Love Them

I’m referencing a post by my bloggie friend Betty, who inspired this response.

We all feel inept and bumbling when it comes to parenting, but most people are afraid to say it. We pretend we know “the answer” or “the way,” so that we can put our minds at ease that we will turn out people who follow our advice  but really we are all just floundering around here creating people who will one day do things that make us cry, or laugh, or tear our hair out, or wail inside with almost unendurable pain.

You have to create a way of living that will work for your family. I’m not saying it’s okay to treat children any old way, either. As the product of a destructive home environment and the survivor of some horrible events, I am know the mess that can make.

Yes, there are some absolutes: Don’t teach racism. Don’t beat your children, with belts OR words. Don’t leave them alone in the bathtub. That sort of thing. And yes, there’s even empirical evidence that breastfeeding is best, and attachment parenting can be really good psychologically. But that doesn’t mean it will all work out perfectly. I have almost never yelled at my daughter. I fed her organic, I wore her everywhere, I breastfed her and tried to do everything I thought was right, which is to say, everything I was capable of doing at the moment.  But she is nearly an adult, and she makes some choices that are unhealthy and self-destructive.

I like to quip to my friends that we all mess up our children. The trick is to give them good stories to tell their shrinks.

We could do this to ourselves forever, this throwing ourselves up against the wall of condemnation and inadequacy.  We can damage ourselves and ruin any chance of being even a remotely good parent if we aren’t careful.

What all of it comes down to is this:

Love them.

Validate them.

Love them.

Hug them.

Love them.

Let go.

Let go.

Let go.

Elimination Communication Breakdown

Made by Mommy. The "Flaming Wreckage" diaper.

I love cloth diapers.

I know.  What a ridiculous thing to love, right?  But if you ask any mama who does it nowadays, she’ll probably tell you the same thing. 

Not only are they easy to use (no, really – they are), but they are ridiculously cute!  Crazy cute.  And who can resist an already adorable tushie that is covered with soft goodness in your favorite colors?  Makes the Charmin look unappealing at best.

Yes, the cult of the cloth is firmly entrenched in even the mildest of crunchy families.  But a new cult is forming.

It’s called “Elimination Communication,” or EC for short.

Basically, it means that you pay attention to your baby’s signals and learn when they need to eliminate, then you take them to the potty and let the potty begin.  There are also cues you develop to let baby know it’s okay to shake the dew from her lily or let loose the bowels of hell.

I’m all for being close to your babies, listening to them and trying to understand what they need.  I think it’s absolutely necessary in fact.

But maybe there are just too many distractions in modern life for this to be really workable for me.

I ask my friends who do this if there are accidents, and the answer is always, “Sometimes,” but she will sort of look at the floor, or her eyes will suddenly start darting around as if the woman is contemplating chewing her arm off to get away. 

Because she doesn’t want you to know the truth.

In my house, within seconds of taking off the diaper, there is poop on my floor, or I get urinated on, and not in a good way.*  I just figure some airing out does a body good now and again, but dammit, every time I let him go commando I have a mess to clean up.

There.  If I can admit it, anyone can.  Except I guess not everyone has that whole  “lack of shame” thing going on like I do.  So unless I can get some serious help up in here and have time to do absolutely nothing but stare into my baby’s eyes all day…well.  I know not what others may choose but, as for me, give me diapers…

or give me a maid.

 

 

*I’m kidding! About there being a good way to be peed on, I mean.  Like I really had to tell you. 

To My Daughter on Mothers Day (Sappiness ahead, consider yourself warned)

Dear Daughter,

I hope you’ll forgive me for so public a display as this.  Maybe you’ll never even see it.  If it does what I hope it will, you will instead receive a hand-written letter of apology and remorse from me.

See, I’m so used to typing, it’s hard to sit and write.  But maybe this habitual action will help me sort out what I want to say.

Seventeen years ago, I found out I was pregnant.  An accident, but not really.

The truth is, I wanted to be.  I wanted a baby.

I wanted someone to love who would love me right back.  Someone who wouldn’t leave me or hurt me the ways I’d been hurt already.  I wanted you, always.  Even before I knew.

You were born ten weeks early, so fragile and tiny, I thought I would lose you immediately.  I had no way of knowing whether you would survive.  I cried every day until you came home five weeks later.  I railed at the unfairness of never getting to experience a sense of peace about you.  I knew from the minute you were born how tenuous our hold on life is, how you didn’t really belong to me after all.

Because of who I am and what my life had been, I made bad decisions.  A lot of them.  Your father and I are both damaged people, mostly incapable of making reasonable choices for ourselves.  In order to survive, I had to leave him.

I hated the split of our lives.  You were just a baby, but I hated that I’d failed you already.  I made vows to do things better, to be a different kind of parent than mine were.  I swore I would never be the one to say you couldn’t see your dad, as long as you were safe with him.  I wanted you to know him and me for what we were.  I never spoke badly of him in front of you.

But all my hopes of being a good parent were nothing in the face of my mental illness, my irresponsibility, my dysfunction.

And now I see that no matter how much I loved you, it wasn’t enough.  I didn’t do the things that would make you feel secure in yourself.  I wasn’t well enough to model maturity and security for you.

I brought men in and out of our lives, I moved us around incessantly.  I was selfish and impatient and wouldn’t just sit and play games with you, or hang out.  I worked long hours and still didn’t do a good job of building a life or supporting you.  I indulged you out of guilt over giving you me as a mother.

And now, you are lost to me.  Not in a physical way, but I sense the distance and I feel fear about you.  I fear your anger and overwhelming emotion; I’m all too familiar with it because it mirrors my own.  My love for you is so strong it burns a hole in me.  I fear it’s too late to undo the damage I’ve done and the patterns already so ingrained in you.

Being a mother is the most wonderful awful feeling in the world.  Every action takes on vast meaning and sometimes irrevocable consequences.

But if I can start to learn how to loosen myself from this miry muck, then anyone can.

When you need to know the way, I hope you’ll still love me enough to ask.

Who Let the Dogs Out

Ethan, the four year old autistic one?  He sometimes acts like he’s a dog.

He flounces around on all fours, barks, and brings stuff to me in his mouth.  He even licks me, but that could just be unresolved oral issues.

I humor him, because I think it could be a useful skill at some point.  You know – “bring me my slippers, honey” or “bite that intruder!”

But now little Beckett is doing it.  He’s only 21 months, and he is so stinkin’ cute with his little puppy noises, I can’t stand it.  He crawls over to me when I sit on the floor and nuzzles his little soft head in my lap and my heart just goes goosh.  So I let him do it, too.

What I’m wondering is, am I helping solidify some kind of maladaptive means of them getting their needs met?  Is Ethan going to bite strangers like he now bites his brother and me?  Is Beckett going to be labeled a weirdo because he wants to be scratched behind the ears by his girlfriend?

These are the things that worry me as a parent.  I don’t want to end up on some National Geographic special with kids that can’t speak but only make barking sounds while bounding around the fenced-in back yard.

But I think the problem has resolved itself.  Tonight they threw cereal around on the floor and got down on their hands and knees to eat it.

And Ethan said, “Look, mom!  We’re chickens!”

Twelve Steps Away From My Desk

“My name is Jennifer, and I’m addicted to comment threads.”

“Hi, Jennifer.”

It started innocently enough.

Or not.

Look, I’m a black hole of need, okay?  If some brilliant person wants to throw down the gauntlet and have a little back and forth wordplay, I’m all over it.  I live to be clever.  I need the affirmation that my brain has not, as I previously suspected, turned to mush.

I hit a comment thread and I just can’t let go.

I have even been known to dream about commenting.

I’m sick, I tell you.

I’m walking my dog, pushing the stroller, and all I can think is, “What would the saucy tomato bunny from that comic pulp fiction thread say next?”

I spend 10 minutes or more editing a comment.  If I’m away from the computer for a while, I get edgy and irritable.  My skin itches.  This is a cry for help, people.  I need a serious interventi

um hey. this is barelyknittedtogs or whatever she calls herself daughter. i’m sick of like sitting here waiting 4 her to finish ths whatever thing n i don wnt to sit around herr all freakin day so just like go do somethin else for a while and giv me back my moms for chrissakes.  all this comment anxiety shit is harshing my mellow.

❤ (thats a kiss and rite now it means buh-bye 4 all u old foks who don’t know)

Finally! Scatalogical Saturday Has Arrived

Some time ago, a strange gentleman, obviously not a native English speaker, was kind enough to offer to return to my blog for “Scatalogical Saturday.”

I understand he is indisposed at the moment, but perhaps they have wifi that reaches his cell.  I don’t know.

But in honor of his probable return at some future date, I bring you:  poop.

I have refrained from titling this post with that particular word, in hopes that the pervs who constantly found my “to pee or not to pee” entry will not find this one.

See, I deal in poop.  It’s the currency of motherhood, the end result of what moms do.  My little Beckett, who all day long says, “daddydaddydaddydaddy,” when asked, “Who feeds you?”  Replies, “Mahi.”  That’s what my name sounds like when emanating from a beautiful baby named after a morose playwright.

About the poop:  I am a princess!  I am not supposed to be wiping asses and shaking solids into the toilet!  This is not what Disney geared me up for with all those movies.  I mean, hell!  Even Cinderella didn’t have to touch excrement and she was a flouncing* slave!**

So today, daddy comes in with Beckett and tells me, “It’s a big one.”

*Sigh.*

I plunk him in the bathtub to strip him because there’s just no other way to handle these things.  Ethan, being the odd duck that he is, wants to see it, insists on seeing it.

“Oh my god!” he says, and runs off.

Seconds later, he returns with his camera.

“I’ve got to get this on film!”

I’m betting it will never make the Disney cut.

*Flouncing.  Come on, aren’t you tired of freaking?  And frigging is so last decade.

**I am so not a princess.  I’m not even like a baroness twice removed or anything.  I might be a courtier or even a eunuch!  Or maybe I’m getting my terms confused.  Anyway, just so you know, I accept the shit because…wait for it…it happens.

Overheard at the Crib: Another Cow on the Lam

Last night, I was informed that one of Grandaddy’s cows had gone to a better place.  Or not.

Ethan:  “One of Grandaddy’s cows died.  Um, I mean he went to God.  And now he’s in prison.”

Now that’s capital punishment.

Wordless Wednesday: For Maddie

Hug your children extra hard today, and be very, very glad that you can.

This sweet girl, daughter of blogger Heather Spohr, passed away yesterday.  The March of Dimes works towards healthy births and healthy babies.  Help them win the fight by making a donation in Maddie’s name.

Update:  Many, many people donated money in Maddie’s name, and many more have signed up to walk in her name for the March of Dimes.  Last I saw, over $25,000 had been given.  What a wonderful gesture.  Let’s hope it helps.

99 Bottles of Blog on the Wall

Interestingly, my biggest motivator and friend, Melissa, is also celebrating her 100th post TODAY!  I guess we both started taking our writing more seriously about the same time, only she was much more disciplined than I was for a while.  Then she started nursing school, and with four kids and a husband to take care of – let’s just say I caught up.  For now.

For my little celebration, I’m doind a round up of my favorite posts.  Mostly funny, I think, but I’ll let you be the judge.

Just keep it to yourself if you disagree, mmkay?

Dear God, Someone Please Stop Her

How to Leave a Party in Three Easy Steps

My Morning Routine

Not So Serious, After All

Top Ten Reasons to Only Go Places With Nice Bathrooms

Cleaning Tips for Real People

The Cow Call

Male Female Relations in a Nutshell

Cool Beans

P.S.  Thanks for all the love!

Wordless Wednesday: Morning Snuggles

Morning Tuggles

In the morning, the boys and I usually have snuggles, which sounds like “tuggles” when Ethan says it.  I was already up on this particular morning, so they had to settle for each other.