Share Care

Cub has to be the most sharing toddler I've ever met. At least with us. If he's eating something, he insists we take a bite too. Although, I'm not sure if that's a sharing gesture or a test to see if we'll actually eat what we're serving him. And he can get quite bossy with sharing too. "Eat, mommy. Eat!" As he shoves a piece of food into my mouth. Or if I'm offering him something from my plate, he insists on taking the fork and stretching it across the table to daddy for him to try too. Usually I find it really cute and go along with this sharing routine. But I must admit, I don't have the stomach to share the chewed up food he's spit out and presented to me as if it were choice lobster. Or sharing his tooth brush among other things. Some things just aren't for sharing, Cub.

Cub's Eye

The eye.

I'm learning more and more each day that this eye issue with Cub is about me!

Over the last year, we've been dealing with recurrent chalazions. They're clogged oil glands along the eye lid that cause red swelling and a firm bump. It looks similar to a stye. But usually stays longer.

While it doesn't seem to bother Cub, it really bothers me. Because of the people. I worry constantly about what other people will think when they see him. And rightfully so in some cases. I spend the most time with Cub, we go everywhere, and almost everywhere we go lately someone or quite a few people ask, "What's wrong with his eye?" Or little kids stare and point. Luckily, Cub's still young enough not to notice other people's responses. But I do. And I "allow" it to make me feel insufficient, the mother scum of the earth. Like a negligent parent. Even though I spend hours of my life trying to help and heal this eye issue.

The other day we were at a Farmer's Market and bumped into a few people from a gymboree class we're attending. Naturally, they all made a comment about his eye. But one mom in particular really got to me. She said, "He gets those a lot. It must be hereditary." I was furious and mortified. No, it's not hereditary. Neither my husband or I get these. And furthermore, you don't see us enough to know if he gets them "a lot". I was so bothered. Then I had to stop myself and say, "this is about you. You're embarrassed." When I left that mother, I had that sinking feeling of unworthiness. Like if I was a better mom or did more or whatever, Cub wouldn't be getting these bumps. But the truth is, I do as much as I can to avoid them. And some things just happen to kids. It's part of being a kid!

Being a parent definitely has its own peer pressures. I'm working at not falling into them. But at times, it can feel like a bad eighties popularity contest!

Empty Shelves

I have a few friends who have recently lost babies to miscarriage.
As a mother now, my empathy runs much deeper.

I didn't understand the heart-pull connection before Cub.
Sadly, I have lost two of my own children by my own will through two abortions. I didn't get it then. Maybe I didn't want to understand in those vulnerable moments. In fact, I know I didn't. It would've made "the decision" that much more real and cruel. When the nurse told me it was simply a "mass" the size of a grain of rice, I gladly accepted that explanation. Thank God it wasn't a baby... yet! Or so I told myself.

But ironically, on the other side of pregnancy, when "wanting" to be pregnant, every little day and week matters. That little "mass" is now proudly a little baby growing rapidly -- with a heartbeat! Oh, the joy! I remember when first pregnant with Cub at eight weeks, I was so excited to go and see him on my first ultra-sound. And then later that day it hit me, my last abortion was at eight weeks.

I'm being transparent about my own story because I realize that there are so many women out there hurting. And very confused. Whether losing a baby through an abortion or a miscarriage, somehow if the weeks aren't long enough, then you're not supposed to hurt as bad. If you had a miscarriage at six or eight weeks, our culture expects you to "get over it". It wasn't really a baby yet. Or not a "baby" baby... right? However, if you lose a baby at four months or even further along, then that should really hurt. Is grief really measured by time? For instance, if someone dear to you dies at 100, does that mean you shouldn't be that sad since they've lived a long life? Or is it still that someone you love has gone away -- whether 6 weeks in utero or 99?

The last few days I've been searching for a few good books to help one of my friends through her time of loss. There are several great ones online: Empty Arms, I'll Hold You in Heaven, Grieving the Child I Never Knew, Miscarriage: Women Sharing From the Heart (all on Amazon). While I knew I could order all of these online, I thought it would be faster just to run to Barnes and Noble or Borders. When I got there and asked about these books or a section on miscarriages, I got very concerned, even sad looks. But then lead to a TINY little area where a small sticker said, "miscarriages", but no books actually on grief or healing after a miscarriage or abortion. The sales clerks (I went to both Barnes and Borders) looked a little ashamed at the poor selection and quickly volunteered to order the books online for me.

Those tiny bookstore sections are symbolic of what little time we (and others) give ourselves to heal after the loss of a baby. We're supposed to wipe back our tears and either try again for the "next" baby or wait until we're "ready" for our "chosen" baby. But don't spend too much time mourning a baby that wasn't even "born"! Or never had a "full" chance at life. So instead we walk around with a tiny section in our heart labeled "miscarriage" or "abortion" on an empty shelf.

Yet if the topic is brought up in a safe or intimate circle of women and mothers, almost every one of them will say they've lost a baby through miscarriage or abortion. And most will be willing to talk about it. Especially if it's a miscarriage. However, even the most liberal of women often still have a hard time sharing their abortion story. Unless it's with a gruff, defensive response, denying any remorse. It's almost as if, if you're "pro-choice", you're not supposed to actually hurt or have any sad feelings about your abortion? How sad!

Feelings are real. The loss is real. You don't have to be a prisoner to grief. But you also don't have to be a prisoner to denial. Give yourself time and allowance to heal.

There's an opening note to the mothers in the book, "Miscarriages: Women sharing from the heart" that touched my heart and hopefully touches yours too if you've ever lost a child during pregnancy:

Dear Mother,
Regardless of the length of time you were pregnant, you carried a real, living being in your womb. That little being, your baby, died. What you are feeling is grief, a complex, yet normal, response to loss... Although the future appears dark, you will survive. You will find your strength along the way. You will see the light of day again. Together we'll hold steadfast through the tears.

Cheese!

Yesterday I took Cub to the doctor for his 18 month check-up. It's amazing how smart these little guys are now. They know there's something fishy at the doctor's office. The bright, sterile white walls and fluorescent lights must be a dead giveaway.

So in Cub struts. Still in pajamas. Looking around. Carefully, surveying the area. Making sure there aren't any casualties or POW's laying around. Then proceeds over to the dirty, germ-invested doctors' office toys, poking, lifting, and smelling. Daring to even put one of those detestable toys into his mouth!

Thankfully, our doctor was on time for once and I was able to scoop him away before he rolled in God knows what.

Once inside the exam room, Cub started fussing. Nervously pacing the room. Unsettled. Waiting for doom to hit. Even the nurse's harmless task of measuring his length became an all out wrestling match -- blood, sweat and tears.

But by the time the doctor came in he perked up a little at seeing her Elmo stethoscope. With a quiet, almost surrendered, "Elmo" recognition whisper. But soon the tears and rebellion followed, as the doctor began her exam.

The best moment of all was when she held up that little eye device with the small light in it to check his pupils and he responded, through tears, clenched teeth and fear, "Cheese!"

Only the children of our camera-obsessed generation would have such a response! Hilarious.

TV is Evil

I'm not one of those parents that "doesn't believe in TV" for children. TV has tutored Cub with his counting, letters, and words. I'm grateful for TV. The "right" TV -- Sesame Street, Super Why!, and any other strictly educational television programs for toddlers.

However, this morning I let Cub watch a little "too much" TV. I had to make phone calls and take care of a few things so I thought, "It won't hurt if he watches a little more..." And on I went making my phone calls and doing my tasks, even though all along I started feeling guilty. Dirty. Like a naughty parent for letting my child sit in front of the idiot box, glued.

Soon enough, we had to run some errands so I was able to pull him away and get out. We went to a little storytime at the local library, played a little bit then came home -- with one of his favorite videos from the library. Naturally he wanted to watch it immediately. It was close to nap time but I thought, heck, I'll pop it in and let him watch while he eats lunch in his highchair.

Lunch is over. The video is over. Perfect time for nap. Cub seems totally fine. Then wham! Out of nowhere SUPER TANTRUM FIT. I first thought it was teething, so I gave him some teething tablets and gel and tried to comfort him, even read a story. But he started screaming so loud, at ranges Mariah Carey can't even hit, I'm sure someone outside was considering calling CPS. I tried to stay calm. But it spiraled into a bigger tantrum.

Finally, I took him out of his room and went back to the living room -- where the TV is. And he got quiet. I thought, out of exhaustion, maybe I can turn on CNN just to have the TV on and he'll get bored and fall asleep in my arms. But NO! He was not falling for that trick. And on went the screaming. I finally turned to PBS kids and Sesame Street was on and out popped an angel. He was quiet, happy, calm. I turned back to Anderson Cooper one more time to test this. And out came the screams and tears again. Back to Sesame Street, angel.

Long story short, I did allow him to complete Sesame Street then whisked him away, kicking and screaming, convulsing, and forced myself to rock him to sleep no matter how long it took. And finally, it worked.

Never again. I am definitely setting TV limits! Or hiding it!

Sharing My Childhood

There's nothing like the smell of the great northwest during summertime.

Or the feel of the northwest sun. It's different. Dry and inviting. Hot but not threatening. Bright but not overpowering. The northwest sun is a tree-hugger. A hippie. Friendly.

Cub and I are visiting my parents in Portland, Oregon, for a week. I've been looking forward to this trip for months but didn't expect to enjoy it this much. There's something so special about sharing a piece of your childhood with your own child. We've visited quite a few places I used to frequent as a kid growing up in Portland. The Portland Children's Museum, Washington Park, Downtown Portland, to name a few.

This morning I took Cub to the campus of my old elementary school, Catlin Gabel. I expected it to look significantly different and even much smaller. But for the most part, it looked the same as my seven year old eyes. And the old, cherished, evergreen populated campus still looked big and wild. A sight straight out of "Where The Wild Things Are"!

As we navigated through the campus, I tried to remember running through the bark dust as a kid and playing on those soccer fields. A few distinct memories came to mind but moreso the actual "feeling" of being there as a kid. The "experience" of learning and exploring on those very grounds. Then to watch my firstborn toddle through those same trees picking up Oregon pinecones, acorns and sticks of all shapes and sizes, I couldn't help but to tear up.

After we left Catlin, I drove over to a park not far from my parents' home. This park had a little trail with a creek that lead to an open field and a pond with ducks. We see a lot of ducks in LA so I wasn't as thrilled about that part, although the pond was beautiful. But the trail leading up to the pond was simply the best part for me.

On this little shadowy trail, where the sun peaked through the trees, splashing little sun puddles across the dank ground, where spiders hide and water bugs ski, I smelled it -- my childhood. It was so potent. Full. And palpable. If there were a way to bottle it up, I'd pay whatever the price just to hold onto that smell. At one point I did actually stop and close my eyes, trying to memorize every detail for future recall.

As we drove back to my parents' home for naptime, I couldn't help but smile over and over again. This trip has surpassed all of my great expectations -- watching my son splash around in my parent's backyard in one of those old plastic pools, smother his cousins (my sister's kids) with love and light up every morning at the sight of his grandparents still in their pajamas, and many more Mastercard "priceless" moments.

Part of me has even felt sad we have to leave in the next day or so. To take Cub away from all of this natural beauty seems cruel and unfair. But then I remember the rain. And yes it will come. One day in the near future. And all of this natural, sun-kissed Oregon beauty will be hidden in a gray blanket of mist and fog! Then I will smile on LA...

Update to the "Mommy" Post

So I wrote a few weeks ago about Cub calling me "mommy", a progression from his baby babble "ma-ma". Shortly after that, Cub began saying "mommys". I couldn't figure out where he got the plural from? And he was using it so desperately -- "mommysssssssssss!"

Then it occurred to me, I'm with him everyday and constantly talking at and narrating everything to him -- "Mommy's getting your milk..." "Mommy's cleaning up..." And so forth. Ah ha! How brilliant! Why wouldn't he think "mommys" my name?

But even more recently I've been called, Ali. My actual name. It started with me driving one day. We had just left someone and about five minutes into the drive I hear this, "Ali!" I almost crashed. Did he just say what I thought he said? And then he continued, "Ali! Ali! Ali". Hilarious.

So then the other day, he heard my husband say, "Babe? Ali?" While trying to get my attention. Then of course seconds later we hear, "Babe. Ali." From our little parrot.

Hopefully he'll never hear anyone call me anything ugly!

Prayer

I've really been enjoying Mr. Cub lately. He's saying so many words and repeating everything! Yikes and Hooray!

We always pray before bedtime and at meal times and also attend church regularly. So naturally, Cub has picked up on praying. He proudly asks us to pray throughout the day and reminds us when we don't! Ironically, his timing is impeccable and usually just when WE need it!

Today, he laid his little hands on me and babbled this hilarious prayer and then ended with a big, pronounced Amen! I was so tickled. Then amazed. This little toddler was imitating what he's seen but also with such sincere intention. And if the Bible says God can use anything to bring him glory or minister to us, whose to say that babbled prayer didn't have true meaning? My little prayer warrior!

From Mama to Mommy

I remember the day Cub first uttered his sweet little "ma-ma". Oh, how my heart melted! Now I get "mommy". Which I love. Most of the time...

You see, now that he says "mommy", it has a certain charge with it. It's no longer a little baby babbling "ma-ma", it's a BOY asking for something. And he's learned to use it well. With a smile. With tears. With a fit. With a giggle.

The other night I put him to bed and walked out. He was sitting in his crib making these hilarious elephant sounds and rattling off his ABC's then I heard it. It was urgent. Desperate. Manipulative! Out of nowhere. "Mommmmyyyyyyy? Mommy? Mommmyyyyyyy!!!"

I tried to ignore it for a while. But it got faster, more determined, more skillful -- "Mommy! Mommy! Mommy!" And it was so doggone cute that I couldn't resist. I had to go back into the room -- to a toddler standing up in his crib now with this big, victorious goofy smile on his face -- and cuddle with him to sleep. I knew he didn't "need" me. I knew nothing was wrong and he would have eventually went to sleep. But I couldn't ignore that "mommy" voice.

What will I do when it turns to just "mom"?!

Breathe, Girl

I don't have any advice to give. Not that you wanted it. But I wish I did have a magical button to push and release all of the motherly wisdom we all crave and need to survive. Or at least a small dose to swallow to help us through one more day.

I find that most of the motherly wisdom I desire or need doesn't have anything to do with motherhood at all, but with self. It all starts with me -- the worry, the stress, the anxiety, the emotions. Any trying moment in motherhood really boils down to how I choose to handle it. It's a me issue, not a mother issue.

Recently, I've been battling a lot of subconscious and very conscious stress. Worrying constantly about work and my "purpose" or destiny in the workforce. Fighting Mr. Ego again who keeps taunting me with, "Are you ever going to go back to work and BE somebody?" Threatening to rob me of my dreams. Of my potential. Will I ever see more of my work produced? Etc. etc...

And because of these internal arguments with Mr. Ego, I have "chosen" or "allowed" that stress to carry over to Cub. When he's being a typical one year old, testing his boundaries, expressing his likes and dislikes and pushing his independence, I find myself operating on a short fuse. Quick to snap at him. Quick to respond aggressively. Not physically harmful. But in ways that a one year old wouldn't and shouldn't understand. My attitude. My tone. And gestures. Everything that really makes ME look like the one year old!

This morning it came to a head:

Yes, I was frustrated about an ailment poor Cub has been suffering from. I was tired and frustrated for us both. Having to continue to hold a warm compress over his little eye. Having to keep him still from squirming, kicking and fussing.

But when I started lecturing him about how we'll never heal his eye if he continues "acting this way" and how all week long he's been fighting me and I'm tired of it, yada yada..." It occurred to me, this is about ME. This is not about the eye or his response to the warm compress. This is about me not working. About me being tired of the groundhog's day of being home with him. About me worrying if I'll ever make it as a writer. And every other insecurity about -- ME.

In my frustrated tears, I had to repent. I had to make the commitment that I will not transfer my internal struggles and stress over to Cub, my husband or anybody else. Yes, it will likely happen again. But I better work damn hard to avoid it. And furthermore, deal with the stress. Stop worrying. And TRUST. Breathe, girl! If I truly believe that God is in control and that He gives us (and puts) the desires of our heart, then I have to let Him be in control. Period.

bubbles!

I've been away for so long I really didn't know what to write. So much is going on and yet it's all pretty much a variation of the same too -- chasing a toddler, balancing motherhood, reminding myself to eat, reminding myself to just sit my butt down and stop moving every second, writing, drinking coffee and more coffee, and forcing myself to write more.

I'm actually pretty proud, thankful and humbled that I've been able to write a lot of scripted material lately. I don't know where I've found the time or inspiration (other than God), but the work seems to be flowing, which feels great. I attribute much of my blog absence to that.

So back to me and Cub...

Bubbles. I cannot say the word. At least not around him. I must ignore the word when it comes up. I must ban the word from my home. Bubbles. Who would've thought? My son is currently obsessed with bubbles. He can even read the word "bubbles" at 15 months. And when he does, he gets a twinkle in his eye and seems to whisper the word like it's some mystical artifact that he's just discovered from a faraway Tibetan temple. Bubbles.

It all started with Your Baby Can Read. He loves the videos and guess what? He can actually read! No joke! Cub can read at least 25 words or more. It's pretty amazing. And his vocabulary and speaking for 15 months is extremely advanced I must say. So on one of the videos they show the word "bubbles" and a kid blowing a bubble. No biggie, right? At first it was harmless. He didn't pay much attention to it at all. Then out of no where. He started READING the word bubbles and occasionally seeing bubble containers around the house and it became a fixation. He would then see the container AND read it and shout, "BUBBLES!" Ever so proudly.

Once he started whispering "bubbles" in the middle of a church service. Out of the blue. His little face all rosy and sweet, staring at the pastor preaching and then his mouth started forming the word softly, "bubbles". As if he were seeing bubbles ascending from the preacher's head. But there were no bubbles around. He was simply in his own pleasant bubble-filled day-dream.

This bubble obsession was cute in the beginning. But before long, I would bring out the bubbles and we'd have a great time blowing them together, then, they'd have to be put away. And therein lies the problem. Putting the bubbles away. See, Cub loves the bubbles. And he thinks they should be available, with me blowing them for him, 24-7. Even if he decides to walk away and do something else, he expects me to keep blowing the bubbles for whenever he decides to return. If I do put them away, I must brace myself for a mega-fat-ugly-toddler-tantrum.

The other day we were at the grocery store. I decided, foolishly, to reward him with a new set of bubbles for being patient during the shopping. So I show him the bubbles for him to hold. At which point he starts whispering, "bubbles, bubbles" into a high-pitched animated crescendo of "BUBBLES!!". Then wanted to OPEN the bubbles right there in the grocery store. I took them out of the plastic case for him to "hold" until we get outside. But NOOOOOOOO!! Must do bubbles right there in aisle 7 -- now!!! Then I heard the rumble, saw the fire in his eyes, and had to just brace myself -- the tantrum came like a tornado. And boy did it. SCREAMING, dropping to the ground, flailing, crying (the suck the air shaking cry) with the little quiet tormented whisper, "bubbles!" When I say everybody was staring, I mean EVERYBODY.

My mind raced, how do I handle a tantrum? Do I ignore it? Do I leave the store WITHOUT the bubbles (that we already opened) or what? And everybody else waited to see what I'd do too. So I decided to quietly but firmly tell him to stop crying and that we'd do the bubbles once we got outside. It didn't work. But it was worth a try. Long story short, we did do the bubbles. On the curb outside like two homeless kids. And then of course another tantrum ensued when I had to put them away to go home. So now, we don't bubble. At least for a while. And don't you dare say the word if you come over, unless you either plan on blowing bubbles for the next 48 hours, or wanna see mama throw her own tantrum.

Night Cuddles

Tonight for a brief moment I had my own separation anxiety.
Of all the nights I could barely keep my arms up, let alone my eyes open, trying to bounce or sway Cub to sleep, tonight as I cuddled him before bed I had to manually force myself to put him down in the crib. For a few split seconds, my heart hurt. I wanted to keep holding my little boy just a few moments longer. But in reality I knew the longer I held him, the harder it would be for him to go to sleep. Oh, for the gratefulness!

Mr. PTT

I've been doing a lot of sighing lately. Not somber sighing. The kind of sighing that is a placeholder for screaming. The kind of sighing that forces you to bite your tongue, take a deep breath, and sometimes turn away.

This sighing came about with the new visitor in my home. I call him a visitor because I pray to Dear God, this is just a "visit" and he will soon go away. Far, far away. I will call him Mr. PTT -- Mr. Pre-Terrible-Twos. This friend, is not my child. He only likes to pop up every once in a while at the most inopportune times and say, Wazzzz up??!!! However, he and my child have seemed to hit it off lately. They're chummy. Even conspire against me.

Yesterday, Cub and I went to the bank. He loves the bank. We enter in all happy. He's holding my hand and walking, greets our usual Customer Service lady with a big, toddler, "Hi!". Then continues walking like he owns the place, dragging me along. Everything was all good. Then Mr. PTT showed up out of nowhere. Like, Blaaaahhhhhhhhhh! And my sweet child was gone. I was left holding this kicking, screaming, defiant person.

So I, sigh, and take a deep breath. Finish my transaction as quickly as possible and leave the bank.

Perhaps a little FroYo will bring back my Cubster. So we leave the bank and my child is back. Everybody happy. We've only had frozen yogurt one other time together. And it was just a taste. But since the shop is next to the bank, why not. We go in, help ourselves to the self-serve yumminess and sit down to eat a fruity yogurty snack. Cub takes a few bites, mmmm. Pleasantly sitting on mommy's lap then --- BLAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHH! Mr. PTT shows up again! Taking the spoon from me -- and he's STRONG -- and manages to splat the yogurt off the spoon all over my face and clothes. Nice. Then kicks out of my lap and wants to go monkey on me.

Once again, we leave and my Cub returns, happy camper and all. We go visit a dog grooming place, talk to the nice guy cutting the dog, meet some other kids, talk with their mom, talk to whoever else all this time and then get to our car. When I get inside to drive off, I catch a glimpse of myself in the rearview mirror and I had a quality drop of dried yogurt on my nose like Rudolf the Red Nosed Yogurt Fool! And could only sigh, embarrassed as can be that all those people were probably staring at my nose and never said a word.

The Sisterhood of Motherhood

Many people can become mothers. Whether young or old. Medical science has proven and surprised us on both ends with that fact.

You don't have to go through a rites of passage, pledge a mom sorority -- although I'm sure there are many "Delta Drama Mamas" out there, not to be taken personal Deltas! -- or go through some painful initiation -- which some may associate with childbirth. But one of the perks of motherhood I cherish the most is the "Sisterhood of Motherhood". Which is open to everyone.

The other day I was at Whole Foods. I never sit down to eat in their cafe area, but since I had Cub with me and we had time to kill, let alone a piping hot delicious latte, I decided to take a seat. Besides there were some young kids playing over at the long communal table and I thought he'd enjoy watching them play and I could enjoy savoring my latte. So we took a seat beside the kids and their mom. The mom was staring ahead. Zoning out. While the kids tugged and pulled at her and... WHINED! She finally dropped her head onto the table and closed her eyes, shutting them out. I smirked to myself remembering feeling that way just a day before. Then I said to her, "You look like me yesterday." She raised her head and smirked. Then said, "Oh, my god! How do we do this?!" We both laughed. Her face brightened up. It was a Saturday morning and wet outside. There wasn't much to do with the kids and she couldn't fathom being with them for another two hours without a break. So I suggested taking them to the library. A light went off in her head. Of course, the library! Duh! She was relieved I made that suggestion. In all her tiredness her mind had gone blank. So there they were at Whole Foods, driving mom crazy.

As we talked more and the kids started to play together, her whole demeanor changed. Suddenly she was re-energized, refocused, and ready to take on the kids. Just a moment of being able to bond with another mom and yes, vent, did wonders. Like an espresso shot of relief. They left shortly after that, headed to the library. And we left too. Both of us grateful for the interaction.

The day before when I was losing it, I had called another mommy friend. To vent. I felt a little embarrassed but had to talk with someone. I was at that -- Oh, my god! moment. And my friend laughed and said, "You're just having one of those moments?? I go through that at least once or twice a week!" Hearing her say that removed the huge block of guilt balancing on my head. I then felt, renewed. Like, "Okay, I'm not crazy. This is normal."

What would we do without the sisterhood of motherhood?! I would probably hide under my bed and never come out.

Marble Poop

The other morning. 4 AM in the morning, that is. I went into Cub's room to change his diaper. When I got into the room, it smelled a little "poopy" but after I lifted him from the crib and did the sniff test, I passed it off as gas (pun intended).

So, it's 4 AM and dark. I don't turn on the light because he's still half-asleep and I'm changing him. The diaper by this time is heavily saturated and probably weighing half of his weight. I take it off of him, look inside and nope, no poo. Definitely was gas.

Then I snapped on a fresh diaper and started putting his little feet back into his pj's. You know the ones with the feet. Love those! Why can't we wear them as adults?! Anyway, as I push his little feet into the pj's and start to zip him up, I feel them. THEM. Little rabbit poops. A whole handful of them sliding behind his back and down into the feet, all across the changing pad. I have to lift one up to do a real sniff check and make sure it is what I'm thinking it is -- hey, it's dark, I said!!

And yep. It's poo. Tons of little marble poos. That slipped right out of the diaper in the dark. So there I sat, marble poops in hand, a now sleeping baby, freshly changed -- or so I thought. And what do I do?

Dump the "shit" in the genie -- with my hands (okay, I really used a wipe) -- and put the babe back in his crib. I'll do a thorough wipe down when he wakes up!

Don't judge me. And yes, I did wash my hands after that. I think. Heck, I can't remember, it was 4 AM!

Kick In The Pants

Everybody needs a kick-in-the-pants friend (KITPF).
Not somebody who will kick you when you're down.
Or someone that's a constant burden, kicking the life out of you.

But a friend that's a straight shooter.
Someone not afraid to tell you you're full of B.S.

As mothers, we especially need these types of friends.
There are too many reasons to justify why we did this or reacted to that or failed to do such and such. It's true we have a lot on our plates logistically, emotionally and physically.
But a KITPF will tell you when you need to suck it up.
A KITPF will tell you when it was your fault or when you are being childish.
And you'll be stronger and better after that good kick in the pants.

I was lunching with a KITPF this weekend. I was complaining in my most charming way about how difficult it is right now to decide whether I should return to working full-time for a studio or network or if I should stay at home longer, yada yada. And all the projects I'm developing at home right now but not sure if they're really going to be good, etc. So basically I was playing my violin.

My KITPF looked at me and said, "Boo hoo. You get to stay at home with your son, develop your own projects, meet with various people that a lot of people would die to meet with, and you're feeling sorry for yourself." Then she shook her head and said, "I'm sorry I don't feel bad for you at all." And essentially told me to get over it. Wow.

I sat there smiling, trying to take this kick in the pants with dignity but there was nothing to smile about. She was right. Nothing to frown about either. But it was time to straighten up and do what I gotta do. If it's gonna be this way, go that way. If it's going to go that way, then go that way. But don't sit around complaining about the wonderful opportunities in my lap!

If all your friends always pat you on the back and smile in your face, beware! Run!

Go find a good KITPF. You'll be better and the friendship will be stronger!

Now What?

I've officially entered the "Now What" phase of motherhood. That phase where the newborn honeymoon period is over and as much as you love your now crawling, creeping, cruising bundle of joy, you have to ask yourself, now what? What do I do with my life now? Have another baby? Go back to work? Start my own business?

Some women never enter the Now What phase as new mothers. They either thrive off of being a full-time SAHM or know that once the maternity leave is over, back to work they go. No questions asked. These lucky moms know their role. They're not afraid to admit they want to be a full-time, hands-on mommy and are proud to wear that badge. Or ashamed to admit they are working women. They love their children but they're just not the stay-at-home type.

So what do us NW moms do? For me, I start the networking ball rolling, but don't commit a hundred-percent. I try to settle into being a SAHM but become restless. I think up a million different business ideas but don't follow through. Then I wait. Wait for something to click. Wait for somebody to finally get back to me about my latest script so I can have at least one thing cooking. Then I watch the clock. It's been a year since I've been "actively" working. The ego side of me is like, what the ?? "You're going to lose your touch." "People will forget about you." "Your re-entry time is ticking away." Then ego begins to interrogate me with "What have you really accomplished this year?" Of course reality responds like, Um, I had a baby! I've been molding and shaping a new human being! Duh! But somehow ego's influence always wins. And I'm left sitting on the couch wondering if and when I'll finally reach that point.

That Point meaning that personal point of professional "arrival". The ah-ha point in your career where it all makes sense and comes together. That point as women where we're doing it all -- wife, mother, and career! Of course balancing all of it perfectly too, right?!

For now, I'll keep wading in this NW phase until the What becomes abundantly clear.

Cooler

I'm back in high school. Or maybe middle school. Probably both. That stage in life where you're walking around constantly obsessing over if someone likes you or not. Questioning every look, reaction, and response. What did that blink mean? What did that yawn mean? Why did they look away? What do they see? What are they looking at? What's wrong with me? Those Marcia, Marcia, Marcia moments from the Brady Bunch!

And that someone is Cub.

I saw an episode of Cougar Town the other day (don't ask!) and there was a scene where one of the friends called desperately for advice because she feared her baby didn't like her. The main character suggested they go out and get the baby chocolate ice cream so he can like his mom again. And it worked! I thought, that insecurity must be pretty common if someone thought to put it in a script.

Maybe it's part of that whole mommy guilt thing. We know there are moments when we're not being the best mom so we get all insecure and ashamed and start doing anything and everything to win back that acceptance. I'm saying "we" but maybe it's just me!

Today I'm pushing Cub on a swing at the park. In my head I'm thinking "how long are we really going to stay on this swing?" Then Cub looks at the other mommy making goofy faces at her baby in the next swing and I start thinking, "Am I horrible mom for feeling bored right now? Is Cub wishing that other mom was his mom?" So then I start pushing Cub higher and trying different silly faces and sounds to make him laugh. It worked, kind of. But he also had this look in his eye (or so I'm interpreting) that said, "you're fake. You're trying to get my approval right now and I'm not going to give it to you a hundred percent, so settle on this half-smile." And of course the Marcia, Marcia, Marcias start up and the itty bitty shitty committee starts casting their votes on my parenting and I turn into a total head case.

Many moments I find myself drifting off somewhere mentally while playing with Cub and then feeling horrible for not being "present" 24-7. Or I'm watching Cub laugh hysterically with daddy and feel like I'm the biggest crumb for glancing at the clock for the next nap time or bedtime at times when he's with me. A "good" mommy would always have on a smile, have total patience, sing all the kiddie songs (and know the words!), play non-stop, think only about their child and so on, right? Right.

Does this mean I'm totally selfish and self-centered? At times, yes. But also that I'm a normal woman who happens to be a mom too and has needs and desires of her own apart from mommyhood. Dare I admit that?

While at the park today I also saw this dad pushing his kid on another swing. The little girl was perfectly content and the dad wasn't looking at her or trying to coax some giggle out of her. They were just swinging. Simple as that. And I wondered why can't I just swing in moments that I don't feel up to being silly and goofy? Just chill. Relax. Instead of feeling guilty for not being the funnest 24-7 mom in the world? Is it not more weird for Cub to have a mommy fighting desperately for his approval? Or getting a complex for being bored once in a while?

And if I am being selfish, maybe I need to simply acknowledge it, then make a mental switch and keep it moving!

Cub has become more and more aware of his surroundings and emotional environments lately. He's 11 months going on 15! If I'm acting weird, he knows it! No silly smile can hide that. If I'm tense, awkward, nervous, insecure, he's reading into all of it! He may not know what's going on, but he is thinking something's off with mommy. So this year, 2010, I declare will be the year of the Cool. I will be much cooler (not high school or middle school cool), but a cooler cucumber. I will smoke a cool person proverbial joint and just swing. Keep it simple, stupid!