This is a blog about my life.
The glamorous moments (of which there are very, very few).
The not-so-glamorous moments (of which there are plenty).
And the downright-nasty-why-on-earth-is-she-telling-us-this moments.
Thus begins my past week...
Monday
6:30 pm I just returned from the grocery store. Unloaded the groceries, pawned my children on the in-laws, and proceeded to orchestrate a beatifully timed pasta/garlic bread/salad dinner (I'm feeling supermom-esque... even without the children).
As my husband retrieves our tiny tots I gracefully spoon the jarred pesto (okay, supermom-esque, but I'm no Giada) over the heated pasta. Something rumbles in my stomach, but I ignore it and move in for the taste.
I debate the pesto-ness of that single piece of pasta... to add or not to add...
And then it begins.
7:00 pm In true supermom fashion I manage to feed, bathe, and put both children to bed between and during waves of nausea (in my husband's defense he did try to help, but as the spawn of a compulsively controlling first-time mother my two year-old is a complete mama's boy, and while my husband does indeed possess nipples he cannot fool the baby).
7:30 pm - 11:00 pm For the sake of decency I will keep this brief (though probably not brief enough). Let's just say if I left the bathroom at all between these times it was for no more than one minute. During this time I actually recalled labor memories to assure myself that I was not dying (though I told my husband multiple times "I can't do this," to which he responded, every time, "Do what?").
There were loads of wash and hot showers, but I will stop there.
11:00 pm I find a half reclined position on the couch where I crash from pure exhaustion.
Tuesday
12:00 am I roll over. Run to the bathroom.
1:00 am The baby cries. He's hungry. (And kind of a pain in the butt). I yell at my husband to bring him to me. Nothing. I yell louder. Nothing. He is too far to reach and I know I can't move. I throw my arm over the coffee table and find a hanger (no idea why there was a hanger in the living room). I chuck it across the room and hit him square on the head. He may not be happy, but he's up and the baby greets us both with a big goofy grin that I can't help but smile at (even though it may have me running to the bathroom).
2:30 am So thirsty. I yell at my husband to get me some ice. He hears me the first time and gets me some ice. I take a tiny bite. Run to the bathroom.
5:00 am So, so thirsty. Baby's crying. When my husband returns the baby to his crib I feel brave enough to request a glass of coke. I take a sip... pause...
It tastes delicious. Bubbles coat my throat and stomach. I suck down the entire glass and for the first time all night I actually relax.
7:00 am My husband whisks the kids to his parents before he leaves for work.
9:30 am I spot a speck that could be a spider on the ceiling. I haven't moved all morning, but I have to know. When I get up I nearly pass out and move promptly back to the couch. Though not before validating my suspicions... it is indeed a spider. I call my dad (who is on his way to help me out) and tell him to hurry. There's a spider to kill (he tells me that's more of my mom's thing, but he will do it for me).
9:30 am - 10:30 am I try unsuccesfully to leave the sanctuary of the couch. I want that spider gone. Instead I lock my eyes on its location, vowing to keep watch until the moment of my dad's arrival.
10:30 am I close my eyes for three minutes. When I open them again the spider is gone. I risk bodily harm to discover its new location, but to no avail.
10:45 am My dad arrives and after relaying the sad spider story he spends the next hour delivering refreshments, unloading bags of goodies from home (not the good kind of goodies, the sick kind of goodies...saltines, soup, gatorade), cleaning up after my husband and even vacuuming my house (I, like my mother, cannot rest until all is tidy with the world).
He gathers the kids from my father-in-law. He plays, he feeds, he diapers (possibly his first diapering experience... ever), he continues to wait on me. He is a true superhero.
5:30 pm My in-laws feed my whole family for dinner and bring me a tray of soup, crackers, and sherbert.
I still cannot eat and am so weak I can barely shift positions on the couch.
But I am grateful.
Wednesday
8:00 am Feeling good. Kept down one whole piece of toast and all kinds of liquids. Bady woke only once to eat.
My dad slept in with the baby (which used to be our room, long story, more on that another time). When the baby cried he brought him to the couch to eat then returned him to his crib. When he placed him back in the crib the baby kept hold of his finger. Instead of disentangling himself and returning to bed he stayed bent over the pack 'n play, sacrificing his finger to that tiny little fist until those endearing, little eyes succumbed to the pull of sleep.
And he was thrilled about it.
2:00 pm Still feeling light-headed when I stand, but keeping down liquids and solids (of the white, carbohydrate variety) and feeling confident enough to send my dad home (with the help of my in-laws and husband).
Thursday
8:00 am Feeling human again. Still no energy, but Elmo and I are taking care of the kids and I am doing alright on my own.
9:30 am Completely out of patience. Calling my father-in-law. "Please remove my emotional mess of a toddler before we both explode!"
1:00 pm I google "foods to eat after the flu for energy" and begin a regimen of bananas, hard-boiled eggs, and yogurt. Neaseau returns, but I am desperate so I continue on.
Friday
7:00 am Wake up feeling 100%, though cautious. Play in the yard. Take a walk with the family. Throughout the day I eat sandwiches and half of a hot fudge sundae. Then I know this is real. One of the most physically trying weeks of my life is officially over.
Saturday
8:00 am My husband's phone rings. His mother, father, and brother are competing in the three-people-with-the-stomach-flu-and-only-two-bathrooms olympics. The outcome shall remain a mystery forever (I hope).
8:05 am My husband complains his stomach hurts. Immediately after he hangs up the phone. I decide it is completely mental.
9:30 am It's not.
So if anyone missed me this past week in the blogosphere... that is where I was. But don't worry... I'm back (at least until the next one falls)!
Linking up with The Crazy Baby Mama and her oversharing challenge!
Sunday, April 4, 2010
Wednesday, March 31, 2010
Little Randomness and the Beginning of Sibling Strife
My two year-old hears his father and I use the word "nice," oftentimes in response to said toddler catching a ball, running exceptionally fast, or finishing all the tiny green balls that accompany his chicken nuggets at lunchtime.
He wants so badly to use this word, but completely misses the context of its usage.
A few days ago the foul stench of fecal-filled diaper wafted over to where I sat on the couch, feeding the baby and half-listening to some frivilous travel tips from the Today Show gang.
"Did you poopoo?" I asked The Tine.
"No," he lied with ease.
"Tine, is there poopoo in your pants?" I questioned in the skeptical tone of motherhood.
"Yep."
I set down the baby and lifted my little mass of stank onto the changing table.
As soon as I opened his Luvs for teenagers (my son is quite large for his age and wears what my husband and I affectionately refer to as ginormodiapers) his curious, little hands reached down for some foul scented play-doh action.
I blocked him like a seasoned goalie, apparently alerting him to the substance that filled his diaper with my quick hands and panicked expression.
He looked at me excitedly and said...
"There's poopoo in there? Nice!"
~
We visited my parents this weekend.
It is a three hour drive and about five minutes from home the baby started complaining. Nothing too serious, just airing his grievances and such.
My toddler detests the grating sound of Bady's cry. I wonder if his reaction is anything like mine... racing heart, tightening chest, burning skin. Probably not, but if so I can completely excuse his behavior.
When the baby used to cry The Tine would gaze sympathetically it his direction and croon, "OT, baby, OT" (translation: "It's okay, baby, it's okay").
Now he snaps his head around and with fire in his eyes shouts, "Stop trying baby, stop trying!" (I should note that in almost every other way he is a loving and attentive big brother, just not when the baby cries... which on days like today is ALL THE TIME).
On this particular trip, however, instead of yelling at the baby he decided to match that annoying yelp with one of he own.
At the next pause he looked right in the baby's eyes and moaned a very deliberate "Ehhhhhhhhh!"
It wasn't very loud or fierce, but the baby's bottom lip quivered slightly before he burst, shedding hysterical tears and whipping his head from side to side in the carseat.
We turned up U2, which calmed the baby immediately and for two blissful seconds all was well with the world.
At which point The Tine, with a devilish gleam in his eyes stared him down and...
"Ehhhhhhhhhhhh!!!"
Not even U2 could bring the screaming bundle back this time.
As much as we both wanted to chastise our son we were too busy desperately hiding our laughter from his attention-seeking eyes.
And in a long life of brotherly quarrels and sibling strife, the teasing begins...
He wants so badly to use this word, but completely misses the context of its usage.
A few days ago the foul stench of fecal-filled diaper wafted over to where I sat on the couch, feeding the baby and half-listening to some frivilous travel tips from the Today Show gang.
"Did you poopoo?" I asked The Tine.
"No," he lied with ease.
"Tine, is there poopoo in your pants?" I questioned in the skeptical tone of motherhood.
"Yep."
I set down the baby and lifted my little mass of stank onto the changing table.
As soon as I opened his Luvs for teenagers (my son is quite large for his age and wears what my husband and I affectionately refer to as ginormodiapers) his curious, little hands reached down for some foul scented play-doh action.
I blocked him like a seasoned goalie, apparently alerting him to the substance that filled his diaper with my quick hands and panicked expression.
He looked at me excitedly and said...
"There's poopoo in there? Nice!"
~
We visited my parents this weekend.
It is a three hour drive and about five minutes from home the baby started complaining. Nothing too serious, just airing his grievances and such.
My toddler detests the grating sound of Bady's cry. I wonder if his reaction is anything like mine... racing heart, tightening chest, burning skin. Probably not, but if so I can completely excuse his behavior.
When the baby used to cry The Tine would gaze sympathetically it his direction and croon, "OT, baby, OT" (translation: "It's okay, baby, it's okay").
Now he snaps his head around and with fire in his eyes shouts, "Stop trying baby, stop trying!" (I should note that in almost every other way he is a loving and attentive big brother, just not when the baby cries... which on days like today is ALL THE TIME).
On this particular trip, however, instead of yelling at the baby he decided to match that annoying yelp with one of he own.
At the next pause he looked right in the baby's eyes and moaned a very deliberate "Ehhhhhhhhh!"
It wasn't very loud or fierce, but the baby's bottom lip quivered slightly before he burst, shedding hysterical tears and whipping his head from side to side in the carseat.
We turned up U2, which calmed the baby immediately and for two blissful seconds all was well with the world.
At which point The Tine, with a devilish gleam in his eyes stared him down and...
"Ehhhhhhhhhhhh!!!"
Not even U2 could bring the screaming bundle back this time.
As much as we both wanted to chastise our son we were too busy desperately hiding our laughter from his attention-seeking eyes.
And in a long life of brotherly quarrels and sibling strife, the teasing begins...
Sunday, March 28, 2010
Deep Thoughts and Future Plans
I went to a funeral this afternoon.
Not to come in on a depressing note after a few day hiatus from blogging, but there is something about funerals that really sucks...
... and there is also something amazing.
And both things haunt you all day and you can try to write about the comically mundane, but what comes out feels fake and you end up deleting it a bunch of times.
What sucks is this...
There is a wife climbing into a cold, empty bed... probably huddling to "her side," aching for the warmth that slept mere inches away for twenty years.
There is a teenage daughter wondering who will interrogate future boyfriends, teach her to drive, walk her down the aisle.
There is a mother who buried her child today and is supposed to somehow sleep tonight.
Nothing really takes away from the suckiness of all that stuff. And the fact that after the meals and flowers and cards dissipate, the pain remains. That still really sucks.
But the something amazing is this...
Those left behind, the onlookers to the family's grief and even the family themselves, get a second chance.
When you say good-bye to a great person you start to understand what made that person great.
I was not close with this person. In fact, I only met him once, at our wedding. But he impacted my husband's life and apparently quite a few others.
Listening to the words of his closest friends I realized that two things really seem to matter when you evaluate a person's life. Two things these speakers repeated over and over, as though throwing a lifeline to the family. Something that wife and daughter and mother could grab onto and think that somehow everything would turn out okay, that somehow it was all worth it.
These are the two things...
That person's love for their family (in the broad sense of the word) and how that person used his life to help others.
I don't know why this stood out to me, and I know there is more to life than that.
But I also know that when people go to a funeral that is what they want to hear about. And it really makes you think.
About your family and how precious every second is... even the seconds that seem like hours because your toddler is throwing a tantrum in the grocery store or your baby is crying hysterically in the backseat of the car. Even when you think you might explode if you have to wash one more dish, give one more bath, or watch one more Elmo movie.
And it makes you think about what you are doing with your life.
How you are helping and how you are teaching your children to help.
Sometimes I get so sucked into this routine of making it through the day. Getting to tomorrow without going crazy. Finding things to fill my time.
That I forget there are others really struggling to make it through the day... and not in the I-want-to-make-it-to-the-weekend-so-we-can-have-fun sense of the word. But real struggles.
And I know there are a lot of ways to help, and while I do a little something here or there, it is just not that important to me.
But I want it to be.
Which brings me to some plans I hinted about in this post.
We want to go abroad.
It scares me to write those words, but I want to be honest here and that is honestly where we are heading.
And it feels crazy because we have two kids and live a really comfortable life and have 24-hour babysitters (I mean, grandparents) right next door.
My husband is a teacher and we are currently exploring the international school scene, but looking for places we could really help.
I know there are a lot of ways to help here, and it may be a while before (and if) we actually go, but it is something we wanted to do since before we were married and the desire just won't go away.
And going to that funeral today felt like a big old shove in that direction.
So we'll see what happens. I may publish this post, go throw up in the bathroom, and proceed with a follow-up post illuminating my newfound desire to live the remainder of my life in the little, yellow house we rent from my in-laws.
Or I may not.
Not to come in on a depressing note after a few day hiatus from blogging, but there is something about funerals that really sucks...
... and there is also something amazing.
And both things haunt you all day and you can try to write about the comically mundane, but what comes out feels fake and you end up deleting it a bunch of times.
What sucks is this...
There is a wife climbing into a cold, empty bed... probably huddling to "her side," aching for the warmth that slept mere inches away for twenty years.
There is a teenage daughter wondering who will interrogate future boyfriends, teach her to drive, walk her down the aisle.
There is a mother who buried her child today and is supposed to somehow sleep tonight.
Nothing really takes away from the suckiness of all that stuff. And the fact that after the meals and flowers and cards dissipate, the pain remains. That still really sucks.
But the something amazing is this...
Those left behind, the onlookers to the family's grief and even the family themselves, get a second chance.
When you say good-bye to a great person you start to understand what made that person great.
I was not close with this person. In fact, I only met him once, at our wedding. But he impacted my husband's life and apparently quite a few others.
Listening to the words of his closest friends I realized that two things really seem to matter when you evaluate a person's life. Two things these speakers repeated over and over, as though throwing a lifeline to the family. Something that wife and daughter and mother could grab onto and think that somehow everything would turn out okay, that somehow it was all worth it.
These are the two things...
That person's love for their family (in the broad sense of the word) and how that person used his life to help others.
I don't know why this stood out to me, and I know there is more to life than that.
But I also know that when people go to a funeral that is what they want to hear about. And it really makes you think.
About your family and how precious every second is... even the seconds that seem like hours because your toddler is throwing a tantrum in the grocery store or your baby is crying hysterically in the backseat of the car. Even when you think you might explode if you have to wash one more dish, give one more bath, or watch one more Elmo movie.
And it makes you think about what you are doing with your life.
How you are helping and how you are teaching your children to help.
Sometimes I get so sucked into this routine of making it through the day. Getting to tomorrow without going crazy. Finding things to fill my time.
That I forget there are others really struggling to make it through the day... and not in the I-want-to-make-it-to-the-weekend-so-we-can-have-fun sense of the word. But real struggles.
And I know there are a lot of ways to help, and while I do a little something here or there, it is just not that important to me.
But I want it to be.
Which brings me to some plans I hinted about in this post.
We want to go abroad.
It scares me to write those words, but I want to be honest here and that is honestly where we are heading.
And it feels crazy because we have two kids and live a really comfortable life and have 24-hour babysitters (I mean, grandparents) right next door.
My husband is a teacher and we are currently exploring the international school scene, but looking for places we could really help.
I know there are a lot of ways to help here, and it may be a while before (and if) we actually go, but it is something we wanted to do since before we were married and the desire just won't go away.
And going to that funeral today felt like a big old shove in that direction.
So we'll see what happens. I may publish this post, go throw up in the bathroom, and proceed with a follow-up post illuminating my newfound desire to live the remainder of my life in the little, yellow house we rent from my in-laws.
Or I may not.
Tuesday, March 23, 2010
My husband is so not a mind reader
Sometimes I ask my husband a question.
I know the answer already, but this is what I want...
I want him to recognize the question behind the question (which can usually be summed up in four words, "Do you love me?")
Then I simply want him to read my mind, which contains the best possible answer, deliver that answer with the utmost sincerity, and finish it off with some spectacular compliment (to which I will say, "That's not true," and he will spend the next hour stating example after example proving it is, in fact, true.)
Is that too much to ask?
This is what I get instead...
~
The Question: Can you believe I burned the baby's face? I'm a terrible mother. (I didn't literally burn the baby's face, but I did allow for a pretty nasty sunburn on those precious, milky-white cheeks.)
The Right Answer: Honey, you didn't burn the the baby's face. I mean, it's the middle of March, who in their right mind would think about sunscreen when there is still snow on the ground? And besides, it was a Saturday, I should have been around to help you remember things like sunscreen since you do such a great job of remembering EVERYTHING else.
His Answer: You didn't put sunscreen on his face?
~
The Question: Are you proud that I spent a whole night alone with the kids (something I was previously too terrified to attempt, even though his parents live so close I can literally look across the lawn and see what they're watching on TV)?
The Right Answer: I am so proud of you! You are an amazing wife to take care of our kids so I could have a weekend away with the guys. And you should know that "guy time" is now completely out of my system and I will never leave you alone with the kids again.
His Answer: (without looking up from his computer or letting me get past the word "proud") Yes.
~
The Question: So was your weekend relaxing? (underhanded sarcasm implied)
The Right Answer: It was alright. But I couldn't stop thinking about you and the kids long enough to really enjoy myself.
His Answer: Yeah. You should try it sometime. (Right, that sounds easy enough. Let me just detach the baby from my breast and the toddler from my leg, get in touch with the magical fairy who picks up your wet towels, unloads the dishwasher, and scrubs the crap from your children's clothes, and I'll be off in a jiffy.)
~
The Question: Will you watch the kids so I can go out for a while?
The Right Answer: I would love to! Also, I was thinking I could do the dishes, fold the laundry, and draw you a candle-lit bath (that will not lead to sex in any way, shape or form).
His Answer: Yes.
Good enough! I'm out of here.
~
Do your husbands usually get it "right"? Tell me about a time "his answer" was very different from the "right answer."
Linking up with Deb and Lee to finish the sentence, "My husband is so..."
I know the answer already, but this is what I want...
I want him to recognize the question behind the question (which can usually be summed up in four words, "Do you love me?")
Then I simply want him to read my mind, which contains the best possible answer, deliver that answer with the utmost sincerity, and finish it off with some spectacular compliment (to which I will say, "That's not true," and he will spend the next hour stating example after example proving it is, in fact, true.)
Is that too much to ask?
This is what I get instead...
~
The Question: Can you believe I burned the baby's face? I'm a terrible mother. (I didn't literally burn the baby's face, but I did allow for a pretty nasty sunburn on those precious, milky-white cheeks.)
The Right Answer: Honey, you didn't burn the the baby's face. I mean, it's the middle of March, who in their right mind would think about sunscreen when there is still snow on the ground? And besides, it was a Saturday, I should have been around to help you remember things like sunscreen since you do such a great job of remembering EVERYTHING else.
His Answer: You didn't put sunscreen on his face?
~
The Question: Are you proud that I spent a whole night alone with the kids (something I was previously too terrified to attempt, even though his parents live so close I can literally look across the lawn and see what they're watching on TV)?
The Right Answer: I am so proud of you! You are an amazing wife to take care of our kids so I could have a weekend away with the guys. And you should know that "guy time" is now completely out of my system and I will never leave you alone with the kids again.
His Answer: (without looking up from his computer or letting me get past the word "proud") Yes.
~
The Question: So was your weekend relaxing? (underhanded sarcasm implied)
The Right Answer: It was alright. But I couldn't stop thinking about you and the kids long enough to really enjoy myself.
His Answer: Yeah. You should try it sometime. (Right, that sounds easy enough. Let me just detach the baby from my breast and the toddler from my leg, get in touch with the magical fairy who picks up your wet towels, unloads the dishwasher, and scrubs the crap from your children's clothes, and I'll be off in a jiffy.)
~
The Question: Will you watch the kids so I can go out for a while?
The Right Answer: I would love to! Also, I was thinking I could do the dishes, fold the laundry, and draw you a candle-lit bath (that will not lead to sex in any way, shape or form).
His Answer: Yes.
Good enough! I'm out of here.
~
Do your husbands usually get it "right"? Tell me about a time "his answer" was very different from the "right answer."
Linking up with Deb and Lee to finish the sentence, "My husband is so..."
Sunday, March 21, 2010
My Son is a Meanie (But I Can't Let Go)
"Who loves you?"
I posed this question to my son yesterday morning.
"Grammy loves you too, but who else?"
"Daddy!"
"Okay, Daddy too. Who else loves you?"
At this point I could care less if he says the baby, I just want to hear Mama from those sweet, little lips.
"Mmmmm... BABY!!!"
I'm starting to panic and completely dismiss this dose of brotherly affection. I just keep thinking, "What's going on? I'm never this far down on the list."
"Hey," I gently pry, "does Mommy love you?"
"Nope," he answers matter-of-factly, retrieving his trains and chugging carelessly down the hall.
My heart breaks and I spend the next twenty minutes following him around, practically shoving the words "Mommy loves me" down his throat while counting the moments of failure that led to this devastating decree.
~
I felt like the invisible mom all morning... trailing my kids like a pathetic, little puppy dog just teeming for a pat on the head.
Meanwhile, my in-laws were clearly the stars of the show, gaining goofy baby smiles and exhuberant toddler hugs with their unashamed doting and ceaseless attention.
At one point The Tine decided it was time to move out front. My mother-in-law followed and I took up the rear.
As we traversed the breezeway, heading for the open door, my son abruptly turned, glared at me and yelled, "No, Mommy!"
I held my head high and stated, "Mommy wants to come too."
But as I attempted to break through his little hand pushed firmly against my leg and he repeated (louder, of course), "No Mommy!"
Now I know I'm twenty years beyond elementary school and am in fact the mother of this pint-sized bully, but tears welled up in my eyes and I wanted to run home sobbing, "My son hurt my feelings!"
Instead I commenced the teacher's role, coolly stating the implications of pushing and generalizing that "it makes people feel sad."
It makes Mommy feel sad.
And I'd like you to stop.
~
I never thought I would look back fondly on the days where Separation Anxiety crippled our life. When, in the rare occasions I could leave his side, my son's screams and sobs haunted my consciousness until the moment I walked through the door (and he leapt into my arms).
I laughed at people who told me that one day I would miss those middle-of-the-night feedings, where the fog of sleep blurred the edges between baby and mother, leaving a mass of grogginess, hunger, and deep, pure affection.
I counted with annoyance the strands of thin, blonde hair ripped from my head as he grasped for comfort in the familiar aroma of his Mommy's shampoo.
My baby is growing up.
Eventually, he allowed me out front and together we basked in the sun and each other's affection.
This evening, when his Daddy asked, "Who loves you?" he stated (without hesitation), "Mommy!"
I know these moments of defiance are dramatic shows of his budding independence. And I realize that hours spent holding my son on the couch, chasing each other around the picnic table, and giggling in bed at night far outweigh mere minutes of thoughtless rejection.
Yet the fact remains that in two short years of motherhood I have lost certain, irreplacable connections with my baby.
Connections that I do, in fact, miss.
But every day I gain so much more.
When The Tine was a baby I sacrificed my independence for his happiness.
Now I am learning to sacrifice my happiness for his independence.
I still miss the days where he seemed more like an extension of me than a little person of his own.
But I love even more the person he is becoming... his thoughtfulness, his passion, his joy and laughter and boundless energy...
... and the fact that when he crashes at night, after a day of chasing the elusive prize of independence, he does so in his Mommy's arms, with his head slumped into her chest and his hands tangled carelessly in the remaining wisps of her thin, blonde hair.
I posed this question to my son yesterday morning.
The Tine was playing with the baby in the bathroom, causing tiny convulsions of infant joy as Bady basked in the attention of his big brother.
So when I asked, "Who loves you?" I was looking for "The baby."
Instead he answers, "Pap!"
"Yes, Pap loves you, but who else?"
"Mmmmm... Grammy?"
"Grammy loves you too, but who else?"
"Daddy!"
"Okay, Daddy too. Who else loves you?"
At this point I could care less if he says the baby, I just want to hear Mama from those sweet, little lips.
"Mmmmm... BABY!!!"
I'm starting to panic and completely dismiss this dose of brotherly affection. I just keep thinking, "What's going on? I'm never this far down on the list."
"Hey," I gently pry, "does Mommy love you?"
"Nope," he answers matter-of-factly, retrieving his trains and chugging carelessly down the hall.
My heart breaks and I spend the next twenty minutes following him around, practically shoving the words "Mommy loves me" down his throat while counting the moments of failure that led to this devastating decree.
~
I felt like the invisible mom all morning... trailing my kids like a pathetic, little puppy dog just teeming for a pat on the head.
Meanwhile, my in-laws were clearly the stars of the show, gaining goofy baby smiles and exhuberant toddler hugs with their unashamed doting and ceaseless attention.
At one point The Tine decided it was time to move out front. My mother-in-law followed and I took up the rear.
As we traversed the breezeway, heading for the open door, my son abruptly turned, glared at me and yelled, "No, Mommy!"
I held my head high and stated, "Mommy wants to come too."
But as I attempted to break through his little hand pushed firmly against my leg and he repeated (louder, of course), "No Mommy!"
Now I know I'm twenty years beyond elementary school and am in fact the mother of this pint-sized bully, but tears welled up in my eyes and I wanted to run home sobbing, "My son hurt my feelings!"
Instead I commenced the teacher's role, coolly stating the implications of pushing and generalizing that "it makes people feel sad."
It makes Mommy feel sad.
And I'd like you to stop.
~
I never thought I would look back fondly on the days where Separation Anxiety crippled our life. When, in the rare occasions I could leave his side, my son's screams and sobs haunted my consciousness until the moment I walked through the door (and he leapt into my arms).
I laughed at people who told me that one day I would miss those middle-of-the-night feedings, where the fog of sleep blurred the edges between baby and mother, leaving a mass of grogginess, hunger, and deep, pure affection.
I counted with annoyance the strands of thin, blonde hair ripped from my head as he grasped for comfort in the familiar aroma of his Mommy's shampoo.
My baby is growing up.
Eventually, he allowed me out front and together we basked in the sun and each other's affection.
This evening, when his Daddy asked, "Who loves you?" he stated (without hesitation), "Mommy!"
I know these moments of defiance are dramatic shows of his budding independence. And I realize that hours spent holding my son on the couch, chasing each other around the picnic table, and giggling in bed at night far outweigh mere minutes of thoughtless rejection.
Yet the fact remains that in two short years of motherhood I have lost certain, irreplacable connections with my baby.
Connections that I do, in fact, miss.
But every day I gain so much more.
When The Tine was a baby I sacrificed my independence for his happiness.
Now I am learning to sacrifice my happiness for his independence.
I still miss the days where he seemed more like an extension of me than a little person of his own.
But I love even more the person he is becoming... his thoughtfulness, his passion, his joy and laughter and boundless energy...
... and the fact that when he crashes at night, after a day of chasing the elusive prize of independence, he does so in his Mommy's arms, with his head slumped into her chest and his hands tangled carelessly in the remaining wisps of her thin, blonde hair.
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