Biological Weapon

Oh, The Toddler.  The light of your life, the bane of your existence.  Born with the genetics to perfectly infuriate at least two full-grown adults simultaneously.  No matter how different the buttons of two parents are, The Toddler can push them all.

With today's advances in genetics and cloning, the Army should be taking advantage of this.  Just get a sample of DNA from whatever enemy you wish to defeat and create a ton of clones. Wait until they're two, then send them in to wreak havoc.  Make sure half of them are tired and hungry and tell the other half they are going to a birthday party and the mean man has hidden the cake.  Guaranteed victory in five minutes or less.

But then what do you do with 1,000 tiny Hitlers?  Since everyone knows that clones age extremely rapidly, they will all die of natural causes before their "third" birthday.

The Modern Toddler

Emotional instability allows The Toddler to go from hugging you, to slapping you in the face, to laughing hysterically at nothing in particular before you even know what has happened.

Short attention spans make incessantly repeating the same annoying behavior an art form.

With their selective memory and uncanny knack for inappropriateness, The Toddler will forget every rule you've ever told them.  However, they will remember exactly that rude thing you accidentally said in the kitchen the day before when you dropped an entire sandwich on the floor, the dog ate it in one bite, and then immediately puked it back up and repeat it in the grocery store...at top volume.

Attempts to reward good behavior with praise will earn you the response, "you're welcome!" to let you know that they were, in fact, rewarding you.

What evil lurks in the mind of The Toddler?  Let's hope we never see the full extent.

Photo Essay

Since yesterday's post was kind of a downer, today I give you:

Why Grampa is Out of Toilet Paper

After all of that, she didn't even go.  Le sigh.

Faking It: My PSA About PPD

Well, I had a really shitty summer last year.  In my usual nothing is sacred way, I will tell you about it. I'll warn you that there is some heavy stuff ahead, but I promise I am doing much better. 

Two years after the partum, the depression finally struck.

I definitely had the "baby blues" after having Sweet P, but pretty much everyone does.  I pulled up my big girl panties and carried on.  It started less than an hour before she made her grand entrance when the nurse said, "I'll go call the doctor, it's time to have a baby!"  My reaction: panic, tears, blubbering.  Fear of giving birth?  Nope, something more like, "Shit, I'm actually having a baby.  I'm going to be a Mother.  Why did I ever think that this was a good idea?!?"

You would think this would have occurred to me at some point in the previous 35 weeks.  Not so much.  Luckily, it was an easy delivery without any drama.  It was actually so fast that she still had some fluid in her lungs and after getting to hold her for a few minutes she was taken to the nursery to get fixed up.  I'm sorry to say that I did not have the immediate connection with her that everyone expects.  It was just kind of, "well, I guess you're here.  Now what?"  Then everyone followed her to the nursery and I'm there, alone with the doctor and nurse.  The old, broken eggshell, forgotten as soon as the Golden Goose hatches.  Exhausted, starving, paralyzed from the waist down, sad.

The act began in the hospital, putting on a happy face for visitors.  Trying to eat, though everything tasted terrible.  Finally free from the fear of Listeria, I didn't even enjoy the cold deli sandwich I had been lusting after for months.  There was a moment the first night when the nurse had brought Sweet P into my room around 2 or 3 a.m. Doug was asleep and I looked down at the bassinet at the foot of the bed.  She was awake, and though I know she couldn't see more than a foot in front of her, she was looking right at me with those tiny, dark, newborn eyes.  Realizing that there was truly a life in my hands, I fought the rising panic and made a silent promise to her to do my best.  It may not be the best, but it would be my best.

I cried the whole way home from the hospital.  I couldn't believe that they actually sent her home with us.  I had been expecting someone to come in and report that I had been determined unsuitable and couldn't have her.  I mean, I lose things.  I drop things.  Couldn't they tell I was going to be a horrible mother?!?  It just seemed wrong somehow.  Irresponsible.

When we got home, I laid in my bed and tried to figure out how I could get out of it.  I didn't want anything to happen to her, I just didn't want to have to be in charge.  I wanted my former life back, the one with less responsibility.  The emptiness I felt was mirrored by the literal hole in my stomach left behind where she had lived when it had been so easy to keep her safe.  Babies start by rearranging your internal organs, and then your entire life.  The knowledge that nothing would ever be the same again was oppressive.  I knew I loved her, but she seemed like a strange alien creature to me.  I had no idea what I was doing.

Things did improve in a few weeks.  You quickly learn to accept being second fiddle to the newborn, and even to enjoy the short times of not constantly holding the baby.  Life goes on.  Smile.  Nod.  Yes, yes, very happy.



Forward two years to the summer of 2011.  I had been having a hard time with the toddler. I just didn't have the patience I needed to deal with a two-year-old, and that made me feel like a failure. She was happy and wanted to play, and I just couldn't.  I felt numb.  I found joy in nothing because of my own guilt.  I was a terrible mother and a terrible person and I didn't deserve to do anything fun. So I would do chores. Go to sleep. Go to work. Repeat.

I still don't know if it was me or just chance, but I was having trouble keeping up with things at work.  Not the actual work, just what people were talking about.  We do tend to get quite technical at times, but I felt like I wasn't getting any of it.  So now not only was I a bad mother and a bad person, I was also stupid.  I got paranoid about my friends not liking me anymore, as if I were still in high school.  What I felt was my inability to do anything right turned into anxiety...about everything.

Every part of my life was affected, and it had to get that bad before I would admit that there was a problem.  I got very good at the act and no one even knew that there was a problem.  Doug was suspicious, but I even hid the seriousness from him.  Below is text from the actual e-mail I finally managed - after 5 days of crying and hiding in bed - to send to the most fabulous work nurse anyone could hope for:

Hi Kay,

I left you a message earlier. I wanted to talk to you to see if I have any options for taking some time off of work. Things have been building up for a while and came to a head last week. The stresses and disappointments of daily life have piled up until I just feel buried by them and the thought of going to work makes me feel panicky and sick to my stomach. I have trouble driving anywhere because I get so nervous and stressed out by the other drivers. I feel like I'm about 80. I want to find a therapist and most likely start taking an anti-depressant to see if I can get my life back.

Please call me so I can find out what I can do.

Kay, you saved my life.  I needed someone to tell me exactly what to do: "You have post-partum depression.  Call your doctor, and don't worry about work."

It's one thing to realize that you need help and another thing completely to actually say it out loud; even to your own family.  Depression makes you incapable of the simplest things, even just getting up out of bed.  Those TV commercials about depression where they show the lady sitting on the edge of the bed?  That's right before she gives up and lays back down.

I just didn't see the point.  There wasn't anything I wanted to do.  Nothing I was good at.  No one wanted me around.

It sounds silly now, but I truly believed it at the time.  I thought it would just be easier for everyone if I was gone.  Especially me, because then I wouldn't have to worry about all of the things I wasn't getting done or doing wrong.  Part of the reason I didn't want to drive was because I would find myself thinking about how easy it would be to just turn the wheel into a tree, oncoming traffic, whatever.  The strange thing was that it all seemed so logical, like I was thinking about these things so clearly.

I knew it was selfish and not what I wanted to do, but I still spent days hiding in bed too afraid to get up because I wasn't sure what I would do.  After the first dose of Prozac stopped working, I was worse than I had been before.  I laid in bed thinking about the 6.5 Xanax tablets on the bathroom counter.  I didn't know what they would do to me, but I considered finding out.  Then I realized that if my death wasn't accidental, Doug wouldn't get any insurance money.  I'd have to think of a different way.

Fortunately, it never came to that.  The increased dose worked and I slowly started to feel human again.  Prozac worked, but had way too many side effects.  So began the battle of finding the right drug.  I am now on Zoloft which only kind of works.  I have an appointment on Wednesday with a psychiatrist to find a new anti-depressant.  I see a therapist about every two weeks; just having a safe place to talk about things helps so much.

The  irony of depression is that it makes it so hard for you to get the help you need.  I am guilty of thinking that someone who is depressed should just go and get help.  Duh!  It's so easy, right?  Now I know how paralyzed you feel, incapable of mustering the energy to do the smallest things.  If I hadn't had people who depend on me and care about me, I fear I might have been lost.

Don't let the people you love get lost, help them.

I am not weak, I am human.
I am a wife, daughter, sister, granddaughter, cousin, niece, and aunt.
I am family.
I am a boo-boo kisser, bath giver, doll finder, puzzle-doer, book reader, song singer, and tucker-inner.
I am a mother.
I am a listener, a commiserator, a laugher, and an advice-giver.
I am a friend.
I am a chef, dishwasher, laundress, duster, folder, wiper, mopper, scrubber, and shopper.
I am a homeowner and a neighbor.
I am a member of the Quality Team, party planner, meeting facilitator, poster-maker, presenter, consultant, report writer, experiment planner, and a good employee.
I am a scientist.
I am a blogger.
I am a promise-keeper.

Tricks and Treats

First of all, the baby food sold in little pouches is too awesome for words (see Ella's or Plum Organics).  While Sweet P is definitely no longer a baby, I don't really care.  She has recently eaten broccoli and tonight she had spinach, peas and pears.  No bowls needed, just twist off the cap and give it to the toddler.  It's so fun that they don't appear to care what is in the pouch.  Verdict:  Yay!

Now pie, because eating vegetables means dessert.

Think about how you eat pie.  Go ahead.  First bite.  Second bite.  Good, now forget all of that.

How does a toddler eat pie?

However she darn well pleases!

"Cookie."

Parenthood affords us the opportunity to see the world through new eyes. Watching Sweet P grow and learn sometimes brings to my attention how many constrictions we live by, without even realizing it.  So, start in the middle. Start in the back.  Do whatever you want!

Parenting Fail

I can't say that I understand a bully's motivation; causing a small child to cry is not a fun pastime in my opinion.  However, as a parent, there are days when it seems like it is an Olympic sport and you are about to win the Gold.  Refer to Screamy Mimi for cryings past.

As far as I can tell, Sweet P has the saddest sad face ever in the entire history of sadness.  Causing that face to appear is akin to having your heart ripped out, stomped on by a linebacker in rusty golf cleats and then run over by 73 dump trucks full of broken glass just before a dog comes and pees on it.

Here is a sad face:

Fresh from this morning due to cereal envy in conjunction with Daddy's absence and failure to save her from Mean Mommy.  Now keep in mind, this is not the full-on sad face.  She has this frowny, quivering lip pout that makes me want to do anything to make it go away.  Whole chocolate cake with sprinkles?  Every toy in the world? A unicorn?  Anything!!!

Instead, I have to be firm and follow through with the necessary parenting BS.  (That stands for Blue Shirt, if you didn't know.)  Below is a conversation Sweet P and I had recently at bedtime.

Me:  I've been working on the rail-

Sweet P:  No, no, Mommy! (*smack!)

Me:  (Puts Sweet P down in the crib)  No, you do not hit Mommy!

Sweet P:  (Spectacular sad face complete with pouty-lip super frown and giant teardrops)  Mooommeeeeeeeeeeee!

Me:  (Feeling like a dried-up dog turd)  You do not hit Mommy.  In fact, don't hit anybody.  That is not the way to express yourself.

Sweet P:  (Frown and tears continue) Mommy rock?

Me:  (Picks her back up and returns to the rocking chair)  You do not hit people.  No hit.

Sweet P:  No hit.

Me:  That's right, no hit.

Sweet P:  No hit.

The sad face has subsided by now and only a few tears remain.  I can see her thinking and she perks up,

Sweet P:  Daddy hit.

Me:  Nooooooooo, Daddy doesn't hit.

Sweet P:  Mommy hit.

Me:  ............................

Awesome.  Really glad we had this conversation.

So, how long do we have before day care sends Social Services?

The Importance of Being Earnest

Updated:  No major changes, just fixing some weird things that happened when Blogger was down.  I also lost my two comments.  :(

I was going to make my next post about the awesome pasta dish I made for dinner Tuesday night, but then something interesting happened at the grocery store.  Specifically, the parking lot of the grocery store.  The recipe will come soon.

I was walking along pushing my cart, within yards of Nemo, when suddenly the car I was behind lurched into reverse.  I usually come up with some silly expletive like "fart" or "poop" or the infamous "uh-oh, UH-OH!"  Sometimes all I can manage is sort of a whimper, but this time was a straight up "oh, s***!"  and then a dorky looking run with the cart to get out of the way. In flip flops.  Fortunately, he saw me and stopped.  I wasn't angry, I know that accidents happen.  I may even be guilty of committing a few myself.  (If "a few" means thousands.  It's all perception).  Anyway, I continued on to my car and began transferring my groceries to my trunk.  I was still alive and unharmed.  No big.

Then, something amazing happened.  He stopped and apologized!  Sincerely apologized.

Wow.

Think about it.  Remember the last time you did something embarrassing, especially if it did or could have affected another person adversely.  Did you really want to stop and apologize?  Did you want to risk the wrath of one of those people that appears normal on the outside but hides an angry, scathingly bitter soul inside, just waiting for some unsuspecting person to unleash it upon?

Sometimes there's no opportunity to apologize, like when you almost crash into someone while driving.  But what if you're right there?  Do you make it a point to apologize?  I'd like to think that I do and/or would, but, honestly, I could do better.  The problem is fear.  I hate to have people angry at me.  Even making a complete stranger mad at me can potentially reduce me to tears.  At the same time, I know that sometimes a simple apology and admission of fault can go a long way.

It's hard.  Very, very hard to look someone in the face and admit your guilt, but I will try.

I will try to be strong and offer apologies when I do wrong.  As a wife, I know the power of a heartfelt apology.  As a mother, I am charged to teach Sweet P how to apologize...and mean it.  As a human, I owe my fellow (wo)man the benefit of the doubt that it was truly an accident and graciously accept an honest apology.  It may also mean forgiving the lack of an apology; there are reasons for that, too.

So, thank you, man who almost ran me over at Lowe's Foods.  You are brave and kind.  I forgave you in the parking lot and I am inspired by you in my heart.  Ideally, I would not make mistakes, but that is about as likely as Dozer (my dog) not chasing bunnies and making a fool of himself anymore.  Until then, I will hike up my big girl panties and say those two very powerful words.

I'm sorry.

Lost in Translation

As we are trying to teach Sweet P certain rules about how things work in our house as far as meal times and personal grooming, I realized that she isn't necessarily understanding what we are saying to her.  Some rules I realize are rather confusing upon analysis.  For example:

Rule: No cookies if you don't eat your dinner.
Analysis: If you eat food, you get more food.

Rule: You don't get crackers every time you ask for them, especially since you ask for them all the time.
Analysis:  Don't ask for crackers and you just might get some.  Also known as the Law of Random Crackering

Other rules I have translated based on her reaction to them.

Rule: It's time to go inside.
Translation: You don't get to do anything fun again for the rest of your life.

Rule: Big girls don't need bottles or pacifiers.
Translation: I'm taking away everything that you love.

Rule: No crackers before dinner.
Translation: I don't care if you're hungry, I'm just going to let you starve to death.

Rule: Go to sleep.
Translation: I don't love you anymore.

Rule: You have to sit in your booster seat and wear a bib to eat.
Translation: Ilike to torture you.

Rule: Let's wash your hands and face.
Translation: I like to torture you.

Rule: It's trim to trim your nails.
Translation: I like to torture you.