I really miss being able to take a dump in peace.
Nowadays, The Boy is with me EVERY single SECOND of every day. I can’t even poop by myself. Today, i opened the door to the downstairs bath to go in and poop (The Angelic Husband wasn’t there) hoping that The Boy would just play quietly, but nope, he wants to be where mommy is. Sitting on the throne. So, he rolls his little Tykes car (not so little!) into the bathroom as far as he can get it (about halfway in) and then cries because it won’t go in any further and he can’t get in past it. So, i push it back out, knocking him over. He cries. He comes around and grabs the metal trash can from next to the toilet and puts it up on my legs. He takes it back off and sets it on the floor, rummaging through it. He pulls out a used t.p. cardboard roll and tries to put that in the toilet from behind me. I take it from him and put it and the trashcan in the sink where he can’t reach it. He cries. He then stands up and tries to put the lid on the toilet WHILE I AM SITTING THERE. CAN’T YOU SEE MAMA’S TRYING TO TAKE A SHIT?!!!! After he bangs the lid of the toilet against my back about 500 times, he sits down and starts pulling toilet paper off the roll. I take some of it to use (I am, miraculously, finished pooping) and stand up to wipe. He tries to put an extra roll of paper in the toilet. I have one hand with a poopy piece of toilet paper, my pants are down around my ankles and the other arm is trying to keep him from playing in the poopy toilet.
Is it so much to ask for a peaceful poop??
Archive for the ‘Uncategorized’ Category
To Poo in Peace
Monday, November 8th, 2004Thank Heaven for Little Boys
Tuesday, October 19th, 2004The Husband and I watched the movie Thirteen last night. (Yes, we are behind the times. To have a baby is to knock out a complete year of popular culture from your memory.) Neither one of us is particularly naive about some of the more unsavory activities of teenagers – We are not Angels ourselves, despite the cherubic moniker I apply to my husband at times. He may be an Angelic Husband, but both of us were more the spawn of Satan as teenagers and young adults. But when I think of the Wild Children I knew as a teen, I think of them as maybe 16, 17, or 18 – Not as 13 year old sex kittens!
To say the movie made me feel uncomfortable is an understatement. Here in all its ugliness is laid out for all to see what it is to be a 13 year old girl. The yearning to be part of the in crowd and being willing to do things you know you weren’t brought up to do to get there. The shunning of your old, stable friends for racier, way more exciting models. I have been that girl shunned and I have been the one that walked away from my childhood to put on the lip gloss. This movie brought back all the torture of being 13, of being trapped in a 13 year old girl’s skin. It is agony. When the absentee father asks his son to just tell him what is wrong with his daughter, he doesn’t know how. But there is no doubt that being Thirteen is a nameless cry for help.
Yes, I understood the need to belong, the need to feel adult, the desire to cross boundaries I knew I wasn’t supposed to cross. But there was more to this discomfort. I may have seen and partaken in many of the activities portrayed in this film. But NOT AT THIRTEEN. At thirteen, I still wanted to play with my Barbies (although, admittedly, I didn’t want anyone to KNOW I was playing with them) and to play dress up. But the dress up that the girls in this movie play is no game. Sure, I remember the thrill of wearing too-short skirts, and black eye makeup, and red lips. But I sure as hell wasn’t thirteen at the time. I remember the drugs, the huffing in the bedroom, and the drunkenness, and the shoplifting. I remember the violence and just wanting to feel anything that I wasn’t supposed to experience. But I wasn’t thirteen!
The real torture of watching this movie was knowing that the mother really did love her daughter, but that there might not have been any way she could do to control the tailspin her daughter went into. The real torture was knowing that in 12 years, I might be suffering the same disbelief and disillusionment. My only saving grace and hope is that I have a boy. Yes, I know that it sounds archaic to say that I don’t worry about a boy as much as a girl. But I also know that the movie, while it made my husband a little uncomfortable, made me absolutely want to crawl out of my skin. Because I knew what a tenuous grasp on sanity it is to be a teenage girl. I knew the hatred of self and others. I can only guess that a boy must have somewhat more of a grip at that age.
After the movie, my husband and I, who are already considering having another child, discussed the fact that if we had a little girl, we’d have the GPS tracking device installed before leaving the hospital.
And for now, thank heaven for little boys.
The Heart of the Mama Bear
Monday, October 18th, 2004I voted today. I hadn’t planned to, but my husband and I realized that we were supposed to fly back from Miami the day of the election and that we could do an absentee vote at our local county office. So, I hopped in the car with the baby, and we picked my husband up to go vote during his lunch break.
It was a pleasant experience, overall. I had the usual rush of adrenaline and pride. “Look at me and my good citizenship! I made a difference!’
Or at least, that was my initial feeling. Until I slid the card in the machine and the big choice popped up right away. There they were. All I really had to do was choose the lesser of two evils. I mean, last election, I voted Libertarian. Do I consider myself a member of the Libertarian party? No. I’m an Independent. Those Libertarians are CRAP on the environment. No way I would align myself with such utter disregard for the natural world.
But this election is a little different. There is just plain more at stake this time around. In 2000, I was just a young lady planning a wedding. Sure, I thought I was stressed out, but really, I didn’t have a care in the world. But these days, there are evil men struggling with all their black hearts to bring grievous harm to Americans. And by Americans, I mean MY BABY.
How could I “throw my vote away” by voting for the Libertarian candidate? This year, more than any other year that I have voted, my vote needs to count. So, I have spent the past year going over and over in my mind the comparison of my two choices:
Kerry: I just don’t agree with much on the Democratic platform. Welfare? Chuck it. Taxes? Please. No way is he going to lower them! Okay, so he wants to save some Alaskan land and animals. Yeah, I’m all for it. But that is still not the thing to base my entire vote on. I really have one responsibility and one priority. My son. There is NO WAY I think this guy is capable of protecting my son and my country. Now, Theresa? She might actually be capable! But her poodle of a husband? I think not. Plus, let’s be honest? Does anyone want a President with a face this long? He looks like a horse.
Bush: Do I think he mislead the American people into Iraq? No. Do I think that it was a good thing to go into Iraq? No. Do I think he needs to show some humbleness and just say he’s sorry that he got us into this mess? Hell, yes, he does! But I truly do believe that this man has some beliefs and he is running the country by them, and that’s a lot more than we can say for vacillating ole Kerry. What does Kerry believe? Whatever he is saying at the moment. But I just can’t get over the fact that Bush, whom I really don’t want to believe is really stupid, can’t understand the uncertain terms in which SEPARATION OF CHURCH AND STATE are laid out in the Constitution. And then there is “the A-word.” No, I don’t want a bunch of people in Washington making decisions about my plumbing. Period.
So, what did it come down to? That’s right, the old voting for the lesser of two evils. I looked at the two names there, Bush and NotBush. My finger hovered over their names as if over THE button, waiting to set off WWIII, while I thought of one thing: My precious son, laughing two machines over in my husband’s arms as he voted.
I pressed Badnarik, Libertarian candidate. I voted what I believed. And somehow, I think I served my son well with my vote.
First Blood
Wednesday, October 6th, 2004The Boy and the Angelic Husband were sitting in the den, watching cartoons, while I cooked dinner. The Boy has been especially ornery the last few days, as he has two teeth ripping through his upper gum at once. I can’t remember what it was like to cut my own baby teeth, but I can only imagine that it is akin to the feeling of having your braces tightened, where every slight movement of the mouth, face, jaw, and tongue ache horribly, but with the addition of having no idea why it is that your mouth hurts so bad, but knowing that you are most definitely REALLY PISSED OFF ABOUT IT.
A baby cuttin’ teeth (which is what Southern babies do, rather than “teething,â€Â) is a bundle of nerves and muscle and bone, ready to collapse in tears and tantrums at the slightest frustration. A baby cuttin’ teeth will not be able to fit a square block through a circular hole and it will be the absolute end of the world. A mother comes to know the sound of this particular type of tantrum, the cuttin’ teeth tantrum, and accordingly, takes the proper amount of time to walk around the corner from the kitchen to the family room and check on said baby.
But there is another kind of scream that emits from a baby: a blood-curdling, turn-your-veins-to-ice, make-the-hair-on-your-arms-and-the-back-of-your-neck-stand-on-end kind of scream. And that was the scream that I heard coming from the den last night as I cooked dinner. I shot around the corner into the den like a bullet, even though my Angelic Husband was there with him, because that is what mothers do.
My Angelic Husband had scooped him up into his arms and was soothing The Boy, and said, “He’s okay. He just slipped and conked his chin on the coffee table.â€Â
But I knew that scream was different. I knew that scream was a little too “turned up†to be the result of a simple chin conked on the coffee table. I looked more closely at his face and there it was: The first trickle of blood from my baby boy.
Turns out that he had bitten his tongue with his only two teeth (lower center ones) and his tongue was bleeding. He continued to cry, we wiped the blood from him as it came over his lips, and I felt surprise when the tears welled up in my own eyes. We gave him ice water in a sippy cup and the bleeding soon stopped.
The Boy is fine now, but I don’t know if his mother is. It is difficult to glimpse that little bit of his pain and his blood and know that I must be prepared to see it over and over as he learns the things that come easily to me and my Angelic Husband: Walking, running, climbing stairs, riding a bike, learning to water-ski or snowboard, participate in sports.
I realize a little more every day what it is to be a Mother, and what it is my fearlessness and recklessness must have meant to my own Mother every day. I realize that to love is to fear and that there is no going back to the innocence of not knowing this never-ending fear. And I realize that I would not have it any other way.
Toddler Logic
Tuesday, September 28th, 2004The Boy knows that he is, under no circumstances, to stand up in the bathtub. So we have gotten to the point now that if he does defy us, and attempt a stand, bathtime is over, PERIOD.
Last night, I do the usual washing, and then let him play with his toys in the bath. He tries to stand. I tell him, “No standing in the tub.” He sits down and cries, then throws his yellow rubber duckie at me. This is Toddler Logic: “Sure, Mama won’t let me stand up, but if I throw a rubber duckie at her, she’s sure to cave!”
He immediately stops crying, as if the best idea ever has come into his head. More Toddler Logic: “If Mama won’t let me stand in the bathtub, I’ll just. . . stand up again in the bathtub! Genius!” He stands up again, looking perfectly innocent, almost as if he accidentally stood up in the tub. As if he had never before heard the “no standing in the bathtub” rule. . . .
I say, “That’s it. You know the rule. No standing in the tub, so bath’s over.” Crying and frantic struggling ensue, as if he were prisoner being held without proof. I think he might have whispered to the duckie to call the ACLU . . . .
Now, the standard procedure for getting The Boy out of the bath is to lift him out, and stand him outside the bathtub facing the bath, because that’s where the toys are, and where the toys are is where he is still struggling and crying to be, so it is Mama Logic to turn the baby in the direction that his gravity is taking him, thus not tiring out said Mama’s arms. I lie, actually, because Daddy actually came up with this technique: The technical term is Daddy’s Baby Drying Off Bathtub Lean.
The Boy then gets a very serious face, and I’m thinking, “Ah, now he realizes the effect of his behavior. He understands that there is a consequence for his actions,” just as he proceeds to TAKE A DUMP ON MY FOOT.
The Drunken Mother and the Angelic Husband
Sunday, September 26th, 2004The thing about babies is: they are not very sympathetic to hangovers. They still wake up at the breakabreaka dawn and they expect to see you waltzing into their room to sweep them up with a smile on your face. You can’t very well stumble in holding your head and ask them to be quiet – it’s not their fault that mama had a little too much drinkydrink the night before at the Wilco show. It’s not The Boy’s fault that Mama stayed out until 6 and a half hours before The Boy’s rise and shine time.
It is helpful when one has both a baby and a hangover that one also has an Angelic Husband. The Angelic Husband is a breed rarely found in the animal kingdom, one who unselfishly drives the Drunken Mother to said Wilco show, goes to the bar and buys her drinks, drives her and her drunken friends to a bar after the show to become even more inebriated, drops friends off at their homes safe and sound, and then makes sure the Drunken Mother takes two Ibuprofen and a whole glass of water before bed. Most importantly, the Angelic Husband gets up with The Boy in the morning, even though it isn’t his turn, and even though he stayed out just as late, and didn’t even have the pleasure of drowning out the sound of his drunken wife’s voice with drinking of his own.
The Drunken Mother owes the Angelic Husband one.
Cancer Paranoia, or Death Comes Knocking.
Tuesday, September 21st, 2004When I first created my blog, I named it Dogwood Girl. No real reason, except that the dogwood is my favorite tree and I like it. If I had known what the next week would be like, I would have named it “Cancer Girl,†although I’m sure that is taken, and it sounds entirely too American Splendor comic-booky. Little did I know that before I would ever write my first post, I would be stricken with cancer paranoia.
Cancer paranoia is a common malady in my family, where the victim convinces his or herself that he or she is in fact stricken with cancer, although usually presenting with little or no common symptoms of cancer. In my case, it was simply that I went to see Garden State with my sister, proceeded to gorge myself on a large popcorn before making it through the previews, and then had a pesky kernel lodged in my throat for the whole movie. I got home and went upstairs to floss and see if I could find the offending kernel, looked into my mouth saying, “aaaaaaahhhhh†and instead of the kernel, see a huge, red mass in the back of my throat. It is, of course, cancer.
How could it be anything else? I quit smoking three years ago. I eat all the good antioxidant veggies. I am fairly newly married and have a 12-month old, beautiful baby boy. I am happier in my life than I have EVER been before. Why wouldn’t Death come knocking at my door at this particular moment in time? He preys on the unthinking, undeserved, and the happy, right? I would be the perfect victim.
So, I read on the Internet about cancer. Oral cancer, tongue cancer, throat cancer, tonsil cancer. It has a 50% survival rate. It usually shows up in smokers and drinkers (greeeaaat . . .), although rare to have before 50 and if you are female. But I would be the exception, wouldn’t I? Except that my sister-in-law has oral cancer and is the exception; never drank and never smoked, diagnosed in her early 20s. Can we really have more than one exception? It seemed just strange enough to be real.
I became worried that I might have cancer. I went to bed worrying and woke up worrying and then when my husband came downstairs, I told him that I was worried, then stuck my tongue out for him to inspect my tumor. My ever-so-sensible husband informs me that if I am worried, I should call the dentist and make an appointment for first thing Monday morning. It is of course Sunday, so I can’t make the appointment until Monday. Except that on Monday, I went to visit my parents and so kind of put it out of my mind (what a nice way of saying DENIAL) until I came back home on Thursday. I am still worried, but now don’t have the distraction of my parents, so I finally break down and call the dentist. They can see me at 11:00 am the following Monday (yesterday).
This, of course, means that I worry myself all the way through the weekend. I worry myself through working the parent’s association table at the neighborhood festival. I worry myself through my beloved Georgia Bulldogs’ lackluster win over Marshall. I have a few beers over the game, and then forget to worry for a while. I take The Boy home for bed and put him down, and then try to drown my cancer worries with a bottle of wine. This of course doesn’t work, because sooner or later you finish the wine and have to go to bed by yourself, because you and your husband agreed that he needed a night out with the guys and so you are at home alone, even though you think you might have cancer, the bastard.
I pray to God that if I don’t have cancer, I will start an exercise regimen, go on a diet, watch less TV, make love to my husband more, finish all the kazillion unfinished projects I have around the house. I will cherish every moment of every day.
I think about what I will do if I do have cancer: How will my husband raise a baby by himself? I figure that he will be okay, because he survived the first 28 years of his life without me.
But not The Boy. The Boy has known nothing but me since birth. I am his world. But even if they gave me 2-3 years, The Boy WOULD NOT REMEMBER ME. He might be four when I pass away, and he WOULD NOT REMEMBER. To The Boy, I would be a stranger in a bunch of photographs, a curly-headed lunatic who created this totally ridiculous scrapbook for him, a creative endeavor containing sentimentality totally out of character for me. But The Boy wouldn’t know that – In his mind, his mother would be a romanticized, creative, artistic saint. The Boy would not know me as I really am at all. The Boy would never know that I am a bigger whack-job than any character on Six Feet Under.
That is the thing, isn’t it? Here I am scared to death that I have cancer and I realize that I am not even that scared of the pain and death part of it. I know that The Boy will be taken care of after I am gone. I am just so selfish in my cancer paranoia that all I can think of is that The Boy WON’T REMEMBER ME. And that breaks my (possibly cancer-ridden?) heart.
Did I mention that I was suffering from Cancer Paranoia? That’s right, not the real cancer, just the fear of cancer. Yesterday, I received an unconvincing “don’t worry about it†from the Dentist. He also told me that I should “get a second opinion from my doctor.†If I shouldn’t worry about it, why should I get a second opinion?
I got a second opinion today from my Doctor, to whom I made it very clear that I was VERY SCARED THAT I HAD CANCER. I didn’t want there to be any confusion about why I was there.
She told me that everything looked fine, except that I have an enlarged tonsil. That’s right, my tumor is actually my inflamed tonsil.
Now, what all did I promise God I would do if I didn’t have cancer? Shit.