Archive for the ‘motherhood’ Tag
August 30 2011
My daughter is 3 going on 15.
Nothing new here, I know. It’s that age. Still, it amazes me how downright strong-willed and opinionated and unwilling to budge an inch she is. What makes it worse is that we argue. Full-fledged arguments, where I tell her no and she insists yes and by the end one of us is crying and running off to slam doors and the other wishes that kind of behavior was acceptable on her end. A good door slamming might alleviate a lot of stress.
This doesn’t just happen once every now and then. It’s all day, every day thing.
So while I would love to say my days have been quieter while the boys have been at school and I’ve been to able to accomplish a list worth of to-do’s, I’m more often than not attempting to breathe. Recooperating for the next round. Because how dare I try to put her feet in clean socks when these dirty ones here are better, or she’s on her 76th YouTube video of laughing babies and I just can’t take anymore so here, let’s just turn it off for now, OK?
No, it’s not OK. And oh, all hell breaks loose.
But then she climbs up in my lap and wraps her arms around my neck, making sure both of mine are wrapped around her. The embrace is tight. For a moment, then, we slow down and she’s simply my 3 year old beautiful little girl.
Until the next round.
August 05 2011
Yesterday, my daughter came to me pointing at her throat, clearly an issue. She had been carrying a small glass marble in her hand earlier that was now gone, so naturally I jumped to conclusions. Though Abby was eager to play along.
“Did you swallow the marble?”, I asked. She knows she isn’t supposed to put things in her mouth, but she does anyway to spite me. 3 year olds are fun that way.
“Yeah”, she whined, her face scrunching into concern. I studied her closely for a moment, and while her throat may have been bothering her, all else was fine. Still, strangely enough this was my first instance of a foreign object allegedly swallowed and I was unsure what my next step should be. Thus, I did what my instincts told me to do and turned to the internet.
Surely I can’t be the only parent of a kid who’s swallowed a marble, as I took my quandary to Google. Where it turns out there many, many, many other kids who have sucked down all sorts of things. The advice I found was to monitor my child, but I would have to strain through her stool, much like when you make jam, to ensure the marble passed safely. If it hasn’t within a few days, a doctor’s visit would be in order.
As if I’m not familiar with my kids’ bowels enough as it is.
A while later, I was still trying to pep talk myself into digging through my daughter’s fecal matter when I went to clean the boys’ room as a distraction. Under the pile of Star Wars figures dumped out that morning, there it was. Not in the pit of her stomach as she led me to believe, but in the depths of the toy-strewn floor.
The marble.
I’m just glad I don’t have to strain poo.
July 28 2011
I’ll be the first to admit that I’m on the computer a lot. My netbook and I are practically attached at the hip. Between writing posts and twitter updates to reading the news, it’s like my life vest, keeping me afloat. It’s my link to the outside world of adults and my sanity saver all in one.
Why yes, it is my crutch.
Abby is accustomed to sharing my lap with an open screen, my fingers poking at keys one-handed. I’ve gotten good at equally dispensing my attention, at least jotting down a vague idea whilst simultaneously reading a book to my daughter. I can always come back and edit later, so long as I have the main gist covered. Don’t worry, it’s not all the time. There are plenty of instances where my kids have my undivided attention. But I do try to accomplish both more often than I should.
Then, as my daughter is sitting next to me, I realize I have the prime means for a teaching moment. We begin to point at the keys together, while I recite the letter or symbol associated with each.
“That’s an O?”, Abby asks.
“No, that’s a C”, I correct. “And this, this is a period. It goes on the end of sentences, like this”, I show her as I type some words in the box, finishing with punctuation.
“Next,” as I end the lesson, “is the most important part. Pay close attention. Watch Mommy click here to post this crucial status update about socks to Twitter.” Now that we have the basics, tomorrow I’ll begin explaining to my 3 year old how she can increase her Klout.
July 22 2011
She was coming up behind me, the wheels clickity clacking with the might of it’s bulk, pushing a double seated car cart as if it were a ton-pound boulder. One child was hanging over the edge of the safety bar, the other attempting a death-defying stunt maneuver. I, however, was gloriously alone, though taking up too much aisle for her to pass.
“Excuse me”, she said trying to lumber her way through, “I’m sorry, this thing is just so heavy”.
I nodded my head in knowing agreement as I watched her struggle around the corner and out of sight. I wanted to call out, say I’ve been there, my 3 bundles of gravity are at home. The weight briefly lifted, my shoulders breathing with the break. I may not be bearing down on that cart right now, but I get it. Laboring for every turn. It is heavy.
And the weight only multiplies the farther down the path we tread.
Whether setting rules or a battle of wills. A lost temper. The morning wake up calls at 3 a.m. that never seem to end. Those important topics of teenage discussion that you hesitate to start or breaking up fights over toys to fights over boys. The whys and what-ifs and an expectation that you have all the answers. To a child in the throes of a seasonal cold that want to be nowhere other than held when you have deadlines to meet. Dragging your child kicking and screaming from a playground to the judgmental glare of strangers. Infant carriers and hands to hold steady. Those cumbersome car carts that can’t make it down the aisle without an extra heave-ho in place of dignified grace. Motherhood is heavy, in every sense. And we are each stronger than we seem.
July 15 2011
It is safe to say that no one would mistake me for a gardener. I couldn’t even play one convincingly on TV. The fact that I’ve killed cacti before is proof of just how black my thumb is. But every day recently, I have had to scrub away dirt from under my fingernails.
I’m still not a gardener I can say in all honesty, but I have a new appreciation since I planted seeds in a container near my porch. Late in the season, of course. Because it’s not as if I could know what I was doing. In spite of me, however, my nestlings are thriving. And I’m like a proud parent gushing over how her offspring are already getting so big.
I am anxious to witness the seeds I buried blossom into the petals they will become.
In the meantime, I worry about my sprouts constantly. They are the first thing I check on in the morning and the last at night. I peek out to see how they are in the blistering heat of the summer afternoon. I water and tend. I photograph their development and post pictures online. I’m sure I’d burp and change their diaper if it was needed. Though I’m glad it’s not.
And when it stormed the other day, a flash flood kind of downpour, the elements were braved to protect their fragile stems. I got rain-soaked as I secured a plastic bag over that pot. Then again a few minutes later when that shelter wasn’t keeping them safe enough, until my mind was at ease. That’s part of the since formed mother-creature in me that I can’t turn off, I never stop worrying. Even when I’m babying flowers.
