Three. Again.

Seriously, three, I have not missed your ass.  I have survived you before, and darn it, I will survive you again.

No, seriously, I will.

In my sweet, rose tinted memory I hardly remember Addison at three, until I force myself to.  As sweet as she was, that child was not perfect - as evidenced by this rant, and this one, okay and this one too.  I have some how scrubbed my memory and only recall her holding my hand, and snuggling, and holy sweet Jesus, sleeping through the night.

You often hear that people have a second (and third and fourth and ...) child because they have forgotten about the pain of childbirth or those early, exhausting sleepless days and weeks.  Hmmm.  I counter that argument.  People have a second child because A) they have yet to experience the thrill ride that is a three year old or B) they are too damn tired to remember what a ridiculous roller coaster three was.

Looks can be deceiving

Miss Brenna is loved and adored.  Her chocolate eyes are gorgeous, her hugs are delicious, her laughter is infectious.  But, I shit you not, her attitude (Brennatude?) is insufferable.  It is slowly stripping away my humanity.

She wants what she wants.  Not what you offer. 
Not the Minnie Mouse cup, the Anna cup.
Not the blue plate, the pink plate (Pink is my favorrrite color.  Then orange.  NOT blue, MOM. Not BLUE).
I want grapes.  NO STRAWBERRIES!  No grapes!!  Why can't I have the orange I (didn't) ask for?

For over a year we have been going to the YMCA a couple times a week (not that you'd know by my waistline, thank you very much Mr. Wine) and now suddenly she is turning on the tears as I turn to leave.  Those poor women who work childcare - I give her a squeeze and run off to work out, because if  I didn't things would get ugly around here (ahem, uglier).

Nap time is a fight.  It's bribery and coaxing and raised voices and tears.  I often lose.  And my god, sweet Brenna, forget nap time, what the hell has happened to just  plain old sleeping through the night. She is potty trained (god forbid she pees on Anna, or Elsa, or Olaf) and rarely does she have an accident, but yet her itty, bitty, minuscule butt is in my room on average three nights a week.   On Saturday she just wanted to check in at 3:34 a.m.; on Sunday she fell out of bed around 4 a.m.; last night the flashlight I didn't know she had woke her up at 11:26 p.m. and an excruciating, imaginary pain in her pinkie toe sent her into our room around 2 a.m.

SERIOUSLY.  I haven't slept a full night since we were in California wine country last year.  And let's be honest, I drank a shitton of wine, so that was less sleeping and more just gently passing out.

Dinner time is hell.  Breakfast is painful.  Weirdly, lunch is generally okay, but only because I always make Miss B's plate into a happy face.  I've tried that at other meals and she just scowls at me.  She wants what she wants, which apparently is only to have her plate smile at her during lunch.

 A ton of the time she is a lovebug, a fair chunk of the time I am sure she is plotting a coup.  She gets mad about socks.  About designs on her shirts (Anna and Elsa and Princess Sofia should never be silk screened anywhere but perfectly centered on her tiny belly).  She wants to wear gloves, but they piss her off.  She loves mittens, as long as they don't have teddy bears on them.  She gets down right belligerent when  we don't refer to her as Elsa or Anna or Violet, after she has explicitly explained that that is who she is...until she changes her mind 48 seconds later.

She wants to got potty all by herself, but she gets mad when it's time to wipe.  She likes her hands to be clean, but she hates soap.  She is specific about her PJs, her horrendously mismatched outfits and which seasonally inappropriate shoes she wants to wear.

She thinks her sister is her lackey and that she is the overlord of some 1920s mobster organization.  Brenna effectively bullies a seven year old on a daily basis.  Okay let's be honest, she often bullies a 37 and 38 year old as well.  On occasion, she sucks a grandmother into her underworld, too, and, seriously, that's just not nice.


But I know, with my infinite and profound wisdom, that I will survive this.  One day I will wake up and Miss B. will no longer be three.    Knowing my luck, by the time I have regained my sanity she will thirteen and her sister will be seventeen.    And I will deeply mourn these days. 

It is what it is

We're still here, really we are.

Maybe the fact that I have not sat down to write since June is an indication as to what our summer was like here in Neyer land.  I think I spent more time in my car driving than I did sitting in my back yard enjoying my garden. 

We traveled to Surf Side Beach, SC for a wonderful week with the Flaherty clan.  We trekked to Oak Island, NC a few weeks later for a week of beach and hurricane adventures.  A few weeks after that we packed up the car and headed east for Massachusetts for my brothers wedding.    Sprinkled through out the summer were weekend trips to Akron, Carmel and Chicago.  We had guests for a week, a garage sale that purged our house of one percent of clutter and an unexpected and scary week long trip back to Chicago.

Addie went to camp, Brenna moved into a big girl bed, Andy and I lost out on a lot of sleep.  Soccer started, school started, music class started, dance started.   I've been training for a half marathon, Andy's been hitting the gym; hummus has replaced pepperoni as a our go-to snack.

Floors have been mopped, lawns mowed, landscaping attended to.  Addie has lost baby teeth and permanent teeth are beginning to crowd her mouth.  Brenna has figured out how to jump and hop. 

Life has just kept happening and happening and happening and somehow I have gotten lost in the chaos.  I find myself exhausted in the mornings, exhausted in the evening and a whirling dervish in the hours in between.    I find myself incredibly short on patience and perspective. 

By neglecting this space, however, I feel like I am neglecting my voice a bit.  I am neglecting the kids and their stories.  At one point I spent far too much time on the computer updating the blog, Facebook, Instagram and far too little time playing.  Now I feel as though I spend far too much time spinning my wheels - cleaning off the same counter six times a day, folding the same clothes, turning off light switches again and again and again and never finding time to document the ride.

So in an attempt to save my sanity I will work on finding my voice again.  Seeing the humor in motherhood. Sharing the burden and journey so that I am reminded I am in this with lots of other people - for which I am eternally grateful.

I love you

When I was in high school, twentyersome years ago, there was a very nice boy I dated.  I had known him since we were in middle school, we had a lot of the same friends from our middle school years through high school graduation.  I thought he was adorable;  I am not sure if had ever thought of me before we starting dating.
But, yet, we dated.  Dated as fifteen year olds do - hung out after school, watched TV on the weekends with friends, ate ice cream at Ben & Jerry's.
Now that I think back on it, I have no idea how long we dated - weeks?  months?   Truly, my very fuzzy memory has no idea.  I do know that we eventually became friends after we broke up.  We have pictures together on graduation day.  He picked me up from the airport my sophomore year at college so that I could surprise my mom with an unscheduled visit.    When my mom was in the hospital after her mastectomy, he took me out to Ben & Jerry's, where we spent our silly teenaged dates, to comfort me with a milkshake.  Bottom line, he was good, kind guy.

One day, somewhere in our teenaged romance, he turned to me, in front of his locker, and said I love you.  He probably meant it as much as any fifteen year old boy could.  And I, in my ever sensitive and intuitive way, looked right at him and said Thank you. 
To his credit, he rolled with it and gave me a hug.  I, of course, went on to process every second of the interaction multiple times with multiple girlfriends.  One of them couldn't believe that I didn't say I love you back.  One of them gushed that I was so lucky.  One of them rolled her eyes and told me to give her a break.  Either way, he said I love you and I said thank you.

I hadn't really thought of that day or, really of him, in years.  Sure, I heard from him through Facebook a few years back and occasionally I see him tagged in a picture with his family.  Yet, in the past few weeks I can't help but think of him. 

You see, I tell my sweet daughters, as often as I can, that I love them.  Addison often plays a game with me called I love you.  It goes a bit like this - I love you bigger than the sky.   I love you deeper than the ocean.  I love you to the moon and back.  I love brighter than the sun. We go back and forth like this over and over until one of us says I love you just the way you are.  Who ever says that first wins the I love you game.  We are pretty well tied in our score.


Brenna, however, when I say to her  I love you, looks up at me, with those chocolate brown eyes that look just like her father's, and says Thank you or I know or Yep.

I now think about how harsh my fifteen year old self was.  I was honest, but harsh.

I am hoping Brenna is not being harshly honest, just two and a half.

Five Weeks

We are in the final five weeks. 
Five weeks until our little family of three turns into a family of four. 
Five weeks until incredibly sleepless nights and endless diaper changes.

Five weeks until tiny onesies and the sweet smell of baby.
Five weeks until toothless, gum filled grins enter our house.
Five weeks until I can stop fretting about being pregnant.
Five more weeks until I start worrying about raising another daughter, sibling rivalries and being able to do it all.

Five more weeks until we meet her. 
Her, our still nameless daughter. 
The one who forms right angles in my belly and dances each day around midnight. 
Her, the baby we took years to decided whether or not to have and now can hardly wait for her introduction.
The one who will inherit tons of tutus and pink and purple.
Her. 
Addison's little sister. 
Our littlest lady.

Who will she be?
In her infancy will she only be calmed by the soothing voice of her father?
As a toddler will she endlessly seek the shelter of my lap?
Will she demand hairbows and skirts and be in love with all things Princess?
Or will she wear ponytails and jeans and not be caught without her shin guards?

Will she have dark hair and chocolate eyes like her father?
Will she share her sister's cheeks?
Will she be feisty or sweet or a mix of two?
Will she like tummy time and stories, rocking slowly and the cat?
How will she feel about green beans?

Five weeks to get the house organized.
Five weeks to fill the drawers with sweet baby clothes and decorate the nursery.
Five weeks to stock pile sleep, patience and sanity.
Five weeks until our world is turned wonderfully upside down again....

Just five more weeks.

Back to School

She told me she would listen to her teacher.

And eat her healthy food for lunch first.

She said she'd learn one new name.

And use her best manners.








She told me she couldn't wait to be a Frog.

And was so excited to ride to school with her best bud, Nicholas.

She told me she wouldn't miss me, but hoped I had a good day without her.

At least this time she turned around to say goodbye instead of just marching off through the doors to big girl school.

Forgiveness

Mom, what does forgive mean?
Umm, it means to no longer be mad at someone for upsetting you. Why?
Because I forgive you.
You forgive me? What did I do to upset you?
You didn't let me go to the park, but I forgive you.


And off you flounced to play outside, so I started thinking about all of the time I have forgiven you.

For waking me up at 2:45 a.m. to tell me you're uncomfortable.
For vomiting sausage and grapes down my back.
For coloring in the back door.
For spilling a cup of milk in the car and not telling me.
For drinking my water and leaving it cloudy with floaters.
For throwing toys from one end of the house to the other.
For telling me daddy is much better cook.
For calling me a mean, old thing.
For saying eeeeewwwwww and pointing at my backside when I took off my shorts to try on a skirt in Target.
For kicking me in the shins just to see my reaction.
For informing me you wished our neighbor was your mom.
For the multitude of poop that went out your diaper and up your back.
For the stretch marks, the spider veins, the lower back pain, the 24 hours of labor.
For mistaking me for the maid and asking me if I came with the house.
For the multiplying stains my carpets.
For stepping my toes 10 tens a day and my weekly headbutt to the face.

I am sure that I am missing some major points in that list, but you just told me, rather firmly, it's time to make lunch, and I best do that so that you don't get mad at me again.

Mothers Day

This Mothers Day started at 6:30 a.m. with a little lady looking for some snuggles and cartoons. Being that we were at our friends' house in Chicago we padded quietly downstairs for some early cartoons and snuggles. Once we were cuddled up on the couch Addie turned to me and said Mama is today Sunday? When I told her it was, she gave me a huge hug and said Oh good! Happy Mothers Day Mom, I love you!

We had a delicious breakfast with our friends, lingered in Chicago for a bit longer and then hit the road to try get home at a decent hour. Both Andy and Addie were sleeping by the time we hit Indiana and I got to enjoy a car free of questions while listening to the Cubs game on the radio. The few hours of listening to what I wanted to without answering dozens of questions was gift in itself.

We made it back to Cincinnati in time to stop by Gramma Patty's for a little picnic, wiffle ball (Addie hit the ball all by herself!) and chocolate covered treats. By the time we made it back to our house it was getting close to bed time...but Addie was excited to give me the gifts that she had made.

I got pampered with an hour long massage (thanks for helping her pick that out Andy!) and several preschool creations. Her hand print in pink paint to remind how little she is. A butterfly beautifully decorated with scraps of tissue paper and a poem about mothers. A handmade picture frame with a picture of my little cutie. And my favorite, a sheet called Meet my Mom which made me laugh and kind of made my day:

Meet My Mom

By Addie

What is your Mom's name? Jessica

How old is she? 29 or 26 (um, hells yes, thanks sweetie!)

What color is her hair? Brown

How much does she weigh? 50 lbs (sure that sounds about right - give or take a few)

What does your mom do around the house? She mops and sweeps and cleans (Hysterical, since the two chores I do the least is mopping and sweeping)

What is her favorite drink? Iced Tea (thank you, sweet angel, for not saying wine)

What does your mom cook? Yummy dinner, Yummy breakfast, Yummy lunch (errr, no your dad does most of that, but I'll take the credit)

What is your Mom's favorite TV show? The News (don't I sound informed?)

Where does she like to go? Target (um, yep. No argument there)

How do you know she loves you? She lets me make crafts (that is a sign of love because crafts drive me batty!

Mothering a three year old

There are days that I wake up and wonder who's life I am living.
I am a mom.
I am defined by things that define her.
Sometimes I feel lost and overwhelmed, and other times I feel like I am rocking this mom thing. Most of the time I feel slightly bewildered, a bit anxious and a tiny bit content.
There are so many things about being a mother, particularly a mother to a three year old, that I was not prepared for. I think that I am finally learning that motherhood, if nothing else, is a constant learning curve.
******************************************************************************************************************

I wasn't aware of the fact that I may never get a full night's sleep again. It's not really her fault - she rarely gets out of bed once asleep. Instead it's that my mind is always on overdrive and, even with my substandard hearing, I hear every creak, idling car and bump in the night.

I had no clue that I would watch more kids programming than adult shows. I can be considered an expert on Sesame Street, SuperWhy, Dinosaur Train, Curious George, and all things Disney Princesses. I can discuss the distinct qualities of each princess at length and can find a silver lining in all their silly stories.

I didn't know I would become immune to mucus and vomit. I don't enjoy either entity, but deal with both rather well. I've been lucky enough that vomit has only occurred a handful of times, but it seems that around here, the mucus is here to stay.

I wasn't aware that I would think that looking "put together" would mean clean fleece pants, minimally stained t-shirts, mascara and chap stick. Often that is truly the best I've got.

I had no clue I'd lose my title as queen of the household due to the presence to a half-pint "benevolent ruler". Yes, I make and enforce rules. I occasionally make dinner and I usually do the household chores, but to think that I am the one who is in charge is asinine.

I wasn't aware I would worry about every cough and sniffle. Nor was I prepared for three cases of walking pneumonia in 12 months, the scheduling of a tonsil surgery or the plethora of band aids that are dispensed. I also wasn't prepared to truly believe in a mother's intuition - but every time it's been spot on.

I didn't know I'd end up raising a princess. A girly, twirly, pink clad princess. A girl who hates pants, who longs for party shoes and can't stand having sticky hands. A girl who knows how to use her pout, how to effectively bat her eye lashes and isn't above using a smile to get what she wants.

I had no clue I would make hundreds of peanut butter sandwiches, heat up a gazillion hot dogs, fend off requests for a thousand sweet treats a day. Or that my refrigerator would always house cheese sticks, strawberries, milk and pink lemonade.

I wasn't aware that I would worry, already, about school and extracurriculars and making sure that she is able to do all the things that interest her. That going to story times, signing up for gymnastics and carpooling for preschool would become a permanent part of my calendar.

I didn't think that my emotions could be so manipulated - that within one hour I could be frustrated, angry, overjoyed and amused.

I had no clue that I would want to all-out decorate for the holidays and would truly enjoy outings that revolve around pumpkin patches, tree farms and egg hunts.

Mostly, I was not prepared for being so clueless, so frequently. For needing to lean on my friends and family, for always having to ask advice. I didn't know that I would fret over tiny decisions and worry about how my choices impact her.

I wasn't aware that a squeeze from her hand, a snuggle on my lap or a simple smile could make my day.

And I had no clue that I could be so exhausted, and frustrated, and fulfilled, and hopeful all in the same moment.

Tiny Dancer

Trick-or-Treat, when I was growing up, was always a bit of a cold affair. I had some pretty awesome homemade costumes - Tinkerbell, a carrot, a scarecrow, a pumpkin - but you would have never known it, because they were hidden beneath my bulky winter coat. Often times I had on gloves and even a hat. And by the time I was all bundled up, I usually was wearing a scowl as well.


It stunk.


Neighbors would always have to ask "And what are you, sweetie?". I would have to unzip my parka, take off my hat and try to show off my mother's creativity - while starting to freeze a bit.


So naturally when it was chilly last night I was not happy about having to add a coat to Addie's ballerina get-up. My brother laughed and mocked me declaring "You're just like mom!!"... but it was chilly and Addie already had a bit of cold. Mother knows best, damn it.


My tiny dancer was instantaneously transformed into a prima ballerina - after all, what three year old doesn't have a pink faux fur coat stashed away in the closet for trick-or-treat emergencies?

Clean up Clean up

I said to Andy last week, as I wiped down the table, started the dishwasher, decluttered the counters and picked up yet another pair of Addie's shoes, that I often feel like a well educated maid.

He immediately frowned and said sorry - but, unlike years ago, I no longer feel like his maid. His discarded black socks and wadded up undershirt barely annoy me. The keys on the counter instead of the key hook? No big thang. Whiskers in the sink? A rare occurrence these days.

Instead, what I find disheartening, is that I've been demoted: I am now the personal maid to a three year old.

A very messy three year old. A very active three year old. A three year old who has too dang much stuff.

All day, every day I pick up. I pick up shoes, undies, dolls, doll outfits. I pick up stuffed animals, books, blankets. I pick up pieces of paper, chalk, socks. I find shriveled pieces of cheese, grapes, stale crackers and cups of sour milk - all of which I pick up.

I pick up dropped pieces of clothing, used tissues, discarded coloring books. I pick up DVDs, remote controls, tiny high heels. I pick up pairs of socks, cat toys, crayons. I pick up match box cars, pieces of fake food, toy phones.

Piles of blocks. Buckets of Tinker Toys. Mini jungle animals. Tea sets. Tiaras. Lunch dishes. Lemonade glasses. Peanut butter smeared napkins. Wands. Floofy dresses - all day, everyday - picking up.

Yesterday, I walked into Addie's room and was faced with a disaster zone. All the things I mentioned above were strewn across the carpet plus a few more pleasures, like dirty undies, multiple pairs of PJs, stick on earrings and a bath towel.
I told Addie we couldn't go anywhere until she got her room cleaned up. Knowing full well that she couldn't tackle such an enormous task, I offered to help.
Thirty-five minutes later her bed was made, closet and drawers cleaned out, and furniture dusted. Her books were shelved, stuffed animals in their baskets, and blankets piled in the corner. Her hairbows were clipped to ribbons and her purses in their cubbyhole.

Her task? To pick up her magnetic doll set and the accessories. I looked around at what I had accomplished and realized her dolls were not picked up, but were well dressed and perfectly accessorized. I was annoyed.
And then she looked up at me with those enormous eyes and said See mama? I do it. I do good job. Doesn't she look pretty?

And all could think about was the time that my mom sent me to my room to clean the mess I had made, one that I am sure was shockingly similar to Addison's. I have no idea how old I was, probably a little older than Addie. I remember not wanting to clean and knowing that if I dragged my feet long enough my mother would trudge upstairs and take over.
I was wrong.
She trudged upstairs, laid on my bed and informed that she would watch as I got my room clean. I have no idea how long she laid there, or how long I cleaned, but when I was done I was so proud.
I distinctly remember putting a record on my Winnie-the-Pooh record player, which also projected lights while the music played, and crawling in my bed, nuzzling next to Mom watching the lights bounce off the walls and saying See Mom? I did it. I did a good job.

It's quite possible by that point my mom was snoring.

Muddasday

When I was pregnant my Aunt Paula sent me a slew of books on parenting - particularly on being the parent to a girl. One book was Growing a Girl.

I have admittedly not yet read it (don't judge me, I keep it in my 'to-read' pile next to the bed. Right next to the Percy Jackson series that I am unabashedly reading).

The title, however, sticks in my head.

Growing a Girl.

That's what I do. Every day. I don't really accrue any time off. I haven't gotten a raise, or annual review, in almost three years.

But I get kisses.

And I'm told twenty-seven times a day Mama, I love you, too.

I put band aids on scraped knees and pin hair out of beautiful eyes.

I read the same books over and over, and go to story time, even when I don't want to.

I am a lap. I am hugging arms. I am an example and disciplinarian.

At times I am exhausted and overwhelmed and frustrated. Other times I am overjoyed and amused and hopeful.

Mostly I am tired.

Tired but content.

And today, I was told over and over Happy Muddasday, Mommy.

Mommy, I get you flowers. Yellow and purple and white. I help paint the kitchen. I bring you a flower pot Mommy.

Happy Muddasday Mom. I love you too.

It's not easy work, Growing a Girl, but it's the best damn job I've ever had.

Out of the mouth of my Babe

Yesterday while playing on top of the swing set: "Mama, this is my castle! Oh. Hmmm. Where is my prince? I no see my prince, Mom."


An Easter package arrived for Addie two days ago from Gramma Kathy. When she opened it her eyes got real wide and said: "Aaaahh. Isn't that nice? Isn't that SO nice, Mama?".



Earlier this week while peeing she stood up and turned around to face the potty and said: "Mommy, I do it like this. I peepee like Saint Nicholas* and Daddy."







*Saint Nicholas is her little buddy in the neighborhood. His name is Nicholas, but she insists on calling him Saint Nicholas.





Just about everyday, six times a day: "I do it by MYSELF Mom. By MYself." Most of the time, few minutes later, "Mammmmaaaa, HEELLLP."




Playing in the back yard with our friend Max, in her "castle": "Max, I a princess. You my prince. Mommy! Look! My prince!"

Not in my nature

The post below was written last March.

I have no idea why I never published it, but I had to laugh aloud when I stumbled across this evening.

Last March sounds like this March - travel and hecticness and chaos.

I've been in the car, travelling, for what feels like a month. In reality, I was just here and there for eight days.

And today, we spent the day outside sliding, swinging, sandboxing and getting sunburnt. And her hair? That old fuzz? It was was in pigtails.

My kitchen needs a scrubbing. My bathrooms need disinfecting. My gardens need weeding and my laundry needs to get done.

Addie is transitioning to undies at bedtime. We are transitioning to warm weather and later nights. There is a list in my brain that just keeps growing.

But instead of scrubbing, disinfecting, weeding, fretting and doing laundry tonight - I poured a hefty glass of wine. I drew a hot bubble bath and I got lost in my book.

And tonight, just as sometime last March, I took time to breathe.

It's as though time has stood still.

And I kind of like that.

**********************************************************************************************************************

Sometimes I have to force myself to sit down and take a breath and be.

Usually I find myself doing this after a long talk with an old friend; after a hectic and head-achy day running after a certain kiddo; after seeing someone else's heartache. On occasion I do it when the house is clean, the candles are flickering, the air is silent.

But for no good reason I felt this way last night. Andy was at the XU game. Addison was snuggled up, sleeping soundly with giraffe. Michelob was asleep under the windows and I could hear the sound of the clothes dryer hard at work.

Maybe it was because I have not been home for three straight weekends. Maybe it was because yesterday Andy told me that Addison was no longer sporting baby fuzz, but actual big girl hair. Maybe it was because I saw my Dad, and know that he is hanging in there. Maybe it was because it felt like spring and my daughter played outside until her shoes were full of dirt and her bottom was muddy.

So instead of flitting around the house picking up the toys, putting away the laundry, swivel sweeping the floor, and generally straightening out our life, I chose to pour a glass of wine. I poured my glass of wine, checked on my kiddo and treated myself to a book.

I just decided to enjoy being home. I embraced the disorder...and I read that book.

I left the chaos and filth for today...and now I am wishing I hadn't. Bad idea to go against my nature.

Every day there is something new - that is beauty, and perhaps the frustration, of childhood and of parenthood.

Around our house our newest things are Why; Mommy, watch me; and Hold me.
Those three statements are part of just about my every day.

Why.
Is the sky blue? Are we going to Nicholas' birthday? Does kitty meow? Are we driving this way? Can't I see baby Liam? Is Daddy at work? Can't I call Gramma? Do I have to pick up my toys? Brush my teeth, eat my breakfast, comb my hair, take a bath, wash my hands? Why?

Mommy watch me.
Watch me somersault. Watch me spin. Watch me color, paint, cut and glue. Wear my dresses and slippers. Watch me run. Skip, jump, dance. Watch me throw, kick, read. Stomp my feet, pout, cry. Watch me share, take turns, pretend, grow. Mommy watch me.

Hold me.
Me scared. Hold me, I sick. Hold me, mama, hug. Hold me, no doggie. No Izzy, No Heidi, NO DOG. Hold me, I tired, I grumpy, I cuddle you, Mommy. Hold me, Me sorry. Nuzzle nuzzle nuzzle, hug me. Love me. Protect me. Shelter me. Reassure me. Hold me.

And at times those three statements [questions??] drive me right up the wall. I get so tired of responding and filling what could have been the silence of my day. Why? Mommy watch me! HOLD ME!

And then I think back. And I remember. And I know that this phase is so important. And that it will repeat itself over and over for the rest of our lives

Because I can remember:

Why?
Why do I have to empty the dishwasher? Walk the dog? Empty the kitty litter? Wipe up the lemonade with a wet cloth? Why does he wear those tubes in his nose? Do we have to do a 'once over'? Why can't she get out of her chair? Do his hands shake? Why can't I have those boots, these jeans, an ESPRIT bag? Why?

Mommy watch me.
Flip on the uneven bars. Careen down the mountain. Kick the soccer ball, swing the bat, do a back handspring. Watch me run the race, limp to the finish line. Watch me leave. Watch me bloom and grow and put down roots. Watch me walk down the aisle, become a mother, become frustrated, smile, laugh, cry. Mommy watch me.

Hold me.
I am exhausted. Hold me, my heart is broken. My friend died. I am worried and stressed and in pain. My knee hurts. Hold me, I'm overjoyed, excited, overwhelmed. Hold me, he loves me, we're getting married, it's a girl. It's hard. I'm grouchy. I'm sleepy. Hold me.

So my hopeful silence is filled with her questions and antics and my answers and actions. Just as my Mom's rare silence was, and is, filled with me.

Because even now, I ask Why.
I earnestly say Mommy watch me.
I occasionally whisper Hold me.

And she answers.
And she does.
And she does.

And so will I. Over and over again.

Yesterday

I don't exactly know what kind of tears they were. Maybe tears of frustration. Or tears of embarrassment. Tears of exhaustion, of disappointment, of annoyance, of loneliness.

All I know is that they were hot tears and they were dripping off my face as I drove in the snow down the road, not sure where we were heading next.

I had to carry her out of our exercise class, over my shoulder like a sack of potatoes, while she kicked and screamed and blubbered. She yelled at her friends. She sobbed like she was being beaten. She flailed on the floor. It took me over twenty minutes to wrestle her into the car seat.
She hit me.
She spit in my face.
She kicked and pounded.
She tried to bite me.

Everything I said was met with a NO and a glare and a look that communicated one emotion - hate. She was seething in her car seat, hating me. And in the moment, the feeling was mutual.
And then I cried.
And I couldn't stop.

After slightly composing myself I called my mom and cried some more, wishing she lived around the corner and could swoop into make everything better, easier, smoother. I sat surrounded by self-pity.

I am supposed to be better at this. I am supposed to be able calm her and soothe her and make her feel okay. I am supposed to have taught her by example - shown her how to problem solve, make good decision and negotiate her feelings.
We are supposed to be able to work through situations with out both of us yelling. Without me wanting to smack her back. Without her slamming her head on the floor or her door in my face.
Without a river of stupid tears.

By the time we pulled into the garage, my cheeks were still wet and she was singing gaily in the backseat, as if her meltdown, and my meltdown, had never occurred. As she always does after a blowup, she said "Are you happy Mommy?" and I could barely respond without the threat of new tears.

Because, no, I am not happy when I feel like I am failing her. I am not happy when I feel like I can't meet her needs. No, I am not happy when I am so angry that I understand why parents hit. I am not happy when my angel rips off her wings and sharpens her horns. I am not happy when I am completely unable to handle the situation. I am not happy when my tears give me away.

I tried to get our day back on track. And for a few moments, here and there, it was. But there were many more tears. Several minutes were spent on the thinking stool. She lost her privilege to use her stamps and a basket of stuffed animals is still sitting on top of my dresser.

But at the end of the day, when her Daddy brought her up to bed, I got an extra kiss and hug that was a bit longer than usual. Both of which, I appreciated and needed.

And then, shortly after her, I crawled into bed, hoping for a better today.

So Smug

The words were still hanging there in the air, swirling above my self-satisfied smug little head.

Yeah, she's been doing great.

Accident free all weekend, a few small accidents this week.

And so far, no accidents at all out in public.

My friend congratulated me and told me how impressed she was. This was a major compliment, as she is an amazing mom, who is due in less than two weeks with kiddo number two. Yes, she has had bumps in the road and she and her 4.5 year old don't always see eye-to-eye. But she is calm, self-assured, always has an answer when I need it, and has raised a very smart, sweet, sassy daughter.

So there my smugness was, floating above my head, when I heard from somewhere inside the depths of the mammoth tree exhibit:

Mommy I peepee my undies.

My undies peepeed Mommy.

And there she stood in the tunnel two stories above me with soaking wet incredibly cute, pink, corduroy pants.

I told her to come down to me. She ran. I called her three more times. She had no response.

So I did what I had to do.

I climbed up the tree structure.

I crawled through the tunnels and rope bridges (holy, claustrophobia) and I went in search of my pee soaked offspring.

I never tracked her down up there, and after crawling and stooping and slightly hyperventilating, I made back down the ground and found my darling.

I marched her to the bathroom ignoring her endless chorus of

Why? Why? Why? Whhhhyyyy? Are you happy Mommy? Are you happy? A little bit happy Mommy?

and plopped her on the toilet, armed with new undies, clean pants and a finite amount of patience.

She had peed so much that her sock and shoe were wet. I could have wrung out her incredibly cute, pink, corduroy pants.

So I answered her questions in a hard whisper:

Because you kept playing when you knew you had to go peepee.

Because you didn't come when I asked you to.

Because I was bragging and now look a little foolish.

Because you are a big girl and you know better.

And No, I am not. Nope. Not even a little bit.

One pair of dry pants and the same wet sock and shoe later we reviewed the expectations around potty and went back to play. Her excitedly, me a bit embarrassed.

My friend chuckled and smirked, not in an smug way, just in a "I've been in your shoes" kind of way.

I felt it was my duty to remind her that in another 2.5 years, she'll be in my shoes again.

Buzz Buzz

Today just felt like Fall.

The house was freezing when we woke up. Both Addie and I bundled up in our robes and headed to the warmth of the basement. After laundry and coffee and milk we headed out to face the day.

I wanted to be in a pair of comfy jeans and a fleece, but instead I wrestled myself into my work out clothes and off to class Little Miss and I went. I ran and side shuffled and did push ups and crunches. Addie chased Elise and Max and skipped circles around us sweaty, grunting moms.

Apparently the blue skies and breeze put me in good mood and I took Addie to the playground to run off more energy with Elise.

She went down slides, and tried climbing big ladders, and giggled and jumped. She barely paid attention to the toddler play ground. Instead she ran off and attacked the play ground for the five year olds. She didn't care if she could see me. She was feeling fearless. And then...

A mean, horrible, pesky yellow jacket attacked her. She was just minding her own business, playing and being fearless, when she got stung in the wrist. There were tears and drama, most of was quieted by a kiss, some water, and a CareBear band-aid.

She survived, her nap didn't, and I have heard more about her *bumble bee boo boo* than you can even imagine.

But that's okay - bumble bee boo boos suck and deserve cuddles and kisses and hugs, and those were doled out by the hundreds on this gorgeous Fall day.

Sniffle Sniffle

It's silly I know. But when I don't feel good I want to be taken care of. I want to be made Acini di Pepe with Parmesan. I want to curl into a ball and watch mindless television. I want to sleep until I feel like waking up. I want to moan and complain and not feel guilty about it.

I am not one of those people who gets "sorta" sick. Usually, when I am sick, I am down for the count.

I have the knack for being stupidly sick. A cold that lasts days, a flu that lasts weeks. In mid-January, like clockwork, I get my arse kicked by something that forces me to stay in bed, chewing Halls, blowing my nose a thousand times, sweating and shaking with the chills. It's lovely.

And lucky me, over the past four-ish days I have been sick. Jessica sick.
I woke up in Cleveland with sore throat on Sunday. At lunch it was a wickedly uncomfortable throat. By the time we were driving south on I-71 it was on fire. And I was clammy. And achy. Then the sneezing started, and the endlessly running nose.

Oh, and did I mention that my mini-me was coughing? And sneezing? And had a green river of goo flowing out of her nose? And had sad, glassy eyes?

Turns out when you're sick, and you're the mommy, and your kiddo is sick...there is no time for you to be taken care of. You've got to be a little tougher. You drop $45 in medicine and tissues and cough drops at CVS. You watch The Lion King because it makes the little one happy and less snuffly. And you go to bed at 8:45, fifteen minutes after the kiddo goes to bed, and you don't feel guilty about it.

It also turns out that the little one bounces back faster and doesn't particularly care if you have bounced back or not. She wakes up at 6:30 ready to take on the world. She wants to color, to play her game (more on that game at another time), she wants to jump and hop and go to the park and story time and down the slide in the back yard.

So I've learned, when they bounce back, you fake it. You go to park, and story time, and into the backyard armed with hand sanitizer, and Halls, and tissues in your purse. And you remember fondly the days when your mommy would rent you The Princess Bride and let you lay on the couch and take care of you.

And you get over it, because there is a nose to wipe, and it's not yours.