IT'S NOT POLITE TO ASK A WOMAN HER AGE...

Isn’t that what we were taught as children? My mother certainly drummed that into my head at an early age. I was so diligent in this that I learned to never ask anyone their age. No one, no matter what. I didn’t want to be rude. At least until I had a child of my own and began interviewing babysitters. One of the few times in which it is acceptable to ask a woman her age. I’m sure there are others as well, but my brain is not firing on all cylinders at the moment as I am simultaneously tracking the COVID-19 crisis while writing this post. We are currently at the beginning of what may be the worst few weeks in our battle against the COVID. Which is the reason for my long hiatus in posts. I have been experiencing a lull in my creativity stockpile and simply haven’t had the humor to write about the trials and tribulations of the Girls Wilson. But I think the lull has passed and I am BACK!

To get back to the story, when my daughter turned six she suddenly became VERY interested in my age. Because of my upbringing, I was SHOCKED that she would be so impolite in asking my age. Hadn’t her mother ever taught her…oh, right, I’m her mother. I need to teach her that this is not appropriate. I explained that it is rude to ask a woman her age. There. She replied: “But why?” Me: Well, because, it’s not polite. 6: It isn’t? Why not? You know my age. Me: Well yes, that’s true, I do know your age, but that’s because I’m your mother. 6: Lots of people know my age. All my friends at school, my teacher, I mean anyone who asks knows my age because I tell them. I don’t think it’s rude when people ask me my age. Why do you? Me: it’s complicated, (right about this point I am realizing what an easy going child I must have been. My mother told me it was rude, that was enough, I never asked why. I accepted it as fact. It’s rude, don’t ask. Ok! Now I wish I pressed on because I don’t know why it’s rude and can’t continue this back and forth much longer) it’s just rude to ask a woman her age after a certain age. 6: What age? Me: Oh I don’t know, I think after age 30. Before that, it’s fun to tell your age, but then it doesn’t seem so fun anymore. 6: Why not? Me: Oh, I don’t know. I think it was Greta Garbo that said it was rude and we all agreed. Let’s stop talking about it. 6: Okay. (long pause)…So does that mean you’re older than 30? Me: Honey, do you want to get some ice cream? 6: Yes! Me: Thank GAWD…

This scenario repeats itself multiple times over the years and I finally stop to wonder why I don’t want to talk about my age to my daughter. Besides the fact that her grandmother taught me that it was impolite. First off, my daughter tells everyone EVERYTHING I tell her. Is there a reason I don’t want people to know my age? Honestly, I think I’ve aged okay, not great, but not bad either. So what’s my issue? I think part of it is the fact that I had my child so late in life, so I have at least 10 if not 15 years on the rest of the mom’s of the kids at my daughters school. It’s tricky enough being the single mom, now I have to be the single, OLD mom? I’d rather not.

But what else? I realize that as an actress, I don’t want to get aged out of a role because someone knows my age. It’s fine if I look too old for a part, I just don’t want the number tattooed on my forehead.

BUT MY DAUGHTER WON’T STOP ASKING ME FOR MY AGE. So in a not so proud moment, I decided to give her an age. Not my age, just an age. I said: if I tell you an age, (see what I did there?) will you stop asking? 8: (notice she went from “6” to “8” because this went on for years) Yes, mommy, I promise! Me: (oh dear, I can’t believe I’m going to do this, she seems so excited that i’m finally going to tell her) Fine, 37. 8: Really? That’s great. I think Lucy’s mom is the same age. Me: (yes, she probably is, but that’s probably her actual age, as opposed to mine) Oh that’s neat. I kind of thought we looked about the same age. Okay honey no more talking about age.

Next day. 8: Mommy, I asked Deirdre how old she was and she said she’s the same age as you. But she’s not. She’s 50! I told her she’s MUCH older than you. Me: (good GAWD) Oh really honey? Well Deirdre looks great for her age. And remember, we’re not supposed to ask women their age, so please let’s stop asking people their age. Okay? 8: Okay, sorry Mommy.

Next week. 8: Mommy, did you know that you are only 2 years older than my babysitter? Me: Really? Isn’t that funny? Let’s go get some ice cream! 8: Yay!

Six months later, my daughter is now 9 years old and she seems to have lost interest in my age. We can finally put this to rest.

Beads of sweat trickle…

February vacation. We are at the Museum of Science and we’re measuring our ears. I’m a little nervous because my daughter has quite large ears and so far she hasn’t notice this and I don’t want her to realize it. They are EXQUISITE. They stick out and turn up just a bit. When she wears her hair up she looks like a little pixie and there is something so beautifully endearing about her look. She measured her ears, and then it was my turn. I had to complete a few questions to begin. Male/female, age…oh sh*t, here we go. I froze as the screen blinks AGE:___. There were dozens of moms behind me, waiting for me to finish so they could do the same with their kids. They are staring at me like “WTF lady, what’s the hold up? Can’t you see this line of frustrated people behind you? It’s February vacation for Pete’s sake! Get moving! Just type your AGE!” I hesitate because they can see what I’m typing and they are all staring at the screen and then to me and then the screen. But my daughter is also staring at me and the screen, and then the people behind us. She finally says; “Mommy, type in your age, everyone’s waiting.” Ugh! I start to type 37, I type the 3, then turn around again and see that the mom’s are all in the 30-40 range and they all look at LEAST a decade younger than me. I start to panic because they are going to know I’m lying if I type 37. And why would ANYONE lie about their age on an ear test at the Museum of Science? I can feel myself start to sweat. Oh F*ck it, I type an 8 next to the 3. There, 38. Are you all happy? I figured 38 is at least closer to 40, right? And I have to get older, I can’t be 37 forever. I measure my ear and get the size on the screen. It is the EXACT same length as my daughters. Oh no, she’s going to realize that her 9 year old ear is the EXACT same size as her adult, old (fake young) Mommy’s ear length. 9: Look Mommy! We have the same exact size ears! That’s funny. Your ears are as small as a 9 year olds ears. But don’t feel bad because your ears are so small, I think they are perfect. (My heart)

That night. Me: Goodnight baby, I love you. 9: Goodnight Mommy. (long pause). Mommy? Me: Yes luv? 9: Why did you lie about your age at the Museum today? You wrote your age as 38, but you’re 37…

BUT JUST LOOK AT HOW CUTE THEY ARE...

Somehow I got on the Petfinder email list. Perhaps it was when I trolled the site for the millionth time looking at the available kittens and joined the mailing list.

I mean I had no intention of getting another animal, another being to take care of - feed, clean up after, take to the vet, etc. As a single mom, I had my hands full just taking care of my daughter, our two, yes, two dogs, our home, oh, and me. Or did I? Would one more animal make a difference? No, that’s crazy, I CANNOT add one more thing to my plate. I have a full time job and a 45 minute commute (each way) to consider on top of everything else. And the house, and the YARD. It was spring, so lawn mowing season has just begun, don’t forget that. Right, that’s crazy, no more pets. I mean, I can look at the cute photo’s of the kittens, but that’s it. Wait, what??? Just look at that beautiful gray long haired kitten. So cute, and his tail - so long and fluffy! Poor thing, stuck in South Carolina with no one to adopt him. Oh, gosh…he’s a stray, comes from a feral momma cat. No way. But so cute, just the same. And look at this one! She’s a calico long hair. Oh, look also feral. I mean what does that even mean?

After a quick call I learn that there are a great deal of kittens that were born to feral momma cats and found outdoors and brought to a shelter for adoption. The shelter provides delivery to Massachusetts for a nominal fee. The kittens…wait, what’s going on here? why do I keep saying kittens, as in plural? First of all, I can’t get another animal, not another ONE, no way, no how, and I am most certainly not going to get two! But if I did want the gray one or the calico, I would need to put a deposit on them right away because there is a lot of interest in both of them. The deposit is refundable, so why don’t I just put down a deposit while I think this through. Done.

I keep checking out their little photos and I can’t stand it. They are adorable. Okay, I’ll get one of them. Just one. But which one? I’ll let my six year old decide. She’s always wanted a kitten.

When we got home that night I told her that we were going to get a kitten and I would let her choose which one. She said, “WHAT??? NO! We can’t get another animal. Why would you even think that? We have two dogs already. That makes no sense at all, Mommy.” “Yes, I know, BUT (opening the page on my computer) JUST LOOK HOW CUTE THEY ARE.” “They are so cute, but we cannot get another animal.”

We named the gray one Huckleberry and the Calico is named Holly Golightly.

BEING SCHOOLED BY MY SIX YEAR OLD

Once my toddler told me when she should start to potty train, and let’s face it, there was no training to be had, she simply told me that it’s time to get rid of the diapers so that she could relieve herself with some dignity, I realized that this was probably just the beginning of Mommy being schooled by child.

When My Words Come Back to Bite Me…

After our rental disaster with Mr. and Mrs. T., I began to focus on saving money so that we could afford to buy a home in our dream city of Newburyport, MA. Juggling a full time job, a young child, 2 dogs, and taking care of the house and all that goes with it, I realized that something had to give, so I decided that cooking was the one thing that I would forgo. Truth be told, I simply didn’t have the interest in cooking. Also, it can be pretty darn lonely as a single parent, I’m either stuck at home every night with my child, or going broke from paying babysitters $10 per hour just so I can go out and socialize with my friends. Going out for dinner became my new social outlet. Of course with a young child, our dinner time was 5:00 pm, not 8:00 like the rest of the world. So there we would sit amongst the Grammy’s and Grampy’s enjoying the early bird specials - but I didn’t have to cook and I got to spend time with other humans. It worked for us.

Until I announced that we were going to start saving money so we didn’t have to rent anymore….It was a Tuesday night and I was looking forward to taco Tuesday at our favorite local spot, Agave. Mostly I was looking forward to my Tuesday margarita at the end of a long commute home from Boston. As I was packing us up to go out, my daughter said “Where are we going Momma?” I replied: “Agave, baby, it’s Tuesday night.” She said: “But we went out for dinner last night. I thought we were trying to save money. Shouldn’t we cook dinner in tonight?” Me: (Wait, what is happening here? Are you Elfing kidding me? How do I answer that? She’s right, and I want to set a good example, but what in the actual Elf? (for those of you who haven’t read the Elf in the Shelf, that was the moment when I decided to use “elf” instead of the other word because I’m trying to keep this somewhat clean. If I do use the real swear word, then you know I simply can’t get my point across without the actual expletives). So…now what? I had a stressful day at work, followed by a near 2 hour commute home, nearly missing our daycare pickup deadline of 6:00 pm, and for the entire almost 2 hour drive, all I could think of was a frosty margarita on the rocks. What now? I had no choice, I said: “Oh sweets you’re right, we need to stick with our goal of saving money, Good thinking!” I unpacked our things, opened the refrigerator and saw absolutely nothing, closed it and poured us both a bowl of cereal and called it a night.

WHO'S TRAINING WHO?

It was a brisk Saturday in March of 2013 as my daughter and I were getting ready to snuggle up and watch Finding Nemo, for like the GA-zillionth time. Oh, and I’m not complaining., I absolutely adore the movie. I mean, I WILL say that I was shocked when Nemo’s Mommy and sibling eggs were violently murdered by the barracuda in the opening scene. I was STUNNED and instantly regretted letting my then 18 month old baby watch the movie. Once I recovered from the shock, I found myself weeping for poor Nemo and his Daddy Clownfish. I checked in with my baby girl and she was just fascinated by the movie and didn’t seem to understand that Coral was just devoured. So we continued to watch and then watch it again, and again, and again. Gleefully singing along with Ellen to “just keep swimming”.

Sidebar - isn’t it the weirdest thing how many times a toddler can re-watch a movie over and over and over? It was so strange for me to discover that my baby wanted to watch the same movie again, and again, and again. Thank goddess for Disney, Dreamworks and Pixar, right? How brilliant to sneak in so many jokes for the adults in your children’s movies. Thank you!

So, back to my story, I just changed my two and 1/2 year old daughter’s diaper and grabbed her favorite stuffy’s - Annie and Boy. They were little stuffed Raggedy Ann and Andy dolls. For some reason when I read the story to my daughter, she didn’t seem to pick up on Andy’s name, she insisted on calling him Boy. She called them Annie and Boy. When I would correct her and explain that Boy’s name is actually Andy, she would get very upset and say No! He Boy! So they were Annie and Boy and they went absolutely EVERYWHERE with my daughter. She would buckle them up in her car seat with her. One on either side of her. She would set them up on little stools on the table at meal time, and they had their own little pillow for a bed that we would set up at the head of her crib whenever she would go down for a nap or to sleep for the night. So naturally as we made our way to the sofa to watch Nemo, we brought Annie and Boy. As we sat down, my daughter turned to me and said: “Me use potty” I was like what? You need to use the potty? She said, “No more diaper. No more.” Wait, what? It’s time for her to start using the potty? Already? I had no idea. We never even talked about this. I was so busy working and juggling the day to day that I never even thought about potty training. I mean aren’t I supposed to coax her into this? Aren’t we supposed to go through a period where I bribe her with candy to use the potty? And then get Mommy shamed for bribing my baby with candy. I guess we’re going to skip that part.

I asked if she had to use the potty right then and she said “yes”. Honestly I was kind of thinking, I’d like to get the movie started, can’t you just pee in your diaper? But I had a feeling that this was a breakthrough moment, so I took her to the bathroom. Oh no, we didn’t even have a little potty to put on the toilet. If I put her on the toilet she would fall right in. I sat her on the edge and held onto her and she peed. Just like that. After telling her how proud I was of her, I told her that while she was prepared to use the potty, Mommy wasn’t quite prepared for it and I needed to buy a small potty for her. So she would need to wear diapers until the baby potty was delivered to us. Several days later we got our delivery from Diapers.com and she immediately started using the little potty. I made her wear diapers at night just in case she had an accident. About 6 months later she suddenly refused to wear the diaper at night. I put several towels down on top of her sheets just in case she had an accident and kept my fingers crossed. She never had an accident and never wore a diaper again. This was just the beginning of baby teaching Mommy how to raise a child. This was my first glimpse into Raising Mommy.

THE PIVOT

Okay, I need to pivot here. As you can tell, those first few months brought more than the usual challenges that most new parents face. Some of you have asked when the next installment is coming and I am so thankful for your continual interest and support in my blog - Thank you! I hope you’ll continue to read.

I have found it to be a bit difficult to go back to those first few years long enough to re-tell all of the stories. We are in such a happy place right now, and have been for almost 6 years, so going back to the raw emotion has been somewhat draining and it’s time for me to pivot and share some of the stories that inspired the blog title “Raising Mommy”, Next up…potty training..

KNOCK ON THE DOOR (continued)

Crying Out Loud

I sat silently stewing, feeling an intense fury building. How could these people ask me to move in the middle of the winter, with a newborn baby, just months after moving in? The situation was unconscionable and I truly couldn’t wrap my head around my options. I gently put my baby down in her crib, closed the door, walked down the stairs into the basement, dogs trailing behind, opened the door to the backyard, stepped out into the dark, cold night and SCREAMED!! The dogs romped around in the snow, chasing each other around the make-shift fence my neighbors installed, pausing momentarily to stare at me as I bellowed into the darkness.

I tossed and turned that night trying to imagine how I was going to pack everything back up into the moving boxes, Oh sh*t! I gave away all of my moving boxes just weeks ago. I remember the feeling of elation once the last box was emptied and stacked with all of the others on the porch to be used by another family for their upcoming move. This time I didn’t bother going outside, I sat up in bed, shouted a good hearty “FUUUU*KKK!”, I could NOT believe this was happening to me.

Invasion of the Lobster Traps

The next morning as I was lying in bed feeding my baby girl, my 2 dogs suddenly started barking intently. It was the “someone is here” bark, only instead of standing at the front door barking, they both ran urgently to the windows in the 2nd floor bedroom, just a few feet from me. These windows faced the backyard. But what would they be barking at in the back yard? I carefully stood up, cradling my baby, and looked out the window. It was 5:00 in the morning, still dark outside, but the flood lights were triggered and I could see 2 strange men walking around a huge flatbed truck in the back yard. I was terrified. I scrambled to get my heavy bathrobe, and then looked closer. There were dozens of lobster traps on the flatbed and the men were unloading them and stacking them at the end of the driveway. My 2 dogs were barking like crazy, which naturally upset my baby girl and she began to cry uncontrollably. Suddenly I remembered Mr. T had said that he was going to start loading his things into the yard. I peered closer at the men. Yes, indeed, one of the men was Mr. T. What a gross invasion of privacy. I am stunned.

It took them two hours to unload all of the traps and equipment. Time for me to call a lawyer.

Fine Print

I rummaged in my desk and pulled out the lease that I signed just a few months earlier and read it with intense scrutiny. I review contracts for a living, so I devoured the words searching for the key terms that would provide me with answers. There it is, yes, it is a 12 month lease, invalidated only if the terms were not met by either party, specifically if I fail to pay the rent, damage the property, disturb the neighbors, etc. Legally, the Landlords could not force me out of the home before the end of the 12 month lease. To be sure, I scanned and emailed a copy of the lease to a friend who is a real estate attorney. He confirmed.

Swirling in Negativity

I spent the next two weeks calling everyone I knew to rant about the situation. I cried, I screamed, I cried some more. I called a lawyer, my sister, my friends, anyone and everyone who would listen. I was falling apart. Stopping in between screaming phone conversations long enough to feed and hold my baby, and feed and walk the dogs, and then right back again swearing into my phone. Most everyone agreed that I should stay. The idea of moving again, with a newborn, in the middle of one of New England’s coldest and snowiest winters in decades seemed OUT OF THE QUESTION. Also, all agreed that Massachusetts favored the tenant, not the landlord, so even if my landlords tried to evict me, it would take at least 4 months to get me out of the house which at the very LEAST would give me more time in the house, and more time to search for another rental.

I noticed that my blood pressure was jacked all the time. I was nearly shaking from the intensity of emotions. I thought about all of the negativity swirling around the house from my anger, and wondered whether I was transferring my negative energy to my daughter every time she breast fed, or every time she heard me crying into the phone to my sister or my friends. As I looked down at my daughter smiling up at me from her bassinet, I realized that I couldn’t stay in this house. It was wrecking me. I would most likely win if I fought the T’s, but at what cost? It wasn’t worth it. I needed to de-stress and reset. This isn’t the energy that I wanted for my baby.

Taking Control

I decided that we have to move out. I didn’t want to fight the T’s and I no longer wanted to live in their home. The search for another rental begins. I began with a 5 mile radius of Newburyport, and surrounding towns. There was very little on the market because it was the dead of Winter. There were six rentals listed in the area and exactly zero allowed dogs. I expanded the search to from all directions to include Rowley, West Newbury, Merrimac. I found a few that allowed dogs, but they were so run down and dingy that I couldn’t imagine living there. Expanding my search further would mean finding a new daycare for my baby for when I return to work in…oh my stars I can’t even fathom going back to work right now, in the middle of all of this.

I decided to expand the search further and accept the fact that I’ll need to add finding a new day care to my list as well. This is not how I imagined spending my maternity leave. That is for effing sure!

I bundled up my baby and off we went into the cold to find our next home. We looked in Amesbury, in Georgetown, in Danvers. We trudged up and down rickety stairways covered in ice and snow, only to discover a dingy apartment not remotely worth the $1,800 rent. Finally I decide to turn our current life upside down and move 45 minutes away and relocate to Salem, MA. There are several rentals available and we can live near my sister and my dearest friends.

The Witch City

Success! I found a beautiful condo for rent in the Salem Willows that accepts dogs. We can move in immediately. Life is good. Again. Salem, here we come!

#mommyblog #witchcity #workingmom #raisingmommy

KNOCK ON THE DOOR...

Calm before the storm

I enjoyed three full days of peace and calm as the antibiotics kicked in for me, and the Zantac worked wonders on my baby’s acid reflux. We were sleeping in 4 hour stretches and found ourselves settling into a little routine. I was recovering swiftly from the surgery and was enjoying bundling my newborn up in the baby bjorn and taking the pups for walks in the brisk winter days.

Uninvited guests

It was 5:00 on a Sunday night, sometime in December 2010 as I snuggled on the couch with my beautiful baby. Our two sweet english springer spaniels were snoozing on the floor at my feet when suddenly we were startled by knocking at the front door. The dogs leapt to their feet, barking loudly at the intrusion, and on cue, my baby awoke with a start and began to wail. I struggled to get us both up off of the couch and fought the dogs to get the door open without nicking their paws. As I opened the door, the dogs darted out into the night and I faced my landlords - husband and wife who owed the home that I was renting. “Oh, Mr. and Mrs. T., what a surprise! Um…well, come in, please”. As they entered the living room, my mind raced trying to figure out why they would just appear late on a Sunday - (did my rent check bounce? No! I had paid 3 months in advance. Has a neighbor complained about the baby crying or the dogs barking???) The dogs quickly followed them and after a few moments of sniffs and jumps, they settled back onto the floor. (The dogs, not Mr. & Mrs. T). The T’s sat down on the couch, and I sat on the chair facing them, with my baby nestled against my chest. After a long pause, Mrs. T. said; “Oh, so you had your baby! Congratulations!” I was still a put off by the intrusion, so with a bit of frost replied, “Yes, I had a baby girl, she’s six weeks old”. Long pause. I said: “So can you tell me why you both are here?” Mr. T. said, “Well, we sold our other house, that we are living in, so we’re going to need to move back here.” Another pause. “You mean with us?” Mrs. T. (slight laugh) “No. So we’re going to have to ask you to move out.” Instantly the floor drops and my head is spinning. I seriously can’t comprehend this. I can’t find words, I just stare at them, mouth gaping open, looking from them to my beautiful little baby, then back at them, then my baby… You see, I just moved into their home in August, it is now December, just 4 months later. I was seven months pregnant when I signed the lease to rent Mr. & Mrs. T.’s home. At the time I explained that I was looking to settle in to a home for at least two or three years so that I can maintain some consistency for my daughter and with her schedule and daycare. They assured me that I could rent it for three years and then we can re-assess. That sounded perfect to me. I signed on the dotted line.

Another kind of nesting

I don’t need to get into the pain and struggle both physically and mentally, of moving - packing and unpacking while being seven months pregnant with my first baby, all while holding down a high pressure full time job in Boston. You get it. Surviving that was a feat in itself. I spent the last two months of my pregnancy feverishly unpacking and setting up “our” new home so that once my baby arrived, I could focus on her and not on unpacking and putting boxes away. Honestly it was an excruciatingly exhausting way to spend the last two months of pregnancy. And again, I could not have done it without the help of my friends. But fast forward to that cold December Sunday as I faced Mr. & Mrs. T and listened to them tell me that I had 30 days to vacate the home. Just as we were settling into our peaceful existence, these two people were throwing me into a spinning, swirling, cyclone and I could barely hold on long enough to tell them that I needed to process this and don’t want to say anything that I’ll regret. I asked them to consider the fact that I just moved in and just delivered a baby via c-section and have barely recovered and now they are telling me that our world is about to be thrust upside down. I asked them to remember that we signed a lease for 12 months and I know that it would be a major battle for them to uproot a single mother with a newborn especially one with a signed lease. Mr. T. said, “We will be moving back here in 30 days, so I suggest that you start looking for a new place to live”. He said that he will be starting to move his things into the yard soon. I said that I need to take some time to think this through and will call them in a few days and could they kindly leave?

Chaos Ensues

As I shut the door behind them, I felt the room spinning. I sat on the chair, not wanting to go to the couch, the spot where they sat to deliver the news that shattered the floor beneath me. With blood boiling, heart racing, and tears streaming down my face, my sweet baby girl rested peacefully, nestled against my chest, oblivious to the chaos that was to come.

(to be continued…)

GETTING BY WITH A LITTLE HELP FROM MY FRIENDS

FIRST, SURVIVE

I was in survival mode for the first few weeks after giving birth to my baby girl. During that time my only goal was to keep myself, my baby, and my two dogs alive. As a single mom with no family nearby, I was on my own and I had to figure out how to manage it all by myself. I delivered my baby via cesarean section and returned home after four days and realized I hadn’t quite thought this all through. My midsection was cut in half to deliver my child, which left daily activities such as going up and down the stairs, walking the dogs, carrying groceries, DRIVING, and simply sitting and standing, excruciating, if not impossible.

DON’T FORGET ABOUT THE DANG DOGS!

My next door neighbors, Rachel and Nancy, stopped by and explained that they didn’t know how I was going to walk the dogs with the newborn, so they went to home depot and purchased a temporary fence, and installed it in my back yard so that I could let the dogs out in the yard until I could walk them on my own. WHAT?!? It has been 9 years since that happened and I still tear up just thinking about their kindness. That they went to the time and expense to put up a fence in my yard in the four days that I was in the hospital is one of the most generous things that anyone has ever done for me. Rachel and Nancy, I will never forget your kindness.

STAIRS AND STITCHES

Okay, so the dogs are taken care of, now onto my next problem. How to get up and down the stairs, while holding my baby without ripping open the stitches holding my abdomen together? Our bedrooms were on the 2nd floor. I set up a basinet on the first floor and I slept on the couch for the first 2 nights, but the couch was terribly uncomfortable, and my baby wouldn’t go to sleep in the basinet. I had to figure out how to get up and down those stairs. I held my baby in my lap and sat on the bottom stair and shimmied my way (backwards) up the stairs, one by one. Going down was just as challenging, if not more so. I did so very, very, slowly. But I did it, just six days after major surgery. Onto the next hurdle.

I skipped trash day for a couple of weeks. I just couldn’t drag the trash bins out to the front of the house. Thank goodness it was winter, the cold kept the trash from stinking or attracting raccoons.

SOUNDS I’LL NEVER FORGET

I soon discovered that my baby wasn’t keeping anything down. What I learned later, but didn’t know then, was that she had reflux. At first I just thought it was normal for her to spit up, but this wasn’t normal spit up. This was true projectile vomiting, like shooting across the room kind of vomiting. In fact I can still hear that splatter because it happened so often. In fact, our dogs soon learned the sound of the splatter, which was followed by a bonus treat on the floor for them, so the splatter sound was soon accompanied by the scratching sound of paws racing across the room to get to the puddle of sour milk first. Because the reflux was so painful for my baby, she was in a constant state of wailing from the pain. This was not a fun time for us. Because she wasn’t keeping her milk down, I had to take her to the pediatrician every other day to determine whether she should be hospitalized and fed via tube because her weight was dangerously low. This posed the next problem. I still couldn’t drive due to the surgery, so I had to find someone to take us to the doctor. Jenn Schraut offered to drive me and my baby to the pediatrician many of those days - Jenn, I am so thankful for your generosity, I’m not sure what I would have done without you during that time.

A few weeks later when my friend Michelle Lopilato asked to come over, I fought through the anxiety of the potential disruption to the hap hazard routine that we had created at home: feed baby / baby wail / fall asleep sitting up with baby on chest / wake to feed baby / baby wail / sit sleep / wake to let dogs out to pee and feed baby / baby wail / sit sleep / wake to…oh f*ck I can’t do this anymore. Michelle came over and she witnessed the projectile vomiting and the wailing and told me that my baby has reflux and we need to get her on medicine right away, that it will stop the pain and the crying. But our pediatrician has seen my daughter dozens of times and hasn’t mentioned a thing, wouldn’t her pediatrician have picked up on this? Michelle told me that I must insist that they screen my daughter for reflux. Fast forward two days later, and sure enough, my baby had reflux. I am so thankful for Michelle’s visit that day and her persistence in getting my daughter properly diagnosed. I am so thankful that Dr. Merkrebs listened to me. While I was in with the pediatrician, Dr. Merkrebs mentioned that I looked very sick. I explained what we have been going through and mentioned the pain while breastfeeding, and she discovered that I was suffering from Mastitis. A very painful condition caused by an infection in the breast tissue, which in my case, was due to a blocked duct. Anyway, my case was so severe that my daughters pediatrician examined me and immediately called my primary care physician and said to accept her diagnosis rather than force me to prolong this further by driving to his office across town to see him to get diagnosed by him. She explained that I need to get on antibiotics NOW. HE called in the prescription for ME, SHE called in a prescription of baby Zantac for my baby, and within 24 hours, everything changed. My baby was drinking her milk without any issues, she was sleeping! I was sleeping! Life was beautiful again!

FRIENDS THAT WON’T STAY AWAY ARE THE VERY BEST OF FRIENDS

Next came my village. While I was in the hospital, my friends signed up for food deliveries at our home for the first few weeks. This was amazing to me. However what I discovered was that sleep was critical for both me and my baby girl as she struggled with the lack of sleep and issues with keeping down her milk. Laying down on her back seemed to cause her great pain, and sleeping on her tummy was not recommended due to the risk of SIDS. The only way that she could fall asleep was when she was laying up against my chest as I sat upright. Naturally it was impossible for me to fully fall asleep this way because it was not comfortable, but mainly because I was terrified that if I fell asleep, I would lose my grip and my baby would slip and fall onto the floor. So sleep was ever precious around this time. Finally, and without warning, my baby would collapse out of sheer physical exhaustion from all of the crying and lack of sleep. It was at that time that I would sneak in a quick nap. Just as we would both drift off to sleep, there would be a knock on the door, it was one of my beautiful friends coming to deliver home cooked meals and to visit with my new born baby. Which was so wonderful, but when they knocked on the door, the dogs would erupt and bark their lights out, mainly from excitement that someone new was coming to visit, and naturally, my baby would awaken and resume her screaming. I had to ask my friends not to come over because I couldn’t time when my baby was going to sleep and I couldn’t risk the dogs waking her up when company arrived, so I just needed to get through this on my own. So we were now trapped. In the house. With little food. With little sleep. And two dogs going stir crazy for exercise. About a week into our confinement, I received a text from my friend Lisa Miles that read: “I know you don’t want company, but you don’t have a choice, I’ll be there at 11:00”. I knew there was nothing that I could have done to stop her, so I braced myself for the chaos that would ensue the moment she arrived. Lisa arrived with arms full of tupperware containing the most delicious home cooked meals I’ve ever eaten, to date. I can still taste the beef stroganoff over noodles, which was out of this world delicious, and I ate for 3 days straight - breakfast, lunch and dinner. She picked up my baby girl and told me to take some time to myself, she would take care of my baby The first thing that I did was take a long, hot shower. Then I took the dogs to a field where they could run around. And I just sat down under a tree, watching my pups chase each other through the fields, and I cried. They were tears of exhaustion, tears of joy that I finally had the baby that I dreamed about for years, but mostly tears of gratitude for my friend Lisa and her stubborn determination to help a friend in need. That is when I learned the importance of accepting help when it is offered.

And then there was another knock on the door…(to be continued…)

The Effing Elf on the Shelf! (Not Suitable for Children) Rated PG-13

TO ELF OR NOT TO ELF

For all of you new moms out there, you will soon be faced with a VERY IMPORTANT decision - DO YOU or DO YOU NOT subscribe to the Elf on the Shelf? I learned about the Elf on the Shelf when my daughter was four years old. Let me tell you that we were just winding down from the torturous threes, so I was in dire need of help with my monstrous child. Suddenly a friend told me about the magic of the Elf, so I gave it a try.

The deal is that the Elf arrives on December 1st and finds a place in the house to hang out to observe the child’s behavior all day. At night the Elf returns to the North Pole to report to Santa. (All families have their own Elf guidelines, but this was ours). Obviously no child wants Santa to know what an actual monster they really are, so the children tend to be on their best behavior when the Elf is around. It’s very important for the child NOT to touch the Elf because then they will realize that the Elf is just (WAIT!! SPOILER ALERT!! DO NOT KEEP READING THIS POST IF YOU ARE UNDER THE AGE OF 13!! IF YOU ARE UNDER THE AGE OF 13 AND YOU ARE STILL READING THIS POST, AN ALERT WILL AUTOMATICALLY BE SENT TO SANTA CLAUS AND YOU WILL BE ADDED TO THE NAUGHTY LIST AND YOU WILL NOT RECEIVE ANY CHRISTMAS PRESENTS THIS YEAR). Okay, I am assuming that if you are still reading, you have been sufficiently carded at the door and you over the age of 13 and permitted to read on. So anyway, if the child touches the Elf, they will realize it is just a cheap, stuffed doll, but what we tell the children is that their magic will dissolve if the Elf is touched by human hands. Each morning when the child gets up to find the Elf, the child will see that the Elf has moved from it’s previous position, which is a clear indication that the Elf has flown to the North Pole overnight and reported the child’s behavior that day to Santa, and has flown back in the morning and settled into a new spot.

Well, I found that my four year old simply LOVED her little Elf and she bought into the story hook, line & sinker. And it worked like a charm! Suddenly she was acting like an angel. When she would occasionally start to act up, cry, whine, talk back, all I would need to say is, “Oh dear, I hope that Winter the Elf didn’t hear you.” And instantly she would stop misbehaving. I remember thinking this Elf on the Shelf is BRILLIANT!

I started to get creative with our Elf, hanging him from a candy cane that hung off of fishing line that stretched from the chandelier to the bookshelf; tangled in a string of Christmas lights that spelled “MERRY”; sitting at the table sipping hot chocolate with my daughters favorite stuffy’s. And then it happened, our Elf fell off of the Christmas tree. There we sat staring at Winter, and then each other, knowing that if we touched Winter, he would lose his magic. I quick put on an oven mitt and picked him up and put him back in place and we both breathed a sigh of relief.

ELFIN DOGGIE BISCUIT

However, the Elf stress wasn’t over. I woke up on Christmas Eve to find Winter on the ground and mangled. Our dog Phineas got a hold of Winter and chewed his entire head off. All that was left was his body and his hat. I could hear my daughter stirring upstairs, so I grabbed Winter and shoved his hat onto his mangled neck and shoved him hat first into the Christmas tree, with legs dangling out. And there he stayed for the rest of the day. Fortunately that was his last day with us until he returned back to the North Pole until next December. Phew!

December 1st the following year. MOMMY! MOMMY! OUR ELF DIDN’T COME THIS YEAR!! Me: (F*****ck!!! I forgot about the ELFING ELF!!) “Oh sweetie, our Elf doesn’t come until the nighttime on December 1st” (F*ck, f*ck, f*ck! Where am I going to find an Elf TODAY?!?) I race around from store to store and no one carries the Elf. Finally, while racing through the aisles in Marshall’s I see a lone Elf on the Shelf book tucked in the back of the Barbie section. Eureka! Wait, oh sh*t! It’s a girl Elf. I have no choice, I have to get her. Later that night, I take the skirt off the Elf and place him (her) in a familiar spot. The next morning my now five year old discovers our Elf. She is elated! Later on that day she says, “Mommy, I thought our Elf was a boy. Isn’t his name Winter?” Me: “What makes you think our Elf isn’t a boy?” My daguhter: “She has earrings.” Me: (you’ve got to be elfing kidding me!) “Oh, yes, our Elf is a girl, isn’t her name Winnie?” My daughter: “Oh, I don’t know why I thought she was a boy. Is it Winnie? I can’t remember her name.” Me: “Yes, she’s definitely Winnie, I totally remember her.” (and that night I hunt out the skirt and put it back on her).

We had and continue to have many wonderful years with Winnie our Elf. And I can assure you that many major temper tantrums were avoided because Winnie the Elf was watching over us. But there were plenty of nights during the month of December over the years that I startled myself awake at 3:00 am realizing that I forgot to move the elfing Elf, and I rued the day I ever brought him/her into our lives. This, my daughter’s ninth year, I have resorted to leaving a letter to my daughter on December 17, from Winnie, stating that Santa has requested that she stay in the North Pole for the next 7 days so that she can help him get the toys ready for the children. Last year she broke her leg skiing in the North Pole and couldn’t come to our house until December 15th. You’ll see, what starts as a blessing ends as a curse. So think very long and hard before you bring an elfing Elf into your home. It might be easier to just say that Santa can see her wherever she is and leave the Elf on the Shelf behind the Barbies at Marshall’s.

The Power of the Middle Name

Why is is that we tack on the middle name when we’re VERY SERIOUS? I’m not sure, but it works. Our mothers did it with us when we were little, and we inevitably do it with our children. The crazy thing is that IT WORKS! I use my daughter’s actual name in this situation, but in an effort to give her a little privacy, I’ll only reference her first initial.

Me: “S please put the scissors down” S: (keeps playing with the scissors) Me: “S. that is dangerous, please put down the scissors” S: (completely oblivious, flinging the scissors around like an airplane) Me: “S Grace! You put the scissors down right this minute” S: Loud bang, scissors are down.

Just like 1,2,3 the middle name seems magical to me. In fact when I am REALLY, REALLY serious, I will throw in the last name for good measure. “S Grace Wilson! You put those scissors down this instant!” Right? I mean we all do this, don’t we?

One day, when my daughter was around three years old, she was talking to me while I was working. She said something to me, but I didn’t hear her because I was typing away on my computer. She repeated herself, but I still didn’t hear because I was still typing. Finally, she yelled “Mommy Grace!” She knew that when I wanted her attention I called her S Grace, so she just assumed that she was supposed to add “GRACE!” to MY name to get my attention. She didn’t realize that Grace was her middle name. And that it was NOT my middle name. Needless to say, it cracked me up and got me off of the computer to pay attention to her.

Now that she’s older, I’ve shared tHIS story with her. So now whenever we want someone’s attention, we just add “Grace” to their name. It’s an inside joke, but now that you’re in on it, feel free to try it at home.

The Magic of 1, 2, 3...

Once my daughter discovered that she had a choice, our day to day routine came to a screeching halt. I could no longer get her to finish her dinner or stop crying or put her toys away by simply asking. It seemed as if over night she began to ignore me. No matter how many times I asked, or pleaded with her, she acted as if she didn’t hear me. I resorted to increasing my volume gradually until I reached the screeching crescendo that could shatter glass, and still, she heard nothing. Eventually I got sick of screaming and consulted my ever faithful mother’s group. One mom suggested a book titled “The Magic of 1, 2, 3.” It seemed a bit far fetched, but the idea is that you explain to your child that you are no longer going to make requests repeatedly, that from now on, you will make the request and if the child does not respond, then you will begin counting, one, two, three and if you get to the number three, then there will be no screaming, no hysterics, but a consequence will follow, such as a time out, no television, or no sweets.

So I gave it a whirl. I asked my little girl to put her toys away because it was time for bed. She continued playing with her toys without the slightest indication that she heard me. So I said “S, I’m going to count to three, and if you haven’t picked up your toys by the time I get to three, I’m going to take your toys away from you. One (she hasn’t moved)…Two (still no acknowledgement)…three. “ She continued playing, so I took her toys away from her and tucked them away in a closet, as she erupted in ear shattering screams.

The next time that I asked her to do something and she didn’t listen to me, I only got to two before she stopped what she was doing and responded to my request. To be honest, I was actually nervous as I began to count because I knew that she held all of the power. I was afraid that she would just continue ignoring me and I’d get to three and then I’d have to give her a time out and that would become our new routine and I didn’t want to govern by time outs. There she sat in the middle of the living room, surrounded by all of her stuffy friends, enjoying her far away adventure and I stared at her wondering how this would go down. I took a deep breath, and then chased all fear from my face and with a thoughtful, but stern voice said “S luv, it’s time to put your friends away and get ready for bed.” She continued on playing, lost in her never, never land. “S, Mommy is going to count to three and if you haven’t started picking up your toys by the time I get to three, Mommy is going to take away your toys for a day. One…(holding breath, please don’t put us both through this)…two…(oh no, here we go…but WAIT! there it is, she’s swiftly moving!!) It worked! I don’t believe it! It worked! As I watched my baby girl picking up her toys and silently putting them away, I said a brief prayer of thanks to Thomas Phelan, author of “The Magic of 1, 2, 3”.

And so it continued…Mommy giving the warning, counting to one…then two…and poof! just like that! Magic happened. I never got to three again. I’m sure there are skeptics out there, believe me, it took sheer desperation for me to try out something that seemed too easy to work, but it truly works! But readers, please take note, I’m no child psychiatrist, so if one, two three doesn’t work for you child, don’t sue me. I have no idea what the over/under is on one, two, three, I just know that it worked wonders for us and you should try it if you haven’t already.

In fact, it worked so well for us that one night as I was getting my little girl ready for bed she said “Mommy, I would really like a piece of chocolate cake.” I said that she can’t have cake right before bedtime. She replied “Mommy, I want some chocolate cake now.” I said, a bit more sternly, “No S, you can not have cake right before bedtime.” She said “Mommy…one…two…three!”

CHORE CHARTS AND SALAD DRESSING

When I found myself at wits end with my stubborn, wily, 2 1/2 year old little girl, I sought the advice of a local mother’s group. Many suggested that I use a chore chart to track and reward her positive behavior to help diminish her naughty behavior. Great! The chart arrived the next day thanks to Amazon. It came with little square buttons with pictures depicting naughty behavior with a big X across the picture and good behavior - with words underneath such as “make my bed” “eat healthy” “brush my teeth” “no whining” “get dressed” “be kind”, etc. It even had squares to write your own. Together my daughter and I set up the chart and I showed her how for the next week we would track her good behavior by attaching a gold star next to whichever chore she did well. I then explained that we will put a red X next to the squares denoting chores in which she doesn’t do well. For those of you who haven’t tried the chore chart, I can assure you that it works wonders! It is amazing how quickly children learn through a positive reward system. Our days together were becoming peaceful again. Each night we would go to the chore chart and add the gold stars, which were outnumbering the red X’s by far! My daughter’s one area that seemed to consistently garner red X’s is whining. She managed to go from happy sweet little girl to Tasmanian devil in a nano second. Whining was her downfall. Nearly each and every day ended with some sort of temper tantrum, and as we filled out the chore chart together, I would see her face beam as we added star after star, until we got to “no whining” and inevitably we would both know what was coming next. Don’t get me wrong, there were some days when even “no whining” collected a bright gold star and we would both cheer - me from relief from the screaming and wailing of my beloved, and she from pride of gold stars across the board!

One particular day ended with the sort of tears and screaming that could set your teeth on edge. I had the nerve to insist that my 2 1/2 year old wear a hat and mittens before going out in the snow to play. What kind of a monster Momma am I, anyway? That meltdown earned her a time out. She knew it before I even said anything to her and she marched herself up the stairs and into her room, slamming the door in a flash. I didn’t have to say a single word. When she slammed her door, she actually cracked the glass panel on the window of her door, so that earned her extra time in her time out. I was learning just how stubborn my baby girl can be through these time outs. When I would announce that the time out was over and she could come back downstairs, she would ALWAYS respond with “no thank you” and she would stay in her room for an extra 20 minutes just to prove that she wasn’t fazed by the time out.

So, at the end of the hat/mittens/shattered window day we proceeded to the chore chart and when we got to the “no whining” square, there was no square and all of the red X’s and couple of stars for that row were gone. “No whining” no longer existed! My little she-devil removed “no whining” so we couldn’t give her an X! I asked her where the square was and she said she didn’t know and walked away. I was incredulous! But also marveled at her clever little mind. I secretly loved how smart she was at such a young age. And…back to the time out we go.

A few days later as I pulled the bottle of balsamic dressing from the shelf in the refrigerator, I spotted the square showing the baby screaming with a big red X across the picture. She hid it in the refrigerator! Mind you, she can barely open the refrigerator door, so that must have taken a great deal of concentration. Not to mention that she can’t reach the shelves, so she must have used a stool to sneak it in behind the salad dressing. As I pictured her doing this - when? perhaps when I was in the shower?, I secretly delighted in how resourceful my almost 3 year old was. Shhh, don’t tell her.

Bottom line, the chore charts are a great way to focus on good behavior. We stopped using the charts after that incident. But now, as my baby girl is now 9 years old, we’re struggling with new behaviors and we’ve created a new chore chart that focuses on “be kind / respect Mommy / eat healthy / practice piano / do homework”. But we’ve added a twist. I have noticed that as a single Mom working full time, taking care of our house and our numerous dogs and cats, I can tend to be too task oriented. My days consist of: take care of child, animals, do dishes, do laundry, get to work on time, get groceries, and it never ends. I am moving from one thing to the next just to keep us all moving forward and reaching our next destination properly clothed and fed. One day my clever little girl said something very funny and I caught myself laughing, unexpectedly. It felt so strange, that moment of silliness that just crept into my tightly bound schedule. I hadn’t planned for it and it was pure joy. I realized that I was so focused on keeping our lives on track that I wasn’t stopping to enjoy our lives together. It was then that I decided to get a chore chart for Mommy - which includes “play with Sawyer” “be kind to Sawyer”. I highly recommend a Mommy or Daddy chart. We could all use a gentle reminder to play and have fun. After all, that’s the secret to a happy life, isn’t it?

IS IT POSSIBLE TO SUPPORT A STRONG WILLED, INDEPENDENT DAUGHTER, WHILE MAINTAINING YOUR SANITY??

I knew I was in trouble when my then 3 1/2 year old daughter declared from her car seat in the back of our mini cooper, “Mommy, you’re going the wrong way, You have to turn left.”

I couldn’t be upset with my new found back seat driver, it was too absurd. First of all, due to the fact that this was a 2 door mini cooper, her vision was not just limited, it was completely restricted by the seat in front of her. Not to mention that even in the raised car seat, she couldn’t see out of ANY of the windows, including the one directly to her right. Additionally, because I was accustomed to multi tasking with a toddler in tow, tackling grocery shopping, dry cleaning, the post office, and a quick bite for lunch before racing home for nap time, I don’t usually tell my toddler where we were going, other than to run errands. And that day was no different. I dressed her up and told her we were going out to run errands, strapped her into her car seat in the back and off we went. So imagine my surprise when, ten minutes in she announced, no INSISTED, that Mommy was going the wrong way. I was incredulous! She had no idea where we were going, and again, she couldn’t see the road, so why on EARTH did she think she knew that I was going the wrong way?!?

This wasn’t the first time that I encountered her strong willed, independent spirit, so I wasn’t completely shocked by her know-it-all proclamation, but it was new enough that I fell into the trap and tried to reason with her. “But honey, you don’t even know where we’re going, so how do you know we’re going the wrong way?”, to which she replied “I told you, you havta take a left back there”. Aha, I’ve got her! “Back where, sweetheart? You can’t even see out the windows to see “back there”. I thought this would end the conversation, but then she said: “I can always tell by the way the car slows down.” WHAT? I have a “tell” when I drive? And my toddler has figured it out? Wait, she hasn’t figured anything out, I’M NOT LOST!

I wasn’t lost, but I was indecisive in my driving. I was going to stop at Starbucks and started to go in that direction, and then decided against it because it was raining and I didn’t feel like lugging my daughter in and out of the car in the rain just to get a latte, so I slowed down, but then I really wanted a latte, so I kind of idled there for a few minutes. Was she actually picking up on my slight idle in the roadway? No, there’s no way. But back and forth it went - “Sweetheart, Mommy’s not lost”, “Yes you are”, “No, I’m really not…and besides, you don’t even know where we’re going!” This went on until we both stopped talking with each other out of frustration. Not a word to each other for hours. I’m not kidding.

Looking back now I realize how ridiculous it was. What did it matter that my 3 1/2 year old thought I was lost when I wasn’t actually lost? Why did I engage instead of simply laugh at how silly it all seemed? And even celebrate her confidence. I mean, don’t we all want our daughters to be strong and confident? Don’t we want our little girls to be leaders? Of course we do! That’s exactly what I want, but I want it when she is all grown up and out of my house. And my car. But now, while I’m just trying to get the groceries without a battle, gosh I could really use a follower.

Unfortunately, this was just one of many little traps that I fell into along the way. It has taken me some time to harness the ability to step out of the moment and to recognize the gift of my strong little girl. With practice, I have learned to laugh at these moments and not engage. I have learned that I don’t need to convince her or correct her. Sometimes it’s alright to just agree to disagree, as they say.

But for the record, I WASN’T LOST.