Zozo's Mom

2011-06-28T10:56:00.000-05:00

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Brand-Spankin'-New!

2011-06-16T11:46:00.005-05:00

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And the Correct Answer Is . . .

2011-06-14T07:04:00.006-05:00

Zoey is starting to get old enough to have conversations that might really matter. Not that conversations about princesses and poop don't matter. It's just that talking about things like god and race seem to carry more weight. Just a little bit. As these conversations leave me reeling, hyperventilating, and wondering, Did I answer that right? Or did I just scar my child for life?

Yesterday we were in the car and Zoey says, "Mommy? You know that lady who made me?"

"Um . . . yeah?" I answer, unsure if Zoey was talking about her first mom, god, or a robot (which she has been obsessed with lately. Demetri is often greeted at the door by being asked, "Daddy, are you a bad robot?")

"Well, you know how that lady who made me painted me brown?"

"Yes . . ." I'm still unsure who she's talking about exactly. "Yes, your skin is a beautiful brown." Ha! I handled that last part well!

"Well, that lady painted you white. And Daddy." Zoey pauses and I can feel her kicking the car seat.

"Yes," I say carefully. Please, please don't ask me about god. Yet. I make a mental note to resolve my crisis of faith and sort out my god-type beliefs immediately. If not sooner.

"Well, do you wish you were painted brown?" Zoey's question hangs in the air. My brain starts spinning -- do I say yes and express dissatisfaction with my skin color? Do I say no and possibly insinuate that I don't like brown? WHAT DO I DO? "Daddy says he wishes he was painted brown." Well . . . Daddy is a total kiss-up.

"Brown is a wonderful color," I start. "And I guess I'm happy how I am . . ." Is this the right answer? Am I doing OK? Maybe I should have said I want to be brown. Or maybe I should have avoided the question. Or maybe I should have offered Zoey a Starburst to keep her quiet. Or maybe I have NO BUSINESS being a mom.

"But Mommy! We don't look the same!"

Ohshitohshitohshit! This is one of those moments! I have to answer the right way or my daughter will end up addicted to drugs and in prison and a country music fan. Deep breath: "That's just on the outside, sweetie. On the inside we are a lot alike." I pause, waiting to be struck down by lightening or otherwise smote for my answer, but nothing happens so I go on. "We both like pink. We both like hugs. We both like cheeseburgers. We both like to be kind . . ."

"Yeah," says Zoey quietly at first. Then louder, "Yeah! And we both don't like pickles or spiders! And also Daddy has short hair and you have the longer hairs."

"That's true," I nod my head, "Daddy and I don't look totally alike either. We don't have to be the same or look the same to love each other-- that would be boring."

"Yeah," Zoey chirps. "I don't like boring!" Then she starts singing a made-up song about robots and I know the conversation is done. At least for now. There will be more questions and bruised feelings and maybe anger. But there will also be love and acceptance and joy. It's all hurtling towards us in the tornado of time that is our life. Our lives. Together. As a family.

FTW!

2011-06-10T11:31:00.004-05:00

Today Zoey requested a special setup for lunch. She wanted a small, round table brought into the kitchen so she and baby could have lunch together. "Mommy," she said, "Push the table up against the wall so no one else can sit with us." Then she looked at me pointedly.

So after much rearranging, we all sat down to our lunches. Separately. Baby was having grass and mushrooms from the yard, Zoey was having grilled cheese with pesto pasta stuffed inside and prunes (it was a, uh, hard morning), and I was having yogurt and fruit. Zoey chatted up Baby for a bit but then it got quiet which was rather enjoyable. For one of us.

"Mommy!" Zoey pushed back from the table. "I'm not having such good fun over her with this Baby. I'm coming to sit with yooooouuuuu!" Zoey carefully carried her plate and juice box over to the table and sat next to me. "Yup," she said while scooting herself in, "This is good. You are better at talking than baby. Also, you are fun. Very, very fun." Did you catch that? Did you? I AM BETTER THAN BABY. And I AM VERY VERY FUN. Ha!

So you know this whole parenting thing? I. AM. WINNING. For today anyway. Or, more likely, for 5 minutes during lunch time. But I'll take it.

Learn the Lesson

2011-06-08T09:21:00.006-05:00

A couple weeks ago I returned home from a chiropractor and massage therapy appointment to find Demetri drinking a shot glass of vodka in the kitchen. "So, um, how did it go?" I ventured.

"Check my facebook status -- that's all I'm saying." He downed the shot and walked out of the kitchen. As it turns out, Zoey de-tailed a rubber lizard and then snorted the broken off tail piece up her nose. This evidence was offered on his Facebook page:

Here's the story I got: all of a sudden Zoey says, "Daddy, I gots something up my nose." Demetri wisely told her that it was boogers but Zoey persisted, "No, it's not. It's something else." So Demetri got out the flashlight. And then the tweezers. But by then Zoey had snorted the tail so far up her nose Demetri could only see the tiniest part of the bright blue tip; the tweezers wouldn't reach. Well, they wouldn't safely reach. Finally Zoey was persuaded to blow. And blow. And blow. And voila!

And let me tell you, it took all my strength not to ask, "BUT HOW COULD THIS HAPPEN??? WEREN'T YOU WATCHING HER?????" I lasted about 14 minutes before asking, "So, I guess you didn't see it happen?" And then after we were in bed that night, "So, where were you exactly when our daughter snorted rubber up her nose and almost INTO HER BRAIN?"

"Oh," Demetri said, "Didn't I tell you? I was on the couch next to her."

I rolled over to face him. "I'm sorry. You were on THE WHAT? WHERE?"

"I was on the . . ."

And this is when my voice may have gotten a bit screechy, "You were NEXT. TO. HER. And YOU DIDN'T SEE IT HAPPEN?"

"Well, The News Hour was on and I was trying to watch it and . . . well." I like to imagine that he at least looked ashamed . . . but it was dark so, as he tells me, I'll never know.

Eventually we both burst out laughing. Things stuck up noses are funny, I guess. Especially when removed safely. But, I'll tell you a little secret: while we were laying there laughing together like a good parenting team will do, I was also feeling superior. Ha! I get to be the 'good' parent for a while -- I'm so aware it's like I have an awareness super power! I! Am! Awesome! Nothing like that has ever happened on my watch!

Until last night. When Zoey shoved bright pink play-doh up her nose . . . right under my nose. Well, to be objective and fair, I was walking the babysitter to the door. And then I was getting a snack. And possibly checking Facebook. And then Zoey says, "Mom, (yes she has taken to calling me mom instead of mommy. It's like a bullet to the heart) There's stuff in my nose." I come over to take a look and there's a whole wad of play-doh crammed up her left nostril. "It's like pink boogers," Zoey cheers, "FANCY ONES! Yay!"

"Zoey," I say sternly, "This is not funny. It's not safe to stick things up your nose." And then I burst out laughing. While I'm laughing, my genius daughter repeatedly tries to stick the play-doh further up her nose. "Do NOT touch your nose!" I yell as I exit the room in search of tweezers. (Note: this was a rookie kid-with-stuff-stuck-in-nose parenting mistake. ALWAYS BRING THE KID WITH YOU. Always. Kids are sneaky little boogers with ninja-like stealth and lightening-like speed. Plus, they CANNOT BE TRUSTED.)

I get back to the kitchen maybe 17 seconds later, and the pink play-doh has been shoved so far up the left nostril I can't see it and (see above note . . .) green play-doh has been shoved up the right nostril. The tweezers are not really helping because I can't get a good grip -- either I'm pushing the stuff further up or only tiny bits of paly-doh are breaking off. All I can think is, I've got to fix this before Demetri gets home or I will never live it down. N-E-V-E-R. Never.

Finally, after a promise of an ice cream bar, Zoey blows her nose. And the stuff comes out. Most of it anyway. I think . . . Maybe.

Zoey and the current 'good' parent. Which, you will note, is not me. :(

Run Like a Mother

2011-06-06T11:25:00.003-05:00

If I don't get to run I'm not such a great parent. Or, to put it another way, I'm "a crazy sh*t a** mother f*cker of a mother". Which is how I described myself over the phone to a friend last week. There was a pause and she said, "Well . . . at least there's no judgment." And perhaps I was not being as objective as one can be. Perhaps I was, in fact, being the teeniest bit critical. And dramatic. But here's the thing: I'm also a little bit right.

Running keeps my depression and fibromyalgia pain at bay. I haven't be able to run for 10 days due to an IT band injury. And those 10 days have not been pretty. Patience seems to be something I no longer possess. I'm snappish and yelly and, often, just plain mean. Frustration tolerance? Puh-HA. I can feel depression reaching out it's boney fingers trying to grab me and pull me in. I'm angry and anxious and needy and lonely all at once. Which, as one might imagine, is taking it's toll on Demetri. And Zoey. Which fills me with shame.

And not only do I have to deal with all that, but my side-butt seems to be expanding. As we all know, I have no real ass. But my side-butt, that flabby flap just below the hip on the side/back of the thigh, is getting wider. I was sitting on a lawn chair this morning and I swear I could actually see my side-butt coagulating and creeping outward. This didn't do much to improve my anger or anxiety. I had to go eat an ice cream bar just to calm down.

So, I'm in this place again. I'm on the edge of The Pit -- the place where my doubts and judgement and depression and fibromyalgia all meet. My toes are dangling in the murky water and I'm not yet sure if I'm going to be forced to take a swim. I hate this part -- the being-on-the-edge part. I want to just be well or . . . not. The worst thing is not hitting bottom; it's the ride on the way down. I'm going through the motions and doing the things I know I need to do: seeing my doctors, asking for help, surrounding myself with people that lift me up and show me the light. And still, STILL I don't know what will happen. Depression is tricksy -- it's one of those things that will knock you on your ass even when you're doing everything right.

So . . . I'm waiting and seeing. Maybe tomorrow will be better. Maybe this afternoon I'll completely loose my sh*t. For now, right now, I'm trying to be gentle with myself and with my daughter. I'm protecting both of us. We're spending hours in the shade of the tree in our front yard making pretend salads with grass and flowers and weeds. And when things get hard, we watch TV and have a snack. Then maybe we'll have a little dance party. And a nap.

I know I'll be able to run again soon. And I hope I'll return to being just a mother instead of . . . that other kind of mother.

Wicked Smaht

2011-06-03T11:05:00.004-05:00

My 3 year old seems to think I'm stupid. And embarrassing. Already.

Example #1:
me: Aw! Look at the baby cow!
Zoey: Mom! It's called a calf.
me: Yes, that's right.
Zoey: Well, shouldn't you know that? You're not a kid, you're an adult. (pause) You know that, right?

Example #2:
me: There's a button missing on these pants. I can't wear them or they'll fall down . . .
Zoey: Mom, wear a BELT. Belts are for keeping up pants.
me: That's true . . .
Zoey: Daddy knows about belts. How come you don't? (pause) I think you should know more things.

In response, I offer evidence that I am still smarter than my child:

I know how to wipe my own butt
I don't think it's a Great! Idea! to make mud pies in the bathroom.
I don't put a blanket over my head, walk into the table and then yell, "YOU MADE ME HIT MY HEAD!"
I can read
I almost always put my shoes on the correct feet
I don't name my baby dolls Vajayjay
When counting, I don't leave out the number six
I can put my pants on without sitting down
I can get in the car and fasten my seat belt in less than 13 minutes
I don't try and stick straws up my nose
I know that Caillou is a whiney little bastard*
I don't have to wear a night-time diaper to bed
I don't lift my shirt up and say, "Look at my tiny boooooobies!"
I don't sneeze out pesto pasta and then eat it

* This exact phrase as applied to Caillou may have originated with SWMama over at Adjustment and Disorder. I'm not entirely sure . . . so if you don't like it, it's not her; and if you do, it's totally her!

In Which I Blame Feet

2011-05-31T18:38:00.006-05:00

I'm hiding in in my bedroom from my family. Specifically, Zoey. I'm not proud about this, I just think it's my job as a writer to set a realistic scene for you, the reader. So there. I'm hiding because motherhood kicked my ass today. And not for any specific reason. Well . . . not for any specific good reason.

If you must know, Zoey kept putting her grimy feet on me. All day. Beginning at 8 am I said, "Please don't put your feet on me; I don't like it." By 9 am I had said that exact same sentence 5 times. Basically, I had a neon flashing sign on my head that said in Toddlerese: HOT BUTTON. PRESS IT. REPEATEDLY. So, of course, Zoey began following me around with the express purpose of putting her feet on me. Then she had 3 time outs in the space of 15 minutes which, by the way, did nothing to deter her. And if anyone dares to comment "that's not how the book says to do time outs" I will hunt you down, smack you, sit on top of you, and then eat all of your chocolate.

By dinner time, I am done with feet. SO DONE. I am pissy and on edge. We sit down to eat and Zoey scrunches way down in her chair so her big toe can just reach my thigh. And . . . her toe makes contact with my skin. I look at her with the laser-beam-stare-of-doom and say, "Do. Not. Touch. Me. With. Your. Feet. EVER. AGAIN." I then dramatically and nosily scape my chair across the floor and bang my plate of food down into my new spot. My spot that is about as far away from Zoey as I can get. Demetri looks at me like I've served up kittens in cream sauce for dinner (we had pesto, actually). And I know, I know, I am not being a good mom in this moment. I know that Zoey has heard 'no' and 'don't' and 'stop' all day long. I know that today instead of being Fun Mom, I've been Grumpy Mom. And I hate hate hate it.

I started thinking about two moms that I love and admire. Both of them claim to love motherhood. And in my worst moments I think that this can't possibly be true -- Who would love this? I think that maybe they have forgotten what it's like -- they have older kids, all in high school or college. I think that they must be glossing over and making nice. But the thing is, these moms don't do that. They tell it like it is. They have empathy and compassion and just the right amount of cynicism. And here's where things get really hard: if they truly love motherhood and I don't, well . . . this must mean I am a bad mother.

One of these moms talks wistfully about when her kids were small -- she would drop her daughter off at preschool and she and her son would head home to eat grilled cheese sandwiches and watch 'A Baby Story'. And I think, Well, duh, who wouldn't want to do that? But I also see that same mom today really enjoying her kids and enjoying parenting. And being damn good at it. And I think, I wish that could be me. And I make that wish with such intensity that it scares me. Then, of course, this same mom will tell me about the time her kid ate deodorant and it all seems a tad less glamourous. Which, I think, is her point.

The other mom can make homemade cookies without looking at a recipe. And she adores her kids and is adored by them. Adored by teenage boys. Although I do have this memory of her telling me how much she loves motherhood and then saying, "Except for when I had to get a job at The Gap to get out of the house. I mean, I got paid $7 an hour for folding other people's clothes so what does that tell you?" I'm not sure if this is real or not. And I'm too chicken to ask her. I need it to be real. Because I can't be the only one who doesn't love it all the time*, right?

Right?

Please, oh please, don't let me be the only one.

* Also, because I am insecure and anxiety prone I need to point out that I said 'it', not 'her'. I do lover 'her' all the time. Even when she puts her feet on me.

"Monster Face"

Frumpalupagus

2011-05-26T08:50:00.006-05:00

I often see other moms -- in person, on Facebook, where ever -- and these other moms often look put together. I suspect they have showered and brushed their hair. And maybe even folded and put away their laundry before every piece of clean clothing becomes a wrinkled mess from sitting in the laundry basket for 3 days. Also, they seem to have a faint and lovely glow. Hopefully, this glow comes from make-up and not from the joyous fulfillment that motherhood provides. If it's the latter . . . well. I give up. These moms, they are also wearing cute clothes. Clothes that seem to, you know, fit. And jewelry. Beaded necklaces, silver bracelets, dangly earrings. These put-together moms seem like they're . . . winning. Winning the battle against sleep depravation, toddler tantrums, and general momness.

I, on the other hand, am not so much winning as slogging along. I am the epitome of frumpiness. My hair is sort of straggly. My clothes are either too big or pull too tight in unflattering places. It goes without saying that everything is wrinkled. No make-up. No jewelry. I do, however, shower. Occasionally. And sometimes I even remember to brush my hair.

Some of my disheveledness is by choice. I often don't invest much time in my appearance (like applying make-up or flat ironing my hair) because I would rather be doing other things -- sleeping, picnicking, eating chocolate. I don't need to be matchy-matchy every time I go out. A hat and a pont-tail often suit me just fine. I'm OK wearing yoga pants to the grocery store.

The thing is, even when I try to look put-together, I still somehow fail. I get deodorant streaks on the side of my navy dress. And I don't notice them until we have left the house. There's part of a smooshed granola bar on the butt of my grey slacks. My hair won't stay in place. The blush, which I thought I was applying on my cheek bones at home in the dim light of the bathroom, now seems to be smeared randomly all over my face. . Somehow I only have lipstick on my bottom lip. I couldn't find my other black sandal so I had to wear the brown ones that are missing a buckle. I forgot to put on a belt and my pants are falling off. And there is just no way that one can seem put-together while constantly hitching up one's pants. NO. WAY.

So . . . how do you do it? How do you look so put-together? While I await your answers I might go fold some laundry. Laundry that's been in the dryer for 3 days.

10 Reasons It Might Possibly Be Hard to be Married to Me

2011-05-20T06:59:00.004-05:00

Our 5th anniversary is approaching. So in honor of our wedding I now present a brief and in no way complete list of some of the numerous reasons it might maybe possibly be hard to be married to me*.

1. I will demand that you tell me I'm a good wife. You will be required to follow-up this statement with numerous examples. If the example don't come fast enough you will be in Big Trouble.

2. At the end of the day my clothes always end up on the floor. Always. And, why yes! They are on the floor right in front of the hooks you hung for me. You know, the hooks for hanging my clothes on.

3. It's ok for me to give our child juice with dinner, but of you do it I''ll go . . . what's the word? Oh yeah . . . ape shit.

4. I'll spy on you via the baby video monitor when it's your turn to put our child to bed. Then I will make fun of you for your made-up version of "American Pie". Also, I will demand that you acknowledge that I have a unique and highly marketable skill because I know all the real lyrics -- unlike some people.

5. Before bed every night I will require you to participate in 'talking time'. This is a time during which I can ask you weird and sentimental questions and then get jealous about your answers. Like so:

me: So who did you go to prom with?

you: Laurie Smith.

me: Was she pretty?

you: Yeah, kind of.

me: Stupid garden tool!

you: Uuuuh . . .

6. I will put my cold feet on you. Every night.

7. When you wear mock turtlenecks I will mock you -- to your face and on Facebook.

8. I will promise that half of the shelves in the bathroom are for your stuff. But, slowly and stealthily, I will begin to put some of my stuff on your shelves. Until you only have half a shelf. I will not feel bad about it.

9. On a regular basis I will rip ''The New Yorker" out of your hands and screech, "PAY ATTENTION TO MEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!'

10. I will demand you keep a hidden stash of emergency chocolate. I will actively look for this stash. If I find it, I will eat it all and not tell you. Then, when I demand a piece of emergency chocolate and you find that it's gone, I will get mad.

* Also, I am trying butter up Demetri so I can do a post next week about a blue salamander, Zoey's nose, and someone's parenting fail.

#9 on the Suck It List: Butterflies!

2011-05-16T07:32:00.006-05:00

A few weeks ago I took Zoey to the Butterfly Gardens for her birthday. I imagined that she and I would stroll the climate-controlled paths amongst the blooming flowers and lush foliage hand in hand marveling at all the beautiful butterflies. I imagined that Zoey would jump up and down in excitement and wonder. I even dared to dream that my newly minted 3 year-old daughter would whisper to me, "You are the best mom in the whole world! I will never whine again and I will always do what you tell me to do and I'll never stop napping and I'll even learn to wipe my own butt . . . All because you took me HERE!" Yes, we would spend hours of butterfly bliss together!

But instead, I spent $24 for 10 minutes of . . . not bliss. That's right, we only lasted 10 minutes. Zoey was so afraid of the butterflies that she whined and cried and cringed and repeatedly yelled, "DON'T LET THEM GET ME, MOMMY!" The first two minutes of our visit are captured below. Shortly after these shots were taken, Zoey made a, uh, forceful and violent break for the exit. Unfortunately I happened to be standing between her and the exit. My darling daughter put her head down, squared her shoulders, and charged. I ended up sprawled on the pavement flat on my face while Zoey repeatedly pushed her weight against a door that pulled open. I checked to make sure I wasn't bleeding and then, well, we got the heck out of there. You know the saying: quit while you're ahead . . . or emotionally and physically damaged. Frickin' butterflies.

A Rambling Debunking of an Inconsequential Theory

2011-05-10T11:35:00.005-05:00

In theory, it should be a good thing to start the day with a dishwasher full of clean dishes. Hey! Look! Dishes! And they're clean! And you didn't have to wash them! It's like a dish fairy visited the house during the night. Or a dish robot. But robots are more creepy (creepier?) so let's stick with the fairy idea.

But here's what happens next: you have the best intentions of unloading the dishwasher before breakfast. You even put away a couple of glasses. But then the shortest member of your household decides to pee on the floor and rub her dripping wet butt on the couch. And, clearly, getting the pee off the couch trumps unloading the dishwasher. Then breakfasts must be made. Because if the floor-pee-er doesn't get fed, the morning will take an even more drastic turn for the worse. But, as it turns out, you end up making four breakfasts: 3 for Shorty and one for yourself. The cereal is spilled and the banana is accidentally stepped on. Joy! More clean up!

Then, while placing the dirty breakfast dishes on the counter, you smash your shin into the corner of the dishwasher which you left open. So you karate kick the freaky robot fairy dishwashing device closed and, perhaps, you swear. And a tiny voice repeats your swear. Now you're having a conversation about bad and hurty words and you hear yourself offering to give yourself a consequence. So you're sitting on the stairs in a self imposed, tiny-dictator approved time-out. You find yourself actually kind of liking it because, hey, at least you're alone and it's kind of quiet.

Suddenly, it's not so quiet. Shorty has fallen off the couch because, probably, she was jumping on it, but you're not really sure because you were in time out. There are hugs and back patting and endless discussing and play-by-play recountings of The Terrible Fall. Yes, that is what is is called. Then there is PBS kids to stop the tears. And suddenly you find yourself still not unloading the dishwasher but combing out hair tangles and getting yelled at. You are trying to be gentle. Really. But you're not feeling very gentle at this point. You briefly wonder what it would be like to be a delicate pink flower blowing in a warm breeze but then you realize that's the dumbest thought ever and move on to wondering what it would be like to be a hippo.

You shove yourself and the couch-butt-wiper into clothes because if you don't get out of the house you may have to stab your eyes out with a spoon just for something to do. Someone forgets to brush their teeth but decides that morning breath can be masked with a mostly-still-wrapped Star Burst found at the bottom of the diaper bag. Yes, you still call it a diaper bag even though you no longer carry around diapers.

You go to the library. How educational! And wholesome! As you are walking out your front door you remember that the dishwasher still has not been unloaded. Then you prentend that you didn't remember what you just remembered and begin to wonder if you can really trick yourself. You decide that no, you can't trick yourself and instead reason that if you let the dishes sit longer they will get drier and you won't have to use a cloth when putting them away. Win!

You come home 100 minutes later and make dinner in the crock pot. Then you make lunch -- grilled cheese and soup. Pots and pans are involved. The areas next to the sink and the sink itself are now piled with dirty dishes. And you have no where to put them because the clean dishes are still in the dishwasher. Also, you are tired and don't feel like doing any more cleaning or putting or care taking. Now you worry that you are a bad parent and, yes, a bad person because you lack the willpower to unload the dishwasher. Plus, there are so many dirty dishes! There are only 3 people in your house -- how does this happen? You make a mental note not to have another child. And you think about how, in theory, it should be a good thing, a miraculous thing, to wake up to a dishwasher full of clean dishes.

But, somehow, it's not.

Oh, baby!

2011-05-09T08:13:00.004-05:00

Zoey is into babies. She can make anything a baby -- a rock, a used tissue, a piece of broccoli. "Oh, look at my baby," she'll coo while cradling a snot filled tissue in the palm of her hand. "Isn't she cuuute?" Then she'll tickle the baby's, uh, "chin" and whisper, "Cutchie-Cutchie-CooooOOOO!" Our days basically consist of Zoey following me around and saying, "Wanna play baby, Mommy? Huh? Wanna?" Or, when I say no, of Zoey dumping a doll into my lap and declaring, "Mommy! Your baby is CRYING! You better DO SOMETHING!" And, if that fails, Zoey will cram her nose into the baby's rear end and yell, "Ew! I smell POO in YOUR BABY'S butt! Change his diaper. NOW." She looks at me with such shock -- like I'm the worst mom in the history of the world because I am not moved into immediate action to change a fake diaper filled with the fake poo of a fake baby*.

Zoey's current favorite baby is a recent addition to the household. The baby came with a hat, a blanket, a bottle, and the baby sings a song. Zoey has declared this baby to be "very very special." Zoey, in a stroke of minimalist genius, has named her . . . Baby. I'm not a huge fan. Baby does not generally make the world an easier place for me. In other words, Baby is a pain in the ass.

It started small. Baby was curious -- she had to stick her hands in the basil plants and whoops! a bunch of dirt happened to make its way out of the pot. Then baby decided that she needs her own place at the table at EVERY. SINGLE. MEAL. Of course Baby needs her own plate of food and, because she is "such a leeetle baby", she needs her food cut up. Small. In the correct shape. Baby is also not a big napper. Zoey throws up her hands in exasperation, "Well! Mommy! Baby says she does not want to nap so I can't either!" Ah, what's a mother to do!

But then the real trouble started -- Baby began to branch out. She became curious about knives and toilet water. And, apparently, Baby is the one who dumped out an entire bottle of shampoo on the floor of the bathroom. Zoey shrugged her shoulders and said, "Well! Baby needed to get clean so she had to do it."** Baby and her caretaker got to bond over the injustice of a time out.

Then Baby got mean. Zoey, who speaks fluent baby, came up to me and whispered, "Mommy, Baby said she's gonna get you." I smiled, thinking it was a game, "Oh! Not if I get her first!" and then I pretended to tickle baby. "No," Zoey gasped and wrenched Baby out of my reach. "Baby does NOT like that. BE CAREFUL, MOMMY." Zoey put her hand on my back as if to comfort me, "No . . . Baby said she is going to get you -- like baaad people." My mind flashed to a movie preview I had seen once while babysitting back in 1988 and all I could think was, Just like Chucky. I am a horror movie wimp and this movie preview scared me so much that I still remember it; I've never even seen the whole movie. "Um, well," I stammered, "Uh, that's not very nice of baby, is it? Maybe you need to put her in time out." Yeah, like time out in the trunk of the car tonight so she can't hack me up with a butcher knife while I'm sleeping.

Zoey thought about the idea of putting Baby in time out. I could see her thinking thinking thinking and then wham! there it was, a look of barely contained glee. My evil/genius idea had taken hold -- Zoey realized she could have (wait for it . . .) PARENTAL POWER. Zoey pursed her lips together and muttered, "Yeah, yeah, that could be goood."

There was a brief pause where I could feel my daughter doing what any good mother does: gathering the unseen forces of the universe -- the deep hush before the storm. And then, "BABY. GO. TO. TIME. OUT." She pointed her finger and everything. Zoey plopped her bad baby down on the stairs (the designated time out spot) and then came and sat beside me on the couch. She absently patted my knee, sighed, and said in broken-down sort of way, "It can be hard when your baby is not so good. But then you put them in time out, right?" I nodded my head wisely. Zoey continued, "And then you let them out and hug them and go on, right?" At that moment, while Zoey's hand rested on my knee, there was a tightness in my chest and something inside me cracked. Just a small crack -- the kind that makes things seemed fragile and loved. And I realized that maybe the world is sometimes a hard place for both of us.

* It should be noted that I spend a fair amount of time (as in hours) each day playing baby. You know, just in case you were imagining that I never play baby and were wondering how I could be so cold and heartless what with my real baby growing up so fast that she'll be graduating from high school any minute and I'll be watching her walk across the stage while dabbing my eyes in the front row of a gym that smells like socks and adolescent boys going, oh how I wish I had played baby more with my baby! So, yeah, I play. And I am a very good fake diaper changer BY THE WAY.

** It should be noted that during this incident, Zoey was supposed to be sitting on the potty doing her business which, sometimes, she refuses to do if she does not have privacy. So I have to pick between having a the kid crap in her pants and letting her be in the bathroom with a shut door. Clearly I picked the latter.

3!

2011-05-06T15:31:00.002-05:00

So . . . Zoey turned 3 two days ago. Which means there are 363 days left until she turns 4. And I'm quite sure that if I don't blog during this time that something bad, very bad, will happen. Because, in case you haven't heard, the year of three-ness blows. I mean, I think it's pretty much a given that on a daily basis my head will explode and I'll want to scoop my ear drums out with a dull spoon. At this point, (yes, that's right, just two days in) I'm pretty much over cohabitating with an irrational, emotional, manipulative, what's the word? Oh yeah. WACK JOB.

Let me give you a brief and in no way complete outline of our morning today:

7:15 am: Zoey yells, "I WAKED UP!"

7:16 am: Zoey throws herself on the floor kicking and screaming because, and I quote, "You don't have enough HANDS so I DON'T LIKE YOU." Alas, alac, I was unable to carry Zoey, her sippy cup, 4 stuffed animals, 2 books and a blanket down the stairs all at the same time.

7:23 am: Zoey throws herself on the floor because I am eating cereal. "NO!" She wails, "I don't want you to be hungry!"

7:45 am: After pouring Zoey 2 different bowls of cereal and getting the cereal to milk ratio right (after 3 tries), the cereal is dumped on the floor because (wait for it . . .) I didn't give her the blue spoon.

7:46 am: Zoey is in timeout yelling, "I want to huuuuug you, Mommy!! I juuust want a huuuuuug!"

7:46:30 am: I consider taking up head banging as a new hobby

7:50 am: Zoey watches PBS kids so that I don't cry before 8 am

8:00 am: Zoey screams while I wrestle her into clothes and shoes. After getting her in a pair of panties she yells, "I HAVE A WEDGIE!!! YOU GET IT OUT OF MY BUTT, MOMMY! YOU DO IT!"

8:01 am: I explain to Zoey that wedgie picking is not in my job description. The usual crying and throwing herself upon the floor ensues.

8: 30 am: Zoey sits on the potty, does her business and then yells, "MOMMY WIPE MY BUTT! NOW!" There is a brief conversation about using a nice voice, I wipe her butt and simultaneously wonder if Demetri would miss me if I moved to Seattle.

8:33 am: I lure Zoey into her car seat with the promise of a Starburst.

8:34 am: I back out of the driveway to cries of, "NOOOOOO! I don't want to go where you want to go!"

8:47 am: We arrive at the YMCA. We enter with Zoey clinging to my leg, which I am dragging ungracefully, behind me. That's right -- I'M DRAGGING MY FRICKIN" LEG BEHIND ME like some kind of crazy-ass pirate with a peg leg. Except there's A KID on my leg.

8:49 am: While limping down the hall to the childcare room Zoey changes tactics and takes hold of my pants and underwear. She pulls down with all her weight.

8:50 am: My white, cottage-cheese-like back-with-a-crack is exposed to those unlucky enough to be in the hallway.

8:52 am: I leave my child happily playing with Barbie in the care of the Y childcare workers. I realize I am not sad to be apart from her.

8:53 am: I am seized by guilt that I don't want to be around my own child.

9:00 am: I begin spin class and worry that I am a bad mother for the entire hour. I think about asking the other mothers in the class about their 3 year-olds but then decide that they are all most certainly really good moms and none of them probably had their butts exposed in the hallway that morning. Plus, they all have really good hair so I don't think I'm allowed to talk to them. So I just pedal and sweat pedal and sweat. I briefly wonder if I am perhaps too old to really "get" Lady Gaga.

10:12 am: I walk down the hall to retrieve my daughter and wonder who I will find: Sweet Zoey? Angry Zoey? There is an actual flutter of fear in my chest.

10:13 am: Zoey proudly presents me with the Mother's Day card she made. I gush over it. And her. We touch noses. She pats me on the back. I think, "Ok. Ok. I can do this a little longer."

10:15 am: We walk out into the sun holding hands.

10: 17 am: We drive to a friend's house because, well, sometimes you just need to eat too much pizza and too many M&M's with another mom who loves you and your kid. Even on your bad days.

Tell me your 3 year-old horror stories. Please.

A Lesson in Fear

2010-09-13T09:54:00.007-05:00

Zoey has recently transitioned from diapers to panties. To be exact, panties with Elmo on them. And in case you have never potty trained another human being before, believe me when I tell you that the initial panty wearing period is HELL. Basically, you are just waiting around for an "accident" to happen. Will it happen on the new rug in the living room? Will it happen in the car? Will it happen in isle 3 of Market Basket? And here's the thing: YOU NEVER KNOW.

So we are going about our days in terror. And one way I try to minimize that terror for myself is to get my 2 year-old child to shoulder some of it. It's only fair. So, to help along the potty training process, I have told my daughter that if she pees or poops in her Elmo panties, Elmo will get wet. Wet and, here's the clincher, scared*.

"We don't want to scare Elmo, do we?" I say. Zoey's eyes widen, she looks at me solemnly and shakes her head no. "So we don't want to pee or poo on Elmo, do we?" Again she shakes her head. "So we only pee and poo on the potty, right?" She nods, her eyes still big and, it must be said, the tiniest bit fearful. Then we go about our business. Zoey is building a tower on the living room floor. I am putting away laundry. The clink of wooden blocks slows and then stops. I hear Zoey muttering to herself. I peak around the door and see her holding out the waistband of her pink pants, gazing down at her crotch. "It OK, Elmo. It OK," she whispers. And I, temporarily (and stupidly) blinded by my own evil-genius, think, My plan is working!

A few hours, and several successful trips to the potty, later we are having dinner. Zoey has finished her meal and is playing under the table. She is talking to herself and engaging in an elaborate game that involves a tissue, a stuffed kitten, one of my shoes, and an acorn. All of a sudden Zoey says, "Mommy? Daddy? I have tummy ache." This might be a good time to point out that for the last two days, each time Zoey has said she has a tummy ache it has been followed, within minutes, by massive amounts of diarrhea. So, Zoey declares she has a tummy ache. And what do Demetri and I do? We sit there. LIKE TOTAL DUMB-ASSES.

A minute later we hear a gasp from under the table. Then a shriek, "I POOPED! I POOPED!" Then there is a high pitched wail. A long high pitched wail. "ELMO IS SCARED!!! ELMO IS SCARED!! ELMOOOOOOOOHHHHHH!" Next, there was flailing. And kicking. And general panicking. Which is not what one wants when trying to contain poop to a specific and small location. I'll save you the details and just tell you that several rugs and multiple items of clothing had to be scrubbed and then washed.

The lesson: Never ever think that your evil-genius parent plans will work. Poo gets everywhere and you have to shell out 6 more bucks to buy new panties that don't have Elmo on them.

* I swear I got this idea from another mom. So I'm not as evil as I sound. But, the thing is, I can't remember who. Which leads to some important questions. The first of which is, Am I crazy?

A Totally Ridiculous Conversation (On Many Levels)

2010-09-01T15:17:00.009-05:00

me: Wait . . . How old am I? 33 or 34?

Demetri: Uuuh . . .

me: HOLY SHHHHHH....! Am I turning 35?????

Demetri: No. No way. You must be 33.

me: Ok. Wait. How old are you turning?

Demetri: Fooooorty . . . five?

me: WHAT? no. It must be 44.

Demetri: Wait ... do you know what number Super Bowl it's going to be because I'm the same age as the Super bowl?

me: Uh, OF COURSE I don't know the number of the super bowl.

(pause)

Me: Crap, I'm going to have to do math.

Zoey: Grrr..... My parents are idiots!

The Lunch Box Incident

2010-09-01T11:15:00.004-05:00

Zoey starts her new Spanish immersion school tomorrow. And I am a nervous wreck. Even though the instructions sent to me by the school specifically instruct me not to be "anxious". Apparently my anxiety will create anxiety for my child and her first day will be ruined. RUINED! Well, the "ruined" part may involve some interpretation on my part. Just a wee bit. As in total fabrication. But it could happen. I could ruin Zoey's first day in many ways. We could get there too early. Or too late. I could drive in the wrong side of the circular driveway. I could take too long to get her out of the car. I could forget the camera, Zoey's back pack, and her lunch. Oh my god, her lunch! I am a quivering pool of anxiety just about the lunch. The lunch box to be exact.

There was a lunch "box" incident at the school Zoey has been attending this summer. Yes, my child was attending a morning day care program 2 days a week and did not (gasp!) own a lunch box. A few weeks ago I walked in the door to pick Zoey up and saw her sitting at a table eating oyster crackers and raisins. Which was not what I packed her for lunch. The (new and young) teacher rushed over to me and gushed, "OhmygoshIamsosorry! I couldn't find Zoey's lunch box! Did you forget it?"

"No, I put it in the fridge . . . But that's OK, she can eat lunch when we get home."

"I checked the fridge," the teacher insisted, "I didn't see a lunch box in there."

Now may be a good time to point out that when I see other kids arriving and leaving the program, they all seem to be banging a lunch box against their little legs: Tinkerbell, Thomas the Train, Spider Man, Dora the Explorer. So when the teacher said she didn't see a lunch box in the fridge she was technically right. "Well," I began, "Zoey's lunch is in a . . . a . . plasticlwalmartbag." I said this last part fast and quiet. And I might have had my hand over my mouth.

"What? Her lunch is in a what?" The young teacher flipped her blond hair.

I sighed. "The lunch is in a bag. A plastic bag."

There was a pause, the teacher couldn't even look me in the eye for a moment, and then she said, "Ooooh. I guess I didn't think there would be a lunch in . . . that." I grabbed the lunch, stuffed it in Zoey's very stylish backpack from the Kennedy Space Center (thanks Gramme and Pop-pop!) and got the heck out of there. If I had a tail it sooo would have been tucked between my legs.

So anyway, I vowed that Zoey would start her new school with a new lunchbox. And she will. It's purple with psychedelic cats on the front. At least she didn't pick the princesses. Well, actually, she did . . . but I told her we didn't have the right "special" money for that one. And yes, you may totally steal that line for your own use. You're welcome.

In Which I Learn that I am Slow

2010-08-30T10:13:00.004-05:00

We were driving through Boston over the weekend -- right on that stretch of road by the river where there's a paved trail, beautiful grass, and a great view of the city. There were also about a zillion walkers, runners, and bikers. We were stopped at a light and an older runner shuffled and dragged and gasped his way past us. He was tired, out of breath, and, well, not so graceful. Ha! I thought, Ha! At least I'm faster than that guy! Except that I accidentally said it out loud. Like, in front of other people. But thankfully only in front of my husband (who already knows I'm the tiniest bit crazy) and my daughter (who was sleeping). But still. Thinking crazy, selfish, overly competitive thoughts is one thing; Saying them is another.

Demetri, assuming I was talking to him, sort of paused, made a soft humming sound, and said, "Well . . ."

I whipped my head around from the window and the pitifully slow runner to look at the profile of my husband. My husband who was very intently looking at the traffic light. "WHAT?! I'm as slow as that 70 year-old guy? That one right there?" I pointed out the window. We both looked. Mr. 70-year-old-slow-runner-guy was now stopped in the grass bent over, one hand on his knees, one hand clutching his chest.

"Whoa. Is he ok?" Demetri asked*.

"I'm sure he's fine. Stop avoiding the question -- Am I as slow as that guy?" I demanded.

"Well, it's hard for me to tell exactly. We're in a car and everything . . ."

"We're in a car THAT'S NOT MOVING! So . . . so . . . so you're trying to tell me," I slumped back into my seat, "that I am as slow as that guy." And, a part of me knew it was true.

I know, at least on some level, that I am a slow runner. I know that some people can walk faster than I run. Some people can even hula-hoop while walking faster than I run. The Silver Sneakers, the over 70 running club at the Y, has a few members that can take me. But, the thing is, I don't feel slow. When I run, I feel fast. Swift. Nimble. Dare I say, lithe (hi Lisa!). Even after someone passes me, blows by me, crushes me. As soon as they are out of sight (which usually happens pretty quickly) I am back to feeling like an Olympic runner prancing nimbly down the path. And, well, yes, pushing a stroller. But still.

The day after driving through Boston and recognizing myself (by force) in Mr. 70-year-old-slow-runner-guy, Demetri came running with me. This was only the 4th time he's come. And I could tell my pace was painful for him. I encouraged him to run at his own pace and, finally, he agreed. My husband took off and left me and the stroller (with Zoey in it) to prance lithely through the dust behind him**. In no time at all he faded into the early morning green-black smudge of trail and trees far ahead of us.

Part of me, yes, was a little bitter that he has been running FOUR TIMES and already is much, much faster than I am. But most of me was happy that we were all out on the trail at the same time. I was just happy to be running on a summer morning on a shaded trail. I was happy to be the fastest and most graceful runner in sight. And happy that fast is a feeling, much like beautiful is, that can be kept in my head and in my heart.

* Why yes, Demetri is the more caring and kind spouse.

** Please note who has the stroller FOR THE ENTIRE RUN. I am also nice. And very, very modest.

Upon Closer Inspection

2010-08-23T07:42:00.007-05:00

We have a contract on a house up here (pause for appreciation and applause) and today is the inspection. Demetri and I are both anxious about this process and we each are imagining catastrophic scenarios. But in different ways. Very very different ways. While I am worrying about structural instability, roof leakage, and/or evil wire-chewing bunnies in the basement (Hi Carla and Josh!), Demetri has . . . other concerns. Mainly, hobos. That's right, hobos. Not tramps, who work only when forced. Not bums, who don't work. But hobos, as in wondering workers*.

Now it's possible (but not probable) that a little background on the house will help explain Demetri's concern. The house backs up to woods -- preservation wetlands. But on the other side of the woods there is a train track. I think it's important to point out that it's a commuter train. But Demetri, apparently, thinks the type of train is irrelevant. He states, "The type of train is irrelevant. Hobos can be on any kind of train. They're probably all living back there in the conservation wetlands. Right behind our house." My response was in 3 parts: 1. Laughter. Whether or not it was in his face is somewhat irrelevant. You know, just like the type of train. 2. Questioning his fear of hobos (based on the idea that hobos don't really exist anymore) and 3. Wondering if we should proceed to buy a house that may or may not abut a blossoming hobo city in the conservation wetlands.

Demetri assured me that he is not afraid of the hobos, per se. He is more worried about them. I jokingly said that I had better not bake a pie and then set it on the windowsill to cool. And . . . Demetri nodded his head in fervent agreement saying, "Yes, it's probably a good thing you don't bake that often." He then added, "If someone comes to the door carrying a stick with a red and white polka dot bag tied on the end, DO NOT ANSWER THE DOOR." Eventually, we came to an agreement that the existence of a hobo community between our house and the commuter rail would be a deal breaker. So . . . we'll see what happens.

But on another note: I knew that one day my lack of baking skills would be seen as a huge asset. I knew it! VICTORY IS MINE!

* http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hobo

OMG! Wagon Riding: the gateway mode of transportation to train hopping! Nooooooo!

The Good Stuff

2010-08-09T13:58:00.002-05:00

With all the crap that's happened in the last few weeks, there was some good stuff. Some funny stuff. Some I-don't-want-to-forget stuff. And here is some of it:

1. This is a picture Zoey drew for me while I was in the hospital. It is, in fact, a picture of me. At the hospital. Distended belly? Check! Scar from surgery? Check! Belly button? Check! It's surprising with all that attention to detail that I have only one arm and no hair. Especially since a certain hot husband with a fine ass and a degree in art helped with the rendering. Boomer, our now deceased cat, and Zoey are also pictured.

2. When I went to the first ER Zoey came with me. Once we had secured ourselves a room, I was told to change into a hospital gown. After I put it on, Zoey looked up at me, gasped, and I swear she did the thing where she holds both her hands up in the shape of a square like a picture, "Oh Mommy! You look goooooood! You pretty! Pay for that dress with the monies!" That's right people, I rock a hospital gown.

3. On the day after the first ER, I lay on the couch most of the day. Zoey kept coming over and tucking my feet in the blanket. She would pat my feet with both of her hands and solemnly say, "You OK Mommy. You OK now." And I ask you, what is more comforting than having someone pat your feet and tell you that you are OK?

4. In the second ER, we were in a room that had a glass patio-like slider door that separated us from the chaos of the hallway. Zoey would peer out the glass and whenever she saw anyone wearing white or wearing scrubs she would screech, "HERE COME THE DOCTORS! H-I-I-IDE!" My sentiments exactly.

DANGER!

2010-08-02T15:49:00.005-05:00

So . . . it's been a while. And, man oh man, do I have some good excuses. I was at the ER 3 times in one week. The first time so they could put me through painful and humiliating tests and then fail to diagnosis my apendicitis. The second time was for more humiliating tests and a correct diagnosis of apendicitis . . . and then a 5 day stay in the hospital. (Side note: after my suregery, because the first ER and then my surgeon messed up, I couldn't/can't pee on my own. And let me tell you -- there's nothing that makes a girl feel sexy and confident like a warm bag of your own pee strapped to your leg!) THEN I was back at the ER the day after I got out of the hospital because I couldn't breathe. THEN our car broke. THEN the house we are trying to sell broke (while people were looking at it) -- the AC went out, the downstairs toilet leaked all over the hardwood floors, and the fire alarm was beeping. And then over the weekend our cat got hit and killed by a car.

If any one or two of these things had happened in isolation it would be manageable. Doable. It would be life being life. But all these things at once is a bit much. I know there are people out there in the world - in this country, town, and block - that are experiencing much worse things. Terrible, horrible, inhumane, unimaginable things. And yet . . . I still feel beat up. I feel scared. I feel like something is going to jump out and get me.

While driving, I am certain each and every car is going to hit us. While walking down the block I'm sure I'm going to get side swiped by a truck. Or stung by a bee. At the grocery store the lady in the produce isle in the red tank top with a sequenced cat on it is looking at me funny. I think that she and her sequenced cat are going to push me down and steal my cheese and tomatoes. Somehow it is not reassuring to me that this actually does not happen. On Sunday we took Zoey to a farm to see the animals. I was convinced that the yellow-eyed goat was going to paw at the ground, let lose with a foamy snarl from his mouth, and chew through the fence to attack me with rabid, spiky teeth. Now, as far as I know, goats don't generally have spikey teeth. Or rabies. Or even exceedingly violent outbursts. And yet . . .

The world just seems to be a dangerous place right now. More so than usual. For now, I'm holding on and going through the motions. For now, I am lucky to have people that love me when I'm a little bit crazy and a little bit scared. And when I have a sexy bag of pee strapped to my leg.

Wield Your Powers for Good

2010-07-09T13:54:00.003-05:00

Earlier today while I was hiding in the pantry eating pretzel M&M's* and attempting to ignore the tortured sobbing coming from my child who was in time out for hitting me, I had a thought. Perhaps it is possible to bend the will of the universe. No, no, not bend the will of a toddler. That's an exercise in futility. I'm talking about the universe. You know, the totality of everything that exists. Unlike toddlers, the universe, apparently, has been "governed by the same physical laws and constants throughout most of its history"**. So we have that going for us. And I say "us" because I am enlisting your help with this whole bending-the-will-of-the-universe thing. Now, before you get all twitchy and run away screaming, "No, no! Stop the madness!" let me remind you that a similar experiment already worked for Carla over at Adjustment and Disorder. She got the powers that be (AKA, her readers) to bend the will of the universe and move her placenta. And if we can accomplish that, well, we can for sure get someone to buy our house. You don't even have to know anything about anatomy for this one. So, please, pray, meditate, do Jedi mind tricks -- Whatever is your bag and help us sell our house. Please. By the end of July.

'Kay? Thanks.

* I am not normally a fan of pretzels. I mean, I'll eat them if I'm about to die of starvation. Or if I'm on an airplane. But pretzel M&M's? OH. MY. GOD. Yum.

** http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Universe

The Club* (Dad, do not read due to unsavory language)

2010-07-07T10:11:00.005-05:00

Meal times are often "challenging". By which I mean hellatious. And painful. Literally, physically painful. There is whining. Pouting. Yelling. Full body protesting. And that's only Zoey. Demetri and I also add a certain . . . how to describe it? . . . je ne se qua. Something like angst. And frustration tolerance that is more appropriate for our shoe size than our wizened age.

But then Demetri came up with a brilliant idea: The Clean Plate Club. On night one of the Operation CPC , Demetri and I sold The Clean Plate Club like nobody's business. As I took my last bite of peas Demetri gasped and pointed at my plate, "Look! Mommy is the The Clean Plate Club. That is AMAZING!" I was high-fived and fussed over. And . . . I felt pretty gosh darn proud that I cleaned my plate. Demetri finished his last bite of salad. I clapped my hands, "Daddy's in The Clean Plate Club! He cleaned his plate! Woo-hoo!" High-fives were exchanged again, Daddy's eating abilities were complimented, and I might have even done The Clean Plate Club Dance (and no, you will never see it). Then, once the raucous celebrations had ceased, a small voice from the end of the table said, "Zoey want Clee Plate Club." VICTORY WAS OURS!!!

Thus our lives proceeded for a few wondrous nights in pain-free dinners. There was laughing and smiling. And more dancing. Dinners were eaten. No one was hurt -- emotionally or physically. Clearly, we were genius parents.

And then last night happened. I slaved in a kitchen well over 90 degrees making baked apples, pork chops, and mashed potatoes. Which, BY THE WAY, is a well-known favorite meal of Zoey's. Dinner was served. 30 seconds later my charming child declares, "Zoey in Plate Club NOW!" The fact the she left out the word 'clean' demonstrated a fundamental lack of understanding of The Clean Plate Club laws. So I clarified: "To be in The Clean Plate Club you have to eat all the food off your plate." Zoey pointed her finger at me, rolled her eyes, and said, "No. Zoey in Plate Club. NOW." And I swear she spoke slower than usual, like I was too dumb to keep up with normal conversational pace. Demetri clarified. Zoey apparently decided we were too dumb for verbal communication so she she turned around in her chair and put her back to us. "ZOEY ALL DONE. IN PLATE CLUB." And then she covered her mouth with her hand for emphasis. Let me be clear. At this point, Zoey had eaten EXACTLY NOTHING.

Demetri and I ate our dinner. Which was DELICIOUS, by the way. I started eating the mashed potatoes off Zoey's plate because I was too lazy to get more from the stove. And, let's be honest, she was soooo not going to touch them. As I spooned the last bite into my mouth, Zoey whipped around in her chair and screeched, "NOOOOOO! Those ZOEY'S! WAAAAHHHHH" (pause for her to refill her lungs) "Noooooo Mommy!!!!! THOSE! ARE! ZOEY'S! WAAAH!" Demetri got her more from the stove. Which she didn't touch. At this point, driven to insanity by the heat (and maybe by someONE else as well), I muttered, "You are NOT even close to being in The Clean Plate Club, kid. And it's too bad because The Clean Plate Club is FUN. In fact, Daddy and I are going to go have fun and you can sit here and eat your dinner. BY. YOUR. SELF." And, of course, you know what happened next: "ZOEY HAVE FUN TOOOOOOOO! PLLLEEEEEEEEEEEEEEZE! WAAAAAH!"

But guess what happened after that. THE KID ATE HER MOTHER FUCKING DINNER.

No Pictures for Obvious Reasons

2010-07-06T06:19:00.003-05:00

We decided to celebrate the 4th of July this year with a triple almost-drowning. Yup, it was super festive! We went to Comet pond, which is legendary in Demetri's family. He grew up swimming there with his sisters and cousins. And now he was going to swim there with his daughter. Comet is great for many reasons. One of which is an extended family member has a house on Comet that sports a huge screened in porch and a private dock. The cooler was packed, a Dora the Explorer life jacket was purchased, and sun block was applied.

We arrived and picked our away along the worn path down to the water. Demetri held Zoey's hand as she tripped over roots and pine cones yelling, "Water! Zoey see water!" At the edge of the path we dumped our stuff and clipped Zoey into her life jacket. We walked to the end of the dock, I held Zoey's hand and looked at Demetri expectantly. For the 5 years I have known Demetri he has talked about Comet. About how great it is. About how he loves swimming there. "Well?" I said. "Aren't you going to get in?" Demetri shuffled his feet, gazed out across the water, and shrugged. "Eh. It might be cold."

Let me pause here and point out that my husband is a native New Englander. He regularly swims in MAINE. Where the average water temperature in July is 60 degrees. SIXTY. I, on the other hand, am used to swimming in South Carolina where the average water temperature in July is 84 degrees. I ask you, WHO SHOULD GET IN FIRST? HM?

My wimpy husband dipped his toe in the water and made an odd, stretchy face which I assumed meant the water was a bit chilly. I rolled my eyes. And I may have muttered something like some New England boy you are, looooooser. But on second thought, no. I probably said something sweet and endearing. Because that's the kind of wife I am.

So I got in. That's right: I GOT IN. Mad props to the non New Englander. Zoey was handed to me. And, let me just say, she handled the water like a true New Englander. Unlike some other people I could mention. I clasped Zoey (and her Dora life vest) to my chest and began to swim towards the floating dock that was a little ways out in the water. Swimming with a 27 pound toddler held to your chest is not as easy as it sounds. I began to sink a bit lower in the water than I would have liked. Zoey began to contemplate panicking. I smiled for Zoey's sake and grunted between gasps for air, "Honey. Get. In. Here. NOW." And to his credit, Demetri got in. And somehow we all 3 made it to the floating dock. But then, our mood disordered toddler decided she did not want get up on the floating dock which moments before she had begged, begged, to swim out to. Cries of "NOOOOOoooooOOOOOOoooooo GOOOOO BAAAAAACCCKKKK" echoed across the pond.

As commanded, we started to head back. At this point I noticed a kayaker near by. Well, that looks fun, I thought. I continued to do a kind of flailing back/side stroke with Zoey held to my chest which, of course, meant I didn't have the use of my arms. About half way back to land I began to go under. "Demetri," I sputtered, "I don't have her." And, then, so as not to alarm Zoey, I spelled out H-E-L-P and took water into my mouth. I hoisted Zoey on to Demetri's back, yelled, "YAY! FUN ON DADDY'S BACK!" just as I slipped further under the pond water. I popped up immediately as my arms were freed. Again, I noticed the kayak which was now within a few strokes of us. Now instead of realizing the kayaker had come closer to offer help as we flailed more and more hopelessly in the water I thought, Geeze, you have a whole pond here HOW ABOUT A LITTLE SPACE. Yup, I'm a few Crayons short of a full box. (sigh). Zoey is on Demetri's back smiling that she gets a pont ride in the water. Meanwhile Demetri is sinking lower and lower in the water, his mouth constantly dipping below the water line. I have one hand pushing Zoey's butt up and out of the water so she feels supported. And so her head remains above water. "MUST. BUY. RAFT." I gasp. Demetri sputters choking on some water, "CAN'T. LAUGH. DROWNING." And we still don't ask the kayaker for help -- WE ARE IDIOTS. We make it to the dock, hoist Zoey up, and pull ourselves up onto the sun-warmed wood. Demetri and I lie gasping for air, exhausted. Zoey laughs and chants, "So funny! That so funny!"

Demetri and I look at each other and, perhaps making the smartest decision we have ever made as parents, decide not to come back to Comet until next summer. At least not without a raft. With sides. Otherwise known as A BOAT.

The Princess Pusher

2010-06-29T10:01:00.006-05:00

We made it to Massachusetts. And, well, I've been afraid to blog. At times it feels like I have too much to say and at other times I have nothing to say. Plus, I'm certain I've lost the ability to write anything worth reading. Yup. Pretty certain. So, instead of telling you all that has happened and not happened, I am going to tell you about The Princess Pusher.

Less than 48 hours after Zoey set foot on Yankee soil, we needed to take her to the doctor (swollen adenoids, snoring, baaaaaad sleep). And, as there is only one pediatric group in the town, we took Zoey in. We met with Dr. S. Right away I got a bad feeling -- the man has an oddly shaped head. Think upside down eggplant. With a puff of fluffy hair on top. Yes, I know one shouldn't judge a doctor based on the shape of his head but . . . but . . . I did. I am a terrible human being. Okay? Happy?

ANYWAYS.

Dr. S initially seemed nice enough. He said hi to Zoey and her baby. Then he asked Zoey, "Are you a silly girl? I bet you are a silly girl!" He proceeded to ask her that exact same question exactly 576 times during the appointment. And in the tone one uses to speak to small animals. Small, caged animals.

Then things really started to go downhill. Zoey let the doctor look in her mouth which earned her a sticker. Dr. S ran out of the room and came back with a (. . . wait for it) DISNEY PRINCESS STICKER. Dr. S hands Zoey the sticker and says, "Oh! You're a princess aren't you? A silly, silly princess! This princess looks just like you!" Now, to be fair, Zoey was wearing a tutu over a pink skirt, and, for some, this conjures images of princesses. But this was the princess on the sticker:

And this is a picture of my daughter:

Um . . . notice anything? Anything at all? Like, oh, say, Belle is WHITE and my daughter is OF COLOR. As in NOT WHITE. As in BIRACIAL that doesn't include Caucasian. And Belle has STRAIGHT HAIR and Zoey has VERY VERY CURLY HAIR. Zoey does not know that she does not look like Belle. But in the next year or two, she will. And I know it's my job to make sure that those differences are just that -- differences. Not bad. Not good. But here's the thing, I don't want Zoey to think she is supposed to look like Belle. Or Cinderella. Or Jazmin. So, I don't appreciate a doctor telling my daughter that she does look like Belle and/or insinuating that she should want to look that way.

And maybe if Dr. S had let the princess thing go, maybe I could have left without thinking more unkind things about his unfortunately shaped head. But no. That's not what happened. Dr. S continued to push the princesses: : Oh, you're a silly princess! Oh, you look just like Snow White! Oh, you're Sleeping Beauty aren't you? Oh, you silly, silly princess you!

So clearly I have some "feelings" about Dr. S, his silly, silly princesses and his silly, silly shaped head. I miss our old pediatrician. And I miss the safe familiarity of a place called home.

Cool Moms Care: PPD - Reach for the Light

2010-05-25T07:11:00.003-05:00

This week's Cool Moms Care post is up. I'm just a little ray of sunshine this week - I wrote about Postpartum/post-adoption depression. It's an important topic so click here to read it. Share your own experiences. REACH OUT.

"We"

2010-05-24T06:00:00.001-05:00

Apparently, Zoey and I have become a unit, a single entity. Like Brangelina, but less hip and with less skeezy facial hair. I catch my self saying things like, "We're working on sharing" and "We just started potty training." And yet I know how to share (Demetri may be laughing his shapely ass off right now). And I know how to use the potty. It is, in fact, my lovely daughter who is learning to do these things. I am already a functional member of society; I don't walk around with crap in my pants or hit people on the head when they so much as look at my My-Pretty-Pony.

But I am a SAHM. I spend almost all day every day with Zoey. And somehow, with all that time spent being Zozo's mom, I have lost some of who I am. I love my daughter and I would gladly give up at least half of who I am for her, maybe even more. It's when I start giving up all of who I am that I get a little less glad. Frustrated and angry might be better descriptors. And then I feel guilty. I feel like I should be grateful for every minute I get to spend at home with my daughter. I feel like I should be cherishing things, and baking pink cupcakes, and scrap booking. But I'm not. And then a thought wafts into my mind, a teeny, tiny wisp of a thought: maybe I don't like being a stay at home mom . . .

Usually I turn my back on that thought. Brush it away. Pretend it never happened. But then I'll be forced to go to some kind of schmoozing/mingling event and find I have nothing interesting to say beyond, "Yes, I have a daughter. She's 2. No, I don't work outside the home." Or I'll get my high school update in the mail -- the one where they tell you what everyone from your class is doing so you can feel inferior about your own life: "Susie started a school in Afganistan! Chad is running for congress! Janet just purchased a home in the Bahamas!" And that teeny tiny thought will come back.

Lately that thought has been more insistant. What was a wisp is now more like a brick hitting me on the side of the head. And I wonder, Is it OK? Is it possible to love my daughter and not feel fulfilled by being a SAHM? Am I allowed to want to be something other than Zozo's mom? I have to be honest, a lot of times it feels like those things are not possible, are not OK. It feels bad to want more than I already have because, well, I have a lot. But when I can think instead of feel, it seems OK. At least I think it probably is. I hope it is. OK, fine. I still have a lot of guilt. Here's the truth: I really want it to be OK.

So I'm thinking that maybe once we're in Boston and we're settled and Zoey is in a school program and everyone is feeling OK about the world, I might get a job. Maybe. Or I might not. But I might. I might try and use my graduate education that I'm still paying off. Or I might volunteer at a worthy non-profit. Or I might enact my plan to take down the republicans. But whatever it is, at the next cocktail party I want to be able to say something like, "Yes, I'm Zozo's mom. She's 2. We just mastered the potty. And I'm writing a book."

P.S. - If your a SAHM, I'd love to know how you feel about it. If you get paid to work, I 'd love to know how you feel about that to.

Cool Moms Care: Sleep Skills

2010-05-18T09:08:00.002-05:00

This week's (yaaaaawn) Cool Moms Care post is (yaaaawn) up. Click here to . . . to . . . zzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.

Ta-Don't

2010-05-14T12:59:00.004-05:00

I am in a foul mood. FOUL. So, what better time to do a blog post! Wheee! I am sitting on my parents' screened-in porch while Zoey is napping (finally). And I am trying to improve my mood/console myself/get really, really fat by eating Oreo funstixes. That's right, funstixes plural. And no they are not as good as regular old double stuff Oreos. And putting an 'x' in stix really doesn't make them more fun. It makes them ANNOYING.

It was a hell of a morning here. Shortly after waking up Zoey decides to blatantly break the one and only rule that exists at Gramme and Pop-pop's house: no jumping on the couch. She knows this rule. She knows it well. And in fact I had just said, "Zoey. NO. JUMPING. ON. THE. COUCH." I even used my stern mommy I-mean-business voice. So what does she do? She jumps from the couch to the coffee table. Which, by the way, is glass. After she lands, and somehow miraculously does not break the glass, she raises her arms triumphantly above her head and yells, "TA-DA!" She does all this while looking directly at me.

Ta-da my ass.

So Zoey goes into time-out. Her butt is in the chair faster than you can say 1-2-3 Magic. Then she looks at me, while I am giving her the mean mommy stink eye no less, and laughs. She laughs. I begin to tell her that it's not funny, that she is in trouble, and that she had better shuthermouthandstayinthatchairORELSE. Zoey stands up and begins jumping on the chair. While pointing at me. And laughing. I was not amused. I set her in the chair again and decided to go look busy so she has less of an audience. Zoey promptly climbs out of the chair, runs over, and hits me in the stomach. Hard. So I become A FORCE TO BE RECKONED WITH. I potato sack her into her room, put her on the floor, and perhaps yell something about not wanting to see at her, not wanting to hear her, and not wanting to be in the same room as her. Thank god she does not yet posses the vocabulary to point out that the last part of the previous statement was repetitive and, well duh, obvious. I slammed her door, she on one side, me on the other. Zoey cried. And for at least 30 seconds I felt good -- somehow vindicated that I had made her cry, that I had made her feel punished.

Then, as what I was feeling started to sink in, I felt . . . shitty. Shitty and ashamed. What kind of mother wants to make her daughter cry? What kind of mother suspects her daughter of being spiteful at times? And what made it all a bit worse was the fact that my parents witnessed all of it with something, I suspect, close to horror.

After two minutes (standard time out protocol) I went back in to Zoey's room. Even though she was sniffling into her arm and wouldn't look at me, I picked her up. I hugged her. I told her that I love her. She clung to my shoulders and cried into the soft cradle of my neck. When she finally looked up at me, shame softly wafted between us, and then blew away. I wiped away her tears and she murmured, "Better."

And although Zoey has forgiven me, I'm still thinking about what I could have done differently, done better. I know I could have done a lot worse. But something about the whole thing was less than good-enough. And now I have a tiny little hole in my heart. A tiny little hole which the Oreo Stixes don't seem to be filling up. I think, and I hope, that it's one of those holes that will fill up with time and with practice. And with doing better next time.

Let It Be Known

2010-05-13T12:57:00.004-05:00

Dear Joslyne,

I just turned two. 2. T-W-O. Yes, I know you were there. But, much to my disappointment, you still don't seem to get it. Please, allow me to clarify:

This year I shall rule with an iron fist of TERROR. The two's are called the Terrible Two's for reasons that go beyond alliteration. "Terrific" also starts with 't' and yet it is rarely associated with the two's. Know that every single day I am getting bigger, faster, and more whiney.

We are 10 days into my Reign of Terror and I think it's high time I stop calling you by the sentimental title of mom. In fact, I can't believe I've let it go on this long. Instead, when I choose to acknowledge you, I will use your first name. If I do not choose to acknowledge you, please, for the love of god, TAKE. THE. HINT. I am ignoring you as I do not wish to be tainted by your meager presence or pithy demands. Subtle hints that I do not wish to recognize your existence include slamming the door in your face, pushing, and the freakishly high-pitched screeching of "NoooooOOOOOOOOOOooooooooooooOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!"

As Ruler of All Things I reserve the right to make absurd and profoundly disturbing demands. That's right, I will only eat macaroni and cheese in a tent in the living room and I will wear your underwear on my head whenever I choose. And WOE IS TO SHE who does not immediately do my bidding. WOE IS TO SHE.

I also expect you, and all whom I rule, to become fluent in Whine. Please learn the various meanings for "EEEEEEEeeeeeeeeeeEEEEEEEEaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhhh!" and "UUUUHHHHHHHeeeeeeeeAAAAAAAAAAAA!" immediately. It should go without saying that when I choose to converse and communicate in Whine I still expect to be adored and revered, as I would be at all other times. I am adorable. Always. Yes, even when I fling my poop across the room. ADORABLE.

I decide when I am finished eating, not you. And I may sit and play with my food for as long as I like. It addition, I expect to be offered up to 5 different meals at any one meal time. Also, I do not need to sit in my chair. I can stand in it, climb on it, lick it, and/or push it over at my discretion. You, of course, must ensure that I do not scathe myself in any way. If I do incur any kind of injury, no matter how small, know that you are a FAILURE and a SHAM of a parent.

Please take note and respond accordingly.

Your supreme and most adorable ruler,

Zoey

Cool Moms Care: A True Mother's Day

2010-05-12T07:31:00.002-05:00

This week's Cool Moms Care post is up. I'm kind of nervous about it and would appreciate some love. Click here to read it.

I'm an Adult! And I Have the Wallet to Prove it!

2010-05-10T15:33:00.005-05:00

For Mother's Day Demetri gave me a wallet. An actual, real, live, adult wallet. It has all these sperate compartments for . . . stuff. Like cash. And credit cards. And all the other important cards I might want to carry. Like, the Lenny's Sub Shop sandwich card (buy 5 and get one free!) and the business card of my former (like 5 years ago) therapist. I don't see her and I don't talk to her but it somehow makes me feel better to carry around her card and stare at her name every once in a while when things get really tough. Plus, it's purple. The wallet, not my therapist. The thing that is most adult about the wallet is the comparent for change -- it doesn't zip shut, it clasps. You know, like an old lady purse. Every time I clasp it or unclasp it I feel very mature. Very in control. Very Hey look at me and my new adult wallet with a snappy clasp thingy!

But enough about that. My favorite thing about the wallet is the coupons it came with. That's right, my delightfully charming, kind husband with a hot ass made me home made coupons. And one of them entitles me to WIN AN ARGUMENT. Not that I generally need help with this. But, man oh man, do I have big plans for this coupon. True, I can only redeem it once and it has a rapidly approaching expiration date, but imagine the possibilities (especially with our upcoming move):

Scenario 1:

Demetri: Oh! I really want to live in ______ town.

Me: I don't.

Demetri: Well, I do!

Me: WELL TOO BAD MISTER! (waaa-tsshhhhh!!!*) Say so long to that little dream!

Scenario 2:

Demetri: I think we should have another baby.

Me: No way.

Demetri: Yeah, it'll be so fun!

Me: WELL TOO BAD Picasso! (waaa-tsshhhhh!!!*) Did I mention that you have a very special doctor's appointment next Monday?

Scenario 3:

Demetri: Hm. I think I'll buy these peg leg jeans.

Me: But why?

Demetri: Because I'll look good in them.

Me: No you won't.**

Demetri: Yes I will.

Me: WELL TOO BAD BUCKAROO. (waaa-tsshhhhh!!!*) Tim Gunn wants me to tell you you can't make it work.

Ah yes! I can rule the world! Bwhahahaha! I am now taking suggestions for coupon use.

* This is the sound of me 'whipping' out the coupon. You know, in case you didn't get it.

** Because NO ONE does.

Cool Moms Care: Cliff Jumping

2010-05-08T19:17:00.003-05:00

A new post is up at Cool Moms Care. Click here to read about a "discussion" I won (!!) and about change/fear.

And click here to go to the Cool People Care site to learn about how you can help victims of the flood.

In Which I am the Mother of a 2 Year Old

2010-05-04T04:00:00.000-05:00

Today my daughter, Zoey, is 2 (!!) years old. And she is already making the world a better place:

She teaches birds to fly . . .

She tends a garden . . .

She has excellent fashion sense . . .

She shares her chocolate . . .

She is safety conscious . . .

She excels at hand-holding . . .

She's not afraid to get her hands dirty . . .

She helps people celebrate . . .

She remember to stop and chat with animals . . .

She comforts babies -- Shhh! Shhh! Shhh!

And she dances like she means it . . .

Happy Birthday Zoey!!!

We are so lucky to have you as our daughter!

We met you the day you were born . . .

And have loved you every day since.

(click here for birthday blog post from last year)

Birthday Eve

2010-05-03T18:01:00.003-05:00

So, I'm in the middle of writing a post for Zoey's birthday tomorrow. There's some things that don't quite fit in that post but that I don't want to forget.

I want to remember how Zoey says "Thank you very much" when she hands me something she no longer want and how she grabs for my finger when we're walking. I want to remember how when Zoey clunks her head, stubs her toe, or barely grazes her elbow on the table she pushes her bottom lip out and says, "Kiss please." Once she has been kissed she nods her head and says, "That's better." She pats my cheek and pulls on my ears during story time before bed. I want to remember how it feels when she grants me a kiss -- like silvery stars, like unicorns exist. I want to remember how her lips form a tiny 'O' when she sleeps. And how she flails around during the night so that her feet are over the bed rails and her shirt is up to her arm pits. I want to remember how she hugs me when she's half asleep and her back is sweaty from the car. The pitch of her voice when she says "Mommy." The exact temperature of her hand casually perched on my knee -- like I'm just a bigger extension of her body. I want to remember how she looks scrawny in the bath and how she tilts her head back, eyes squinted shut, to let me rinse the shampoo from her hair. How she eats strawberries -- with huge drippy bites and golden joy. I want to remember the soles of her feet. The tiny half moon birth mark on her lower back. The smell behind her ears. The tiny pink poke of a tongue as she makes faces at me. Her laugh. Yes, I always want to remember the trill of her child laugh -- like the magic and surprise of a firefly cupped in my hand.

A Lesson at the Playground

2010-04-28T07:51:00.007-05:00

So I'm at the playground with Zoey. We're having a perfectly lovely time -- strolling from the slide to the swings, pausing to pet a tree. The breeze is gentle, the sun is sunny, and we can smell the ocean (which is about 50 yards away). Zoey is singing 'Do-Re-Mi' from the sound of music as she holds my pointer finger and leads me towards the twisty slide.

In quick succession 3 mini vans pull up. Before the first van is fully stopped the the side door is flung open and 3 boys jump/push/climb out. Zoey and I stop in our tracks, alarmed to see kids launching themselves out of a MOVING VEHICLE. The next two vans pull in and more boys pile out. All 8 boys are now running directly towards us as we are between them and the playground. Zoey is clinging to my leg. The boys are yelling. Mostly just making noise like ARG! and YAAAAA! Except for one boy who is inexplicably yelling, "Die! Die! DIEEEEEEEEEEE!" The boys, none of whom have a sense of personal space, run within 2 inches of us. Zoey hides her face and begins to mutter, "No no no no." Several of the boys pick up large sticks and begin to hit them as hard as they can against the side of the slide. Two of the boys are wresting on the ground. The mothers, wearing over-sized sunglasses and toting ginormous Coach purses, climb out of the vans and teeter across the playground in their high heeled flip-flops.

I pick up Zoey and take her to a part of the playground that is clearly designed for the under 5 set. But the boys swarm us. The boys are running (!) with sticks (!!) pretending they are guns (!!!). One of the other mothers comes over to us. She waves vaguely in the direction of the sweaty mass of running/wresting/yelling boys and sighs. "Three of them are mine." "Wow. They certainly are, um, energetic" I offer. The woman does a half smile and looks longingly down at Zoey. "You sure are lucky to have a girl. You and your daughter are at home having tea parties and my boys are out picking up dead animals." Before I can even think what to say to this, the woman is charging across the sand to one of her boys, "I told you not to hit him on the head or the face! Give. Me. That. Stick. AndImeannowmister!"

I take Zoey's hand and lead her towards the car. She's holding on to me tighter than before and I'm feeling sort of smug. My relatively mellow girl child and I are headed home where she won't pretend that anything is a gun and she won't be roaming the yard for dead animals. I am happy with my one daughter. Who isn't a boy. Or three.

In Which I Fall Off the Face of the Earth

2010-04-27T16:04:00.005-05:00

So here's what happened:

Demetri got a job in Boston. But we couldn't tell anyone about it until his current job announced that he was leaving. Which wasn't until last week. But we had to pack up all our crap*, have a garage sale, ship the animals off to generous relatives in New England**, make arrangements to paint the house neutral colors***, and pick out new carpet for the upstairs because the cat ruined the carpet with his razor sharp TALONS. And then Zoey and I had to get the heck out of there while painting and carpeting occurred because, seriously, can you imagine doing all that around nap times and with a toddler under foot? Well, probably you can. We, on the other hand, are wimps. But wimps with options. So now Zoey and I are in South Carolina wreaking havoc at The Grandparents beach pad while Demetri is at home dealing with manufacturally defected carpet and sleeping under 7 sets of sheets because he packed all our blankets into a pod that is now being stored in Nashville. Awesome. Being at the beach is awesome. But being away from Demetri and having a rushed goodbye from good friends and missing our comfortable little routine**** and being sick (sniff sniff) is a little less than awesome. My inner therapist is screaming, TOO MUCH STRESS! POOR CLOSURE! TOO MANY BIG CHANGES! LOTS OF LOSS! And then my inner therapist gets some control and serenely repeats, You do not do well with changes. You do not do well out of your routine. Learn. The. Lesson. But moving is messy. And chaotic. So for now I'm sticking to my primitive defense mechanisms (sleep, denial, passive aggression, etc. etc.). And stealing Internet from a neighbor.

* "Crap" is defined as clutter and excess junk that makes the house less likely to show well. We have a lot of "crap".

**Neither the cat nor the dog puked or pooped in their crate. VICTORY!!!

*** Apparently very few people appreciate a bright yellow kitchen, a red library, a blue dining/play room, and a green bathroom. THHPPPTTTT to them!

**** Have I mentioned that I am big on routines? As in You can pry my routine out of my cold, dead hands.

Pretty Good!

2010-04-13T09:16:00.004-05:00

Last night we were preparing for our after dinner ritual of ice cream. Ben & Jerry's Creme Brulee anyone? Demetri was scooping out the ice cream into three little bowls. Zoey was hanging off the kitchen counter with her finger tips while bouncing on her toes, "Ice cream! Ice cream!" I was pretending to be a cool, restrained, patient adult. That lasted about 11 seconds. I gave in and joined the chant, "Ice cream! Ice cream!"

Usually, once we all have our bowls, we sit around the kitchen table or sometimes hang out on the couch. But last night, due to some wack-a-doo toddler thought process, Zoey perceived us as a direct threat to her ice cream. She clutched her bowl to her chest with one hand while she waved her other hand in front of her in the universal signal of Get Away From Me. Zoey looked up at us through narrowed eyes and said, "Mommy, Daddy, NO! Zoey ice cream!" And then she fled to the safety of the play room.

Demetri and I sat on the couch, put our feet up, and prepared to enjoy our creamy deliciousness without the presence of The Vulture. The Vulture usually downs her ice cream and then comes and begs for ours. When we offer her a spoon full, she puts it in her mouth, slobbers all over it, but actually doesn't take any ice cream off the spoon. Nice.

So there we sat, Demetri and I on the couch, and Zoey huddled in defensive mode in the playroom, all enjoying our tasty frozen treat. We sat in silence savoring each heavenly spoonful. As the ice cream melted in my mouth I could hear Zoey scraping at the bowl with her spoon and slurping the ice cream into her mouth. She smacked her lips, paused, and yelled out, "Pretty good!" Demetri and I shook with silent laughter. Then, from the play room, a clank, a bang, and "Uh-oh! Mess! Mess! Messsssssssssssssss!"

Art and Victory

2010-04-07T07:32:00.007-05:00

Some moms cherish rocking their baby back to sleep at 3 AM -- the quiet of the house, the sweet smell of the baby's neck, a moment of snugly peace. Me? Not so much. I cherish my sleep. I also madly cherish my daughter's refrigerator art. Behold!

And yes, that is in fact the turkey that has been up since Thanksgiving. But it is the very best hand turkey I have ever seen and I can't bear to take it down. Now the turkey has company! Like this abstract interpretation of nap time. Notice how the pink and green work to create a feeling of comfort and sleep while the orange mirrors the loss of missing out on play time.

Next we have a shamrock. A BEDAZZLED shamrock. Do I need to explain the searing brilliance of glitter? I think not.

And, hello! Hand tulips! Note the precise placement of the fingers to mimic petals. GENIUS!

Here is the piece de resistance, "Duck". Notice the vertical placement of the feathers -- a subtle commentary on hope and freedom as represented by flight.

Finally, you are probably wondering, Hey, what is that thing in the upper left corner of the fridge that doesn't look like art? Well, it's a Scrabble score sheet in which I, J, beat my mother-in-law, N. My MIL is also known as The Scrabble Goddess. It is rare that I beat her. It is rare that anyone beats her. So, although this game occurred about 6 months ago, the proof of my amazing Scrabble victory shall remain a prominent feature of our kitchen until the paper disintegrates. Or until I laminate it.

And yes, I am a very gracious winner. For the record, I am a mom who cherishes sleep, my daughter's refrigerator art, and VICTORY.

Fight the Power

2010-04-06T07:14:00.005-05:00

I am in the front seat of the car anxious and ready to leave because oh-my-god-if-we're-we're-not-at-least-5-minutes-early-we're-LATE. Demetri is attempting to wrangle Zoey into her car seat. Zoey is attempting to negotiate her terms of travel*:

Zoey: Bay-BEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!!!!

Demetri: Yes, you can bring your baby in the car.

Zoey: (kicking and flailing) Car seat! Bay-BEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!

Demetri: Baby doesn't need to go in a car seat . . . Although you're right, it would be safer for her. And safety is important.

Me: (audible eye roll that, sadly, isn't heard because of all THE SCREAMING)

Zoey: (more kicking) Bay-BEEEEE! SEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEAT!

Demetri: Well, I could put the booster seat in the car and then baby can sit in that!

Me: (massaging temples and whispering) Iamapatientperson . . . Iamapatientperson

Zoey: Baby. Seat. Car.

Demetri: Yeah, I'll put the booster seat in and baby will always have a safe place to sit! And you can put her in her own seat every time we go in the car! Yeah! It'll be so fun!

Me: (swivels around, locks eyes with Demetri) If you put that booster seat in the car We. Are. No. Longer. Friends.

And then I had to explain why I didn't want to booster seat in the car. I HAD TO EXPLAIN. I mean, you get it right? Right?

* I, as the Mean Mommy, do not believe in terms of travel.

Here, baby is being taught to smell the flowers. And fight The Power (aka Mean Mommy)

The Swimsuit Issue

2010-03-31T15:03:00.005-05:00

Dear Lands' End,

I just wanted to let you know that I appreciate your swim wear collection. I'm a fan of the 157 options you offer. It's great that you realize that women are not just one body type (i.e. - that of size 2 pre-teen), but instead offer us 5 types to choose from. I'm still not sure what a "star" body shape is, but it doesn't sound too bad. I'd rather be a "star" than, say, a "rectangle". And it's great that you allow a shopper to shop for a suit via her "anxiety zone":

Minimize Tummy-Waist (54)

Enhance Bust (38)

Lengthen Legs (37)

Minimize Hips-Thighs (36)

Enhance Waist (6)

Minimize Bust (4)However, you seem to be missing one anxiety zone in particular. May I suggest, "Enhance Ass"?

You see, those of us with a no-butt face a particular difficulty during swim season. NOTHING looks good on us. Take the swim skirt:

Sure, it looks all fetching and cute. Until we exit the pool. Then the fabric clings to the flat/board-like extension of our lower back (technically, our butt), making it all the more horrible to behold. No one needs to see that. And getting a regular a 'regular' swim bottom like so:

is also out because our gluteus is simply not maximus enough to fill it out. The extra fabric is not exactly flattering. True, it might be handy for storing swim toys, a life vest, or an extra soda or two but really, no one wants to see that either.

Perhaps you could add something like this to your suits?

Just an idea. Although I'm not sure if they float or sink. That would be something to look in to.

For now, I'm just going to have to order the striped bottoms:

Horizontal stripes are supposed to make you look curvy, right? Or maybe they make you look wider. I can't remember. But I also really appreciate your return policy.
Best-Joslyne

Cool Moms Care: 'Member?

2010-03-30T11:32:00.003-05:00

This weeks post is up at Cool Moms Care. Click here to read all about how Zoey now has a memory . . .

And I will have a new! original! exciting! post here on Zozo's Mom by tomorrow. But in the meantime, check out my latest Stinkerbells post on feminism.

Cool Moms Care: Zoey's Song

2010-03-23T07:42:00.003-05:00

This week's Cool Moms Care post is up. You can read all about my secret life as a song writer here.

Not My Fault (Again)

2010-03-18T08:05:00.002-05:00

Behold! The latest toddler haute couture! This little ensemble was put together for a birthday party Zoey attended over the weekend. And, in all fairness to my lovely and creative daughter, Daddy may have had some input on the outfit.

Yes. Well. . . .

Didn't you know? A moose shirt works well for any occasion! And sweat-pants aren't just for the gym! Oh no! They can double as sassy, loose leggings under any dress or skirt! Pink and brown with red and purple? Why not! We're not afraid of a little color in this house. (Ahem!)

Supreme Annoyance and #8 on The Suck It List

2010-03-15T15:15:00.007-05:00

It takes my husband 37 minutes to make a salad. THIRTY-SEVEN MINUTES. I find this . . . excessive. And yes, he does make an excellent salad -- complete with tomatoes, cucumbers, feta, sunflower seeds, and croutons. He even makes his own dressing. But somehow the goodness of the salad does not erase my SUPREME ANNOYANCE that it takes 37 minutes to make. I think my annoyance exists on two levels. Well, actually my annoyance is so multi-leveled that it could be a skyscraper. But my supreme annoyance exists on two levels: 1) I can make the same salad but way, way faster and 2) I can finish making the main course, clean off the table, make my daughter dinner, feed the animals, load the dishwasher, wash the remaining dishes, check Facebook, and set the table and Demetri WILL STILL BE MAKING SALAD. In fact, our conversation often goes like this:

Me: Honey? Dinner's ready. Is the salad done?
Demetri: Nope. I'm just about to start washing the lettuce.

Then my head explodes.

Now, if my husband had to go dig up the lettuce, toast the bread for croutons, or press the olives for oil I might be able to give him a break. But he doesn't have to do any of those things. So, he suffers my loving and well-intentioned wrath. See, in a recent and oddly domestic turn of events, I have started doing a lot more cooking. I generally have a reputation as, well, a bad cook. But lately I've made some good soups. A loaf of bread without the bread machine thankyouverymuch. And a creamy chicken thing that involved the thickening of a delicate sauce. In some ways, this new culinary arrangement works out well for Demetri. He gets to eat good food, etc. etc. But in other ways, this turn of events might not be the best thing that ever happened to him. Because, as it turns out, I'm a bit of a kitchen bitch.

See, my domestic partner and I, we have different kitchen/cooking philosophies. His is more of the food-is-fun, let's-enjoy-our-time-in-the-kitchen variety whereas I'm more of a I-must-follow-the-recipe-exactly-or-die-in-the-attempt type. And to say that I am anal about time and timing in the kitchen (and, sadly, in life) would be, at the very least, a massive understatement. If I had an apron it would say, "No Pain, No Gain." Or maybe, "Do it my way and do it according to my time table or get yelled at." The second one is less catchy but more accurate.

My other "issue" is that I can hold a grudge. If grudge holding was a sport I would medal. So the fact that the last 37 minute salad making incident occurred over a week ago is insignificant. Time does not dull my rage. When I go out for a run I use this rage and pound it out on the pavement with each step, "Thirty. Seven. Minute. Salad." My times are dropping like nobody's business. But I love my husband, despite his obvious salad-making faults. And I recognize that my annoyance, anger, and grudge may be the merest bit "unhealthy". Another word for it may be "cray-zee." So my new apron says, "Salad Can Suck It." And my new philosophy is that steamed vegetables make an excellent side dish.

(BTW, Check out a new recipe blog that I'm part of, The Flaming Toaster. Because, clearly, those who can't cook should be teaching others how.)

4 Hours

2010-03-11T11:16:00.006-06:00

Zoey started school this week! Yes, I know you know. Yes, I know I've written about it ad nauseam. And yes, I'm going to write about it again. Right now.

Zoey started school this week! She goes two days a week for two hours each day. In some ways this is not a lot of time. It's not even enough time for me to really go home and accomplish anything. So, instead, I go to a nearby bakery/coffee shop, order a tea and a pastry, and lounge on the couch. Oh, and I also look very busy and important typing on my laptop. Very busy. And important. Did I mention that I'm important yet? Part of my typing was, naturally, updating by Facebook status to "Child FrEEEEEEEEEEEEeeeeeEEEEEEEEE!" But for all anyone knew I was finishing up my book, single handedly bringing down the republican party, or any other number of important things.

Then I go pick up Zoey. She smiles hugely when she sees me. She tugs me around by the hand to show me her art work, the dolls she played with, the sink where she washed her hands. She points and then pulls on my hand just a bit more for emphasis. She looks up at me and her face, her entire body, is glowing with pride. Pride. It's an amazing thing to see my daughter full of herself in the most wonderful way. It's an amazing thing to see my daughter walk hand in hand with her new friends.

And that 4 hours that in some ways isn't a lot of time? Well, it's just enough time to help me remember all the things I love about my daughter. It's enough time to make staying at home with Zoey today, a non school day, seem relaxed and, dare I say, special. We went grocery shopping this morning. We didn't hurry. We sang songs. We chatted. I enjoyed having my daughter gaze up at me, crinkle her nose, and laugh. I payed attention to how it feels when she holds my hand, when she buries her face in my neck.

We're all just feeling so proud and appreciative around here that we're thinking of putting Zoey in school for 3 mornings a week over the summer. Imagine how busy and important I can pretend to be then . . .

Cool Moms Care: In Which We Both Survive the First Day of School

2010-03-10T06:34:00.001-06:00

This week's Cool Moms Care post is up. Click here to see the cutest picture of Zoey ever. Oh, and to read about the first day of school.

A Case for Book Burning

2010-03-09T07:46:00.004-06:00

If I have to read 'Fiddle-I-Fee' one more time I'm going to . . . I'm going to . . . well, I'm going to do something that won't be nurturing or parental or at all exemplary. And I won't be spelling the four letter words while I do whatever it is that I'm going to do.

My first problem with 'Fiddle-I-Fee' is that it's a book that's meant to be sung. This does not work for me. I like to read my books and sing my songs. Yeah, yeah, I'm a big square, man. Deal with it.

My next problem is that it's one of those books that builds on itself. A boy is going around the farm feeding animals and each page adds one more animal. Then, on each page, you have to repeat all the animals from previous pages. There are a total of 9 animals. NINE! By the second animal I am already calculating how many more freaking animals there are. And there are always too many.

My last, and perhaps biggest, problem with the book is the sounds the animals make. Whoever wrote the book has clearly never been to a farm. Or a petting zoo. For example, the goose goes "swishy-swashy". Um . . . really? Because all the geese I know go 'Honk!' And the hen? She says "chispsy-chopsy". What THE HELL is that about? The dog, accurately, says "bow-wow, bow-wow" but this does not rhyme or fit syllabically with the song. Which may be while the full title of the book is "Fiddle-I-Fee: A Farmyard Song for the Very Young". The "very young" are probably less judgmental about rhyming, accuracy, and lyrics that . . . fit? I don't even know what to call this last thing because THERE IS NOT A TERM FOR IT. And why, why is that? BECAUSE PEOPLE DON'T CRAM LYRICS THAT DON'T FIT A MELODY INTO A SONG. Why? BECAUSE IT'S A STUPID THING TO DO.

It's amazing what can push us over the e-d-g-e, isn't it?

One of The Hills I'm Not Going to Die On

2010-03-03T08:47:00.003-06:00

I just wanted to let you know that Zoey is now dressing herself. As long as she chooses clothes that provide enough warmth and general coverage*, I'm not going to fight it. I do not possess the internal resources to argue every day over clothes. And I don't have the upper body strength to force her into things she doesn't want to wear. So . . . Behold!!!! Today's outfit:

Why, yes! That is a Christmas tree shirt! It's rather fetching, don't you think?**

Who says one can't be festive all year long? Not us! One can totally celebrate a winter holiday while sporting pants that speak to the hope of an early spring.

We also don't follow random societal rules, like the one about matching socks. Fight the power, baby!

So, um, yeah. Again: Zoey is dressing herself. Do you get what I'm saying? Hm? THE OUTFITS ARE NOT MY FAULT. Don't judge me. A well dressed and clothing-coordinated child is not necessarily an indicator of competent parenting. Right? RIGHT???***

* Yesterday she wanted to wear a tank top over her legs and nothing else. This is an example of inadequate coverage.

** Clearly, this is a rhetorical question

*** Not a rhetorical question.

Cool Moms Care: A Grateful Wimp

2010-03-02T09:33:00.002-06:00

This week's Cool Moms Care post is up. Go forth and read all about my wimpishness. Sigh.

17 Hours

2010-02-28T05:08:00.004-06:00

Hey there! Hi there! Ho there! HiiiiIIIIIIiii! We're back! And guess what! It's 5 AM! And I've already made 3 breakfasts! And watched 2 episodes of Sesame Street! And Zoey is sick again! And so am I! And Demetri is out of town!

This is actually the first time I have been alone with Zoey over night. Yes, I know that you are often home alone for many days at a time with your kid/s. No big deal, you're thinking. And maybe it isn't. For you -- a strong goddess-like being that possesses super mothering powers. I, on the other hand, am a wimp.

So Zoey and I got home last night after two long plane rides. Technically, the flights weren't long -- only an hour each. But it felt like . . . longer. Much, much longer. Sir, I'm sorry again about spilling Goldfish in your lap after knocking you in the head with my daughter's foot. Apologies also to everyone in rows 1 - 20. It is annoying to be knocked in the head/shoulder with a fellow passenger's bag as they go down the isle, isn't it? And to our seat mate in 21 F -- I'm pretty sure the snot and cream cheese stain will come out of your shirt. One of those stain-stick thingies might do the trick . . .

So yeah. We got home. Which is good. And Zoey was perhaps the merest bit tired and hungry and cranky. And sick. Low fever. Lots of snot. Cough. But I finally got her to go to sleep. And I was feeling pretty gosh darn pleased with myself. Which lasted about 35 minutes. Which, coincidently, was when Zoey began yelling, "Mamiiiiiiiiii! Boogahhhh! Nose!" This translation is just approximate but I believe the gist is, Mami I have boogers in my nose and can't sleep! So we read books. Drank some "cow". Sung some songs. And slept fitfully. Until the totally reasonable hour of 2:30 AM.

Now here we are. Zoey is sitting on her trike watching Sesame Street. I am gathering my patience and sanity . . . and counting the hours until Demetri gets home. (See title).

In Which I Make a Hard Decision and the Most Un-Sexy Purchase Ever

2010-02-18T11:05:00.007-06:00

It's come to this: I am now a person that owns a weekly pill organizer. You know, the plastic boxes that are divided into 7 compartments, one for each day of the week. Except mine has 14 compartments. That's right: FOURTEEN. For morning and night. Apparently, I'm that sickly. And let me tell you, this pill box isn't doing much for my self esteem. Not much at all. I'm going to have to hide it from Demetri. If he sees it, all romance will be gone from our mariage. Next thing you know, we'll be hitting the early bird dinner buffetts, rubbing medicated ointment on each other before sundown, and calling it a night. In separate twin beds. Awesome.

It doesn't help that I just canceled a 5 day trip with Demetri to San Francisco. He's going for a conference and I was going to tag along. But I've been under the weather for 3 weeks and I've been straddling the line that separates depression from, uh, not-depression. It's an exhausting place to be. I was looking forward to meeting Demetri's west coast fam . . . but I just can't do it. I can't make the long flight. I can't stay in an unfamiliar place. I can't be alone for 9 hours a day in a new city. So I'm not going. Instead, Zoey and I are making the short flight to my parents' home in South Carolina. Zoey will have a blast with The Grandparents and I will sleep and rest . . . and then sleep and rest some more. And I'll probably eat a lot of good food too -- coconut shrimp, key lime pie, curried chicken salad. I'll sit in the sun. Read on the porch. Walk on the beach. And I'll feel like a kid again -- safe and cared for in my parents' home. I'll have to hide the pill box from them too -- I don't want them to think I'm all grown up. Not yet.

This is my pouty-face . . . in case you weren't sure.

Cool Moms Care: Lies, Bribes, and Parenting

2010-02-16T09:08:00.003-06:00

This week's Cool Moms Care post is up. Click here to read all about my new life of crime.

Firsts

2010-02-15T17:48:00.004-06:00

I'm at home on the couch with a sinus infection. Ugh. Zoey is attending her first birthday party at The Jump Zone. With Demetri. Not me. And yes, I am jealous and I'm feeling sorry for myself. I like to be there for Zoey's firsts. The first time she goes to the zoo. The first time she sees the ocean. The first time she tastes a lemon. Tonight, I'm missing it. I'm not even sure exactly what I'm missing. But I know it involves my daughter and, most likely, cake. Two of my favorite things. Plus, Zoey is in this new phase where she loves holding hands with her friends. It kills me. In a good way. I can just imagine -- Zoey and her little friends in their stocking feet at The Jump Zone. They are moving carefully holding hands in a chain. They look at each other, laughing, squealing, gently bumping shoulders. If I was there I would be holding my hand over my heart, momentarily awed by seeing my daughter so loved by others. It's a big deal to have hand-holding friends. And to have more than one . . . well, that's just icing on the cake.

Happy Birthday Madison!!!

Don't Worry, I Really Am Loved. I Think . . .

2010-02-12T07:40:00.005-06:00

Last night I did something one should never do. Never. Ever. I went on WebMD and used the 'symptom checker'. Apparently I have appendicitis, cancer, or an intestinal blockage. Awesome. Demetri made a go of being sincere and supportive. But he broke down during dinner and couldn't seem to stop giggling. Or smirking. At ME. I asked him if my stomach seemed swollen. He promptly answered, "No. No, no." And he shook his head for emphasis. Now, it's true, I have been working with my kind husband on The Quick Response. For example, when I ask Do you love me? it's best for all concerned if he answers without a lengthy pause. In fact, it should go something like this: "Do you love m-" "YES! Yes I do! I LOOOOOOOVEEEE YOU!" And then he throws himself into my arms and allows me to pat his perfect butt. So, in theory, his answer about my swollen stomach was good. At least in terms of timing. But here's the problem: I was seated at a table and I was wearing a ginormous fleece and a bathrobe. So there's no way in hell he could see my stomach.

I didn't feel well. I was being laughed at -- mocked, if you will. So I did what any respectable person would do. I cried. Not full out bawling. More like tearful sniffling. Demetri got up to get more wine. I mumbled something about Yeah, I guess you need more wine to deal with your incredibly whiny wife. And my husband? He grumbles, Yeeaaahhh.

So then I call my BFF to get some real sympathy. And I feel all cared for and worried about . . . until we hang up. I say, "Don't worry, I'll call you if any of my organs explode during the night." And my BFF? She says, "Um, yeah, don't call after 10." HUMPH!

Clearly I need to work with some people on The Empathetic Response. Like, "Oh homey-bunny-boo-boo-head I am so sorry you feel sick." Or "I will duct tape my phone to my head and never ever sleep so you can call me any time." It's also possible that perhaps I need to work on telling myself it's going to be OK. And believing it.

Undertow

2010-02-11T10:05:00.003-06:00

Dear Amiee,

I’m feeling a little down. Next time I’m awake at 3am I’m calling you. I’ll be tearful about losing people and things and moments – my voice will be a little ragged. I’ll be calling to talk about this bruised thing inside me that aches and pulses with loss for things I still have. I’m calling just so I can hear your wooly, knitted voice murmur things like god and love and . . . what else will you say? Faith? Joy? Pain? I’ll listen to your words and the spaces between them trying to find my way back to something. Trying to find a pinprick of light. I will tell you how sometimes at night I sit in the hallway and listen to my daughter breathing. How in the middle of night I reach out in a panic to touch my husband’s warm back. And maybe you will whisper, ‘Me too. Me too’.

So, I’m feeling a little down and a little lost and a little in need of your light. I need to hear about the funny things, the crazy things, the things that are not so harsh and so real. Whisper to me about hamburgers and chocolate cake. Or the secret life of sororities. Or grandchildren with honey tangled in their hair. Or friends. Let’s talk about friends. Let’s talk about strong women. Pass the tissues for happy tears. Because I really just can’t stand seeing all these people I love in a moment of imagined pain. I’m on my second box of Girl Scout cookies and I need a little help.

Love,

Jos

Cool Moms Care: Dear World

2010-02-09T06:25:00.002-06:00

In which I am a tad bit cheesy and perhaps a wee bit sentimental. This week's Cool Moms Care post is up -- click here.

Happy (Late) Anniversary!

2010-02-04T07:15:00.004-06:00

I somehow missed the one year blogging anniversary of Zozo's Mom. As of January 23rd, I have been blogging for ONE YEAR!!! Yay for me! What started out as a new year's resolution is now a very important part of my life. Seriously. Blogging makes me feel proud, happy, and worthwhile. All things that are often hard to come by as a SAHM. And . . . what's that? You want to get me a present? Aw! How thoughtful! As a belated anniversary present to me please decloak/delurk and leave a comment. Who are you? How did you get here? And if I already know you please leave a comment anyway! Pleeeeaaaaase!!!!!!!

Also, my living room looks like this:

It's been a hard week (sniff sniff) what with all the sickness (sigh) and fatigue (yaaawn) and loneliness (wah!). And you know what would make me feel better? COMMENTS!

So . . . thanks for reading. For real. It means a lot to me.

Push

2010-02-03T07:02:00.004-06:00

Being around a toddler is a great way to build up one's self-esteem. Zoey can make me feel like the funniest, most beautiful, importantest person in the world. Hearing Zoey laugh at my jokes or having her reach for my hand is amazing. I love it when she climbs into my lap, nuzzles my neck, and pats my cheek. I feel like a rock star! A super hero! A (dare I say it?) good mom!

Then Demetri will get home. Or The Grandparents will come over. And I become The Devil. Lately Zoey has been screaming when I come downstairs in the morning. Her devil radar will lock on to me before I even get out the gate at the bottom of the stairs. There is a brief second of eye contact. I hope that this will be the day that my daughter doesn't scream in horror at my mere presence and Zoey takes a deep breath. Then, she screams. Or rather, she begins screaming. She runs away from me and towards Demetri, tears streaming, head shaking in the universal sign of Get away from me! If I approach her, she hurls her entire 25 pounds of toddler rage at me. Her little hands, the same hands that I love to hold, push and claw me away. All while screaming. And it goes on. If I sit too close to her on the couch. If I look at her during breakfast. If I enter a room that she is in.

Demetri eventually leaves for work. Zoey and I go through our day just fine. We are even usually in the same room. I can cuddle her and play with her and read to her. Until Demetri gets home. The screaming starts again.

And here's the thing I'm not supposed to say: It hurts my feelings. I know it's not supposed to. I know Zoey is not even two. I know that she has minimal (at best) control of her emotions. I know that she loves me. And I know, when Zoey is older, things will get worse. Like when she can talk in full sentences and yell things like I hate you! or You're not my real mother! But maybe by then she'll have a reason. Maybe it'll be because I won't let her go away with her 21 year old girlfriend to Vegas for the weekend. Or because I won't buy her a $300 pair of jeans. Or maybe she'll still be outraged by my very presence. Whatever the reason, I'm hoping it will hurt a little less.

I was talking to my mom about this the other night. She told me that it's a father-daughter thing. Apparently, when I was young I was all about being with my dad. I played soccer with him. Ran with him. Watched Star Trek with him. If the 3 of us went someplace I would get out of the car and go walking off with my dad. We would leave my mom behind. I apologized profusely (Again, sooooo sorry mom!) . . . and I encouraged her to blame my dad. While I was talking to my mom, my dad was hovering in the background shouting 'encouraging' things like "All daughters treat their mothers horribly!" When we were about to hang up my mom said she loved me and my dad yelled, "Tell her I love her too!" I told my mom that I love her more because she is my mom. My dad yelled, "That's OK! I'm used to being mistreated!"

I hung up knowing that my parents love me. Even my mom, who I often took for granted and ignored. I never once doubted her love. It is always there. Just like she is. And I think that may be the hardest thing about parenting -- to always love. And to always show it. So now I'm going to do what I think my mom would do - smother Zoey with hugs and kisses and tickles. Even when being pushed away.

Cool Moms Care: Miss You

2010-02-02T06:48:00.003-06:00

This weeks Cool Moms Care post is up. Click here to read all about how I became one of those moms. Yes, I became what I had previously mocked. Oh the horror!

Cool Moms Care: Trash Handing

2010-01-27T06:54:00.002-06:00

This weeks post at Cool Moms Care is up. Click here to be privy to a fascinating insight into our marriage. And to help me win an argument. Or at least slink out of a "discussion" with pride.

Thanks Cinderella! That's Just What I Needed Today . . .

2010-01-26T11:49:00.007-06:00

Zoey woke up with a fever close to 103 this morning. And I mean 'woke up' in the loosest possible sense as she had been up most of the night. Crying. And asking for a "Hug-uhhhhhhh". (A brief pause so you can get your tissues). While she got many 'hug-uh's' last night she didn't get a lot of shut eye. She kept choking on copious amounts of snot. That's right: COPIOUS. This morning, at home with me, she was very whiney and grumpy and just generally pissed off. Every time she put a bite of food in her mouth she would begin screaming. And screaming. And screaming. She refused to drink anything. So, using my amazing mom powers, I thought, Hey! I wonder if she has strep or an ear infection! I even put up one finger and made an ah-ha! kind of face when I had the thought. Oh yes, the universal sign of I have just had a brilliant idea that will benefit all of humanity! Booya! So I took Zoey to the doctor, in her pajamas no less. She was that pathetic.

Once at the doctor's office Zoey switched from whiney and pissy to charming and adorable. She flirted with the nurses. She said AH! on command. And, just as the doctor came in, my darling daughter began cramming fistfuls of Goldfish into her mouth. And, wait for it, there was no screaming. So I'm all, Uh, well this morning she had a fever and couldn't eat without crying and, well, um, I AM AN INCOMPETENT PARENT. Zoey tested negative for strep, ear infections, and the flu. So we left. Some of us with less pride than when we came in. But still. Then this happened:

Zoey grabbed a complimentary sticker on the way out and promptly stuck in in her hair. HER HAIR, people! And let's look at that sticker more closely, shall we?

Yes, it is a Cinderella sticker. Do I need to remind you how I feel about princesses? Hm? Do I? I do not feel good about them. DO NOT. You know what else I don't feel good about? Scissors. Especially in my daughters beautiful curls.

A 5th Grader, a Flossing Accident, and a Very Long Plane Ride

2010-01-25T08:23:00.002-06:00

Demetri and I went away for the weekend. And, yes, we went Zoey-less. On the flight home we ended up sitting next to a 5^th grade boy flying alone. He was a talker. Luckily, I had the window seat and Demetri was in the middle right next to The Talker. At first the The Talker was just making polite chit-chat. He told us about school and some computer games he likes. We learned that he is “really excellent” at reducing and adding fractions. He asked us what we do for a living. He told us that his grandmother “almost beat some dude up” before Christmas because “the dude” got to the last Wii just before she did. We then learned that The Talker was sick. And that he hates being sick. He opened his mouth and showed us the throat lozenge he was sucking on and said, “This is supposed to taste like honey and some kind of fruit but it doesn’t.” When I asked what it did taste like he replied, “Crap.” We then covered what our favorite foods were (he likes Kit Kats) and our favorite colors. After a brief pause when The Talker was choking on his cough drop, I was asked if I like to shop. When I said no, The Talker was rendered speechless. Momentarily. He recovered and launched into a in-depth analysis of how all girls like to shop. We learned that “Girls will only wear an outfit once . . . twice if you’re really,really lucky.” The Talker then educated us about the 6 levels of fat. There wasn’t really a segue. I can’t remember the details but one of the levels was ‘fluffy’ and one of the levels he couldn’t tell us much about because he wasn’t allowed to say the word out loud.

Then things got really interesting. We talked about Twilight. Apparently, all the girls “go chaotic” over Edward and Jacob. The Talker was worried that these girls would be “all upset and sad” when Edward and Jacob died. I then launched into a whole thing about how vampires can’t die etc. etc. The Talker looked at me like I was an idiot unworthy of having a conversation of this level and said, “I’m talking about the actors not the fake characters.” Yeah. Then the talker said, and this is a direct quote, “It’s too bad about Edward’s flossing accident.” Demetri and I exchanged looks, A flossing accident? Flossing? Really? The Talker then told us that just before Christmas, Edward had been flossing his teeth. Apparently, Edward looped the floss around his front teeth, pulled too hard and, well, you know. And guess what. IT’S TRUE. Sort of.

I eventually put my headphones on and abandoned Demetri. I later learned that they discussed the worst thing they had ever done in their lives and why Demetri wouldn’t give The Talker five bucks. I don’t know, I might have given the kid a few bucks. I mean, the flossing story alone is worth something.

Mami! Old!

2010-01-20T12:46:00.004-06:00

Today is not a great fibromyalgia day. The fatigue is, uh, 'challenging'. Meaning, it sucks. I was just using The Miracle Balls which, in fact, are pretty gosh darn miraculous.* I'm laying there on on the floor (still in my pajamas, by the way. And yes, I'm aware it's past noon.) with one ball under my neck and two pillows propped under my knees. I'm talking to Zoey while she plays with the other ball. And I mention to my darling daughter that, among other things, I'm feeling old. Zoey pauses to consider this. She then holds The Miracle Ball high over her head and beings to march around me chanting, "Mami!!! Old!!! Mami!!! Old!!! Mami!!! OOOoooooOOOOOOooooold!!!"

Um, kid? Me and my decrepit, rapidly aging body? WE GET IT.

Thanks.

*Sadly, no one is paying me to say this. No one gave me The Miracle Balls. Or even asked me to say this.

Cool Moms Care: Boobs and Bottles

2010-01-19T06:30:00.002-06:00

This week on Cool Moms Care a bunch of us are writing about our experience with nursing. My post is up today. Breast vs. Formula is a, uh, slightly touchy subject. So if you comment, play nice.

http://coolmomscare.org/2010/01/19/bottle-baby/

Silver Wonder Boots (or, Another Use for Duct Tape)

2010-01-14T07:59:00.004-06:00

Do you have this season's latest accesory? Presenting custom made Silver Wonder Boots! That's right: custom made. Each boot is carefully molded to fit your exact foot and leg shape.

The result of this fine craftsmanship is a boot that will make you look and feel your best! Even when you are wearing footy pajamas with sweatpants over them! And, let's be honest, if the boots look good with that ensamble they will look good with anything!

Not only do the Silver Wonder Boots function as snow boots, but they also work as shin guards should a game of hockey or soccer break out!

Yes, this amazing versatility and fierce fashion fabulousness can be yours for . . . chocolate or free babysitting. So . . . act now, while supplies last!

In Which I Behave Badly

2010-01-12T06:35:00.004-06:00

This week's post at Cool Moms Care is up! To check it out, click here! Or here. Or even right . . . . HERE. Once you click, you can read all about me behaving badly on Facebook. It was SO. NOT. COOL.

Ta-Da!

2010-01-11T07:45:00.004-06:00

Guess what! Guess what! Guess what! I have a new way for you to waste time!!! A new and fabulous way! That's right, peeps. There is a new blog in our universe . . . and I am lucky enough to be part of it. Behold: Stinkerbells! Each week, Carla, of Adjustemnt [and] Disorder, and I will write on the same topic (this week's topic is moms and judgement). There will also be other shenanigans going on -- pictures, videos of interpretive scarf dancing (all Carla, of course), and lots and lots of sarcasm.

So, head on over to Stinkerbells right now! Today you can check out the site and read more about your wonderful blog hosti (sure, it's the plural of hostess, why not?). Please, follow us on Networked Blogs (Facebook) and please leave lots and lots of comments!!!

Bite Me

2010-01-08T14:08:00.006-06:00

1. Apparently, when you brag it comes back to bite you in the boomboom. The same day. Yeah. Remember the last post in which I was all, "I can make soup! Yummy soup! I have a culinary calling! Blah blah blah"? Well, that very night I attempted to make 'butternut squash lentil bisque'. It looked like orangish-brown diarrhea with undigested lentils. Which is maybe what a 'bisque' is supposed to look like. But somehow I doubt it. And as far as taste goes . . . well, Demetri couldn't even look me in the eye when he mumbled something like, "It'skindaokmaybeifyouplugyournoseanddon'tputitinyourmouth. . . YUMMY!"

2. Apparently, when you try and be a fun mom it comes back and bites you in the butonka. Yes, I thought I'd be all fun and break out the finger paints this afternoon. Yes, well. We moved from picture A to picture B in about 45 seconds. And all because someone wasn't given control of the paint bottles. Some of us never recovered. Including the cat who walked across Zoey's painting while she was tantruming and now has two blue paws.

picture A:

picture B:

3. Apparently, when you vent to your husband about your inability to be a fun mom it comes back to bite you in the bobo. After the finger painting, I put Zoey in a nice warm bath. I sat on the floor of the bathroom and video chatted (aka 'video complained') with Demetri about the finger paint FAIL. Zoey then pooped in the tub. While she was out of the tub and I was fishing out the poop, Zoey peed on the tile. And then slipped in it.

4. Apparently, when your child slips in pee on the the bathroom floor and you wipe it up with a wash cloth it will come back to bite you in the . . . face. Yes, that's right. I used the same washcloth (on accident) to wipe my face. See, Zoey had emptied the drawer with all the wash clothes before the bath so there were, like, 20 wash clothes strewn everywhere. What are the odds that a) I would pick up the same wash cloth and b) I would pick it up by the one corner that wasn't wet? I should start playing powerball.

Wicked Good Mulligatawny-ish Soup

2010-01-06T09:00:00.004-06:00

For the first time ever, I, the writer of Zozo's Mom and previous mocker of those who cook and bake, present to you . . . A RECIPE. Yes, you read that correctly: A RECIPE. As in food mixed up together and heated up with fire. See, I think the reason that I was never into cooking before was that I had not found my culinary calling. But now I know that my purpose in the kitchen is (drum roll please) . . . to make soup.

Behold! My recipe for Mulligatawny Soup. Which, by the way, is not a made up word. It means 'pepper water' in Tamali. Also important to note is that before making this soup I had never had Mulligatawny soup. So, all I can tell you is that it's wicked good. And Mulligatawny-ish. If you've had Mulligatawny soup somewhere else and this isn't the same . . . well, too bad.

Wicked Good Mulligatawny-ish Soup

(a proud compilation of several recipes and my own additions and subtractions)

1 medium onion

1 medium carrot

1 green pepper

1 medium tart green apple

1 c. cooked chicken

1/3 c. flour

1/2 tsp. curry powder

2 cloves

2 c. chicken stock

1 c. stewed tomatoes, slightly drained

1/2 tsp. nutmeg

1/2 tsp. garam masala

Note: many people put celery and a pinch of mace in their Mulligatawny soup. But not me, as a) I don't understand the point of celery and b) I don't really want to eat anything that has 'mace' as an ingredient.

Cut up* the first 5 ingredients into smallish pieces and 'saute'** in a 1/4 cup of butter in a big pot. Stir frequently until onions are softish. Stir in the remaining ingredients and simmer, covered, for at least 30 minutes. Season with salt and pepper however you want.

Then eat and say, "Golly! I can't believe I made this!!!" And force all guests to compliment your skills by asking, "Is this good or what?! Can you believe I made this?" Repeat question numerous times.

*I am told the technical term for this is 'dice'. But 'dice' seems to imply a cube-like uniformity which was not present in my my preparations. And, yet, against all odds, the soup still turned out . . . delicious. So TAKE THAT, anal-cooking-meany-pants' from my past!

** Apparently, saute means to fry over high heat in a short time. I just kinda cooked the stuff over medium heat until the onions were soft. AND STILL, it worked. See bolded part of above.

Testing 1-2-3

2010-01-05T15:36:00.002-06:00

OK. So I'm going to try linking to my Cool Moms Care post once a week. This may be annoying. I mean, there was this one blog that I used to read but stopped reading because the writer did exactly what I am about to do. Except she did it every day. And eventually no longer posted anything on her blog except links. So, if it's super annoying please tell me before you ditch my blog. Pretty pretty pleeeeeeeeeeease. "caue, you know, telling me gives me a chance to fix it.

This week's Cool Moms Care post in which I complain (again) about New Year's. But don't worry, the ending is uplifting:

http://coolmomscare.org/2010/01/05/ringing-in-london’s-new-year/

Happy Old Year

2010-01-04T07:48:00.006-06:00

Happy New Year . . . blah blaah BLAAAHH. I think I'm having a wee bit of trouble adjusting to a new decade. I mean, New Year's is already enough pressure -- what with the resolutions to be better and staying up until midnight. And then when it's not just a new year but a new decade . . . geeze, it makes a person want to eat a lot of chocolate. Or drink.

This new decade is also making me feel old. I found a grey eye brow hair. EYE BROW. I didn't even know that could happen. Well, I guess I did. But I didn't know it could happen to me. And there's a plethora of silver (which sounds better than gray) hairs on my head. These silver hairs were accentuated by the flash of the camera in all the holiday pictures making me look like an old Elven fairy. A big, old Elven fairy. Without the cool dress.

But the worst thing was having to write my age down for the first time. On a poop test label. No, it wasn't as bad as the fecal test for Zoey. My test didn't come with poop shovels. My test was more of a small smear . . . But it still involved poop. And on each slide I had to write my name and age. So, there I was, carefully writing the 3 and then very carefully writing the 4 so it didn't look like a 9. On a poop test. I mean, the whole thing would have felt totally different if I'd been filling out my age on, say, the winning lottery ticket*. But no. Really, really no.

I guess the good thing is that 2010 has no where to go but up.

* I totally stole this line from Kate. But she gave me permission because she loves me. And because I begged.

The Baby Whisperer

2009-12-30T09:13:00.007-06:00

Last night Demetri and I pretended we were real people. As in we made last minute plans and went to the movies. Awwwww yeeah! We even got a sitter. And not just any sitter. We got the Baby Whisperer (Hi FC!). The girl has skillz. Mad skillz. Babies and toddlers are putty in her gentle hands. And the Baby Whisperer has really good hair. Seriously. Every time I see her I am envious of her gorgeous long brown hair.

Part of the reason we adore the Baby Whisperer is her ability to hold a sincere and interested face. Like when we tell her where the chicken nuggets are for the third time. Or when we quiz her about the location of the pediatrician's phone number. The number for the doctor is on the fridge. The fridge. Got it? Now point to the fridge . . . Ok. We're not that bad. But we're close.

But here's the thing. When we leave, we feel totally comfortable. Well . . . after we call her from the car to tell her something we forgot. And then have a 5 minute discussion about if it's OK to call her yet again to tell her to leave Zoey's long sleeve shirt on under her pajamas or if that will put the Baby Whisperer over the edge and she will vow to never sit for us again. So we don't make the second call. Instead we make plans to cover Zoey with an extra flannel blanket when we get home. The pink striped blanket is almost the exact same weight as a shirt . . . But anyway. That (crazy) stuff is about us. Not the Baby Whisperer.

And get this? When we get home, the Baby Whisperer is watching HGTV. I mean, how cute is that? She's not watching porn. She's not watching Fox News. She is watching a home and garden show, people. And, most important of all, when we get home Zoey is safe and warm in her crib. A slight smile on her face, dreaming of her night with the Baby Whisperer. Dreaming of her night as a real person without her parents -- a night when last minute plans were made and she got spend time with her hero.

The In-Between (Dad, this contains the F-word. So just skip over that part and pretend it never happened. 'Kay?)

2009-12-29T09:27:00.005-06:00

So here's what happened: I went to see a Fibromyalgia specialist a week before Christmas. He confirmed the diagnosis of Fibromyalgia and added Chronic Fatigue and severe iron deficiency. He put me on some new meds to help with pain, fatigue, etc. And one of the meds was bad. Very, very bad. One might even use the word 'evil'. I not only lost the ability to detect and use sarcasm (gasp!) but I was unable to control my emotions. At all. Ever.

Yes, Mommy was a tad bit unstable. As in, Mommy could not be alone with Zoey. As in, when a song wouldn't play on the computer fast enough Mommy began to scream, S-C-R-E-A-M, "FUCK! FUCK! WHY WON'T ANYTHING FUCKING WORK! I FUCKING HATE EVERYTHING!" And then Mommy sobbed. And Zoey cried. . . . and was afraid of me for the next 3 days.

Sigh.

It took me a good 6 days to decide to go off the Evil Medicine. I thought maybe I was falling apart from getting a confirmed diagnosis of a chronic illness. I know, I know. You don't get it. But it makes sense to me. When I went to see the doctor my fear was that he would tell me, "Well, golly, No. No, you don't have Fibromyalgia. You're just a big wimp. Now go out and live a normal life!" And when he didn't tell me that I realized it was a fear . . . and a hope. A hope that maybe I was OK, normal, fine. And I'm not not those things. But I'm not fully those things either. I'm the in-between. I thought maybe I was falling apart from being banished to the in-between. I thought I was angry at being sent there forever. I thought maybe I was bitter at everyone telling me I should be happy for the diagnosis, that it's a gift. I am bitter and angry and falling apart. But only a little. The Evil Medication magnified it. Made it awful and huge.

Now I am me again.

And The in-between is not a terrible place to be. Most of the time. It can be a little grey and a little lonely. But I'm making myself a room there. With yellow curtains and a braided rug. A tea pot with fading roses painted on the side. Books. A rocking chair. A green and heather knitted blanket. I am learning to be comfortable there. No . . . here. I am learning to be comfortable here.

So here's what happened: I went to see a doctor. Bad things happened. Angry things. I got better. I am getting better. People that love me are learning how to visit the in-between. And I am learning how to let them.

So much love and thanks to Demetri, Mom and Dad, Annie, Nancy, Kate, Carla, Kelly, Alicia, and Niki.

Happy WhateverYouBelieve!!!

2009-12-25T15:49:00.002-06:00

Sneakiness

2009-12-16T18:14:00.003-06:00

The Rules of Sneakiness:

1. Look busy. Very, very busy.

2. Pretend like you are going to do the right thing and then, at the last second, don't.

3. Look both ways out of narrowed eyes after you have done a sneaky deed.

4. Use the doe-eyed baby look.

5. When caught in the act, pretend like you weren't.
6. Ignore any and all surveillance devices.

A Letter to a Very Pregnant Lady**

2009-12-10T08:12:00.004-06:00

Dear Niki,

I know you're pregnant and all. Like very pregnant -- dilated 4 cm and 60% effaced. But it's time to get your pregnant booty off the couch and stop thinking about yourself. We, your friends and family, need more frequent updates. Hourly would be nice. I mean, just look what you have done to us. We have been reduced to spying on you via Alicia who lives across the street. And due to the angle of your curtains and blinds, her sight distance is severely limited. The only thing she could report this morning was that Corey's car was parked facing the street. And that he took the baby bag to work. This information does us no good. None. And speaking of Corey . . . his Facebook updates are equally useless. He rambled on about 41,000 frozen turkeys on I-40 from an over-turned truck. Do we care? No, no we do not. Would it kill him to write, "Niki is still pregnant." Or "No baby action last night. Niki doing well." Huh? Huh? Would it? Or maybe, to prep for the little bundle of joy, you could set your alarm to go off every hour throughout the night and you could text us all updates. We really would prefer texts so we wouldn't have to get out of bed to get the latest info. I'm sure you understand . . .

Or maybe you could set up the webcam. You know, you could aim it at the couch and we could all just watch you lay there. It would be like "Survivorman" but with less bug eating. You could be all "Hunger is setting in . . ." and then your mother-in-law could bring you a sandwich. And we, WE COULD SEE IT ALL. We could watch you nap and drool on your pillow. We could watch Charlotte try and stick things up your nose or down your shirt. And best of all, we could give up the thinly veiled facade of the rotating Is-Niki-In-Labor call schedule to ask you a 'question'* (What's seven times eight?) or to get your 'advice'* (Do you think it's OK to let Zoey play with razors?). Come on, do us a solid and set up the webcam. Remember all the nice presents we gave you at your shower? Hm? The stroller and the clothes and the toys and the cake . . .

Lastly, please remember that you can't actually shoot the kid out until after midnight tonight. That way he and I will have the same birthday and I will win the When-Will-Niki-Give-Birth pool. So no pushing until after midnight. Got it? 'Kay.

Lots of love,

Joslyne

* question and/or advice meaning your current state of birthing.

** Hi Niki! Please remember that I actually really do love you but that I'm sitting here eating Truffles and chocolate chips for breakfast in a futile attempt to stave off my anxiety about your birth. I know, I know, I'm not the one that that to shove something the size of a watermelon out something the size of a nostril but . . . I had to do something. Plus, I think your nice and really really pretty and very very smart.

A Battle of the Wills, Plus Santa

2009-12-08T07:16:00.003-06:00

Yesterday I was doing the mombligation* of taking Zoey to the mall to get her picture taken with Santa. I did her hair, stuffed her legs into tights, and coaxed her into her Christmas dress. Then I suggested she put put on a sweater. And, in turn, Zoey let me know that I was perhaps asking a tad bit too much of her. As in she threw herself on the floor, rolled back and forth, clawed at her own face, and shrieked, "Nonononononon!" Loosely interpreted this means, No, I don't think I will put on a sweater but thanks for asking. Even though I was clearly right and had a factual and well reasoned argument, i.e. - it was 37 degrees outside, her dress is sleeveless, she would be cold if she didn't put on a sweater, the Battle of the Sweater escalated. There was biting and drooling and kicking. Oh, and did I mention THE SCREAMING?

20 minutes later I had used my amazing mom powers (wrestling moves, bribery, weight advantage) and Zoey was wearing a coat. But now Zoey and I were standing 3 feet apart in the garage -- we both had our hands on our hips and we were both glaring at each other with narrowed eyes. Oh, and one of us was STILL SCREAMING. The other of us was pointing firmly and saying repeatedly, "GET. IN. THE. CAR." And once in a while, through gritted teeth, I would throw in a "We. Are. Going. To. See. Santa. It's Going. To. Be. FUN." for variety's sake. Shockingly, Zoey did not climb into the car. No. no. Instead, I attempted to put her in the car seat while she clung on to the door frame and continued with THE SCREAMING. Plus, she alternated arching her back with going completely limp** which kills me. After an especially well placed kick to my boob, I eased Zoey down on to the floor of the car, shut the door, and walked to the end of the driveway to 'take a moment'. As I got to the end of the driveway the screaming stopped. A head full of curls popped up in the back window. She saw me pacing and breathing. And I can only think that she assumed I was leaving her, like, forEVER because the screaming started again. But at a whole new level and pitch. One that brought our neighbor running out of his garage to ask "Where is she? Is she Ok?" He even used hand gestures. Large hand gestures.

I picked up The Screamer, who was now clinging to me instead of attempting to injure me. We cuddled for 10 minutes. I assured her I would never leave her. And then, I PUT HER IN THE CAR SEAT. That's right, her butt was strapped in to the car seat. It would have felt a lot more victorious if Zoey hadn't still be sniveling.

So we met The Grandparents at the mall. And Zoey wouldn't even look at them. She just wanted to be held by me. My parents had never seen Zoey like this before and my Dad (Hi Dad! I love you!), who is easily alarmed about Zoey's general welfare, was, uh, very alarmed. He kept saying super helpful comments like, "Golly, you must of really abused her." Or, "Gee, you must of really hurt her feelings." Sometimes he would change it up and ask a question: "Huh. What do you think you did to her?" It was super fun. Then, when I told him to shut it, he said, "I'm not being critical, I'm just saying what happened. I don't think you did anything wrong." Um . . . yeah. But he also treated us to lunch so it worked out OK.

Then, we tried to see Santa. Zoey clung to me like a life preserver in a raging storm. She would not even look at Santa. When Santa gently touched her hand it was like she had been burned. Even when Santa sang Elmo's theme song she wasn't fooled. So we grabbed a free coloring book and left. And I have to admit, I was a little proud. If my daughter doesn't want to sit on an oddly dressed, heavily bearded, stranger's lap, well . . . good for her. But if she doesn't want to bend to my will and put on a sweater or get in the car seat, well now, that's a different story.

*Term invented by the genius SWMama

** Note to the 5 people I know who are preggers right now: This is THE WORST thing EVER.

A holiday picture taken at home

Not So Silent Nights

2009-12-07T07:30:00.004-06:00

We are back in a "phase" where Zoey is not sleeping through the night. And, in case you were wondering, a phase is defined as "a stage in a process of development." The use of the word 'development' implies progress, maturity, positivity. Which is not what we are experiencing. In fact, we seem to be experiencing a regression, a decline, a pain-in-the-ass-mess.

As a result of this 'phase', Demetri and I have returned to our most basic defenses. We are grasping at any and all straws of potential hope. We are focusing on our very survival. Thus, the return of The Lucky Pajamas. The belief in The Lucky Pajamas began back in Zoey's first few months of life when she was waking up every 2 hours. Every. Night. And I felt like a singed, shadow version of my former self. Until, one night, she slept for 4 hours in a row and . . . The Lucky Pajamas were born. We continued to put her in the same pajamas night after night hoping for a few more hours of sleep. And (sometimes) it worked! But the lucky pajamas have rules, people. Very complicated rules:

1. Any pair of pajamas has the potential to be lucky.

2. Only one pair of pajamas can be lucky at any given time.

3. Once the pajamas are washed, the luck is gone.

4. When in a poor sleep 'phase', the rules of pajama hygiene can be bent to extend the luck of a pair of pajamas. For example, what's a little spit up? a little dried on breakfast cereal? The merest bit of pee?

5. If a new pair of pajamas is worn and the results are decidedly un-lucky (i.e.- the baby is up all night) those pajamas must be shoved to the back of the closest for at least 10 days. And cursed.

6. Mocking The Lucky Pajamas or any person who may believe in The Lucky Pajamas will come back to bite you in the you-know-what.

7. If one is being punished for being a bad parent, The Lucky Pajamas can not help you. Basically, you are screwed.

Last night Zoey wore her pink bear pajamas. They were not lucky. No, no they were not. So tonight she will wear the blue zoo animal pajamas. And Demetri and I will do the ritualistic Lucky Pajama Dance. Then, after Zoey is in bed, we will huddle around the monitor, watching, waiting, and whispering please, please, please.

The Art of Turkeys

2009-12-04T07:45:00.006-06:00

A dream has come to fruition. A long awaited, anxiously anticipated, often, uh . . ., dreamt about dream. Zoey created a piece of art. And it is hanging on our refrigerator. With extreme pride. Seriously.

I am lucky enough to be in a play group with extraordinary women. One of these women is the Craft Goddess (Hi Lauren!). She tries to shun this title because she is modest. But the woman has a virtual craft store at her house and the skills to use the supplies so it's a little hard to dispute. Plus, once I bestow a title on someone they are stuck with it. Yes, I have that kind of power. So anyway, last week play group was at the Craft Goddess' house. She had sent an email out telling us we would be attempting a Thanksgiving themed craft. This was a first for playgroup. And to be honest, I thought maybe the standards were being set a tad high. I mean, sometimes I don't even really clean for playgroup let alone plan an activity.

But we showed up. And we crafted. And it was perhaps the finest moment of Zoey's young life. She made a total of 3 turkey master pieces (2 for the grandparents and one for the Mami). And, man oh man, was the kid proud of herself. She carried those turkeys around like she had won the Nobel Prize. She handed them to The Grandparents with obvious appreciation of her own artistic skills. Zoey was thrilled when I hung her art on the fridge. But then, of course, The Grandparents had to one up me and frame their turkeys. But I maintain that they don't spend as much time admiring their turkeys as I do admiring mine. I stand in front of refrigerator mesmerized by Zoey's use of color, by the placement of the print on the paper, by the googly turkey eye. I place my hand over her hand print and smile, glad that she is still small and glad that her hand still fits in mine. Glad that it always will.

The Craft Goddess is on the right. Thanks Lauren! And Cathy, we missed you guys!!!

In Which I am Thankful

2009-11-25T08:04:00.005-06:00

I am thankful for cute hand-me-down clothes . . .

I am thankful that Gilmore is the most non-dominant dog ever . . .

I am thankful that occasionally I posses enough culinary skills to make a balanced meal for Zoey. And yes, that is a hot dog but it's a TURKEY hot dog so it's healthy . . .

I am thankful that I am not considered 'the pretty pony' in the family . . .

I am thankful for teeny tiny kisses . . .

I am thankful for duct tape . . .

I am thankful for books and BFFs

I am thankful for grandparents . . .

I am thankful that Zoey did not fall off the table when Demetri put her on there and then took a picture . . .

I am thankful that Zoey shares (some of the time) . . .

I am thankful that Charlotte had the patience to teach me how to sew curtains . . .

I am thankful that my daughter can entertain herself for a good 20 minutes with a pair of my undies (clean, of course) . . .

I am thankful for my ever-patient-and-ever-kind-and-super-hot husband . . .

I am thankful that I am not the one responsible for fixing appliances in this house . . .

I am thankful for rock and roll and grrrl power, baby!!!

I am thankful for the airplane song on Sesame Street ("Well, I'm a little airplane nrrrow nrowww I'm a little airplane nrrrow nrrrow")

I am thankful for curls . . .

I am thankful for moments of patience . . .

Happy Thanksgiving!!!!!

Major Missage

2009-11-18T07:58:00.006-06:00

Last night was not a good night. I actually uttered* the words, "If you don't put clothes on right now I will duct tape pajamas on your body so thoroughly that you won't get them off until next week sohelpmegod!" And that wasn't even the low point. Maybe the low point was when I was whining at Demetri saying, "What is wrong with me? Am I the most impatient person in the world?" In an attempt to lighten the mood, Demetri joked, "No, Zoey is . . . ha ha." I responded, "What? Are you saying I'm a bad person? Huh? Are you? FINE! You're right! I AM A BAD PERSON. Happy?" Demetri, clearly not happy with my wildly loose interpretation of his joke, then suggested I go take a relaxing bubble bath. I smacked my palm hard on the kitchen table, "No. No, I will NOT take a bath. You know what this means?" I pointed to my wedding ring. "Huh? Do ya? It means FOREVER, bucko! So you are stuck with me!" I smacked both palms on the table. "How do you like them apples?!"

I've said it before. I'll say it again: I have the most kind and patient husband. Ever. E-V-E-R.

Anyway. Preceding the-night-that-was-not-a-good-night was the-day-that-was-a-long-day. It was nothing terrible in itself. It was just a lot of things that added up: I've had a bad cold for a week. No adult contact. Rain. Lots of sitting with Zoey while she sat on her potty and did NOTHING. Boredom. A 45 minute nap which hardly even qualifies as a nap. A cranky toddler who can't express her needs other than through whining. Chasing Zoey around trying to get her to keep clothes, any clothes, on. Boredom. Not feeling well enough to go for a walk. No good snacks in the house. Thinking it was Wednesday and then realizing it wasn't, thus being crushed that 'Glee' wasn't on. Zoey pushing my buttons -- every chance she got. Zoey testing limits -- every chance she got. Boredom. Frustration. No chocolate in the house. Which was a whammy because the lack of chocolaty goodness was all my fault. Demetri is required my marital law to hide chocolate in the house. Then, when I have a chocolate emergency, I call him and he tells me where to find it. Except I had discovered his stash and eaten it all without telling him. Therefor: NO CHOCOLATE. And it was all MY DOING.

This morning things feel a bit better. Demetri's mom is flying in late this morning. She is excellent company, a wicked good Scrabble player, and a big help. The Grandparents come back into town on Saturday. There are TWO celebrations next week: Zoey's adoption day and Thanksgiving. My cold will go away eventually. There is hope for a loooong nap today. Demetri left me a small pack of M&M's this morning.

When I have days like yesterday I am reminded that parenting is like social work; Neither can be done in isolation. Or at least not done well. I need family and my mom friends and . . . chocolate. I need to talk to my BFF (Hi Tyff!) on the phone. I need to tell her my grossest stories, my parenting fails. And I need to hear hers. Not that we enjoys each others' pain, although we do make each other laugh. I think we need to know that we're not alone. We're in this wild, crazy, awesome, scary, hard, frustrating thing together. This isn't where I thought this post would end. But it is where it is. I miss my best friend. And although we've lived in different states most of our 27 year friendship, yesterday that distance was too much. Way too much.

* 'Utter' may be the wrong word here. Maybe more like sternly-yet-gently. Or maybe even sternly-and-hysterically.

Tyff and I when we were 7 . . . and yes, we thought we looked GOOD in the goggles . . .

Oh, the Pa(l)in!

2009-11-17T07:29:00.002-06:00

Sarah Palin was on Oprah yesterday. And I watched it. Most of it. I'll admit that I went skittering away from the couch to check Facebook as soon as Palin and Oprah engaged in what may be the most awkward hug in history. Oprah kind of caught Palin's right arm as if defending from a right hook. But then both women pretended it was a touchy-feely, hand-holding, fingers intertwining intentional thing. I can't stand awkward TV. Which is why I never watch the auditions for Idol. After we were all over the embarrassing hug (some of us taking longer than others), I went back to the couch.

Here are my "favorite" moments from the interview:

1. Palin rolls her eyes and accuses Katie Couric of being "perky". Um . . . Pot? Where are you? I need you to come call the kettle black.

2. Oprah asks Palin if she felt snubbed by not being invited on her show during the election. Palin says, "No offense to you, but it (the show) wasn't the center of my universe." It was all about the tone, people. The way Palin said it was kinda biting . . .

3. Plain repeatedly refers to abortion as "the easy choice". Um . . . really?

4. The way that Palin made it sound like ALL women have the strength, resources, and desire to raise children. Um . . . all women have access to resources? really? I'm thinkin' there's probably quite a few in the great state of Alaska that don't. And in this state. And in all states.

5. The replay of the Couric interview in which Palin is seemingly unable to answer a question about what newspapers and magazines she reads. I mean, just throw something out there, "The New York Times" or "The Washington Post", for the love of god!

6. The commercial for the new dark chocolate Reese's peanut butter cups.

7. Palin unable to clearly say why she resigned from Governor. "For the good of the people blah blah blah lame duck governor blah blah."

8. Oprah encouraging Palin as we went into each commercial break. While we couldn't actually hear what Oprah was saying she would shake Palin's hand encouragingly, nod her head, and probably say something like, "You're doing OK Sarah. A few more questions and you get a gold star!" Or maybe Oprah was a teeny bit less condescending. We will never know . . . (sigh)

And then I went out and bought Palin's new book. Um . . . no. No. No. No. But the the interview wasn't so bad (as in painful). In some ways. Palin seemed a lot more articulate than she did, oh, a little over a year ago. Which worries me. I didn't go into this interview hoping to see Palin tank like many people did. But afterwards, I wished she had. People love her and her politics (for reasons I can not even fathom). It's almost like people warship her. Which I find very, very frightening.

There's this guy in my neighborhood who has a huge, very southern (i.e. - big wheels and stacks) pick-up truck. On the sides and back of the truck he has painted 'PALIN 2012'. This truck makes me ill and angry and disappointed in ways I never thought possible. I mean, has the dude not heard of BUMPER STICKERS?! While others might have visions of keying or egging the truck, I have other ambitions. I dream of sneaking over there in the dead of night, ski mask on, a trash bag full of trouble over my shoulder. Then, silently and carefully, I put article after discrediting article (all from reputable sources of course) under the wiper blades, in the door cracks, strewn across the flat bed. And the kicker is, ALL the articles are different. So even if Mr. Palin 2012 doesn't read them he should at least be slightly (albeit briefly) overwhelmed by the sheer number of articles. Oh, sweet revenge!!

Yes, I want a woman president. But not her. Not ever. But maybe that's a topic for another post . . .

Nudie-Butt

2009-11-16T07:28:00.004-06:00

Zoey's preferred state is, to use the technical term, nudie-butt-ness. Yes, she prefers to dash around al fresco. She likes to go starkers. She often wears a well placed accessory, like a bow in her hair or a pair of Demetri's shoes, to accentuate the nakedness. But who doesn't like accessories? And she was happy to keep her diaper on (hallelujah!). I don't think she really understood that the diaper, too, was an 'accessory'* and could be removed at will.

Until 3 days ago. 3 days ago I made a tactical error and brought home a training potty. In my defense, Zoey was showing many of the 'potty training readiness cues'. An interest in other people's/animals bodily functions?** Check! Informing a parent when she peeed or pooped? Check! Ability to take her clothes off? Eh . . . sometimes. Shirts with a small head hole present a problem due to the additional circumference of Zoey's hair. So I brought home a pink and green froggy potty. Zoey's life now consists of 3 things: 1. 'Sitting'*** on the frog potty totally naked 2. Running from us in a vain attempt to remain totally naked 3. Protesting not being naked via whining, tantruming, scratching, biting, kicking, screaming, pouting, etc. etc. In turn, my life now consist of 4 things: 1. Chanting "Pee-pee-poo-poo-potty-potty"**** to cheer on Zoey in her bathroom endeavors. 2. Chasing Zoey around with clothes 3. Getting the crap beat out of me while I dress her 4. Feeling surprisingly unfulfilled by the previous three activities.

So, Zoey has peed on her potty exactly once. She has pooped on it never. But today is day 4. Anything could happen. Anything. In fact, she is sitting on her potty right now. She is drinking orange juice, looking at a book about baby animals, and making potty sounds with her mouth: "SSssssssssss. Ut. Ut. Pssssssssss."***** Anything could happen. Maybe she'll want to put on clothes today. Maybe she won't claw out my eyes, maybe she'll avoid the jugular. Maybe the diaper will come back into fashion, like bell bottoms or clogs. But my fear is that the trendiness of the diaper has gone the way of the banana clip. Gone baby gone. But diapers held on with duct tape? They never go out of style.

* Or, to use another term, The-thin-layer-of-cloth-protecting-the-world-from-extreme-stench-and-defilement

** Gilmore may never be the same. He has taken to running away so he can pee without being closely watched and cheered on.

*** Really, she kind of sits-stands-sits-stands in rapid succession so she can check if anything has come out yet.

**** Thanks to Melissa for the potty song. Although I do think of her as a co-blamee as she was with me when I bought the potty.

***** She TOTALLY got this from her DAD, not from me.

No Butts About It

2009-11-11T09:00:00.000-06:00

I am so tired of the constant arguing. The never ending debate. Which is worse: a No-Butt or a Big-Butt? Clearly, it is far worse to have a No-Butt than some junk in the trunk. FAR. WORSE. My bootylicious friends are all 'Oh, it's sooo terrible to look sexy in jeans! Oh, it's so terrible to have curves! Oh boo hoo!' So what if there's a gap in the back of your jeans when you sit down? So what if your hips are smaller than your hiney? Um . . . there's this new invention . . . it's called a belt.

Us No-Butters have far worse problems. First off, the no-butt doesn't look sexy. Ever. Not even in jeans. For example, my butt is basically concave. Instead of a luscious curve in back, there's all this extra fabric flapping around (See picture below). Literally. And let me tell you, no one has ever done a song about flat bottomed girls. Whereas "you other brothers (and sisters) can't deny"* that the big patootied have lots and lots of songs written in their honor.

Not only are our 'butts'* not memorialized in song, wedgies are a major problem. See, some of us don't have the cheek to keep the undies in place. It's a constant battle. The buttless have to learn how to inconspicuously redistribute their undergarments and keep them in place. ON A FLAT SURFACE. Which is OK until you have to move, breathe, or (oh dear god!) bend over. Totally hot.

And while we're on the topic of underwear . . . imagine having your underwear be too tight in the hips but having inches of extra fabric in the rear. Again, not a pretty site. Form fitting pants are troublesome. And it's not the panty lines that are a problematic. It's the ginormous mess of panty wrinkles. And we're not talking barely-there wrinkles -- we're talking hey-I-need-a-place-to-store-the-entire-contents-of-my-purse folds. Class-eeee!

And then there's the matter of sitting. When you don't have a butt, you are sitting on bones. Hard, pointy BONES. It's kind of like sitting on two wedges of concrete. Those who have a flourishing rear get to sit on their own personal memory foam pillow. Hmmm . . . which is more comfortable: concrete or a pillow?

Also, the No-Butt presents serious fashion challenges. There are about to be more intense visual aides*** so the squeamish may want to cut their losses and stop reading. People with true gluteus MAXimi can flaunt their fabulousness. I, on the other hand, cannot flaunt what I do not have. Thus, I have to cover it up. In the picture below I am wearing running tights. But I have to cover-up the no-butt with a shirt I know I will not want to put on. Note how my rear still looks flat even with the padding of a shirt doubled over AND a bulky collar.

Below we have, again, the wrinkles. And proof that the no-butters must always wear long shirts to project the illusion of a curve -- no matter how slight. Please note, the pants in the below picture are designed to be form fitting. FORM. FITTING.

Horrific, no? Sadly, a No-Butt was my destiny. Both my parents are No-Butters (Hi Mom! Hi Dad!). I had no chance, genetically speaking. And even though it didn't come from me, I feel a strange sense of pride when I check Zoey's diaper and see the two little half moons of her butt curving out and away from her body. My baby's got back.

* In case you're wondering why the hell there are quotes around that, I'm referring to a song by Sir Mix A-Lot

** I am using this term in the loosest possible sense as the No-Butters' bums can only be identified by approximate location, not by sight.

*** Pictures by Niki and Demetri. Even though Niki didn't want credit for such fine photography.

Let That Be a Lesson*

2009-11-09T07:20:00.001-06:00

The Dads are gathered at the playground. The football talk gets old. The Dads get bored. And, in a moment that will live forever in infamy, a bet is placed. Violence ensues.

It's toddler against toddler. Friend against friend. Pigtails versus Afro.

A command is given. Each fighter is instructed to "hug" her "friend". There can be only one survivor. One champion.

One of the contenders, let's call her The Obedient Child, has superior listening skills and the ability to follow directions. The other competitor, let's call her The Disobedient Child, fails to heed the command due to a fondness for personal space (and a blatant disregard for authority) . . .

The Disobedient Child goes down. Hard. (see title).

Then, in an end no one saw coming, the competitors go ride a dinosaur.

* All pictures courtesy of Niki

Our Adoption Story III: The Wait

2009-11-04T08:15:00.001-06:00

So, there we were -- blissfully free of the adoption paperwork. Our home study was finished on a Thursday and my parents were coming into town on Friday to take us out to fancy schmancy restaurant over the weekend to celebrate. We felt relaxed and excited. We knew we had months, if not years, to read the parenting books, paint the nursery, and figure out what kind of baby gear we actually needed. So far, I hadn't allowed myself to look at any baby stuff. It was just too painful. Sure, I had bought gifts off baby registries before. But I never thought about stuff for us and our baby. After our home study was done, I felt like maybe it was OK to kind of start looking. But I was afraid to go alone. My infinitely kind and patient parents agreed to go with me*. Armed with Baby Bargains, my Dad allowed me to lurk behind him while he asked questions. My mom ooh-ed and ahh-ed over crib sets, strollers, and pack-n-plays; she showed me it was OK to look. I felt overwhelmed by all the . . . stuff? crap? choices?And I was not impressed by my inability to remove a car seat from the stroller base. But I had time . . .

After about an hour at the baby store we headed out for lunch. We continued to talk about baby stuff. I felt like finally I had permission to say things like, "If we get a girl I'm going to get the sheets with the pink hippos on them" or "Maybe we should paint the room green -- it would work for a boy or a girl." I was feeling very pre pre-motherly. Like maybe one day I would actually be a mom. On the way home from lunch my parents wanted to stop at the store to pick up some diet sodas. As we pulled into Kroger my phone rang.

It was the adoption social worker, Brenda. And she had a "situation" she wanted to present to me. There was a Latino birth mother in Rhode Island. The bio dad was African-American and hadn't been heard from since he was told about the baby 6 months ago. The birth mother had been getting prenatal care. She had no history of drug or alcohol use. Brenda talked and talked, telling me everything she could about the mom, the dad, the baby. I scribbled notes on the back of an envelop I found in the glove box. I had heard that when an adoptive parent is presented with 'their' baby they know it. And as hokey as it sounds, about half way through Brenda's presentation, I felt a sudden jolt. For a second I couldn't hear anything, see anything, or feel anything other than: This. Is. Our. Baby. I was so very certain that it brought tears to my eyes.

Brenda finished talking. I took a deep breath and asked two questions: When is the baby due? What is the sex of the baby? Brenda said, "It's a girl. A little girl. And she is due in two weeks, on Mother's Day!" I almost dropped the phone. Two weeks?!?! Not a lot of time . . .

I went to find my parents in Kroger. I imagine I looked excited and scared and frantic all at once. "We may have a baby." My mom smiled. My dad nodded. And I started to remember everything. All the details, what we did, what we said, what we ate -- all so we could tell it to our little girl.

* Demetri had to work

Demetri and me with my BFF's baby a few months before Zoey. Do we look awkward or what?!?! Could I clutch the baby any tighter . . .?

Number 7 on the Suck It list

2009-11-02T08:16:00.005-06:00

Last Monday night and into Tuesday I had the worst fibromyalgia 'flare-up'* I have ever had. My fibro-philosophy thus far has been to refuse pain meds in favor of working with my body to figure out what makes me well and what makes me hurt. And my body and I have done some good work together. But on Tuesday afternoon I was in the doctor's office crying and begging for pain meds. It's wasn't pretty. If I'd had the energy I would have felt bad for my doctor. All last week I was unable to care for Zoey. My wonderful, amazing, beautiful mother was here from 6:45 am until Demetri got home. Every. Single. Day. Zoey started calling my mom and Demetri 'mami'. Yup, it was a bullet through the heart. When I did manage to come downstairs, Zoey looked at me passingly and largely without interest, Oh, it's that crazy lady from upstairs again. Just what every mother hopes for: to be forgotten by her own child.

One doesn't just get over a flare-up. It can't be powered through. You don't just bounce back. It's more like clawing your way out of a deep, dark hole towards a pin prick of light. You have all this rope to help you. But you're not very good at knots. And you're not wearing a harness. One mistake and your back at the bottom, muddy and bruised. Plus, your upper body isn't exactly buff. You have to build up your strength, rest, build up, rest. Breathe. It takes a long time to climb up and out. Right now, I'm hopping to be strong and totally well again by January. That may be pushing it.

I had to make some tough decisions. I quit soccer (bailing on a bunch of middle school girls and the head coach -- yup, it felt awesome**). I cleared my schedule -- including canceling lunch with a friend for the THIRD time in a row. I put repeat posts on Cool Moms Care. I haven't run in over a week. My life has to become very small for a while. In my not-so-great moments this makes me angry. I feel like I should be able to be a mom, and a wife, and a soccer coach, and a writer, and a runner, and a good friend. All at once. In my better-ish moments I know that there are times when I can't be all those things. And I know that's ok. But right now it's still feeling pretty bad. So, fibromyalgia? You can suck it!

Oh, and if I'm posting less than twice a week you now know why. Nothing personal. Just me having to dial things back.

*The term 'flare-up' so doesn't do the experience justice. It's like calling a 15 car pile-up a 'fender bender'.

** If by awesome we mean lowly, wimpy, and guilt-ridden.

In Which I Kick Martha Stewart's You-Know-What

2009-10-26T08:19:00.016-05:00

On Saturday I co-hosted a surprise baby shower for Niki. The other co-host was Niki's twin sister, Erin. But Erin lives waaaaay Up North so the par-tay was at my house. Which meant I was in charge of decorating. Yeah, yeah, I heard that not-so-stifled laughter. But guess what. I. TOTALLY. ROCKED. IT.

Martha thinks she is such a goddess (as evidenced below). But who's to say what a goddess looks like?

I mean, Nike dry-fit seems more suitable than layers of gold and gauze for goddess-like activities. You know, like Saving the World (one surprise baby shower at a time). A goddess should be able to move and bend, not just hold a fake golden ball to oddly puckered lips. Plus, Time Gunn would not approve of the hair leaves. So late '70s. And not in a good way.

Yes, yes, Martha can bake. But can she bake with the "assistance" of a toddler?

One of us seems to be a tad bit anal about the kitchen set up . . . while the other one seems to be baking with wild abandon and, dare I say, joy. What would you rather have in your cookies? Anal retentiveness or joy?

Martha puts flowers in pumpkins. And so do I.

Hm . . . the first pumpkin seems to say, Come in, sit down, put your napkin on your lap and DON'T TOUCH ANYTHING, worthless guest! Whereas the the second pumpkin seems to say, Come in, sit down, have some warm apple cider, and if you spill it don't worry. . . We love you here (unlike some other places we could mention)!

Someone's decorations seem to be a bit threatening . . . .

I mean, I wonder what happens to Martha's guests who misbehave . . . My guests were sent home with teeny tiny cutie wootie pumpkins, not moldy skulls. Just sayin' . . .

Yes, we both carved letters into pumpkins . . .

But my pumpkin had the initials of the baby-to-be instead of just random show-offy letters. Who is DKUSF? Someone's pumpkins don't even make sense.

And along those lines . . . .

What the hell is on Martha's pumpkin?? Martha, Martha, Martha . . . don't you know that any departure from traditionalism is risky? LEARN THE LESSON!

For the goody bags . . .

Again with the skulls? Geeze, I wonder what's in the bags . . . Maybe it's just me, but I would choose a cheerful orange bag with a cute sticker instead of the bag with a death symbol on it . . .

Martha's guests may never come back while Niki is still my friend after the shower! It's amazing what we'll do for the people we care about . . .

And here's another pic just because it's cute . . .

Sarcasm - It's all I've Got . . .

2009-10-18T07:33:00.008-05:00

Dear Mr. Bardwell,

Thank you so much for refusing to marry an interracial couple. Again. I wish more people had your courage, insight, and total disregard for the U.S. Constitution*. I hope you are also preventing women from voting in your district. You, Mr. Bardwell, are my hero.

It is so clear to me that you are in no way a racist. As you say, you have "piles and piles" of black friends. Golly! You let them into your house! How generous! You even let them use your bathroom! You must be their most favorite friend! Can you imagine if you also let your black friends eat off your plates?? And use your silverware? I know, I know, the world just isn't ready for that yet. You are a pioneer, my friend, a true pioneer!

You say that you refuse to marry interracial couples to protect the yet-to-be-born interracial children from "suffering". Interracial marriages don't last long and the children from these marriages are never "accepted" by, well, anyone. Except maybe Satan. You have even done thorough research to prove the above facts. How you have the time time to do such research, what with all hanging out with your black friends and refusing to marry people, is amazing to me! And to think that some people dare to question your research methods. People today just make me sick. After all, you did talk to both blacks and whites about the issue. Plus, you took time out of your busy schedule to witness some interracial marriages. And, as we all know, attending the wedding of a couple you don't know offers great insight into how long that marriage will last. It heartens me to know that you are out there in the world protecting the sanctity of marriage and the innocence of our children. Can you imagine if people had children without being married or if a married couple didn't want children?! Thank goodness we don't live in a world like that!

Mr. Blackwell, you are a truly inspiring individual. Here are some other causes you might want to considering working on:

The Myth of The Gays: They Don't Really Exist

Global Warming: It's a Lie!

Obama is Bad: Socialist, Illegal Alien, and of Mixed Race (!)

Middle Easterners: They're all Terrorists!

Yours Most Sincerely,

Joslyne

* My super smarty-pants lawyer friend, Niki, tells me that it's really the Supreme Court's interpretation of the Constitution. But writing all that didn't sound as good. So, just know that I know (because Niki knows) where it's all coming from.

In Which I am Bested by a Fecal Sample Kit

2009-10-15T17:43:00.010-05:00

Zoey has been sick most of this week. High fever and no other symptoms. Except for the screaming. And the not sleeping through the night. Yeah. It's been AWESOME. At least I got to watch some good TV (Top Chef anyone?) while Zoey snoozed on my chest. Oh! Added bonus! I got to test the limits of my bladder while pinned on the couch by a sleeping baby. Another highlight was force feeding Zoey medicine every 3 hours. And watching her spit it out and then (brace yourself) smear it IN HER HAIR.

Today Demetri started fall break. We celebrated by taking Zoey to the doctor. Together. Just because we are sickeningly cute like that. Negative for H1N1 and strep. They drew blood to try and determine if Zoey has a viral or bacterial infection. Zoey didn't even cry. It was pathetic. Seriously. Demetri and I sat there feeling helpless while we cradled Zoey, touched our palms to her forehead, and wondered if the 103 fever was going down or up.

I, in particular, must have looked a bit worried. Or crazed. Or maybe it was when I looked at the doctor and said, throwing my hands in the hair, "I'm freaking out. No, I might be freaking out. FREAK-ING." and then teared up. I frequently tear up in front of this doctor for no good reason. Last time, I teared up because I was convinced Zoey was having nightmares about me. Except in nightmares I had glowing red eyes and was screaming through pointy black teeth, "STTOOOPPPPP BITING!" I am positive Zoey's chart is marked with whatever the super secret doctor signal is for PARENT = TOTAL NUTBURGER. Today the doctor looked at me with significant eye contact and said, "Things are going to be OK. Everything. Will. Be. Ok." He backed toward the door, probably considered running for it and/or quitting his job, and kindly added, "Really." 3 times. "Really." (pause with more significant eye contact) "Really."

Both Demetri and I are madly in love with this pediatrician. We've seriously had multiple 15 minute conversations about how much we love him, his office staff, and amazing nurses. This is the main reason why: all of them can keep a straight face while we freak out and ask amazingly idiotic questions for two people who have masters' degrees. Demetri once asked the doctor if Zoey's pinkie toe was deformed because it curls in a little.

Anyway. It was all unclear if Zoey had a viral or bacterial infection. We were sent home with lots of Motrin and Tylenol samples -- probably to keep my hands full so I couldn't do anything nurtburgerish, like throw myself on a nurse and yell HEAL MY DAUGHTER! on the way out. And we were sent home with a fecal sample 'kit'. For the uninitiated there are 3 bottles that are about half way full with liquid. You screw the lid off each bottle and underneath there are little poop shovels with a slightly pronged ends. Your job is to scoop enough poop into the bottle to raise the liquid line to the marked level.

I was undaunted. After all, I've eaten poop. I'm a mom. And a large dog owner. What's a little poop? The shovel was even kind of cute. So we got home. Zoey hadn't pooped yet today so we knew it was coming. Conveniently, Demetri went to run errands. For 2 hours. Zoey pooped. I got the kit and began. Then, something began to gather in the back of my throat. I thought maybe it was bitterness at being left home alone to complete yet another poop related task. But no. No, no. It was a little bit of vomit gathered, there, in the back of my throat. I took a deep breath to try and settle my stomach. BAD. IDEA. The stench from that diaper is still there, clinging to the inside of my nose. As it will be for all eternity. Alas, I will no longer be able to smell sweet roses or peppermint tea. No, no all I can smell is shit.

I completed the kit. I felt dizzy. Nauseated. And, inexplicably, awkward and humiliated. Kind of like how it feels to be in middle school. My Mom Powers were bested by a fecal sample kit that comes with cute little shovels. Oh the shame!

(And you're welcome for not posting a picture.)

The First Mom's Night Out: Torture, Tears, and Store-Bought Baked Goods

2009-10-13T07:21:00.012-05:00

The first Mom's Night Out I ever attended was a potluck when Zoey was just a few months old. Let me pause while you take that in. POT. LUCK. As in everyone is supposed to bake something. As in here's-some-extra-work-for-you-to-do-before-you-go-out. As in you're-a-mom-so-you-must-bake. I brought these fancy cookies with jam and chocolate in them. From Kroger. I didn't bother to hide the box. And, seeing as how it was potluck, I assumed it was casual. I showed up in cords and one of my 'nice' long sleeved t-shirts. Apparently, this was a fashion faux pas as the other moms entered the house (carrying their home made baked goods) in swishy skirts showing off tanned and shaved legs, sandals with pedicured toes, and tiny tank tops displaying lactating boobs and flat stomachs. Except for one woman.

One woman came in a sequenced dress, 6 inch heels, and an updo. I had to stifle a laugh while the other moms had to stifle their apparent jealousy. Ms. Sex-on-a-Stick even talked to me. She said, and I quote, "It looks like your loosing some of that pregnancy weight!" Um . . . a) I had never met her before and b) um, well, I HAVE NEVER BEEN PREGNANT. I responded, "We adopted so I never had any weight to lose. It's great!" Ms. Sex, sequence glittering in the overhead track lighting, looked at me like I was an idiot and said, "No, I mean, it looks like you've lost weight from having the baby." I tried to smile. I probably failed. "Yes, I know what you mean. But I've never been pregnant . We adopted." Believe it or not, this conversation went on. And on. Until I said, "Yeah, I lost all my pregnancy weight", stuffed my mouth with another Kroger cookie, feigned interest in a nearby wall painting, and walked away.

Dinner was torture. I sat, staring at Caesar salad and watery lasagna, while other moms talked about the "blissful" and "fulfilling" experience of motherhood. Granted, I was deep in the well of post-adoption depression at this point, but I would have been willing to dig deeper just to get away from these women. I sat contemplating how soon I could leave. I really wanted to fake an illness but, as I barely had the will to go on living amongst such perk and June Cleaver-ness, I sat. And sat. And then snuck out as dessert recipes were being exchanged. Then I sat some more. In my car. While I cried. I think the tears were from feeling so other. So not part of those women. Not part of how they dressed. What they baked. How they talked. And, painfully, not part of the blissfulness and fulfillment that was their experience of motherhood. I was so sad and so tired and so overwhelmed that I couldn't see that their momness didn't have to be mine. Now I do. And I have not been to a potluck since.

(Stay tuned for Mom's Night Out Part II -- that in which we Whip it, Whip It Good)

I Need a Pep Talk

2009-10-12T08:21:00.007-05:00

So over the weekend I was obsessed with checking Facebook. Well, more obsessed than usual. I had 3 different "friends*" post status updates that either were offensive or led to a slew of offensive comments from the "friends" of my "friend". It was kind of like passing a car wreck on the highway -- You tell yourself not to look. You look. Then you feel scared and a little bit sick. Except in this case I felt angry and sick. And I kept looking.

The comments involved racism, homophobia, and/or misogyny. One status update was meant as a joke (I think). Some of the other comments did involve some sarcasm but most did not. For example, one person (not my friend) wrote that lesbians should be "strangled". He then said he was "kidding". But for me, that comment was way past funny. WAY past. Another "joke" (again, not by my friend) stereotyped all people from the Middle East as suicide bombers. Racism does not amuse me. Homophobia does not amuse me. Hate isn't funny.

There was a total of 30 offensive comments between the 3 different status updates. To be clear, there were at least 20 other comments that I didn't like (cutting remarks about Obama, for example) but weren't really "offensive". A difference in political opinions is one thing. Attacking the rights, self-worth, and very existence of certain groups of people is a whole different ball game. A game that I have zero tolerance for. Zero.

I would sit at the computer and read off the latest comments to Demetri. Then I would say (and spell, as Zoey was present) exactly what I thought of the comments. I would tell Demetri what I was going to write in response and he would come pry my fingers off the keyboard and beg me to think before I responded. Hm, thinking, what a novel concept. So I did. I thought. And thought some more.

Today my anger has turned into a kind of a sadness. I don't feel a part of my community because my community is dominated by homophobia and racism**. It is dominated by people claiming that lesbians are a result of people "turning away from Christ".*** There is a culture here of hate. It goes way back. It goes deep. And it goes mostly untalked about. Unchallenged. Unnoticed. I have found my friends that go against this culture. At times, we all have had to keep our mouths shut. It feels bad. It feels vaguely dirty. And today I feel weighed down by all the badness. I feel coated in griminess.

What do you do when you see an offensive comment on Facebook? Do you respond? Do you respond only to friends? To friends of friends?

* Friends is in quotes bc some of my Facebook friends I don't really know all that well. Like, "Hey we were at that conference together once! We're friends!"

**I still struggle with racism. I am working on it. Every day. Like most people that look like me, I will be working on it the rest of my life.

***I would argue that homophobia is a result of people not understanding Christ in the first place. But that doesn't seem to be a valid opinion here . . .

Toddlers Gone Wild*

2009-10-09T07:20:00.010-05:00

Yesterday I did something I swore I would never ever do. I did something that goes against every molecule of my being. Worst of all, I did something I have mercilessly mocked others for doing (Hi Niki!). I went to Chuck E. Cheese. I ate the food. I played the games. I crushed everyone (Niki and a bunch of 3 year olds) in Skee Ball. And . . . it was all my idea.

It all started at Walmart. Niki and I were attempting to shop for Halloween costumes for Zoey and Charlotte. (Zoey's includes a pink tutu. Seriously.) In a moment that may never be equaled in superiority and joyousness, Zoey pointed to the figure on the left and repeatedly yelled out, "Dada! Dada! Dada!"

Soon after, the girls made a joint decision and very 'diplomatically' (with the usual screaming, thrashing, and whining) declared, "We shall no longer be held captive in these rolling wire cages!! We shall roam free -- in spirit and in body! We shall triumph over your iron fisted rule!" And like idiots, Niki and I let the girls out of the carts. They took off. And ran right into the bra section. They perused the padded bras like pros. Niki and I were frightened. Very very frightened.

The girls were then forced to push our carts up to the check-out. Being the exemplary mothers that we are, we debated the merits of filling the carts with bottled water or, say, cinderblocks before making the girls push them. Exercise is good, people! But in the end Niki and I were too lazy to follow through with this genius plan. Well, I was too lazy. Niki is 8 months pregnant . . .

While waiting to check-out, Zoey and Charlotte pulled things off shelves, ran into each other, and generally wreaked havoc. Then, I heard myself say: "Huh. I wonder where we could take them to run around. . . " I ignored Niki's suggestion of "the park" and took the plunge into madness, "How about Chuck E. Cheese?" Niki was stunned into silence.

15 minutes later we had been stamped, admitted past the red plastic ropes, and were ordering overpriced pizza. Then . . . TODDLERS GONE WILD.* Zoey literally ran in circles, not sure what she wanted to see first. Zoey rode a caterpillar. She rode a fire truck. Both of them rode on the merry go round (Zoey stared at her self in the mirror the whole time). They whacked gophers. They punched over ducks (Niki was oddly competitive at this game. I. AM. PUNCHING. IT. WHY WON'T THEY FALL OVER? I am sooo playing again! Just sayin'). We all ate pizza.

And then, oh then! The gimormous Chuck E. Cheese figure went On Air. He sang. He danced. Zoey and Charlotte were in the front row screaming, shaking their booties, and generally worshiping Chuck. If they had bras, they would have thrown them.* It was the finest moment of their little lives. Clearly, we need to get them out more.

* Thanks to Niki and Corey for letting me steal their lines

Our Adoption Story II: The Boring Part

2009-10-07T07:45:00.002-05:00

Ok. So maybe deciding to adopt wasn't as quick and easy as I made it sound in the last post. True, Demetri and I had been talking about adoption before we got married. But it wasn't always with certainty. There was a lot of fear and anxiety. What if we can't connect to someone else's baby? What if there are health problems? What if a birth mother never chooses us? We researched adoption. We read books. We watched informational videos. We overcame our fears enough to move forward. And we were met with a whole new set of questions: Did we have a preference for gender, race, or age? Were we willing to adopt a baby from a birth mom who did not get prenatal care? Who smoked marijuana? Who drank during pregnancy? Who had a history of any kind of mental illness?

We did more research. Read more books. Had lots of talks, discussions, and arguments with each other and ourselves. Gradually we were able to answer the questions. We did not have a preference for gender or race. However, I was adamant that we adopt a new born. As a social worker I had worked with many many kids that had been adopted after they were a year or older. These kids were great, and many of their families were great, but the kids were working their way through Reactive Attachment Disorder.* And it was always a long, hard battle for everyone involved. Although I was good at working with these kids in a 50 minute session, I knew my limits. We would not be adopting an 'older' child. We also decided that we were only willing to work with birth moms that had at least some prenatal care, who did not drink during pregnancy, and with a limited history of mental illness (depression and anxiety stuff was OK, Schizophrenia etc. not OK). After consulting a doctor, we decided that infrequent marijuana use was OK. After many discussions, we decided an open (or semi-open) adoption would work well for us and for our baby.

Next up: We had to get a home study. This is the part where a stranger comes into your home (albeit a nice, social worky one) and evaluates your potential for parenthood. And, if you live where I live, you are asked to sign a "statement of faith" promising to raise a child you don't even have yet in "the one true faith" as a "follower of Christ". This presented a . . . "problem" for me. Demetri and I were totally unwilling to sign a statement of faith. For one, we would be lying. For two, one does not need to be "a follower of Christ" to be a good parent. Apparently, in this part of the south they haven't heard that two-thirds of the world is not Christian. I called out of state and tried to cut a deal where we would pay for hotel and meals so a social worker could complete a home study. No luck. Finally, through a referral from Demetri's work, we found a teeny tiny local agency (they didn't even have a web site) that did not require a statement of faith. Thank god!

We cleaned the house like it had never been cleaned before. We gave Gilmore a bath. We framed pictures in which we thought we looked 'parental'. We put fire extinguishers in visible places in various rooms. I bought fancy cheese and crackers to serve as a snack. We put on nice clothes. Nice but not too nice -- we didn't want to look like we were trying too hard. We had our paperwork in a brand new, crisp purple folder. We didn't wear shoes when the social worker arrived so that we would look "casual and relaxed" when she came to the door.

The social worker came. She evaluated. She was kind. She gave us another binder full of paperwork. Yes, a binder. We had to get references. Check-ups and blood tests from the doctor ( I even needed a special note as I had a history of minor depression). Proof of marriage. Our educational transcripts (with the college seal). A note from the vet. Fingerprints. Yes, Demetri got fingerprinted at a gun store. Well, not just a gun store, the place also weighed dead deer. As much as I love guns and dead animals, I chose another location for my fingerprints. We also each wrote a 7 page biography. And no, we were not allowed to skip over the humiliating moments of middle school, poor choices that were made about men while abroad, or that one Grateful Dead concert. So yeah, the paperwork was all vaguely humiliating.

The end result? We passed.

* There are many, many "older" children who are adopted that never ever have to deal with this issue.

Come on . . . Don't we look like awesome potential parents?

(Pick us! Pick us!)

And Yet*

2009-10-02T08:04:00.006-05:00

So you've probably already read/heard the story about the woman who decided to terminate her son's adoption after 18 months. There were bonding issues, marriage issues, etc. The woman did all the right things: counseling, attachment exercises, more counseling. And yet.

I remember our first 5 months with Zoey. Huge chunks of it were hell for me. It's a special kind of soul breaking pain to love someone so very much and yet feel no connection. You feel thin, transparent. There's nothing you can hold onto or ground yourself in. Any minute, you will blow away. Any minute, you will be gone, a missing person forever. You try and look the part. You smile for pictures. You hold the baby. You are gentle. Careful. But inside you are ashes.

You don't give up.

You. Keep. Going.

And then: Sunlight. You begin to feel. The baby holds your finger. Tight. She cups your chin in in her oh so tiny palm. You notice the sweet smell of her neck, the softness of her hair. Late at night when you hold her and rock her and whisper to her, your bodies are one. You cry from the relief, amazed that one moment can undo so much darkness. Amazed that one tiny moment can be so sacred.

You wait as long as it takes for these moments to pile up. You catalog them, glossy prints sliding over and under one another. Pictures from your life. Pictures from your loving. You wait. And wait. You get better. More practiced. For the rest of your life, and hers, you wait. You let the moments unfold. Because they will. Oh, they most certainly will.

* Thanks to Amy for letting me steal her delicate use of the phrase 'and yet'. Without even asking. You know I love you. And worship you. And think you look very buff.

ALSO, check out a slightly happier post over at Cool Moms Care. It's about soccer. And other stuff . . .

Totally-Fiction-Because-I -Would-Never-Do-This-to-My-Husband-Because-He-Does-Have-Super-Sonic-Ears

2009-09-29T07:27:00.009-05:00

Conversation at 5:30 PM:

Demetri: I'll totally hear the cat if he wants back in tonight.

Me: Um, I'm sorry, did you just say you'll hear the cat? Scratching at the door?

Demetri: Yeah, I have Super Sonic Ears!

Me: Oooooooh kaaaaaaaaay.

After midnight:

I hear creaking and muffled thumps from the next room. Zoey is waking up. Demetri is snoring next to me, the covers pulled tight under his chin. Zoey begins to whimper. I pretend rollover shaking the bed as much as I can. The snoring continues. The whimpering has turned into crying. I do a kick like someone with restless leg syndrome might. I connect with my husband's kneecap on the first try. He makes a wet, gulping sound and rolls away from me taking the blankets with him. Damn the king size bed! The snoring resumes. I pull on the blankets so the part that is tucked under his chin is now tight and noose like. He rolls back on his back, freeing his wind pipe. I think I see a little glimmer of drool slide from his mouth towards the pillow.* The crying intensifies: Yells that say You-are-incompetent-slacker-of-a-parent-Can-you-not-hear-me?! punctuated by hiccup-y breathing that says I-am-so-pathetic-and-cute-you-must-come-hold-me. I connect my elbow with Demetri's nose via a thinly veiled Oh-no-I-am-having-a-scary-nightmare maneuver. I hear a muffled "ow". He rolls toward me and attempts to get into the spooning position. I elbow him in the stomach. Zoey is wailing, BaaaaaBaaaaaaa!. My husband, who I promised to love no matter what, nudges me and whispers, "I think the baby is up. She wants you". "I am NOT Baba," I hiss back. "YOU are Baba." "No" he says sleepily, "I've never been Baba. I've always been Dada." I sit up. "Well, you are Baba tonight, Mr. Super Sonic Ears." My kind, hot, amazing husband (Hi honey!) shuffles out of the room to get Zoey. I roll into my pillow, victorious. "Super sonic my ass." Then a yell from the shadows of the hall: "I totally heard that!"

*For future reference, this is the point when I became officially bitter.