Baby No Name

List of Potential Baby Names

Dana

Dante

Holden

Sebastian

Spencer

Simon

Gianvincent

Rocco

Theodore

Jude

Silas

Dillon

Gabriel

Harrison

Sawyer

Jasper

Greg

Oscar

And there we are. 

Fresh Mouth

Apparently it's normal for 4 years old to have a fresh mouth.  However, I feel that Leah's is super fresh. 

Supa fresh.

I spoke to her teacher today about it and she told me that it's important for Leah to understand that failure to listen to mom and dad and/or fresh mouth will result in losing fun stuff. 

For Leah, the absolute worst thing you can do to her is not allow her play outside with her friends.  OH MY GOD THE HORROR OF HAVING TO STAY INSIDE WHILE ALL THE FUN IS GOING ON OUTSIDE WITHOUT HER!

This week has been particularly trying for us and each night has brought a special kind of hell that has made us re-think the decision to add to this family, despite it being way too late.

Tonight Greg is working late so it's going to be just me and Leah from 3:30 p.m. on.  I am hoping that the rain stays away so we get some outside play after school.

And other than that, I am hoping that my 4 year old doesn't reduce me to tears with the fresh mouth.

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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Ugh

Tonight I am having a real bad night.  I can't pinpoint what triggered this, but I have an idea.  I don't want to talk about it.  These types of nights are horrible.  I am succeeding at everything and failing at everything.  Everything is good yet everything sucks.  I am a good mother I am a bad mother.  I know what's going on but I haven't the foggiest clue what I'm doing. My dad's cousin is going to call me in five minutes and I have to pull it together because I can't let them see me sweat.

A Smallish Heart Attack

What is it with children and their need to hide in racks in stores?  This is a new thing with Leah.  It entertains her to no end and gives me heart palpatations.  She's too old and nosey to sit in a stroller.  She will follow the, "one hand on the cart" rule for about 35 seconds.  But, as soon as I stop to take a look at something, we get this:

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The Life I Signed Up For

If my mother had died before I was pregnant, I probably wouldn't have had a child.  I wanted a baby, and my mother was going to help me raise it.  Package deal.

If my mother hadn't died, Greg and I would have probably taken several weekend trips by now, and maybe even one that lasted five days.  Instead of no weekend trips, and nothing close to five days.  I don't trust anyone to watch Leah; there's nothing like the trust you have in your mom.   We would have been able to do more things with each other, without Leah.  Maybe go out to eat more...Christmas shop together...take more trips into NYC.

If my mother was still alive, I probably would have had more children by now.  She would have been my house every day in the summer, when she wasn't working, and probably would have used up more of her sick and personal days to spend time with her grandchildren.  My nights wouldn't have been parenting solo while Greg worked, and my weekends would not have been attempting to run an errand with a toddler and feeling like I got nothing accomplished.

There would have been more gifts and treats and a lot more spoiling.  My children would have run to her when they saw her, got excited when she arrived, and threw fits when she left.  They might have even liked spending time with her more than with me.

I never would have been stuck with no sitter.  Never would have had to say no to something that I wanted to do because I felt guilty leaving Leah.  Never would have felt that all-too-familiar hesitation when I dial a number to request some babysitting. 

I never wanted to be a mother if I didn't have my mother with me.  I never would have entered into what is the most difficult job I've ever held without her.  Never would have created this situation while living 40 minutes away from my closest family, with only one parent who's my dad, while my in-laws live several states away.

And I would have never written this post.

If I seem different to you, uncomfortable, unhappy, and unsettled, you must forgive me.  I'm not living the life I signed up for.



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The Goose is Getting Fat

So, this is going to sound strange, since Halloween is on Sunday, but I've been thinking about Christmas lately, and I need your help.

Last year Greg's siblings decided to stop exchanging gifts, except for Leah, which makes me feel 1) bad that they still buy for Leah while they don't have children for me to buy for, and 2) a little sad that I don't get the thrill of finding the perfect gift for them, which is seriously one of the best highs in life for me, and 3) so grateful for the extra time and money that I've gained as a result of my shopping list being cut in half. 

I casually mentioned this idea to my sister last year and she shot it down before I even got the words out.  Therefore, I still exchange gifts with my siblings.  Which is fine with me, because I like the idea of exchanging, and I like the idea of not exchanging, so I have the best of both worlds.

I do want to know, however, what others are doing out there.  Are adults still exchanging with siblings?  How about siblings' spouses?  Do you just keep it to your parents and the kids in the family?  Do you do a grab bag?  Card?  Coal? 

And, once you've answered all of those questions, tell me: what are you getting your sister, brother, sister's boyfriend, brother's wife, and dad?  Because I am at a total loss this year.  TOTAL. LOSS.

Ok, thank you!
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The Big Fish Bowl in the Sky

I put Leah to bed 30 minutes ago.  We followed the same routine as we do every night:

1) She puts her finger out and I apply "teeth medicine" (Ambesol) for her to apply to her gums.

2) She puts her finger out and I allow her to dip her finger into the "lip gloss" (Vaseline) to which she applies to her lips.

3) She then looks at me and says, "Ooh, my beddy (belly) hurts.  I need some beddy medicine." And then I open the Vicks and let her take a dab to put on her belly. 

Editor's note: I would let her apply the Vicks without the pretend pain, but I love hearing her pretend, night after night, that her belly starts to hurt at the exact moment that we complete the lip gloss routine.  I play into too.  "Oh, your belly hurts?  Well, then we better get some medicine for that!" 

And then while she situates herself amongst her 40 blankets and NumNum (a stuffed Snoopy) I feed Fishy, her blue beta fish that I have hated taken care of since my wonderful sister gave Leah the fish back in June. 

Except tonight, Fishy was not swimming amongst his plastic cave and vegitation. 

Because Fishy is dead.

Just floating there on the top of the bowl, sideways.  I made a face when I noticed and flung my head back a bit, to which Eagle Eyes over there said, "What happened Mom?  What happened?" 

To which I replied, "Oh, Fishy is so hungry tonight!  He surprised me!" 

And, for once in her life she just accepted that and didn't ask to witness the event. 

So, I left dead Fishy in the bowl and continued with the bedtime routine and texted Greg the minute I got out of there that he had a funeral to hold tomorrow morning.

So, what exactly should we tell her?  This isn't our first pet that has died, but this is the first pet that has died in the house.  This will certainly be the first pet that is flushed down the toilet, and, considering that it's very difficult to do anything in this house behind a locked door, she might very well witness the event.  She is older now than she was when we lost Doozer.  She remembers things now.  She talks in full sentences now.  She tells me when I have boogers in my nose and when I dribble food down my shirt.  Things are different now and I'd rather not scar her this early in life.  There will be many times in the future for that.

Should we say that Fishy is in heaven?  That's what we say about Doozer.  Also, about Grandma Pat.  However, I don't think she really knows what heaven means, as a couple of weeks ago she screamed, "Grandma Pat!  Grandma Pat!" as a woman who lives around the block and has the same hair cut as my mother did, drove by.

I was like, "What?!  That's not Grandma Pat!  That's ____________ (I'm protecting the innocent.)!  Grandma Pat?  Wha?  She's in heaven.  Do you remember that?  That means that she's not driving down our street in her Camry.  Really?  Grandma Pat?  I uh, here, have a lollipop."

So, anyway, back to Fishy.  If there is anyone reading who has been in this situation, how do you suggest we do this?  Comments welcome!
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Some Hypotheticals...

Some of us wake up at ye ole' butt crack and get dressed in the dark so as not to wake up our husbands.  What we really don't need is for our new shirt to have, not only a tag, but a sticker, an XL sticker, that isn't noticed until 9 hours later in our work bathroom mirror.  Oh, gee, has this enormous extra-large sticker been on my back all day?  Wow.  Thanks, Kohls. 

Some people think that, because they want peanut butter on their cracker immediately-right-this-minute-not-a-minute-later, it's totally acceptable to scream at their mom in her face and expect that cracker, with peanut butter-don't-you-dare-forget-that-lady, post haste.  Those people would be wrong.  Very, very wrong.  Those people also find themselves in bed a half hour early.

Some husbands think that, after spending their day off tending to their daughter, retreating to the couch the second their wife gets home from work and not moving from that position for the rest of the night, thereby leaving their wife to clean up dinner, the house, and the kid alone, after she left the house 11 hours previously to go and work all day at her job, is going to be received well.  The husbands that do that don't get lucky...not that it matters, since they've been sleeping on the couch since 6:30 p.m. anyway. 

Some women cannot get into their heads that they are only one person and find themselves overbooking their weekends to the point that bathroom breaks are going to be a tight squeeze.  I have to sit down and write out a game plan for tomorrow in order to fit in everything that I need to do.  I never learn.   Luckily I don't have to put out tonight.

Have a good one, folks.  Cheers!
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Brought To You By Coffee

Sometimes having kids feels like doing time for a crime you didn't commit.  I mean, yes, technically, with regards to Leah, I did "commit the crime."  I mean, we wanted her, and she's here due to us.  But, there are times when taking care of her seems really exhaustive and heavy and just plain tough.

I was talking to a co worker who is child-free, by choice.  He spent the weekend babysitting his 5 year-old neice, and today, Wednesday, he's still recuperating from the weekend.  He just doesn't understand how people can do this day in and day out, like deal with kids, all the time.  And, he's right.  I don't know how I do it.

We spend a lot of time in the car.  And Leah must talk, question, comment, and narrate the entire time she's in the car.  There's a lot of "Look, Mommy"s too.  It's non-stop.  When I pick her up from my sister's house on Wednesdays and am in the thick of a 45-minute commute in rush hour traffic after working for 9 straight hours, the last thing I want to do is "Look at my knee, Mommy!  Look at my sock!  Oh, man!  There's a bus!"  And if she doesn't get a reaction she will keep going, louder and louder, until she does.  So, we have a conversation for the duration of the entire ride.  Every ride.  Every day. 

Now, I don't want you all to think that I'm complaining about parenthood, because I'm not.  Much.  I knew it would be tough and challenging.  Not as tough and challenging as it actually is, but still, I had an idea.  What I'm saying is that despite the challenges, we still do it.  We still have kids.  We still run ourselves ragged taking care of them and tending to their needs.  We still think about them and worry about them.  We kiss, hug, cuddle, and snuggle them.   We love them to pieces.  More than we ever thought possible.  It's worth it.  It must be, right?

Despite being woken up at 5 a.m. this morning to the words, "I want pancakes now!" I never regret the day Greg and I decided to become parents.  I can't even remember life without Cha Cha.  And I don't want to...because I was probably well rested and energetic and richer.  And, really, who wants to think about that?

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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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The Lunch Box

Why does an hour while at work creep by, yet the lunch hour passes in approximately 9 1/2 minutes?

Now that I have an actual lunch hour, wherein I leave the office at a certain time and then don't return to the office for one whole hour, I am trying to get some errands done during that time.

I work in an area that has everything--malls, shopping centers, grocery stores, restaurants, banks, gas stations--so I try to take advantage of "adult-only errands" during that time.

You know what those are: the types of errands that require one to get in and out of a vehicle fast, get in and out of a store fast, and move on to the next store.  Fast.

And, NOTHING can be done with a child fast.  Oh, except take a perfectly neat and clean room and make it look like a Fisher Price-themed, Little People-sponsored, Crayola-funded, primary colored bomb hit it. THAT always happens at mach speed.

The only problem with my master plan is that by the time I get to a store, I have to turn around and come back.  It's like the clock ticks a little faster from 12-1 p.m.  What gives?

Anyway, if you're in the Totowa/Little Falls/West Paterson/Wayne area around lunch time, and you see a woman with a cloud of smoke behind her zoom by, sweat dripping from her brow, words about time going too fast for her to return pants to Kohls AND stop for diapers, just ignore her.

I don't have time to stop and say hi anyway.  Sorry.
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Phone Call

Over the past two weeks, every few hours or so, I’ve had this weird feeling that I want to call my mom. Maybe it’s because I’m at a new workplace and the last time I started a new job my mom was still alive to listen to me talk about it. Maybe because it’s nearing the three year anniversary of her death, and that’s been on my mind. Maybe it’s because I still really miss her and I’m never going to get over her being gone.

To be honest with you, up until a couple of weeks ago, I was thinking that I was over her death. That while I would never forget about it, it was no longer effecting my daily life.  At least not in any negative way.  I was contemplating ending this blog, with an explanation to all that it had served its purpose. When I started it, I thought a lot about my mom and was sad. And, now, I don’t. And I’m not. But, that’s not the case. I’ve had a relapse, so to speak, and I’m painfully aware of her absence and it’s making me sad again.

So, I’ll continue on with my story. I’ll keep writing my open letter to her. I’ll update everyone in my life on what’s going on. I’ll talk about my family, my daughter, my life, my mom. I hope this relapse is short, because life was really good when I wasn’t always depressed and thinking about my mom and I could focus on everything else. But, now, in addition to all the minutia of regular life, I also have the thoughts of my mom’s death in my head again.
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I'll Let The Kid Live This Time

You'll remember when my sofa looked like this?

After several hours when I couldn't even look at Leah, much kvetching, 4 grueling, fruitless, life sucking calls to Ashley Furniture, a couple of phone calls, some elbow grease, a dust rag of indeterminable fabric, and the Costco-size bottle of Shout, all is well in the Gulino Household once again. 

Save for the faint smell of Desitin in the living room.

But she's on thin ice.  NO ONE messes with the couches in this house.  I have issues when it comes to the couches.

Oh, and yes, I did buy the warranty on the couch.  However, I didn't realize that I'd have to provide every single piece of paperwork I ever received in 2008 along with Jesus' urine sample to get someone to even come and look at the stains.  And to undoubtedly tell me that it wasn't covered.

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The Couch Has a Boo Boo

Good Morning Mommy and Daddy!  The couch had a diaper rash.

No worries, though, I've taken care of it.

It's one of those days.

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With a Capital A

I think I started to get Anxiety, right around 7th grade. It wasn’t anything debilitating, but it was able to enter my brain, hold my thoughts, and even warp them for periods of time.

You know that part in Ghostbusters when the guys have to think of NOTHING because anything they think of will come to life and then someone thinks of the Stay Puft Marshmallow Man and he starts chasing them? That’s how anxiety takes over my thoughts. It’s the only way I can describe it.


Last week Leah fell into the pool. I was all the way on the other side. I jumped in and swam to her in a frantic rush as she bobbed up and down in the water. At one point, right before I reached her, our eyes met. Hers showed pure terror. I am fairly certain that mine did too. But, I knew what I was doing. I was saving her. She had no idea what was going on. She was completely helpless.



I finally reached her and got her out of the pool. I managed to climb out myself and take off my soaked cover-up and hang it on the fence. I could barely speak. I was having a hard time breathing. I think I kept saying it’s ok, it’s ok, over and over again, but I’m not sure.


I wanted to burst into tears. I wanted to grab her and hug her so tight and tell her that I was never going to let her go. I just wanted to scream and cry and freak out, but I knew that was the worst possible way to act in this situation. So, as I attempted to calm down and catch my breath, I said things like, Oooh, let’s get back in the pool! Let’s practice jumping to mommy.


She was silent the whole time. She knew that something different, (wrong?, bad?) had happened, but she wasn’t sure how she should react. I know that my ability to hide how damn scared I was was imperative in keeping her calm and unafraid.


She was concerned over the fact that I had jumped in with a dress on. But, other than that, she just followed me and let me hold her and hug her briefly and then we got back into the pool together and started playing. I knew it was important to get right back into the pool to avoid any future water fear.


But my water fear is now alive and present. And for days I couldn’t talk about the event and could only see her terrified eyes in my head when I closed my eyes at night. I am having a hard time focusing on the fact that we avoided a huge and devastating event and being relieve about it. Instead, I am engrossed with what could have happened. What would have happened if I wasn’t there. What would have happened if I didn’t get there fast enough. And it’s leaking into other events of my life. Last night I almost had to stop doing laps in my pool because I was convinced I was going to break my neck on the side of the pool and drown to death.


My anxiety is now in full force. Every time I try to think about something else, I start thinking about how this situation could have gone. I think about horrible terrible things and it’s difficult to get these thoughts out of my mind. As much as I try to just clear my head of all bad thoughts, I just can’t.


When my mom died, I started having these really morbid thoughts. Thoughts about getting into car accidents, having problems with my pregnancy, losing other family members.


I’ve thought for a few years that this anxiety started with the death of my mother, but lately I’ve been thinking about the past and my childhood, and I think that this started back in grade school.


But I’ll save those stories for another day.
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Time. Not On My Side.

I have a serious question for everyone out there.  Like, I need you to comment and give me insight.  This is not a rhetorical question; I am really asking for help.

Where the heck do you find the time to do everything?!

I feel like I am always behind; always fighting the clock to get everything done; always failing at something.  I wake up at a decent time.  I don't take too long to get ready in the morning.  My commute is long, but I make a lot of phone calls and try to get things done while I'm on it.  I usually don't take a lunch, but if I do, I run an errand.  I've perfected my ride home to only take me in high traffic areas for about 5 miles.  I am a multi-tasker to the max; I'm a project manager for christ's sake!  I know how to plan!  I am pretty good at time management.  But, at the end of the day, there are usually about 4 things that I had planned to do that I didn't get done.  And that's a good day.

And, it's killing me!  Especially when it's something that I was looking forward to--like a walk.  Or, some time outside with Leah.  Or, just some time with Leah period.  Where she's not kicking me, of course.  Those times are not looked forward to.  Obvs.

Spending time with this person is important to me.

I have friends on Facebook who will list what they've accomplished each day, and it's a list of like 30 items!  And I'm like--seriously?  You did all that?  Because, today?  I emptied the dishwasher.  That's it.  Emptied the dishwasher and lived.  And that's a good day.

Clearly, I'm missing something.

I look around me and see women who seem to have it all figured out.  Who will let me know at 9 a.m. what they are having for dinner and that they plan on taking their kids for a walk afterwards!  And, me?  I'm not even sure I'm going to be serving dinner in my house, because that is so long from now and anything can happen!

Play with me!

My house is never as clean as I want it.  Either is my kid.  The laundry pile is taller than me.  My hair is always a month overdue for a cut.  Don't get me started on the color.  What are Leah's two year old pictures that people keep asking me about?  Because we don't have them, and, at this rate, there won't be three year old ones, either.  The list of to-do's is out of control.  My dining room has not had a chandelier for four years, and every Saturday I say, "Today is the day I will buy a chandelier" and if I had a dollar for every time I've said that, I could buy you all a chandelier.  And dining rooms.

And it's not like I can't do it.

I plan my crew at work's schedule down to the last minute at times.  I try to foresee all problems and avoid issues at any cost.  But, with my own life?  Not so much.

So, I need some advice.  I need to hear how you do it.  How are your homes so clean, and your errands all done, and your bills paid on time and your refridgerators filled with food?  You always look so great, and your eyebrows are never in need of a wax.  You're not wearing a bra from college because nothing else was clean, and you appear to have had time to put on some lip gloss.  And, look at that!  Your dining room has a chandelier!

How did you do all that?

Look at all of my friends' moms playing with them.

I guess I'll just hold this here bubble bucket and look sad.

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