Preschool pick up is brutal. Picture hyper 3-, 4-, and 5-year olds released from their classrooms into a narrow hallway filled with parents and nannies jostling for the right of way, strollers, baby siblings in car seats, dropped mittens, plans for playdates swirling, "Mom! I forgot my lunchbox!", whiny negotiations to play on the playground, the occasional wailing of someone separated from their primary caregiver, and, over the whole scene, glitter like snow falling from art projects held above the fray.
On December 5, we battled our way through that hallway. I thought the hard part was over. Buzzy successfully begged a few extra minutes on the playground then ignored my obligatory "five minute warning" that it would be time to leave soon. She ignored my notification that the five minutes were up, and it was time to go. She ignored me counting to three. She ignored me saying I was leaving without her. So I peeled Rosie off a ladder and left without her.
Buzzy's preschool tops a wooded hill. The path down was too far from the playground, so I took a shortcut towards the car. I was angry. Heady with her four-year-old capabilities and armed with a fresh sassiness that I blamed on preschool (certainly she wouldn't pick that up that attitude at home, right?), Buzzy had been ignoring me lately. Despite her bravado, I knew she'd follow me to the car. Sure enough, she came running, circled around me, then bolted off in the wrong direction.
One step from the bottom of the hill and the sidewalk, I turned to watch where she was running--and down I went. A second later, I was on my hands and knees, blinking the stars away. Rosie was sitting happily on the sidewalk; I had obviously managed to set her down before my left ankle. . . exploded?
"Oh, my God. I am so embarrassed. I hope no one saw that." Blink. Stars. More stars. Still on my hands and knees. And I realized, "Oh, my God. I need help. Where is everybody?" Blink. Breath. Realize: I wasn't on the path; no one saw me.
Think. Okay. First: get Rosie before she wanders off, too. Thank God, I fell a foot away from my parked car. I somehow hopped and leaned on the car and strapped her into her seat. I waited for Buzzy who wandered back eventually, and talked her into the car. I successfully touched my fingers to my nose and decided I could drive. I sang the three miles home to keep my mind off of what I was going to do when I got there. I still don't know how we all got inside, although crawling was certainly involved.
I called Greg and finally burst into tears. "I hurt myself; I can't walk; I can't take care of my baby; I don't know what to doooo!" He said he was on his way. Good man. Then, of course, I called my mommy. "Mommy, I hurt myself and I can't walk and I can't take care of the baby and do you think I broke my foot?" My mom reminded me that she was unqualified to diagnose me from Chicago and without a medical degree. She made sure that help was coming, and she said it would be okay. I stopped crying. Our wonderful sitter arrived, and Greg took me to the E.R. "Just a sprain," they said, when they reviewed the x-ray. A quick lesson on how to walk with crutches and we were out the door with the name of a doctor to call if I wasn't walking in a week.
"Man, it's going to be an ugly week until I can walk again," I remember saying to Greg as I jauntily used my crutch to punch the handicapped button to open the door.
Seven weeks later, my foot is still purple and swollen, I'm sporting an orthopedic boot, I need crutches to walk, and they gave me a temporary handicapped parking pass.
To be continued....
All done.
Not to brag, but sleep was something I was always good at. According to my mom, I was a natural from an early age. With talent comes responsibility. I needed a lot of sleep, and I usually got it one way or the other.
I was apprehensive about parenting because I knew my sleep intake would take a hit. Of course, it did. With Buzzy, we went through bleary-eyed days. I consulted the sleep canon of Ferber and the No-Cry people, and eventually we worked it out so that we were reasonably well-rested. Buzzy even, God bless her, adapted to our late morning life style and slept in from time to time.
Then. Then came Rosie. You've seen Nightmare on Elm Street? Ha! Freddy Krueger is no match for my daughter. Rosie loved to cozy up and snuggle, but woe to the person who dare lay her down. We'd rock and sooth 'till her crazy curly eyelashes slooooowly dropped, only to have them pop open just as her body relaxed. Bleary-eyed days turned into grimly-exhausted weeksmonthsyears.
After she turned one, I tried cry-it-out, modified, then not-so-modified. You've seen Poltergeist? Yeah. Nothing compared to the screams coming from her room. She screamed 'till she was hoarse, then kept going. (Did I mention she has a bit of a temper?) I read the attachment theories, which are lovely and all, but a bit impractical if you have another child or want to shower from time to time. Nevertheless, I tried it for a while. My child is so attached I think she would crawl back into the womb if she could. After some deliberation, I decided that full-on attachment parenting wasn't the answer for me. Turns out, I need a little space.
She didn't sleep through the until she was 21 months old, which means I've gone over a year and a half without real rest. You've seen pictures of how the presidency ages people exponentially? I look like I've been running the entire G8 since the day she was born.
After my recent weeks of regular sleep, I started to feel more human again. Household tasks, like packing lunches and making dinner and even throwing in a load of laundry, no longer made me weep. I even organized a closet and wrote a blog post. Were there no heights to which this mommy could not climb?
Alas, it was not to be. It could be her teeth (again), her stomach (again), the phase of the moon (again), the fact that she's entering the terrible twos, or God-only-knows (again). But, she's taken to screaming every time she approaches her crib. My patience, however, is gone. I've been letting her scream (after ascertaining that, despite appearances, no one is sticking pins into her and that she has a clean diaper). Something may well be wrong, and she may be trying to tell me something, but she's going to have to save it for her future therapist, because I can't do it any more.
I was apprehensive about parenting because I knew my sleep intake would take a hit. Of course, it did. With Buzzy, we went through bleary-eyed days. I consulted the sleep canon of Ferber and the No-Cry people, and eventually we worked it out so that we were reasonably well-rested. Buzzy even, God bless her, adapted to our late morning life style and slept in from time to time.
Then. Then came Rosie. You've seen Nightmare on Elm Street? Ha! Freddy Krueger is no match for my daughter. Rosie loved to cozy up and snuggle, but woe to the person who dare lay her down. We'd rock and sooth 'till her crazy curly eyelashes slooooowly dropped, only to have them pop open just as her body relaxed. Bleary-eyed days turned into grimly-exhausted weeksmonthsyears.
After she turned one, I tried cry-it-out, modified, then not-so-modified. You've seen Poltergeist? Yeah. Nothing compared to the screams coming from her room. She screamed 'till she was hoarse, then kept going. (Did I mention she has a bit of a temper?) I read the attachment theories, which are lovely and all, but a bit impractical if you have another child or want to shower from time to time. Nevertheless, I tried it for a while. My child is so attached I think she would crawl back into the womb if she could. After some deliberation, I decided that full-on attachment parenting wasn't the answer for me. Turns out, I need a little space.
She didn't sleep through the until she was 21 months old, which means I've gone over a year and a half without real rest. You've seen pictures of how the presidency ages people exponentially? I look like I've been running the entire G8 since the day she was born.
After my recent weeks of regular sleep, I started to feel more human again. Household tasks, like packing lunches and making dinner and even throwing in a load of laundry, no longer made me weep. I even organized a closet and wrote a blog post. Were there no heights to which this mommy could not climb?
Alas, it was not to be. It could be her teeth (again), her stomach (again), the phase of the moon (again), the fact that she's entering the terrible twos, or God-only-knows (again). But, she's taken to screaming every time she approaches her crib. My patience, however, is gone. I've been letting her scream (after ascertaining that, despite appearances, no one is sticking pins into her and that she has a clean diaper). Something may well be wrong, and she may be trying to tell me something, but she's going to have to save it for her future therapist, because I can't do it any more.
Boo (hoo) Halloween
Halloween, when I was a kid, meant a home-made costume. It meant a trip to Minnesota Fabrics, fittings and pins, and "hold still!" It meant that we had some of the cutest costumes in our classes, but that I had an eight-year-old's guilty envy towards classmates who had store-bought costumes (which, come to think of it, echoed my feelings towards kids with store-bought birthday cakes. I knew mine tasted better, but those gorgeous frosting roses were enticing).
As I've grown into mothering a bit and found myself responsible for how our family celebrates holidays, I've developed a real aversion towards holiday juicing. It seems that mid-September through January is one giant festivus marked by store-bought, blinking tablescapes, inflatable lawn decorations and too much cheap candy. Bah. Humbug.
I also realize I'm a total lunatic. Accordingly, I don't care or judge what other families do, decorate, eat or wear. We even enjoy driving around to gape at everyone else's lawn decorations. Then I enjoy breathing a sigh of relief and walking through my rather Spartan Indian-corn bedecked front door.
Hmmm... as I type this, I realize I may be less a humbug and more just lazy. But, let's stick with the principled stance.
Not surprisingly, I fall into the homemade costume camp. I don't sew, so it's a bit challenging and I save my energy for babies too small to know what they are wearing or children old enough to somewhat appreciate it. All that to say is that I bought a used costume for Rosie this year off my mommy list-serve.
Last year, Buzzy was a home-made ladybug. As she took off her wings, she declared that next Halloween, she would be a kitty. We smiled and tucked her in. A couple weeks ago, I asked what she wanted to be this year and she looked at me like I'd forgotten her name. "A kitty." Specifically, as it turned out, "A pink, brown and white kitty with a tutu."
After a trip to G Street Fabrics, some how-to Googling and minimal swearing, I produced a cat costume. With her school party tomorrow, I tried her ensemble on her tonight. She looked adorable. Until she burst into tears.
"What's wrong, honey?" I thought maybe I left a pin in somewhere. But the problem was more elemental.
"I don't want to be a kitty this year."
"Oh. Um, what would you like to be?"
"A princess," she wailed. "Or Annie."
Hmmm... one grandmother gave her a Disney Princess Belle costume for her birthday (ahem, the one who NEVER bought her own children store-bought costumes) and the other grandmother bought her an Annie costume for her birthday. Buzzy is sort of musical-obsessed, and Annie is latest in the line-up.
Halloween, when I was a kid, meant I had no idea that I could change my mind after the trip to the fabric store. I, however, assured Buzzy that she could be whatever she wanted for the school party, for a costume party on Saturday, and for Halloween itself. She was worried I'd be sad, but I promised that she would not hurt my feelings one bit if she didn't chose the kitty. I wasn't lying, either. But--remembering the perfection of those frosting roses on my friends' birthday cakes--I do question how to foster an appreciation of original and creative things when the alternatives are so enticing.
Well, here's what I do know, at least:
(1) I should have focused my energy on Rosie--she's destructive, yes, but generally still amenable to my clothing choices, and
(2) I should have made Buzzy watch Cats before busting out my sewing scissors.
Happy Halloween!
As I've grown into mothering a bit and found myself responsible for how our family celebrates holidays, I've developed a real aversion towards holiday juicing. It seems that mid-September through January is one giant festivus marked by store-bought, blinking tablescapes, inflatable lawn decorations and too much cheap candy. Bah. Humbug.
I also realize I'm a total lunatic. Accordingly, I don't care or judge what other families do, decorate, eat or wear. We even enjoy driving around to gape at everyone else's lawn decorations. Then I enjoy breathing a sigh of relief and walking through my rather Spartan Indian-corn bedecked front door.
Hmmm... as I type this, I realize I may be less a humbug and more just lazy. But, let's stick with the principled stance.
Not surprisingly, I fall into the homemade costume camp. I don't sew, so it's a bit challenging and I save my energy for babies too small to know what they are wearing or children old enough to somewhat appreciate it. All that to say is that I bought a used costume for Rosie this year off my mommy list-serve.
Last year, Buzzy was a home-made ladybug. As she took off her wings, she declared that next Halloween, she would be a kitty. We smiled and tucked her in. A couple weeks ago, I asked what she wanted to be this year and she looked at me like I'd forgotten her name. "A kitty." Specifically, as it turned out, "A pink, brown and white kitty with a tutu."
After a trip to G Street Fabrics, some how-to Googling and minimal swearing, I produced a cat costume. With her school party tomorrow, I tried her ensemble on her tonight. She looked adorable. Until she burst into tears.
"What's wrong, honey?" I thought maybe I left a pin in somewhere. But the problem was more elemental.
"I don't want to be a kitty this year."
"Oh. Um, what would you like to be?"
"A princess," she wailed. "Or Annie."
Hmmm... one grandmother gave her a Disney Princess Belle costume for her birthday (ahem, the one who NEVER bought her own children store-bought costumes) and the other grandmother bought her an Annie costume for her birthday. Buzzy is sort of musical-obsessed, and Annie is latest in the line-up.
Halloween, when I was a kid, meant I had no idea that I could change my mind after the trip to the fabric store. I, however, assured Buzzy that she could be whatever she wanted for the school party, for a costume party on Saturday, and for Halloween itself. She was worried I'd be sad, but I promised that she would not hurt my feelings one bit if she didn't chose the kitty. I wasn't lying, either. But--remembering the perfection of those frosting roses on my friends' birthday cakes--I do question how to foster an appreciation of original and creative things when the alternatives are so enticing.
Well, here's what I do know, at least:
(1) I should have focused my energy on Rosie--she's destructive, yes, but generally still amenable to my clothing choices, and
(2) I should have made Buzzy watch Cats before busting out my sewing scissors.
Happy Halloween!
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