Motherhood Uncensored

Disappointment

I wish I could blame my headache on a massive hangover. But I only drank a 1/4 of a beer last night before turning in, my head searing from disappointment for my daughter.

Disappointment that she really has yet to know but that I'm all too used to.

The only family member who called to wish her a happy birthday was my father-in-law at 7:50pm. He's lucky he caught her awake.

There was a pithy e-card from my mother-in-law.

And an email from my mom at Midnight. (MIDNIGHT?!) She also sent a book and a card in the mail.

Granted, they were all at my daughter's birthday gathering at the beach, so I can't get too upset. And my mom's a nurse who works 12 hour shifts, so I guess she figured she'd either wake us up or catch us at bedtime.

Who knows.

But neither of us have heard from either of our siblings, who apparently are extremely busy DINKs.

Right.

I have to acknowledge the huz's sister, who is usually pretty vigilant about birthdays. I'm guessing her newlywed status has taken over her life right now, and I don't completely fault her.

But my family? I give up, really. Does a birthday comment on my blog count? Apparently so.

I try to tell myself that I'm being unreasonable. I'm not sure why it gets me every time since I rarely talk to my family, even my own mother. It shouldn't be a surprise that they don't call to acknowledge my daughter's birthday.

It's the child in me who was always disappointed with my family. I've never really gotten over it.

And quite frankly, I can take it when it comes to me. I've been shit on enough times and I'm usually able to wipe it off and go on my merry way.

But I'm a little more protective of my children.

So, aside from my aching head, most of me is starting to understand that I'll always be disappointed. There's just no reason to hold onto it. In fact, I'm annoyed that I let it bother me into a headache.

But I can't help but twiddle my thumbs in anticipation for when she's older and when she realizes they haven't called.

Or better, when my brother and the huz's sister have kids.

Oh how the tides will turn.

The right light

I want to write a sweet post about my daughter on her 5th birthday.

But lately, the sweetness is hard to find.

She pushes the limit of my patience with her opinions on everything, her sensitive spirit almost becoming a thorn in my side as she weeps at the littlest disappointment. She's determined to make decisions for herself, rarely swayed by our more experienced advice, no matter how hard we try to convince her otherwise. She's easily frustrated at anything she's unable to instantly accomplish and often refuses to try it if she's even remotely failed once.

I feel disconnected from her - like pawn in her daily game of chess, anxiously awaiting for her next move and wondering if I'll be knocked out or kept in play.

Her sweetness, which was once like her little sister, in constant smiles and frequent laughter, is less obvious, at least for me. Her bright beautiful pinks and reds are often awkward shades of orange, still magnificent in the right light, but otherwise harder to appreciate.

But when I step back and see her laying in the sun, I see the sweetness - the way she buys her brother a present with her birthday gift card, talks out of the side of her mouth when she's trying to be funny, and how she sings about how she never gets anything or does anything fun because I told her that she may not speak about them.

"Noooooobody likes me. I neeeeeevvverrrrrrrr get any pressennnnnnnnnnnnnnts. Life is terrribllll-la la la laaaaaa."

Even after five years as a mom, I feel like I'm brand new at his, mapping a course that has yet to be sailed.

On some days, I hold on for dear life, just trying to make it to another day without getting washed out to sea, the waves of emotion the sheer challenge of staying afloat often enough to make me toss myself overboard.

On others, I feel like I'm tied to the mast in a life jacket while she steers.

"I'm sailing! I'm SAILING!" I scream, like Bill Murray in What About Bob.

There are days, however, and there will be many more, where the water is smooth, and the wind in my face, though it tangles my hair and dries out my eyes, feels pretty damn amazing.

Regardless of what color you're "wearing" Quinlan, I'll do my best to see you in the right light. Happy 5th Birthday.

[photo credit Mom-101]

Make it right

Quinlan and Drew vacillate between love and hate on a conveniently unpredictable schedule. They'll play like bffs right when dinner is ready or when the timer has gone off for bedtime, but when I'm about to hop on a conference call, they decide to initiate World War III.  

Quinlan gives me a running commentary like she's reading from a set of cue cards. 

"Mom, he's kicking me. Now he's jumping on me. He just hit me on my leg."

She's slowly learning to actually do something, other than perfect her tattle telling skills, but even when she pushes him off, or gives him a well-deserved shove, I know she's probably still annoyed. And rightfully so. Little brothers can be a big fat pain in the ass.

So a few nights ago, we were getting ready for bedtime stories when we couldn't find Drew's book. It had literally disappeared into thin air, and after searching high and low for it, I asked Quinlan if she had seen it.

She shrugged her shoulders a few times and gave me the "I know exactly where it is but if I don't talk then it's not technically lying so I'm just going to keep shrugging my shoulders" look.

As it turns out, she had hid it. Not as a joke, but because she had just taken it one too many times from her bratty little brother that day and was going to jab him in the side when he wasn't looking.

Yep. She's already refining her womanly skills at an early stage.

Teaching kids about emotional expression is one of the hardest lessons because they very often get in trouble for expressing them. Annoyance, frustration, and anger get an almost automatic time out or punishment (hello tantrums), so trying to explain to kids that it's okay and even good to express them seems counterintuitive.

Sure, there's the whole thing about expressing it appropriately, you know, like counting to ten, or screaming in your pillow, or telling the person that you are mad "dag gummit" - all of which are clearly not as satisfying as throwing a big ass hissy fit and screaming a few choice obscenities. Did you really think we all actually outgrew tantrums? Please. We just get better verbal skills and the ability to raise a finger or pull down our pants. I've told her 4000 times to tell the person how you feel in actual words and in the back of my head I'm going "And then give 'em the finger!"

But on that night, as I was talking out of my ass, I had a rare mini-epiphany. 

If you don't express your feelings at the time that they occur, you don't give the other person a chance to make it right.

And a light bulb went off in my daughter's head. 

The truth is, when you don't tell someone how you feel when you've been hurt by them (which is what anger generally stems from, really), you're not giving them the chance to learn from it, apologize for it, and most of all make it right by you. You're not holding them accountable for their words and actions.

The backhanded, passive agressive bullshit that many of us (yeah, me included) engage in does absolutely nothing to resolve anything and basically gives them a free pass. And not only does it do nothing to allow the other person to atone, it doesn't give you the opportunity to forgive, which is just as important a process as apologizing.

It's one thing to be able to say you're sorry. It's another to be able to forgive.

I know the kids will still fight. And I know that she'll still want to swipe his toothbrush in the toilet when he's not looking, but I hope that she'll feel empowered by her own emotions, and not powered by them.

There's a huge difference.

Gender Stereotypes - Preschooler Edition

Feeling woozy from my 3:45am wake up with no nap and a glass of Riesling sloshing around in my belly, I was enjoying a peaceful meal thanks to a zonked out naught toddler and decided that we should tackle gender stereotypes for our dinner conversation.

That's a nice way of me saying I'm sick and tired of cooking all the meals all the time and I want to make sure my daughter understands that it's my choice to cook because if I didn't we'd be eating Lean Cuisine and pasta every night and I'd have to clean up one hell of a messy kitchen.

"Do Daddies cook meals?" I asked her.

My husband gave me the "are you seriously going to have this conversation right now with our four-year-old daughter who just tried to stick a piece of corn in her nose?" look.

"Do Daddies cook meals?" I repeated, nudging her more strongly for more than just the zoned out preschooler look.

"No!" she replied.

I chuckled.

My husband tried to remind her that he had indeed cooked dinner the night before. Of course, "cooked" meant that he seasoned the chicken.

"Well, I just want you to know that Daddies can cook too" I said, pleased that my experiment had indeed gone my way.

"How about cleaning? Do Daddies clean ?" I asked her.

"YES!" She exclaimed, joyfully.

My husband smiled.

"BUT NOT MOMMIES!"

Eh, well. It could be worse.

I never

Punishing Quinlan used to be a no brainer. I'd point to the corner, flip the egg timer, and that was that. Then came the high knee stomping, 5-alarm screams, and door slamming.

But lately, she goes into these soap opera dramatic rants, all of which start with "I never." "I never get to play with toys. I never get to watch a show. I never get to eat 4000 bags of candy" she says in a whiny, angry little voice, through a frowning face and wrinkled nose.

The only thing missing is "like the other kids." I'm sure that's due in a few weeks.

At first, I took the intellectual approach, mostly because I enjoy attempting to rationalize with four-year-olds, or jersey cows. It's basically the same.

"Well, never means 'not ever' and the last time I checked you actually do watch shows, play with toys, and eat way too much candy. You are the weakest link. Goodbye!"

Heh.

But surprise! That didn't work.

So then I just started to get annoyed (again, intelligent mom tactic there), and so I would just say "You're right." "You live a terrible horrible life with no toys or television or candy. And I make you bring in water in large buckets that you carry on your head from the manual water pump that's two miles away."

Shit. I should just start in with the whole "starving kids in Africa" speech and get it over with already.

Finally, I figured out that she was angry (duh!) and was just spouting off her mouth in her own preschooler way (duh!), and so I did the trained therapist (hello!) thing to do and acknowledged her anger, and offered her a few other really boring and appropriate things that she might say instead, you know, like "I'm really angry right now."

And actually, it went over pretty well. Sure, she included her 4 year old expletives in there, like "OH MAN" or "THAT STINKS!" but at least we lost the whole "I never" thing.

That is until a few days ago when I heard "I never get to do anything."

From Drew.

*cue primal scream*

Preschoolers for Jesus

If I was truly anti-religion, I probably wouldn't be sending my daughter to a Catholic school. Even though we've yet to formulate the role of faith in our family, I can deal with the rosary homework prizes and the coloring pictures of Mary with really bad eye shadow and lipstick. 

But Jesus dying on a cross and coming back from the dead? Well, that's one of those stories that I'm not sure I can even swallow, let alone a 4 year old.

I mean one minute she's singing songs about wee little men in trees, and the next minute she's drawing a dead man on a cross. And that's enough to make me realize that we've been taking the whole religion thing a bit too lightly around here.

I can't say I'd be happy either.

I'd never consider myself to be someone who'd leave anything completely up to a teacher and a school curriculum, even academics for that matter. But I guess my own issues with religion got in the way of better preparing my daughter for what has obviously become more than just a weekend of egg hunts and chocolate overdoses.

But then just a few days ago during her afternoon quiet time, she reported quite proudly that she had completely cleaned up her room. When I complimented her handywork, she said: "Well, Jesus is coming back to earth Mommy and I don't want my room to look nasty for Him."

And then I thought, maybe the message she's getting from school isn't that bad after all.

Jesus: Providing inspiration everywhere. Even to messy preschoolers.

Bonnie and Clyde

For as much as I wasn't ready for the sibling UFC championships over a Playmobil Fire Engine and a scarf I got at a thrift store for 25 cents, I was completely ready - almost giddy with anticipation - for them to be super sneaky sibling cohorts in crimes against mothers and clean houses.

In my opinion, I'd much rather wipe up a couple of gallons of bath water off the bathroom floor while my children laugh hysterically than pull them off each other and soothe bite marks and scratches.

But the best part, other than saving money on bandaids, is hearing the whole entire super secret plot go down. Because no matter who sly they try to be, they're still a bumbly toddler and a loud-mouthed preschooler who couldn't speak in a whisper or walk quietly through a room if you paid them with 400 jelly beans. Their "inside voices" are still around a 60 decibel level and even a 95 year old woman without her ear horn could repeat what they are saying verbatim.

Of course, they could probably get away with their naugtiness, which as of late has included unraveling an entire container of dental floss all over the floor, playing water table with the bathroom sink, and emptying the entire contents of our kitchen junk drawer into a box. But because they think that their antics are the funniest thing since the last time they made a big freakin' mess, I can't help but be drawn to the complete, eery silence quickly followed by hearty guffaws and high pitched screeches.

I suppose tossing a $3 container of floss, drying soaking wet tile, and reorganizing my junk drawer is a small price to pay for them to actually get along.

If only I could get them to find cleaning up to be equally as entertaining.

The Plight of the Oldest

When Drew was born, Quinlan went through the typical growing pains that generally accompany adding another baby to the family. But since Margot has arrived and become pretty darn cute, it's been a lot more difficult for her to adjust to being the big girl.

I'm not sure whether it's because Margot is a girl, or because Quinlan is just older now and she can process the change, but either way, she's feeling the effects of being the oldest.

Even though we do our best to give personalized time to each one, we're still stretched thin. And early on, one of us was always holding Margot, so while we tried to focus our attention on the older two, we'd still have a baby with us.

I'm pretty sure we missed half of everything she was saying. And I know we probably responded to almost everything with "Oh that's so cool, honey" - permanent marker art, sinks overflowing with water and bubbles, and who knows what else we waved away.

Truth is, we had a hard time adjusting too.

We expect a lot out of her, not just because she's the oldest, but because she's super responsible, and always has been. And in turn, she's pretty hard on herself, getting overly upset when she can't do something, or when she messes things up.

"I'm afraid you're not going to like me" she says spitefully, just loud enough so we can hear her when she makes a bad choice. "I don't think you want me to be your daughter anymore" she told us after being sent to her room for talking back.

It stings every time.

When she shoots her word darts at me, I tell that it's okay to be angry, but it's certainly not true. I remind her that it's hard to be the oldest, but it's also pretty cool, since she'll get to do a lot of things first - reading, riding bikes, sitting in the front seat, even driving.

And I tell her that I was the oldest too, and that I know what it's like. "Little brothers" we'll say to each other, with a knowing sigh.

But it hurts to watch her look longingly as people dote over Margot when we're out. She'll dance around and talk their ear off if they let her. "Look at me!!!!" she seems to say, with her bright smile and arabesque in the middle of the store. "I'm really cute too."

And she is. She's smart, beautiful, funny, and charming. And they couldn't ask for a better big sister.

And I couldn't ask for a better oldest daughter.

Meet my nemesis

It's a hand me down "gag" gift from my hil-arrrrious friend, made out of way too much hot pink grosgrain ribbon and it drives me completely and utterly insane, mostly because no matter where I hide it, the damn thing always ends up back on my daughter's head.

I've taken to sending her pictures of Quinlan every single time she wears it - which is now almost every day.

"You remember that damn bow you gave me? Yeah. Well. LOOK WHAT YOU'VE DONE."

I generally get a reply that goes something like this:

"BWWAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHAHAHAHA!"

Now before you call me a bow hating Yankee, let me just explain to you that Quinlan never really had any hair, so I never bought clips or headbands or any sort of hair apparatus.

But apparently hair grows, you see, and since we live in the South, we're surrounded by bows.

They are everywhere.

And oh how she admires them. Especially the big ones. With porkers or korkers or whatever they're called. You know, the ones where it looks like a bunch of bows exploded on the little girl's head in the shape of a cheerleading pom pom.

Yes those.

They sort of make me want to take a big fat crap in my adult diaper.

"Oh mommy look at the pretty bows, they're so pretty, wouldn't they look nice in my hair mommy?"

Sigh.

We'll send her upstairs to get dressed, and without fail, she'll come down with that damn headband on.

My husband tries valiantly to talk her down from the bow ledge.

"But look at this pretty headband. It actually matches better. So why don't you come here and take the bow off. It'll be okay. Really."

"No Daddy. I like it. The hot pink ham-band matches my hot pink leggins."

Girl does have a point.

So while we can't bring ourselves to buy any more ridiculously large hair bows, we just can't bring ourselves to toss it out either.

Besides, I've got to hold onto it so I can strategically regift it back. Along with the other 400 fine Southern bows I'm collecting.

Oh they're coming for you TNG. Just you wait and see.

Hearing voices

I had all but decided to screw kindergarten, pocket the money we'd save, and homeschool Quinlan next year.

But then I realized, after trying to teach her to play the violin for the last few days, that I'd probably end up using that money on my own personal psychiatric care, so perhaps I might want to consider all the options before making that sort of decision.

In all my years as a teacher and now as a parent, I'm perfectly clear that education doesn't begin or end with school. It's our duty as parents to have a hand and maybe even a couple of feet in the learning process.

We've started a book called "Explode the Code" to help her with reading, and she plays "Dreambox" (both of which we love and were not paid to love) every other day or so. And we read to her all the time, encourage creative imaginative play, and engage her in thought-provoking discussions, which generally have to do with poop and what her next birthday cake will be. But still, we're not sitting back with our feet propped up on our coffee table relying on the teacher and her full-time assistant to ready our daughter for life.

And so we talked with the kindergarten teacher about the curriculum, which we both felt was pretty promising, and we looked at what was holding us back and whether those were legitimate concerns, or just our own fears and trepidations that had really nothing to do with Quinlan.

Funny how we try so hard not to live vicariously through our kids, but then we forget about projecting our own fears and our need for control onto them.

Oh how easy it was when we could stick them in the exersaucer or plop them on the floor, and the only opinion they offered was in the form of a puny whelp or a loud screech.

But now she's a near five year old kid who can't be plopped anywhere without a full, detailed explanation, and a series of ridiculously complicated questions. Decisions just aren't as easily made when they involve her actual participation.

So honestly, I still feel like 8:00am to 3:30pm is a terribly long day.

But I also thought that everyday preschool from 8-12pm was ridiculous - a complete tragedy against small humans.

Come to find out my daughter loves it. Completely freaking loves it. As in begs for school on the weekend loves it.

And so, when I asked her for the 14th time whether she'd want to stay home and do school with me or go to kindergarten, she said:

"I want to go to kindergarten, mommy."

"But it's a reallllly long day. 8-3:30 in the afternoon!" I replied, in my best guilt-inducing mom voice.

"Yes mommy, but sometimes, at school, I never have enough time to get all my work done. So if I'm there all day, then I will."

And there you have it. A ridiculously smart and logical answer to my own heartwrenching emotional battle.

I'm sure it won't be the last time that happens.

Now I'm not letting my daughter make all the decisions for herself, but I do believe there's certainly something to be said about allowing her to have a voice. I just need to be sure to listen to it before my own fears of her growing up and moving on drown it out.