Age of Non-Innocence

Dear Age Three,

You are cordially invited to kiss my ass.

I cannot believe how freaking crazy you are turning out to be; how I want to kiss you with tongue one minute and taser you the next. 

You now know my name is not just Mommy; you heard people calling me Dana, and you figured it out.  So now YOU call me Dana. 

You ask me if I'm kidding you (no), if I'm serious (yes), if I'm for real (yes), and if you can have candy (no).

You don't push my buttons, you rip each and every one out of my body with your cold sharp nails and then you stomp on them, beat them with a stick, set them on fire and then smoke the ashes.   My buttons are shot.

You know everything, and it bothers you that I don't always agree.  {Editor's note: This one might be my fault.  I have a psych degree with a self imposed focus on child psychology.  Back in the 90s we were taught to treat the child like a real person, rife with choices.  Allowing your child to decide which shirt she was going to wear to pre-school would help her to say no to drugs as a teenager. (?? whatevs) As a result, Leah's grown up thinking she's an equal part in this family--someone who has the same say in all family decisions.  Au contraire, Carol Ann, this is my mine and your father's house and we follow my our rules, and I am we are in charge and I we make the decisions.}

Oh, Age Three, you are a sexy beast.  With your funny little conversations and your cute little faces.  And your propensity to throw your backpack at me and hit me when the mood strikes.  You are wonderful with kids that are younger than you, acting like an old grandmother who plops you on her lap and pinches your cheeks.  And you love to hang with the older cool kids, leaning up against the garage smoking and cussing.

You are pushing your boundaries right off the map and I am constantly re-etching the line in the sand.  I fight back and I lose.  I let you walk over me and I lose.  I attempt to stand up to you and we are two chaps from the wild west at a showdown in the Alamo.  Oh, and I always lose. 

You are a steamroller in a tutu--a Zamboni in lip gloss.  I grow four grays each time your teachers tell me you're an angel.  Most days I can't wait to get home to see you and most Mondays I skip to work whistling a tune.  

Age Three, you drive me to drink.  And I am trying to drink you in.  I am told that you're the toughest, until she's a tween, which has been likened to age three with hormones. 

I was told that parenthood was hard, and it would be the toughest road I've ever traveled.  And I arrogantly nodded my head and rolled my eyes and thought there is no way that something that is a half my height and like a sixth of my weight will even be a blip on my life-radar, let alone uproot my life and leave me a confused, befuddled, frustrated shell of my former life.

And yet, here I am.  Eating some humble pie.  Baffled at just how difficult parenthood is.  How the one thing that drives me up the wall and out of my skull is the one thing I'd give my life for without a second thought in a hot flat second.


Up Yours,

Dana


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Hair Come The Tears

She had to put every clip in her hair.  Wouldn't let me touch one, help out, or make any suggestions.

And then, like a mini Paris Hilton, threw a huge fit when I told her it looked nice.

And forget when I told her that she should wear it out.  FOR. GET. IT.

It's times like these that make me very scared for the future. 

Jeez, I didn't do anything wrong!  Unless you count complimenting you!  For the love of god, lighten up!

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God Said Ha

Today was such a cruddy day.  It started off with me leaving my house 15 minutes earlier than usual, but hitting major traffic and getting to work 15 minutes late.  This is not fair.  People should not be judged by when they get to work, but rather when they leave for it.  My boss should know that I left 15 minutes earlier than usual.  NOT that I was running into the office like a lunatic at 8:15.

Then, I stood up to a co-worker who treated me poorly.  It was incredibly difficult to do because this co-worker is nasty and mean and doesn't care who he's treating badly.  But we work very closely together and I can't be disrepected and I won't tolerate inappropriate or unprofessional behavior.  I also knew this this person would fight back, rather than most who are just stunned that you stood up to them and sit there and take it, so I braced myself for that too. 

He didn't disappoint.  And it wasn't pretty.  But in the end he apologized and we moved on. 

Then I received the text from Greg that Leah had thrown up at home.  When I picked her up after work and we proceeded to Thursdays with Michael, she threw up fruit loops all over Michael's bathroom.

And then in her car seat as I drove home on a long and windy road with no shoulder to pull over to.

I bet only a few of us can boast "scooping vomit off my child in the Dairy Queen parking lot" on our list of accomplishments.

And then I couldn't get the car seat cover off to wash it so I just threw the whole foccaca thing in the garage and decided to let Greg deal with it.

And then she wouldn't get into the bath, so everyone, everything, all of us, smell like vomit. 

Oh, and for the third time this week I ate dinner standing up in the kitchen in between catering to my child and her demands for various blankets, toys, liquids, and THE PURPLE SLIPPERS MY GOD THE PURPLE ONES, MOM, WHAT THE HELL IS WRONG WITH YOU, THOSE ARE NOT PURPLE! YOU SUCK!!!!!

I think that's all for now. 

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Testing One, Two, Three

Leah is known for testing my patience to the point that I have to leave the room sometimes and scream it out at the dog.  She'll ask for something, let's say, for me to rub her back at night, and then I'll say, okay, lie down, and then she'll just sit there staring at me.  NOT lying down.  So, I'll say, you have until the count of three to lie down or no back rub, and then she'll just sit there staring at me.  Not slowly lying down.  Not waiting until I get to three and throwing herself down.  Just not doing it.  So, I'll go to walk away, and then she'll scream I NEED MY BACK RUBBED!  MOMMY COME BACK!  BACK!   NOW!!!   BWAAHHHH  BOOOO OOOOHHHH WWAAAHHHH!!!!

Now, if you can understand what the hell she is trying to do other than bury me early then kudos to you.  Because I can't for the life of me figure out why she will ASK for something then purposely take the steps that keep her from getting it. 

And finally yesterday, it clicked.  Not what she's thinking, because honestly?  I think that at these times she was put on earth to get me back for every single thing I did to my parents growing up.  I will never fully understand my child.  She's incomprehensible and unbelievable.  Like the shelf life of a Twinkie.  And Sarah Palin. 

No, what clicked was how I was going to handle it.

Now, brace yourself, because I am about to let you in on some genius-speak.  From now on when Leah asks for something, like say a snack, and I ask her to sit down at the table to eat said snack, and then she gives me the Carol-Ann stare, I walk away.  That's it.  Snack's over.  So sorry.  Cab's are here.  Gotta go.

And that's it.  She hates it, blows a gasket, has a fit, but then eventually gets over it.  And me?  I don't hate it, blow gaskets, or have fits, and I'm over it before it's even begun.

Lately, we've been working on cause and effect.  You throw something, you get it taken away.  You want me to give you something, you ask in a big kid voice.  You want lotion, then you don't jump off your changing table.  You want to take a 30 minute shower, then you get your own apartment.  I'm tired of treating her like some special-rainbow-cuddle-bunny, when I suspect she's old enough to know that she's getting special treatment and taking advantage of me.  She's a human being and life isn't always barbies and ponies.  Believe me, for Leah, life is quite often barbies and ponies, but occasionally, it's not, and it's best she start realizing this early on.

Last night, there were some shenanigans when I announced bed time.  Honestly, I don't even remember exactly what it was.  But on the nights that Greg works late, there are usually shenanigans at bedtime.  I did that warn/threat thing, (If you don't stop jumping off your bed, you will not get your teeth medicine*) and I watched her proceed to jump off the bed.  Twice.  And I had it.  So, I took the teeth medicine, put it on a shelf where she could see it**, and her told that she wouldn't be getting any that night.  She should try harder and listen better and perhaps tomorrow would be a teeth medicine night. 

Which she did.  And it was.  However, tonight we had the back rubbing issue.  There's always an issue.  We'll try again tomorrow.

*It's Orajel.  And she's not teething.  But she got it into her head over a year ago that she needs teeth medicine nightly.  I don't fight it.  I choose my battles.

**I learned this from an old co-worker Jon, who told me that when his wife Janine needed to take something away from their daughter due to naughty behavior, she made sure that she put the toy in a spot where their daughter would be sure to see it and be reminded of naughty behavior/punishment.  I've never forgotten it.



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Letter Time!

Dear Horizon-

A $70 per month increase on my toddler's health insurance?  Really?  Does this sound like a normal annual increase amount?  TWENTY PERCENT?  Are you sure?  Our waste removal fee went up $5 one year and every senior citizen in Sparta picketed for months outside the post office.  Can you imagine if the increase was $70?  I now need a Xanax every time I open the bill.  MY health insurance is going to go up because of your greedy little ways.  I hope you're happy.



Dear Salerno-Duane Auto Plaza of Newton-

I swear to Hay-Zeus, thinking of you makes my blood boil.  I bought a car from you.  I took it home on the same day I visited just to test drive.  I played your negotiation games.  I agreed to your payment terms.  But when I brought my car in to have leather installed on the seats at 10 a.m. and returned at 8 p.m. to find 1) leather, 2) an empty tank, and 3) 300 miles on the odometer that weren't there that morning, I expected at the very least a SORRY.  Or a HOW CAN I MAKE THAT UP TO YOU?   But what I got was insulting, rude, wrong, and full of BS.  I will be coming to get my license plates soon.  If your attitude hasn't changed by then, I'll be bringing my two year old.  Don't know what that means?  Call the guys over at the Audi dealership and ask them how fun it was when we brought Leah to that visit.  Hope you like your showroom cars "jellied."



Dear JCP&L-

WHY DOES IT COST SO MUCH TO PUT LIGHTS ON??!!!  My god, what the hell, is electricity made of gold?????  Due to your exorbitant rates, I now scream at Greg for leaving things plugged in!  I yell when he leaves the TV on to go to the bathroom!  I wait by Leah's door for her to fall asleep so I can turn off the focacca light she mandates be left on in order to fall asleep at night.  I am a stingy, electric-saving scrooge!  You are turning me into my father!



Dear Wachovia-

I am happy that you got bought out by Wells Fargo.  I am NOT sad to see you go, I WILL help you pack, and I hope the door doesn't hit you on the way out.  It's been several years of horrible service, mistakes on your part that you blamed me for, and a really stupid name.  Good riddance!



**It was bill-paying night.  In case you couldn't tell.  Have a good one!



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The Absence of Suck

I was most concerned with not being able to stretch before the race began.  I have never been a morning runner, especially a cold morning runner, so I thought that if anything was going to go wrong, I didn't want it to be something that could have been avoided with stretched-out muscles. 

I didn't hear any sort of fanfare marking the official start of the race.  I thought I'd hear a gun shot, or a horn, but nothing.  This could have been because I had my ear buds in.  There were over 1500 runners and for a minute or so after the race began we all just moved forward in a herd.  I thought for a second that the entire race might be like this:  that maybe there were too many people and not enough road and we'd all just shuffle in a big group for three miles. 

Then the crowd began to open up.  People started taking off ahead of the group.  I remember running for a minute or so in line with my sister.  I remember her running with her hands in her pockets and wondering how the hell she was able to do that.  I remember my friend Lisa being a few feet ahead of us and looking back several times.  I remember when both of them began pulling farther and farther apart from me.  And I remember when I couldn't see either of them anymore.  And then there was me.  And I took a deep breath and fixed my ear buds again, and began the long lonely 3.1 mile journey.  As it's always been.  As I've grown accustomed to. 

A lot of people passed me.  People who weren't even jogging passed me.  But, as my sister had informed me the night before, my jog speed was slower than most people's walk speed, so I was expecting this.  A few minutes into the run I began seeing people on their way back.  I tried to get real close to the center line to attempt to make eye contact with the guy who had come in 60th place in the NY Marathon and was predicted to run the Sparta Turkey Trot in record time.  He zipped by me; I smiled at him, but he never saw me.  It would have been inspiring to catch his eye, but he has personal records and qualifying races on his mind.  He didn't have time for me.

The halfway point took forever to get to.  By the time I finally reached it, I had seen Gab, Lisa, and Adj zip by on their way back.  I could tell I was far behind them based on how long it took me to get halfway through, but I didn't care.  I wasn't doing this for time.  I was just doing this to run.  I kept my eyes on the road and rallied through.

The course had hills.  I didn't know this beforehand.  I'm sure it was for the best, since I would have been much more intimidated if I had known that hills were part of this challenge.  Welcome to the Black Parade played on the steepest one. 

At one point I found myself slowing down, each step becoming harder and harder to take.  My jog slowed and slowed and I felt my right leg fall into what I can only describe as a walk-step.  And my knee immediately locked up, and it jolted my body back to attention, and I continued to run.

I was so lonely at some parts.  Or maybe just bored.  Alone.  No one was on the side of the road cheering us on; I had no idea how much farther I had to go.  All I know is that it sucked.  It totally sucked.

And then I saw it.  Mile Marker 3.  And Florence and the Machine began.  And then Flo Rida followed.  And the wooden 3 sign grew larger as I got closer.  And I started running.  And I moved to the middle of the road.  And I didn't feel a thing.  Nothing hurt.  Nothing was hard about what I was doing.  I was sprinting down East Shore Trail all by myself early on Thanksgiving morning and I felt great.  I felt wonderful!  I was so happy.  Happy to be finishing.  Happy to be running.  Happy to see the light at the end of the tunnel.

And then.   Oh my god.  And then.  I saw my family.  I saw my husband and I saw my daughter and they were cheering for me.  FOR ME.  Leah ran to me and I stopped.  In the middle of the road before I hit the finish line, I stopped short.  And I grabbed her hand.  We started to run and she fell.  I picked her up and asked her if she was ok, and she said yes.  So, we held hands again and we ran to the finish line.  And it was perfect!  Gab and Adj and Lisa and Lan were all there.  Everyone was waiting for me.  And I crossed the line holding my daughter's hand.  And I was so happy.

And then the suck came back.  And it hurt.  My feel felt like they weren't mine.  I couldn't stop moving.  I had sprained my ankle when I stopped to get Leah.  I was trying to drink water.  I could barely talk.  Old Dana was back.  The Dana that is not athletic and can't run and doesn't do very well in sports and is fat, slow, and finds new gray hairs every week.

But, for a few minutes, when Mile Marker 3 came into view, I was someone else.  I was that person I used to remember.  It was awesome.   And I loved it.   And it didn't suck entirely.


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Diaper Days

I'm sure after Thursday's post, some of you were horrified:  "What?!  Diapers?! She still needs to buy diapers?!"

Yes.  Yeeeeeesssssss.  It is with great sadness and despair that I tell you all, we are still wearing diapers.   Actively.  Not sometimes.  Not occassionally.  Always.

That doesn't mean that she's not also using the potty.  She is.  Sometimes 2-3 times a day.  But, not enough to warrant getting rid of the diapes.  Underwear doesn't have a snowball's chance in hell of staying dry, and I caught her trying to clean up an accident she had in her underpants without me knowing, which means she was embarassed/shamed/upset/pick one/whatever, which is not the feeling we want to harbor in the house about accidents.  So, I stopped asking her if she wants to wear underpants...because I don't want to spend my nights laundering them.

I know the training will come eventually, and we'll look back on our potty-training trials and tribulations and laugh (probably not laugh, more like cry) but it doesn't mean that these days, I can't fall to my knees, throw my hands up to the sky and sob dramatically,

"Why me?!  Oh god, whhhyyyyy????  For the love of all that is good and holy, have I not suffered enough?  Does the world just hate me?????????!!!!!!!!!!!!  Little old me???!!!!!"

A little too dramatic?  I'm sorry; it's been a long week.

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Going To The Carnival

I mentioned in a previous post that Leah was not fond of rides.  Especially the ones where you put the quarter in to get it to move back and forth for a minute or so that were very popular outside of grocery stores when I was young.

So, you can imagine my surprise when my mother in law told me that Leah had really enjoyed herself in one of those rides while I was paying for something in a nearby store.  (Oh, who am I kidding; it was Coach. I'm a slave for their handbags.)  In fact, I made her prove it to me.

It may not look like it, but she is really having fun here.

Leah wanted to go on several more rides while we were there, but we didn't have enough quarters.  Do you know that these rides cost 75 cents each?  Wow.  Times are different from when I was a kid...and I walked back and forth to school...uphill both ways...and paid 25 cents for a ride.

So, we told her that we'd have to come back so she could go on more rides.  And so I could buy more purses.

A few days later we returned with a metric ton of change in our pockets.  I told Leah we were at the Carnival and we let her ride all the rides.

Once again, I assure you she is having a good time.

Of course, after she rode a million rides while we stood in the heat sighing heavily praying for each ride to end already, she complained when we told her we were out of money.  This then lead to a tantrum, as most things do these days, and most likely ended with some really well thought out words on my part, such as,

"That's it! I am never doing anything nice for you.  You take advantage of situations and don't know that when mommy and daddy say no, we mean no, get in the stroller now.  No, you don't want to? Fine then you are NOT getting a souvenir and I am not rubbing your back at nap time.  And I am calling Santa because this is ridiculous!  Get in your car seat-stop squirming!  Leah what is wrong, that's it, no popcorn! No snacks! Start the car, Greg, we are going right home. No ice cream!  EVER!"

Not my proudest moment, I admit.

Hey, at least the Carnival was fun.

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Addiction

For the past two years Leah's had a dirty little secret.  At first we thought it was just something that she liked to do and didn't really treat it as a big deal.  Until she started sneaking it all of the time and asking for it when it wasn't appropriate, and soon enough, we had a full blown obsession on our hands.

You see, our daughter Leah was addicted to her pacifier.

We started to get anxious about it.  People were telling us that it could affect her teeth.  Others were saying that her habit could go on for years...well into kindergarten.  We were told that getting rid of the pacifier was a days-long endeavor--the first night being a non-sleeping night for anyone in the house neighborhood.

I discussed the matter with our pediatrician who suggested collecting all of the pacifiers in the house and trading them in at Toys R Us for a neat-o toy.  I received offers to borrow children's books on the subject.  Our friend Renee offered up the idea of cutting the tips off of the passies, thereby making them "not work" as well.

So, last Saturday, I finally spoke with my friend Vanessa, who has a son Leah's age, and who successfully removed pacifiers from their life several months ago. She gave me the hard truth:  cold turkey was the way to go. 

And so it began.

Nap time started with an hour long scream fest, sans pacifier, before she settled and eventually went to sleep.  Same with bedtime.

And for pretty much the rest of the week and still going strong today, at designated sleeping times, it's been like we now are the proud owners of one of those gremlins that's eaten after midnight.  There is screaming, jumping, yelling, ripping of things off the wall, snakes wildly protruding from her head.  And it goes on for about an hour before she finally shuts her trap, lies down, and goes to sleep.

I'm not sure who's reading this, but for those who have never lived through a full-blown, hour-long tantrum, let me just say that ripping ones toe nails out with pliers might be a more enjoyable experience.

And, although the pacifiers still reside in the drain board next to the kitchen sink, where little eyes are sure to not see them, I can honestly tell you that Leah will never be sucking on one again.  I'm over those things, and I'm a happier person knowing that I'll never have to get on my hands and knees in the car, ass up to god, and do an under-the-seat swipe with my arm to try to find that little sucker, which is SURE to be 1) just out of reach, 2) covered in something sticky and hairy, and 3) cleaned by using a combination of my spit, my fingers, and my shirt.  

Pacifiers, you're not welcome here anymore. 

Totally still wants the pacifiers. 

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And You Wonder Why I Drink

Allow me to start with the fact that I feel fat today and this could be the reason.

Rest assured, I didn't leave the 20 or so M&Ms there after this picture was taken. 

 I, uh, took care of them.

Can I just say that, in the two days that I decided I was going to lighten up and enjoy life, I have had two fights with my husband!  Yes! Way to go, Dana!  So, in the already-miniscule-amount-of-time we have to spend with each other, we've managed to strain it and make our home even more uncomfortable!  I'm especially proud of the sing-songy way that I tend to argue with him when Leah's in the room.  It's annoying, strenuous, and not fooling anyone!  Brilliant.  And so, over the past two days, we've barely spoken to each other, unless of course it was to tell the other what they are doing wrong.   And now we are into two days of Greg's double work shifts, which means that I won't see him until Saturday morning!  When we will undoubtedly still not be speaking to each other!  And then, we get to spend three uninterrupted days together!  With no talky! Still!  While we attempt to pretend to Leah that all is well.  Which will make for some interesting and fun times!  Oh, how I just love it when things are silent and stressed at home!!  Yay for me!  This is turning out to be a wonderful week!  Now where did I hide the rest of the M&Ms??!!  FOR THE LOVE OF GOD WHERE THE HELL ARE THEY?!
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