Halloween Fun With A Three-Ager

It was supposed to be fun. Simple. My three-year old daughter talked about being Marshall from Paw Patrol all summer. Her big brother wanted to be Chase. How cute is that? I was giddy imagining my Paw Patrol crew sitting in a pumpkin patch. Maybe they would even sit still for a picture? And both smile at the same time with their eyes open?  Would this finally be the year that I have a Halloween picture worthy of a Facebook post?

Pffffft. Rookie mistake. This is my second time around with a three-ager. I should have known better.

When the costumes hit the stores one month ago, we were the first to arrive. I’ve never shopped for Halloween costumes in September before. After years of scavenging for scraps in sad piles of picked-over costumes at the last minute, it was amazing to go to the rack and see exactly what we wanted in exactly the right size.

The Chase costume was front and center, so I threw it in the cart. When I spotted the Marshall costume IN THE RIGHT SIZE immediately behind it, I gleefully pointed it out to my three-year old daughter. Instead of showering me with gratitude like she should have, this child crossed her arms and scowled at me.

“I DON’T WANNA BE MARSHALL. YOU CAN’T MAKE ME.”

Um, what? I stared at her. She couldn’t be serious. This kid’s been chattering about being Marshall ALL SUMMER LONG. Not a day went by without her asking, “Mommy, can I be Marshall for Halloween? Can I be Marshall? CAN I BE MARSHALL?  I WANNA BE MARSHALL!!! MOMMY, I WANNA BE MARSHALL FOR HALLOWEEN!!!”

Message received. Here’s your freaking Marshall costume, because your Mommy is awesome. So, where’s my thank you? Where’s my “I love you” and “You’re the best Mommy in the world????”

Nothing. There was nothing but an accusing stare. Like I screwed up. I couldn’t help feeling defensive. “But you’ve been talking about being Marshall all summer?”

She shook her head and frowned at me.  “No, I haven’t.”

WHAT? Her certainty made me question my sanity.  Had I imagined all those painful conversations about being Marshall?

Okay. Time to be practical. We’re at the store with all these choices. Just get her something else. “Then who do you want to be for Halloween?”

She pointed to the Mickey Mouse hat on her head. “I want to wear this.”

WHAT DOES THAT MEAN? “You want to be Mickey Mouse?”

“No Mommy. I just want to be me.”

Okay, that’s cute and all, but Marshall was going into the cart in case she changed her mind. Unfortunately, she didn’t agree with my contingency plan. Her face turned red as her high-pitched shrieks hit the ceiling.

“I DON’T WANNA BE MARSHALL!! YOU. CAN’T. MAKE. ME!!!”

Then she burst into tears. People in the aisle gawked at the scene. I wilted under the gaze of a judgmental baby and put the Marshall costume back on the rack. I was obviously a shit parent for wanting to buy my child a costume that she wanted ALL SUMMER LONG.  We walked out of the store with one Chase costume and a pile of my shattered pumpkin patch dreams.

Two weeks later, my daughter spotted something else in the costume aisle at the store. “Mommy, look! A MINION! I wanna be a minion!  I WANNA BE A MINION! Can I be a minion??? PLEASE???”

It was the first time since Marshall that she expressed interest in something other than “just being me.” I pictured a Minion next to Chase in the pumpkin patch. That would still be cute. There was only one Minion costume left on the rack.  It was 3T-4T. Her size. This was obviously meant to be.

I bought it, but she refused to try it on until that weekend. The hat didn’t fit. And what should have been a 3T-4T costume looked like it was two sizes smaller. When I returned it, the store was out of Minion costumes.

Gritting my teeth, I accepted that my daughter would “just be her” for Halloween. Until she shrieked with delight and pointed. “Mommy, I want to be a pumpkin!”

There it was. Once again, at the front of the rack. A big, fluffy, orange pumpkin costume in just the right size.

This child HUGGED the pumpkin costume. She HUGGED it and SQUEEZED it and PETTED the orange fur all the way home like it was her long-lost kitten. And she chattered about being a pumpkin like she was excited about it.

Until today. It’s ten days before Halloween. I asked the kids to try on their costumes. The Chase costume fits my son perfectly. And he’s happy with it.

My three-ager took one look at the pumpkin costume and wrinkled her nose.  “Mommy, I don’t want to be a pumpkin. You can’t make me.” She crossed her arms and looked me in the eye.  “I WANNA BE MARSHALL. CAN I BE MARSHALL? PLEASE?????”

#SendVodka

Six Years Later, I Can Finally Smile Again

Six years ago, my mom passed away. It shouldn’t have been a surprise, since she had been disappearing into her illness for over a decade. But it was still a shock when I received the call. My greatest fear finally materialized.

Every year since then, I post something sad about missing her. It’s still true. I still have moments where the pain knocks me to my knees. And while time hasn’t healed all wounds for me, it has offered the gift of distance and clarity. I am grateful that I can look back on memories of her and smile.

One memory in particular made me smile this year. I was close to my son’s age, maybe six or seven years old. My mother, the brave soul, took my toddler sister and me to India without my father, who kept working.

I barely go shopping for one hour and keep it together with my two kids, so I can only imagine the horrors of managing two little kids, plus enough luggage for two months, in the airports and plane bathroom for what feels like a two-day flight. By the time we reached my grandmother’s house, my mother must have reached the limits of her large reservoir of patience.

The day after we arrived in the middle of the night, I remember her sitting in the foyer, with a tired smile plastered across  her face.  She spoke with the flood of guests who “dropped in” to see my grandmother’s “American” daughter. And of course, like any other little kid, I kept interrupting her conversations because I needed my mother’s attention RIGHT NOW.

She lost her shit. My poor mother, who was always kind and patient, grabbed the colorful folds of her sari, jumped up from her chair, and chased me through my grandmother’s house in sandals. I was shocked, but amused. I had the same arrogance as my 6-year old son. “Mom will never catch me. I’m too fast.” So I sprinted down the long hall and she followed me. I ran by the kitchen. So did she. I ran through the dining room. So did she. I ran into our guest bedroom. So did she. I thought I would lose her by running across the bed. So imagine my surprise when she jumped on the bed and kept coming after me. I scurried out the door, into the yard, where I left my mother. I can still picture her, standing in the doorway, holding up her fist and shaking it at me, telling me what she’d do if she caught me interrupting her with a guest again. I hid from her for the rest of the day.

And so today, I’m smiling. For the first time since she died, on the anniversary of her passing, I’m finally smiling when I think of her. I love you, Mom. Thank you for the gift of that memory.

Stop Making Excuses And Write Every Day!

A friend of mine alerted me to the job posting.  I saw the message in my inbox several hours after she sent it.  “Hey! Did you apply for that staff writer position?”

I had no idea what she was talking about.  The Snow Day voice mail message consumed my thoughts.  Both of my kids home with me?  ALL DAY?  I was torn about it.  A part of me was thrilled to have both my daughter AND my son home with me.  But I know them.  Dreams of cuddling under the covers with cups of hot cocoa and singing kumbaya weren’t going to happen.  They’d be tearing up the house and trying to kill each other by noon if I didn’t figure out something for them to do.  It was going to be a long day.

“No! I didn’t know about it! How did you hear about it?”  I searched for the posting and scanned it.  The requirement was 2-3 pieces a week.

My response to her was prompt.  “I just saw the announcement. Thank you for letting me know!  I don’t think I’ll apply because right now, I won’t be able to write at that pace.  Maybe once the kids are in school full time.”

My husband walked into the room to get ready for work.  I held out the job posting for him.  “What do you think of this?”

He scanned it and nodded his head.  “Are you going to apply for it?”

“Oh, no,” I shook my head.  “I don’t think so.  Why?  Do you think I should?”

“Yeah,” he replied easily.  There was no hesitation.  “You should.”

“But I can’t write at this pace right now,” I protested.  “I can barely keep the house clean with the kids as it is.  How on earth would I produce 3 articles a week?  Plus, she wants 3 links for a submission.”  I pointed out the date of the post.  “This has been out since yesterday.  She wants to make a decision by tomorrow.  How will I come up with 3 articles that meet those content requirements by tomorrow?”

“You have three articles you could send,” he replied.  “Send those.”

“But they aren’t quite right,” I continued, staring at the job posting.  “And it’s so competitive.  There are hundreds of people applying for this, and all of them are way more experienced than I am.

I saw it on his face.  It was fleeting but present.  Disappointment.  “Okay.  If you don’t want to apply for it, then don’t do it.”  He continued to get dressed and then left for work.

When I heard the kids shrieking down the hall, I tried to put that position out of my mind.  Arguments why I shouldn’t apply filled my head intermittently for the rest of the day.

I’m too tired to do this.

I can’t produce content at that rate.

I wouldn’t have gotten the job anyway.

The kids are little.  Don’t worry about writing now.  Enjoy them, because the time passes so quickly.

The timing isn’t right.  In another two years, both kids will be in school full time.  Then I can write full time.

The list of excuses continued.  But they weren’t powerful enough to squash how disappointed in myself I felt.  In my twenties, I would have stayed up until I had 3 solid pieces to submit.  It didn’t matter how competitive the applicant pool was.  I would have at least thrown my hat in the ring.

What the hell happened to me?

Applications for this position are closed now.  I didn’t throw my hat in the ring, but it opened my eyes to a difficult truth.  Sometimes, we defeat ourselves with our excuses.

If I had been writing every day for the past year, like I said I would in 2016, I would have had plenty of material to choose from.  I wouldn’t have had to scramble to come up with material for a submission.  But I’ve been making excuses instead of making progress for the past year.  And I’ve had it.

I have a lot of writer friends now and I know many of them juggle writing and kids.  This past week, I saw one of them post at 10 P.M. how tired she was, but she had a deadline.  She was going to stay up until she wrote that piece.

That is the type of dedication required to be a successful writer.  So, I need to put up or shut up.

When “Co-Sleeping” Goes Wrong

I always thought that someday, when I had children, co-sleeping would be one of the highlights of parenthood.  It’s the perfect way to spend quality family time together.  Who wouldn’t want to wake up with a small child nestled in the crook of your arm?  The image is intoxicating.  Dark butterfly lashes resting on chubby baby cheeks.  Little fingers and toes curling up beneath the covers.  Soft sweet breaths on shared fluffy pillows.  Oh, the cuddles!  Oh, the memories!

I was mistaken.

Co-sleeping with little children isn’t for the faint of heart.  I know, because we tried it this morning for ten minutes.  My pulse is still racing six hours later.  I’m not sure how other parents deal with this through an ENTIRE night, unless they drink heavily.  (The parents, not the children.)

Allow me to paint the picture from this morning.  The bedroom was dark.  My husband won my temporary gratitude by getting the kids and letting me lie down.  Both children popped awake at the crack of dawn because it’s the weekend and that’s what they do.  I was enjoying the peace and quiet, when the door cracked open.  A ray of light cut through the darkness and hit me squarely in the face.  There was a figure in the doorway.  It was my husband.  He carried my 2-year old daughter in his arms.  My five-year old son came bounding into the room right after him.

No.  NO.  NO!!!!!!!!!!!!  Panicked, I thought about hiding.  They hadn’t seen me yet.  The room was dark and their eyes were still adjusting.  Unfortunately, before I could slip off the mattress and belly-crawl under the bed, they spotted me.  A chorus of high-pitched “Mommy’s” ensued.

“Mommy, I want to lie down next to Daddy.  I want to lie down next to Daddy.”

“Mommy, I have Pooh!  I want Tigger!  Tigger!  Tigger!  I want Tigger!”

“Mommy, I don’t want to lie down in here.  I want to go downstairs.”

“Mommy, I want Mommy!  I want Mommy!”

Groaning, I rolled over and faced my family.  My son leapt onto the bed and flopped around like a tuna hitting the deck of a fisherman’s boat.  My husband deposited my daughter, AND POOH-BEAR, AND TIGGER, on the bed next to me.  Both of the stuffed animals are about her size, so it was almost like having four kids on the bed with us instead of just two.  Delightful.

My daughter refused to lay down until I moved over to make room for her stuffed friends on my pillow.  The spacious bed suddenly felt like a postage stamp.  I nearly slipped off the edge when she hit me on the head with Tigger and ordered me to wake up.  She had the nerve to look adorable, so I felt myself weaken.  Maybe this would be the morning when the “co-sleeping” magic happened?

Through some miracle, my husband and I coaxed the kids to actually lie down.  The room was silent.  I tightened my arm around my daughter and placed a kiss on her dark head.  Yay!  We were like the commercials on TV!  We were co-sleeping and it was bliss!  Well, maybe not technically co-sleeping, but we were all lying down in the same bed, and it was peaceful.  I reveled in the moment.

That moment lasted for 5.46 seconds.  My son slipped out of my husband’s grasp and did a flip that would make a ninja proud.  It placed him squarely in the opposite direction as the rest of us.  His head lay hear the foot of the bed and his feet were an inch from my husband’s face.

“Nifty Gilifty!”  My son pulled the sheets over his head.  I knew what was coming.  I’m no stranger to Daniel Tiger and his freaking little blue owl friend.  I grabbed my daughter and pulled her onto my pillow before the first scissor kick landed on her face.

While my son pretended to swim, my daughter sat up.  Completely unperturbed by the chaos on her left, she turned and shoved her dainty foot in my face.  “Piggies!  Mommy, I want piggies!”  I gently pulled her toe out of my nose before sneezing.

Suddenly, I smelled something.  Gagging, I gasped out.  “Who passed gas?”

My son laughed uproariously.  A glance at my husband told me that he was trying not to laugh.  “You’re welcome,” my tiny daughter replied, shoving Pooh bear in my face.  “Pooh pooped.”

My son sat up, craning his head from left to right, while doing raspberries.  “Look, Mommy!  I’m a water fountain.”  My daughter giggled and performed raspberries with less finesse.  A spray of saliva landed on my cheek.

“Well, you wanted family time,” my husband grinned at me, as I grabbed a tissue and wiped the moisture from my face.  “This is family time.”

I suppose it is.  Oh, the precious memories.

Back To Journaling (I’m Not Ready)

I miss writing for fun.  Earlier this year, after reading a social media marketing book, I started an “official” author’s blog under my real name.  I moved a bunch of content around and made it look more polished than this site does.  It still isn’t where I want it to be, but I’m not ready to actually pay money for a site that I’ll just ignore.  As for writing any NEW content?

I have NOTHING.  Absolutely nothing.

Every time I start writing something to post on the “official” site, I don’t think it’s good enough and then I freak out and stop writing.  Kind of defeats the purpose of being a writer if you stop writing, doesn’t it?

And so, I’m back here.  Just writing off the cuff.  Whatever pops into my head is going on the screen now.

So, what’s going on in my head right now?  This feels like writing in my journal.  Very casual.  Very easy.  I think that’s what I’ll use this site for.  Just my random, frequent musings about life and writing.

If you read this, that’s great.  If you don’t, I’m okay with that too.  I just want to write for the sake of writing in the immediate term.

So, what’s going on in my head right now?  A lot of life changes.  My 5-year old is going to finish his time at the preschool that has been our sanctuary for the past three years.  This fall, he starts Kindergarten.

I’m not ready for this.

It’s bad enough that he doesn’t fit into toddler clothing anymore.  I came to that realization earlier this year, when he couldn’t fit into a bunch of relatively new shirts anymore.  I think the kid literally grew overnight.  Like, one week, the 5T shirts slipped easily over his head and the next day, they didn’t.  I spent a few days trying to convince myself that the dryer must have caused the shrinkage.  Until I actually went to the store and held up a brand new 5T shirt.

Nope.  This kid has grown.

When you’re a stay at home parent to two small children, you live in a swirl of activity that leaves you feeling as if you stepped off of a high speed hamster wheel at the end of the night.  There’s a lot of activity, but no visible progress.  There are some weeks when you have no idea what day it is, or even the time.  All you have in your sight is the next time your kids go to sleep.  Sometimes, if you’re fortunate, it’s nap time.  Other not-so-great days, it isn’t until bedtime.  Those days are LONG.

And then, something like a trip to the store shocks you with the reality of how much time has passed.  And you regret not paying more attention, in the midst of the chaos.  How could I have missed it?  I was there and I still feel like I missed it.

My little guy isn’t so little anymore, and it’s breaking my heart.  Because if I can barely remember where the past five years have gone, how will I remember the upcoming years if they fly as fast or faster?

That’s where my mind and heart are right now.  I’m not ready for my son to go to Kindergarten this fall.  I’m not ready for him to leave toddlerhood behind.  I’m not ready to turn my back on the Toddler section and walk across the aisle towards the Boys section. I’m not ready to leave the pastel colors and sleepy farm animals behind for graphic t-shirts and superheroes.

I’m not ready to leave the preschool that has been our safe sanctuary for the past three years.  I’m not ready for my son to step onto the faster elementary school track and begin Kindergarten in the fall.  I’m not ready for him to be a member of the “Class of 2029.”

I’m not ready for his feet to be bigger than mine are.  I’m not ready for him to stop holding my hand when we cross the street.  I’m not ready to have to tilt my head up to look into his eyes.

I’m not ready, not ready, not ready.  But I don’t have a choice.

So, I’ll continue to struggle and come to terms with this.  But I’m not ready.

 

 

 

 

 

Dear Toddler, I Have A Problem With You

Dear Toddler,

I see you.  You’re standing there with your big eyes, little feet, and sticky Hobbit hands, flashing that impish grin at me.  You know that you’re adorable, but guess what?  I’m not falling for it.

I’ve got a lot of problems with you and now, you’re going to hear about them.

You’ve had two years to figure this shit out.  Two.  A person can get an Associate degree in two years.  So, what have you been doing with your time?

Let’s start with an obvious one.  Diaper changes.  We do this EVERY SINGLE DAY, several times a day.  Nothing about it should come as a surprise to you.  So, why do I need an exorcist every time I put you on the changing table?  I CAN’T CLEAN YOU UP when you arch your back, kick me in the face, and scream bloody murder.

If you hate diaper changes that much, then here’s an idea:  COOPERATE WITH POTTY TRAINING.  According to meme studies supplied by online strangers, you’re already behind your peers.  This is your own fault.  You lack focus.  It’s not that hard to aim and drop something into a toilet.  You’ve done it with my phone.  And people train cats to do it.  I know.  I’ve seen videos of cats flushing a toilet.  I’d like to believe that what I begat is smarter than a cat.

Speaking of cats, let’s apply some common sense here.  A tail is not a penis.  Please don’t yank it. And coating the cat in maple syrup and flour will not turn him into a pancake. It will not make him like you. Do you see anyone else doing that?  Don’t be a pioneer. Either pet the cat or ignore him.

Did I just mention pancakes?  Let’s discuss meal time.  Being a toddler is hard.  People always tell you when to play, snack or nap.  It’s a rough life.  But when your Highness experiences meal fatigue, could you please leave the plate ON the table instead of whipping it across the room like a drunk?  You’ve mastered signing AND saying “All Done.”  Why don’t we put these newfound skills to work at meal time?

Now, let’s talk about these tantrums.  I’m going to be brutally honest.  You get upset over stupid shit.  And I know that you think I’m a god, but I can’t control certain things.  Like cloud coverage.  I’m sorry that the sky is too blue for your Majesty.  And I don’t know why the neighbor decided to drive HIS big, red truck to work today without consulting you. But none of these offenses justify your strip show at Target.  I don’t care if you’re a boy or a girl.  Trampy toddlers come in either gender.  Have some self-respect.  Stop flashing your pull-ups in Produce.

Speaking of Target, and the Starbucks attached to Target, and the drive-thru attached to the Starbucks nowhere near Target, let’s talk about coffee.  Being a Mommy requires coffee.  Lots and lots of coffee.  I gave up caffeine AND booze for both of you during pregnancy.  That’s a grand total of TWENTY MONTHS.  I’m a saint, so I don’t need your howler-monkey protests now that I’m hitting the ‘BUX again.  Do something constructive while Mommy caffeinates.  Read Dickens.

One last thing.  Do you remember the time you spotted that Calliou doll at your aunt’s house?  And how you asked me for one?  No.  Just, no.  I’ve heard about this bald-headed bastard.  He’s the gateway to whining.  I’m not letting him near the house, so watch PBS instead.  Learn math.  Get a STEM job.

Well, I hope this helps you get your shit together.  Here are some GMO-filled Cheerios.  Or maybe they don’t contain GMO’s anymore.  I don’t know. Just eat them and fend for yourself for a few minutes without falling down the stairs. Mommy needs to hide and stuff her face with gluten-filled goodies.

With much love,

Your adoring underpaid servant

To the Man Who Called Him A Retard: His Name Is Landon

Earlier this week, a friend of mine expressed outrage over a comment posted on her friend Courtney’s Facebook page. I stared at the words of the forwarded screen shot:  

“Hey, sorry ur kid is retarded, but God works in great ways.  🙂  Enjoy.”

My heart plummeted. I immediately flashed back to the first time I heard this word. A little boy named Ricky stood alone under the monkey bars. He was surrounded by a group of boys who were pelting him with pebbles and throwing dirt on him. The chant, “RETARD, RETARD” echoed across the playground.      

I was six years old at the time, so I didn’t really understand the situation. I went home, chanting with delight, “RETARD, RETARD. Ricky is a retard.” My normally sweet, gentle mother turned on me with anger. “What did you just say?” she barked at me.  

I didn’t understand her scowl. “Retard. There was a retard on the playground.”   

“Don’t use that word. It’s a very mean word,” she said, bending down to my eye level. I cringed under her direct gaze. “He’s a person with a name.  It’s Ricky.”

My mother’s voice echoed in my head as I pictured Courtney’s beautiful little boy in the same situation. His dirty blond hair covered in filth and his crystal blue eyes streaming with tears as a group of kids torments him for being different. Is this his future?  

Courtney’s little boy has a name. His name is Landon and he is five years old. He has autism, but he’s more than his diagnosis. Landon loves Minecraft and is an epic Lego builder. Landon is brilliant with numbers and has the makings of a future engineer. Landon asks his mother what’s wrong when she’s sad and comforts her by telling her that he loves her.

Landon. His name is Landon.    

People who use the r-word may tout the “free speech” argument. They may ask, “What’s the big deal? It’s just a word. Retard. DON’T BE SO SENSITIVE. IT WAS A JOKE.”

There was nothing funny about the little boy on the playground. Standing alone in the center of a ring of spectators. LIKE A CAGED ANIMAL AT THE CIRCUS. Mocked. Humiliated. Alone. No one should be treated like this. NO ONE. Especially not a small child. And most definitely not by an ADULT who should know better.

Words have power. They can convey messages of hate or love. Your message is your choice.      

I don’t want see Landon or any other child suffer for being different. I didn’t help Ricky back then, but I can do something about it now. All of us can. We can choose our words with care. And we can stop being bystanders.

There is a website called “R-Word” (http://www.r-word.org). Its mission is to eliminate the use of the “r-word” for several reasons:

The r-word ISOLATES people with cognitive differences. It implies that they are not fit to associate with the rest of the population due to their differences. Obviously, this is absurd.

The r-word DEHUMANIZES people with cognitive disabilities. It is easier to bully someone who doesn’t even have the dignity of a name. Cruelty thrives on anonymity.  

The r-word HURTS people with cognitive differences. It implies that anyone with an intellectual or developmental disability is stupid and has nothing to offer to the world, which is beyond ridiculous. So why even use it?       

Visitors on the R-word site have the option to make the following pledge:  

“I pledge and support the elimination of the derogatory use of the r-word from everyday speech and promote the acceptance and inclusion of people with intellectual disabilities.”

My choice is clear. I choose Landon and Ricky. I made this pledge the day I finished writing this piece. What is your choice?

 

When Life Knocks You Down, You Will Find The Strength To Go On

In and out.  In and out.  Gasping.  Rasping.  In and out.  The sound of my mother’s breathing broke the silence of the hospital room.  I shivered and pulled the chair closer to her bed.  Her room was always freezing.  I understood the reason.  Cold keeps the germs at bay.  But it was already difficult to sleep through the night in her room.

She was awake.  I knew it without even looking at her.  Her breathing changed.  That rough, rhythmic pattern was replaced by wet gurgling.  With mixed feelings, I paged the ICU nurse.  Someone entered the room, took one look at my mother struggling for air, and briskly slipped on a pair of gloves.  “Okay, I’m going to suction you,” the nurse said calmly, and adjusted the dials on the tubes that traveled down my mother’s trachea.

I cringed as my mother turned her gaze to me.  Her brown eyes welled up with tears as she gagged.  I held my mother’s hand and looked away through my own tears.  I hated this.  Watching her get suctioned felt like a punch in the stomach.  I felt like retching myself.  I hated feeling so God damn helpless.  There was nothing I could do to ease my mother’s pain.  All I could do was sit beside her and hold her hand as the nurse vacuumed the thick mucus that was slowly suffocating the life out of her.  It was just part of life on the ventilator.

After the nurse finished, my mother’s breathing returned to its former rhythm.  In and out.  In and out.  Gasping.  Rasping.  In and out.  Both of us knew that it would only be a matter of time before the mucus accumulated and I would have to call the nurse.  Again.  But until then, we tried to get some rest.

I’m not sure how she did it, but my mother actually fell back to sleep.  Maybe it was a side effect from her medications.  And there were plenty of them.  I created a spreadsheet to track all of them.  Actually, I created color-coded spreadsheets to track everything about her case.  Blue was for medication.  Green was for physical, occupational and speech therapies.  Yellow was for hygiene and miscellaneous items.  And Pink was for tracking meals and feeding tube maintenance.  It was the only thing I could do that gave me some sense of control.  But the truth was that I really had no control.  None of us did.  We were fighting against nature and losing.

After watching my mother’s chest rise and fall for half an hour, I finally felt comfortable enough to close my eyes.  But sleep didn’t come easily to me that night.  Between the rock hard chair and the bone-chilling cold, I had a rough time getting any sleep in the hospital room.  The moment I drifted off, my mother’s liquid coughing woke me.  Two more rounds of suctioning, followed by intercepting my mother’s team of doctors as the stopped by her room for their morning rounds.  After grilling them and filling in my spreadsheets, I had one hour to sleep before my father arrived for the “day shift.”  But another problem prevented me from napping.

I started cramping.

After several years of marriage, my husband and I finally decided that our wait was over. We wanted to be parents.  At thirty-six years old, my odds of having a healthy pregnancy were decreasing with each passing day.  Despite my mother’s illness, I couldn’t put off having children any longer.  We had to try.

The cramps grew worse.  It felt like someone was ripping out the walls of my uterus.  I gritted my teeth and swore that I would see a doctor about them after I left the hospital.  The moment my father arrived, I kissed my mother on the cheek and hurried out of the room.

Once I walked down the hall, I felt something wet trickle down my leg.  I ran to the bathroom and saw that it was blood.  In tears, I called my husband and told him to meet me in the ER at the hospital.  I was almost seven weeks along.  I stepped into the elevator and headed downstairs to ground level.  The receptionist immediately made me sit down in a wheelchair and an orderly whisked me off to a room where I began the slow process of losing the baby.

It continued through the day.  I was grateful that it ended in time for me to return to my mother’s bedside the following evening.  I was devastated, but I couldn’t afford to indulge myself with the luxury of mourning.  My mother needed me.  I said nothing to her or my father, but I felt like dying inside.

People have asked me how I did it.  How did I push down my own sorrow to be there for my parents?  I don’t know the answer to that question.  I don’t claim to have more strength or resilience than the next person does.  I’m not looking for a pat on the back for something that I think anyone else in my situation would have done.  I am writing this for people who are going through the most painful experience of their lives.  My hope is that you will find comfort in knowing that you aren’t alone.  You will find the strength from someplace within and get through whatever brought you to your knees.  The source of that strength may be your faith.  It may be your family, or it may be something completely different.  But that strength will rise up and carry you through every painful minute of every painful day.  And you will do what needs to be done.  I have faith in that.  And I have faith in you.

 

 

Day 1: ANOTHER Self-Imposed 30-Day Writing Challenge

What’s the deal?  Why another 30-day challenge?  I made the 2016 New Year’s Resolution to complete my first manuscript by the end of this year.  Despite many red ombre cup sacrifices on the altars of Starbucks and Barnes and Nobles, no progress has been made.  This book just isn’t writing itself.

Why not?  Well, let’s be blunt.  Because I’m a slacker who needs a swift kick in the rear.

I’m not sure what it is about 30-day challenges, but they definitely motivate me to write.  I’ve had this character walking around in my head for a while and over the holiday, she temporarily evicted Charlie Weaver and Shivani Roy.  I am not certain about her name (although I have one idea), but I AM certain about what she is.

She’s a Sanctimommy.  

????  What the hell is a “Sanctimommy?”

According to Wikipedia, a sanctimommy is “a portmanteau of two words, sanctimonious and mommy. The word is a colloquialism used to refer to a person, usually a female, who has very opinionated views on child rearing and presents them upfront without any sense of humility.”

Last week, I actually wrote out and posted one of the scenes that has been swirling in my head for a while.  (“A Sanctimommy Visits The Mall.”)  I received positive feedback from friends, family AND my husband.  This is big, since my husband, a nonfiction reader, isn’t really into the genres that I write about.  He actually laughed.  A few friends asked me if I had more stories like this.

This is the first time anyone has actually asked me for MORE stories about one of my characters……

I want to use this challenge to write out as many “Sanctimommy” stories as I can over the next 30 days.  I don’t know if this will be anything, but I feel compelled to follow it.  So here goes:

Over the weekend, as I patrolled a neighborhood on the other side of town, I spotted several minivans parked beside the curb of a house.  There was a sign in the yard.  It said “Open House.”  I pulled my minivan over to the side and observed the driveway with interest.  There were several families walking into the house.  Many of them had small children.  I couldn’t spot any glaring errors in parenting, but I stepped out of the car.  I was certain that if I went inside, someone would need my help.

I unstrapped my precious guppy from his car seat and gently placed him in my carrier.  I did a few squats on the sidewalk to make sure he was safely secured before walking across the street and inside the house.  At first glance, the foyer appeared somewhat clean.  But when I looked up, I spotted a single cobweb thread hanging precariously from the chandelier.  The owners obviously felt that hygiene wasn’t important.  Inwardly cringing at the filth, I reached into my bag to assure myself that I had plenty of hand sanitizer and antibacterial liquid soap for later.

Determined to save the other unsuspecting families, I followed them into the bowels of the house.  A woman was speaking with a couple when I entered the kitchen.  She interrupted her conversation to smile and greet me.  “Hi, I’m Kathy.  Feel free to look around.  I’m going to help this family upstairs for a moment, but I’ll be right back if you have any questions.”  I nodded and she left the room with the other family.

I nervously searched the kitchen for more errant cobwebs.  It appeared tidier than the foyer, but when I spotted the jars of baby “food” on the counter, my senses went on high alert.  If parents are lax about food, they’ll be lax about other things, like safety.  I immediately walked over to the large island in the middle of the kitchen.  Sure enough, the first drawer I pulled opened easily.  It was filled with utensils.  I gritted my teeth at the sight of all those uncorked forks.

I quickly unzipped my diaper bag and rifled through it.  With a sigh of relief, I pulled out a large back of corks and placed it on the counter.  I grabbed the tray of forks and dumped it on the counter.  Grateful for my nimble fingers, I methodically corked each fork and placed it back in the drawer.  That last fork was corked just as the real estate agent returned from upstairs.

Kathy watched me place the last fork in the drawer.  She tilted her head to one side and asked, “Uh, what are you doing?”

I scowled at her and slammed the drawer closed.  “Do these people have children?” I demanded, crossing my arms.  I couldn’t keep the anger out of my voice.

Kathy’s eyes widened in surprise.  “Who?  The owners?”  When I nodded, she looked past me to the jars of baby food.  “Yes,” she replied slowly.  The uncertainty on her face was apparent.

“Do you have any idea what’s going on in this house?”  I frowned at her, and slammed my hands down on the counter.  “Any idea at all?  Or are you too busy making your sale?”

“What are you talking about?” Kathy asked, raising her eyebrows.  She remained where she was standing.

“This is an ugly situation, Kathy,” I opened the drawer, pulled out a corked fork and waved it at her.  “A very ugly situation.  I have friends at the CPS who would be very interested in what’s going on over here.  Very,” I stressed the last word so she would understand the gravity of what just happened.

“Miss, I don’t know who you are,” Kathy began, as she held up her hands in front of her.

“Have you ever heard of the CPS?  It stands for Child Protective Services,” I told her, and put the fork in my diaper bag.  I was proud of my own foresight.  The CPS could use it as evidence in this case.

“Hey, you can’t take that,” Kathy frowned and took a step towards me.

I pulled my phone and aimed it at her.  “Come any closer and I’ll include you in my report as an accessory to their crimes against children,” I said evenly, as I held up my phone.  “What did you say your name was again?  Kathy what?”

 

 

A “Sancti-Mommy” Visits The Mall

Earlier this week, I took my little one to the mall for our daily morning stroll.  As we passed the playground, my gaze fell upon a small girl child.  She was wandering around like an aimless urchin.  Maybe she was an aimless urchin.  I don’t know.  I didn’t have time to dwell on that possibility.  One of her feet was bare and there was a vending machine only ten feet away her.  Before chilled air could wrap flu tentacles around the little tyke’s foot, I rushed towards the playground.

The only adult in the play area was a woman sitting on a bench.  Her eyes were on a book instead of her child.  She looked up as I approached.  “You’re doing it wrong,” I told her kindly when I spotted the missing sock next to her.  I grabbed it and quickly placed it on the small child’s foot.  There was a large diaper bag beside the woman.  I took the initiative to rifle through it and pull out a hat.  I gently placed it on the little girl’s head.  My chest swelled with pride as I walked away.  I could hear the woman’s expletives of gratitude echo across the playground.  After all, a covered child is a happy child.

Buoyed by my random act of kindness, I searched for more opportunities to help strangers with children.  Fortunately, the mall was crawling with unfit parents.  I spotted a pair of them pushing a wailing baby in a neglect buggy.  Happy children do not cry in public places.  Mine never do, so this couple clearly needed my help.  I tightened my arms around my precious guppy, before marching in their direction.

They stopped talking when they saw me.  I knelt down beside the baby and buggy.  “You poor little hugless child,” I murmured in a soothing voice, gently stroking his hair.  “I’m sure someone loves you.” Neither person moved when I unbuckled the little boy and picked him up.  The infant stopped crying and looked at me.  “Perhaps your child would cry less if you carry him,” I suggested, before handing him to his mother.  The couple stared at me.  The woman’s cheeks flushed crimson with embarrassment.  “It’s okay,” I assured her in a confident voice.  It masked how uneasy I felt leaving the hapless mite in their care.  “Now that you know better, you’ll do better.”  The man sputtered something unintelligible as I continued to patrol the mall.

My mind whirled as I scanned my surroundings.  So many people needed my help.  But who would reap the greatest benefit from my intervention?  Suddenly, the stench of cinnamon hit me like a brick wall.  Of course.  The food court.  What weak-willed parent can resist the lure of the nugget?  I pulled my scarf over my nose and headed in that direction.

I wasn’t surprised by what I saw.  Rows of tables littered with trays of garbage.  My stomach sank.  So many parents were shoveling GMO’s into the open mouths of their unsuspecting children.  I walked past a few gluten peddlers before spotting a dire situation.  A helpless adult male sitting beside a shrieking child.  I looked around, but there wasn’t a mother in sight.

My pace quickened.  The man obviously needed help to defuse the tantrum.  The little girl stood next to the table, red-faced, fists clenched, howling at the top of her lungs.  I couldn’t blame her.  She was probably protesting the nuggets.

“Hi Sweetheart,” I said softly, kneeling beside the little girl.  The man looked startled, but then visibly relaxed when I winked at him.  He know that I was there help.  “Why are you sad?”

“No eat,” the little girl stamped her foot and shrieked.  “Me no eat.”

“You’re such a smart little girl,” I cooed, as I tousled her curls.  “You know that your daddy is trying to poison you.”

“What?” The man sputtered, while the little girl stuck one unclean thumb in her mouth.  Her eyes lit up with interest.

“Well, I’m going to help you, sweetheart,” I smiled at her and picked up their trays.  “Let’s put this where it belongs.”  I walked over to the trash can and threw both plates in.  I pulled out my hand sanitizer and squirted some into my palms.  “Garbage belongs in garbage.”

The man gaped at me, while the little girl smiled and clapped her hands.  I grinned back at her.  Sometimes, children know better than their parents do.

Parenting is hard for some people.  It takes a village for these people to raise a child and I am a part of that village.  Because when you know better, you do better.

AUTHOR’S NOTE:  This is satire.  It is fiction.  Please do not verbally torpedo me for the actions of a fictional character.  Thank you.