I Am Not The Momma I Was Gonna Be

When I was pregnant with the Supergirl, I had plans and certainties about who I would be as a parent and who my child would be. I was never going to yell or spank, I wouldn’t need to. My child would see the hurt and disappointment in my eyes and quickly plead for salvation before I would ever need to discipline.

Until I learned that she could give two flying fudgsicles about my hurt or disappointment, until I discovered that her idea of fun with mommy was the art of trying to find every possible way to die from ages 2-4. Run away from mommy in parking lot? Check. Dive face first off of the kitchen counter? Check.

It’s a miracle that we have made it this far, honestly.

My child would not need to know about her family’s financial situation, we would have more than enough. Until we didn’t. I hate that she knows that she can’t have a slushy because the fountain drinks are 67 cents cheaper. I hate that she worries about whether or not the land baron has been paid. To be fair, it’s more a case of her being insanely smart than us informing her of the situation, I just hate that at 5 years old she has this much of a grasp on a situation that I still wonder if I understand.

My child would not know about cancer, would not need to know about death and dying. Except she does and no matter how much I pray for the knowledge to be forgotten, it doesn’t. At 5 years old, my child has become the morbid, strange child that talks of dying, of ghosts, of zombies, of terminal illnesses and chemotherapy, the child that makes grown ups uncomfortable.

I want to rail against this reality, scream and fight and kick to get back the dream of the child and the parent that we were supposed to be.

I want to, but I can’t and I won’t.

I am not the mother that I wanted to be, but I am a pretty kick ass momma.

My kid watches cartoons from the 80’s , sometimes wears the same set of pajamas all weekends, is cool when I forget to buy milk and all I have to offer is a Pebbles Ice Cream Sundae for breakfast before church. She loves God and Jesus and leads other children to them, her faith is contagious and so awesome. Her sense of humor and sarcasm, though sometimes flawed, are still pretty great. I know adults with a lot less personality than my girl has. She quotes Grease and Wizard of Oz, and you should see that girl rocking out to some Michael Jackson.

And I like to think that I take some credit for all of that.

Kindergartners Are Gross

Dear Kindergarten Class of 2014,

Yes, I am talking to you with your cute new outfits, spiffy new shoes, and recently snaggle- and gap toothed smiles. You are all so very, very cute and I cannot wait to see the people that you grow into. However, I do have a bone to pick with you and I hope that I can speak plainly here. You make me sick.

Literally, bed-ridden, fever addled, cannot breathe sick.

You may not realize that I am privy to the gallons of hand sanitizer, yards of disinfectant wipes, and thousands of anti-bacterial facial tissues that you have stashed away in your cubbies. This is the reason that I am puzzled over the recent string of nastiness that you have sent to my home. I cannot understand how these germs are so virulent that they have survived all of the artillery that you have at your disposal.

And yet, they are and they did which brings us to now.

See, in your tiny body, germs do their thing, you run a bit of a fever, your momma gives you some Tylenol or ibuprofen, you take a quick nap and two hours later you are running around, bouncing off the walls with a free day off like you were never even sick, but in my body and most likely your momma’s body? These germs mutate into something evil, something surely sent by Satan himself and, honestly, it’s just not fair.

When I see how rapidly you digest and defeat these germs, I begin to wonder if this is the time that I will get sick and die. I begin to think that perhaps that this disease is not the same that you have recovered from so quickly. Obviously, this is the time that I have contracted Ebola (if that still exists) or West Nile or Avian Flu or Encephalitis and my death is not only certain, but in the near future.

The fever that you were able to knock out with one dose is now going on four days strong for me, with very little relief. My body aches for sleep that is interrupted by demands for food or playtime or the intense desire to blow my nose, while one nostril leaks a constant fount of watery snot, the other is so congested that it is bitterly painful. You have to repeat everything that you say to me because my right ear has been ringing for 3 days while the left has received no sound for the last two.

I am willing to work out a truce with you. You break open the packs of supplies that your mommas scoured the city for and start using them and I will make sure that your teacher is supplied with a steady stream of the best name brand snacks that I am allowed to bring. I will not only volunteer to host your classroom parties, but will ensure that you will have lots of sugary goodness to celebrate with.

But, if I catch wind of another runny nose or fever? I will cut off your supply and you will be left eating whatever generic pretzel sticks that your poor teacher can afford for the rest of the year. I will bring a raw veggie tray of cauliflower and broccoli to every party and celebration and make sure that every kid gets some on their plate. I can and I will make sure that I go out of my way to healthify your classroom if changes are not made.

Let’s work together kids, I want you to be happy, I want you to have fun, I want kindergarten to be awesome for you, but, if you keep tossing these germs around like your basketball at PE, I will be forced to be the bad guy.

Nobody wants that.

I love you all,

Momma

A Tale of Two Mornings

While I have normally taken on the task of getting the Supergirl ready for school in the mornings, there are days that Hubs elects to do it. This morning, I sat back and allowed him to control the morning rhythm. For your consideration, here is a snapshot of our two very different mornings.

6:00 – He stumbles out of bed, wandering to the restroom, then to walk the visiting dog. 

6:15 – I get up because I have not heard the sounds of a child or even his voice commanding her to get up yet. I jolt out of the bed, sprint down the hall to her room to find him sitting on her bed, lights off, holding her, still sleeping, head wedged into the nook between his neck and shoulder. I leave the room with an eyeroll and collect her clothes. 

6:20 – They have moved into the bathroom, or rather he has. She is now face down on our bed, still asleep, feet dangling off of the side. I leave to gather the towels that he always forgets. 

6:25 – She is in the shower now, somehow. Sitting on the floor, playing with rubber duckies. I give her conditioner and a hairbrush. 

6:32 – She is ready to get out. He wraps her in a towel and leaves the room. Neither has spoken yet. 

6:36 – She is sitting, still wrapped in a towel on the couch. The clothes that I got for her are still sitting next to her. He silently hands them to her and she gets dressed. He hands her socks and her shoes. 

6:40 – He pulls her hair into a ponytail. 

6:45 – She sits at the table in front of a bowl of cereal. She stares into space in that place between waking up and going back to sleep. 

6:50 – Her food has disappeared even though I have not seen her move and was almost certain that she was asleep with her eyes open. 

6:55 – He hands her folders, her lunch box. She kisses me goodbye and I know that she will fall asleep in the car on the way to school.

7:00 - They are backing out of the driveway. I stand on the porch, amazed at the silent dance of my two night owls.

My mornings are a bit lot different.

6:00 AM – The clock is ticking, always ticking. We’re gonna be late, I know we are gonna be late, the mantra beats against my skull from the moment I wake up. 

6:03 – I turn on the lights in her room, strip the comforter off of her little body. “Rise and shine, my little porcupine.”  She squeals, groans against my constant diatribe. “Get up now and you won’t have to eat in the car, get up now and you won’t be late, get up NOW before I get really angry.” 

Tick tock, tick tock. That clock is not going to stop. 

“Time to shower. Hurry, hurry.” 

“Get dressed. Hurry, hurry.” 

The mood is tense, urgent, deliberate. 

Time check. 6:20. 

“Brush your hair. Brush your teeth” 

“Where are your shoes? Where are your socks? Are you packing your lunch today, or do you want me to? What cereal do you want this morning? How do you want me to do your hair? Hurry, hurry. We have to move a little quicker.” 

Late, late, you’re gonna be late. Time check. Shit, more to do, more to do. What else do we need to do? I click off items on my mental checklist. 

“Where is your homework? Where is your folder? These things are your responsibility, you have to keep track of them.” 

Time Check. 6:40 

My commands get louder, more insistent. “Eat. Do. Go. Hurry.” 

She eats her cereal, as I continue clicking items on the checklist. I do the hair, I slip on the socks, the shoes. I make sure that the earrings that she decided on last night are in her ears, I pack the lunch.

Tick tock, tick tock, that bleeping clock is getting louder, more insistent as are my commands.

Time check. 6:55 AM. She kisses her dad, grabs her things and heads for the door. I am speaking still calling out orders. "Don't climb over my seat, use your door. Buckle up, buckle up. Come on let's go, are you ready?"

At 7 we are pulling out of the driveway, she talks to me the entire way to school about the things on the radio, the things outside the window, the little things that she just remembered that she wanted to ask me about. She bounces out of her seat when we get to the school ready to begin her day, ready to learn, to grow, to socialize. 

In the last five years, the differences between the Hubs and I have become more and more glaringly obvious. The one thing that I have learned, that I have decided to take to heart is that just because what he does is different, just because it is not the way that I would do it, doesn't mean that he is wrong or not doing it the right way. He has been a parent just as long as I have and as long as his way works and gets her there on time, I am not going to complain. 

The Here and Now

I’ve decided to attempt to go back to writing everyday again. I fell off the wagon, fell hard and have felt stuck these last few months. I am not sure where to begin so I figure I will lay it all out on the table and see what we come up with.

I quit my full time job a few months ago. I couldn’t deal with the negativity anymore, didn’t need the additional drain on my sanity, didn’t need the emotional toll that it took on me day after day for those last few months. I was so miserable there, so very unhappy all of the time, that it left me sick, exhausted, depleted. I couldn’t love my family the way they needed me to, I couldn’t love myself the way that I needed. So I quit.

And I feel kind of stupid now, looking back in hindsight, at the sheer irresponsibility of it all, even though I know that it was the right move for me, even though I know that there is something better for me just around the corner. I have two interviews tomorrow, in fact.

I spent the summer mothering. For the first time in a year, there was no job to run to, no other more pressing responsibility than to mother my child. She may have hated every moment of it, may have revolted against my every attempt to discipline her, but I think it has also brought her a bit more stability, a bit more confidence and trust in my abilities to effectively parent her.

I spent the summer repairing myself and my marriage. I went back to church, I prayed, I believed, and I began to heal the hurts of the past few years. We still have a way to go, but we are back on the road to recovery and that is a good road for all of us.

I spent the summer being a tourist. Seeing sites I have never seen, or have not seen in a long time. I went into the mountains for the first time since I was a child, I took my daughter to the beach, to the natural springs, to museums, and the park.

I spent the summer cleaning, purging my house of old clothes, old toys, old memories. I scrubbed and scoured and reclaimed my home from a year of neglect and animosity. There still a few more things that I would like to do, a few more pieces of furniture that I need to move, but it is home once again. 

And, now? Summer is over now, and I am ready, ready to get back to work. 

And Then My Baby Disappeared

Today, for the very first time, I slipped off a little girl’s silky pink pajamas and let them fall to the floor. I helped her put on her school uniform and marveled at the kid standing before me. And even as I watched her grow right before my eyes, I didn’t cry.

I watched as she stood in front of the mirror, whispering, “I am brave, I am smart, I can do this.” And I did not cry.

I saw her strap her shoes (on the right feet!) and gather her supplies, watched her as she confidently strode to the door and I did not cry.

I did not cry today as the Supergirl started Kindergarten. I did not cry when we walked into the classroom, even as I witnessed mothers breaking down in the hallway. Or other children clinging to their mommas as mine skipped her way down the hall into unknown territory. I did not cry when I thought about all of the other milestones that we had traversed thus far. I did not cry when I saw her sit down and make a new friend, or even when I drove away.

Even though I knew that I would, I did not cry.

I am excited for her. Excited for new friendships, new experiences, for this journey to begin. I am excited about the tooth that is getting a little looser every day. I am not sad that that my baby is nearly gone, almost unrecognizable from the bundle that I brought home nearly six years ago. I am excited that the person that I have nurtured is finally emerging.

And this afternoon, as we were pulling away from the school, as she was stumbling over her words in an effort to get out all of the details before she forgot them, like the names of her new best friends, she exclaimed, "I am awesome, my teacher thinks so too. See this sticker? See what it says? I am awesome. Also, I am the President of Kindergarten." 

And my heart sings with pride. 

 There will be days ahead, where I know there will be tears, when her heart will be broken by boys (and girls), when her hopes are diminished and her confidence is dashed, but today? Today is not the day to cry.

Stop

I have heard a lot about injustice this weekend. I have heard cries of racism, of bigotry, of "good ol' boys". I have seen people blame Florida, once again, for being backwards, for being Southern, for being unable to prosecute a case.

I have seen the celebratory remarks of people that support George Zimmerman, I have heard the rallying cries of those that want to accuse the President of attempting to use this case to take away guns or create stricter gun laws. I have seen people post links to "news" articles that villify the victim.

Stop.

The truth is that Trayvon Martin was a kid. A kid whose rights to be "innocent, until proven guilty" were stripped from him on the side of that street. It's tragic. It could have been any kid. It could have been my husband once upon a time, when he was young, when he roamed the streets in the dark. It could have been any of the men that I know that got the opportunity to grow into men.

In this case, in this time, it was this boy.

To those of you that want to villify him as a thief, a thug, a drug addict - did you not make mistakes when you were 16 or 17? When you were young, full of life, and (perhaps, most dangerously) full of yourself? Did you deserve to have your rights stolen, to be tried and sentenced to death on the side of a street in the dark and the rain?

The Stand Your Ground law in Florida needs work. There are things that should be reviewed so that a tragedy such as this does not happen in the future. I can understand standing your ground and protecting your home and your family, but stalking, hunting, killing someone just because you do not like the way that they look should never be legal. The precedent of this case scares me, the ramifications for ordinary citizens are deeply troubling. This should be a call to action for those of you that feared losing access to your weapons to lobby the legislature to make the necessary changes to protect your rights.

To black men everywhere, this is a call to action for your community. Riots, demonstrations, marches are all great ways to get on the news but they will not change the verdict and they will not bring this child back from the dead.

A year ago, I worked as a mentor at a local inner-city second chance school. Amazingly, although the student population is predominantly black males without a father figure, the mentor program had never had a single black man step up to take on even one child. Not one.

If you want to end the cycle of racism, of bigotry, of the stereotypical black man image that you all fight against so much - give back, give these kids a different perspective to look up to, give these kids an alternate goal to aspire to.

It's one thing to have your debates on Facebook and Twitter, to talk about how much you hate the system, to rant about the injustice of it all, but if you are unwilling to do anything to make a change in the system, then you will never be a part of the solution.

Writing Scared

This year has been hard for me, my family, and my friends and this blog has suffered for it. I have seen friends (both online and real-life) lose their children. I have battled against mental health and marital issues, I have nearly lost my job due to both. I have had two of the most important men in my life lose their mothers within a week of each other. I have had one friend commit suicide while I battled against the demons that told me that I could do the same.

I have watched the Supergirl go to and graduate from preschool. The baby chickens of last summer have had (and subsequently lost) chicks of their own.

My writing has changed.

I am scared to write of the daily tribulations of being a mom to a rambunctious, curious, and (oftentimes) irritating 5 year old because one friend will never see her baby be a 5 year old and the other mourns the loss of those days. I am scared to write about my fears of losing my job, because so many people in my life have lost their jobs lately and they were not having performance issues (no matter the cause, my performance had deteriorated). I am scared to write of the marital issues, the pain and the hurt, the distrust and the anger, when so many that I love dearly long to find that special person and here I was just throwing it away like it is all just inconsequential.

I am scared to write of the realities of what my life has been this year, because I don't want anyone I care about to be hurt anymore than they have been.

Which leaves me stuck, stuck in a world where my words fight against my skin, aching to be let out, released, and my mind continually shuts them down, forcing me to keep them all bottled up inside.

I need to write so that I can be healthy. I need to write so that I am not carrying it all on the inside. I need to write so that I can make sense of so many things that have happened.

So, I write scared. I pray that my words will not inflict pain on those who already are bearing more than their share, I pray that they will find their intended audience and that the correct tone will carry through the screen and into the brains of the three of you reading this. I pray that as the words tumble from my fingertips, that I will be understood (as much as anyone can understand me).

And maybe, one day, I can go back to writing without the fear.

Little Wishes...

She always said that when she retired she was going to buy a motorcycle. She wanted the biggest, the shiniest one that she could afford. She wanted to just drive, to just go and and be free. Friends and family laughed, the thought of this tiny woman driving something so ostentatious, so large, so loud.

She was too sick when she retired. Sick from 3 and half years of chemotherapy treatments, tired from a cancer that was never going to go away. She didn't get her motorcycle.

After she and the Supergirl took their Spring Break trip, she explained to the Hubs and I that she was stopping the chemo. She didn't tell us how long, didn't give us a timeframe, but seeing the urgency in the plans that she was making, I knew. I just knew.

On April 18, I sent an e-mail to the president of the local chapter of the Chrome Divas. I explained who I was, who my mother-in-law was, why time was of the essence. On April 20, unsure of whether my e-mail had even been received,  I was pulling into my part-time job when my phone rang. "We are having a party at the Harley dealership, can you get your mother-in-law down here? We have some special things planned for her."

It was the last good day that we had together as a family. She was admitted into Hospice the following Monday and died at home on May 15, 2013.

Thank you so much to all of you who helped to make it such a great day. You are truly in our hearts, thoughts, and prayers everyday.

How?

How do you explain to this face that the one thing that she has been praying for for months is not going to happen the way that she wants it or expects it to?

How do you explain that despite the prayers and tears, despite the longing and reassurances, that there is no more medicine to help?

How do you look a piece of your heart in the eye and let them know that their best friend is dying?

How?

The Worst Word

I have lived for nearly 37 years, with nearly 30 of those being in the South and I have never once even considered using the “n” word. Ever. I know that there are other people that don’t feel as strongly about it as I do and that the stereotype is that we all just walk around saying it down here. It's not true, but for some reason if you have a Southern accent, or you like some Skynyrd or country music - well, you must use the "n" word, right?

Wrong. 

The entire time that I was growing up, while my father tried to knock me down with his fists and his words he would scream at me, “you are as bad as a…”, “as ugly as a…”, “as lazy as a…”, “as stupid as a…” “as sorry as a …” Even at 6 or 7 years old, I knew that I would never say that word. I didn’t know who or what he was referring to, but, in my heart I knew that if it was as bad or ugly as me then I had never, ever met someone like that.

I have still never met a single person on this Earth that is deserving of that moniker. I have never once encountered someone that deserved the venom and hatred that that one word possesses. I have never in my life been so angry that I would dare to curse someone with that kind of evil.

My daughter brought home that word from preschool. Preschool. Riding home from Grandma’s house in the silence of the backseat, I hear her ask, “Momma, what does n____ mean?” She even said it wrong (not that there is a correct way to say it), sounding more like mega, which is what her father mistook it for until she interrupted him. “No, N, Nah, Nah. N______, Daddy.”

His face fell. A piece of my heart broke off and shattered. The tone of my voice in reply shocked me, turning icy and hard. My words felt like tiny shards of glass cutting through the air.

“It is a very, very bad word. It is a very hurtful word. You should never, ever use it. Where did you hear it?”

“Ti-Ti at school was singing a song-” She breaks away into a lyric of a song that I have never heard, but that the Hubs apparently knows. He nods at me.

I take off my seatbelt (I know, I am setting such a great example here, but I really needed to deal with this moment in the moment, intentionally). “Supergirl, I need you to listen to me, I need you to understand, okay?” She nods, suddenly recognizing the seriousness based on the fact that I am now breaking the law as we travel down the road.

“Not very long ago, there were people that were not very smart. They didn’t think that brown people were the same as pink people.” She stared at me in disbelief. I nodded at her and continued, “They thought that brown people were bad and stupid. They treated them very badly, like they were animals. These people used to call the brown people the N-word. It’s an insult. It hurts people and it makes them cry. It makes people that say that word look ignorant. Worst of all, some of the people that use that word, don’t even understand how bad of a word it is. I do not ever want to hear you say that word again, do you understand?”

“Yes, momma. But why would they put that word in a song if it was so bad?”

“I am not sure, baby, but that is not a word or a song for you. Have you ever heard that word in any of the songs that we listen to?”

“No.”

“Supergirl? If anyone ever calls you that word, you will come and tell me about it, right?”

“Momma! Why would anyone ever call me that? I am not brown – I am an Indian. Duh!”

They Can't Call It MDA, Because That Name's Already Taken

Hello. My name is Heather and I am an addict.

I love that liquid gold crack that I can buy at any corner store. That bright yellow stuff of the Gods. I am talking, of course, about my Mountain Dew habit (fine, addiction).

Being the semi-moronic nut job that I am, I decided that today would be a fine day to start giving up my addiction. I am currently battling a raging sinus infection that I am trying to just let play out because I am terrified of building up an immunity to antibiotics, lest I be the one person on Earth that can defeat drug-resistant bacterias one day, and therefore am hopped up on all kinds of ingredients for meth.

Last night as I was trying to lay still and allow my body to heal, I noticed that I am all kinds of twitchy which led to the following conversation with myself.

"Self, you are crazy twitchy."

"It might be the Mountain Dew."

"Are you sure it is not the 8000 throat lozenges that you took today trying to get rid of your sore throat and cough? Or maybe it's the cough syrup that you get withdrawals from exactly 3 and half hours after you take it? It can't be the Dew, the Dew is our friend."

"That's bullshit, man, bullshit. They just want us to believe that."

"Who are they?"

And that starts off a whole other conversation in my head that causes me to lie awake pondering the "theys" of the planet. (It's always something, isn't it?)

This morning I woke up knowing that today is the day I quit. I knew it this morning. I bravely drove past the convenience store with their 44-ounce 69-cent wares. I sipped from my bottle of half frozen water feeling empowered, awakened.

But now it is 2:30. I don't feel good. Everything aches.

And I want my Mountain Dew. I want it SO bad.

I need an Anonymous group. They just can't call it MDA.

What is your addiction? Have you beat it before? For how long?

I Have A Blog? When Did That Happen?

I was walking around in the tragicomedy that has become my life, minding my own business when I suddenly remembered that, "Oh, hey, there's a place for all of these random thoughts and emotions and feelings.I think it's called a blog, you should check it out."

And then I forgot my password. And got locked out.

And then someone needed to help the Supergirl find a shoe.

And then Hubs needed someone to find his phone or his keys or maybe it was his shoe that was missing.

Because in the grand scheme of my life, all I am useful for is to find things that other people have lost or remember the things that their brain has purged.*

*(Quick note, I just, for the sixth time today chose the incorrect iteration of the word 'their' for that sentence. This twitch in the mundanity of Tuesday, being one of my all-time BIGGEST pet peeves, leads me to believe that I am having some kind of stroke and should most likely seek immediate medical attention.)

And then I started watching The West Wing on Netflix and then it was Tuesday and I was all, "Whoa, Tuesday, what the Hell? I was supposed to blog like 8 days ago." I checked but it didn't seem like Tuesday had done any of the blogging and now I am incredibly behind and if the 3 of you come back to actually read, you may find me sitting in the yard, rocking slowly, and trying not to wake up.

I am so sorry that I have forgotten about the 3 of you that actually read my blog and will try to do better in the future. I have quite an awesome post that I am brewing up for tomorrow so I am certain that none of you will be able to sleep tonight because you will instead be patiently awaiting my next piece of internet gold to be pulled from the nether regions of my soul.

You should probably sleep though.

People are dangerous when they don't sleep.

I have some experience with that - not sure if I mentioned it.

Here is the obligatory picture of the kid:

You are welcome.

The Post I Was Gonna Post Is Not Gonna Get Posted

I wrote a blog post last night.

It will not be posted today.

In a nutshell, it was all about how horrible, awful, and no good my life has been lately, about the fact that I was certain, certain, that I was going to come in and lose my job today, about the fact that I want to sue the drug companies that made the anti-depressant that made me manic that made me lose my job (but I don't know why she swallowed the fly, perhaps she'll die). I likened the stress and animosity that I have had in my life lately to tumors and bullies slowly stealing away all joy from my awesomeness.

But I am not posting that blog post today.

I am not posting it because it was all a manifestation of a brain working overtime.  My review went well, the say I am doing a pretty good job, they want to see me do more of a good job.

I am pretty sure that we have been through all of this before.

Instead, I will tell you that the Supergirl had an encounter with a bully yesterday. She had scratched the girl because she would not stop teasing her. When I got there to pick her up, the mocking, the teasing continued. I could see that it was eating away at the Supergirl. The relentless nature of this girl's constant barrage of insults began to wear at me as well.

She said that the Supergirl could not dance, that she could not sing, that she was ugly.

Beauty, singing and dancing - she's a triple threat. 

I instructed the Supergirl to apologize although I am not certain that that is the correct response. I know that physical violence is never the answer to dealing with these people and will only cause the bullying behavior to escalate, my mind knows that. But what I wanted to do? I wanted to put that little heifer over my knee and show her what a real bully could do. I wanted to show my child that I would protect her from the little smart asses that try to steal her joy. I wanted to do something, anything other than make my child apologize to someone that had done nothing to deserve her respect or sympathy.

On the drive home, I told the Supergirl that when you allow those bullies in your life to tell you that you cannot dance, when you stop dancing because you are afraid - they win. I told her that if you let them steal your song, if you stop singing because of their words - they win.

And we are not losers.

Hell Will Be An ER Waiting Room

On Friday I had to go to the emergency room. Before I made the decision to go there, I called my doctor's office and pleaded for a last minute Friday morning appointment. I asked if they thought that it could just wait until Monday...

No.

So, I got dressed - very slowly - in my emergency room best (re: comfortable) and let the Hubs know that it was time that he drove me to town.

I really did not want to go there, but figured that it wouldn't be that bad since it was early in the morning (around 8) on a Friday. People have jobs. Children have school. I would be out in time for lunch.

No.

I sat in the waiting room for 6 hours. 6 hours.

Aint' nobody got time for that.

Please note: Someday, I would like to go into emergency medicine. It's actually been a goal of mine to pursue that path for many years, however, looking at this mess of people through a patient's eyes, through a pane of glass covered in pain and anxiety?

I hated them. I hated every single last one of them. I am not ashamed to say it, even now, even speaking as someone who is supposed to be a Christian. I hated those idiotic people. They stood between the soulless void of waiting room Hell and the Promised Land of doctors, nurses, and people with good drugs that could help me not feel like I was dying. And that, friends? That is the way you should feel everyday - like you are not dying.

Unless you are in the emergency room. Then you should see the grip of the friggin' reaper on your shoulder because I swear to God, it is not an emergency otherwise.

A few notes:

Dear New Mom,

Your baby has a rash. Most likely from the detergent that you are using. I know that you have taken her to your doctor 2 times in 3 days (because you were kind of loud on your phone). He said that it would go away on it's own. Your baby does not have a fever, a cough, or even a sniffle. She's pretty darn cute with her giggles and smiles. Take her home, enjoy her, buy a different laundry detergent. You do not need the emergency room.

Dear 90 Year Old Lady,

A. Get a better hearing aide or turn yours on. The shouting coming from your daughter/helper person is irritating me. 
B. You are 90. You are probably dying. It's been a full life. Go home. 

Dear Sorority,

You all irritate me. Mandy probably has mono (BTW, I was totally right on this diagnosis, I will take that medical degree, thankyouverymuch). She is not going to the beach with you this weekend, and she is probably not feeling all that "down for shots later." Give her fluids and space to sleep for the next week or two. Take notes for her in class. Take her to the student health center to see if she needs medication. Most importantly, take her home. 

Dear Mexican Man,

You have been here all day. They have repeatedly called your name. Is your English so bad that you cannot understand when they call it? I give up on you.You can continue to sit there because you, apparently, do not want to go to the promised land. 

Dear Lady with the Broken Toe,

I have had broken toes before. They hurt. I have never been to the emergency room for a broken toe. Wanna know why? Because you are not dying. They are going to give you a prescription for Aleve (if that). They will tell you to take it easy for a few days.They will not set it or put a cast on it. You know who else could have done that? The Urgent Care clinic conveniently located directly across the street. 

Dear Anyone Having Intensely Personal Conversations on Their Cell Phones,

You are not dying. Bitching about the wait? Not dying. Threatening to beat your kid? Not dying. Also, I heard what you said about the discharge and burning. Please sit somewhere else...

Thank you to WebMD for freaking me out even further. You are always the most awesome diagnostician.

Wordless Wednesday - A Day in the Sun

I know that I have mentioned that I love Tiny Town when Spring finally marches itself around the corner, the skies stop being gray, and the whole town is in that wonderful place of low humidity and pleasant temperatures*, but one of the best things about Tiny Town is the annual springtime parade.


*For those of you that have never been here in the summer - from May until September we are hitting 90 degree temperatures with 100% humidity every day without relief. It's like wearing a twenty pound wet, dirty dog around your neck 24 hours a day for 4 months. I guess it's the price that you have to pay for living in paradise, right? 

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Silly Sing Along

When I was little, I had different words to songs so that they would make sense to me. Material Girl to a kid living near the poverty level doesn't make a whole lot of sense, but Cheerio Girl? Heck, yeah. And so, I would dance around the kitchen with a box of Cheerios singing, "I'm a Cheerio gi-rl. A Cheerio-o!" And it made sense.

At least to me.

At any rate, the Supergirl has been listening to the radio a lot since we introduced her to karaoke. There are a few differences from what you may have heard, so I thought I would share.

• Shoes Untied - Justin Timberlake  Sample lyric? "Baby, you got your shoes untied..."
• Sweet Muffin - Calvin Harris Sample lyric? "I'm living on your sweet muffins..."
• C'Mon - Ke$ha Sample lyric? "Feelin' like I'm a high schooler, sittin' on your cooler..."
• Don't You Worry Child - Swedish House Mafia Sample lyric? "Don't you worry, don'y worry child, see Heather's got a plan for you..." (I took notice of this when the Supergirl asked me about my plans one day. Then she began to sing... oh dear. I have no plans, no plans for anyone except for my own child and those are rather haphazard at best.)

Don't worry, she still sings appropriate songs too. "The farmer takes his life, the farmer takes his life, hi-ho the dairy-o, the farmer takes his life..." 

Someday, she will learn the real words to songs and I will die a little inside. Until then, I'll just be over here trying not to laugh out loud.

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I Got Nothing...

It's not like I am not trying to come up with a blog topic for today. Seriously, I have been thinking on this post for the last 9 hours trying to give you something witty, something bright, something funny.

I got nothin'

Not a damn thing.

The kid is hilarious and cute.

My life is still somewhat torn apart. The Hubs and I are taking things on an hour by hour basis at the best. The full-time job has me questioning my self, my capabilities, my knowledge...

I need a new job.

I have poison ivy again. Nothing new, apparently I am doomed to get it every single time I get a few days off for the rest of my life. It's either that or stay inside and when Florida and Tiny Town, especially are this beautiful staying inside, for me, is not even an option.

This is right outside of my office...

There are sad things I could talk about.

There are bad things I could talk about. 

I am just not in the mood to go into all of that.

So instead, I have nothing. Nothing to give you on a random Tuesday that was my grandmother's birthday. Nothing to offer.

Except for pictures. I like pictures. I got a new phone. It takes really great pictures. 

It's should read, "No Mom Allowed". It was posted on her bedroom door.  She can't read yet. 

Sleepovers. Some kids sleep, others stay painfully awake. 

April's Fool

The Supergirl does not understand April Fool's Day.

This morning, after tricking her with the age old "Your shoes are untied.", she attempted to trick everyone she came into contact with. She must think that it's a holiday where you talk about shoes, though, because all of her tricks involved shoes not being tied or being on backwards or not being on at all. She also does not wait for you to acknowledge the trick either, instead, she screams out "April Fool's" with the enthusiasm of a surprise party, as quickly as possible.

Funny.

Her story, the story of the Supergirl, starts on an April's Fools Day 6 years ago.

I had a plan.

I was ready.

This was going to be the best prank in the history of all pranks.

I just knew it.

On April 1st, 2005, I woke up and instead of trying to be considerate of the Hubs sleeping next to me, I made sure to make as much noise as possible. I made certain that he saw me get the pregnancy test out of the drawer in the bathroom where I had stashed it the night before. I talked to him while conducting the test to make sure that he was awake.

That test was supposed to be negative. It was supposed to be because all of the others that I had ever done since we had been married, started fertility treatments, etc, etc, had all been negative. And when it wasn't, I started to cry and to call out for the Hubs who now refused to get out of the bed because he was certain that I was trying to play a trick on him.

It wasn't until the next day and the 3 subsequent positive tests after that that we were both convinced that this was not a trick after all.

And I became April's Fool.

I am so glad I did.

Raising A Nerdy Girl

When she was 2, the Supergirl believed that she was the human embodiment of the next Avatar. She claimed that she was adopted by us from the water tribe and that someday she would find her people again.

At 3, her attentions turned to witches and ghosts. She rarely went anywhere that she was not dressed in an elaborate costume. Not princesses, but ninjas, vikings, and witches.

By 4, she had become enamored with the idea of potions and magic.

She prefers to have her face painted like characters from the Thundercats and Spider-Man rather than like fairies.

She loves the Chronicles of Narnia, Star Wars, and Harry Potter movie series. Her conversations are peppered with facts of the X-men, zombies, and vampires.

It's finally occurred to me that I am raising a nerdy girl. Having grown up a bit of a sponge of useless information, I can't really fault her for her nerdy tendencies. I know where it comes from.

There are times that I wonder what it would be like to have one of those precious, dainty little girls that love bows and frilly things. Would we be as at odds as we are frequently are? Would she be more amenable to my suggestions of sitting up straight and wearing pants?

I don't know I would be able to parent one of those girls, having never been one myself though and I am not sure that they are nearly as much fun as my quirky funny, nerdy girl.

I am the perfect person to parent this girl, and she is the perfect girl for a nerdy girl like me.

Home Again, Home Again, Jiggety Jog

The Supergirl returned home from her vacation a little earlier than we expected. She just couldn't take more than 8 days away from us (although with the amount of time that she has spent in her room entertaining herself, I have a sneaking suspicion it was more about missing her stuff than really missing us).

At any rate, she is back home, where she belongs and so far I am wondering what has happened to my child. She says "please", "thank you", "excuse me" and has had an overall pleasant demeanor since returning home. She has even been going to bed without incident every night since she came back and last night? She asked me if it was bedtime yet because she was "kinda tired."

Who is this child?

I thought perhaps it has something to do with never wanting to leave us behind again. That somehow this newfound behavior is just a way to make sure that we don't ever send her away again. I suppose that could make sense. She has also been speaking in a super fake "goody-goody" voice that I have a hard time understanding because it tends to sound like a child imitating a baby voice rather than my kid.

As with all acts, I am starting to see some cracks in her performance little by little. There was a short tantrum when I tried to get her up this morning. and crying while brushing her teeth because she claimed that I was being "so mean" to her. So mean = asking her to please get dressed and get ready for school. Apparently, when she was out of town, her aunt and grandmother dressed her and put on her shoes for her. 

That doesn't fly around here.

Anyway, I am super glad to have her home and finally feel like I can breathe again with her here. Or at least I felt that way until 2:30 this morning.

Then this happened.

There is a cat draped across my neck, knees in one kidney and the flash was a tad bit bright for my taste.

Just Another Manic Monday

I sat on the table, paper crinkling under me at every uncomfortable shift, mind racing, unable to focus, unable to stop fidgeting as I regaled to my doctor the exploits and actions of the last few months with words tumbling out of me so fast, so furious that I couldn't tell if they were really all in English, if they were making any sense at all. I started to tear up as I was talking.

This is not me, this couldn't be me, I would never say, do, etc I have to be talking about someone else.I am a boring girl that likes to sew, to knit, to craft.I am telling someone else's story, someone else's life. This is not me.

I told him about the marriage crumbling under my feet, about the friendships that I had irrevocably broken at the mere suggestion that I seek therapy, the job that I nearly lost due to the inability to focus on any one thing at any given time. I told him about the weeks (weeks!) that I stayed awake, that I didn't want to sleep, didn't want to eat, that I was existing solely on caffeine and nicotine.

He looked at me with those dark brown eyes, the same concerned doctor's eyes that I have seen since I was 14 years old, the same eyes that I crushed on my freshmen year, the same eyes that told me I was pregnant - every time I was pregnant. "You are right. You are bi-polar. I messed up. You shouldn't have been on this medication."

I sighed, let the air that I had been holding in for so long that I didn't even know that I was holding my breath, out. "What now?"

He explained the pros and cons of other medications, told me how he thought I would react based on my history, my father's history, told me that it might do me some good to completely detox before jumping in to another prescription. And then he asked me if I wanted a note.

A note? A note that would tell them that I was crazy (temporarily) due to a medication that I should never have been prescribed? A note, addressed to every single person that I had come into contact with in the last few months, so they would know that this was not the usual Me, that the usual Me would never say or do the things that I was willing to do over the last few months?

If only it could be that easy.

For my entire life, I have struggled with the being the One that didn't fit. The One that didn't have the same interests, the same thought patterns, the One that didn't, couldn't belong. I am not sure if the bi-polar is what has caused me to be that One. Or if there is some other piece of me that keeps me from being on the other side of the glass, over there where the normal happy people are. The only time that I didn't feel like the One was when I was manic.

So, explaining away the one time that I truly felt that I was awesome, that I had self-confidence, with a note that I was out of my mind?

That doesn't feel right to me.

An Ode to Miss Mittens

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Oh, Miss Mittens, you are our kitten

And when we got you, we were quite smitten

But now you've grown and gotten wild

And there are claw marks on the legs of the child. 

Miss Mittens, you bite, you claw, and you howl

And most of the time that I deal with you lately I can't help but scowl. 

You climb up our pant legs and knock things off the counters

I don't know where this came from, but you haven't any manners

Things need to change you crazy little beast

before I cook you and have myself a feast 

Just kidding on that

I could never eat cat

But, Miss Mittens, these actions have got to stop

I feel that at raising you, the kid is a flop

We can't let her fail, you have to try harder

All of these claw marks on my arm are making me feel like a martyr.

You used to be cute and we ran to you with glee,

But now, my cat friend, the whole household wants to flee

Poor Oliver, he gets little rest

I am sure that he wishes he were a bird with a nest

'Cause you can't jump that high and the top of the fridge is too crowded

When he's on the floor, it's like he is surrounded 

By a dozen or more kittens

And the look on his face just cries "Damn you, Miss Mittens!"

Damn you, Miss Mittens, damn you, indeed

I want to add Benadryl to your feed 

Although, I can't and I won't do that to you

You have to understand what I am going through

You are driving me crazy, my feline companion

The way that you attack me with such wild abandon.

You're a force to be reckoned with, that much is true

I really wish that you would quit snacking on my shoe

My laces are shredded, there are scratches on my neck

And every day when I come home the house is more of a wreck

You are small and yet mighty, just over a pound

But you make bigger messes than our last hound. 

Please, I beg, please, oh please, give it a rest

Before I have to go find myself a nest. 

I Don't Miss

I don't miss the bedtime debacle.

I don't miss attempting to tame the wild locks that tumble down her back.

I don't miss the farting.

I don't miss the talk of butts and farts and poop. And vulva - always with the vulva.

I don't miss the constant reminder to put down the kitten, leave the kitten alone, and get the kitten out of there.

I don't miss the crazy silence following a trip to the bathroom. No good ever comes from silence in the bathroom.

I don't miss reminding her to put on socks and shoes in the morning.

I don't miss getting her ready for school in the morning. In fact, this morning, I felt like I had hours to prepare myself to go to work.

But I miss her.

I miss her funny, nonsensical jokes. Momma, momma, momma? What has a nose and two ears? The bunny in my butt! (I'm sorry, I just don't get it.)

I miss her snuggling up to me while I read her bedtime stories.

I miss having her around to have dinner with and talk about our day.

I miss the greeting at the door when I come home from work.

I miss her.

13 Must Do's for 2013

I have 13 things that I would like to accomplish by the end of 2013. I know, I know, it's kind of late in the year for "resolutions", but I am not sure that I am even considering them as such. More likely, it's a list of things that I have been wanting to do, saying that I would do, and not getting done.

Here are my 13 things. 

1. Go to clogging class. Even if I only go to one, even if I stop mid-way through that one. This need to clog has only been needling me more and more over the last year, I am pretty sure that it is not gonna go away until I at least try it.
2. Buy a flute and join the community marching band. I never marched in high school, although I was in the band and did play the flute. It looks like fun. 
3. Train the chickens to lay in the same place instead of hiding nests for me to hunt every day. 
4. Plant a spring (and maybe a fall) garden and actually make time to take care of it. 
5. Sleep train the kid whenever she comes back home. Sleep train myself too. I have had a lot of "going-to-sleep-too-late-and-oversleeping-mornings" lately. That has to stop. 
6. Clean, organize, and purge. This really should be my number 1 priority, especially right now with the kid out of town and my evenings free. 
7. Keep it clean. And organized. Live a year in the shoes of a clean freak. I might like it. 
8. Decide if my kid is really gonna be the kid with two bedrooms once and for all. Are we those parents? Is she really the kid that needs to have two rooms and a bathroom all to herself? Are we setting her up for disappointment when she gets her first apartment or dorm? Should we just go all out and get her her own microwave and mini-fridge? She is five - is she gonna take over the master bedroom at 8? Where does this end? 
9. Make more things. Aprons, blankets for new (and not so new) babies, hats, dolls. Just create.
10. Take some writing classes, work on my book, actually try to find my voice and perfect it. 
11. Change my blog layout (again). Time for a new color and some new pictures. 
12. Go to a salon. Just one time. Probably with a Groupon. Get my nails and my hair done. Attempt to feel like a girl. 
13. Set aside some money (just a small amount) for me each month. To do something fun or buy more fabric, or take myself to a movie. Just one small thing - just for me. 

Those chickens will hide eggs anywhere. 

The chef hats and aprons are so easy to make and make me feel like I have actually accomplished something. 

Hold me accountable, dear readers, and make me take this time out for myself. We all know that I will easily ignore my desires and interests for just about anyone else's. The biggest thing I need to work on this year is making sure that I do not do that. 

Also, if you find any classes or meetings that you think I would be interested in attending (preferably free) let me know. 

Out of the Bubble

This morning, I packed a bright pink backpack full of little socks, panties, and clothes. I made sure that there were snacks and gum and activities. I added a picture of the Hubs and myself.

I showered and dressed a little girl that just yesterday couldn't figure out which shoe went on which foot. I kissed her forehead and her nose and I sent her off on her very first Spring Break.

On a plane. With her Grandma.

And I am staying home.

I am excited for her. She is going to do a lot of fun and amazing things with her cousins, aunt, and Grandma. They are going to make memories that will need to last.

I am excited for myself. This is the first time in 5 years that I have had time to myself. Time to read a book, or take a nap, or, Hell, a shower without interruption. I have some plans, not big plans, but plans nonetheless.

I am worried about her. I am pretty sure that I did not breathe fully until the last of their flights touched down and they were safe and sound with family. I worry that she won't be able to go to sleep tonight or any night because of strange surroundings and sounds, because of excitement and too much sugar, I worry that she will drive her Grandma crazy or at least to drink.

But we have established that I am a worrier. It's of no consequence really.

I am going to miss her, I already do, but this is part of it, this is where all of the work starts to become real. When you let them leave that bubble of protection and security, even if it's just a little short journey, even if it's with family, where you are trusting that the things that you have taught them have really sunk in. That the "pleases" and the "thank yous" are second nature and not forced, that stranger danger is not just an in the car hypothetical game, that holding hands in public places and parking lots is just as important as not jumping in the bathtub or not walking on the kitchen counters.

I know that she will do well.

But, until she is back in the bubble, back where I can control a little bit more of the everyday than I can right now?

I am gonna be sitting over here, barely breathing, pretending like I have it all together in between the phone calls and the FaceTime.

Things I Should Have Done When She Was A Baby - Episode I

I have always been under the impression that there were two kinds of people – night people and day people. I have functioned under the idea that while I am a day person that thrives in the morning light but fades quickly as the sun sets, the Hubs and the daughter were night people. I grew up with a day person and a night person for parents and I just thought that that was how people worked. That it was something in the brain, that it was their normal.

9:30 AM - Sleeping soundly. The day is practically gone. 

 As the day approaches that the girl begins kindergarten, I have realized that I have got to get her to a different place in her life. The days of sleeping in while I shower her, clothe her and drive her are quickly ending and I need her to begin to function before 8 AM.

This is not normal.

I have been doing a lot of research on sleep patterns and have discovered that this sleepy tendency that she possesses has less to do with genetics and more to do with the fact that I have never sleep trained her. I got to tell you, it kind of stings to know that you are to blame for things that have gone wrong with your kid, especially when you pride yourself on being able to get your child to do a lot of things pretty easily.

When she was an infant she slept and nursed on command. If the Hubs let her sleep all day, I just dealt with the repercussions the next day. When she started daycare, things at home were still very much the same. Daycare had a schedule, they had discipline, but I was a working momma with very little time with her baby. No schedule! Just sleep when you are tired!

This kid is not sleeping. Not even a little. 

She slept solely in our bed until she was two. She had a crib. It was what we used to hold her stuffed animals. When she moved into her own room, her own bed, things went from bad to worse. She would fight. Every single night she would fight. And it was hard. I used every Super Nanny trick I could find.

No eye contact? Check!

No raised voices? Check!

No extra snuggles, extra love, or extra cups of water? Check! Check! Check!

Eventually she would scream herself to sleep and, yet, within an hour of me lying down in my own bed? There she was, screaming at me about water or potty or the “debil”. And I would scoop her up and toss her between myself and the Hubs in an effort to just get some flippin’ sleep.

Other nights I would give up the fight. I was too tired or I didn't feel well or something and just didn’t want to do it. So, I would give in and lay in her bed next to her only to wake up hours later with a crick in my neck, makeup slathered on my pillow smooshed face, and a wide awake Supergirl smacking me in the face and talking a thousand miles a minute. I would take her to bed with me, knowing that I was setting a bad precedent, knowing that in the long run this, this was the wrong way to go. Or I would just take her to bed with me when it was time to go rather than even begin the fight in the first place. Or the two of us would crash on the couch in front of the TV (cause that’s healthy, right?)

So, here we are at 5 years and 3 months (almost) old and I still cannot get my child to go to sleep at a normal hour. Last night, I had a plan. After a week of research and talking myself into this, I was ready. I had my arsenal prepared.

7 PM: TV off. Sit and talk to Supergirl about her day. Discuss the importance of the letter Z (the class letter of the week). Practice writing the letter Z.

7:30 PM: Shower. Sing silly shower songs and make fun of my vulva and my lumpy butt (cause that never gets old. Never.)

8:00 PM: Brush and braid hair. Put on pajamas. Pick a book.

8:15 PM: Story time.

LOVE these books. Seriously. Order them now. I'll wait.

8:30 PM: Lights out, good night

8:55 PM: “Momma, I gotta potty.”

9:07 PM: “Momma, I need water.”

9:13 PM: “Girl, I know you are behind me, I can hear you breathing. Get in bed.”

9:19 PM: Carry crying child back to bed, no eye contact.

9:36 PM: Carry screaming child back to bed, no eye contact.

9:37 PM: Stand crying in the bathroom because child just stabbed me in the eyeball. Search for signs of internal bleeding. Count to ten.

9:42 PM: Idle threat

9:49 PM: Bigger threat

10:07 PM: Hubs comes home. Child ramps up screaming, this time for “Daddddddy”

10:13 PM: Carry daddy screaming child back to bed. Actually say, “I will give you something to cry…” until I realize what I am saying and storm out of room.

It keeps going like this until 11:45 PM.

11:45 PM.

I knew that this wouldn’t be easy and I am glad that I made the decision to do this 5 months before she is scheduled to start kindergarten, but is it really this hard? Do other people have these issues? Should I shift her back even earlier?

What do you do to get your kid to sleep?