I thought I was raising children...

I thought I was raising children...

Tuesday, December 29, 2009

Gunk


So being a parent means dealing with gunk. All sorts of gunk. Snot. Poop. Pee. Baby food. Dirt. Mud. The mysterious substance that your son is holding that you really don't want to know what it is. You get the idea. And I've actually gotten pretty good at dealing with gunk. I barely shudder when it comes flying at me. I think I'm pretty calm and collected - wipe it up, wash my hands, and move on. (Except with snot. I hate snot. Eww. Ick. Gross.)

And then my son woke up Christmas morning with some gunk around his eye. No biggie, I thought. Warm washcloth, wipe it up, he's clean, I'm happy. Except that the gunk kept coming back. And back. And back. I actually ran out of washcloths.

So, being the technologically savvy mom that I am, I googled eye gunk. Top result? Pink Eye.

Oh, bloody hell.

One trip to Urgent Care later, it was confirmed. Pink Eye. But not just pink eye. No, that would be too easy. Pink Eye. Sinus Infection. Ear Infection. And, for those of you who don't know, my son is also asthmatic. He is currently on five medications. We have to tape a log to his bedroom door to keep track of who gave him what and when.

One of the medications is eye drops.

Have you ever tried to give eye drops to a 1 year old?

I have. Four times a day.

Ha!

And, of course, pink eye is highly contagious. I have a two year old daughter. Guess what she woke up with this morning?

Gunk in her eye.

Saturday, December 26, 2009

The Best Christmas Gift


"You're so brave, Momma."

I think every woman wants to hear that phrase from her children at some point in her life. I know I hoped to hear it some day. But I wasn't expecting to hear it coming from my 2 and a half year old.

Yesterday was Christmas. Yesterday also sucked. My son and daughter are sick, my son is teething (which means I have gotten 2 hours of sleep in the past 48 hours), my family is scattered hither and yon, I had a whining induced headache, and my husband was exhausted because he had been up until 2:30 in the morning wrapping my Christmas presents. So yesterday didn't go exactly as I wanted.

Somewhere in all of this, I had to make a dessert for Christmas dinner with the in laws. I had wanted to make a Chocolate Mocha Creme Trifle. Doesn't that sound delicious? The picture looked great too. But I didn't read the recipe all the way through, so I started to make it at 11. For dinner at 4. When step 12 of the recipe called for refrigerating the trifle for 8-12 hours.

Still, when I got to that step, I gritted my teeth and soldiered on, turning the trifle into a cake instead. I figured a cake wouldn't need to set for 8-12 hours. I put it in the fridge, forgot about it, and went to take a nap.

At 3, I went to pull the trifle-cake out of the fridge.... it was a mess. The icing didn't set properly and there was chocolate mocha creme icing ALL over my fridge. I couldn't handle it. I sank down onto the kitchen floor, fighting back tears. Christmas was not going the way I had foolishly pictured in my head, and now I had f@#%ed up dessert.

My husband gave me a hug, told me he loved me, and manipulated me into the car. We drove by 3 different places, looking for a dessert - all closed. We made it to my in law's empty handed (except for two boxes full of presents), but they were all really cool with it - my sister in law had picked up an ice cream cake, so it worked out.

Back at home that night, my daughter played while I was curled up on the couch, pretending that it wasn't 2 hours past her bedtime. I was exhausted, overwhelmed, and just wanted the damn day to be over. As I thought about the day and how it didn't go the way I wanted, I started to cry. At that point, my daughter came over to me and gave me a hug.

"You're so brave, Momma," she told me, petting my hair. "Don't cry. You okay. I love you too much. You need me kiss it better?"

Naturally, this made me cry harder and laugh at the same time. Her comforting me was completely unexpected. But it was exactly what I needed to hear to make my day better.

Granted, I tell my daughter the same thing exactly every time she gets hurt, or sad, or upset. And I know that she was probably just mimicking my "mommy" behavior when she saw me crying. But I don't care. In that moment, I got a glimpse of the woman she is going to be. And I am so proud of her.

Thursday, December 24, 2009

Things My Children Helped Me Remember...


1. Make time to play.

2. When you are tired, nap.

3. When you are hurt or sad, cry. Cry with all of your being until you feel better.

4. When you don't want to do something, say "NO!" as loudly as you can.

5. Fruit Loops are a good snack.

6. Look at the world with wonder, and you will always see something new.

7. When life is hard, color.

8. Hugs and kisses make owies better faster than bandaids do.

9. Still, character bandaids are cool.

10. Don't walk. Skip.

11. Milk and cookies make a bad day better.

12. Share.

13. Giggle for no reason. It's more stimulating than coffee.

14. It's okay to say "I don't know."

15. You should always ask for help when you can't do something.

16. The playground is an adventure.

17. Always say "Please" and "Thank you."

18. When you are hungry, eat.

19. When you are full, stop eating.

20. God is real. I see Him in my children.

Friday, December 18, 2009

Genius



My husband thinks I'm a genius.

Okay, so he has actually never said that I'm a genius, but he must think I'm a genius, given the types of questions he asks me. Questions I would never have an answer to. Questions like: Why is the baby crying? Where did our daughter put her lovey? Why is the dog barking? What do I (as in my husband) want for dinner? And my ABSOLUTE personal favorite: Honey, where did I put ________________?

I don't want him to think I'm stupid. So I make sure to answer: The baby's crying because the economy is failing. Our daughter put her lovey in a safe place. The dog is barking because the sun is shining. You want whatever I am making for dinner.

Any answer is better than saying "I don't know," right?

My husband doesn't think I'm funny.

Tuesday, December 15, 2009

Dammit

I first wrote this when I was 17 for a creative writing class I was taking (Thanks again, Mr. O, for teaching me to believe in my writing). For my current writing class, this week's writing assignment has to do with animals who hate us (okay, so I added the animals who hate us part), and this piece sprang to mind. I've edited it some, but I don't have time to reinvent the wheel this week, what with Christmas, and work, and, oh, right, my two children. So forgive me, writing group, for not being original this week, but here goes...

The best advice I can give to a person is to not put off being the bearer of bad news. It’s best to have it over and done with so that you can be forgiven quickly. For example, one summer my maternal grandparents flew to Alaska to be with my aunt and the newest addition to our family. Since they were going to be gone for approximately three months, they asked me to take care of the garden, the house, and the animals. When they offered to pay me a hundred dollars, I readily accepted. The work wasn’t hard; I had to water the plants, get the mail and newspapers, run their car for a while and feed the cat and birds.

The birds were definitely the most annoying part of this job. Squawker—who earned his name, might I add—and Cuddles, would squawk and chirp the entire time I was in the house, driving me insane. Whenever I opened their cage, they would fly at me, pecking wildly at me. To this day, I still have scars from those damn birds.

The cat was the easiest part of the job and also the most time consuming. Originally my uncle’s cat, Dammit was nearly twenty years old. My uncle named him Dammit accidentally, of course. My uncle never got around to naming his cat, instead choosing to simply say, “Come here, dammit,” ect., until the cat assumed that Dammit was his name. When my uncle moved to San Jose, he dropped Dammit off at my grandparents’ house. They grew attached to the cat and refused to give him up when my uncle came for him. Dammit got special treatment: I had to leave the sink on so that he could get fresh water when I wasn’t there; I had to mix wet and dry food so the cat would get all the nutrients he needed; and I had to play with him when I went to my grandparents.

The problem with this last direction is that I AM NOT a cat person, and Dammit was a mean old thing; he was content to lie on the floor and hiss at me. One night my grandmother called, asking me to bring Dammit home with me because she was worried about him being so old and alone. I reluctantly agreed.

The next day, I drove out to their house and got Dammit. I meant to take him home, but there was an accident on the freeway and I just barely made it to work. I left Dammit in my car with the top down, checking on him whenever I got the chance. He didn’t move, purr, or even hiss. I didn’t know much about cats, so I didn’t question it.

After work, again, I meant to take Dammit home but there was a minor catastrophe at work and by the time I was able to leave, I had to go directly to the airport to pick up my father. Dammit had been so good so far, so I just took him with me. To tell the truth, I sort of forgot about him.

When my father got in the car, he reached back to pet Dammit. While doing so, he got a funny look on his face. Dammit was stone-cold dead, curled up into a ball. When we got home, my dad told me that he’d bury the cat if I called my grandparents. I reluctantly went and called Alaska. My mother picked up the phone and when I told her the story, she laughed for about five minutes. I finally gave up and hung up the phone.

The next day, my grandmother called and asked how the cat was. I was shocked because I thought that my mother had told her what had happened. I told my grandmother that Dammit was sleeping, and would probably sleep for a long time. Instead of understanding the implications, she told me that cats do that and I shouldn’t worry. I didn’t have the courage to tell my grandmother that her beloved cat had died so I didn’t say anything.

A month later, I let myself into my grandparents’ house and was met by an eerie silence. No chirping or squawking. I cautiously made my way back to the birds’ cage and found Squawker dead on the bottom or his cage and Cuddles sitting on him, refusing to move. I called my mother at work, and she started to laugh again. When she was coherent, she told me that she refused to call my grandparents, that I had to tell them. And, while I was at it, I might want to tell them about Dammit.

Unfortunately, my grandmother loved both of those annoying birds and that damn cat. I didn’t want to tell her that Dammit and Squawker died while I was watching them. Of course, I didn’t call her.

My grandparents’ came back three weeks after Squawker died. I picked them up at the airport and drove them home. My grandmother eagerly asked me if Dammit was at their house. I hesitated, then told her not exactly. When we got home, she immediately ran to the birds’ cage. Seeing only Cuddles, she turned to me in confusion. I told her that Squawker had died and I didn’t tell her when he had passed on because I didn’t want to ruin her vacation. My grandmother looked ready to burst into tears. My grandfather put his arms around her and told her that at least they still had Dammit.

“No—not exactly,” I hedged. My grandmother burst into tears and my grandfather demanded to know what I meant. My grandmother turned and screamed at him, “Dammit’s dead! He’s dead!”

My grandmother started to speak to me again a week after she got back from Alaska and she even paid me for taking care of the house after she got back. She has a new cat now, Little Bit, and the first thing Little Bit did was attack Cuddles, who died of fright. At least I wasn’t watching him.

Friday, December 11, 2009

Candyland







Candyland is more fun when you let a two and a half year old make up the rules.

We just bought our daughter Candyland - actually my son gave it to her on HIS birthday so she would not feel left out. After he went to bed, we cracked open that game to play for the first time.

My husband patiently explained the rules to her, while I sat on the couch, shaking with laughter. After all, she's two. The rules are whatever she says they are.

"Do you understand, baby?" my husband asked.

"Um, yes," my daughter replied.

"Okay then you go first."

My daughter promptly took all of little gingerbread men, screamed "Mine" and ran behind the couch.

While I fell over laughing, my husband fetched our daughter and explained the rules to her again. This time, when he told her to go first, she pulled a card. But she didn't like that card. So she put it back. And pulled another. Didn't like that one either. Put it back. Finally pulled a card that she liked - the one that matched her gingerbread man. She promptly stuck it under her gingerbread man and announced, quite proudly: "All done!"

My husband was going crazy - after all, he is the supreme rule follower. So once I stopped laughing, I asked my daughter how to play the game.

"Well," she said. "Red means stop, green means go, and yellow means slow down."

"Hmm," I said. "That sounds like driving."

"I drive the car," she told me quite seriously. "Have keys?"

Eager to get the subject away from my two-year-old's desire to take our minivan out for a spin, I asked her what blue meant.

"Um..." she said, thinking hard. "Blue means sky."

"Great! What does purple mean?" I asked.

"Purple means go backwards," she said.

"What about orange?" I asked, holding up an orange card.

"It means ROAR!" she shouted.

Thus, having decided what the colors meant, we began to play. When we pulled a green card we went; a red one, we didn't; a yellow one, we went s-l-o-w-l-y; a blue one, we flew our gingerbread man around the room; a purple one, we went backwards; and an orange one got us to roar like lions.

After about 20 minutes of Candyland, giggles, and roars, my daughter swept all of the pieces off of the board. "I WIN" she shouted, and then marched around the room singing (no lie!), "We Will Rock You."

I can't wait to hear what the rules are for Monopoly.

Thursday, December 10, 2009

A Letter to My Son on his 15th Birthday



Before my children were born, I decided to write letters to them that they could open on their birthdays. Since I figured they would not be able to read when they were born, I addressed the letters with instructions to be opened starting on their 13th birthday. I wrote a letter when I was pregnant, a letter on the day the baby was born, and I write a letter every year on their birthday. Today is my son's first birthday, so he gets to open this letter when he turns 15...

My darling boy,

Today you turned one. I know you are reading this on the day you turn 15, but at this very moment you are asleep in your crib, sleeping soundly, after a very busy day of pictures, your first Happy Meal, cake, and toys.

To say that this has not been an easy year would be an understatement. You were a hard baby. Harder than I was expecting. You didn't sleep through the night until... well, we are still waiting for that. You want to eat all the time. And for the first 5 weeks of your life, if you were awake, you were screaming.

And that is what I need to tell you... as I reflect on this past year, I need to tell you that I love you. I love you so much... no matter how difficult you are.

This past year has been such an unexpected blessing. If you are like your father, you are capable of doing math, and you are probably aware that you weren't exactly planned. You were a surprise - a welcome one. God decided that I needed you, and He gave you to me, even though I didn't think I needed another baby for another year. I was wrong. I needed you, at exactly the time I had you. Know that, and take that with you throughout your life: You were exactly what I needed.

As I have watched your personality emerge over this past year, I can't help but marvel at you. You are so happy! You always have a smile on your face when you see me and you bounce up and down in my arms when I pick you up. I hope that you will always be happy to see me (even though I am sure I will embarrass the hell out of you when you are 15. Tough. That is what parents do). You adore your sister, and follow her around, even when she doesn't want you to. You are determined to make your place known. You clap when you see people you know and babble uncontrollably, as if to say "Hey! I'm here too!"

As you navigate the waters of your adolescence and high school, I just hope that if you have the choice to be happy or angry, you choose happy. I hope that you are kind to your sister (but I'm not holding my breathe), and good. Not perfect, I expect and hope that you get into some trouble (nothing too serious, please), but genuinely good - that you make choices now that you can live with for the rest of your life. And remember that men who are strong are not just physically strong - they are mentally and emotionally strong as well. Emotional and mental strength are difficult - they require knowing who you are and what you stand for - and I think that is harder than physical strength. Hope for courage, and always strive for honor.

I know that right now, at the moment you are reading this (not the moment I am writing this), life is hard for you. The teenage years are hard. Actually, they suck. And no matter how much you think you can't, I want you to know that you can come talk to me. About anything. I love you, no matter what you do or say.

I will always love you,

Mom

Tuesday, December 8, 2009

Mommy/Teacher




I had to start a blog when I was getting my credential... it was for my technology class. I had to show that I was capable of turning on the computer before I could teach the very people who are the most technology capable on the planet - teenagers.

Be that as it may, I never actually posted anything (it wasn't part of the assignment). So my blog floated around in Internet space, blank and forgotten. I never knew what to say... besides, who would bother to read what I wrote? Who cared? It all seemed very narcissistic to me.

Then I had children.

I'm embarrassed to admit that my daughter is two and my son is turning one on Thursday, but I am just now starting my blog. Why, you may ask?

Well, because I'm a narcissist.

I'm kidding.

Sort of.

Lately I've been struggling with the idea of being a stay at home mom (or a SAHM for those of you not up with cool mommy lingo). And I decided to post my confusion out in Internet space in case anyone did care and could offer me some insight.

Ever since my beautiful, intelligent daughter was born, I was chomping at the bit to go back to work. She was planned perfectly - I'm a teacher, I got pregnant in September, she was born in June. I only missed two weeks of school. And come September, armed with a picture of my infant daughter for my desk, I went back to school. I'm not saying it wasn't hard - it was. The first day I left her with the nanny, I sat in the car and cried for 15 minutes. It took all of my will power (and my husband driving away) to not charge back into the house and scoop her up where I knew she would be safe.

But with time, it got easier. Our nanny was wonderful - I knew my daughter was safe. And work was understanding about the fact that I had a new baby - I could bring her to work occasionally, could leave easily when she was sick, and, as a teacher, I had time off at Christmas, spring, and of course, all summer.

And then I got pregnant with my son.

To say he was unplanned would be like saying that the Titanic sort of sank. I took five pregnancy tests. I was leaving to go by more when my husband came home and asked me why I was crying and drinking water (so I could pee more). Our daughter was only 9 months old when I got pregnant - so NOT planned, as my daughter was. But my husband was ecstatic and, after I calmed down, I was too.

My first pregnancy was easy. My second was not. Spotting, cramping, and insulin dependent, gestational diabetes had me in the doctor's office 5 days a week for the third trimester. But thankfully, my son was born perfectly healthy in December.

I settled in as a SAHM for 8 weeks of maternity leave, secretly counting the days until my son was old enough to go to daycare and I could go back to work.

I absolutely hated it.

I was miserable. My son was colicky, I had a severe case of postpartum depression, and I had an 18 month old at home. I would call my husband at work during his lunch break and curse at him because HE got a break. I contacted my work, to see if I could come back early, but daycare wouldn't take my son until he was 6 weeks old.

And then my son got sick.

I don't mean oh poor baby, he got the sniffles. He got SICK. RSV. Pneumonia. Respiratory distress. Ambulance. And, perhaps worst of all, ventilator.

My son was on a ventilator for 5 days. I cried for 4 of them; I only stopped when I found out he would be coming off of the ventilator. I felt so guilty... wanting to go back to work, and not wanting to be around my son. I felt like God was punishing me.

Thank God my son turned out to be fine. Asthmatic, but fine. We left the hospital after a week with a healthy boy and two exhausted parents while my daughter was furious at having been abandoned by her mother for a week. (She got over it with the help of a new Elmo doll.)

The doctors wanted my son to stay out of daycare until he was three months old. For the first time in my adult life, I began to consider being a SAHM. I had worked since I was 15. I had a degree from one of the top universities in California. I had two teaching credentials, and was in my MA program, set to graduate in May. But I was willing to walk away from all of it to stay home with my children.

I knew I was considering it for the wrong reason - guilt, not want. And I was secretly relieved when our accountant told my husband and I that it wouldn't be feasible. I felt I was too selfish a person to stay home with my kids - work was my break, my intellectual stimulation, my sense of SELF. I did not want to give that up to change diapers and deal with temper tantrums. So I headed back to work, convincing myself that sending my son to day care when he was 2 months instead of 3 months would not be the end of the world

But something had happened when I was out on maternity leave. Work was no longer the happy place I remembered - the sense of community that I had missed had been replaced with a sense of cold, hard business. The economy had collapsed, and as a private school, we were feeling the hit. I no longer felt appreciated at work, and the students seemed to get more and more arrogant.

Work started laying off teachers, and I began to feel as though I needed to stay, that I should be grateful to have a job. I was one of the teachers who was "safe," and I went into summer vacation knowing I would have a job in September.

September rolled around, and I thought I would be happy to send my now 2 year old daughter and 8 month old son back to daycare. I wasn't. I was resentful. We had an awesome summer... played, went to the beach, read together... my daughter was holding conversations now, and my son would smile and clap whenever he saw me, shouting "MOMMA!" I hated having to leave them to go to a job where I didn't fill fulfilled.

The final straw came last week when I gave two students detentions for being tardy to my class. My professional judgement was questioned -for the first time ever. I had it. I went home and burst into tears. After an hour of crying, my husband gave me the greatest gift he could give me:

"Honey, you can quit. We will find a way to make it work."

And I realized he was right. We WOULD find a way to make it work. I can tutor or teach college classes nights and weekends (if I can find a job in this economy). But the question now is: do I want to?

I want to be home with my kids. I want to see my son take his first steps, and watch my daughter and son continue to grow. I want to be the one to teach them to read and count and their colors. I want to get to play with them and have them with me. I don't want to miss their childhood.

But I also don't want to miss myself.

So.... Mommy? Or teacher?

Maybe I can work from home. Even be an online teacher. After all, I know how to create a blog.

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