Grow Up!

I've talked to lots of people who claim that in becoming parents they have really "grown up" themselves. Clearly I am not one who fits into this category...

We were at the fabric store this morning to buy some material for further silky pillowcase creations and I thought being that the basic clientele of these locations is generally older women it would be ok to let the kids have some freedom. Grandma's still find kids to be cute, don't they? Evidently not mine! About 5 minutes into the venture I realized that giving Boy Wonder any such freedom was just a dumb choice on my part. He was running in and out of rows of fabric and bunting while his sister is trying to wrangle him back to mellow. She is following him in coercion trying to get him to "make the right choice" and he thinks she is chasing him and it is game on. After letting out a couple of super high pitched squeals, turning a few corners at mach speed and seeing the 70 year old manager roll her eyes I figured play time was over.

So I scooped him up and put him in a cart. You would have thought that I was pulling his toenails out through his nostrils with the fit that he exhibited, all the while reminding him that I gave him a chance to make good on his vow of obedience and his lack thereof was what was getting him imprisoned. I later came to regret this decision.

After perusing the store and gathering what we needed we headed to the check out...the 70 year old manager. GREAT! Surely she will have forgiven the indiscretion by now and be all smiles, right? Not so much. Mr. Mini still safely confined in the push cart, I felt confident that he couldn't piss her off any further. I suddenly notice the boy getting wiggly in his seat. Didn't think too much off it. Figured he was making fancy faces at all the maternal types standing in line behind us. And then suddenly, in the still silence of the store, he breaks forth with a gaseous thunderance so loud and so long a grown man would have been envious. I was so taken aback by this and seriously startled by the act that I kind of jumped. The checker just tried to ignore it until the second firing came to call. More boisterous and expressive than the last and this one was joined by an odor. There could be no more ignorance--this kid was on rapid succession and there was no cover for it. I felt trapped. I couldn't discipline him as he is not quite 2 and would have NO clue as to what he did "wrong." I couldn't leave the store (as much as I wanted to) as I still hadn't signed my credit card slip. This whole scene was like something out of Romper Room. I am holding the pen while my body is convulsing with laughter. I seriously couldn't believe that I was laughing this hard with no sense of control. It was the kind where you can't speak and you don't make any noise but your whole body is shaking. Tears are streaming down my face and I am trying not to let all of these women in on the fact that I am totally juvenile and incapable of accepting my sons flatulence without such a reaction. I don't want to show my tiny dancer that I am laughing as I fear she may start using this as her own form of entertainment. And all the while the lady behind the counter is just looking miffed, with a face as if to say "GROW UP!" and more so, "Get yourself and your loud, obnoxious, smelly kid out of my store!" I literally had to hide my face in my over sized sweatshirt while I tried to sign what was supposed to be my name but ended up looking more like doctoral chicken scratch. I grabbed my bag and my kids and scurried out of there as quickly as possible. When I got to the car I LOST it. What a relief to be able to laugh out loud in the privacy of my own space. This is when I realized that holding in laughter is literally painful and should be avoided at all costs.

Nice little break from the serious day that was yesterday and a further illustration that if today sucks, just hold on til tomorrow. Something good, fun or different is always around the bend.

A Chapter of My Soul

It's hard to believe that it's been 3 years. Some days it seems like just yesterday while others feel like it's been an eternity. I've started to notice that the looming inevitability of this anniversary brings a lot of anxiety. There is that pang of regret that creeps into consciousness from time to time and that is one that I just can't seem to tolerate. I guess it's the "what if" element that hits my psyche and must be quickly pushed away for fear of where it may take me. I don't like to live my life with an ounce of regret but to say this predicament left me regret-free would be a lie. I don't know if that is just part of the puzzle; a piece of what anyone in this aftermath feels. All I know is that I don't like it and use as many tools as are available to me to convince myself that I had no power, no control and no bearing on the final outcome. But how can that be? She was my mom and I was her little girl. As a parent I see and feel just how much power my little girl has over me. How could the same not be true here? And then I come to the place where I know that it was not my decision to make and therefore how could I have any control over the outcome? This is the piece (or peace) that I hold onto with both hands and tie to my belt with lock and key.

Fear also enters the equation. I realize just how scared I am and how that exhibits in my daily life. This time gives me that reflection and the ability to look in the mirror and be real with myself about just how little progress I have made in that arena. I liken myself to the pit bull pushed back in the corner, feeling so threatened that I spend my days barking as loud as I can as to avoid the reality of really having to deal. I guess I feel if I bark loud enough everyone will just leave me alone, not ask any questions and not force me to look at this. I suppose this scares me because I've always seen myself as more of a Lab than a Pit. I am also truly, at my very soul, frightened that I could possibly fall prey to this illness as well. This leads me nowhere productive so I continue to bark; something she never did. In this way, I suppose I am trying to be the exact opposite of her in every way, feeling that if I do things in opposition that there is no possible way that the same outcome could come to fruition. If 1+1=2 then I am doing my damnedest to be 7. I don't want any part of that equation in my life. I feel like even letting a little "1" into my life might lead to 2. I'm in a mad dash in the race to "not."

I did allow something this year that shocked me right out of my shoes--anger. I was told shortly after by more than one person that I would be angry eventually. I was so completely offended by the very words that there should have been no doubt in my mind that I would, in fact, feel anger. If for no other reason than I said I never would. This anger enveloped me like an ugly demon and took me totally unsuspecting. I wasn't thinking about her specifically, just reading my boy an Easter book and low and behold I could not turn the next page. Peter Cottontail dropped me to my knees. It was a tangible feeling that wrapped its arms around me and squeezed the very breath out of me. I was literally inconsolable for 2 days, barely able to speak of it. Shame, guilt, sadness, humiliation all came along with this foretold emotion. But something magical came with it as well; acceptance. After almost 3 years I realized that I had never truly accepted. I wasn't in denial but I certainly wasn't embracing. When I was finally able to allow myself to be mad at her, I could then accept, and henceforth learn how to forgive. I'm not sure if that was the manner that this was intended to happen or if this is the "normal" path of grief but it was a start to something I swore I would never feel for her. Oddly, for me, that was the very key to my prison.

And then enters the sadness piece. This is the most overwhelming and distinct. The days leading up to her death must have been filled with such extreme sadness and every year around this time I relive that and try to imagine her mile. Harsh as it may sound, it seems to lend the ability to go a bit deeper and grieve a bit more as I know this process is still not close to being over. I was not able to bite off that whole piece at one time so it is something that I have been doing gradually. Doing this reflection at anniversary time makes the most sense to me. Being able to actually write about it now is a HUGE leap for me and I think a very important one. I have found in writing about things, as public and insanely intimate as it may be, it makes me feel like I have retold the story a thousand times over. In the retelling I find healing without having to truly speak the words or allow another human being to witness the anguish within. A coping and defense mechanism all in one. The story may be slightly different each time with more emphasis on one part or another when retold but the end result is always the same. It makes me feel like I am slowly mending my heart with a needle & thread and nurturing an aspect of me that is often neglected and done so by choice.

Which brings me to my final feeling...choice. At the end of the day this all harps on choice. I constantly tell my kids, "That's your choice. If you are willing to deal with the consequences go right ahead." Why can't I lend my mom the same dignity, the same right? I guess because we hold our parents to a different standard. The "perfection" standard. They were always so busy telling us what to do, how to live and the "right way" to act that they MUST have all the answers. This is where the little girl enters. The one who has yet to grow up and realize that parents are people too and DO make mistakes. I have always known this from a foundational perspective but to see it in such a stark reality was jarring and truly something I never expected.

As I lay in bed last night, tossing and turning with the anticipation of today I listened to the wind howling, beating against our window. A torrent of ferocity was pounding outside and it struck me as the perfect metaphor for how I was feeling. Tumultuous, utterly passionate, obnoxious, strong then weak, biting, cold and relentless. For the past week I have lived with the bubbling of tears right at the surface. Occasionally giving way to their power but doing my best to stay stoic. As I struggled to turn off my brain last night laying on my back looking at the pitch darkness, a single tear slid down to meet my pillow. Moments before drifting off to sleep I acknowledged that her suicide has undoubtedly changed my life, my core, my cloth but I rested with the solace that she is and will always be my Forever Mommie.

Mary T. Kascht-September 3, 1940-March 23, 2008

Flying Colors...

I've never really looked in the mirror and seen an overprotective mom staring back at me. After this weekend this outlook is starting to morph.

Right about the time I hit the "post" button on my last blog my gal started to deteriorate again (and why wouldn't she--as I am starting to find, stating anything out loud or in written form seems to be an omen that things will very shortly be going the exact opposite of the public display) So while I was boasting health and prosperity she was trying to sleep off one hell of fever. And being that this girl has literally never gotten hotter than 100 degrees it had me worried. The sleeping started Friday and only got worse as the day progressed. With the sleep came the heat and by days end she was at 102.

Saturday turned into further deterioration which was the continued fever, water hinder and still more sleep. She slept more than she was awake and would miserably roll around while roused. She insisted that we carry her because walking hurt and she stated that she just wasn't able to do it. The worry started to rise. Soo not my daughter. She hadn't eaten all day and by afternoon she was talking non-sense, asking odd questions and just generally not putting together any cohesive thoughts. When I stuck the thermometer in her ear and saw the reading of 104 coupled with her writhing stomach pain & unabated crying I just couldn't watch any longer. The fever was no longer responding to the Advil and I really didn't know what else to do. The advice line suggested the ER and I was actually relieved that I could put the diagnosis with someone who actually knew about these kinds of things. The words "emergency room" did send a quick chill up my spine as I have never heard anything good about them. Insane wait times, lots of germs, a bunch of red tape...not really my idea of a Saturday night but I was desperate.

Hubba went to put the gals socks on to ready her for the trip and you would have thought that he had struck her with a sledge hammer. She kicked her feet in rebellion and moaned "Whaaat are you doooing!?!?" As in--"Are you CRAZY!? Can't you see I'm dyin' over here?!" I then told her that we had to go to the hospital so she could see a doctor and she begrudgingly calmed down and allowed the socks. I packed up a puke bowl in the diaper bag and headed out. Luckily the local ER is a quick 10 minutes from the house so the car trip wasn't too big of a deal.

When we got there I carried her in donning only socks and her Paul Frank jammies. The woman that checked us in was very understanding. I was expecting heaps of forms and paper work to fill out with my not-so-spare hand and oddly all that was needed was a signature and she let us sit down, stating there was only one person in front of us. We weren't there 5 minutes and the mini fell asleep in my arms, like a large 40 pound baby. She was so hot that I began to sweat too simply from holding my human space heater. About 15 minutes into it we were seen. She was appropriately drugged (albeit literally gagging down the meds) and we were sent to a room. I had no idea when you went to the ER you got your own room! I was exceedingly impressed with this experience. It was feeling more like a hotel stay than a trip to the hospital! We got her all gowned-up and the doctor was in within minutes. He stated we needed to give a "sample." Oh joy! Being that it was a literal act of Congress to get this kid to go to the bathroom at home I started stressing at how I was going to manage coercing her to do it in the hospital. Evidently there is power in saying "the doctor said..." because this girl sat over those little hats and produced precisely what was asked in a matter of moments. Now all we had to do was wait for the results...

In the meantime I made a call home to the Hubba to inform him of what was going on. After giving him the scoop he leisurely slides into the conversation with "Well, Chase just puked all over his crib so whatever they give you for her tell them to send home double!" Sweet Jesus, are you kidding me? Precisely 3 hours earlier I had texted my sister regarding how odd/concerning it was that my boy showed no signs of this (yet another mark in the "gotta go" column of the situation.) Her exact words back "Don't jinx it!" I had officially considered this situation jinxed. The Hubba explained that he had hosed off both the bedding and the boy and he was back to sleep but that our weekend was only starting and it was 9PM on Saturday! Awesome!

After about 4 hours the doc finally came back with the results. I informed him of the boy's situation and he said "Goood!" I must have given him the "Are you f*%#ing crazy?" face as he quickly apologized for the fact that we were going to have to deal with 2 exploding kids but the presence of illness in someone else in the house indicated flu as opposed to his former belief that the gal might be responding poorly to her antibiotics. This is one of those times in life where I was forced to see the silver lining against my every grain of being. It was, however, promising that in the 4 hours we had been there the magic potion of medications they had given her upon admittance had done wonders in bringing down her fever. This was a very expensive lesson for me and the lesson here is this: Advil does NOT solve every ail on the planet. I was operating under the assumption that fever relief was fever relief. Oh how little I know about life (and medicine!) Evidently I should have been trying Tylenol too. Seriously!? I had NO idea. This is one of the many times I miss having the ability to just call my mom. Honestly, it just never even occurred to me. Thank you for not openly laughing at me and not pointing fingers (although I am sure, secretly you are doing so.) Five hours and $250 later we were allowed to go home--fancy hotel, huh? :)

Sunday met us with a whole new light. Lots less fever, ability to walk, talk, function, no more day sleeps, a bit of food and lots of orange juice. Do I hear laughter? Well, I suppose I should. Why on EARTH would you give a sick kid orange juice? The answer to that is simple--she asked for it. But you are the parent and you should KNOW better. Well, after seeing orange juice projectile vomited across the living room floor I now know better. Dense, gullible, naive, stupid--all worthy adjectives for me in this situation. All I know is I am getting better at reading the non-verbal cues of a potentially vomitous child and I am re-learning rules that I was taught long ago on that damn trial and error scale once again. Why do I always have to do it the hard way? As though somehow the rules don't apply to me and my kids and it will make sense if I break these rules because we are "different." This thinking drives me crazy and has notably gotten me in much trouble over the years! All I can say is I am working on it and awareness is the first step, right?

So today the cleaning rampage continues. Is it just me or does having the stomach flu hit your house make you want to just burn it down and start from scratch? There is just not enough bleach to cure this kind of gross. After a half a bottle I'm still not satisfied with the cleanliness factor. It feels like everything I touch is contaminated with the plague. I can't seem to wash my hands often enough and I am laundering everything that has been worn, touched or even looked at in the last 4 days. Just when I think we are on the "other side of it", like earthquake aftershocks, another wave hits and the cleaning frenzy starts anew. Now begins the countdown...when will the adults of the house get this? It was briefly mentioned last night before drifting off to sleep but I thought better of an extended conversation of it because of the aforementioned "jinx." I spent the 1st hour of the morning holding a trash can for the girl so she is clearly not over it. Have yet to change a "soup diaper" for the boy so there is hope on that front. Looks like another day of Kid TV and another wake of television detox following this calamity.

I will say that with all of the ailing around her I've gotten a lot more love than normal. After any particularly horrific episode for the fe-mini she ends it with "Mom, I love you so much!" I guess in her time over on the dark side she is feeling appreciative that I haven't deserted her; or maybe she is hallucinating. The boy has been leaps and bounds more snuggly which I can't complain about. So I guess there is some more silver lining to this whole situation. It's the tough times that bring us closer. It's the time when we learn who is fair weather and who is in it for the long haul. As much as we hate to have these experiences they are nonetheless bonding and telling ones. We learn about real trust, unconditional love and the level of commitment our loved ones have to us. That being said, being sick may be one of the first tests our kids put us through to prove our love as anyone willing to hold your hair back while you puke is obviously a soul mate, right? If that is the case I have officially passed this one with flying colors!

Saint Poopie's Day

I posted yesterday that it's not St. Patty's Day until someone shits the floor. It came rushing over me once again, just how drastically life had changed since I left college. Interestingly, the poop on the floor is no longer funny. It is either angering or sad. It's always gross but I think that is just kind of a given. In college, if someone had defiled a floor THEY (or occasionally a VERY sweet family member--you know who you are!) would be cleaning it up. At this juncture in life a pile of anything on the floor symbolizes much more than it used to. When we started the day yesterday with my gal telling me that she had thrown up on her floor I should have known that I was in for it.

When I entered her room and saw the stain in question it didn't strike me as throw up. So, being the sicko that I am, I got down on all fours to further "investigate" and by investigate I mean smell. After the once over with my bloodhound skills I came to realize what exactly it was...poop! Oh joy! I really like starting the day off with a skid mark on the kid's carpet. So I scurried to get my Little Green Machine and take care of the situation wherein I was alerted that it had already been "cleaned up." I inquired as to how she cleaned it and she stated "a mackend"--translation--"napkin." So I instantly darted her into the bathroom for a hand washing as I am certain her dexterity and attention to touching said excrement most likely leave a bit to be desired. Once she was disinfected I went about my detailing of the carpet and must say that the Little Green Machine, once again, holds its weight in gold as the standard on-looker would have no physical knowledge of any previous turdery. The entire time I was cleaning this mess I was assuming that the pediatrician suggested MiraLax prescription had started working its magic and we were now in its wake.

I had nothing on the books for the day aside from getting my boss some business cards printed so we ventured out. I told the kids that if they behaved themselves at the printer that they could pick a treat. They decided on the little bag of mini Oreo cookies as their reward and we continued on to the health food store (believe me, I was given the allotted abundance of stink-eye in this establishment for allowing my children to ingest such filth.) As we finished up there the gal started looking a little green around the gills tipping me off that this was not, in fact, a MiraLax Moment but possibly something more. I ran as quickly as I could to the printer and finished up business. By the time we got back to the car she was as white as a sheet. Never in her 4 years have I seen this child look like this so I decided to step on it. I kept thinking of the little boy in her pre-school class who looked the exact same way she did only days earlier and had a feeling "it" had made its way to my girl.

When we got home the whining and whimpering had greatly increased as she lay down in the middle of the hallway on the wood floors. Very possibly the least comfortable place in the whole house. Her brother would get close and she would bark at him to get away. This dog was sick! Being that she still isn't totally over the Booty Strep she did a LOT of crying when downloading data. After a couple of episodes she finally peeled her body off of the ground and dragged herself to her bed--this all from the girl who hates sleep. I shut her door and let her rest to the tune of a 2 hour nap.

Meanwhile, I decided to take the "well" kid out back for some good times. It was sunny and the swing set was beckoning. We weren't outside 5 minutes when he gave me "the look." He came back over to where I was sitting, placed his hand on my knee and allowed me to be witness to what can only be described as the whooshing sound of a water ride at an amusement park. Seriously? Both of them? I ran upstairs to clean him up and all I can say is the sheer removal of the clothing left enough of a mess to render a load of laundry and a bath. I even had to wash his shoes! I was appalled and disgusted all at the same time.

After the boy bath the gal woke up and we all went downstairs for some more rest. Suddenly the girl realized that she had been to the toilet no less than 15 times and had not been issued a "poop treat" for a single one of those successful missions. I was truly shocked that she was even willing to look at food but I acquiesced her request with some fruit snacks. I was continuing on the Great Laundry Venture when Hubba Hubba came home and I briefed him on the current state of affairs. About 30 minutes into his presence he looked across the living room and exclaimed "Mya are you throwing up!?" Wow! NO WAY!?...Yes Way! There she was on all fours praying to the gods of synthetic fibers! I could not believe my eyes. At first all I could see was her little back hunched over and then the Hubba scooped her up to uncover what can only be described as an Oreo-Fruit Oil Spill! I could NOT believe my eyes! In all of the times I had played out this "1st" in my mind's eye, never did it look like this. I quickly put a garbage can under her chin as we ushered her into the bathroom. Of course, by the time we got to the toilet she was done and sufficiently crying. Luckily those fruit snacks weren't too far along in the digestion process so it was marked with a noted fruity deliciousness that still makes me shake my head.

We decided a shower was in order for both her and the carpet. Little Green Machine to work...again. For the next 20 minutes I sprayed, scrubbed, sucked and repeated. Again, you literally cannot tell that any shenanigans ever occurred. I swear this blog is not an advertisement for the Little Green Machine but the Hubba and I discussed sending them an additional $80 just to say "Thank you!" for saving our tails time and time again. If you have kids & carpet and don't have one of these you are missing out on a wonderful piece of serenity that I cannot put a price tag on!

After all of my cleansing I was feeling quite gamey and decided I needed a shower as well. Being that I had been elbow deep in some sort of excreta for most of the day it seemed that I, too, deserved a wash. The gal had been properly doused and was just playing so I jumped in with her. It escaped my attention that she had been in the shower the entire time that I was bathing the carpet...that is until the cold water hit. Then it came flying to the forefront of my consciousness that this was the case. Just when I thought I was going to get a moment to disengage from the day the Polar Geyser notified me of the contrary.

For the remainder of the day I followed the kids around the house either with an empty garbage can or a fresh diaper ready to combat whatever they brought to the table. Luckily neither of them were eating much at this point so things were not nearly as bad as they could have been. And in all of this ailing I was brought to the place of gratitude for my children's general health. To see them in this state for a short 24 hour trip literally made my heart ache. There was really nothing that could be done for either of them and we were all just forced to wait it out. It was impeccable the difference in personality that I saw (especially in the girl.) The boy just marched on but the girl was really down in the dumps. She was seriously a different kid. Some parents have children who have big illnesses like cancer and they are made to watch helplessly as their child lives daily life in sheer misery. I simply cannot imagine how hard that would be. I got my sassy little princess back within 24 hours. Some of these parents wait for years to see the true kid hiding beneath the sick one; to see the energy and love that their baby is capable of; to catch a glimpse of the true talents and abilities within. In this brief stint I was blessed with the awareness of my blessings. Isn't it funny how some of the crappiest experiences make us the most appreciative of what we have?

So while it wasn't the St. Patrick's Day that I remembered from college, it kind of was. A day filled with lots of time spent in the bathroom, quite a few messes to clean up, very little sleep and a day following filled with gratitude that we were all still alive. Really, the only thing missing was the catalyst...the Green Beer :)

If a man who cannot count finds a four-leaf clover, is he lucky?  ~Stanislaw J. Lec

Hind-Quarter Hootennany--Part Duece

Well, it's been another eventful few days. Last I wrote we had hit the doctor for a little hiney check as there was reason to believe that with all of my illness last week that the fe-mini may have, once again, contracted the Booty Strep. We had some nether region issues earlier in the week which the nurse on call decided needed fairly prompt attention but I was thinking something along the lines of your garden variety log jam...I suppose being that this is precisely what I thought the last time this strep diagnosis came down the pipes, in the future if I believe it to be constipation it will most certainly be strep. As a kid I used to get strep throat quite frequently. Evidently my kids will be getting it frequently, just in another region of the body. Being that I have only had strep of the throat I still shudder to think how badly the other would hurt.

When I brought my gal into the doctor she did her evaluation to which I stood, like any mom would and just oversaw. I didn't get eye level with the situation like the doctor did but I watched her technique. A sweep of the legs, a gaze of the affected "area" with the eyes, an administration or gathering, if you will, of the culture and back to business as usual. She was fairly certain, on sight, that this was going to be another strep diagnosis. Asked if we wanted to start on the drugs immediately or wait for the results. Still being in denial that this could be happening again and not being a big fan of medicating my kid without true necessity, I opted to wait. We went along with our day as previously planned and kind of forgot about the whole thing.

A few hours later there was a whimper from the princess. "My tummmmmy huuuuurts!" she bellowed. So, as always, I suggested a visit to the facilities. She agreed that this was in order and assumed the position. About 2 minutes into the ordeal she started to cry. I went in to check on her at which point she said it was "ouchie" and she needed a tummy massage. On previous occasions this has seemed to help the situation immensely so I obviously obliged. We have a couch in our bedroom so she laid down on her back and let me work my magic. This is the part where hindsight (no pun intended) is 20-20. After about 5 minutes of massaging her and feeling like we had made some progress I alert her that she might want to try again. I felt as though things had made a proper shift and perhaps loosened a bit as to not make the whole endeavor so painful. But before I let her up the ever-curious motherly mind said "Hold on one second." I decided that I wanted to be in the shoes of the pediatrician for a moment and see what she was seeing--perhaps this visual would help me the next go-round. So I recalled the technique...sweep of the legs, gaze of the area...ahh! I see what she was seeing! And suddenly my "view" was clouded so to speak. I was no longer looking at hind quarters--out of the corner of my eye I was seeing a "talking" starfish. I shook my head quickly as to brush it off and then the smell hit me. I was thinking the blinking starfish was simply a human being's reflex to having their legs swept over their head but she then confirmed my subconscious fear. As she lay there giggling and surprised she said, "Wow Mommy! Three toots in a row!" I threw up a little in my mouth, jumped up and told her to hit the throne. Mom's Observational Hour was over with an abrupt and traumatic finale. I guess this will teach me to leave the doctor's work to the doctor.

I am sure some of you are calling me a priss right now. Saying that this is my kid, it's no big deal and nothing to write home about. Well, maybe for you this is true but I will just tell you that it is well documented that I suffer from an acute case of fart-phobia. Anyone who knows me, knows this about me and after sharing a few accounts of my childhood they understand with a distinct certainty how this phobia came to be. That's not to say they don't use it against me at any given juncture but this is something that I must make known once a close relationship starts. It's a true litmus test for any of my relationships. Shallow as this may be, I've got my limits. I'm not sure if there have been any certified studies on this sort of disorder but I would be happy to join in on any research that is being done on the topic. It is possible that I am the only victim of this ailment. In sharing my past with close friends it has been, on more than one account, established that this was not the run of the mill childhood experience. Ironically I was just recently able to confront the assailant--again, no pun intended, who instilled this fear in me and was able to share my life-long struggle with said phobia. I was able to re-enact the precise manner in which this horror was bestowed. In sharing these feelings I felt I had gained a immense amount of strength which was truly unsurpassed. I had challenged my aggressor, faced my demons and felt like real headway was made with this profession. That was until this day. This face-to-"face" showdown was one that I clearly was not prepared for and after having experienced it I am sure that this is my Kryptonite.

I guess it's important to know your limitations & boundaries, fears & loathings. While this was an inadvertent slip and one that I would say I had coming to me it made me realize that I am not as strong as I thought I was. I find it liberating to be honest with myself about these slights in life, however minuscule and inconsequential they may seem to the average person. I suppose we all have our little fears and abhorrences that may make NO sense to another and herein lies our unique cloth. I will carry on today knowing that I have sufficiently over-shared yet another segment of my life in hopes that we can all get a little closer to our "crazy" and embrace it wholeheartedly. Craziness is something I am no longer ashamed of and therein lies my ability to broadcast these embarrassments.

Knowledge is power. Acceptance is strength. Sharing is caring! Today, this is my mantra.

Today was a good day...

Now the title of this segment is very misleading but I am going to ask you to run with me on this trip. It's a reference to the old classic rap king Ice-Cube's-"It Was A Good Day!" For those of you unfamiliar with this tune, it's a little ditty about the perfect day for this young man...food, women, cars, games, sports and of course a lack of drive-by's. For some reason that song was running through my head when all of this went down. Perhaps because I was thinking of how disappointed I was that he never wrote the antithesis to this song to suit the kind of day that I was having...

The day started the previous night. I knew I was coming down with something but I didn't quite know what. Since I have been sick more than I have been well this winter it was not surprising and I was meeting this new "guest" with a smile. Unfortunately, said guest was not as kind. It came on unassuming and very stealthy...a little sore throat, little tired, little headache, little body ache. I figured I would just get a good night's sleep and be a brand new man the next morning. HA. Went to bed at 7:30 sharp and was up for the night by 11pm. My legs and body hurt so bad that I couldn't sleep and I had been disrupted at least 4 times with the whole sweating non-sense so I figured I would just stay awake for the show and see how it all played out.

By 6AM the boy was up and ready for the day. I, however, was not. In walking up the stairs to retrieve him I had the sudden onslaught of, "If you don't lay down NOW there will be a wet clean up!" hit me like a ton of bricks. I heeded the well-given advice of my body and curled up next to the dog as I was certain if I didn't that I would black out. I laid there for a moment waiting for the sweats to pass and then continued on to gather the boy. I was still fearing the backlash so I scooped him up and whisked him immediately downstairs to the couch where I could lay down and he could crack out on the previously chastised television set. This is when TV becomes not only your ally but your only hope. And herein lies the genius of not letting them watch all day, every day...this is a treat and they will suck this orange dry of every last bit of tasty juice! The boy thought it was Christmas. He kept turning to me and saying "Thank you mommy! Thank you!" Evidently at 2 they don't quite realize what a green, sweat laden face equates to so I just continued to take the compliments without further explanation. The gal finally woke up and came running downstairs ready to meet the day and found the boy engrossed in Dino Dan. "Shows?" she inquired. As though she had hit some episode of twilight zone or perhaps her birthday had come early. I explained I wasn't feeling well and we would be doing this for duration to which she smiled and hopped right onto the couch with the rest of us.

I had finally broken down and taken a couple Advil which gave me the illusion that things were better. I foolishly got up and started trying to be "mom" again. At which point I requisitioned my kids upstairs for some food. The boy who had been standing next to the couch for the past episode of Tot Toons looked at me and said "pee-pee" and then it hit. In my urgency to get down to the couch as quickly as possible to avoid breaking out the carpet cleaner I had overlooked one tiny detail...a diaper change. Poor kid had peed all the way through an industrial sized sleeping diaper and subsequently all over the carpet. So while the crisis was diverted for one "wet cleanup" it was NOT for another variety. So I changed the kid, retrieved our Little Green Machine and went to work.

By noon I began thinking that all of the stuff that I had managed to accomplish in the morning was in vain as I now felt worse than when I started. It was as though someone had gone to my ear with a can of expandable foam and just started filling my brain. It had its own pulse and throbbed like no other. My body was again feeling like I had just gone 10 rounds with Mike Tyson and my throat as though two tiny golf balls had been inserted very strategically to cause extreme discomfort upon each swallow. The chills and sweating continued though I had no fever. This fact kept me believing that I would beat this thing by days' end. "This thing" had quite a different plan.

When I laid the boy down for his nap I decided to take one of my own. Hubba wasn't due home until 4:30 so I had some time to recover. I figured the girl was self-entertaining enough and she had the Idiot Box on so she could work it out. I fed her lunch, told her I was going to take a nap and assumed the position on the couch. I still could not believe this was happening. She went about playing and tooling around the house as she always does with just a tad more freedom. I had just fallen asleep and it was at about this time that she crept up to the side of the couch, situated her face no more than 2 centimeters from mine and shouted "MOM!" Of course, I gasped quite audibly and leaped right out of my robe with hysterics. This brought her MUCH delight. She thought it was hilarious. She sat back and cackled uproariously at the confusion and distress she has just elicited, half patting herself on the back for it and half kicking herself for not thinking of it earlier. Now I am not saying this was her initial intention but she seemed quite pleased with the surprising results. When she visits me at night she seems to know to come to me with a quiet voice because everyone is sleeping. Since it was broad daylight and the day in question was kind of off, coming at me with an "outside voice" seemed like the obvious choice to her. Needless to say I was less than impressed with this decision and was none too shy about letting her know just how I felt about it. And all she could come back with was, "But mom it was just HA-LARIOUS!" That was when the phrase, "That was soo funny I forgot to laugh!" came at me with a whole new meaning and clarity!

Once I had regained consciousness and the pulse of a normally respirating human being the boy awoke from his nap--at least someone in the house got some sleep. So I brought him back downstairs at which point I declared TV time over. Don't ask me why I thought this was a good idea. I just did. I turned on the bounce house and let them jump their little hearts out. I thought I might be able to sleep through this. The girl then decided she wanted more food and went up to the kitchen leaving Boy Wonder alone with me. I turned off the wind tunnel and laid back down. He seemed to think that since I was in a very unfamiliar position (horizontal) that this was fair game for play. It's as though anything at this angle is an obvious playground for battle. He sees the weakness and pounces. I evidently looked like some sort of jungle gym apparatus that was cleverly placed for his entertainment and he took full advantage. He climbed, jumped, and rolled on me as though it was the thing to do. Each blow more painful than the last. I tried to explain that I didn't feel well but all that seemed to roll right in one ear and out the other.

He then turned his arsenal off and started begging for more shows to which I responded, "Let's wait until daddy gets home." He did not like this response in the slightest and proceeded to yell "Nooo!" Then he started repeating over and over the show he wanted to watch. I think he could see that I was a little low on fight for the day and thought he could break me down if he just kept at it long enough. He had seen results from this method in the past so why wouldn't it work this time around? I have to say that my illness allowed me to hold my ground as it fueled feelings of injustice that a miniature human being would try to take advantage of a situation like this. I suppose it is human nature but it pissed me off nonetheless. So I continued on my "no" campaign and he continued on his. And so the Battle of Stubborn was on. Being that I am the more experienced contender in this game I felt confident in my victory. Being that he's a little newer to the game he isn't quite clear on all the rules. After about 5 minutes of back and forth he finally got so pissed off and frustrated with me that he decided it was time for a good, old fashioned headbutt! Now a headbutt is painful on any given day but couple this with a splitting headache and a kid whose got a cranium the size of a large watermelon and we have a whole new kind of ouch. He had officially raised the bar! I was flabbergasted as I couldn't even begin to account for where he had learned such a tactic. Is this yet another thing that boys are just "born with?" Headbutting know-how? This can't be. Upon discussing this scenario with the male counterpart of this marriage I asked him, "Have you ever headbutted him? Has he learned this from YOU?" to which he replied in one long run-on sentence, "No. I don't think so. Well, maybe I could have. Yes, I suppose it's possible." Watching this play out in the Hubba's head was all too telling that this was most likely a learned act. Awesome! Reason #3,725,347 I will never understand the male species.

So this week has been an interesting one full of all sorts of hurdles. I don't know how chronically ill parents do it. I really don't. I am only on day 3 of feeling like crap and I am ready to throw in the towel. As I start to feel slightly better I am finding all sorts of hidden things that are out of place, that don't make sense, that need to be fixed, cleaned or thrown out because of my lack of attention. As I sit here and the sun is now illuminating the room I have realized that my midgetiest decided to take a pen and mark the entire area of desk under my wrists. He came to me yesterday with only 1 word...computer. I entered the room to find my screen filled with pages tiled out in a format that I didn't even know how to elicit. I know things could always be worse but why not hope for them to be better? :) Tomorrow is the fe-mini's 4th birthday so today is the day of confections and preparations. Hopefully her birthday will be filled with negativity...we went to the doc for her yesterday with a pre-diagnosis for a possible revisit of the Booty Strep! (see "Hind-Quarter Hootenany"- 11/19/2010 for more details on this) So I am asking that you send negative thoughts. No one likes the gift of antibiotics on their birthday, right? More on that one later. As for now I will leave you with the thought that as parents we know, tomorrow will be a new day. It may not be better but it will certainly be different. Here's to a day of different!

Moments...

I know I complain a lot and often write  babout the insanity of motherhood. I'm not sure why this is so. Perhaps because it is so starkly different than I had anticipated it to be and I feel I need to disseminate every last myth, surprise, shock and injustice. Today is not one of those days, however.

There are moments in my "Life as Mom" that come with clarity & reason and make me know I am just where I should be. Moments that make me know my kids are not always out to make life hard and they are just that--kids. Spells where I know that all of my hard work, commitment, attention and time are worth my every effort. Interestingly these times are also reminders of how connected our kids are to us. How they ingest our every emotion, seem to know our thoughts, and feel our energy, however silent and unspoken it may be. Good or bad they feel it all. We are their subjects, after all--their sole focus of attention. They study us like they will study nothing else in life. I know I studied my mom this way--and still do. It never ceases to amaze me, whenever I talk about her to a friend or stranger they are immediately by my side. It's as though they know I need just a little extra love in that moment.

I will never forget the first day I became acutely aware of this. While I was at the Hubba's work to pick up the princess from school (I know, super awesome that my man's gym has an on-site preschool) I got to talking to one of his co-workers about my mom. The kids, feeling as though this gym is their second home, are running around crazy, talking to people, screaming with other kids in the open racquetball court--WAY more than an earshot away so I felt safe in this conversation. There was so much noise and chaos that I didn't give it a second thought. They were so engrossed in play that I didn't need to worry. As I got deeper and more involved in the conversation I felt that "feeling" well up inside of me. That "oh shit, I think I might cry" feeling. To my sheer amazement within 30 seconds I had both midgets gently holding on to either of my legs, one tall enough to pat my back softly and the other stalkier version nuzzling my knee. I tried to kind of shake them off because it always makes me a little uncomfortable when they are in on these conversations. I took a second, bent down and told them to go play some more but neither of them listened. They stayed right on my hip as though to protect me from these feelings and be there when they came. Coming from my girl, this made sense to me as she was there from the time of mom's death to present. She saw me through the pitch darkness that I had traversed. She had every last drop of love sucked from her just so I could feel better. And now that I think about it, the boy was on the "inside" through a lot of my grief and struggle so I suppose he had a front row seat as well. My point is, from a good distance these kids knew. They knew in an instant that I was feeling sad and hurting and they were there like flies on shit. I was so overwhelmed with surprise but after having taken a long time to think about this moment in our lives I have come to realize that regardless of the "face" we put on as parents, our kids know us to our very soul.

So when I picked up my little man yesterday to hold him I shouldn't have been this taken aback. In one of those random moments where I could no longer contain my motherly love I simply forced this kid to pony up some snuggles. Most of the time I let him do his thing and play but there comes a point where enough is enough and I WILL be demanding some kid cuddle. He usually runs away from me, pushes my face or squeals for the duration. Yesterday was different. I picked him up and he nestled his little (huge) head into the crease of my neck and shoulder, wrapped his arms around me and squeezed. Without saying a word I squeezed back and sighed. I smiled to myself and thought, "Wow I love this boy." not ONE word was uttered...this was all internal dialogue. In the next moment he settled in deeper to the hug and said, "Wuv you too, mom. Wuv you too!" I did a double take. For a second I thought perhaps I had blacked out and had actually spoken out loud the words that this boy hears no less than 1,000 times a day. After further analysis I realized that these sentiments were, in fact, only thoughts and nothing more. And then it hit me. It was another one of those moments of clarity where I am sure that we are connected to one another by more than just our words and actions but by our thoughts and feelings as well. Knowing that this not-quite-2-year-old boy was capable of communicating a response to a feeling that someone else was having absolutely blew me away.

I guess the lessons I took from this #1. Be mindful of your thoughts :) #2. In the case of love, we must not only speak the words but really feel them, as a true spirit will call shenanigans every time. #3. As a parent, these littles are bonded to us and connected in ways that transcend our greatest imagination. If they can feel the "good vibes" this well, imagine the impact of the "bad" ones. I hope I can remember this lesson in times of anger, impatience and frustration.

I hope to take these lessons and the love felt in this sweet gesture for always. And I hope your day is graced with examples and displays of this kind of love as well. It's a beautiful thing to see and feel. I believe it's there for everyone. We just have to be looking for it!

Rain Day Play

Based upon today's weather forecast for rain I decided it would be wise to get some energy out of the kids outside the home. I opted to take them to the locally operated rec center's Itty Bitty City. We have been to this multiple times and the kids really seem to get worn out so I thought it a good scheme. We haven't gone in quite some time so I have conveniently forgotten a lot of the aspects of said "city." It is good for me to go to this place every once in awhile simply to remind myself that my kids are not that bad and neither am I!

It is basically a fairly good sized indoor playground held in a gym and for a couple dollars your kids can feel as though they are running their own show. It is a miniature dictatorship where the biggest kid with the loudest mouth reigns supreme. A true scene from Tot Mafia. There are trikes, cars, bikes, balls, tiny trampoline, midget gym equipment and a plethora of other gadgets and toys to occupy the attention of the miniatures. The kids run amok, yell at the tops of their lungs and generally wreak havoc. There is more screaming, yelling and flailing than at a KISS concert and more bonked heads and shenanigans than in an episode of The Three Stooges. It's your garden variety train wreck all encompassed in one room. Tykes anywhere from 6 months to 6 years fill this gym. I guess they figure "If  you can crawl, you can brawl!"

The mom's and dad's are so busy sipping on their gigantic lattes and mochachinos and talking trash that they fail to notice that Little Jimmy is running around giving a swift kick in the a$$ to any kid that crosses him. Most are so engrossed in their allotted 2 hours of adult time for the day that they don't even bother to discipline, reprimand or even give notice to most of the transgressions being passed down. There are sharing breeches, drive by's and a heap load of spills. It's actually pretty entertaining if you don't have any emotional attachment to the victim and it's only funny because 99.9% of the time there is absolutely nothing wrong with the kid. I've actually enjoyed laughing at my own taking diggers of different varieties and encourage others to do the same. I will be laughing at their kid soon enough so I feel it's important to share the wealth. 

For the 1st hour or so my little's stay pretty close to me for fear of unprotected infractions. They need to warm up a bit and see where they fit into this communist community. They size up the other kids both intellectually, physically and attitudinally. It's a nice little study in child psychology really. My gal totes my boy around by the hand for a couple of laps, stares down a few of the obvious deviants and gives the hairy eyeball to anyone having a fit. They are both kind of like robots for the first few. We played a good bit of trucks to start out and being that they didn't supply the right sized vehicles for the provided ramp I busted out a few of our own. Being that I carry a diaper bag large & full enough to escape to Mexico at the drop of a dime, I have some surplus. This contribution seemed like a good idea at the time. Little did I know that would be about the last we saw of those self-supplied articles for the duration. The concept of "MINE!" is not real ingrained in my petite peeps so they just moved on to greener pastures. I was just dreading our departure time and the eventual retrieval process bringing someone to tears...my kid or theirs--either way I knew SOMEONE would be crying!

There was one boy there today who I named Camo Kid...he was camouflaged from head to toe--literally. The hat, the jacket, shirt, pants--even his BOOTS were camouflage. I had my eye on him from the start because he just looked like the type of kid that might start some shit. He was running around full tilt boogie, "finger guns" a blazing "shootin' up" anyone in his path. He was putting fear into the hearts of all approaching assailants. Being a helicopter mom for a moment I ushered my offspring away from him as I wasn't really looking forward to having to discipline some stranger's kid today.

Be that as it may, I ended up having to anyway. It was a non-verbal discipline, thank goodness but discipline nonetheless. One of the props to play with was one of those HUGE rainbow-colored sectional parachutes with handles around the circumference for the parents to whoosh into the air so the kids could play underneath. Kinda like a massive mushroom. It's kind of an unspoken rule, if your kid wants to play under the life-sized balloon you best pick up a handle and assist and you damned sure better be on hand to make sure your midget isn't acting a fool.(In retrospect perhaps these are just MY rules but whatever) After about 10 minutes of chute wafting the atrophied, un-toned arms of most are getting tired. Parents are dropping like flies. A little one about 3 years old sees this as a fine opportunity to get on TOP of the chute. The hard-working parents are just chatting away, not paying attention to the fact that little miss is dragging the whole operation down with her size 4 diaper butt and the midgets below are in danger of suffocation and entrapment. Not really but you get the idea--she was gummin' up the works and impeding progress. Also, the underlings were getting restless and a little freaked out as they were somewhat trapped below. This evil knievel looks up at me and smiles the devilish grin of a mini who knows she is doing something she isn't supposed to. I look around for her guardian and come up empty. Where the hell is this girl's mom and why is she not watching her kid? I give it another minute, look around, see nothing so I finally take her by the hand and usher her off the chute. She glared at me as though I'd just ran over her puppy but I felt firm in my decision. I was happy to be the bad guy for the good of the whole. We then unearthed the kids screaming below the chute and assured them that fear of small places and confinement was not necessary and kindly moved onto something else.

After almost 2 hours of play my boy started asking to go home. I was more than happy to retreat but wasn't quite sure how to go about getting our motor vehicles home with us. I had seen one car in the grips of a snotty nosed 3-year-old for at least 30 minutes and the other was actively being passed around at the ramp rug. I knew my kids were cool with sharing but I wasn't so sure how they would feel about donating. I tried to suggest such and was greeted with a huge fat lip and alligator tears telling me that I was not going to get off that easy. By sheer luck, the plague-infested, (soon to be seriously disinfected) police car had been abandoned in the middle of the gym for a VERY painless retrieval. The firetruck did not hold the same fate. It was one of those love affairs. I think the kid half thought he would get off by just palming the truck and skating out of there with a new toy. He had that protective mechanism about his play that said "This is MY truck." He was not down for sharing it, loaning it or even letting it out of his hand. I made a backdoor comment when my boy went to reaching for it that I understood that it was his but we were sharing. Luckily the Truck Nazi's dad was sitting with him and made the transition a lot easier than it could have been. When I started gathering our goods the dad started prepping the kid to give it up. Mini man would hear nothing of it. His dad asked him to hand it over and the kid swiped it back. Then the dad went to gather it from his hands and this 2-year-old boy put a Kung Fu grip on this truck to the likes of which I had never seen. His face turned red and you could hear the kid grunting to keep hold. The dad was the final victor of the battle which was when the water works began. This poor boy cried so hard it almost broke my heart--almost! Had it not been for the simple fact that I would have the same battle on my hands I would have handed it over happily but this was not the case. I took the truck and ran. I thought if the truck was out of his sight he would soon forget about it and move on. I quickly barked the name of the store where we bought the truck and skipped out of there unscathed.

All in all it was a great morning. The kids had a blast, worked off some energy, got a view of what life might be like if they had the "other mom" or "other sibling" they sometimes wish for and I also got an appreciation for my kiddos and the fact that they really could be a lot worse. I am so blessed to have my midgets. Even though I complain about them and some days threaten to donate them to a worthy cause I love them with all my heart. I am glad they are mine and wouldn't trade them for any other on the planet. It's amazing what a morning with other people's kids will do to give ya a little perspective! Hope you have a weekend filled with "perspective!" XOXOX!

So so suck my toe...

So I have a new one. The girl, days away from 4 years, has taken to sucking on her (barf a little) big toe. I have no idea where this spawned. She claims that her brother used to do it all the time and therefore she feels entitled. While her brother DID engage in this oral occupation for a spell he was NOT using said toes for balance and stability to traverse germ infested floors--he was 5 months old and confined to his back. I tried to combat this argument with the facts, stating that the floor is gross, her feet (and big toe) touch said floor and she is henceforth putting all the ick from the floor directly into her mouth and body. She did a mental chew on that one for a quick minute and then looked at me and said, "Well Mommy, this is just what kids do!" which for me translates to "F-off! I am going to suck this nasty toe if I want to and there is nothing you can do to stop me!" Whereby she turns, leans over and continues her suck-fest. I finally had to leave the room because I was so grossed out by my own visions and manifestations of what she was actually doing. I went in the other room and vented to the Hubba as he said, "I KNOW!!! It's so gross I couldn't sit next to her anymore. I had to leave the room." UGH!

So I am beginning to think she has transferred habits. On or about the time that Hubba went out of town for his conference she was sitting on the couch and noticed that her thumb was laden with none other than a callous. She had no idea what a callous was and was kind of freaked out by it. I took a look at it and explained to her the situation. I put it very simply that all of her thumb sucking had led to the development of the callous on her hand. She asked if there was any medicine that we could put on it to make it better. I explained that only time and lack of sucking would do the trick for this go-round. She looked a bit concerned and a bit miffed. A few minutes later she made a proclamation. She stated that she would cut down on her sucking and limit it to "One day on, One day off." A self-imposed detox. I'd never seen anything of the like. I thought she would certainly break as I have never seen anyone successfully ween the first time around without some sort of outside intervention. I kind of forgot about it but then noticed she was keeping to her schedule one night before bed. That is the only time she sucks--before and during sleep. So we were reading our nightly library of books and she was sucking. I made mention of it and she said "Tonight is the night I get to suck. Tomorrow I won't." I had to shake my head and smile. I guess I know now that her "money" is going to be her vanity.

I haven't seen her suck her thumb in about a week and I am shocked. I am thinking that is what is leading to this poor sleep pattern she has fallen back into. Her "juice" has been removed and she is ailing to get some zzzz's. Without her thumb prop she is flailing. I can only assume she is now making a transference to her big toe. While I appreciate her effort to break her habit and rid her thumb of the unsightly callous she is now turning to a much more disgusting and toxic form of sucking. I am hoping this isn't a habit and truly just something to annoy me. The other issue is the fact that her brother adores every move she makes and has started trying to yoga his toe into his mouth as well. Maybe this will breed contortionists? Regardless, it is yet another page of "Battles to be Fought." We shall see where this one goes. Luckily she is not playing on a soccer team or any other such sport that would induce stinky, sweaty, toe-jammy feet so I will put this battle on the back burner for the time being until it increases in severity. Until then, I will just have to leave her to her vices and hope that she doesn't contract the plague in the interim.

Zombie Land...

It's been awhile since my last entry. My brother, sister-in-law and nephew came and stayed with us last week so I was busy entertaining and cooking and subsequently gaining about 10 pounds with their stay. Looks like it's back to real life now. It was nice to live in "Vacation Land" for awhile. That is what our house transforms into when we have guests. All bets are off, we throw the rules out the window and generally let the kids run amok. The house is renamed Casa de Cunningham and we run it like a bed and breakfast. But unfortunately with "Vacation Land" comes "Zombie Land"....

Now stop me if you've heard this one, but do your kids not turn into COMPLETE zombies when they get the treat of television?!? Seriously, a bomb could go off in the room and they would hardly notice. Being that we had guests we allow them to lavish our kids with spoilage and that occasionally comes in the form of TV. We try not to let them watch too much as they tend to turn into ornery, crabby demon spawn in the event that they are asked to pry themselves away from the set. But being that their family was here and they rarely get to see/spoil them we allow it.

The youngest is by far the worst. He would wake from his evening slumber and the 1st thing out of his mouth was "SHOWWWWS!?!?" This was as insistent as it was longing. You can tell he is really yearning for this request. When he comes to me I simply turn my head as though I don't hear him. So he moves on to the next unsuspecting victim posted in the kitchen. Barely awake and main-lining their first cups of coffee in hopes of withstanding the onslaught, he works his way over to them. Begging for TV has become the Moose's new favorite past time. He figures he has nothing else to do and nothing to lose so he embarks. To me, this is like nails down a chalk board. A whine equals an automatic NO in my world. Evidently not all humans are as irritated by the whine as I am...some are even drawn to it--obviously. So the sucker at the table with coffee in hand is gently led down the stairs to the set. They are coyly persuaded to the remote and cleverly convinced to put on some electronic entertainment. The present Show de Jour is Dino Dan. This kid will literally say "DinoDan? DinoDan? DinoDan?" over and over until your head about bursts. This is then followed by "MamaMamaMama" and of course "Pweeease! Pweeeease! Pweeeease!" But being that his requests were submitted to for a week straight he now believes that this will continue. Therefore, all of the work that I have done in the past 2 years to sway him from the set has been undone in 6 short days. My pediatrician will be THRILLED come our next appointment.

I am just constantly amazed at the power and impact these shows have over my kids! Am I alone here? If I dare turn off a show be it Dora, Diego, Backyardigans or Olivia I catch the wrath of them. I liken the effects of TV to that of addiction. It is as though they are possessed by the Big Box and when it is taken from them they turn into angry crack addicts jonesing for another fix! It seems as though after a showing they are irritable, cranky, demanding and sassy--this is their detox phase. That is until they get another "hit." Then they are compliant, sweet and agreeable (this is when I have been conditioned to ask for kisses from my boy because he is hypnotized and in the zone, not knowing what he is doing. He gives them freely and willingly but it kind of makes me feel bad because I know he doesn't mean it--much like kissing someone who is drunk.) I remember about 10 years ago a bunch of Japanese kids were rushed to the hospital after watching a Pokemon episode that sent them into epileptic seizures. SEIZURES!? Are you kidding me!

Perhaps I am taking this a bit too far but the similarities are very apparent to me. I personally do not like television and find it to be annoying noise. I am not a bon-bon mom who has it on all day for soap operas, news or for "background noise"...I have enough of that from my kids. I find when it is on and I am not watching it I am irritated, distracted and impatient. It only makes sense that they feel this way when they are not allowed to watch.

Now I am not saying that they haven't learned their fair share of information here. I can't slam this TV thing entirely. They can both count to at least 10 in two languages, know countless animals that BC (before children) I didn't even know existed and have learned a ton about sharing and caring, dancing, rhyming, singing and family. But I do believe a diligent parent could teach them the same by reading and talking to them (which is the method I implored out the gates of this parenting thing.) I guess what I am saying is I find this whole thing irritatingly fascinating.

Maybe this is a new reality TV series..."Toddler TV Detox"...Kids going through the withdrawal phases of television addiction and the parents that love them. I know we will be having clinic hours all day every day for at least the next week. The only cure, as I see it, is to get out of the house and do something. Precisely where I am headed. Until next time...breath deep and conquer! "Mommy from Zombie Land" signing off!