The Bedtime Big-Top

Ladies and gentlemen!
Boys and girls!
Children of all ages!
Welcome to the three-ring circus I call bedtime at my house, with yours truly as the ringmaster.

The following is a typical night at our house:

Me: "Girls! Get ready for bed! Go brush your teeth!" (This is said no less than 20 times.)

Once they are settled with their pajamas on and in bed:

B: "I didn't have my snack!"
A: "Me too!"

They both get up and have a bowl of cereal, of which Bella eats all of it and Ari eats half of.
Back in bed.

B: "I have to go to the bathroom."
A: "Me too."
Back in bed.

B: "I forgot to blow my nose." This entails her spraying her saline spray into her nose and blowing with at least five tissues. She then gets a nosebleed. I have to go into the bathroom to get her more tissues and a Q-Tip coated with petroleum jelly so she can clot the bleeding and moisten the inside of her nose.
Settled back in.

A: "I'm hungry."

B: "Ooops. I forgot to get my water." She always keeps a fresh cup of water next to her bed, which she might need in the middle of the night, when she never gets up.

A: "I'm thirsty too." A cup of water for her.

Me: "Ari, did you brush your teeth?"

A: "No. I wanna do it now."
Brush. Back to bed.

A: "Can you read me a bedtime story?" Sometimes I do this depending on the time and the level of my frustration thus far.

B: "Has anyone seen my eye mask? I can't sleep without my eye mask." Search ensues. Back to bed.

A: "Mommy, can you lay with me for a few minutes?" I sit on her bed.

B: "Mommy, can you tuck me in?" I get up to tuck Bella in. I also tuck in Ari. When I do so, she says, "Can you scratch my arms?" So naturally, if I do this, Bella wants her arms scratched too. So I scratch both girls' arms and tuck them back in again.
Sit back on bed.

A: "We forgot to do our prayves." (Ari's word for prayers.) So we all recite our bedtime prayer and sit there while Ari goes through all of the little one-liner prayers she's learned at school.
We settle back down.

B: "Can we turn off the closet light?" It's too bright in here." Turn that off and turn on Hello Kitty night light. Bella complains that it's still too bright.

A: "I'm hot! I wanna change into my nightgown." Back in bed.

B: "Can we turn on the air? It's too hot in here." Air, check.

A: "I lost my Princess Doggie Cuddles. I can't sleep without that." Search ensues in the mountain of stuffed animals stacked in the corner of her bed and in the toy pile on the floor next to her bed. We find it and I try to leave the room.

A: "Mommy wait, I'm scared!"
I really give her something to be scared of by threatening her into staying in her bed and I leave the room and shut the door. I go either in to the kitchen or in my bedroom.
I hear their bedroom door creak open.

B: "Mommy, I have a headache." I get up and give her Motrin. And leave the room again.

Their bedroom door creaks open again.

A: "Mommy, can I lay in your bed?" A resounding NO comes from me and my half-asleep husband and I walk her back to her bed. I head back to my room again.

Crrreeeaaaakkk.

B: "I just want to give you another goodnight hug and kiss." I do that for the fourth time that night and she heads back to her bed.

Crrreeeeaaaakkkk.

A: She shows up next to me with big puppy dog eyes, clutching her pillow and stuffed animals, showing me she's scared. I raise my voice and shoo her back to her bed, telling them both that I've had enough.

Then, and only then, do they stay in bed, and eventually fall asleep. Or so I thought.

Crreeeaaakkk.

B: "Mommy, Ari asleep and I just want to let you know that I took my Motrin. Can I give you another hug and a goodnight kiss?" Sure. "And oh, by the way...Ari farts in her sleep."

I break out into laughter because at this point, I would start crying if I didn't.

By now it's 11pm, I'm exhausted, they're over-exhausted and I've had to resort to raising my voice and scaring the little one to sleep.

So I get up and do what comes naturally: I get up to make popcorn for tomorrow night's circus show, all the while laughing and thinking how we're one elephant and one clown short of the real thing.

-Cathy

Room Parent of the Year

Last year, I volunteered to be a room parent at my eldest daughter's school. Basically, room parents are the liaisons between the school and the parents of the children in the classroom.

She was in fourth grade and this was the first time I attempted to take on that task. I had no idea what to expect.

As the year drudged along, I found out that we were required to attend four all-room parent meetings during the school year in addition to corresponding with the homeroom teacher on in-class events, and have a series of sub-meetings for which we had to plan various functions.

Now granted, it sounds like a lot. However, I was saved by the fact that there were two parents assigned to each grade level room. So our class had two parents (I was one of them) and the other fourth grade girls class had two parents. So luckily, I had three other parents to mooch meeting notes off of. Ahhh...reminded me of my good 'ol college days.

Here's the lesson I took away from that little experience: Either you have your shit organized, or you just go with the flow. Me? I ended up falling into that latter category, as is evident by the notes I took at one of those four required all-room parent meetings, shown below:



Yes, dear readers. I wrote my notes ON THE BACK OF MY CHECKBOOK.

Not only did I arrive late to the meeting, I came totally unprepared. I tried to maintain my dignity as I sat there scribbling with a half-ass pen I had to borrow, furiously burying my nose into my checkbook (thank goodness I threw that in my purse the night before, otherwise my notes would have been on Kleenex tissues) so as I don't see the look of a mixture of horror and polite smiles on the faces of the other, overly-prepared room parent moms.

The mom next to me had a THREE-RING BINDER, with colored TABS, sheet protectors, neat pockets on the inside covers and more paper clips and highlighters than I could count. Seriously? How much time DO you have? Oh, and did I mention she has three kids and basically LIVES at the school?

Thus I concluded that it didn't matter if you work full-time, or stay at home raising your kids full time, or balance a little of both like I do. Either you are an organized schedule follower or you're not. And let's face it, I never was. My kids are on Latin/Greek time when it comes to bedtime. We never did the baths at 5:30, dinner at 6:30, homework done by 7:30, and bedtime at 8:30. NOT. EVEN. CLOSE. Like I said, we just go with the flow. And you know what, it still works out okay for us.

So when I got the email to consider volunteering for a room parent again this year, I decided to hold off and perhaps give it a shot next year, when I get a chance to buy a stand-up easel and a film projector.

-Cathy

When They Tell You to Do Kegels, Listen

The other night M and I were wrestling in the kitchen.

What? Don’t all married couples do this?

We playfully pushed and swatted each other as S stood giddily on the sidelines, directing M to push me here, and me to pinch him there. Finally, M suddenly grabbed me in a bear hug from behind and squeezed the living crap out of me. ALMOST LITERALLY.

That hug was (un)strategically placed, and that combined with my laughter was just not a good combination because the next thing I knew, I felt a warm gush “down there”. Horrified, I felt the slow trickle down my legs, and then, just like that, it made its exit out from under my skirt and onto the kitchen floor.

Ladies and Gentlemen, I PEED ON THE KITCHEN FLOOR.

M hopped back in terror, his eyes wide with disbelief. “Did you…. DID YOU JUST PEE?”

S covered her mouth and squealed with a mixture of disgusted delight and absolute humiliation that this was her mother: The Lady Who Pees on Kitchen Floors.

“YES I JUST PEED!” I said defiantly. “You try squeezing a kid out of your vagina and let’s see how well YOU can hold it in!”

We all kind of just stared down at it: the little puddle that shimmered mockingly back at us. It was my pee. And it was on the kitchen floor. Something was out of context here.

I grabbed the bleach and a handful of paper towels and wiped it up while M and S laughed in the background.

Look: If you can’t pee on the kitchen floor in front of your family, well then you just really haven’t gone deep enough.

~Patti

Don't Touch My Monkey

A few weeks ago S and I were invited to a friend’s house for dinner. Michelle’s husband was out of town, and she thought it would be fun to get the kids together and enjoy a nice summer evening on her back deck.

I arrived, bottle of wine in hand, and as soon my glass was full, got to keeping my friend company in the kitchen while she sliced and diced and did other kitchenly things. Her 3-year son Ciaran was kneeling on a stool over the kitchen skin, very busy on something that apparently required the faucet to be on.

“Whatcha doin’?” I asked him.

He pointed into the sink. “Me give Woody a bath!”

I peered over into the sink and saw poor ol’ Toy Story Woody, fully dressed in his plaid shirt, jeans and cowboy boots, half-drowned, his frozen smile begging for mercy. “Wow!” I exclaimed, “He looks pretty clean to me!”

Ciaran shook his curly head in furious disagreement, “No! Woody need bath!”
I left Ciaran to murdering Woody with water, and continued chatting with Michelle.

Once dinner was ready, we headed out to the back deck, and I heard Michelle telling Ciaran it was time to turn off the faucet. Ciaran was pretty hell-bent in believing that Woody needed to bathe for at least another good 2 hours, and refused to shut off the faucet. There was a little skirmish of wills, and then Ciaran and Michelle appeared on the deck, where I was already seated with S and Michelle’s daughter, Sophie.

The food looked amazing, and I was starving, so couldn’t wait to dig in. I was just about to shove a forkful into my mouth when Ciaran shot out of his seat back into the kitchen, where he headed straight for the faucet. Michelle also shot out of her seat after him, and brought him back all frustrated and squirmy to the deck. I waited for Michelle to sit down so I could begin the feast, but the minute she did, Ciaran was out of his seat again, headed straight for Woody. I put my fork down again, and waited for the battle. Once more, Michelle brought Ciaran out the deck. “WOOOOOODY NEEEEEEED BAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAATH!” Michelle pushed him down onto the bench, this time physically holding him down as she attempted with the other hand to feed herself. Amazed at her multi-tasking and will to succeed, I picked up my fork and almost actually made it into my mouth before a piercing scream abruptly brought it back down. Ciaran was trying to get out from under his mother’s hold, and managed to set himself free. He was sprinting in to the kitchen, determined to give WOODY A BAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAATH! Michelle threw down her fork and chased after him again.

I heard his woeful screams from the kitchen and looked over at his big sister Sophie, who had put her head into her hands in exasperation. “Oh boy,” I said, attempting to lighten the mood, “He’s, uh, pretty mad, huh?”

Sophie’s cheeks were flushed as she flopped her head down dramatically into her arms, “He does this Every. Single. Day!” I wondered if that was true, and if so, I was even more impressed at my friend’s patience.

Michelle emerged triumphantly from the kitchen with Ciaran tossed over her shoulder, and planted him down firmly onto the deck. “What do you say, Ciaran?”

Ciaran sniffled and struggled with his pride, but he finally managed to offer a heartfelt little “I sowwy….”

Relieved that the crisis seemed to have been averted, we all settled in again and I happily picked up my fork – once again – and managed to shovel in some food, at last! Ciaran’s mood significantly lightened and the black temper tantrum cloud seemed to have lifted.

But within minutes, that all changed.

Sophie decided she was done eating and wanted to leave the table, but Michelle told her she needed to wait for all of us to finish. So she asked if she could at least go and get her monkey (GAWD!). Michelle, at this point done with it all, nodded her permission while swigging a much needed shot of wine from her glass. Sophie was back in a flash, and in her hands she had a stuffed monkey that was wrapped up in a banana. Yes, it was as scary-looking as it sounds. But the creepiness was totally lost on S and Sophie, because they oohed and aaahed over the “cuteness” of it all, which somehow renewed Ciaran’s desire to go and give Woody a bath. That is where the reprieve ended, because while Sophie and S fawned over a monkey in a banana, Ciaran got more and more restless, absolutely certain Woody would simply perish if he didn’t get that damned bath.

Michelle, now done with it all more than EVER, suggested to Ciaran that he go and play with Sophie’s monkey. His eyes lit up, and he tore out of his seat to the other side of the table. But Sophie? Was not having it. This was HER monkey, and she was in no mood to have Ciaran even look at it. Ciaran and Sophie struggled over the monkey, tug-o-warring with it. At one point, in a desperate attempt to get Ciaran to drop the monkey, Sophie grabbed him by the cheeks and squeezed them so hard she almost drew blood. Ciaran wailed in pain and surprise, and he stood there, all purple-cheeked, crying but still tenaciously reaching for the monkey. And in the midst of his wails, Sophie, also done with it all, yelled out in despair, “MOM! WHY DID YOU TELL HIM TOUCH MY MONKEY?”

Touch. My. Monkey?

Yes, I am 12 years old, and so is Michelle, apparently, because despite the screaming and whining and tears and bloody cheeks, and the fact that we had not had one moment’s peace on that beautiful back deck over a beautifully prepared meal, somehow, the single phrase, “TOUCH MY MONKEY” put us both into a fit of totally immature laughter. “She said TOUCH MY MONKEY!” we snorted out loud to each other, trying not to spew the wine we had both just sipped. The kids, tear-streaked and purple-faced, just stared at us, stunned into silence, not getting what the hell was so funny.

But it was funny. And it has to be funny. Because if it’s not funny at times like this, you cry.

~Patti

No Class In First Class

When my young daughter, Ari, was a mere 17 months old, we took a little holiday vacation to Miami the week before Christmas to relax. (Ha.)

Things went swimmingly while we were there for the first few days. So much so, that my husband decided to extend the vacation a few more days until December 23rd. But more on that later.

So every day we would take Ari down to the pool with the stroller to make sure she had her nap. Since she was so over-stimulated being at the pool, this would entail me strolling her up and down the beach boardwalk until she fell asleep. Then I would carefully stroll her back into the pool area, park the stroller, order the frozen margarita Bucket O’ Booze (not kidding – it was literally served in a bucket with two straws) and my husband Joe and I sipped on that while we soaked up the South Beach rays and marveled at Bella’s (our then five year-old daughter) pool noodle techniques. And did I mention that we would pray that some other fun-lovin’ kid didn’t scream too loud as he/she was cannonballing the afternoon away?

Needless to say, Ari’s naps ended up being about 45 minutes to one hour per day, when she was used to getting (and should have been getting) at least two and-a-half hours per day. But we were having so much fun being in South Beach at the Lowes swimming pool, that we thought nothing of it. Every night Ari would seem very restless and unlike herself until about the fifth night when she had a COMPLETE meltdown. And where? At one of the chi-chi outdoor restaurants on Lincoln Road, where we had decided to order lobster and be all cool and Miami-like. After she grabbed a handful of butter and pulled it through her hair like gel, we grabbed our mohawked little terror, practically straight-jacketed her into the stroller and ended up having one of the roughest night’s sleep thus far.

She was completely overtired. And instead of one of us (i.e. ME) being selfless and taking her up to the room to nap, we subjected her to such half-ass sleep that by end of our now extended trip, she was beyond herself – outside of her body – with exhaustion.

At the airport on the way home, my husband was self-checking us in and says, “It’s only $xx more if we upgrade to first class. Let’s do it.” I was in no position to argue. Sounded great.

So here’s how this went down:

- Next to me, Bella was completely obsessed with the giant seats-turned-recliners with all the buttons and doodads, that all she kept doing THE ENTIRE THREE HOUR FLIGHT was pushing those buttons and extending and retracting the chair. Bbbbzzzzz. Bbbbbbzzzzzz. Bbbbbbzzzz. Bbbbbbbbzzz. The glass of red wine I stupidly decided to order ended up in my lap and all over my seat – she was so excited to show me a NEW button she had found for the headrest – so I had to sit on a folded up quilt in my wine soaked jeans.

- Ari (running completely on fumes at this point) was running circles around the free-standing partition that separated the passenger seating with the flight attendant’s galley. Round and round and round and round and round she went on turbo. When we tried to calm her down by popping a pacifier in her mouth she yanked it out and threw it clear across first class. It landed behind my husband’s seat, across the aisle from me. The flight attendants (half trying to be helpful and half desperately trying to stop her from terrorizing the entire flight) were directing my husband (who was now forcefully holding a kicking Ari in his lap) to retract the seat as much as he could to free up the space behind his seat so they can search for the pacifier. By now Joe’s knees were to his chin and two flight attendants were elbow deep behind the seat, but couldn’t extract the pacificer from the depths of metal and wiring back there. Ari was screaming. Bbbbbbzzzzzz, bbbbbbzzzzzz, bbbbbbbzzzzzzzzz.

- A man’s voice – the pilot? – is heard on the intercom, “Parents, can you please control your children. Thank you.” I looked around and caught the white parts of some eyeballs, some glaring right at me. Bbbbzzzzz. Bbbbbbzzzz. I stunk like a whino.

- At this point, Joe had had it with Ari, who was stuck on him like flies on shit. She was clutching his neck, hanging on him, crying, whining and screaming. And I had no more pacifiers with me. A bottle of milk didn’t work. Joe was now yelling at me to take her and give him a break. He tried to pass her off to me across the aisle, which set Ari into another tailspin. The veins in Joe’s temples were throbbing. Bbbbzzzz. Bbbbbbbzzzzz. I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. I desperately wanted to suck the wine out of the fibers of my jeans.

-On it went like this until FINALLY, finally, when the plane started its descent and began to rattle its way into the tundra-like weather conditions while landing in a sub-zero, wind-chilled Chicago, we saw her eyes start to close as she was sprawled across Joe’s lap. We both looked at each other wearily. She was out. So out, she didn’t wake up as we deplaned, or waited 45 minutes for our stroller, or took a cab in –5 degrees weather, or when we laid her in her bed.

And now, at midnight, came part two of my punishment for going on vacation and extending it until December 23rd. I laid in Bella’s bed until she fell asleep, her body still buzzing from that contraption of a seat. Then I hauled ass downstairs to our storage to bring up ALL of the gifts I still had to wrap for Christmas morning, because tomorrow I had to make a cake and visit my in-laws, where we would exchange gifts that I needed to wrap now. I dove into bed face first at 2am and imagined diving into the pool at the Lowes again, dreaming of another sorely needed vacation.

-Cathy

Believing

The other day I was cleaning out some drawers, and I discovered a little stack of letters. They were the letters S had written to Santa when she believed he would really receive them. Transported, I studied the crooked handwriting of the little girl who once believed, and remembered how it changed.

The first time she asked me she was sitting at the kitchen counter and my back was turned to her. "Mom? Carmina told me that her mom is her Santa. Is that true?" Panicked, I began to beat the innocent eggs I had cracked for her omelet into submission, thankful she could not see my freaked-out face.

"Honey, let me finish this up; we're gonna be late!"

I felt like a big fraud, avoiding her pointed question that way. I just wasn't ready. She was 8, and I knew it was coming, the "talk", but I needed more time.

A couple of years before, S had encountered some Christmas wrapping paper I had stored away. She instantly recognized it, "Mommy! This is the same paper Santa uses! Why does he use our paper?"

Caught completely off-guard, I feigned surprise and acted as if I was trying to "recollect" that Santa had done that while my mind raced to find a plausible answer that she would buy. “Oh, well… Santa sometimes runs out of paper and he uses what he finds in the houses he visits!” She seemed satisfied with the answer – for the moment. But I knew, even though she didn’t yet realize, the beginning of the end had commenced.

Two weeks before last Christmas, we were watching a Christmas cartoon together in her bed. S was cuddled up against me, and I could feel her laughter through her back. Suddenly, she got quiet. I could tell she wasn’t really watching the show anymore, though she kept her eyes on the television the entire time. She seemed nervous. Finally, she spoke. “Mom? Are you my Santa?” She turned to me, her eyes pleading. I knew I had run out of time.

“Do you want me to tell you the truth?”

She nodded earnestly. I tried to shake away the tightness I felt in my chest; I knew my answer would close many doors, and it made me so sad.

“Yes, I am your Santa.”

I waited for her tears, for her to show me that she hated me for having lied to her all those years. Instead, she smiled slowly, as if relieved, and said, “I had a feeling.”

“Are you mad?” I felt myself wanting cry. I could see another page rip right off the calendar of her childhood in my head.

“No! I liked all the things you did to be Santa!”

I explained to her that although Santa was not a real person, he was a real spirit; that the magic of giving and joy and that bubbly feeling it all gave her in her tummy, it would all still live in her heart, and that nothing or nobody could ever take that away.

Grateful that she seemed to take it so well, I hugged her so tightly I could feel the little bones in her back, and then the next question came, all muffled by my smothering embrace. “Mom…. Does this mean there is no Easter Bunny or Tooth Fairy, either? TELL ME THE TRUTH.”

I pulled away from her and decided to yank the band-aid off as swiftly as possible. One-by-one I took down all of the magical characters that had been part of her life since she could remember: Yes, it had been me that wrote all the letters from the Easter Bunny in that loopy, bunnyish handwriting. Yes, it had been me that snuck into her room at night to steal away the tooth under her pillow and replaced it with money and glittery hand-written “thank you” notes. (And yes, I had been careful to ensure that the Tooth Fairy’s handwriting was different from the Easter Bunny’s handwriting. I had mastered the art of magical deception!) Yes, it had been me that nibbled on the carrots and cookies in the dark and drank the milk and spread the crumbs, and left wrapping paper and scissors strewn about. It had all been me.

S smiled at all of the memories, and at how hard she had believed, and she made me promise I would still “do Santa gifts” and that I would still fill plastic eggs with candy and coins and send her on frenzied Easter morning treasure hunts, and that I would still pretend it was all real “just for fun.”

And I promised her with all my heart.

Just this morning, S was eating breakfast when she suddenly exclaimed, “Mom! It came out!” She held out her hand to me, and in it was one of the last few remaining baby teeth that have been clinging to dear life. She smiled widely at me, revealing the fresh new gap. “I’m going to put it under my pillow tonight!”

I smothered her cheek with kisses while she giggled, both of us knowing that it would be me stealing away that tooth tonight from under her pillow, both of us okay with it.

~Patti

T.M.I

My initial Hormone Highway post from a few days ago now merits its first follow-up.

I will be periodically (no pun intended) posting follow-ups as I make my way down this dark, desert highway, a cool drink in my hand, the warm smell of...wait a minute...sorry, couldn't help the reference.

What follows may be TMI for some of you, but when I speak of hormones, I get real. Just about as real as the Real Housewives of New York City's Ramona Singer did last week when she had her TMI moment on national television. As I settled into my couch to watch Part I of the RHONY Reunion, I almost dropped my wine glass at Ramona's prompt reply to the first question of the show directed at her: "So just to confirm," says Andy, the show's host, "You're not pregnant right now, right?"
"No. But I still get my period. I have it right now," says Romona bluntly, without missing a beat. "I get it every 30 days like clockwork, and that's why I look so great, so young! I don't need liquid facelifts," obviously a comment meant to hit Jill Zaran right between her injected brows.

So Ramona kept going on and on about how she's 54 years old and still gets her period every 30 days no matter what and when she was a few days late, it prompted her to think she was pregnant. The more I am listening to her and begrudgingly agree with her, I scan the television and even pause it on her face to catch the slightest hint of a facial sag, and don't see it. But the bitch was right. It IS a big part of why she still looks so great and supple. And I totally hated her. Because that's the way it was supposed to go for me. But I, dear friends, have already spotted some jowl sagging, which I have pointed out to Patti on several occasions and to which she has always replied in two octaves too high "You're crazy!" (God bless her heart), but *I* see it and *I* know it's there!!!!

The good news is that after being on the pill after just one month, I finally got mine! Of course I was packing for a trip to Mexico and was totally unprepared as I hadn't shopped for tampons or pads in almost two years (yes, two YEARS), my sister swooped in and saved the day with my supply for that month. Of course, being super prepared and organized, she gave me a cleanly zipped baggie of every size out there - super, heavy, regular, light, drip, liners, with wings, without wings - literally, one for every single phase of your period. God bless her too.

So this second month, I made the long-awaited trip to Osco to buy some for myself. It felt good to linger there in the feminine hygiene aisle...it had been a while. So I took it all in - what was new? What was different? OOOohhh...now they have the Pearl Tampax in three different sizes ALL IN ONE BOX! Yippee! I was sold.

As I was being rung up, the twentysomething girl behind the register asks me, "Are these the ones with the cardboard? I hate those."
"Nooooo!" I replied. "These are the soft, rounded plastic applicators. They're awesome," I kept going, not missing a beat.

So she asks me if I don't mind opening up one of them so she can see them. So there I was, like an old pro once again, teaching the youngins about the ladythings. We were standing there, me holding the soft pearlized blue applicator explaining to her how the contour is more conducive to its purpose, just chatting away - a real life tutorial (short of a demonstration) at the Osco cash register about tampons, oblivious as to who was passing by.

Another Osco employee, a fiftysomething, decides to join in the conversation just as the twentysomething says, "Those don't look like they hold enough. I tend to be very heavy my first few days."

(Of course you are.)

So the fiftysomething lady says in her own TMI moment, "Well that ain't gonna cut it then. You need SUPER! That's why I always just back it up with a pad..." she continued, seemingly mumbling to herself as she was walking away. The last thing I heard her say was, "You see I just can't WAIT to just get rid o' mine! I'm ready to just get rid of it!" And off she went dragging her feet and flicking her wrist down into mid air.

I have a feeling she will one day remember that moment and realize that indeed, that was Too Much Information; information she wishes she hadn't shared, or even thought.

-Cathy

Eavesdropped: Failed Negotiations

(Scene: Parking lot, parked mini-van)

Mom: Hannah! Get in NOW!

Kid: Noooooo, I don’t wanna go!

Mom: Hannah! You are gonna get a time-out!

Kid: NOOOOO!

Mom: I’m gonna count to three! One...

Kid: ...

Mom: One...

Kid: ...

Mom: ONE...

Kid: ...

Mom: If you get in I will get you ice cream.

Kid: With sprinkles?


~Patti

She's Only Five

Tomorrow, my little one will be five years old. And I'm having a real hard time with that.

First thing this morning, I went right to her bed and found her laying there holding her little pillow and "Mo" (the little lamb stuffed animal she's been sleeping with since she was two) and I smothered her in kisses before I blurted out with a crack in my voice, "Happy Last Day of Four Years Old!"

She blinked the morning sleepiness out of her eyes and suddenly seemed a bit more awake. "Tomorrow is my whole birthday?" she said excitedly.
"Yes," I said with a half smile. "Tomorrow is your whole birthday."

Ever since I told her a week ago that her birthday was coming up she would ask me every day if it was time yet and I would say, "Four more days and THEN..." as we would count it out on her fingers to help her put it in a time perspective, as best as her little four-year old mind could.

"So," I continued, "I have a surprise for you tomorrow! We're gonna do something special!"
"Is it a palace?" she asked.
"Is it a princess?"

So throughout the day as I got her ready for gymnastics, the pool and her little impromptu party with a friend at our house at the end of the day, pink frosted cupcakes and all, I tried to take in every minute of every second. I asked her for the umpteenth time (as I had been doing the last several weeks as I started to realize her 5th birthday was looming): "How old are you?" just so I can hear her say 'FOUR' while she held up those four tiny fingers. I must have made her say that a hundred times but I never got sick of hearing it and she never got sick of saying it.
"I know you want me to stay little mommy, but I got to get big. Are you gonna cry?" she asked me today. [Insert knife in heart here.]

"A little bit," I responded as I caught her reaction. She truly looked sad for me, so I changed the subject and choked back the tears.

So tonight, as I kissed her goodnight and whispered, "Happy last day of four years old" in her ear, I gazed over her little features while she was falling asleep, running her fingers across the corner tip of her pillow. Part of me didn't want her to fall asleep because I knew she would wake up as a five-year old, no longer the cute age of four. Then she turned her back to me and almost instantly fell asleep.

That's when I noticed her body. Suddenly, she seemed instantly longer, taller to me. Already grown up. That was evident today when she demanded of her sister, "Can you please close the bathroom door? I need my privaseat."

My eyes welled up as I reached over to kiss her face. That's when I saw it: her little arm, outstretched across the mattress, half falling over the edge, with her fist almost tightly clutched closed, like that of a sleeping baby. I smiled widely to myself in the dark as I said, "Part of her is still a baby." That image strangely comforted me.

Patti has succinctly pointed out on several occasions to me that, "five is still little" even though I refused to believe her. But now I know, like any age, it's just a number. Tomorrow she will wake up and still be the little Ari she was today. What's scary is that she will grow up right before my eyes, when I'm not looking. But in the meantime, I can still shop for her in the toddler section (there IS such a size as 5T, right?) and she will still want me to scoop her up every morning and cuddle on the kitchen chair or read her books while she uses the potty. I mean, she's only FIVE, right?

-Cathy

Highway to Hormone Hell

Since my first pregnancy, I have always been known to say “Hormones are the worst things EVER.” If you’ve been through a pregnancy, you know the physical and emotional changes your body experiences from the minute that sperm implants itself into that unassuming little egg, to the post-birth months. Just like any other part of your body, when hormones are working properly, it’s fantastic: voluptuous boobs, silky, bountiful hair, a sexual appetite that can’t be satisfied. When they’re not, you’re pretty much screwed (and dry as a bone to boot). There’s no replacement for the real thing…for anything.

After the birth of my second child a few years ago, and as the result of some unexpected, fall-from-the-sky, ridiculous, auto-immune shift in my body, I have been told that my hormones are starting to pack up and leave en masse from the comfy home I have provided them for 40 years. Apparently, they have found somewhere more accommodating they need to be, waaaaaay before their lease was up. We had an agreement, these hormones and me. They were supposed to stick around AT LEAST until I was 50, just like they did for my mother and her mother before her. But they have cheated on me and found a new love. FAR away from me.

So let me tell you the lurch this has left me in. Aside from the research, doctor hunting, book reading, Googling, testing, blood draws, doctor visits, vitamins, supplements, supposed natural hormone replacement therapy, tooth sensitivity, bone and joint pain, psychotic mood swings, hay hair, facial skin sagging, uncontrollable fits of rage/sobbing/laughter (sometimes all in the same hour), itchiness, bitchiness, zombie sleep, memory loss, no monthly periods (never thought I would miss that) and just plain irritation, I (and my doctor) have concluded that I should go back on the birth control pill. At 40 years old. I am back on the pill. Yes I am.

Since I have been told that I am way too young to be almost depleted of hormones, after much soul searching and advice seeking, the pill is the much-needed, short-term answer for me at the moment. As I deal with all of the changes in my body and what my next, long-term step will be, I have to maintain some humor about it all; it helps me cope and make heads or tails of how my body has let me down.

As such, I’ve come up with some terms to help explain to you, the Period Pollys out there with your loyal hormones still settled comfortably in your body, what it will be like when you, yes YOU, will inevitably be in the same boat. Brace yourself. It’s not pretty.

Hormone Hair – the bone dry, crackling, bushy stiffness of a head of hair that despite how much Moroccan Oil, Argan Oil, Olive Oil, leave-in conditioner, pomades, goopy conditioners or shine serums you fruitlessly slather on, will NOT help. Your hair decides to declare independence from you, and do what it damn well pleases. NO. MATTER. WHAT.


Hormone Hysterics – the erratic mood swings that can come fast and furious, like you’re in a video game swerving desperately to avoid being hit by asteroids but never stand a chance in hell. This can range from exorcist mode to laughing fits about nothing. All within an hour. And continue like this for days and days and….


Hormone Hole – the black void that is now your brain because you can’t remember jack shit if your life depended on it. You can’t even form a sentence sometimes and just mumble and fumble your way through a conversation.


Hormone Haze – the fog you walk around in day after day because your body is electrically alive at night when it should be sleeping its way into much needed oblivion. Sometimes, you are lucky if you get four or five hours of sleep per night.


Hormone Hold-out - this is what you put your poor husband through – the one who has been given a back seat to your non-existent sex drive. You never want to have sex because you never get the URGE – or even THINK about it. It’s the absolute LAST thing on your mind. And when you force yourself because you know you should – for many reasons that you’re just too young to ignore – it’s just not the same. It doesn’t feel the same; it doesn’t have the same life. It’s just an arid desert with tumbleweed rolling by; an environment not equipped to support anything that comes its way (no pun intended).

Well, you get the idea.

So come with me on this ride down Hormone Highway as I maneuver my way.
Next exit: 7,224,856 miles.

-Cathy