UPDATE TO Mrs. Flinger October 16, 2015
Because the Universe has a wicked sense of humor, after this delcaration, my blog threw up all over my last upgrade.
So I'm starting over using Craft. Turning 40 and kid entering Jr High next year, sometimes it's just time for a change. These archives will still exist in the way the last child goes off to college and their room is the same for 20 years, but it's just time to move forward.
A war strategy I bet President Bush never thought of Jan 18, 2007
As the parent of a toddler, you can spend a lot of time talking about the potty. The Royal Potty. The “if you can master this, I will never have to wipe up your ass again long in to adult life.” It’s the promise of freedom. It’s the realization that your daughter is a big girl now. It’s entirely too much joy when she squeezes out two ounces of piddle in the big porcelain god.
I’m just sayin’.
I’ve mentioned how there is no such thing as privacy when you’re a parent and usually LB will be near or in the bathroom when we use the Potty. Recently, however, she’s begun to mimick our excitement with the whole business.
“Mommy go potty? Mommy need go potty?”
Yes, LB, I’m going to go potty.
“Mommy do it herself?”
Yes, LB, if I’m lucky I can do it by myself for a long long time.
Jumping up and down, “YEY! You did it! Mommy potty by herself!”
If only it was that exciting every time I had to go. Maybe the world would be a better place if we all got stickers for going pee in the potty. End the war in Iraq? Sure! Here’s a sticker! Go show me how you can pee in the bushes, Sargent.
Call for help from a lady who burns toast Jan 17, 2007
For a long time I was proud of what LB ate. We had a large portion of garden burgers, tofu, peas, green beans, mango, grapefruit, plain yogurt. She had a “treat” of organic whole wheat crackers and milk at Starbucks and never ever had a muffin or other processed sugar-laden baked goods. We held on to the theory that she’s so pure starting out, she wouldn’t know what she’s missing and we wanted to give her the best chance at being healthy and not the junk-food-craving Americans that we were. That was the theory, that is, until I got pregnant and we moved and we started eating muffins on a regular basis. Now she wakes up from nap saying, “Starbucks, Mommy? Mommy get coffee? LB get muffin?” and, well, it’s such a good idea I say yes.
Unwittingly, I’ve completely corrupted her taste buds. She knows the goodness that is The Scone (queue the chorus of Angels). She’s had a bite of mommy’s ice cream, she demands crackers and cheese and refuses most anything green or green tinted.
My big fat mouth up and bit me in the ass again.
I found out recently, by a complete fluke, that most of my behavior problems (read: tantrums mixed with screaming and hitting) in the afternoon comes from a very hungry child. Internet, I’m starving my kid. It’s a battle of wills, actually. I place food in front of her, good food, and I say, “You can eat your cottage cheese and grapefruit with cheerios or nothing at all.” She’ll eat three cheerios and then choose the “nothing at all” portion. Which is fine with me. Really.
Next I’ll give her a snack with oranges and yogurt. This usually goes well, but lunch will not, and she will heartily refuse whatever it is, and I’ll march her up for a nap with nothing more than two bites of some meatless patty or piece of bread.
Then it gets hard. She is so hungry she wakes up screaming. She’ll cry and refuse all food, even things I know she likes. She’ll go in to convulsions, which I assume are a product of the terrible twos but now am re-thinking my previously labeled “devil child” for Mary-Kate of the Olson twins. Sorry, LB, my bad.
Monday she had a good day at preschool and I got a report that she ate her entire lunch. In fact, they tell me, she ate her whole snack, plus some, and her whole lunch, plus some. I brought home a child who asked for a snack before nap. I happily gave her the uneaten breakfast from that morning and watched her polish off the french toast and peaches.
She hasn’t been that happy in a long long time.
I’ve been keeping her fed the past two days and notice a remarkable difference in her temperament. I’m not being quite as stubborn with the food but giving her “kid friendly” things like noodles with sauce, mac and cheese, peas, and yogurt with apple sauce. The only problem I have with this is my own attitude that I did not want her to eat KID FOOD. I wanted her to eat what we eat. Salmon with Lemon and Butter, Asparagus and Sweet potatoes. Garden Burgers. Tofu. You know, “grown up food”.
So what do I do?
How do I solve the “you eat what we eat” problem when she’ll watch us have green beans and turkey meatloaf but still turn up her nose? How do I get her to actually eat, for the love of god, because she’s just so much easier when she’s fed? What. Do. I. Do?
My secret super hero power Jan 16, 2007
If I was a Super Hero, I’d be super anxiety gal. I’d probably wear yoga pants because this 19-weeks-pregnant ass should never be crammed in to spandex, but I’d surely have a cape and probably a wrist-watch thing that could read the future and comfortable shoes.
Not that I’ve given this much thought or anything.
See, I have this secret power in which I take my worst fear and turn it in to reality. Lately, I’ve noticed how much more afraid I am when I’m pregnant. I’m afraid something is going to be wrong with the baby. I’m afraid my husband will die and not be here to see this baby grow in to a person and want to borrow the car and get witty and crass. I’m afraid the cough my daughter has will spread in to some horrible virus and she’ll die well before we ever really appreciate all she can do or be.
I know you think I’m really off my rocker here, but it gets worse.
When I am pregnant, I have the ability to take some random passing thought I may have under normal circumstance and turn it in to reality. For example: My thought process can quickly turn from, “I haven’t heard from Mr. Flinger to know if he’s going to stay late tonight. .... I wonder how the ride to work was this morning? It WAS icy… I wonder if he ended up in the ditch.. OH MY GOD, there was an accident on the freeway this morning. That was my husband. SOMEONE CALL ME! My husband is dead! What will I do? I’m shaking now, I gotta call the police.” Just about then he calls and says he’s on his way home and I forget I went clinically insane for thirty seconds.
Or like when I’m rocking my daughter and her snotty nose before bed and she’s biting her binki because she can’t breathe through her nose and there’s a suck/bite/suck/bite pattern as she tries to soothe herself to sleep. I think to myself, “if she bites the tip of the binki off, she’ll probably choke on the end. That thing could be lodged in her throat and I’d find her dead by morning. We have got to wean her off that baby-killing-binki! Why does she still have it? Baby Killers! Those damn binki manufacturers! BABY KILLERS!”
Then I go up four times to check on her and make sure she’s still alive and quietly move the binki to the other side of the crib. Like I said. Clinically insane, I’m sure.
It’s not that I’m like this all the time. In fact, the reason I can make fun of myself is that this is so far from who I really am. I’ve jumped from an airplane at 18,000 feet. I’ve climbed a mountain. I’ve moved across the country leaving my mom and dad six states behind to take a job in a place promising a new life. So this girl that can’t let one tiny thought go without obsessing is someone I’m not really a fan of. Unless she can get in with Spider Man. That would make Super Anxiety Girl a little worth it.
Perfecting the art of procrastination Jan 15, 2007
“Goodnight, LB. Have a good nap.”
“No music, go to sleep.”
Oh, oh! Nose running!
Wipes nose with tissue. “Goodnight.”
Oh, oh! Pooping?
“You’re not poopy, goodnight.”
Oh, oh! Dora Bandaid?
“You don’t need a bandaid. Love you. ‘night.”
Oh, oh! Spanking?
Remembering Jan 14, 2007
I’m starting to feel the very small movements of CB inside. I feel tiny flutters and sometimes a tiny bump and I reach to rub my belly but by then he/she is gone. It’s such a marvelous feeling, one nearly worth the weeks and months of throwing up, back pain, and acid reflux. It’s familiar this time and I picture my baby tossing arms and knees and feet around its tiny home.
Remembering the first few times I began to feel LB moving around, I searched in the archives for something I wrote about this time during my last pregnancy, and I realize every baby is an individual but every baby is still a miracle.
Chris Rice has a new song out called, “Smell the color nine.” I was working on my baby mix (the CD I’m making for our unborn little girl) and I heard the lyrics, “But sometimes finding you is just like trying to smell the color nine.” That’s how I feel sometimes when I’m trying to feel her moving around. All six and a half inches of her swimming around can barely make a noticeable hit on my insides. “Now I’ve never ‘felt the presence’ But I know you’re always near…” I know this song isn’t about unborn children, but it could be. They’re a miracle on their own. And a divine presence in the midst of amniotic fluid and muscles and tissue and blood vessels. I have faith that the ultrasound pictures really are showing me what’s growing in there. Because I can’t see it. And sometimes I can’t feel it. But I know she’s there. She hears me. She’s with me. Faith is always the same…
My new innaproriate Internet user handle: Snowpussy Jan 12, 2007
Just call me snowpussy. That’s right: Snowpussy.
I realize in other parts of the country you get snow that lasts longer than three hours and doesn’t cause an entire city to shut down and all but here? We don’t. We get nine months of rain. It’s what we’re famous for.
So when it looks like this outside we all turn up the heat and email each other with subjects like “Re: No way in hell I’m going out in this” and “Re: my ass is frozen to the couch, thankyouverymuch” and “Re: HOLY SHIT I HAVE 2 CM OF SNOW!”
Believe me. We’re considered pathetic in most states and unlawful in five.
The news is full of people sliding around in their SUV down a slick hill of ice. “Look at that mom with her five children just fighting to keep the car upright. It’s treacherous, people. We mean it!” as we sit and watch praying the SUV takes out the Komo News Team’s reporter.
I mean, obviously, the fear is contagious here.
So when our yahoo mommy group had a playdate today, I looked outside, I looked at my daughter, I looked at our tiny tiny house and I went, “Eff it. Let’s go, LB. If we die, at least we didn’t kill each other from your fifth tantrum today.” And off we went.
The roads were fine, really, until we got up a few hundred feet on a hill in the backcountry. (Moms who were there are reading this and laughing now. “Backcountry my ass!” they say, “There’s a Starbucks 500 yards away!” Yes, I know, but here there is a Starbucks everywhere, even in backcounrty here, and hey! Isn’t that a horse?) I turned on the road about a mile from the gal’s house and saw white, slick, icy road. I looked in the backseat at my child happily tossing goldfish around, then looked at the three cars trying to come up the road with their hazards on and decided we were going to walk the rest of the way in. Because? (Say it with me now..) I’m a snowpussy.
I got us bundled up and we started the walk in. I actually wasn’t sure how far it would be but I figured it couldn’t be THAT far. Plus it was sunny, white, wonderflly refreshing and if I played my cards right, I’d get some exercise and LB would wear her lil’ self out.
And honestly? It wasn’t bad at all. It’s a mile. One way. Uphill. Both ways. In snow. Or at least that’s what I’ll tell my children when they ask about that time we went walking to our playdate.
But the threat of dying in ice doesn’t compete with being locked up in our tiny townhouse. The promise of people and kids and new toys and food is just too much to pass up. And we loved it. We had a great time.
Even on the walk.
I don’t make these things up Jan 11, 2007
Did you know it was Delurking week? That’s right! DeLurking Week! (Thank god it’s not just a day or I’d totally miss the whole dog ‘n gay pony ride.)
So, here’s the gig, you get to comment and say hi even if you NEVER COMMENT AGAIN. See the freedom I just bestowed on you? See the power I have? I just gave you free reign to read and never say anything if you so desire because I’m drunk with that kind of authority. But once you comment, I know you’ll want to do more because once you start, you. can’t. stop.
This is your chance to say hi! You want to join the fun because hey! Your name will be in lights! (Or lighted pixels at least.)
If you want to feel better about yourself, you can laugh at a comment you left somewhere else that you feel completely dumb over. Wanna share? I’ll go first.
Just yesterday over at Joy Unexpected on HER delurking post I said the following:
“... Something you should know about me? I’ve had sex three times since July. One of which made a kid. I’m a freakin’ after school special.”
So there, see? You can’t possibly be more foolish than I am on other people’s sites. So say hi. Say yo. Say home-dog. Or whatever else it is you kids say these days.
A sequel (sort of) Jan 10, 2007
Because I know you people are dying to find out what happened to LB at school. Because I know you are waiting on pins and needles to see if I have to go back to the Nazi Nurse. Because I know you are clutching at your seats to find out if LB has flung more poo in her crib. Because I know you are all wondering if I’ve contacted those other moms I met. Because I know you want to hear more about vaginal discharge and you can barely contain yourself from asking for more belly shots. I mean, right? :: cough :: Right.
1. The screaming is not better. She really ramped it up today when I dropped her off. Blood curling “MOMMY MOMMY” with arms reaching for me. I almost cried before I even hit the parking lot this time. I now have another mantra to say ten times daily, “It will get better, It will get better…” When I picked her up they said she cried most of the day. Not bawling, mind you, just pathetic little sniffles sitting in the corner crying. Gawd, I think my heart shattered in pieces. How horribly selfish am I to want three hours to work in peace? How miserable am I making her just for six hours a week? I wrote about mommy guilt the first few times I took her to the gym so we’ve been down this road before. It’s just one long, shitty road.
2. I am never going to see the Nazi Nurse again. Hail Hitler! I’ll be going to a doctor recommended by Kate of the area. Thank GOD for recommendations. I love the nurse. I love the doctor. I love his take on nursing after a breast reduction. I love how he is practical but gentle, just old enough not to be creepy cute (gawd, cute OBs should be against the law. You are going where? I haven’t even had a glass of wine yet!) but he’s young enough I won’t worry about his hands shaking of old age when he cuts in through my internal organs. Perfect. I am ever grateful to Kate for sharing her Doc with me.
3. Er. No. I haven’t contacted those moms yet. Because? I am shy. HOLY SHIT DID I SAY SHY?! I know, I know. You spit things out your nose. Sorry. But I am shy in person. Well. Sort-of. A while back I read “I am not an extrovert, I just play one on the Internet” by Kerflop and giggled and almost bought the T-shirt, because I should wear that to the playground. I might get picked up more often.
4. I’ve officially won the Poop Wars (and no, she still hasn’t pooped in the potty again). Instead of duct tape (which I never can remember to get), I started putting a simming diaper on OVER the regular diaper UNDER a onsie. Of course, Houdini can actually take off her diaper from under the onsie if I ever forget the swimming diaper, so note to self, swimming diaper and THEN the onsie. Got it? Works like a charm.
5. You know how there is this rule that you never go to the store for JUST tampons? Like if you get tampons, you have to buy at least a few other items; perhaps fruit, a bag of chips, some ice cream, and a pizza- just to be sure it’s not all too closely related. Well. Today I went in to the store for Yeast Infection Goop. I think I broke The Rule. I’m pretty sure yogurt, Tums, and a People magazine does not count as unrelated items and thus screams of “Itchy Pregnant Lady!” I’m shocked there wasn’t a price check on hormonal bitchiness on isle five.
6. And now, a CB update. Note to the wonderfully nice man at the coffee shop: If you ask a woman when she is due and then you say, “Woah! That’s a long time from now! You have a ways to go!” don’t be shocked if she only barely resists smacking you and then writes about you on her website for
a few hunderd people to read.
And finally here is the belly shot for all you die-hards. It’s just a faceless woman, but it’s me. I’m giving my husband some sort of “take the picture already” look and can’t handle seeing myself staring at me that way. But CB has “nice growth!” according to my new doc. Which is lovely. ‘Cause I still feel fat.
I’m the one with black socks and velcro shoes Jan 09, 2007
Sometimes, Internet, I think I’m a 73 year old man with black socks, shorts, and velcro shoes because what *is up* with all this new fangled technology, anyway?
First there was a blog. Crickets chirped when I posted and three people read the blog: My mom, Mr. Flinger’s mom, and a gal I knew at work who loved to procrastinate. I had to learn the rules of blogging the hard way.
Then there was Flickr. What? You can be invited in to groups? People can leave comments? You can have your most recent uploaded pictures on your side bar? How do you do that? I wanna, I wanna!
Next came My Blog Log. Still? I am clueless. I have contacts! And cool people that stop by! And I’m neighbors with people I love! But what. the. hell.?! So, naturally, I did what anyone with a complete lack of understanding for the site would do. I added a widget that shows when My Blog Log people come by my site and lo! There are people with cool blogs that I never knew!
(I’m still lost.)
Then there was Feedburner and I wanted the cool little thing that says people subscribe to the RSS feeds (because all the cool kids do that, right? And don’t I have to have an iPod like they do? And Guess jeans roled up at the legs?) So I did and I put the cool little widget thing on my site like the sellout that I am. I don’t feel cool. In fact, I’m still lost. I still don’t know what this means.
And finally, today, I joined a Yahoo Moms Group and holy freakin’ crap there are PEOPLE! That live by me! That are cool! And why, Internet, do you hold out on me like this?! There are people out there sharing information on where to get your hair cut and good doctors to see and here I am bitching to you poor people who listen to me whine on and on and on and on (like right now) that I don’t know where to go and where to take the kid and holy crap it rains a lot. And then I find out there is a place people meet online and actually get together. Like. In. Person.
I am just a tad bit slow on the uptake, yes?
Thankfully, I’ve fully embraced my inner old man and can say with confidence I am moving forward, trying to figure out what a community is in My Blog Log. I’m trying to figure out how to actually write a post in the Yahoo Group that will not entail anything about how I’ve been gagging for months and am only just now able to pick my head up and want to get out more because did I mention I’m knocked up? Not fat. Knocked up (still repeating daily). Of course, part of my inner old man will never ever EVER have a MySpace. Because that? My velcro-black-shoe-wearing-self just will never understand.
I just dropped my child off at college with a binki and a blanket and her Buddy Jan 08, 2007
LB started “school” today. I thought she was ready. I KNEW she was ready. A week ago she would’ve walked herself to the school flipping me off the whole way if she knew how to get there. She is such a fiery, independent little woman on the inside but a soft shell of goo toddler on the outside. Today I saw soft goo toddler melt down in complete angst as her mommy walked out the door.
I think I died a little.
When LB was a year old she started going to a babysitter’s house two days a week. This transition wasn’t hard at all. She walked in, saw toys and never turned around to see if I stayed or left. There was very little guilt except the glancing blow between classes when my mind had a few minutes to think about the child I grew and birthed was at someone else’s mercy. But it was a good situation and her babysitter loved her and cared for her in the best possible way that any mom would hope for.
All along I knew this fall she would be old enough to join the preschool on our campus and planned on enrolling her while I was teaching classes. She would go to school with mommy but be in her own class. I knew she’d be close but not with me. I knew this was going to be hard for me but I also knew we could do it. I knew we’d be ready by two.
Then we moved.
Henceforth you know the story. Blahblahblah, puking, blahblahblah, toddler, blahblahblah, tiny house, blah. Then LB got cute for a couple of days and I didn’t want her to go anymore. This morning I had to wake her sleeping self up (which is odd since before Christmas she was getting up at 6:30 daily and NOT NAPPING. You see why I almost started eating Styrofoam at home?) She got up, said, “I’m awake!” and had a great morning not fighting me when I brushed her hair and not arguing with me when I told her it was time to go.
If she threw a fit or two, I would’ve felt a lot better about the whole thing.
We arrived and she got clingy. She didn’t want to go in. She didn’t want me to set her down. She didn’t want to play with the kitchen, the kids, the ducks, the blocks. She wanted mommy. Selfishly this felt at least a little good because HALLELUJIAH my child does actually want me around. I have doubts when she yells, “Go away, Mommy! LB DO IT!” It’s hard to hear and harder to believe she doesn’t mean it when she stands with her hands on her hips and yells like that. So at least I know she does need me and I’m not just the old womb she used to live in. *I* am the *Mommy*. I never wanted my independence more since she’s turned two but I never wanted to be the mommy more than I did today.
So I left her crying, not wanting the nilla wafers (that’s serious, y’all) with tears on her cheeks yelling, “Mommy! MOMMY!” I left her and didn’t look back until I got to the car and cried. I pictured this morning several ways. I pictured dancing once I hit the parking lot. I pictured singing in the car, loudly, to whatever music I wanted to listen to (which does NOT include DORA, thankyouverymuch). I pictured myself getting a shitload of work done and picking her up feeling refreshed, happy, and ready for the rest of the day.
Instead I can barely think, don’t want to work, and can’t believe how slow the clock is ticking. Tick. Tick. Tick. It’s so quiet. It’s so still. So why am I not thrilled to death? Why am I unable to think about anything aside from her tear streaked face and the thought that I abandoned my first born child? I know she thinks she’s 18 on the inside but on the outside, I still remember her at five days old.
It gets better. It does get better, I know. I just didn’t think it would be so hard the first time.