Baby Poop and Business Suits

One of the reasons why I'm consistently never nominated for a Mother of the Year Award

Kyra is now 4 1/2 years old, and in pre-school. The pre-school program is indeed very impressive - before she was enrolled, I assumed I'd send her to school and they'd sing songs and play with finger paints... ya know, PRE-SCHOOL STUFF.

But, oh no no no nonononono. To my naive-rookie-parent-adult surprise, (I have SO MUCH to learn) they do a little bit of that baby pre-school stuff, but mostly, they learn the the-real-deal-school-stuff, such as:

1) all of their letters, upper case and lower
2) the sound each letter makes
3) how to write each letter
4) numbers 1 through (I dunno, something surprisingly high)
5) and other impressive stuff like the correct way to use the word "actually", how to zip their own damn coats, and plenty more things that I fail as a parent to teach because I'm too busy doing dishes or smoking crack or whatever it is that I'm doing instead of spending quality time with my child.

So any way, Kyra is learning how to write real words and letters. And here, my story continues:

Yesterday, as Niko was napping, I was doing some work on the computer and plopped my dear daughter in front of cartoons (to her delight!) as I do many days lately, it seems.

(Yes, I hate TV, too. And yes, I know children watch too much of it. Trust me. I am the queen anti-TV activist, and, obviously, a hypocrite).

After about an hour and a half of me on the computer, and my kid in front of the TV, she walks up to me and hands me a note. "Oh? What's this?" I wonder. I look at it for a second, and it didn't quite register.

Mag... Na.. LOY? Mag... Na.. VOT?

Oh.

Oh, yes. Just like on the front of the TV. RIGHT below the screen.

Funny!

Ouch.

And The Parenting Adventure Continues...

Okay, all ye parents out there who at one time have royally screwed up or have a bad parenting story to tell... Step aside, please. I think I have just one-upped all of you.

I knew I was not an award-winning mother just a few short weeks after Kyra was born. We were new parents. We had just brought a new baby home. There was a learning curve, you see...

How nervous I was back then. So many new things to learn. At the hospital the nurse showed us the step-by-step process of bathing a newborn infant, and when I brought the baby home I re-enacted her sponge bath example on my child: I very carefully took a washcloth and wiped the eye area. I sponged down her hair. I dabbed rubbing alcohol around the black stub that was soon to be a bellybutton ever so carefully. I applied petroleum jelly to the diaper area, to prevent a rash, just as the nurse had suggested. I thought I was doing so well! That was, until one afternoon when my dear husband Jeremy was bathing our new baby.

"GERAH. GET UP HERE!" he yelled from the baby's room. (As a rule of thumb, this man does not yell.) As I walked up the stairs and entered the room, he was standing over the baby on the changing table. He slowly turned and looked at me with eyes that said, "What have you done, you evil woman?"

"Look at this." he continued.

As I walked toward the baby, he lifted her arm. Underneath the arm was a roll of skin. He spread the baby-fat-roll, and as he did, an odor I'd prefer not to remember escaped the crack. He continued to hold the fat roll apart and I could not believe what I saw. It was red. It was festering. It was a baby roll I had forgotten to clean under for weeks. There were so many wrinkles and rolls, how could I get every one!!??? I was so ashamed.

That's just one story, dear internets.

I also remember back to the time we began using sippy cups and, as a rookie parent, I didn't yet know you have to take out the little plastic spill stoppers to clean them at the time you clean the actual cups and lids. While at my mother-in-laws one evening, I noticed her spill stoppers, cups and lids were separated in the dishwasher. I quickly grabbed Kyra's sippy cup from her hands, and took out the plastic piece to find black, gooey mold. My child had been sipping mold along with her apple juice for weeks.

And then there was the hot summer day when my best friend and I loaded up the car after a day at the beach, strapped our young babies in their car seats, loaded up the trunk, and then realized the keys were sitting in the front seat and all the doors of my friends brand new car were shut and locked. Forty five minutes or so, two panicked mothers, one passed out baby, and a nervous policeman who stated "THESE WINDOWS ARE REPLACEABLE. THOSE TWO BABIES ARE NOT!" later, I once again felt like the worst mom on the planet.

So. All of these stories are NOT GOOD. But my most recent bad mom tale is just BAD BAD BAD BAD BAD. Some of you may remember the post about Kyra's white trash loveys... I'm talking about fabric softener sheets. The ones that come out of the dryer with the laundry. My two and a half year old has recently has become so obsessed with dryer sheets that she can't leave the house without one. (When we put on her mittens, she insists we stuff a dryer sheet INSIDE HER MITTEN so she can touch it while her mittens are on.) She sleeps with one and wakes up in the middle of the night panicked if she can't find it. She brings one to daycare. She holds them to her face and makes euphoric expressions while doing it and rubs the dryer sheets with her thumb and forefinger.

It's just weird.

Up until last night, we just laughed about it and thought, yes, it needs to stop eventually - I don't know if she'll attract many friends with a dryer sheet once she enters kindergarten...

But then, yesterday my mother phoned and said, "Have you ever considered the fact that fabric softener sheets might have some sort of chemicals on them that are addictive? Maybe THAT'S why Kyra acts so strangely and obsessive about them."

So, while Jeremy was putting our little dear to bed last night, I did a Google search:

"fabric softener sheets addictive"

And then I nearly cried. For what I found was nearly 72,700 website entries with information about the toxic chemicals in fabric softeners, the Neurostimulants used in these products produce an addictive-type response, warnings that fabric softener sheets may irritate skin, ESPECIALLY IN YOUNG CHILDREN AND BABIES, and contains multiple ingredients on the E.P.A.’s Hazardous Waste List...

Etcetera,

etcetera,

etcetera.

Think I'm exaggerating? Go here, or here.

In summary, I AM A GREAT BIG JERK of a parent. And from now on, if there are any chemical addictions to be had in THIS HOUSE, it's crack cocaine only.

That was a joke.

Here are some of this year's Christmas photo attempts that just didn't make the final cut due to the fact that there is a fabric softener sheet included in them:

 

Now I Understand Why Children Get Abused

This is the most horrible thing to have to say. But it's true.

The last week has been a troubling one. My perfect sleeper-"Night Night Mama! Wuv You!"-dream child has turned into a raving lunatic at bedtime and she's taking her parents along to looney-land with her.

Last week she leapt/crawled/dangled/shimmied her way out of her crib on her own while I was downstairs without breaking a leg or neck, and at that moment I realized it's time to make the transition to the Big Girl Bed.

The first night in the toddler bed was heaven. Except that she fell out in the middle of the night cause her parents are big morons and didn't put any railings on it. Falling out must have tramatized her so much that the next night, she refused to sleep in her room.

"NO WANT TO BED." she proclaimed, after our usual bubble bath and storytime ritual.

"C'mon, honey, it's time for night-night." I'd suggest.

"NO. WANT. TO." she glared back at me, as if saying, "Don't mess with me, woman. When I tell ya NO WANT TO, I mean NO WANT TO."

And then the battle of wills began. For the next five nights from approximately 7:30 p.m. until 10:30 p.m., or until both parents and/or child cave in from pure exaustion and frustration, the scene in our home's upstairs was NOT A PLEASANT ONE.

The couple of hours at night after Kyra goes to sleep are pretty much me and Jeremy's only time of the day to relax. I look forward to this time, oh boy, do I ever. And I'll tell you - at 7 or so weeks pregnant I'm feeling like a big pile of nauseous, exausted, shit by the time evening rolls around and CRAVE a moment to kick my feet up at the end of the night. These moments are now non-existent.

Basically, the child now refuses to go to sleep in her own bed. We've now finally got rails on the bed. We went out and bought fun, pretty sheets and pillows. I read her stories. We sing lullabys in bed. I show her how soft her new pillow is, and how one's head goes squish! right into it. I ask her to go to sleep nicely. I begin to demand she goes to bed. Then I begin to plead. And finally, I break down and cry.

How does one convince a two year old to sleep in a bed of which they can get out? Do I get a lock for her door? A shock collar? I've even thought about borrowing my parent's crate that they used while house-training their golden retreiver. Would a crate work for a stubborn as nails two year old human?

The last two nights ended okay due to me allowing her to come into our bed and read bedtime stories, and then I lay there with her while she falls asleep. I realize this is not the best habit to get into.

I'll take any parenting advice that anyone will give. Jeremy and I are both at our wit's end and I don't want to end up on Oprah or Dr. Phil either because my kid has turned into an evil uncontrollable demon and I don't know what to do about it, or because one of us has murdered her. Okay, that's just sick to say, and we ARE NOT going to murder our sweet baby, but, oh my god I've never known frustration and anger like I knew the other night.

Again, all of my assumptions about parenting and my notions about other parents and how they control their children have been flushed down the toilet. I now claim to know nothing, besides how to breastfeed and do a hell of a hokey pokey (and shake it all about). This bedtime war stuff is all new to me. I'm at a loss.

Help. Please. Help.

Mommy Needs A Straightjacket

Okay, I know I'm beginning to sound like a broken record here, but, today was a rough one. Working isn't working.

Kyra broke out in some strange rash yesterday with pussy **CORRECTION. PUS-ee. Like pus.** splotches and developed a sudden fever. I gave her some Tylenol, put some Caladryl on the red marks, and put her to bed as usual. My mom called after Kyra was in bed to see how she was doing and I told her what was happening. "You'd better get yourself to bed right now, too. It could be a long night for you." "Bah!" I thought. "Kyra won't wake up. She's not that sick. Plus, she's a SLEEPER."

Boy was I wrong.

Just as I had begun to drift off to dreamyland in my own cozy little beddybye, I awoke to the sick crying baby sound in the monitor.

11:30 p.m. - It had begun.

The rest of the night consisted of Jeremy and I taking turns drifting off, waking up, rocking the sick child, applying cold washcloths, rocking more, drifting off again, waking up again, and then listening to a delirious baby in the monitor yell things like "FISH FOOD!" and "WHEEEEE!!!!!!"

She was talkin' crazy talk. Fevers do strange things.

By 4:30 a.m. or so, I had worked my sleepless self up into a hysterical nervous mom sobbing session. Not only was I frustrated that I had a sick child again, but I had to work in the morning and I had not slept a wink. You know, work -  show up and speak in complete sentences and look normal and talk to clients. There was no way I could do this with NO SLEEP. I continued to get more sobby. My poor husband not only had to deal with a sick baby, (and yes, he had to work in the morning, too) - but now he had to deal with me. A puffy-eyed sleep-deprived wreck.

I'll sum up this story because I'm tired. I did not go to work today. My husband and I brought Kyra to the ER in the early morning and she was having some sort of allergic reaction to something. Dunno what. Just something.

I have been a depressed frantic mess this entire day. The lack of sleep does not help, but I am seriously wondering if I need some mental help here. I do not want to be medicated. I just don't know what to do. Why can other mothers handle this stuff so much better? I just feel like a crazy wimp who needs a padded room.

Thing is, I'm usually a quite happy person. It's just that - times like these seem to be becoming more frequent, and I FLIP OUT. Depressed people are other people, not me. How can I be depressed? What do I have to be depressed about?

And my husband handles it all so well. He doesn't cry, he doesn't flip. He just does what needs to be done and doesn't make a big deal out of it. And he's stuck with me.

And then, as he left crazy momma and the baby this morning after the ER experience to go work, he turned to me as he neared the door and said, "Happy Anniversary."

Uuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuugh. Fist to the gut. I completely forgot. Not such a happy anniversary after all.

Well, enough of the whining. Tomorrow is a new day, and, life goes on.

...AND, on a brighter note: Today, Kyra and I were watching The Muppet Show (one of her new (my old) favorites) and she turned to me, smiled, and said, "Wocka! Wocka! Wocka!"

Oh, crazy mommy's so proud. She is truly my child.

The Death of a Career Woman

Today is one of those days where it seems the forces of nature are working against me. It's as though who ever is in charge is telling me, again, to choose to either be a good mother or have a career, but I can't do both. It's like the scale of career VS. motherhood can only balance so long - a little over here, a little over there, steady for a while, steady, steady, STEAAAADY....

And then crash.

Whenever this happens I get completely frustrated and feel helpless, and wonder if I should just quit trying to work outside the home at all.

Kyra woke this morning at 5:30 am and began calling for her daddy who was already probably pulling out of the driveway. I got up and rocked her until she fell back asleep, then tried to put her back in her crib, but she woke up and started crying. "Okay." I thought to myself, "It's now 5:45. I have to get up at 6 and shower, get ready, and get to work. If I can just get her to fall back asleep for an hour. Just one hour..."

Well, it never happened. I did manage to get a shower at 6, get a robe on and a towel on my head, prepare for work halfway, but I couldn't ignore the problem here: the little girl sobbing and pawing at me while clenched onto my leg as I stood in front of the bathroom mirror trying to put some makeup on.

I picked her up and she snuggled and acted like she wanted to fall asleep again. Then I felt the heat from her forehead and neck. Ah. Great.

Fever.

First day back to work after Memorial Day Weekend - The day where I have a million things to do, where we have a company meeting announcing a complete business re-structuring, which I play a large role in - and I have a crying, clinging, feverish toddler.

What the hell am I trying to do here?

On one hand it kills me because I want so badly to have a career and be a great employee. I truly care about my job. On the other hand I also want to be a good mother who is there for her sick child.

It seems one of these options has always got to give. And it's always going to be the job.

Thank goodness I have an employer who is absolutely understanding, and thank goodness I only work part time, and THANK THE LORD ABOVE I have a husband who works his ass off for his family and can keep a roof over our heads if I have a job to go to or not.

Most employers probably wouldn't put up with people like me. This has happened about once a month since I started working last December, and if I were working anywhere else, I'd probably be fired. But what else can a mom do when they have a sick child, and the father can't leave his job?

I can't believe how much respect I have now for single moms and mothers that have to work full time. It's hard. It's terribly painful sometimes. It's frustrating and can seem impossible, but women do it all the time. I sure don't know how they do it, but they do.

I keep thinking other women are so much stronger than me. That I am weak and too much of a softy when it comes to my kid and that I need to bite the bullet and just do it all. Work and be a mom and just SHUT UP ALREADY.

But some days, it just doesn't seem possible. Some days I just feel like I need to throw my hands up in the air, give up the extra income, stay home with my baby, and be a full time mom. Who cares if we can't go on vacations or dine out when we want? At least I can get rid of the mommy guilt and take care of my child that I brought into this world. When she's sick, she needs her mom. More than my career needs me.

I guess I'll just try again tomorrow.

The good thing about being home today is the fact that I've got 1.25 rhubarb pies sitting on my counter waiting to be gobbled. Ah, the child is napping. Mama can sneak fork fulls of pie and not have to share with ANYONE!!!

See previous post for further explanation of pie talk.