I don't think Kenny Rogers was referring to raising children when he wrote "The Gambler," but as a mother, I play my hand all day long. Some you win and some you lose. Knowing when to fold doesn't have anything to do with the laundry, with the exception of my husband's T-shirts, which pretty much end up in a tousled mess in the drawer anyway, after his search for his favorite. No. Knowing when to fold has everything to do with surviving the day. What battles do you fight and which ones do you reluctantly pass over in hopes for a better hand the next time around. For instance, every single day, thirty seconds after letting my dog Mandie out to pee, I have to yell at her to keep her from treating the yard as an all-you-can-eat turd buffet. Is it a battle I should bother waging? Probably not. As long as I keep feeding her diet size portions of food to try and trim her morbid obesity, she's going to snack on her own shit when she thinks I'm not looking. She's like a fat girl who sneaks candy bars in her bedroom closet after everyone has gone to bed. She's addicted to eating and trying to fight it is a waste of my resources. But there are other battles that present themselves daily in which the odds are slightly more in my favor. Those battles are the ones where I line up my cards and hope that either my hand is stronger or my bluff is better. If you haven't figured it out yet, mothers are professional gamblers.
The other day, I won. After being cooped up in the house for several days, I needed to get out. Now trying to get out of the house within the window of time in which Mariella has napped, eaten and had a diaper change is in itself a big gamble but I was itching for a change of scenery and I had birthday gift cards to spend at the mall. So I packed her in her car seat, stocked her baby survival kit, grabbed my purse and headed out the door. When we got to the parking lot, I decided to put on the Baby Bjorn carrier so I could lug her around and still have both hands free. Now I've only used the contraption once and as a new mom I'm not yet an expert in all the baby gear, so figuring out how to put on what is the equivalent of a polyester puzzle stacked the odds against me even more. Seriously, I have had sexy lingerie that was easier to get in and out of than this damn thing. Plus, as I'm struggling with it, Mariella was reaching a boiling point in her car seat, so the pressure was definitely on.
So, there we were in the parking lot, trying to get into the Baby Bjorn. Because it was a particularly windy day, I decided first to get into the back seat and put the thing on back there and then attempt a smooth transition for her from car seat to my chest. It wasn't so smooth. I had one arm in when she started kicking and spitting. My anxiety jumped up a notch. I took it off, read the instruction label and put it on again. Mariella started yelling and snorting. I broke a sweat. Once I felt securely strapped in, I got her out of her seat and made the first attempt at putting her in the Baby Bjorn too. By this time, though, she was like a pissed off little piglet, squirming and protesting this ridiculous endeavor. I had her with both hands as her body was seized up and tense, trying to gently shove her down into the pocket of the carrier. She obliged but I couldn't get it right. First the carrier was too tight and needed to be loosened. Then I struggled with the fasteners. After the third time of putting her in and taking her back out, she was screaming and we were both sweating. The windows of the car were all steamed up and as we wrestled and bumped around in the back seat, I began to worry what passersby were thinking was going on inside my car.
But I won. Finally, after coming very close to giving up and going home, I got her in the carrier, safely snapped in, and we headed into the mall. The cool wind actually felt good on my face which was dripping with beads of sweat by that time. I stood up out of the car, took a deep breath, and enjoyed my victory. Five minutes into my browsing, she was fast asleep against my chest. I spent my gift cards, got some wardrobe items and went home feeling refreshed and reassured that every once in awhile, I'll take the pot.
Tuesday, November 17, 2009
Friday, November 6, 2009
Confessions of a Terrible Mother
Well, it's been two months since the birth of my daughter and I've already given up on the anti-germ crusade. Yep. I'm over it. I confess. The binkie just goes right back in the mouth. Why? Because after two months of chasing binkies in a race to the floor twenty times a day, I realized something. Here I am, an educated woman. I have survived a rigorous master's program while being pregnant AND moving my whole life to a new city. I have traveled two and from China, having successfully navigated my way through Beijing. I spent the first four years of my adult life in DC without a net. And yet a loose binkie careening perilously to the floor gives me a panic attack. It's ridiculous. I have literally done yoga moves and juggling stunts to keep a piece of plastic with a rubber nipple on it from getting away from me. At one point I was actually getting really good at catching them in my cleavage and was pretty proud of that trick but now I just summon the "Five Second Rule" and pop that puppy right back in. The way I see it, I can't raise her in a bubble and the hard truth of life is that binkies get dirty and sometimes we just have to suck it up.
As a first time mom, of course I wanted to be perfect and do everything right. But at this two month marker I'm finding myself already out of the honeymoon stage. Dog hair covered binkies are not my only infraction. In the morning, when I hear her stirring, instead of getting her up, changing her and feeding her right way, I pop that binkie back in and go back to bed for as long as I can before she stirs again. I'll do this at least two or three times before I finally give in and get her up. Early morning feedings are no longer the bonding experience they once were. Now, I gamble to see how many more minutes of sleep I can win.
The other day Mariella was having one of her, what I've come to affectionately refer to as "Pea-Under-the-Mattress Days." Pea Days are rough because it usually means that her highness is unsatisfied with EVERYTHING. She cries in her swing. She cries in her bouncy chair. She screams in her car seat and she squalls in her stroller. She cries if she's on her back and she hyperventilates if she's on her stomach. She's pissed if she has a wet diaper and she's pissed if I try to change it. She doesn't want to take a nap but she's miserable if she's awake. Pea Days usually mean I spend the day wrestling a badger and getting absolutely nothing else done.
Chris always knows when a Pea Day has hit, too, as soon as he comes through the door at the end of the day. There we are, both of us exhausted from the struggle, recovering from the trauma on the couch. I'm usually still in my pajamas with my greasy hair tied in a knot on my head. I'm covered in dried spots of spit up, as is she, and we're surrounded by rolled up dirty diapers, toys she has rejected, empty bottles and other random pieces of fallout.
Well, as I said, the other day was a Pea Day and like all the others, it had the makings of a real tragedy. But I had had my fill of Pea Days for the week and my chore list was piling up. There is a bed in the spare room upstairs I had been trying to put together and make up for weeks. I just could never get there. So, on this day I decided the bed was getting made and the spare room was going to get put together come hell or high water. Well hell came. I put Mariella down in her bouncy chair and grabbed the fitted sheet. In no time she was gearing up. And she can go from 0 to 60 in two seconds. But I was impervious. I put the four corners down and peacefully grabbed the other sheet, then a pillow case, then the other and put that bed together slowly and deliberately.
By the time the comforter was going on she was screaming with such rage that if she'd had a knife I think she would have murdered me in cold blood. But the bed was made and my impenetrable nerves survived her psychotic episode. And she survived too. She didn't break. At one point I thought she might pull a Rumplestiltskin and split in two right down the middle but she didn't. Her red face slowly faded back to a normal flesh color and we moved on with the rest of our day. I know. I'm a heartless evil woman but you know what? There might be a pea under the mattress but at least the bed will be made.
Pea Days can be excruciating and I'm not just guilty of letting her cry from time to time. I'm also guilty of drowning her out. Yes. It's true. When we're in the car and she's at top gear, tearing towards apoplexy, I get to a point where I either need to find calm or drive the car into a tree. So, I simply turn the music up and sing loudly until we get to a place where I can bring her back down to zero. It's not a nice thing to do and I know that but if both of us are racing towards madness, one of us has to stay on the road.
When we are safe inside the confines of our home, it is much easier to deal with a child who appears to have the ability to literally cry herself to death if you let her. Like my dog Mandie who would eat until her stomach exploded if she found herself with a full bag of dog food and no human in sight for miles, Mariella would literally scream until her head blew up. I know because I've tried the "let her cry herself to sleep" bit. It doesn't work. Death would come before sleep. So, when we're home and Mariella gets her diaper in a bunch, I have discovered a shameful trick to buy myself a half an hour of peace and productivity. I plop her in front of the TV. Now, before you judge me as the worst mother ever, hear me out. I had visions of grandeur once. I thought I would never be one of those moms who used the television as a babysitter. In fact, I had vowed to make TV obsolete for the most part. I figured I would find much more educational and enlightening ways to entertain my children.
Well, here is a lesson in pragmatism, friends. If the junkie needs a fix, at least you can supply them with a clean needle. And our clean needle is "Wonder Pets." This animated program, found on Nick Jr. is designed for preschoolers but Mariella LOVES it. She can't get enough. It has motion, colors, objects, animals, shapes, culture, music..... it has it all and it drives her wild. So for 30 minutes everyday she watches Wonder Pets and I get to take a shower. It's a trade off and the way I see it, since she's only two months old and already digging a show for four year olds, by the time she's in kindergarten she'll be watching the six o' clock news.
So, these are my confessions. Am I the mom I always thought I would be? Not even close. But I'm doing the best I can at the hardest job on the planet and at the end of the day, she's still breathing, all of her limbs are in tact and her head is facing the appropriate direction. It's one day at a time. Let the binkie hit the floor. Embrace the pea under the mattress. Sing through the anguish. Let the Wonder Pets save the day. And forgive the transgressions as any good mother would.
As a first time mom, of course I wanted to be perfect and do everything right. But at this two month marker I'm finding myself already out of the honeymoon stage. Dog hair covered binkies are not my only infraction. In the morning, when I hear her stirring, instead of getting her up, changing her and feeding her right way, I pop that binkie back in and go back to bed for as long as I can before she stirs again. I'll do this at least two or three times before I finally give in and get her up. Early morning feedings are no longer the bonding experience they once were. Now, I gamble to see how many more minutes of sleep I can win.
The other day Mariella was having one of her, what I've come to affectionately refer to as "Pea-Under-the-Mattress Days." Pea Days are rough because it usually means that her highness is unsatisfied with EVERYTHING. She cries in her swing. She cries in her bouncy chair. She screams in her car seat and she squalls in her stroller. She cries if she's on her back and she hyperventilates if she's on her stomach. She's pissed if she has a wet diaper and she's pissed if I try to change it. She doesn't want to take a nap but she's miserable if she's awake. Pea Days usually mean I spend the day wrestling a badger and getting absolutely nothing else done.
Chris always knows when a Pea Day has hit, too, as soon as he comes through the door at the end of the day. There we are, both of us exhausted from the struggle, recovering from the trauma on the couch. I'm usually still in my pajamas with my greasy hair tied in a knot on my head. I'm covered in dried spots of spit up, as is she, and we're surrounded by rolled up dirty diapers, toys she has rejected, empty bottles and other random pieces of fallout.
Well, as I said, the other day was a Pea Day and like all the others, it had the makings of a real tragedy. But I had had my fill of Pea Days for the week and my chore list was piling up. There is a bed in the spare room upstairs I had been trying to put together and make up for weeks. I just could never get there. So, on this day I decided the bed was getting made and the spare room was going to get put together come hell or high water. Well hell came. I put Mariella down in her bouncy chair and grabbed the fitted sheet. In no time she was gearing up. And she can go from 0 to 60 in two seconds. But I was impervious. I put the four corners down and peacefully grabbed the other sheet, then a pillow case, then the other and put that bed together slowly and deliberately.
By the time the comforter was going on she was screaming with such rage that if she'd had a knife I think she would have murdered me in cold blood. But the bed was made and my impenetrable nerves survived her psychotic episode. And she survived too. She didn't break. At one point I thought she might pull a Rumplestiltskin and split in two right down the middle but she didn't. Her red face slowly faded back to a normal flesh color and we moved on with the rest of our day. I know. I'm a heartless evil woman but you know what? There might be a pea under the mattress but at least the bed will be made.
Pea Days can be excruciating and I'm not just guilty of letting her cry from time to time. I'm also guilty of drowning her out. Yes. It's true. When we're in the car and she's at top gear, tearing towards apoplexy, I get to a point where I either need to find calm or drive the car into a tree. So, I simply turn the music up and sing loudly until we get to a place where I can bring her back down to zero. It's not a nice thing to do and I know that but if both of us are racing towards madness, one of us has to stay on the road.
When we are safe inside the confines of our home, it is much easier to deal with a child who appears to have the ability to literally cry herself to death if you let her. Like my dog Mandie who would eat until her stomach exploded if she found herself with a full bag of dog food and no human in sight for miles, Mariella would literally scream until her head blew up. I know because I've tried the "let her cry herself to sleep" bit. It doesn't work. Death would come before sleep. So, when we're home and Mariella gets her diaper in a bunch, I have discovered a shameful trick to buy myself a half an hour of peace and productivity. I plop her in front of the TV. Now, before you judge me as the worst mother ever, hear me out. I had visions of grandeur once. I thought I would never be one of those moms who used the television as a babysitter. In fact, I had vowed to make TV obsolete for the most part. I figured I would find much more educational and enlightening ways to entertain my children.
Well, here is a lesson in pragmatism, friends. If the junkie needs a fix, at least you can supply them with a clean needle. And our clean needle is "Wonder Pets." This animated program, found on Nick Jr. is designed for preschoolers but Mariella LOVES it. She can't get enough. It has motion, colors, objects, animals, shapes, culture, music..... it has it all and it drives her wild. So for 30 minutes everyday she watches Wonder Pets and I get to take a shower. It's a trade off and the way I see it, since she's only two months old and already digging a show for four year olds, by the time she's in kindergarten she'll be watching the six o' clock news.
So, these are my confessions. Am I the mom I always thought I would be? Not even close. But I'm doing the best I can at the hardest job on the planet and at the end of the day, she's still breathing, all of her limbs are in tact and her head is facing the appropriate direction. It's one day at a time. Let the binkie hit the floor. Embrace the pea under the mattress. Sing through the anguish. Let the Wonder Pets save the day. And forgive the transgressions as any good mother would.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)