Morningitis

I began my blog with a warm and endearing entry about the joys of entering motherwomanhood. I forewarn you that what you are about to read may be very disturbing, so if you would like to hold on to the illusion that motherwomanhood will always be a joyous experience, then stop reading this right now! The truth is there are often many days in motherwomanhood that are all guts and no glory.

Fast-forward from the days of spending endless hours staring at a sleeping infant bundled cozily in my arms to the present, where I find myself wishing someone would bundle me tightly in a snug little blanket and place me in a dark, quiet, padded room. I will now direct your attention to a plague that blindsides unsuspecting motherwoman everywhere at the most ungodly hour, or as I know it, the morning.

The plague is morningitis. The symptoms of morningitis are very similar to those of severe cases of dementia or Alzheimer’s. Disorientation is common. Children who are suffering from morningitis have a difficult time identifying what day or time it is and may require assistance with the most basic daily living functions, such as dressing and feeding themselves. Although they need close supervision and constant re-directing at this critical time, they may strongly resist such attempts to help. In severe cases, some have been known to wander aimlessly in circles while in their underwear with one sock on, unresponsive to their names when called.

The most important to thing to do when encountering this phenomenon is to remain calm—people may be watching...

I remember during one particularly bad episode of morningitis, I was standing helplessly in my driveway, barely holding back a tidal wave of tears of frustration, moments away from hurling myself against the pavement in a psychotic tantrum of my own as I watched my then four-year old daughter stumble around the car in circles, like a drunk, blind man. It was if she had never seen a car before and just did not know what to do, which was as simple as opening the door and getting into the vehicle.

I had to pause and breathe deeply between each word to re-compose myself as I completed the usual morning ritual with the most obvious and unnecessary reminder:

GET...

IN...

THE...

CAAAARRRR!!!

As the last word violently spewed from my trembling lips, I noticed my neighbor watching the ridiculous drama unfolding in stunned silence.

"Good morning, Paul," I managed to squeak out in complete humiliation.

 "Good morning," he replied, baffled, yet amused.

"Well, have a nice day," I offered apologetically, as I tried to stuff my screaming child into her car seat.

"Have a nice day," he said with an amused grin.

I share this story so that you will be forewarned. Morningitis is a very real and serious condition for which there is no cure at this time. I believe it may be the cause of countless nervous breakdowns. Remember, above all, remain calm. Among the many reasons for doing so, one of them is people are watching. They are watching and waiting to see you unravel. Don't give them the satisfaction. Smile and wave as you buckle your half-naked screaming child into the car and then drive off with that plastered smile just like the best of the Stepford wives and ignore the piercing screams emanating from the backseat. Just smile and wave.

You Might Be a MotherWoman If...

You find Cheerios in the strangest of places...

Sleepless in Seattle

I was trying to take a nap today—yes, that's right—a nap. I am not embarrassed to admit it. In fact, I'll be so brazen as to openly confess to all my readers that it's not the first time, either. I've taken LOTS of naps! There, I said it. Don't judge me because I believe in naps.

Now, if you're feeling the slightest bit jealous, it's probably just because you need a nap yourself. I would recommend you lie down for a bit to get over your sleep envy, but then you couldn't finish reading my story. Besides, the emphasis of the story is that I was trying to sleep. Sadly, I was not successful. My to do list kept interrupting me. I know, how rude!

There I am lying on the sofa with my silky sleep mask on (oh, yeah, I wear one of those—they are exclusively for serious nappers only). I was clenching my eyes shut, begging for sleep to take over, when my to do list came barging right in. It insidiously crept into my brain, and before I knew it, my thoughts of sweet, delicious sleep were replaced with all of the outstanding things that I had yet to do. Like a maniacal dictator, a voice inside my head began reciting my to do list. Meanwhile, the sleep deprived part of my brain became very irate and began shouting abusively at whatever part of my brain didn't get the memo that we were trying to sleep here!

BE QUIET!!!!!!

Well, needless to say, nobody truly won that argument. I decided to walk away before things got out of hand.

As a compromise, I attempted to prep dinner first and then try the nap thing again later, but that didn't work out so well either. My red, blood shot eyes burned from sleep deprivation. I was tempted to close my eyes a bit while I chopped the onions. Hmm, maybe that's not the best idea I have ever had. If only I had been able to take that nap first, I'd be able to think straight. But nooo...couldn't put the to do list in its place, could you!

Uh, that sentence wasn't directed at you, I was ranting to myself for a moment there. The truth is (and I say this without the slightest bit of exaggeration, no, not even a little), I haven't slept in six years. Six years! It all started when I became a motherwoman, but that's another story. I NEED naps. Naps are the only thing that get me by and prevent me from roaming around like a zombie. Well, that and coffee. Oh, if only...

Where's the Parade?

Flikr

Do you remember the first time you ventured out into the world alone with your new baby...just you and the baby???

Well, one of my new-mom girlfriends did just that the other day, and she commented on what a huge undertaking it was. The planning. The packing. The process. Then there is the  anxious anticipation of the what-ifs...

What if I forget something?
What if the baby starts to cry?
What if I start to cry?

It really is such a monumental milestone to overcome those fears and step out boldly and confidently into the world with your newborn baby. My friend made me laugh as she recounted her adventure because she lamented that by the time she arrived at the store, she was dissappointed to find that there was not a crowd of people ready to greet her with cheers and applause.

Where was the parade?

Where were the fireworks?

Unfortuneatly, as with many new-mommy milestones, there is no parade waiting to greet you when you overcome challenges, but there is that contentment and satisfaction that comes from being able to independently care for your baby and take on the world at the same time. I remember being so proud of getting my daughter ready to go out the first time by ourselves that I took pictures of her all dressed up and strapped in her car seat.

I dedicate this post to all the new motherwomen who are boldly venturing out with  their new baby at their side.

Look out world, because here they come!

Keepsakes

A while back, my daughter blindsided me with one of the most profound questions I have ever been asked.

With all of the innocence of a six-year old, she sincerely asked me in her typical wide-eyed fashion:

                   "What are you going to leave me when you die?”

Huh? Crickets chirped as I tried to wrap my brain around the question.

Think, MOMA, Think...

What kind of question is that!?

Why in the world would she even be thinking about that?

Before I could even think of answering her question, I needed to find out where this question was coming from. Why was my six year old daughter concerned with what I was going to leave her when I die?

Upon digging deeper, my daughter explained that a conversation with a friend had sparked her interest months ago. On a recent trip, we had visited a friend who had lost her mother in death. My daughter was fiddling with all trinkets she could possibly get her hands on while exploring her house. My friend stopped her when she reached one trinket in particular, a beautiful glass bowl, and explained to her that that one was very special to her because it was from her mother. She gave it to her before she died. Ever since, my daughter has been fascinated with the idea of inheriting something special from me before I die.

Yikes! Talk about pressure. I did not see that one coming, and I have not thought that far ahead yet.

Not that I am not a planner. I LOVE planning.

I plan lots of things…dinner…parties…vacations. But…death? Hmm…No, not for me. I really would rather plan something else. Thinking about what to leave my daughter before I die means coming to terms with my own mortality. I mean, I know "unforeseen occurrences" can befall us all at any time, but I'm not ready. We are just not designed with death in mind.

Coming back to my daughter’s question, I did what any skilled public speaker would do to deflect a question and bide some time—I answered her question with a question...

"What if I never die at all?"

Ahah! Chew on that! Although not entirely satisfied with my question, my daughter did not pursue the topic any further.

But the question lingered. It haunted me.

I felt all the pressure of a Jeopardy contestant during final jeopardy-the hushed audience hanging on my answer in anxious anticipation. The Jeopardy theme song endlessly replayed in the back of my mind as I mulled over the question.

Well, after many hours, days, months of pondering and sleepless nights, I realized that there are so many things I want to bestow upon my daughter as an inheritance, although none of them are, in fact, “things” so much as they are intangible, precious truths and ideas I hold dear to my heart.

I decided to take my daughter to the library to share one of those things with her. I admit I was a lot more excited to go there than she was. Compared to the glamour of Barnes and Nobles, the drab exterior of the public library did not impress her at all. Unbeknown to her, that trip to the library was more than just a mere day trip. Oh, this was so much more than just a trip to the library. I was sharing a legacy with her.

As I entered that public library, I was firmly convinced of what one of those "things" would be that I would give to her before I die—a passion for learning, an unreserved openness to life, a never-ending hunger for more.

I want her to walk into a library or a bookstore and find the smell of books irresistibly tantalizing. I want her to look upon the endless shelves of books with the same lust a foodie would have for a gourmet buffet. I want her to never lose her God-given curiosity and maintain an insatiable desire to learn everything about everything.

We ended up spending over an hour at the library, reading various stories as well as sharing our own stories. By the way, if you have never read “Don’t Let the Pigeon Drive the Bus", it’s a must read, I don’t care how old you are—it’s hilarious.

I hope someday she fondly remembers how we giggled deliriously while we shared that book together.

As we exited the library hand-in-hand, I told my daughter that when I was little, I walked those very same steps with my father, and that the library was special to me because he used to take me there. I was reminded of him by a whale sculpture that sits just outside of the library.

I remember my father asking me if I knew what kind of whale it was. Of course, I did not know the answer, but he wanted me to think about it a little before he gave me the answer. It's strange how that memory just popped into my head out of nowhere. I was so surprised to re-discover that little shared moment with him that, at the time, meant absolutely nothing to me, but now, has so much meaning it brings tears to my eyes. I didn't know it then, but my father was sharing his gift with me, and now I have the privilege of passing that legacy along to my daughter. It's not a pretty glass bowl to remember me by, but I hope she treasures it forever.

Use Only As Directed

I experienced such a rude awakening this morning. My son woke me up in the usual fashion by rattling his baby gate like a trapped convict and begging me to open the door. As I stumbled up the stairs in a Benadryl stupor (I'm getting over a sinus infection), I heard him say something fear-inspiring: "I got lotion mommy," he proudly declared.

Instantly, I was awake. My feet hastened up the stairs as the adrenalin rushed through my body. It was worst than I could have imagined. The "lotion" that my son had generously lathered onto his face and hair was in fact, diaper rash cream, one of the hardest substances on earth to remove, as by design, it is supposed to be difficult to remove. There were goopy globs of Desitin everywhere.

On the door. On the floor.
In a book. In a nook.

Oh, Dr Seuss could have had a field day with this one. Only I think it would be more of a horror story than a children's book.

I realized that he must have used his new play table and chair set to reach up to the bin where I keep the Desitin hidden away to prevent something like this from happening. My eyes finally focused onto the completely empty tube of Desitin, and then wandered back to my son, who was so thoroughly covered in the sticky white substance that even his eyelashes were white. All I could think of was Casper the friendly ghost.

I immediately plucked Casper out of his room and swiftly ran into the shower. I had to jump in with him to hold him under the shower head. No matter how hard I rubbed and scrubbed, the Desitin was not budging. I poured handful after handful of expensive Burt's Bees baby wash into his hair and rinsed and repeated in vain. The only thing I seemed to accomplish with every scrub was to convince my son that I was trying to drown him.

I scrubbed. He screamed.

I scrubbed harder. He screamed louder.

I could not remove all of the cream from his hair, but at least I managed to get it off his face and eyes. I surrendered and dressed him, and retreated to the kitchen to get breakfast.

As I sat helplessly in my chair, my son tried to eat his cheese and crackers through choked-up sobs. He finally completely broke down from the traumatic shower experience and wailed ,"I need a 'ug!"

I need a hug too, I thought to myself. I opened up my arms and he climbed into my lap, and we just embraced quietly. I gently caressed and kissed his face, which distinctly smelled like a clean baby's bottom. I tried to run my fingers through his hair, but I kept getting caught in the matted clumps of diaper rash cream.

In that moment, we both silently resolved to put the whole "baby-butt-cream-drowning-in-the-shower-fiasco" behind us and move on with our day. In was in that very  moment that my clueless husband woke up and entered the kitchen to observe the quiet embrace...diaper cream-scented Casper the friendly ghost snuggled under a wet raccoon-my sopping wet hair dripping down my back, last night's mascara in streaky half moons under my eyes.

"Wow,  it sure is a quiet morning," he remarked in ignorant bliss.  Then he proceeded to ask me what I put in Casper's hair.

After seconds of steely silence and death-glares, I snapped...

"It's baby butt cream...AND I DID NOT PUT IT IN HIS HAIR!!! I tried to wash it out, but..."

I didn't even bother finishing the sentence. Just one look at the plastered white locks of hair on Casper's head and it was obvious that I could not wash it out.

"Do you think we should shave his head?" my husband asks in a matter-of-fact fashion.

Although I think the situation may have merited such extreme action, I didn't think my son could handle any further drama.

I still have not finished my coffee, so I'll decide how to handle the situation later.  In the meantime, diaper- cream scented Casper is going about his day as if nothing is wrong, and I am quite tempted to do the same.

Got Floss?

I have a dentist appointment tomorrow, and I'm sooo nervous, but not for the usual reasons people are afraid of the dentist. Not for legitimate reasons like being scared of a painful root canal or extraction.

No, my reasons are far more neurotic than that.


I'm scared...that I'll be found out...exposed as a fraud. Gulp!

You see, I haven't kept up with flossing, and I haven't worn my retainer like I'm supposed to every night, and I know that they will know, and I dread that terribly awkward moment when I'll be sitting in the chair and the hygienist will ask me if I've flossed (as if she didn't already know) and I mumble something unintelligible because I can't lie but I don't want to answer the question. Just the thought of it is already making me squirm in discomfort.

Besides the embarrassment of having your hygiene habits scrutinized, it can be a little intimidating to deflect questions while you are sitting in a chair elevated high off the ground with a flood light in your face and sharp objects being pointed at you. They want you to believe the chair is elevated so that it is easier to look into your mouth, but I believe the real reason is to make it harder for people to slide out of the chair and run away.

Frankly, it can feel like an interrogation.

On top of that, my daughter is coming with me. What will she think of me when she finds out I've been living a lie? Respect is a very delicate thing-hard to win, but easy to lose. She may never look at me the same way again. Six is a very, very impressionable age.

What if she never gets over the disappointment? What if this scars her for life?

I can picture it now...She's talking to her therapist about where our relationship went wrong, and this is the moment she will refer to as the defining moment where I shattered her faith in me.

How will I recover from this fall from grace?

Oh, things are not looking good. It's worse than I thought. Now I'm even more nervous.

I should probably be flossing right now, but I'm eating a chocolate bar instead to soothe my nerves. Come to think of it, I couldn't floss right now even if I wanted to. I'm out of floss, and to tell the truth, I don't remember when I ran out...did I ever have any to begin with?

I'm probably the only woman in the world right now who would rather have a pap smear. I do have soap and a washcloth, so I'm all set in that department.

I hope my dentist is not reading this. Just in case he is...

Note to self: stock up on floss.