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.

Powerplay

Oh my word, the expectations on this child. Speaking foreign languages? Getting accepted to Harvard? Landing a modeling contract? You people are stressing her out.

At this point, none of those things have occurred. Instead, she has figured out how to checkmate her mom. She has penetrated the barrier. She has entered the next stage. She fully understands power - she has kissed the crib goodbye.

Oh, I know, a few weeks back she had jumped ship, or crib as it might be, on video. But after that one day, she stayed safely inside the confines of her crib. If that is where I put her down, that is where I would find her. A certainty that I, mistakenly, took too lightly.

In the span of nine short days she went from Addie E., Bean, Miss Thang and Babydoll (too many nicknames for a kid? maybe) to The Night Stalker. Let me rewind a bit and set the stage:

There I was drinking a martini, eating cheese and laughing. I was confident that my daughter was having a great time with Gramma and I knew I was in for a great time with Sean and Ali - as we all now know, too good of time.
While I played, Gramma went about the business of getting Miss Thang ready for bed. She ate her hotdog, played with her toys, explored Gramma's house. She splashed in an extra long bath, got in her pjs, drank her milk, listened to her stories and snuggled down in the port-a-crib. From what I hear, Gramma kissed her goodnight, left the door cracked and headed downstairs.

Gramma reported that by the time she reached the bottom step she had a 33 inch tall shadow, hugging a giraffe behind her. All the tucking in rituals were repeated. Gramma kissed her goodnight, left the door cracked and headed to her own room - only to turn around and find that shadow again.

Gramma: It's time for ni-night little lady.
Miss Thang: No.
Gramma: Yes, sweetie. Do you want Gramma to rock you?
Miss Thang: No Gramma. Gramma's bed.
Gramma: No Addie. No Gramma's bed - how about Gramma rocks with you?
Miss Thang: No. Gramma's bed. Let's watch the news.

By some trickery or skill Gramma got Addie back into the port-a-crib, without watching the news, where she slept soundly 'til morning. And that was last sound night of sleep that she or anyone else has gotten.

After breaching the port-a-crib a few more times during Saturday's nap time, we decided to pull out the trundle bed, outfit it with a bed rail and pray. Our prayers, sadly, were completely ignored.
Addison spent every evening at Gramma's playing the Try and Make Me Sleep game. For those of you who haven't played that game, it totally sucks and you never win. And I love winning.

I would read to her. Sing to her. Rock her. Hold her hand. I would shut the door. Leave the door open. Keep a nightlight on in the hallway. Leave the hallway pitch black. No matter what I did, it failed.
We put up three different safety gates, one of which was taller than her by almost two inches. If she was unable to knock them down, she found a way over them. On average, I would walk her back up to bed eight or nine times. She would sneak downstairs and hide behind a chair to watch TV, not realizing that I could see her little feet. She would slink into the living room and sit in her rocker, in the dark, singing. She traveled with supplies - blankets, giraffe, baby kitty and maybe even a book.

When I would finally triumph, and she would pass out, I knew my victory would be short lived. Without fail, in the wee hours of the morning, she would pad into my room with her her supplies, crawling into bed next to me and falling back asleep.

And snoring like a 75 year-old man with severe sleep apnea.

A sunny baby after a sleepless night.

This lovely trend has continued to the great state of Ohio. Our first night home she jumped the crib four times before finally falling asleep. And she was curled up next to me by 4 a.m.

Sunday we converted her crib to a toddler bed and talked about what a big girl she was and how fun it is to have big girl bed, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah.
Sunday night she fell asleep as I read to her. I eased her into the bed, tiptoed away and hoped for a good night sleep. Sadly, between 11:55 p.m. and 1:38 a.m. The Night Stalker came to visit over a half dozen times. She cried. She pleaded. She threw herself on the floor. Each time I walked her back to her room and tucked her back in. At one point I thought I was in the clear, until I saw her come down the hallway with her supplies and set up camp in my doorway. Again I walked her back to bed - where she finally stayed until morning.

Last night she fought us again. It was a double parent intervention. The Thinking Stool made an appearance. There was crying, and blubbering, and screaming, but after an hour or so she walked her self into her room and went to bed. Triumph!

At 3:40 a.m. I found a sweet-smelling, cuddled-up little girl curled into me.
At 3:41 a.m. she was walked back to bed.

At 8:30 a.m. I brewed a six cup pot of coffee.

Please understand

I don't want to raise my voice, but when you go darting out of the shoe section and into the men's underwear section, barefoot and shrieking, I kind of have to. I also have to grab you by one arm and shove you back in the cart. Oh, by the way, that was not a fun game, so stop laughing.

I don't want to use your middle name as a punishment, but you only seem to respond to Addison Evelyn, DO NOT take one more step toward the street. Or Addison Evelyn stop it! If you keep picking your nose it WILL bleed. Or Addison Evelyn, DO NOT put that in your mouth! Where did you even find a blue Froot Loop? We don't have Froot Loops!

I don't want to make you sit on your play stool in the middle of kitchen, but that is the only way I can insure you won't trek through the shards of glass in the entry way. The shards of glass that are there because a) Mommy left the darn Orange & Fennel candle on the stairs one day too long and b) You picked it up by the lid, 100 percent knowing you shouldn't touch it. You knew this because I had said, three minutes earlier, Addison leave that candle be. Addison Evelyn, let it be.

I don't want to put you to bed screaming and crying with snot flowing freely, repeatedly calling my name and breaking my heart, but I have stick to my guns on occasion. When you hit mommy I warned you that if you kept acting not nice there would be no bedtime stories tonight. When you kicked mommy I stayed true to my word.

I know you are just two. I know that you are figuring all out slowly. I know that I am cranky when I haven't slept well and the house is a mess and your dad is drowning in work. I know that you can't always be bluebirds and rainbows and giggles. But I also know that you are starting to figure out right from wrong.

You know to hold my hand in a parking lot and to not go near the street. You know to keep your food on your plate and not throw it on the floor. You know to use both hands when drinking juice from a big girl cup and not go running through the family room with your full cup. You know when I say One more time down the slide and then we head in for dinner that I don't mean one more time down the slide, a quick ride on the swing and a romp through the sandbox.

Starting today, it's time to start thinking. And here is your Thinking Stool*...

*I spent a day and half staining this Ikea creation white. I had visions of two hand prints, in orange and pink, flanking the word THINK (which would have been bright green). But no. You were not interested in hand prints. As I pressed your paint covered hand on to the white stained stool you turned it into a finger painting project - smearing and smacking and having oh-so much fun. So this is what I improvised after smoothing out your smears. Is it what I imagined? No. Can we still pretty pretty up? Yes. Will your butt fit on as well as it would have fit on the white stool? Yep...Welcome to the Thinking Stool, my dear.

Have fun.

Sweetness

Much of the past month or two seems to have rushed by in a blur. Travel. Car. Sit. Parent. Travel. Car. Sit. Parent. Lion King. Car. Clean. Cook dinner. Playtime. Story time. Travel. Doctor visits. Car. Sit. Clean. Temper tantrum. TIME OUT.

Most of the moments that I have strung together have been punctuated with what the world calls The Terrible Twos.

There has been spitting and kicking. There has been hitting and shrieking. There have been endless, unnecessary tears. There has been a non-stop chorus of No and More and Mine, all mushed together in a cacophony of whines.

There have been many moments where I have looked at my gray-eyed, sweet-faced little girl and wondered Will I ever survive this??

That has been the past month or so. And then there have the past few days.

In the past few days I have gazed at my gray-eyed, sweet-faced little girl and thought How lucky am I? How sweet and marvelous is she?



She has been doling out hugs and kisses. She has been flinging her arms around my neck and nuzzling me and whispering Mama, pretty.
She has gone running to her grandmothers, to her aunts, to me arms outstretched, begging for hugs. She has eaten her meals with minimal coaxing and hardly a complaint. She has woken up with smiles and laughter. She is chitchattering all day ~ naming colors, animals, places, people. She is asking questions and sharing and taking turns. She is a freaking rainbow.



And I know that it isn't going to last. I know that the chaos is just being hidden behind the cuteness. And I. DON'T. CARE. These past few days have made me think:

Maybe, just maybe, I will survive this.

Maybe, just maybe, I am a little good at this.

Maybe, just maybe, my gray-eyed, sweet-faced little girl is here to stay.



I just jinxed it, didn't I?

It's fun to share

Andy and I have, for many months now, been focused on helping Addison understand the importance of sharing. Over all she does a pretty good job. She had no problem with Elise and Ian playing with her baskets of toys last week, and at StrollerFit she gladly shares her goldfishies, books or whatever we may have stashed in the stroller.

She rarely minds when the cat lays on her lion throw, although there have been incidents where Addie very forcefully pulls the lion out from underneath a sound asleep kitty.

Addie shares when Rylan comes over, although sharing with him is a bit more of a challenge. If Addison doesn't want Rylan to play with a particular toy she snatches it away from him and hands him something much less interesting. For example, if Rylan is playing with her Music Cube, and she doesn't approve, she'll grab it from him and hand him a stuffed animal or block. She thinks it's a total fair trade...Rylan doesn't always agree, but he rarely complains.

The other day Addison and I were playing puzzles on the floor and I rested my head on her rocking chair.

Colossal mistake!

She started whining and then screeching and then crying, all while pointing at my head and shaking hers. She grabbed at my hair and sat down and pounded her fists until I took my head off her rocking chair.

Just another example of Addison turning into a toddler. I don't mind her asserting her independence and I want her to makes sense of her world...but occasionally I really do need to rest my head.

Addison reluctantly sharing Lion with Michelob (yes that's a plastic hot dog by her ear. Hot dogs are awesome. She definately will NOT share her hot dog with ANYONE.)

Makeover

So rumor has it that the terrible twos don't wait until two years old to start, but can start anytime after a kid's first birthday.
By no means do I think that Addison is 100 percent immersed in the terrible twos...but she may be dipping her toe in the pool. It used to be that when I would take something away from her that she shouldn't be playing with, say a pair of scissors or a cork screw, she would shrug and move on to another toy. These days she much prefers to throw herself down on the floor, crying and spitting, to kick her legs and flail her arms. It is quite the lovely sight. This happens most often in my bathroom.
Andy and I are relatively bad parents, and we have never gotten around to "baby proofing" the cabinets and drawers that hold such lovely thing as Benadryl, Sudafed, Advil, Tums, eyeliner, eyeshadow, Listerine, Q-tips...You know, all the good stuff. I try to shower while Addison is napping, but that is often a failure, as she tends to wake up right before I head up make myself smell pretty. I usually end up bringing her into the master suite with me, armed with toys and books and hoping (fruitlessly) that she might stay in our bedroom and entertain herself for the five minutes it takes me to scrub up.
Inevitably she pushes into the bathroom and bee lines to her favorite play zone ~ our cabinets. This always inspires me to scrub faster, but by the time I get a towel wrapped around me she has found a treasure chest of drawers.
Yesterday I found her with brown eyeliner across one cheek and concealer streaked across her forehead. Three days ago she had pink socks from opening up some eyeshadow, dropping it on the floor and then dancing in the crumbs. Today she found our stash of extra toothbrushes and was diligently attending to her oral hygiene. There is always an army of pill bottles lined up on the tub's edge, and I often find our brush in the closet.
Today after being repeatedly told no and redirected to the bedroom she melted down. She laid on our floor screaming and blubbering and pounding her fists...During this tantrum all I could think about was how nice the shade of green eyeshadow she had dusted across her face made her eyes look.
With that said...I think I am going to go try to baby proof the bathroom. It will save my sanity and her skin.

Manicures aren't relaxing

This morning Addison woke up in her usual fashion...smiling and giggling. Only instead of finding just her stuffed animals on her floor, she also found her mommy. I swear ever since having Addie my internal temperature has been majorly skewed. I tossed and turned for about two hours last night and then finally decided to go find a cooler place to sleep. Normally that means that I grab my pillow and a sheet from the linen closet and head to the couch. This time, however, I was completely distracted in my exhausted state and noticed the fan that we keep in Addie's doorway. She sleeps with her door open and a fan blowing AC from the hall because her room is usually a good 15 degrees warmer than the rest of the upstairs. So I see the fan, I stumble down to her room, point the fan directly at me and pass out in her doorway.
Shockingly it was a wonderful night of sleep.

So Addison woke up happy to see her mommy and our morning started off wonderfully...that is until I decided to cut her nails. When Addison was a baby cutting her nails was no problem. She didn't cry, she didn't squirm. She really didn't seem to mind at all.
Well, all of that has drastically changed. As soon as I attempt to trim her nails she FREAKS OUT. She wails, and cries, and squirms, and goes stiff, and hits, and shrieks. I think you get the point. She was so out of control this morning that I wouldn't surprised if my neighbors considered calling protective services, seriously, her decibel level was that impressive. I mean she FREAKED out...but, her nails are cut and she won't be able to scratch herself (like she often does) or me (like she often does) and she'll look pretty for her big Chicago weekend.
In the midst of her tantrum, she slammed her body backwards and arched herself across my lap, which gave me the perfect vantage point to she her latest addition : Tooth number five has arrived.