Debbie Downer *whaWhAaaa*

Anyone who has ever ready my blog has to be familiar with "The Pinkone" and her many quirks by now.  She's bossy, she's bawdy, she's the very definition of precocious. She has been telling me for at least 2 years that as soon as she turns 6, she will officially be a grown up and will then be able to drink beer and get a tattoo, (the tattoo is of a rainbow pony in case you were wondering) and she is determined to be a Princess Doctor when she grows up. No, not a doctor that treats princesses, but a princess, who is also a doctor.

So now at the age of 5, her various idiosyncracies are even more present in my mind as her foray into the "real" world that is kindergarten looms ever closer.

Her father and I could never be termed "normal", thats for sure. He looks like "The Dude" and I have the mouth of a trucker and the ability to ramble on  nonsensical about my new love of cheese making at a moments notice. But how does the child of two such socially awkward parents and a myriad of socially awkward "aunts and uncles" stand a chance in navigating the waters of kindergarten society? I suppose we can just dress her in black, re-dye her hair and call her "artistic" .

Her latest weirdness is of a more serious nature, and a weirdness I am ashamed to say she got from me. She is SUPER negative, to the point of exhaustion.

She is the kid that can be given 43 scoops of ice cream and be sad because she wanted 44. Her adorably cherubic face is in a perpetual scowl. She refuses to share and says the entire trip was ruined if one kid looks at her funny.

One particularly memorable day found our little family traversing back from a trip to see a movie she wanted to see, stopping to get ice cream, and clutching our brand new build a bears, all in all, a preschoolers dream day. When asked "did you have a good day?"  Pinkone responded thusly: "No mom I did not."

"why is that baby?" says mommy

"because i wanted to go somewhere else and do this other thing then go see auntie and I wanted pink ice cream and daddy got me green"

"fuck" says mommy

SERIOUSLY? the pink vs green ice cream debate was about 2 seconds of the entire day and OF COURSE that's what Baby McSadness has to focus on as the defining moment that ruined her day.

I was a negative kid, and  I still can't point to where it came from but it made it VERY difficult for me to enjoy my childhood. I spent an entire trip to Disney Land bitching that I was hungry and afraid of ride.  When i think back on it, i can't remember why I was so miserable at the  HAPPIEST PLACE ON EARTH, and now as an adult I can only imagine how pissed off my parents were at the time. It makes it really difficult to want to spend time with your kids when they shit all over every activity, game, story and joke you engage in.

So how do we fix it? Is this just part of her personality? Will she always be overly critical and self deprecating? Can this penchant for negativity some how manifest itself into a positive attribute later in life?

All I know is that I'm still able to find the licorice flavored jelly bean in an entire bag of cherry and drag everyone down with me when i want to. The difference is that I don't want to anymore. I don't know if my childhood negativity made me a more interesting and well-rounded person as an adult. I just know I don't want my kid to be Captain Buzz Killington at every party and always feel shorted in some way, even when she isn't.

Any ideas folks?

A Song...by The Pinkone

The Pinkone is really into singing lately. She has written a number of lovely little dittys.

"Matt Can't Come to my Birthday Party because he Farted on my Stuff",

"Dan Stinks but I Want to Marry Him Anyway",

"Sometimes, Anytime, You like to do what you want to do anytime that you want to do it", and

"Daddy is Mean-I like Mommy Best"

to name a few recent hits. Last night, she belted out a particularly amusing little number I thought I might share.

I Want to Go Out-by Lily age 4-sung in the manor of an epic power ballad

I want to go ooooooooooout

anywhere, any time i want to go oooooooout

I want to make my parents happy wif me

and go oooooooooooooout

I don't need a doll house, or a kitchen set, or a picture or my books

I just want to go ooooooooooout

Like Idgie, who's a doooooooooooog and Meena, who's a caaaaaaaaaaat

 I want to go ooooooooooooooout

(higher now)

I can't sleeeeeeeeep, I'm not tired, I want to gooooooo ooooooooooooooout

and make my mom come wif me........

(lower and slower)

I.....want.....to go.......OOOOOOOOOOOOOOUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUTTTTTTTT!

Brings a tear to your eye doesn't it folks? You also have to imagine that she is throwing her head back, closing her eyes and belting this song as loud as her little voice can. She has all the soul of Dinah Washington my daughter. And don't worry, we're taking her out today.

[caption id="attachment_528" align="aligncenter" width="228" caption="dinah washington"][/caption]

Avoiding Dr. Phil

So, I didn't get to post yesterday...after doing so well, but in my defense, I posted twice on Tuesday.

This morning on my way through the normal, "wrestle child into clothes, throw sheets in washer, make lunch, get out the door, convince child we do NOT need Starbucks today, and get child to babysitter, get Starbucks for myself, and get to work on time" morning routine a couple of interesting things happened.

1) Lily is apparently running away, naked (of course) with nothing but her baby doll and her flowered lunch box; she will also be taking the car. I did offer to drop her at the bus station, but she said, no, driving would be more practical.

2) While trying to explain the metaphor of the song Little Boxes (which you may know better as the theme song from Weeds) my daughter informed me that she does not like herself and wants to be her friend Alyson from school.


So these are two new situations for me. I sort of sarcas-ti-mom’d my way through the running away conversation, which is what my parents always did to me, but is this something I should be taking more seriously? Is she totally miserable, or just trying out phrases? I catch myself watching Dr. Phil or something like that when I’m home from work sick and praying to every God I know that I don’t end up on one of those shows in 10 years saying “If I’d only have paid attention to the threats when she was 4, she wouldn’t be addicted to glue and running about with 40 year old men that work at Blockbuster” (other than Joe) Then she would come out with giant hoop earrings and make up that’s too light for her face and lipstick that’s too dark, wearing too much mousse, and have to be beeped out while she tells me that she’s pregnant and she’ll do whatever she bleeping wants with her bleeping baby. Oh God. I think I’m having an episode.
[caption id="attachment_368" align="alignleft" width="150" caption="thats an omage to my husband, facepalming due to our shame."][/caption]<

Has anyone else had to deal with the 4 year old ready to set out on their own? How did you handle it? Are your children at least marginally well adjusted now?

So the second thing, if you haven’t heard the song before, the jist of it is that everyone in upper middle class suburbia is living in this predescribed box , in which they will inevitably go to summer camp, university, go into business, and marry and raise a family. Picture the street Diane Weist’s family lives on in Edward Scissor Hands, that’s the idea. So Lily is asking me what this song means, I tried to explain to her that the song is telling you that its okay to be yourself, and to be different if you want to be. I started in on my diatribe that I had written at 14 while wearing clothes made of hemp and lamenting my parents inability to understand my need to practice Wicca (just like every other chubby white girl in suburbia)* She listened to me intently, and I felt the lesson was going well until she popped up with “Mom, I don’t want to be myself, I want to be Alyson.” Not the response I was expecting.

“Why is that buddy?”
“I don’t like myself, sometimes I do bad things”
“Well, you know Lil, sometimes everyone does bad things, even Alyson, the trick is trying to do good things when you have the choice.”
“Mom, I don’t want to talk about this anymore, can we listen to the dancin’ song now?”

So that was the end of the conversation for today, but I feel like my point was not conveyed appropriately. Other than my Dr. Phil nightmare, I have another vision of her, wearing skinny jeans and all black, hair an unruly mess, white faced make up, stabbing her thigh with a thumbtack and writing terrible poetry on her shoes.

I tell her everyday how smart, pretty, strong, brave and creative she is, but I live in fear that her self-esteem is going to be in the toilet by adolescence. Its easy to tell the child of a mom who was a fat, poorly adjusted adolescent, they are always wearing shirts that say “I’m great and you know it!” or “It’s Hard to be this Awesome!” or something equally ridiculous, they are also often uncomfortably performing in pageants, school and church plays, or various sports and esteem building activities while being forced to watch Dove commercials. All of us formally issue laden mothers are quietly wondering to ourselves, “Is it enough? How do I spare her that feeling of shame from just being who she is?”

With all the images the media, other parents, and magazines shove down our kids throats it’s a wonder any of us made it to adulthood without some sort of lingering eating disorder. How do we as mothers protect the next generation of little girls from feeling invisible, hopeless, and without a voice? How do we keep them from writing terrible shoe poetry?!?!

Or, do we just keep trying to remind them that no matter what the rest of the world looks like, home is safe, and you can be anything you want at home, because that’s the one place that everyone will love you no matter what? Maybe those experiences of feeling voiceless and invisible are what creates the next generation of artists, actors, and helicopter feelings oriented parents.


I am intending to read several books on the subject, cram Lily into a foofy gown for a pageant, and let you know what I find out.



*Not that Wicca is not a totally valid religion, I’m just saying, chubby white girls from suburbia have a tendency to flock to anything that they think might make either Justin Timberlake, Edward Cullen, or, in my case, Drew Carey, fall in love with them by simply chanting and melting stuff.

The Horror of a Shared Bathroom

I am a neurotic mess. Anyone who knows me in the least capacity can attest to that fact. Toenails freak me out, i hate floppy socks, dirty nails, Jeff Goldblum, ducks, anything eyeball related,and guys on unicycles make me furious. I don't know where all of these issues stem from, probably some deeply buried childhood trauma I'm sure, but I have yet to unearth my "root" if you will, and so continue to live in a world where something new appears to either frighten, gross out, or irritate me everyday.

My latest issue is a little bit more crippling however. So long as the toenails are covered and the floppy socks are encased safely in shoes and I avoid lakes and Jeff Goldblum movies, I am usually able to function relatively well in the everyday world. This latest issue however, has become somewhat difficult to control. Working in a public place with several dozen people sharing one three stalled bathroom has lead me to a whole new horizon of neurosis i didn't even know i had.

It isn't the germs that bother me, on the contrary, germs have never freaked me out, I'm quite good with disgusting tasks that most people would shirk at, I like to believe that my immunities are better because of it resulting in fewer sick days used for myself. No, this latest problem is much more difficult to cover up. I am afraid of people hearing me go to the bathroom.

Get your laughs out now. I know, its weird, few people care, hardly anyone listens to others bathroom forays, and yet, I am physically unable to go when there is someone in the stall next to me, even in a real emergency, I clam up, unable to go until I am sure the bathroom is clear of all potential listeners.

Yesterday at work i went in to utilize the facilities when i was sure the last person had vacated and just as i began to settle in, turning a game on my IPOD and finally getting down to business. But then, the creak of the door signifying someone else coming in after me. Instantly i clenched up, my body fell into a state of shock and went into panic mode. The bathroom is dead silent, only the sound of the occasional throat clearing can be heard. She enters the stall next to me and, holding my breath I wait for her to finish. Silence.

"Just flush!" I psychically willed her to finish her business and be on her way, to allow me my moment of sanctuary. After a minute that drags on for days, I realize that this woman is going through a bought with the same neurosis I am fighting, together we are frozen in the crippling fear that is public bathroom panic.

We are in a stand off, well, a sit off. I'm silent, pretending I'm not here, hoping she'll give up and go away, she's silent, both of us, uncomfortable, for several reasons. But my will is strong. I will not have the awkward meeting at the sink, eyes meeting and quickly looking away, the worry of "am i not washing long enough? am i using too many paper towels? should I clean up the sink area, I didn't really make the mess," not today, I won't go back there, I won't do it again.

SUCCESS! After what feels like an eternity the woman gives, her resolve fades and I have conquered the public bathroom. Without a sound she quickly dresses, flushes the toilet and scurries out of the bathroom, waiting for me to leave I am sure.

photo pilfered from Team Sugar

I finish up and wash my hands, all in peace, rinse as long as i want, use all the paper towels i feel necessary and leave the mysterious puddle of water lingering on the sink. I feel strong, independent, not like the issue laden nut job I really am.

Returning to my cube I realize just how ridiculous I really am and resolve to chronicle my insanity in such a way that i might embarrass myself into abandoning these crippling troubles and moving on with my life, hence the blogging about bathroom phobias.

Anybody else have an irrational fear? either blog about it and track back to my blog, or leave it in a comment!

What Happened to Amy?

I've been doing a little thinking about my name lately. My name used to be Amy, I never really cared for it, too short, not easily turned into a viable nickname, rhymes with Lame-y, not a great name, but it was my name.

In the last five years since husband and I hooked up I have some how managed to develop several new names, and even a couple of new alter egos, but Amy, as a name, and most of the time, as a person, has seemed to have disappeared.

On May 7th 2005 I became Mommy, and a short time later, Mom, and lately, I'm becoming Mother. When I became Mommy, everything about me changed. Rather than the sexually precocious, foul mouthed sarcastic little narcissist i have been my entire life, I was transformed into a person that was required to give, sustain, and nurture, life; and hardest of all, watch her swears.

I was shocked to find that Mommy was concerned about the violent content of video games and television shows, Amy never really thought about that, other than ones where they kill hookers for money points, she never gave a damn.

Mommy seems to care a great deal about what kind of food is in the house, vegetables, milk, cheese, yogurt, things with pro-biotics in them, Amy always just ran to 7-11 and grabbed a couple platters of nachos for she and husband, who was then boyfriend, to snarff up. Amy didn't care about carbs, and didn't want a husband, but Mommy, she is a little needy, and could stand to drop a few pounds.

Mommy needed a sensible car, a sporty hair cut in only one, natural color, and a house that housed only herself, the boyfriend (who is now husband) and the child that converted her to Mommy. Amy was content to live in squalor with somewhere between 3 and 7 smelly boys at a time where someone was always awake and everyone visited everyone’s room, giving the term "bed sharing" a completely different connotation than the one Mommy knows.

Amy had LOTS of friends, all kinds of strange people with interesting things to say and fascinating movies to watch and cigarettes to smoke. Mommy has however only recently found herself two or three really close friends and not even that in the early days of her new life.

Mommy knows the entire Veggie Tales song book; Amy knew every word to "Hurray for Boobies" by the Blood Hound Gang. (Mommy remembers the lyrics, but doesn't get to sing them very often)

Amy used to have opinions, and ideas and thoughts that centered on issues other than family medical leave and preschool bullying. Mommy is happy if she can maintain a 15 minute conversation without mentioning, or hearing about, poop.

Mommy knows that she has things that she cares about, remembers important things she see's on the news, and sometimes writes them down in crayon so she can discuss them at work the next day, but then that commercial for the children’s hospital comes on with all the skinny bald kids, and she starts crying and can't remember what that story on the news was about, and the dog has eaten the paper she wrote on.

Sometimes Mommy allows Amy to come back for a short time, usually on a Friday night. Amy takes over and dyes mommy's hair purple, or cuts it really short, gets a new tattoo, or inserts the occasional swear. Mommy then re-surfaces around the time preschool starts on Monday and is forced to answer questions like "Why is your hair purple? or mom's can have tattoos? Can I have a tattoo?" from the kids at school, resulting in stares and the occasional look of horror from the other moms. Mommy then wonders what Amy was thinking and if she should get back at her by buying a minivan.

As moms, wives, husbands, and parents, we tend to lose a piece of ourselves every time we acquire one of these new titles. We are now responsible for someone other than ourselves and that responsibility is something that takes a toll. Being carefree and narcissistic isn't something that translates well into effective parenting, but is so much more fun than worrying about who is getting enough protein and who isn't wearing sunscreen.

I'm not saying I don't love my life, I really do, but sometimes when its quiet, and things have slowed down, i sit back and wonder how I got here exactly. For those of us who have adapted these new titles, thinking about how we came to be in this strange new world allows us to be reminded of not only where we came from, but how far.

My pregnancy, marriage, and eventual nose dive into parenthood were so unexpected that it sometimes feels like I was picked up out of my previously self centered life and plopped down in the middle of MomLand, an uncharted territory by members of my former realm MeTopia, there were a few natives here sure, but I didn't speak their language yet, and I couldn't tell if they were inviting me to a feast or offering to roast me.


Amy was a little wild and had too many issues for Mommy, and Mommy is a little square for Amy. But together, along with my other personalities Honey, Boss, and Daughter, make up the person I am now. I expect that eventually a new personality or two will emerge, along with a couple of new names, they will be welcomed into the fold, asked to move over because it is getting a bit crowded in here, and offered a cookie. Unless of course one of them doesn't eat carbs either.

Counting to Three...and other threats that just don't work

It is 7am and I have counted to 2 and a half seven times in the last 15 minutes. Guess what good it’s done?

She's wearing a shirt... but that's it.

Every morning we go through this same ritual, I wake her gently, she refuses to rise. I go about my business for another 10 minutes, and, like a snooze alarm, materialize in her room, slightly more insistent this time, coaxing her to wake up. She again, refuses, this time hiding under Night Night (see A Day in the Life for an explanation of Night Night)

I give her another 5 minutes, and now I'm pissed, my pink headed sleeping beauty is showing no sign of rising with out physical force.

"GET UP NOW! 1....2....2 1/2...." and she’s up, slowly, but up.

Why do parents think that counting to 3 is an effective form of communicating urgency? For my kid anyway, all I get out of this ritual is watching her move ever so slightly to the left, just before I hit 3, and then I start again when the next demonstration of "slack" presents it self.

Lather, Rinse, Repeat.

"What happens at 3 exactly?" I can hear her pink mind musing. "A spankin'? loud voice? mean words? a cookie? Ooh, it might be a cookie...I'm just going to see what happens, just in case it is a cookie"

And I watch her, as she processes my warnings and threats, moving at a snails pace, attempting to pick her underwear off the floor with her toes, and then my face gets hot, and my voice comes out of my mouth at that register I didn't know I could produce.

"PUT YOUR DAMN PANTS ON NOW"
"Don't yell at me MUVVER, you haffa talk NICE!"

So now we are arguing, and arguing is NOT how I envisioned communicating with my daughter, even at 4. I dreamed that we would be like Lorali and Rory , laughing over coffee and talking really fast while referencing pop culture trivia, but so far anyway, it has not been in the cards for us.

What is the alternative to the old "counting to 3?" My mother still does it, and my sisters and I are all well over 18 at this point. Yet, we still scurry into the living room looking for our marching orders, but not before she hits 2 3/4.

I have tried the quiet, rational conversation attempt, the list of potential repercussions, including the definition of repercussion. And even, the viable alternative tract.

Each of these, supposedly "more effective communication models" end in one of three scenarios

1) Why? asked in succession until the mother drops to the floor in tears of exasperation
2) The daughter rejects all options presented and instead opts to cartwheel naked
3) One, or both of us, start to cry, and/or scream

I think a big reason we have this fight every morning is that my little person has recently realized how little control she has in this world. She doesn't get to choose her school, her size, whether she can drive or pump gas, she doesn't get listened to most of the time and I can see why she might feel frustrated and instead of getting dressed, opt to cartwheel.

According to Family Education the trick is setting up a routine, and letting her take part in that routine.

"You are absolutely correct about a good morning routine helping your child get ready for school. In the evening, pick out the next day's school clothes with your child and pack and place his book bag by the door. Set an alarm clock to give sufficient time for dressing. Have a scheduled time for a family breakfast to get the day started together. Be sure to enlist other family members' help in caring for the newborn and preparing breakfast. Most important of all, leave enough time after breakfast to cuddle your child and read a story together before he must leave for school."

I would KILL for snuggle time and family breakfast before school, but the reality of the situation is that I already have to wake her at 6am, and even when she goes to bed at 7, she doesn't want to get up, most of our clothes aren't dry the night before, Daddy is gone by 5 and if I want any hope of brushing my own teeth I have to let her sleep in just a tiny bit.

So how do we get out of the numbers game, how do we give them a choice in what their world looks like without destroying our own?

According to most of the parenting blogs and child rearing books I've read, the key is consistency and tangible consequences. I know that Lily is much more apt to listen when I preclude the count to 3 with "I'm going to count to 3, and if you aren't dressed there will be no...(insert favorite vice of the moment)" as opposed to my other favorite, with an equal fail rate, of bribing her, "If you are dressed by the time I count to 3 we'll get Starbucks!" This works about 25% of the time, the rest of the time, she isn't dressed by 3 but we get Starbucks anyway because now mommy wants it. Consistency and follow through are NOT my strong points.

So all the 1-2-3 Discipline Magic books and all the child psychologists and parenting experts have nothing to contribute when it comes to lazy mothers, insolent pre-schoolers, and 15 minute increments of morning time in which to wash, dress, brush, and pack lunches.

I am very aware that i could remedy this situation with an alarm clock for her and a pre-packed lunch the night before, I am also aware that this will probably not happen while I'm working full time and alone in the morning.

My goal instead is to make up for it in the evening. Rough mornings can equal extra snuggles before bed and a long story with pictures. I vow to at least attempt consistency when counting to 3, at least until I find a more viable method for getting this child to bend to my will.

Any ideas?

A Day in the Life

Okay, so I don't actually have an interesting enough day for a full blog, three quarters of it would be devoted to "looks at spreadsheets and says hrmmmmm" but my morning routine, now that is a "horse of a different color" as they say.

As a mom that works outside the home I have certain day to day responsibilities that require a timely exit of my house, usually no later than 7:30 (which it is right this minute actually, so this blog will have to be completed once i have a break form work.)

Okay, so I'm back, its now 9:55pm two days later and I'm finally ready to finish this post. If this weren't waiting in my drafts for completion I'm sure everyone would be waiting with baited breath for the run down of my morning routine.

So, I start my morning by smacking my alarm clock and calling it an asshole, my husband, thinking it would be less traumatizing to wake up to, bought me an alarm that starts with a soft beep, and then gradually increases in intensity as you ignore it. While the thought is nice, the reality is far more annoying. Picture your little one standing at the side of the bed while you are fast asleep just watching and breathing...then whispering, “mama”. You ignore it, of course, thinking you might possibly still be dreaming...then it becomes a little more insistent... “Mom, I'm hungry, mom”....then, just as you’ve convinced yourself that she’s big enough to take care of herself and start to drift back into REM sleep, the full fledged "I’m getting my own cereal and I’ve dropped the gallon of milk on my foot and this is all your fault you lazy bitch..." screaming mode. Startling and unpleasant.

Once the shrieking has subsided, I roll over to find that the pink one has again made her way to my bed, has again managed to wet through her pull up on to my comforter, and has dripped pink hair dye all over husbands pillow (well, that one at least only marginally affects me)

So I sneak out of bed trying not to wake her and proceed to sniff every piece of laundry on my floor hoping to find something that doesn't stink of either me, or the dog...no such luck.

Now I have to make my way out to the living room, naked, to sort through the ever growing pile of clothes I haven’t had time to fold. The thing you have to know about our living room, is that it offers absolutely NO privacy, with a giant picture window facing the street, and a city bus stop directly in front of my house, the man waving at me from the street only confirms what I have always suspected, everyone in this town has seen me naked.

Now, you may ask yourself, "Amy, why didn't you put on a robe? or wrap in a towel?" to which I would say, “Well blogging community, I don't own a robe, and all my towels are dirty because I hate laundry, that, and at 6am, all I can think about is, "Holy shit, that lazy ass didn't change the light bulbs again did he, remind me to kill him...Oooh pants! OW couch…"

Because the couch laundry pile has yielded positive results, clean pants that basically fit and a shirt that is somewhat appropriate for the early fall, I can’t tell if they match yet but I don’t have time to be picky, it is now time to release the hound.

The pugglet tears through the bathroom door at lightening speed, nearly toppling me in the process, I open the back door and she proceeds to bark at anything with a shadow and go to her super secret pooping spot because she can't be seen while pooping.The problem with this is that I know one day our land lord will show up, find nothing of the carefully hidden dog paraphernalia and then miraculously find a years worth of dog shit hidden behind a vault of some kind that she has erected and evict us for have a pet we aren't supposed to have.

So, while the pugglet sniffs and hides the pass code to her crap vault, I catch a glimpse of myself in a nearby mirror, now that I'm dressed, I realize that my hair is limp and somewhat greasy, checking the clock I see that it is far too late for a shower so extra deodorant and some mousse will have to cover my forgetfulness. Make up is, of course out, because I own only one tube of mascara, and a thing of pink eye shadow my sister talked me into buying and nothing to apply either, so, its another day of hearing, "Oh my, you look tired!" and "Are you feeling okay?" from the girls at the office.

With my hair somewhere between styled and tamed, and my odor contained I see that it’s now 7am and its time to wake the pink one. Pugglet follows me into my room and I start the morning song, my gentle wake up to her every morning; Booger, wake up, we gotta get moving! She starts to smile and shuts her eyes tight in definace...as Idgie lands on her face. So instead of a gentle wake up, we get a screaming fit that ends with Idgie the pugglet flying across the room.

She rises from the bed a tangled mess of pink hair, drool and Night Night, the ripped blue and green afghan my mother lovingly crafted prior to her birth. Unfortunately, my mother went a little overboard and Night Night is just about the right size for the newborn of a giant, rather than my little ball of baby, which allows her to effectively drown in Night Night with only her toes poking through the holes wiggling lightly.

She tells me her tummy hurts, she’s hungry, she doesn’t want to go to school, she needs to stretch and she hates me. And I remind her that it is now 7:05 and if she wants to make her own lunch its time to get up right now. She says simply “no”.

“isn’t the whole “I’m sick I don’t want to go to school” thing supposed to happen in junior high, or at the very earliest, elementary school?” Not my kid, she’s advanced.

I am eventually able to get her out of bed, this time I didn’t have to drag her, so that’s progress. I start throwing clothes at her as she vetos each outfit cast her way. “I don’t like jeans, dey awn’t comfowtable”, okay, how about a dress? “no, I want sweat pants.”

Nobody dreams of their kid being the sweatpants kid, you know the one. They always walk a little too fast to class, wear their backpacks, a little too high, speak in a voice that is just a little too whiny, as though she doesn’t have enough to deal with being the only one still trying to potty train, we are not adding sweat pants kid to the list of “idiosyncrasies” she has developed in her four short years.

“How about khakis? They feel like sweat pants”
“She grabs a pair of pink flowered pajama bottoms and a purple sweatshirt with a ballerina on the front. “Deese”

“lily, no, they don’t match and you are not wearing your pajama bottoms to school”
“Daddy wears them to work” she counters
“Well, Daddy is weird, put this on NOW or you don’t get lunch and you have to eat the school food.”

“FINE” she spits at me with a voice like venom, the sting running up my back and landing behind my eyes.

“LOSE THE TUDE KID” I yell back
“YOU TALK NICE MOM!” she retorts
“GET YOUR LITTLE BUTT INTO THOSE CLOTHES NOW BEFORE I SPANK YOUR ASS!”
Finally my tone sets her in motion and she scurries to the couch to put on the clothes she has reluctantly agreed to wear.

While she dresses I prepare the lunches and wait for her to enter the kitchen demanding to finish the sandwiches. I boil eggs for her breakfast and snack, cut up apples, spread peanut butter on to celery with raisins. I craft a nutritious and tasty lunch for my little daughter, all nicely fit together in her pink princess lunch box.

Once her clothes are on, she dissects the lunch box as I wrestle her hair into some semblance of order and shoes on her feet. She tells me how she hates or is in some way disgusted and sickened by each item in the lunch box. I let her finish up the sandwiches, smearing peanut butter on her pants from hers and over squirting mustard on mine. She smashes them together and licks her fingers, smiling at me and asking if she can have cookies for breakfast.

I managed to get my way out of that conversation without anymore threats or screeching and looking at the clock and see that it is now well past my 7:15 deadline and entering into the 7:30, “we better get our asses out the door” final deadline.

After grabbing Night Night, the lunchbox, my lunch bag, her back pack, and her shoes (which she has kicked off and is now refusing to wear) we pile into the car and head on our way. Now, in the early morning light, I see that my shirt and pants miraculously match, but realize that I forgot to brush my teeth, I will have to get some coffee to cover the smell of morning breath.

We make it to school, through the strange ritual of crawling on the ground speaking in her “kitty” voice which is high and somewhat whiny, while she demands the pink chair. I can’t help but wonder if the school will demand she be tested for some sort of learning disorder based on her obsession with cats and the color pink, but so far, they haven’t said much on the subject.

I pry her from my leg, rush out the door and jump in the car headed toward my office while inhaling from my morning cigarette, stopping only long enough to grab coffee and burn my tongue. Racing to the building I manage to make it in by 8, wondering how a 10 minute drive manages to take 45 minutes every morning, but, somehow it does.

Clocking in I start the rest of my daily routine; “looks at spreadsheets, says hrmmmmm”

Praise Be to the friends of Mommies!

As a woman who has always considered herself a “guys girl", or, someone who has traditionally surrounded herself with the male of the species, I have recently come to appreciate the importance of my female friends. Particularly since I have had children, the link to my mommy, and non-mommy girl friends has become stronger and more valuable than any parenting book, blog, or PBS special could ever be.

Don’t get me wrong, my male friends are great, they make me laugh, force me to take my life less seriously and contribute an over all sense of simplicity to my life, but you just can’t talk about leaky breasts with your male friends, no matter how much I tried right after the little person came along, they would always change the subject and squirm uncomfortably for some reason.

There were a good two years through my pregnancy and Lily’s birth where my female friends were and I were either incommunicado or just hadn’t met yet and it was one of the more lonely times in my life. I would walk with her in the front pouch and talk to her like I would one of my long lost girl friends. "What do you think baby? do you think daddy and i aren't having sex because we've grown apart? or is it just the stress of having a newborn?" or "I don't know baby, are you sure my ass doesn't look fat in these jeans?" She would stare at me, occasionally belch, but rarely contribute to the conversation, and I would eventually get tired of hearing my own voice and go back to doing the dishes or watching tv in silence.

Then, along came my Mommy friends, Lana, Cari, Jainel, and Rachel. It was like a whole new world of conversation opened up to me, I could talk about poop, and chapped nipples, and sexual dry spells, and complain about my husband, and laugh about my saddle bags that had recently developed. For all the talking and girls nights and foofy party drinks, i think the best thing about my lady friends is the fact that they remind me how not alone I am.

Before I had them i would stare at my kid and wonder "is that normal? or am I doing this right?" and I wouldn't have anyone to confirm or deny my suspicions that's the child was inches from death due to my negligence. Without mommy friends we are blind dumb and deaf in this uncharted water of parenthood and the knowledge that a seasoned, and non-judgmental mommy friends can bring to the table is so invaluable that i swear these women saved my life, and probably Lily's on many occasions.

For this reason I propose some sort of big sister program for new moms, in your 8th month someone will come to your home and assess your projected parenting plan (you know, the one you throw out the window after like 2 months?) they will assess your "mommy friend resources" and if you do not have an adequate supply of mommy friends, you will be placed by our team of experts into a mutually beneficial partnership until your child goes to college. This pairing program allows the new mom to benefit from the experience of the more seasoned mom, and allows the more seasoned mother to get her baby fix out of the way so she doesn't mistakenly have another child when really, she was done with the last one. See? Mutually beneficial!

From navigating breastfeeding to knowing what to do for potty training and tantrums I have tried the alternate venues, Dr. Spock and even my mother have NOTHING on Cari and Lana, two seasoned mommy veterans with kids that have lived to tell the tale of their first forays on to team mom.  They remind me that things get easier, that sometimes, adults are just assholes and your kid really isn't so bad, and get me laughing when I think things will never be funny again.

With Jainel I have the added bonus of a friend with a kid only 11 months older than my own, and a boy, so that puts at just right around the same developmental phase. We could lie them side by side on the blanket, Lily looking so small and Xavier this mammoth of a nearly one year old, already smiling and trying to crawl and compare notes on our rookie season as moms. Now, at ages 4 and 5 respectivly, Lily and Xavier are great friends, though the "boys are yucky" thing is starting to get in the way, and will even start school at the same time, we can hold each other and cry as we wave goodbye to our grown up kindergartners in a mere 12 month blink of an eye, ready to start the next phase of mommyhood together.

Now I have my Rachel, a friend from "BC" as my parents used to say (Before Children) and her very little man, teetering on the edge of 1 himself, and it is my turn to be a seasoned veteran to a rookie just pulled up from the minor leagues (college). I can tell her its okay to be bored sometimes and its normal to be exhausted, and I too spent an entire day just staring at my baby and trying to memorize every inch of her amazingly tiny body when she first came home. I can re-tell my birth story, and she can remind me how much it SUCKED to be pregnant every time I am wistful for the days of swollen ankles and heartburn. And she can confide in me how scared she is, and I reply that I still am, and we know that together, along with our other mommy friends, we can make it through.

It is because of these women, and to an equal degree my non-mommy friends, the ones that braved my baby shower and cooed over the new screeching bundle, while shuddering as I explained (in FAR more detail than necessary) EXACTLY what happens to your vagina after childbirth, but still called me to go out for drinks to remind me that I am Amy first, and mommy second, that I am still keeping it together.

For the rest of you mommies out there, and those that will be one day, cherish the mommy friends you have, their wisdom and experience is not something "What to Expect" will contain, and if you don't have any, join a group, get some numbers, e-mail me (ductapequeen@hotmail.com) because I'm telling you, these women will be your life line, you will come to love them like sisters, I know I do.

I'm Raising a Jerk

Let me preface this entry by stating that I undeniably, 100% love my kid, no question about it, that said, I don't know how much I actually like her sometimes.

Trust me, I am VERY aware that this is NOT something you are supposed to say, if the mommy thought police get  a hold of this blog I will probably be black listed from the PTA before she's even in school and forced to turn in my fanny pack, (no, I don't actually own a fanny pack)

What I'm trying to say is, even though I totally love my kid, I am so not into her/parenting sometimes. She is incredibly bossy and demanding, a trait i was able to overlook when she was unable to speak and just flailed her arms and babbled at me adorably. But now that she has mastered the art of demanding cookies, and requiring them immediately, coupled with an almost diva like ability to whine, fall on the floor and stomp, I am just down right sick of hearing it.

She interrupts, not just me, but others, phone calls, doctors, animals, she's and equal opportunity annoyer, yesterday she woke me up from a dead sleep to ask if it was dark outside, we were in a car, it was clearly not dark.

She is super needy, requiring my undivided attention while she explains for the 100th time the rule for the made up game, "Kitty, Witch, Princess and Queen" a game in which I always end up being the kitty, capturing her, and putting her in the microwave. The princess always escapes, and the kitty always dies, did I mention she cheats too?

My kid pees her pants, screams and babbles incessantly, and is constantly dirty, if she were 20 years older, she'd be in a home or a corner in Seattle wearing a tin foil hat.

As it is, she is four and despite all evidence to the contrary, reasonably sane. I can't help but wonder why mom's put up with this nonsense?

I would never allow a co-worker, or even a close friend to hit me and tell me that they would prefer to live with their auntie because I won't get out of the bathroom this instant and make them some chocolate milk.

If I fell to the floor saying my legs hurt too bad to do my spreadsheets, my boss would either fire me, or commit me.

But for a four year old, we make concessions, a gentle reminder that patience is a virtue, a not so subtle bribe that if you let mommy pee in peace, she will put marshmallows in your cocoa, or when all else fails, a time out, the most major of all pre-school punishment options, sometimes, I would KILL for a time out. So what about next time? Another tantrum? Perhaps a return to the days of biting? I can't help but wonder, am I raising a jerk?

I am aware that adult punishments are not appropriate for a four year old and that screaming "just shut the hell up and get your own damn cocoa!" would probably damage her budding psyche, but all the love and gentle reminders and counting to three  cannot erase that stink of dislike I feel when she tells me that SHE is the boss of her shoes and if she WANTS to wear them on the wrong feet, she will!

I find myself looking back at her and quickly losing my grip, reverting back to my days of preschool terror. I have what some would call an "out of body experience", watching my adult mouth, generally so composed and level headed, actually form the words "NUH-UH!"

As I stamp my very grown up feet, clad in sensible shoes, and she stamps her, clad in tiny pink and white-flowered sneakers, we stare each other down.  I see us, both red faced, locked in a battle of wills, she determined to convince me, me, determined to not give in. Three feet tall or not, she could take down Goliath with her angry face.

Most of the time, I cave, and it makes me dislike myself as much as I dislike her at the moment. I am encouraging the tiny jerk inside her, feeding it, making it stronger than the sweet baby I still see somewhere behind the overpowering need for string cheese.

I like to tell myself that I am picking my battles, and in the long run, she'll be better adjusted if I only fight her on the important stuff, the interrupting will go away with time, the tantrums are only a phase, this string cheese, right now, will solve every problem and the demon will lose possession of my baby and all will be right with the world.

Right?

Or maybe she'll be the bitch cutting me off in traffic and dominating the sales meetings while she berates her husband for buying the wrong diamond. I guess a little bitch can't hurt a woman in today's world, lets just hope she knows when to pick her battles too.