The sad part of this story is that Adam's grandma passed away a few days ago. She was really special to him and I know he's having a hard time with her death, especially since it had been about three years since the last time he'd seen her. So, I just want to get the serious bit established before I go any further. Rest in peace, Grandma Apple...
Adam worked a half day yesterday so he could eat lunch and get packed before heading to the airport to fly out for his grandma's funeral. It was a rare treat for Bryony and me to have him home so early, and to get to eat lunch with him. For some reason, I was so giddy that I was drinking club-soda-with-lime by the glassfuls and had to jump up to pee every twenty minutes or so.
On the way to the airport (with me sitting in the backseat to keep Bryony company), Adam suggested we stop for shaved ices (one of his favorite treats here in our little neighborhood) before getting on the highway. I didn't really feel like the sweetness of an ice, but I knew he wouldn't have one if I didn't and he really, really wanted one, so I gave in. You can get two flavors mixed together at this place, so I got my old stand-by--lemon-lime and sour lemon--and Adam got mango-strawberry and sour cherry . Yum, sugar.
About twenty minutes into the 1 1/2 hour ride, my cell phone rang with a number I didn't recognize; I decided to pick up. On the other end of the line was a man identifying himself as an employee from a consulting company I had applied to just days earlier; he wanted to schedule an interview with me. Boy, was I psyched! Then he said something about having candidates "out" for interviews, and I realized he meant in-person. The job is in Nowheresville, California, and while I am willing to move there for employment (it is located on an army base so there are employment opportunities for Adam, too), I had a hard time justifying affording an airline ticket and rental car to interview for a job I might not get. Not to mention the fact that I don't have daycare for Bryony, and since I couldn't take her with me to the interview, I would have nowhere to keep her while I was gone. I asked the guy if they were open to conducting phone interviews and he said no. So, an extremely disappointed Lauren had to decline the interview. I couldn't remember the last time someone was unwilling to conduct a phone interview when they knew I was out-of-state; considering the economic climate and unemployment rate, it seems inappropriate to assume that people can afford to make expensive travel arrangements for an interview. I got more and more bummed once I'd hung up, and I started to get really depressed about my situation--will I ever find a good job? The magic 8 ball didn't seem very optimistic.
I also started to get increasingly antsy as I realized I really need to pee...in a bad way. But we were still a long way from the airport and we couldn't stop because we had exactly enough time to get Adam to his gate. I looked around desperately for some options. My eyes fell on my size-medium styrofoam cup that my mostly-eaten shaved ice had been in. I gulped down the last chunk of yellow-green slush and started to manuever myself in position to "drop trow." Problem was, Bryony's big new car seat was impeding my progress. With my 16-month old looking on, I managed to wiggle out of my clothes from the waist down, hike one leg over the front passenger seat. And yes, my ample brown backside was giving I-35 South quite the show; luckily, we have mesh screens on the backseat windows to block out sunlight, so hopefully they blocked out my "moon" light, too. Well, I proceeded to...ahem, fill up not one, but two cupfuls, the contents of which were flung in bright yellow waves out the back seat window. Adam, after figuring out what was going on, just shook his head and said something about me being a "Wacky Dame." But I felt so much better that I didn't mind.
By the time we arrived at the airport 45 minutes later, I needed to go again. I gave Ads a very rushed kiss good-bye as I high-tailed it to the driver's seat so I could stop at the nearest burger joint to make use of their facilities. Of course, my need to pee caused highway traffic to back up, which necessitated exiting onto the service road. I drove and drove without a fast-food restaurant in sight for miles. Seriously?
Finally, I spotted a Wendy's in the distance and I breathed a sigh of relief. "We're in business, Bryony!" I called to the back seat. After parking, unstrapping Bryony from her car seat and walking up to the restaurant, I opened the door to find that it was the epitome of a fast-food joint--no seating, and no public bathrooms. I almost cried. I asked the employee behind the register if there was a bathroom and when he said no, I just about lost it. With child in arms (pressing on my yet-again-full-bladder) I crossed a busy four-lane street to a gas station. I saw the sign for "Restrooms" and allowed myself a shred of hope. After walking up to the door, and trying the knob only to find it locked, I asked the attendant if I needed a key. He shook his head fiercely and said, "No, no, no. Bathroom is broken!" I almost squatted in his store and peed on the floor. Until you really need to go and someone doesn't let you, you can't imagine the actual humiliation surrounding the issue. Shaking with anxiety and anger, and carrying Bryony on my hip, I marched over to my very last option, another gas station and hoped against hope they'd let me pee. In the process, I also looked at the random shrubby areas behind the buildings to scout out a place where I could squat discreetly in case I ran out of alternatives. Upon reaching the last of my three stops, I looked imploringly at the cashier and hurriedly asked, "Do you have a working bathroom I can use?" Looking from me to my young daughter, he put his fingers to his lips in a quiet hush and nodded. He motioned for me to follow him to the restroom door that had an "Out of Order" sign taped to it. "Don't tell anyone I let you use it, okay?" he asked me, smiling conspiratorily. Who would I ask, I wondered. But I was so thankful to evacuate my poor, poor bladder that I was just grateful that he let me pee. I think I actually released an audible aaaaahhhh! of relief.
Bryony and I ambled back to the car, both of us happy and relaxed, ready for the 1 1/2 hour drive ahead of us. The sun was starting to go down and I wanted to make good time so I didn't have to drive in the dark. I also wanted to get the little girl home before bedtime. Well, the happiness didn't last for long because Bryony started to wail incessantly not long after I got on the highway. I soon found the only thing that calmed her was if I sang...children's tunes from her Disney sing-a-long CD. When I stopped singing, she cried. When I resumed singing she was quiet and listened. Let's just say I belted out some American-Idol-audition-worthy versions of "I've Been Working on the Railroad," "She'll Be Coming 'Round the Mountain," and "When the Saints Go Marching In," amongst many others. I sang until the car pulled into the apartment complex, which coincidentally was also the same time my throat was getting so hoarse I wouldn't have been able to continue anyway.
Not long after getting settled in at home, Adam called from the airport where he was layed over. His first question was, "How was your drive home? Did you stop to fill up?"
Trust me dude, I was more than happy to be empty.
Thursday, September 30, 2010
Friday, September 24, 2010
Kids in the Hall
We've all heard recent reports out about bullying running rampant in America's schools: the tragic case of Phoebe Prince, the Irish girl whose family moved to Massachussetts only to have their daughter bullied by classmates to the point that she hanged herself; and more recently, the Florida father who stormed the school bus where his special-needs daughter had been savagely bullied by fellow students to the point that she has now been admitted to hospital from the stress. While we can all agree that these extreme examples are horrendous cases of how ugly children can behave, it makes me reflect on my own behavior and how I have acted in the past, and even now in my adult life.
Back in elementary school, I was the typical insecure and awkward girl with a bit of a weight problem. I did well in school, had perfect behavior, and desperately wanted to be liked by the "cool" girls in class. Not wanting to seem like the nerd that I was, I chose an alternate route to cool-dom; I was mean. Lisa B., the overweight girl with shabby clothes, stringy hair and a hygeine problem was an easy target for a lot of us in elementary school because she just didn't fit in, even more than I didn't fit in. She was taller and heavier than the other girls, didn't wear the latest fashions, played sports like the boys did, and always carried a slightly foul odor wherever she went. I didn't have any real problem with her other than the fact that nobody else seemed to like her and I wanted to fit in. So I joined the mass of girls who would wave their hands past their noses whenever Lisa walked by, over-dramatizing how bad she smelled. I called her "Fatso" even though I knew how much it hurt when people called me that. I even thought about making up a really mean insult about the fact that she was biracial, but even I knew that was going too far. So, I stuck to the odor and weight offensive instead. I was a bully.
In middle school, there was a girl named Rebekkah H., a transfer student who arrived during the middle of the school year. She was the definition of weird from first sight: she had multi-toned blonde hair and unruly short curls that were always pulled back from her face in an unflattering way. She wore tight, too-short-to-be-appropriate-in-school skirts and dresses that only made her seem to be trying too hard. Her big, thick-rimmed eyeglasses with the coke-bottle lenses always made her look googly-eyed and crazy. And her voice, a high-pitched nasal sound that was like nails on a chalkboard, only resonated even more oddly when she would describe in detail how she had gotten her monthly period the day before. She was weird.
Now, I'd like to say that I had grown up a bit since elementary school, and was repulsed by the idea of bullying someone like her. I think the more honest statement, however, was that my mother was a substitute teacher in my school at the time, and I was afraid she would find out that I was behaving badly. So, rather than actually bully Rebekkah, I just didn't do anything to stop those in the class who bullied her. I watched in amusement as girls rolled their eyes whenever Rebekkah spoke, or would make snide comments about her clothes. I giggled as the popular girls would pretend to invite Rebekkah to sit with them at lunch or go to a weekend party only to sarcastically reveal, after her hopes were raised, that it was only a joke. The thing was, those girls never invited me to their parties, either.
I never knew what happened to Lisa or Rebekkah. My family moved away from the town where I went to school with Lisa many years ago, and Rebekkah's family (which consisted of an equally-weird brother, a sister who was miraculously quite popular, and a single father) mysteriously disappeared after seventh grade. I have spent a few years trying to find these girls online, to find out how they're doing, to somehow put my conscience to rest. If I knew they were okay, then perhaps I could stop feeling guilty for the way I treated them. I still haven't found Rebekkah, but Lisa and I became "friends" on Facebook, more than 20 years after our tumultuous elementary school relationship.
I felt a need to be honest with her, to admit my bad behavior from childhood, and to apologize for it:
Hi Lisa
I'm so glad to hear from you...believe it or not, I've thought about you a lot over the years. I was not very nice to you in elementary school, and this thought has distressed me a lot into my adult years. I am so thankful to have been reconnected with you through Facebook so that I can finally ask for your forgiveness. I hope that I can teach my daughter to one day be a much kinder, generous and thoughtful child than I was.
Hope that you are well.
Lauren
I didn't know what to expect in return. I had spent so many years feeling guilty for my behavior that I assumed that Lisa had been clocking many hours on a therapist's couch sorting out her early childhood experiences and how I had made them hell. I am such a narcissist. Her very quick reply was:
Lauren,
Honestly I just remember being the tomboy that other girls hated! Lol. I'm good. I am glad you are in good and happy to hear that you have a daughter. I have a ten year old soon to be eleven year old son. Apology accepted and thanks for accepting me as a fb friend.
Lisa
Clearly, she had moved on. But, evidently, I wasn't quite ready, so I had to write back:
Thank you, Lisa. Your forgiveness does my heart good. And, by the way, I didn't hate you in grade school...I was so caught up tryng to be accepted by the 'cool" girls that I thought being mean to other kids was my ticket in to their clique. So stupid, I know, but I was a misguided 5th grader.
Her response, even shorter this time, told me she was not interested in reliving the past, it was time for me to get over it, and enough was enough:
Lol. Yeah its okay. I had my moments in high school and had to check myself.
So, do I still feel bad? Absolutely. Maybe Lisa is okay and has moved on (and maybe Rebekkah has, too) but I think the lasting impact might actually be on the bully him/herself. The knowledge as an adult that you were capable of being really mean to someone...that you weren't the person that you are teaching your own children to be, is halting. I'm so grateful that Lisa forgave me; hopefully in time, I just might be able to forgive myself.
Back in elementary school, I was the typical insecure and awkward girl with a bit of a weight problem. I did well in school, had perfect behavior, and desperately wanted to be liked by the "cool" girls in class. Not wanting to seem like the nerd that I was, I chose an alternate route to cool-dom; I was mean. Lisa B., the overweight girl with shabby clothes, stringy hair and a hygeine problem was an easy target for a lot of us in elementary school because she just didn't fit in, even more than I didn't fit in. She was taller and heavier than the other girls, didn't wear the latest fashions, played sports like the boys did, and always carried a slightly foul odor wherever she went. I didn't have any real problem with her other than the fact that nobody else seemed to like her and I wanted to fit in. So I joined the mass of girls who would wave their hands past their noses whenever Lisa walked by, over-dramatizing how bad she smelled. I called her "Fatso" even though I knew how much it hurt when people called me that. I even thought about making up a really mean insult about the fact that she was biracial, but even I knew that was going too far. So, I stuck to the odor and weight offensive instead. I was a bully.
In middle school, there was a girl named Rebekkah H., a transfer student who arrived during the middle of the school year. She was the definition of weird from first sight: she had multi-toned blonde hair and unruly short curls that were always pulled back from her face in an unflattering way. She wore tight, too-short-to-be-appropriate-in-school skirts and dresses that only made her seem to be trying too hard. Her big, thick-rimmed eyeglasses with the coke-bottle lenses always made her look googly-eyed and crazy. And her voice, a high-pitched nasal sound that was like nails on a chalkboard, only resonated even more oddly when she would describe in detail how she had gotten her monthly period the day before. She was weird.
Now, I'd like to say that I had grown up a bit since elementary school, and was repulsed by the idea of bullying someone like her. I think the more honest statement, however, was that my mother was a substitute teacher in my school at the time, and I was afraid she would find out that I was behaving badly. So, rather than actually bully Rebekkah, I just didn't do anything to stop those in the class who bullied her. I watched in amusement as girls rolled their eyes whenever Rebekkah spoke, or would make snide comments about her clothes. I giggled as the popular girls would pretend to invite Rebekkah to sit with them at lunch or go to a weekend party only to sarcastically reveal, after her hopes were raised, that it was only a joke. The thing was, those girls never invited me to their parties, either.
I never knew what happened to Lisa or Rebekkah. My family moved away from the town where I went to school with Lisa many years ago, and Rebekkah's family (which consisted of an equally-weird brother, a sister who was miraculously quite popular, and a single father) mysteriously disappeared after seventh grade. I have spent a few years trying to find these girls online, to find out how they're doing, to somehow put my conscience to rest. If I knew they were okay, then perhaps I could stop feeling guilty for the way I treated them. I still haven't found Rebekkah, but Lisa and I became "friends" on Facebook, more than 20 years after our tumultuous elementary school relationship.
I felt a need to be honest with her, to admit my bad behavior from childhood, and to apologize for it:
Hi Lisa
I'm so glad to hear from you...believe it or not, I've thought about you a lot over the years. I was not very nice to you in elementary school, and this thought has distressed me a lot into my adult years. I am so thankful to have been reconnected with you through Facebook so that I can finally ask for your forgiveness. I hope that I can teach my daughter to one day be a much kinder, generous and thoughtful child than I was.
Hope that you are well.
Lauren
I didn't know what to expect in return. I had spent so many years feeling guilty for my behavior that I assumed that Lisa had been clocking many hours on a therapist's couch sorting out her early childhood experiences and how I had made them hell. I am such a narcissist. Her very quick reply was:
Lauren,
Honestly I just remember being the tomboy that other girls hated! Lol. I'm good. I am glad you are in good and happy to hear that you have a daughter. I have a ten year old soon to be eleven year old son. Apology accepted and thanks for accepting me as a fb friend.
Lisa
Clearly, she had moved on. But, evidently, I wasn't quite ready, so I had to write back:
Thank you, Lisa. Your forgiveness does my heart good. And, by the way, I didn't hate you in grade school...I was so caught up tryng to be accepted by the 'cool" girls that I thought being mean to other kids was my ticket in to their clique. So stupid, I know, but I was a misguided 5th grader.
Her response, even shorter this time, told me she was not interested in reliving the past, it was time for me to get over it, and enough was enough:
Lol. Yeah its okay. I had my moments in high school and had to check myself.
So, do I still feel bad? Absolutely. Maybe Lisa is okay and has moved on (and maybe Rebekkah has, too) but I think the lasting impact might actually be on the bully him/herself. The knowledge as an adult that you were capable of being really mean to someone...that you weren't the person that you are teaching your own children to be, is halting. I'm so grateful that Lisa forgave me; hopefully in time, I just might be able to forgive myself.
Monday, September 20, 2010
Old Blue Eyes
I debated posting this because after my last story, I was afraid someone would think I'd finally lost my marbles and had caused my child bodily harm. In actuality, Bryony smacked herself in the eyelid with the cabinet door while rifling through DVD's beneath the TV set the other day. After sustaining a minor cut that bled a little bit, there was minimal bruising and I thought it was over. But then, the next day, while on our nightly jogging route, we both were bombarded by a swarm of mosquitoes, and my lucky daughter got a lovebite from one on her cheek, up by the same eye she'd earlier smacked with the cabinet door. So, the next day she woke up with a nice swollen blue eye (of the black-and-blue variety, not in the vein of Frank Sinatra).
In the midst of "a moment"
A fleeting period of calmness
"Pow! Right in the kissa!" says the cabinet door.
Adam returned last night from a one-week trip back East for business. I was almost at the end of my rope and was glad to finally have him back for some much-needed co-parenting assistance. He suggested that I take this coming Saturday off--pump some milk for Miss B., go to a day spa and do a little shopping afterward. In essence, have a "Me Day" that I haven't enjoyed since I became a mother. He will have an all-day long parenting session with Bryony, which has never happened before. I am simultaneously thrilled, worried and anxious. Thrilled to have a good chunk of time to myself, worried to leave Adam alone with her all day and anxious to be away from her for an extended period for the first time since her birth.
But, as I'm lying on the table getting my deep tissue massage, I think I'll manage to get through it.
In the midst of "a moment"
A fleeting period of calmness
"Pow! Right in the kissa!" says the cabinet door.
Adam returned last night from a one-week trip back East for business. I was almost at the end of my rope and was glad to finally have him back for some much-needed co-parenting assistance. He suggested that I take this coming Saturday off--pump some milk for Miss B., go to a day spa and do a little shopping afterward. In essence, have a "Me Day" that I haven't enjoyed since I became a mother. He will have an all-day long parenting session with Bryony, which has never happened before. I am simultaneously thrilled, worried and anxious. Thrilled to have a good chunk of time to myself, worried to leave Adam alone with her all day and anxious to be away from her for an extended period for the first time since her birth.
But, as I'm lying on the table getting my deep tissue massage, I think I'll manage to get through it.
Thursday, September 16, 2010
Not The Bathwater, Just The Baby
I had to call my girlfriend yesterday because I was on the verge of throwing the baby out the window. Like, I actually comtemplated all of the ramifications of giving her a swift kick on her cute little tushy, out the sliding doors, over the balcony. Okay, not really; I'm being dramatic, but it was a difficult day, to say the least.
Bryony and I had both had a late night the night before due to a trip out of town, a malfunctioning car, and my getting lost on the way home (which is a totally different blog post). Needless to say, she didn't get to sleep that night until around 10pm, so yesterday morning she was not the happiest child to be around. She made Stewie Griffin seem absolutely cuddly.
So where to begin with the all-day meltdown-temper-tantrum-atomic-bomb that was my daughter yesterday? Well, I got out of bed (skipping my very coveted shower, mind you) in time to take her to the baby sing-a-long at the local library. Just as we were rounding the corner and could see all the parents and kids waiting for the story room to be opened, Bryony let loose. I don't even know why she got upset (Didn't want to hold my hand? Was trying to run someplace she shouldn't? Realized Oprah is going to be off the air in just a few months and couldn't deal?). She threw herself down on the ground--her usual M.O.--and screamed until I picked her up, kicking and crying(her, not me). I tried to lift her in the air, which usually makes her laugh, but this time only infuriated her. I tried to cuddle with her but she smacked me in the face. I got upset and scolded her which only made her scream even louder. And then, she instantaneously stopped crying, saw some puzzles she wanted to play with and slid out of my arms, and down to the ground to play. It was overwhelming and embarassing and exhausting for me all at once; I had become the mother that I usually look sideways at for having that kid. Now, that kid was mine.
Sing-a-long went well at first, but Bryony started to get busy, no longer wanting to participate but rather to explore parts of the room she shouldn't. Like her daddy, she loves electronics, and she can entertain herself for hours on end pushing the magical buttons on a CD player that make lights shine and music play (not to mention make the CD loader pop up!). I tried to gently take her away from the CD player in the room but that instigated a mother-baby fight (baby was winning, by the way, while mother was crawling into that shameful hole that all parents need to hide out in when their kids are misbehaving). Upon deciding that we were likely not going to be able to stay for the socializing part at the end of the hour, I started packing up our stuff to go, while Bryony converted into a hellion and ran ramshod throughout the library, yanking random books and VHS cassettes off of shelves as she passed. Meanwhile, I was trying to carry bags, clean up her mess and still keep up with her before she made a bigger mess of things or was hauled off in baby handcuffs by a police officer, considering the police station is part of the library building complex. I kept my head down to ignore the disapproving glances of the library staff as Bryony ran out into the main (Shhhh! Quiet!) part of the library.
After finally getting her in my arms and walking to the car (where she decided to be ever-so-cute by kissing my arm and shoving her finger up her nose to prove how adorable she is), we drove home. Once inside, the full explosiveness of her sleep-deprived soul came out. I spent hours running after a baby who has learned to scale shelves so that she can press buttons--the ON/OFF button on the TV, volume and channel controls, the DVD player, etc.--unceasingly. And since our apartment came fully furnished (and is not meant to have babies here) we can't install all of the drawer/cabinet locks that we normally would because of damage to the surfaces. So, that means having to keep an ever-present eye on our holy terror as she grabs bottles, cans, paper and cardboard set aside for recycling and decorates the living room floor. It means making sure she doesn't pick up the landline phone in the bedroom to dial Israel. And, it also means looking in every possible nook or cranny for that set of keys or wallet that you left on the nightstand because the only thing you see in its place is her toy hammer. Which, of course means that your keys or wallet or whatever must be in her toybox...but no, that would be too easy. Let's try the oven broiler instead!
With every one of Bryony's antics yesterday came a corresponding "No!" from me, which made her bottom lip poke out dramatically, tremble, and then she cried crocodile tears, which I knew were fake because she was half-laughing at herself. That made me want to laugh because she was so darned cute, but it also made me angry because I felt she wasn't taking the discipline process seriously enough. Once she decided she would rather laugh at her mama rather than cry, she walked over, stuck her finger up her nostril and pinched my breast. Ouch. Then she laughed.
She went down for a nap at some point, which is usually the cure for the common tantrum. But not yesterday. Yesterday, she woke up as cranky--if not moreso--than she went to bed. I was also cranky from lack of sleep, but between speaking to a friend I'd been playing phone tag with for several weeks, and needing to clean up the kitchen, I didn't have time to nap while she was sleeping. I guess I was a little resentful of that fact, too, which made me even less patient with her when she woke up tearful and pouty.
I finally did the only sane and rational thing I could think of. I called my friend Emily, who has a daughter one month younger than Bryony. She laughed as I recounted the events of the day and expressed the totally irrational desire to toss baby out the window. She assured me she'd had one of those days TWICE in the last week and it was perfectly normal. It was nice to hear someone empathize with the situation. I told her how when we were going through our birth class together, our midwife told the class that "one day, your baby will drive you so crazy that you will understand how people kill their kids." I remember being so repulsed and had thought, "no way! Not me!" at the idea of understanding how someone could murder their kid. And I just want to be clear, I still cannot understand how anyone could FOLLOW THROUGH with killing their child. Just seeing Bryony with a bruise on her eyelid from where the cabinet door hit her makes me cringe; I could never purposely do her harm. However, I can understand the feelings of just wanting your kid to go away for awhile, to just have them out of your sight so you can be left alone, devoid of any parental responsibility. As I told Emily, while I would never do it, sometimes I just want to put Bryony in her crib, grab my car keys and drive off to be by myself for awhile. Sometimes I just need a break.
The day ended on a high note as Bryony ate a good dinner (a rare feat for my child) and then happily sat in the jogging stroller as we took a few spins around the complex. Bedtime came late again because I had allowed Her Royal Terror-ness to have a late-afternoon nap (partly because it meant I'd have a chance to rest up from the day's drama), so I was left wondering what kind of child I'd wake up to today.
As they say, today is a whole new day, and it was like I had a whole new child. She actually smiled at me most of the day. We played endlessly. She ate her lunch and her dinner without much complaint. We played some more, cuddled, bonded and had an overall fun day. And then she tweaked my nipple and picked her nose.
Bryony and I had both had a late night the night before due to a trip out of town, a malfunctioning car, and my getting lost on the way home (which is a totally different blog post). Needless to say, she didn't get to sleep that night until around 10pm, so yesterday morning she was not the happiest child to be around. She made Stewie Griffin seem absolutely cuddly.
So where to begin with the all-day meltdown-temper-tantrum-atomic-bomb that was my daughter yesterday? Well, I got out of bed (skipping my very coveted shower, mind you) in time to take her to the baby sing-a-long at the local library. Just as we were rounding the corner and could see all the parents and kids waiting for the story room to be opened, Bryony let loose. I don't even know why she got upset (Didn't want to hold my hand? Was trying to run someplace she shouldn't? Realized Oprah is going to be off the air in just a few months and couldn't deal?). She threw herself down on the ground--her usual M.O.--and screamed until I picked her up, kicking and crying(her, not me). I tried to lift her in the air, which usually makes her laugh, but this time only infuriated her. I tried to cuddle with her but she smacked me in the face. I got upset and scolded her which only made her scream even louder. And then, she instantaneously stopped crying, saw some puzzles she wanted to play with and slid out of my arms, and down to the ground to play. It was overwhelming and embarassing and exhausting for me all at once; I had become the mother that I usually look sideways at for having that kid. Now, that kid was mine.
Sing-a-long went well at first, but Bryony started to get busy, no longer wanting to participate but rather to explore parts of the room she shouldn't. Like her daddy, she loves electronics, and she can entertain herself for hours on end pushing the magical buttons on a CD player that make lights shine and music play (not to mention make the CD loader pop up!). I tried to gently take her away from the CD player in the room but that instigated a mother-baby fight (baby was winning, by the way, while mother was crawling into that shameful hole that all parents need to hide out in when their kids are misbehaving). Upon deciding that we were likely not going to be able to stay for the socializing part at the end of the hour, I started packing up our stuff to go, while Bryony converted into a hellion and ran ramshod throughout the library, yanking random books and VHS cassettes off of shelves as she passed. Meanwhile, I was trying to carry bags, clean up her mess and still keep up with her before she made a bigger mess of things or was hauled off in baby handcuffs by a police officer, considering the police station is part of the library building complex. I kept my head down to ignore the disapproving glances of the library staff as Bryony ran out into the main (Shhhh! Quiet!) part of the library.
After finally getting her in my arms and walking to the car (where she decided to be ever-so-cute by kissing my arm and shoving her finger up her nose to prove how adorable she is), we drove home. Once inside, the full explosiveness of her sleep-deprived soul came out. I spent hours running after a baby who has learned to scale shelves so that she can press buttons--the ON/OFF button on the TV, volume and channel controls, the DVD player, etc.--unceasingly. And since our apartment came fully furnished (and is not meant to have babies here) we can't install all of the drawer/cabinet locks that we normally would because of damage to the surfaces. So, that means having to keep an ever-present eye on our holy terror as she grabs bottles, cans, paper and cardboard set aside for recycling and decorates the living room floor. It means making sure she doesn't pick up the landline phone in the bedroom to dial Israel. And, it also means looking in every possible nook or cranny for that set of keys or wallet that you left on the nightstand because the only thing you see in its place is her toy hammer. Which, of course means that your keys or wallet or whatever must be in her toybox...but no, that would be too easy. Let's try the oven broiler instead!
With every one of Bryony's antics yesterday came a corresponding "No!" from me, which made her bottom lip poke out dramatically, tremble, and then she cried crocodile tears, which I knew were fake because she was half-laughing at herself. That made me want to laugh because she was so darned cute, but it also made me angry because I felt she wasn't taking the discipline process seriously enough. Once she decided she would rather laugh at her mama rather than cry, she walked over, stuck her finger up her nostril and pinched my breast. Ouch. Then she laughed.
She went down for a nap at some point, which is usually the cure for the common tantrum. But not yesterday. Yesterday, she woke up as cranky--if not moreso--than she went to bed. I was also cranky from lack of sleep, but between speaking to a friend I'd been playing phone tag with for several weeks, and needing to clean up the kitchen, I didn't have time to nap while she was sleeping. I guess I was a little resentful of that fact, too, which made me even less patient with her when she woke up tearful and pouty.
I finally did the only sane and rational thing I could think of. I called my friend Emily, who has a daughter one month younger than Bryony. She laughed as I recounted the events of the day and expressed the totally irrational desire to toss baby out the window. She assured me she'd had one of those days TWICE in the last week and it was perfectly normal. It was nice to hear someone empathize with the situation. I told her how when we were going through our birth class together, our midwife told the class that "one day, your baby will drive you so crazy that you will understand how people kill their kids." I remember being so repulsed and had thought, "no way! Not me!" at the idea of understanding how someone could murder their kid. And I just want to be clear, I still cannot understand how anyone could FOLLOW THROUGH with killing their child. Just seeing Bryony with a bruise on her eyelid from where the cabinet door hit her makes me cringe; I could never purposely do her harm. However, I can understand the feelings of just wanting your kid to go away for awhile, to just have them out of your sight so you can be left alone, devoid of any parental responsibility. As I told Emily, while I would never do it, sometimes I just want to put Bryony in her crib, grab my car keys and drive off to be by myself for awhile. Sometimes I just need a break.
The day ended on a high note as Bryony ate a good dinner (a rare feat for my child) and then happily sat in the jogging stroller as we took a few spins around the complex. Bedtime came late again because I had allowed Her Royal Terror-ness to have a late-afternoon nap (partly because it meant I'd have a chance to rest up from the day's drama), so I was left wondering what kind of child I'd wake up to today.
As they say, today is a whole new day, and it was like I had a whole new child. She actually smiled at me most of the day. We played endlessly. She ate her lunch and her dinner without much complaint. We played some more, cuddled, bonded and had an overall fun day. And then she tweaked my nipple and picked her nose.
Monday, September 13, 2010
Around The World
You might have noticed that I've been tinkering with my blog layout in the last couple days (and since Blogspot doesn't allow you to "keep" the old layout for previous posts, if you don't recall what it looked like, let's just say it was quite a bit different from this one). While goofing around, I came across a button labeled "Stats," only to discover that it actually gives you some descriptive statistics for who (and how many) has been viewing the blog over the last week, month, and the entire time it has been in existence. I couldn't help but be astounded by some of the results here, and thought it worth posting. Now, I should mention that just by going to blogspot.com, you can randomly view pages that are registered with the site. I'm assuming that many of my "audience members" fit into this category, although there is something very romantic about the idea of people in China, Norway and Iraq anxiously awaiting the latest post that I'll make to the blog. *Laugh* Yeah, right.
The geographical stats for the past month:
United States 365
Australia 18
China 10
Canada 8
Germany 4
Switzerland 2
United Kingdom 2
Ireland 2
Serbia 2
Iraq 1
And for "all time":
United States 874
Australia 20
Canada 13
China 13
Germany 4
United Kingdom 3
Switzerland 2
Ireland 2
Norway 2
Serbia 2
The geographical stats for the past month:
United States 365
Australia 18
China 10
Canada 8
Germany 4
Switzerland 2
United Kingdom 2
Ireland 2
Serbia 2
Iraq 1
And for "all time":
United States 874
Australia 20
Canada 13
China 13
Germany 4
United Kingdom 3
Switzerland 2
Ireland 2
Norway 2
Serbia 2
Sunday, September 12, 2010
Dog Days of Summer
It's been another summer, another dog, another summer of caring for a dog. Only instead of Shabbi, this time it's Kika.
Our little furry girl is now 15 1/2 years old, already a year older than Shabbi lived to, and her age is catching up with her. She is nearly at the point that Shabbi was when we said our final farewells to her--unable to walk, incontinent and generally unable to participate in life around her. The biggest difference, however, is that while Shabbi was also completely racked by the injustices of dementia, Kika is very much aware. She still recognizes us, lifting her head when Adam walks through the door in the evening, barking for someone to look in on her when we've left her in a room by herself. She's still got her druthers, even if her legs are so atrophied she can't even stand up on her own anymore.
As we watch her decline (or now, seemingly plateau at a general state of lethargy), we assume the frustrating burdens of caring for a geriatric dog--changing her diapers, cleaning up accidents, rearranging her position on the floor so she can reach her food and water bowls, holding her up so she can relieve herself. It kinda sucks, and on more than one occasion we've had "the talk"; the one where we contemplate how much longer we'll let her go on this way. It's not just the inconvenience to us that we think about, but also the sanitary and hygienic implications for Bryony, who crawls on the same floors where Kika's accidents occur. We also wonder what kind of life Kika is having now. Is she in pain? Is she enjoying life at all? Is it worth it to her to keep going? They say that a dog will let you know when it's time to say good-bye. Shabbi did. She started yelping in pain one night, and no amount of moving, massaging or comforting her alleviated her pain, and so we knew. Kika's musculature is non-existent, her joints pop out of joint from time to time, and she has slight sores caused from immobility. And yet, despite all this, she still seems to be in tuned to her world; even the veterinarian was impressed by her willingness to interact with the staff, her responsiveness to human affection, and her desire to eat and drink. We've taken her on our weekend getaways and she seems alert and attentive to the sights and people around us. We think she's telling us that it's not yet time.
As hard as it was to say good-bye to Shabbi (and it was probably the most difficult decision I have ever had to make and carry through on), there was some modicum of comfort in knowing that we were ending her pain, and that her senility shielded her from the sadness of leaving us. As much as her dementia had been a source of frustration for us in the last year of her life, it was a calming hand of comfort in her final moments as she slipped into darkness. Ads and I have both expressed how difficult the decision to let Kika go will be, considering how aware she still is. The thought of letting her go, and Kika knowing what we are doing, is a paralyzing fear. Will she think we are abandoning her? Will she know that it is her final moment and will she feel betrayed? It would almost be easier if she slipped into senility in her final hours so that our guilt could be alleviated, as awful as that sounds.
In the meantime, life goes on as normal. Our reality now is to enjoy every minute of our time with Kika as our days with her grow increasingly fewer.
Our little furry girl is now 15 1/2 years old, already a year older than Shabbi lived to, and her age is catching up with her. She is nearly at the point that Shabbi was when we said our final farewells to her--unable to walk, incontinent and generally unable to participate in life around her. The biggest difference, however, is that while Shabbi was also completely racked by the injustices of dementia, Kika is very much aware. She still recognizes us, lifting her head when Adam walks through the door in the evening, barking for someone to look in on her when we've left her in a room by herself. She's still got her druthers, even if her legs are so atrophied she can't even stand up on her own anymore.
As we watch her decline (or now, seemingly plateau at a general state of lethargy), we assume the frustrating burdens of caring for a geriatric dog--changing her diapers, cleaning up accidents, rearranging her position on the floor so she can reach her food and water bowls, holding her up so she can relieve herself. It kinda sucks, and on more than one occasion we've had "the talk"; the one where we contemplate how much longer we'll let her go on this way. It's not just the inconvenience to us that we think about, but also the sanitary and hygienic implications for Bryony, who crawls on the same floors where Kika's accidents occur. We also wonder what kind of life Kika is having now. Is she in pain? Is she enjoying life at all? Is it worth it to her to keep going? They say that a dog will let you know when it's time to say good-bye. Shabbi did. She started yelping in pain one night, and no amount of moving, massaging or comforting her alleviated her pain, and so we knew. Kika's musculature is non-existent, her joints pop out of joint from time to time, and she has slight sores caused from immobility. And yet, despite all this, she still seems to be in tuned to her world; even the veterinarian was impressed by her willingness to interact with the staff, her responsiveness to human affection, and her desire to eat and drink. We've taken her on our weekend getaways and she seems alert and attentive to the sights and people around us. We think she's telling us that it's not yet time.
As hard as it was to say good-bye to Shabbi (and it was probably the most difficult decision I have ever had to make and carry through on), there was some modicum of comfort in knowing that we were ending her pain, and that her senility shielded her from the sadness of leaving us. As much as her dementia had been a source of frustration for us in the last year of her life, it was a calming hand of comfort in her final moments as she slipped into darkness. Ads and I have both expressed how difficult the decision to let Kika go will be, considering how aware she still is. The thought of letting her go, and Kika knowing what we are doing, is a paralyzing fear. Will she think we are abandoning her? Will she know that it is her final moment and will she feel betrayed? It would almost be easier if she slipped into senility in her final hours so that our guilt could be alleviated, as awful as that sounds.
In the meantime, life goes on as normal. Our reality now is to enjoy every minute of our time with Kika as our days with her grow increasingly fewer.
Saturday, September 11, 2010
Thursday, September 9, 2010
A River Runs Through It
The highlight of our time here in Texas has been getting to travel to the much cooler parts of the state, such as Austin, San Antonio and Dallas. Each city has its own character--Austin is very youthful and liberal with both a major university and the state capitol located there; San Antonio is a nice tourist town, complete with the Alamo and an underground river that cuts right through the city, flanked by great restaurants and bars; Dallas is the playground for the urban professional with loads of upscale bars, restaurants and clubs to ease the hectic lifestyles of busy city dwellers.
Here are some pix from our trip to San Antonio recently. So far, I think it's my favorite city in Texas, although we'll be heading to Houston at some point, so who knows...?
Here are some pix from our trip to San Antonio recently. So far, I think it's my favorite city in Texas, although we'll be heading to Houston at some point, so who knows...?
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