry about him anymore.  He obviously has no concern for himself and has no interest in functioning like a normal person.  I tell him to knock himself out: go smoke some crack, knock up some 12 year olds, and sleep under a fucking bridge.  I tell him that I am done and that I was fucking stupid to think that we could be friends because the old pattern of "I beg for you, you choose someone else" is like a drug in itself for him.  He thought I would fall right back into that role.

But the truth is that when I saw how fucked up and ugly the drugs and misery he chooses has made him, I was no longer even remotely interested.  That part of me who felt anything like a lover to him is dead and buried.  I only wanted him to be okay in the way that I would want anyone I have known for (I can't believe I am going to say this) 20 years to be okay.  I want him to choose fucking happiness.  To make a decision that isn't completely fucking self destructive.  But he thinks I still want to fuck him. 

And for that, Joe- for that I say a big, long-time-coming

FUCK YOU!!!

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.

Thank you, captain obvious...

When did shit that is completely obvious become "news"?  Today I opened up my interwebs to find this fucking brilliant headline shocking me to attention:

Parenting can take a toll on health, study shows

Oh, really?  Tell me more!!! 
 
Health declines, particularly in moms, due to poor diet and less exercise.

My kid's idea of a balanced meal:  all the colors are there!

First off, I am shocked that it took this long for any science-y person to look around and think to themselves, "Is it just me or do mom's seem to age like 15 years in the first 5 years of their children's lives?"  Part of my not really being particularly desperate to pop a baby out had to do with the simple observation that the mothers I saw around me (not including assholes like Angelina Jolie or Kelly Ripa who can pop out 12 kids in 6 months and be back on the beach in someplace like Bali in their bikinis the next month) did not look good.  They were fat.  They were tired.  They looked pale and/or greasy.  In fact, I theorized that that glorious "glow" that pregnant women had was like the big finale at the fireworks show.  They'd never have that youthful vitality again.

Kelly Ripa on her way
home from the hospital
after the birth of her 3rd
baby.

So onto the obvious details.  As soon as I had my kid, I lost all ability to function for myself.  When she was a newborn, I never ate.  I certainly never slept.  Hell, I didn't shower. The life upheaval involved in having a baby is as stressful as the death of your former self and no one looks good when they're grieving.  I had a child that I was convinced was probably the Anticrhist because her only goal seemed to me to push me to murder.  She cried non-stop for about 6 months (that's how I remember it).  And the doctors all just said, "it's colic.  She'll out- grow it".  Well you know what?  I didn't.  I never got over it. 

As she got older, she took on the attitude of "if Mommy is standing, then I need to try harder," and her entire purpose seemed to be to wear me out.  From the running around, to climbing all over me, to demanding 4 different drinks because each one was "wrong", to refusing to eat anything I put in front of her, to needing to change her clothes 6 times because of one spot of water, to never sleeping through the night until she was 3; everything she did was designed specifically to make me into a zombie.
 
Who can exercise when they can barely get out of bed?  And who the hell are these mothers who work all day and come home and find it possible to spend an hour making a nutritious (and organic and meat-free) meal that their kids will just love rather than just throwing a frozen pizza into the oven? 
Fuck those moms. 

More importantly, besides the "news" that this study reveals and common-sense advice (because don't we all KNOW what we SHOULD be doing?) to take better care of ourselves, this article DOES offer one useful suggestion.  Unfortunately, it is buried at the very end of the article and as far as I can tell has not been repeated in subsequent articles that have been posted on the web:

...Berge said she hopes that the results will push health care providers to pay additional attention to parents.

Community initiatives could also be part of a solution, she said.

“You can’t extend the hours in the day, but by working with others in the neighborhood we can make sure that the parents are taking care of themselves, too..."

Shit..If I had a village of nannies (or even just a village of Mommy friends), I am sure I would have more time to shower and exercise and eat well too. 

To me, this "study" was simply a piece of information that serves absolutely no purpose except to remind me of how unhealthy I am.  Because realistically, until my kid goes off to college or at least becomes a bit more agreeable than the pain in the ass preschooler that she is now, I will likely continue to be too emotionally and physically drained to bother with the necessary chores of meal planning, local vegetable buying and hour-long daily workouts that would be required to get me even remotely into a condition that can be considered healthy.

Because playing WII bowling with my kid while chomping on Goldfish crackers is just not going to cut it.

The Seven Deadly Sins of Motherhood: ENVY

I was browsing the library during a break yesterday and came across a series of books exploring the philosophical representations of the Seven Deadly Sins.

Having grown up Catholic and attending Catholic School and always being kind of fascinated by the concepts of the faith (if not actually practicing any of them), I came home and began thinking about how fucked I am if there is actually a heaven and hell. 

For me, it is easy to see how the Seven Deadly Sins run rampant in my life.  And so I have decided to explore the idea of the Seven Deadly Sins and how I am guilty of each of them in relation to my imperfect mothering.  Additionally, it occurred to me just how much a role all of these things appear to play in my current mental state, which is not good. 

The easiest one for me is where I am starting.  But I intend to explore them all in more or less depth in the weeks to come.

ENVY:

Envy - The desire for others' traits, status, abilities, or situation.


I have a serious ENVY problem. Not that I don’t have enough in my life. I do. I have a roof over my head, a warm bed to sleep in and a child who is healthy and functioning. I have a lot to be grateful for and a lot that other people would love to have.

I ENVY “normal” mothers. Now, before you go yelling at me about how “normal” is subjective, hear me out. I have zero desire to be one of the supermoms. I have accepted the part of myself that just doesn’t care about having a spotless house and hosting 8 playdates a month and likes to do fantastical crafts that end up in the pages of Martha Stewart Living. I truly don’t think those mothers are the normal (and perhaps they are slightly insane) and so that isn’t what I am talking about.

I ENVY normal mothers.  I want to be normal, in that I don’t feel like I am drowning in my own self-absorbed misery all the time.  I want to wake up feeling like I can face the day without collapsing from exhaustion before dinner. I want to not snap at my kid when she’s doing normal (annoying) three year old stuff. I want to not lose my temper and break down into crying jags over spilled chocolate milk on a blanket that can be simply thrown into the wash. I want to not feel like I have to pep talk myself just to take a shower. I want to care that my legs haven’t been shaved in months and that my hair hasn’t been out of a ponytail since 2007. I want to actually have some desire to play with Lila, even when I really just sit there and let her orchestrate whatever activity we’re supposed to be doing. I want to not feel like grocery shopping takes so much energy that I literally need a nap when I come home. I want to not have to fake migraines so that I can hide in my bed as soon as her father gets home. I want to be able to do more than one thing in a given day. I want my kid to think I am okay and not to worry about whether she has done something to make me feel sad all the time.

I know that other moms out there can do these things, and that they only feel that way when they have the flu and even then they manage to at least make dinner. I have seen them and heard from them in their comments on my blog. I ENVY that they can do all these things and I have been unable to find anything that helps to pull me out of this for more than a few weeks at a time. I ENVY that their kids seem happy and look well-rested. I ENVY that they don’t have dark circles under their eyes after getting a full night’s sleep. Hell, I ENVY the fact that they sleep!

I ENVY that they know how to do a time out. I ENVY that their kids go to bed without them and without having to be told 400 times to stay still and go to sleep. I ENVY that they don’t worry excessively that they their children are going to be fucked up and insane because everyone in their families is. I ENVY that they manage to function.

Saturday Shitlist

I spent a lot of time tooling around the interwebs this week and thanks to #1, I really found a minimal amount of things to put on the list this week.  Feel free to add your own.  I will even give you a grade for participation!

1. The Cold Virus or the Flu, whatever the hell this shit is.  It LOOKS like a cold- all coughs and sneezes, but it FEELS like the Flu, in that I am so exhausted and miserable that I called in sick to work and haven't left the house since Tuesday. 

2. Harry Hunters.  Jesus H. Christ on a crutch! Have you seen these assholes?  (If not, read this )
Yeah, you're going to find Prince fucking Harry and marry him by stalking him for several weeks before his brother's wedding.  I am sure he'd be thrilled to marry some slutty American chick who has a stash of postcards of him and his brother rubber banded together and shoved in her bra. 

I think Harry said it best:

Good luck ladydouches.

3. The entire world.  Has everyone gone fucking crazy?  Because I thought that crazy was my domain.

Hot off the runway for Summer '11.

4. My local community health center.  For adding an large dollop of stress onto my already thoroughly thinly stretched finances and still not managing to cure me.  It's bad enough that I don't have health insurance and have to sit in the ghetto-ass waiting room but then you can't even get my paperwork right so I'm not billed $400 for a Thyroid test that I only got because you told me it was going to cost "next to nothing"?  AND you can't find the results!  FUCK YOU ASSHOLES!!!

5. Thomas the Tank Engine.  Wait a second!  I LOVE the NORMAL Thomas.  The simplicity of narrating a bunch of model trains around a neat little model city.  And two of my FAVORITE people on earth narrated!  FANTASTIC!  What I'm talking about is this bullshit computer animated, the trains all talk and have different voices bullshit.  Now it's just another lame cartoon.  And nothing even blows up!

And there was this.  Now it's a lame cartoon.

5. Old Navy's new annoying "Layer Player" bullshit commercial.  As I mentioned above, I have been sick in the house for several days and I don't have cable.  So on my 6 or so channels, I have seen this fucking commercial about 4,793 times.  I have broken down the dance moves in my mind.  They are playing it one every channel during every show.  No, really.  I refuse to embed it on my blog, but here's the link if you want to torture yourself with it:  LINKY

6. The Lottery Mega Millions $312 Million Jackpot.  I don't play the lottery because I am the unluckiest person I know.  But Ben did play and I would have been happy if he matched like 2 of the 6 numbers.  He played 10 different quick-picks.  You know how many of the final 6 numbers he had TOTAL on all his plays?  ONE.

The other reason I don't play the "numbers".
(If you don't get this one, you're not a Lostie)

7. Which reminds me, I am STILL FUCKING PISSED about the ending of Lost. 

Married?

So the other night we were out at Friendly's with my friend who has a 6 year old son named Louie.  He's adorable and Lila was laughing hysterically at all his knock knock jokes.  Louie let me know that on Valentine's day, he believes that he is supposed to pick a girl at school to marry.  He said he didn't really like any of the girls at school and so I told him "that's why we brought Lila here to see you! So you can marry her." 

Lila got DEADLY serious and turned white.  "I DON'T WANT TO GET MARRIED!  NEVER!"  We all laughed, of couse, and I said, "Smart Girl!" 

As you may or may not know, Lila's dad and I are not married.  We just haven't bothered. 

Then I got nervous.  Does Lila not know what marriage is about?  Does she think it's some awful thing? (it kind of is.)  Or is she just like me, not seeing the purpose?

Throwing fits like an asshole.

I am the Mommy.  I am in charge.  I do not put up with the kid's tantrums.  I will send her little ass to bed.  But I seriously DREAD having to tell her to do anything because I just don't want the fight.  And that little asshole totally knows it. 

Everyone tells me that if I am firm and don't react too much to it, it will stop but since I became determined not to yell and scream and freak out at her, the anger is just building and I fear that I am going to slap her.  She is such a little bitch sometimes.

Tonight I made Daddy deal with it.

Because Kids Can Be Assholes Too.

I really enjoy my days off.  Thoroughly.  I like sitting at home.  I like watching TV.  I like spending quiet peaceful time doing nothing and maybe even taking a shower.  But my one weekday each week that I don't work I spend with Lila. And in order to keep from losing my mind, I try to find something to do that she will enjoy that doesn't involve me sitting on the couch with the inter-webs open all day.

Lila loves books and the library and she knows everyone who works at the small branch library near our house so she is always thrilled when I tell her we are going to go to story time.  Yesterday, when I asked her if she wanted to go, she was all thrilled and excited and sang a song about how she was going to pick out some books and hang out with Mrs. Barbara, the story time librarian.  I told her what time it started and what time I would be getting her dressed.  I gave her a five minute warning so that she would be "finished" playing. 

About 30 minutes before the start of story time I called upstairs to her.  "Lila, it's time to come on down so we can get ready to go."  I got no answer.  So I went upstairs.  She was in her room playing with her dollhouse and I called her name.  She ignored me.  So I turned around and said, "well, we don't HAVE to go to story time.  We can stay here and you can play if you want to." 

It seemed innocent enough but she lost her mind at this.  First she started whining.  When I told her to stop whining she started to scream and throw a fit.  I talked calmly to her explaining that story time is starting at 10 am whether we are there or not, so if we want to go we have to get ready to go NOW.  She started her wild flailing around screaming "I DON'T WANT TO GET READY RIGHT NOW!" to which I simply said, "Fine, Lila.  You can stay here and throw a fit then.  Let me know when you're done."  She was kicking ans screaming and throwing herself on the floor.  Then she hit her head on her dresser and started crying, so I went back in and attempted to calm her down.  We talked again, and again I explained that if she wants to go to story time she needed to get dressed and we had to get going.  I explained that this was her CHOICE to either stay and play OR get ready and go to story time.  She simply said, "NO".  At least three times, I attempted to calm her down and explain the situation, but each time I only got more attitude and sass. 

She was getting more and more upset and I was getting more and more frustrated.  I realized that the best thing to do was to put her in her room, close the door and walk away.  So I did.  She came out screaming (tantrum-ing) and I told her to get her ass back into her room because I was getting angry, but she started screaming, "I WANT TO GO TO STORY TIME NOW!!!" over and over and over. 

"That little asshole," I thought.  "I'm taking HER somewhere where SHE wants going to have fun.  What the hell am I fighting with her for?  She totally doesn't understand that this is something I couldn't care less about.  And yet, she is creating this fucking scene and I am falling for it.  And I am a terrible parent because I have no idea how to handle the situation and show her that I am the mother and I am only doing this FOR HER..."

So I lost it.  I started yelling at her that she was being a total brat and there was no way I was taking her to story time now that she was behaving so badly.  She cried and cried and cried and screamed and threw a fit, and somehow all of this seemed too much for me so I went into my bedroom, slammed the door, and the floodgates opened and I found myself sobbing.  "We're not fucking going and it's NOT my fault," I cried to myself.  Somehow I felt guilty that I couldn't control her and keep it together and just make it possible to get her dressed to take her to story time. 

After a few minutes, I heard my door creak open.  I hadn't noticed that she had stopped crying and was listening to me.  She crept in and I tried to dry my face.  But she knew.  I turned to look at her and saw her panic stricken and scared and then that expression changed and she said, "you're making me cry..." and she started crying and hugging me. 

So in the aftermath, I explained to her that from this point on, if we are going to do something fun and she throws a fit and doesn't listen, we simply will not do it.  But I swear, spanking or slapping would probably work better.  When I was a kid, if I ever acted like that, I would have been slapped in the mouth and then I would have knocked that shit off after a minute or two and we could get the hell on with our plans.  Why is parenting such bullshit nowadays?  And why do I feel it's necessary to take her anywhere if she is such an asshole about it?

I know nothing about children

Seriously.  I am an idiot when it comes to small humans.  I had no younger siblings, I didn't do a whole lot of babysitting as a teenager, and I was never one of those people who just LOVED children.  It was actually quite a surprise to me that I would even have one.

The other night, we all went out to eat and Lila was complaining that her "mouth hurt".  It's a pretty vague complaint and since she just sat there and whined and refused to eat and also refused to elaborate in any way about exactly WHAT hurt, I just ignored her and kept telling her to eat her (Goddamned) dinner.  We got home and she was tired and miserable so I gave her some Tylenol and put her to bed.  She was up all night being miserable and crying.  She threw up once and I thought, "Maybe she has a stomach bug."  I slept with her and let her kick and nudge me all night.  Neither of us got much sleep which sucks because I am battling my own sinus infection that just will not go away.

First thing in the morning, I decided to give her a bath.  She was fevery and refused to eat breakfast or take Tylenol and I truthfully just wanted her to stop whining for a few minutes.  When I got her shirt off, I realized that she was BRIGHT RED.  Seriously.  Her whole torso, front and back looked like she spent 3 hours out in the sun.  It was JUST her torso and the back of her neck and I thought it felt warm so I figured it must just be from the fever.  After a 20 minute bath (where she informed me that she felt MUCH better) the redness didnt even begin to subside, even though her skin was no longer hot. 

Her back was like the middle one, her
front was like the one on the right..
and bumpy-ish.

I dried her off and thought, "wow.  Her skin sure is dry.  I better put some lotion on it."  A few minutes later, she was crying and miserable again and still refused to eat anything. I started to think that MAYBE the bright red skin and the sore throat might be somehow connected so I called the doctor requesting a call back just to ask about it. 

When the nurse called me back, I told her about the lack of appetite, the fever, the "mouth hurting" and the fact that she was bright red.  The nurse asked if her skin felt scaly or sandpapery and I said, "why yes..but it's just dry."  She told me to bring Lila in right away...she probably has Scarlet Fever and a Strep Infection. 

I was suddenly the worst mother on Earth.  Lila has a STREP INFECTION and STREP THROAT and I was just writing it off as "not feeling good."

Part of this I chalk up to my lack of knowledge of childrens' illnesses, and part of it I assume is because although I am a hypochondriac, rationally I know that most of the time it's nothing.  But what I really blame this oversight on is the fact that I have no health insurance.  When you don't have insurance, there are only two options.  Either you go to the terrifying health clinics that are located in the worst parts of town or you wait until you are near death to make a doctors appointment.  On a Saturday, when the clinics aren't open, you tend to do the latter.  And you rationalize this decision by telling  yourself, "I'm sure it's nothing".

You will be happy to know that LITERALLY 24 hours after starting her antibiotics, Lila is acting like nothing ever happened.  She is eating and playing and tellling me "I don't feel sick anymore today."  Later on, I am going to take her for ice cream.

The Shitter.

"According to Freud, success at this stage is dependent upon the way in which parents approach toilet training. Parents who utilize praise and rewards for using the toilet at the appropriate time encourage positive outcomes and help children feel capable and productive. Freud believed that positive experiences during this stage served as the basis for people to become competent, productive and creative adults. "

-My kid is obviously fucked.


What my kid sees when she has to poop.

Lila is potty trained.  Mostly.  Several months ago with the help of a personal potty chart and some stickers, Lila threw aside the confines of baby diapers and a little 9-inch high potty chair for the big time.  She peed on the regular toilet.  From that day forward, she was very proud of her self restraint when she felt that "pee thing" coming and with hardly a single accident (except once when we were out at a restaurant and she didn't like the auto-flush mechanism) she joined the ranks of those of us who MUST sit to pee.

Now, let me reiterate that I swore up and down before the kid came that I would NEVER, EVER, be one of those people who talked about their kid's excretions.  But I swear, when you have them you just cannot help yourself.

Lila refuses to poop on the potty.  When I started the mission of getting her to stop sitting around with shit and piss in her pants, I expected some setbacks.  But there was nothing immediately.  I stopped putting her in pull-ups and let her wear her princess (or Dora or Tinkerbell or whatever) panties except for overnights, and she was fine with that.  Until the 3rd day, when she finally HAD to poop.

She asked for a pull up.  My instant reaction was to drag her to the bathroom and set her on the toilet and give her some books and tell her to work it out (no pun intended) on her own.  After about 15 minutes she started crying because she couldn't make it happen and begged for a pull up.  So I put one on her.  I consulted the Internet (because honestly, where else does anyone get guidance anymore?) and read that you should absolutely NOT get into a power struggle about it, and that in a few weeks, she'll be ready and will just do it herself.

For nine months now, Lila has refused to crap sitting on the toilet.  Every now and then (usually when I am on my last pull up and don't want to spend the cash to buy more) when she asks to put a pull-up on so that she can poop, I will suggest that she sit on the potty for a little while and see what happens.  But she has made it clear that even though she will sit there, she WILL NOT poop without a pull-up on.  We have tried emptying her poop into the toilet and although she thinks its fun, she will not deposit it directly from her ass to the toilet under any circumstances.  And although I have told her that she must at least poop in the bathroom, and she will sit on the toilet with a pull up on, she will not poop until I let her get up. 


If the cat can do it, my kid can too!


My pediatrician told me that her own daughter did this for a while.  Once the child started waking up in the morning with dry diapers consistently, she just stopped buying them.  She explained that the kid had a choice - she could poop on the toilet or she could go in her pants.  No one would yell at her but she would have to help clean it up.

So a few nights ago, when Lila declared that she was ready to sleep in her panties because she was big and wouldn't pee during the night, I let her  She did great.  And has done so for the last 5 nights.  She told me she was proud of herself and I told her I was proud of her too!  We called Grandma and she continues to tell every person we see.

The next time Lila told me she needed to poop, she asked for a pull-up again.  And I told her that the pull-ups are gone and she would have to go on the toilet like a big girl.  Lila cried.  But I gave her a pep talk and assured her that she would be fine.  We went into the bathroom and she tried.  Nothing happened.  She told me she knew it was right there but couldn't make it come out. I sat with her for 20 minutes.  I tried to get her to do visualizations.  I tried to distract her.  I made her take deep breaths.  I tried to make it a game.  Nothing worked. 

The pediatrician also told me that once you make the decision to take away the pull-ups, you SHOULD NOT go back on it. She said that if the kid holds it, then after a couple of days, give her a laxative and make magic happen.  So I told Lila that she can try again later and she begged for a pull-up.  But I was determined. 

Later that day we tried again.  Nothing.  The next morning she came to ME saying she was ready to try the potty again and so we did.  As she sat there it was obvious that she was proud of herself and I saw in her eyes the determination to make me proud too.a  But after about 15 minutes it was obvious nothing was going to happen.  She said she still had to go, that she could feel it, but she felt scared.  I gave her the usual, "there's nothing to be scared of" chat.  She asked for a pull-up and I said I didn't have any.  She started to cry.  Not a real cry, but a whiny "give me my way" kind of cry.  I held my ground.  I told my mother (who would be watching her for the day) to hold hers as well.  Lila begged for a pull up and the more she did that, the more mad I got.  This is something that kids her age do.  They beg and hassle and whine until you give in, and then they continue to manipulate you until you have no control over them anymore.  I would not be that parent.  We got her dressed and she told me her belly hurt and I told her she HAS to poop ON THE POTTY when she gets to Grandma's house.

A few hours later my mother called me.  Immediately she started in on me.  "Lila's belly hurt and she couldn't go on the toilet so I let her go to the bathroom in a pull-up and it hurt her so bad that she cried and she wouldn't let me hold her or go near her and I think there was a tiny bit of blood...I can't believe you made her hold it for 3 days!"  "First off," I said, "it wasn't 3 days.  It was 2 days and that isn't abnormal for her".  I tried to explain what the doctor told me.  My Mother explained that Lila was scared that I would find out that she went in her pull-up because she thought I was going to get mad at her.  My mother said Lila cried about that too.  And that was after the most traumatic shit anyone has ever taken by a person (I added that last flourish. My mother only IMPLIED that part).  My mother also told Lila that it only hurt because she held it for too long and that I should just let her have a pull-up when she asks for it.  Wow...Thanks for telling my kid how much I suck as a parent! And thanks for not allowing me to determine how I will proceed with these kinds of things.

But as the day wore on, the anger at my mother faded.  Now I was the worst mother in the world.  It wasn't that she was being a manipulative asshole, she was constipated and KNEW it was going to hurt.  The pressure from me trying to make her do what I wanted her too made it impossible and she suffered for it.  Plus, my poor kid thinks I am going to be mad at her for NOT being able to perform, and I am forcing an issue that every professional on earth (except obviously, for Lila's doctor) tells parents NOT to force.  And although everyone says "you never see adults who are afraid to poop on the potty walking around so she will obviously grow out of this," I cannot help but to imagine that Lila will always have some emotional scar because I tried to force her to shit on the toilet and instead she tore her ass out.  This will likely be the one thing that causes her to turn to teen sex, recreational drugs, and finally a career in porn.  I have ruined my kid forever.

That night as I left work, I felt horrible.  I thought she would be somber and mad and a little stand-offish.  I got to my mother's house to pick her up and I cautiously opened the door.  Lila's face lit up, and she ran to the door screaming and happy to see me as usual.  Apparently, she didn't even think about it and wasn't even slightly concerned that I had ruined her entire life.  Because I hadn't.  I talked to her about it but she kind of shrugged it off and when I told her we could try again the next time she felt it coming, she didn't seem nervous or upset but gave a smile and said, "Okay, as long as I can bring a book."