Having worked with children for my entire adult life, I knew the instant they told me the third child I was carrying in my womb was a “girl” that I would have to prepare myself for The Rolling of the Eyes. I would tell my husband things like “but little girls they roll their eyes when they’re mad! And! They sigh heavily while they’re rolling their eyes! And! When they do that, it makes me so angry inside that I want to pinch their legs!” And my husband would just laugh and say things like “But you’ll feel differently about it when your daughter does it, because you’ll love her!” And I would say “I don’t think so! I’ll still want to pinch her legs because I HATE EYE ROLLING THAT MUCH!”
I thought I would have plenty of time to prepare for the eye rolling, or at the very least, until lkindergarten. I never, ever in my wildest dreams thought that I would be confronted with The Rolling of the Eyes at the precious wittle age of THREE. But, that daughter of mine, she’s always one step ahead of the game, I tell ya.
You see, last week I walked into my bedroom to find my daughter’s face covered (YET AGAIN) in my makeup. OF COURSE, I had to grab my camera to capture the moment and as I started snapping away, she let out a huge sigh, ROLLED HER EYES and said “why you always have to take my picture, Mooooom?”
It completely caught me off guard, but, surprisingly, I did not want to pinch her leg! Infact, I wanted to kiss her all over and tell her that she is the funniest little girl I have ever known. However, I refrained because I KNOW that it won’t be funny when she pulls that shit at 13.
Category Archives: Raising a Daughter
Another “First” That Made Mommy Cry.
My house is quiet.
No “Yo Gabba Gabba” blasting in the background.
No sounds of dress up shoes clanking on the kitchen floor.
No screams of “Mom! I’m done! Come wipe my butt.”
Dead silence.
This is what I’ve wanted for so long. This is what I’ve closed my eyes and wished for.
So why does it make me want to cry? Why is it that the only thing that I can think of is to get in my car, hop onto the freeway and pick up my little girl from day care?
Yes—today was my daughter’s first day of day care.
Ever since I started working for BlogHerAds, I knew that the day would come where I would have to find a preschool/childcare for G-Unit for at least a couple of days a week. But I’ve been too chicken shit to actually go through with it.
She’s the daughter that I never thought I’d have.
She’s the last baby that I will ever have.
I love being home with her, spending my mornings (in between working) laying on her bedroom floor, drawing happy face after happy face after happy face (because Good God Almighty, the girl is obsessed with drawing happy faces!).
I love dancing with her in my messy bedroom to Beauty and the Beast 20 times in a row.
I love her. And as cheesy as it sounds, I do feel incredibly blessed to have been able to be full time mom to her for these past 3 years, something that I didn’t get to do with my boys.
But I think “it’s time” that I expand her world a little bit while at the same time freeing up some time for me to do the things that I need to do.
I believe that this is going to be good for both of us.
She needs to be around other children, she needs to learn that it’s ok to not spend every second of her life with Mommy.
I need these couple days a week to be able to concentrate on work and on all of the housework that I’ve been neglecting because of work.
And if I’m being honest, I do need a little peace and quiet to salvage what little bit of sanity that I have left in this non functioning thyroid brain of mine.
Yet, I can’t help feeling guilty and perhaps a little weepy that my daughter isn’t here, throwing herself on the floor whilst screaming at the top of her lungs because I had the effing NERVE to pour her apple juice in a BLUE cup and not in the pretty pink princess cup that daddy bought her.
Big (Potty) Mouth
A little background before I tell you about what happened yesterday while out shopping with The Toddler.
A few weeks ago, my daughter wanted to join me in the bathroom while I was taking a leak.
I happened to be on my period.
Without getting too graphic, Girlfriend saw the blood in the toilet and OHMYGOD! The questions!
“Why you bleeding mommy?”
“Does it hurt?”
“Why is there blood in there?”
“Do you need a bandage?”
I explained to her as best as you can explain a period to a 3 year old child.
“Sometimes, mommy bleeds when she pees, but it doesn’t hurt at all and I just put this hear little diaper on and it will stop in a couple of days.”
Fast forward to a stall in the Kohl’s restroom this afternoon after I was finished doing “my business.” (#1, in case you were wondering.)
“Mommy, would you like me to wipe your butt? Let me wipe your butt, ok sweetie?”
“No thank you, G. I can wipe my own butt!”
“Why I can’t wipe your butt? Huh? Oooohhhhh I know! Because you have blood? Do you have blood mommy?”
(Trying to distract her because there are people listening and haha, my daughter just asked if I had blood.)
“Hey! When we get home, do you want mommy to read you a story?”
“Mommy. Do you have blood in your pachina again, huh? Is your pachina all full of blood like that other day? I will get a diaper for your pachina, ok?!”
I can only hope she’ll be as enthusiastic about wiping my butt and getting a diaper for me when I’m 80 and she comes to visit me in The Home.
Fun conversations in the (public) restroom
A little background before I tell you about what happened yesterday while out shopping with The Toddler.
A few weeks ago, my daughter wanted to join me in the bathroom while I was taking a leak.
I happened to be on my period.
Without getting too graphic, Girlfriend saw the blood in the toilet and OHMYGOD! The questions!
“Why you bleeding mommy?”
“Does it hurt?”
“Why is there blood in there?”
“Do you need a bandage?”
Now…
Fast forward to a stall in the Kohl’s restroom this afternoon after I was finished doing “my business.” (#1, in case you were wondering.)
“Mommy, would you like me to wipe your butt? Let me wipe your butt, ok sweetie?”
“No thank you, G. I can wipe my own butt!”
“Why I can’t wipe your butt? OH! Because you have blood? Do you have blood mommy?”
(Trying to distract her because there are people listening and this can only go to a “bad place.”)
“Hey! When we get home, do you want mommy to read you a story?”
“Mommy. Do you have blood in your pachina again, huh? Is your pachina all full of blood like that other day? I will get a diaper for your pachina, ok?!”
I can only hope she’ll be as enthusiastic about getting a diaper for me when I’m 80 and she comes to visit me in The Home.
Because I never want to forget that she said this when she was “free” years old.
“I like Oprah, she’s crunchy and yummy.”
FREE!
When you ask my daughter when her birthday is, she’ll hold 3 fingers up proudly in the air and say “It’s August fuh-lurd!”
And when you ask her how old she’ll be on August 3rd, she’ll hold those three fingers up in the air again and say “FREE!”
So, today, when she woke up, I kissed her on her cheek and asked her if she knew what day it was today.
“It’s Saturday!” she said very matter of fact-ly.
“No, it’s not Saturday. It’s August third.”
Her eyes lit up and she smiled the kind of smiled from ear to ear.
“It’s August Fuh-lurd?” She said in her sweet, high pitched voice.
“Yes! It’s August 3rd! And what is August 3rd, Gabby?”
“It’s my birfday! I’m FREE!”
And we hugged while she giggled uncontrollably.
I cried, because that tiny little baby that weighed 8 pounds and 5 ounces, who took 24 hours to make her way down the birth canal and out of my pachina, that little baby who had so much hair on her head that it looked like she was sporting a bad wig, that little baby who had her daddy’s lips and her mommy’s temper. That little baby who erased every fear that I had about my ability to mother a daughter. Well, she’s not a baby anymore.
She’s a little girl.
A little girl who must carry a purse every where she goes or THE WORLD WILL COME TO AN END.
A little girl who is obsessed with all things pink and “TuTu”
A little girl who has ruined every single lipstick that I own because she has to twist them all the way up to get enough on to make her look like a “pwetty pwincess”
A little girl has discovered the “art” of talking back. “Mommy, I WILL go, can you just give me a break?”
A little girl who can count to 15 and sing her ABC’s.
A little girl who will hug me when I’m sad and ask me if she can get me a glass of water to make me feel better.
A little girl who just last week told me to relax and “save the drama for yo’ mama.”
(Trust me, she knows all about The Drama.)
A little girl who has stolen my heart in every possible way with her kind heart, her sense of humor and her understanding of the fact that Farting is Funny.
A little girl who is old enough to understand that “mommy loves her” but not quite old enough to comprehend just how deep my love for her runs and how her presence in my life has forever changed me in ways that wonderful and good.
And the same goes for her Daddy and her Big Brubbers. ALL of our lives are richer and sweeter for having her in it.
Happy Third Birthday, Gabriella Mercedes.
I love you, I needed you and you better believe that I’m keeping track of how many lipsticks you’ve destroyed and when you’re old enough to get a job, YOU OWE ME BIG TIME.
(I know, I over did it with the pictures. But, it’s her Birthday and I figured if ever there were an occasion to go all “MommyBlogger” on your ass, this was it.)
The Toddler Teacheth
This morning my daughter climbed onto the toilet so that she could reach into the cabinet that hangs above it. The cabinet that contains things that she’s not allowed to play with—like deodorant, hair gel and one bottle of pink nail polish that I bought 2 years ago and have used maybe twice.
As I was about to swoop her in my arms to rescue her from all of the things that could possibly result in a phone call to poison control, she made sure to grab the bottle of nail polish.
“I need polish, mom.”
Not “I WANT polish, mom.” Or “I sure would LIKE some polish, mom.”
No.
I NEED polish.
Neeeeeeeed iiiiiiiiiiiit.
Her nails needed to be clipped, so I told her I’d paint her nails, but only after I clipped her nails. She agreed because she nee-eee-eeeeeeded pink polish.
As we walked over to the kitchen table, I stopped and ran back to (not) my bedroom to grab the camera. I had to capture this moment for all eternity. She had on a white tutu, with pink pj pants underneath and a pink shirt with little puppies on the front. She was wearing her purple “tap tap” shoes, her face covered with pink eye shadow and silver eyeliner. (Yes, I own silver eyeliner.)
Sadly, the batteries were dead and I wasn’t able to take a picture. Man, I would have loved for you to see her in all her Girlie Glory.
As I was clipping her tiny little nails, I wondered where she’d learned such girly behavior. She certainly did not learn it from me. I used to be, back “in the day”, but 3 kids and unemployment has turned me into THAT mom. You know, the one who stays in her pj’s until noon and has gone to the grocery store wearing yesterday’s clothes because she didn’t feel like “taking a shower and getting ready because Oh! The energy that requires!” I rarely paint my nails: In fact, I think I’ve painted them twice in the past 2 year, once for a wedding, once for BlogHer. (And I’m not even sure that I painted them for BlogHer. But I’m pretty sure I did, because I remember thinking I would go get a manicure, but then I called Amalah and was all “are you going to get yer nails did?” and she was all “Um, no.” And so I decided to just “do them ma’self.” Just checked Flickr and sadly, yes, I did paint my nails myself and um, well, I don’t think that I should ever do that again.)
As I begin to paint her nails, I almost started to cry because Oh My God, I have a daughter who loves for me to paint her nails with pink nail polish.
She looked at my finger nails and said “Mom, you need to paint a’yer nails too!”
“No, sweetie, mommy doesn’t like to paint her nails.”
That really freaked her out. Her voice got all high pitched and desperate sounding.
“Yes, Mom, you need to paint a’yer nails! PLEASE MOM! PAINT THEM!”
You know, I think she’s right. I do need to start painting my nails and while I’m at it, I need to start getting pedicures because I’m pretty sure cracked heels and in grown toe nails aren’t ever going to be “in style” and you know what else? Maybe I should start getting my eyebrows threaded again, and taking care of my skin again and while I’m at it maybe I’ll get ma’ pachina Brazilian Waxed, y’all!
(No I won’t, I will NEVER get a brazilian wax because DID YOU KNOW YOU HAVE TO GET ON ALL FOURS? I have a hard enough time doing that for PigHunter these days and he’s seen all of THAT for going on 18 years now. No thank you, no amount of smoothness in the world would ever make me Do The Dog for a stranger.)
I know it sounds silly, but my daughter pointing out that I neeeeeeeded to paint my nails has made me realize that I really do need to start taking better care of myself and pampering myself a little the way that I used to do.
I felt so much better about myself when I would take the time to go get a manicure, or spend a few extra minutes in the bathroom after a shower to lather myself in some sweet smelling body butter while wearing a mud mask on my face.
Now, I feel like I’m splurging if I wash my face with a bar of Dial soap before I go to bed.
I’ll never be that kind of girl who wears toe rings around her beautifully painted toe nails, or who has perfectly manicured nails at all times, but I wouldn’t mind being that girl who takes a few extra minutes out of each day to take care of her skin and pamper herself with a manicure and perfectly shaped threaded eyebrows from time to time.
In “Praise” of The Potty.
You know, I’m so glad that I decided to potty train my daughter before she was three.
No. Really. I am.
Ah, Potty trainedness. It’s great, is it not? I mean, really. Having a little person who no longer needs to use diapers, but can march their little buttocks into the bathroom and go pee and poop all by themselves!?
Pure awesomeness, I tell ya.
Well, except for this ONE little thing. But really, other than this one little tiny thing that kind of ruins my mornings, it’s GREAT!
You see, my daughter has finally figured out how to use this whole “potty trained” thing to her advantage. Every single time that I lay her down for a nap or bedtime, she does this little thing where she shouts “I have to go pee so bad!” or “Oh noes! I have to poop!” at least 20 times.
And even though I know that she really doesn’t have to pee, I’m convinced that the one time I take a stand and say “NO! You are lying, there is no way that you have to pee because you just went two minutes ago!” will be the one time that she pees herself in her bed.
So, the girl has me “by the balls” and she knows it.
There’s also the whole “I can’t go out in public for more than a few minutes at a time without having to carry a little human being to the bathroom” But still, that minor inconvenience does not erase the greatness that is a Potty Trained Toddler.
Last week, I went to Bath and Body works to get a friend a birthday present. Five minutes into my shopping trip, Gabby was all “uh oh! Gabby has to go potty!” I ran to the cashier up front and asked her if there was a restroom my daughter could use.
“Sorry” she said all snottily “there’s merchandise back there and I’m FORBIDDEN from letting you go back there.”
“But please, she just learned how to go potty, she can’t hold it.”
“Sorry! But hey, Ross has a bathroom! I can hold your stuff for you though!”
“Don’t bother.” I snapped back as I threw my unpaid for merchandise on the counter.
Ross was right next door, but Ross bathrooms are DISGUSTING. Seriously, the last time I had used that restroom, there was shit smeared on the toilet and piss all over the ground. (I don’t need to tell you that I didn’t actually used the restroom do I?) So, I knew the nearest restroom was at Mervyns, and Mervyns was a few stores and an entire driveway away.
Look, I love you so much that I drew you a little diagram so that you could get a better picture.
Did I mention that it was pouring rain? Because it was pouring rain!
So, I had to run all the way across the parking lot to Mervyns with a two year old on my hip shouting things like “hold the pee pee inside for just a little longer! We’re almost there! Please! Don’t pee in your chonies! HOLD THE PEEEEEEEEEE PEEEEEEEE!”
We made it there just in time.
I was all out of breath, both of us were soaking wet from the rain. And I never did get my friend her present.
But! I had a child who peed on the potty! So Praise The Lord for THAT.
Now, I know that would have never happened if she were still wearing diapers and NOT potty trained, but hey! I don’t have to spend anymore money on diapers anymore! And that? Is great!
Is it not? IS IT NOT?
I do, however, have to spend money on Pull Ups. And not just any pull ups. Oh no. The Freaking Princess Pull Ups, which are actually more EXPENSIVE then the diapers because GOD FORBID I buy the generic brand ones with the bears on it.
(I didn’t even know that she knew that Princess Pull Ups existed, but obviously She Who Goes Pee Pee On The Potty pays attention to the commercials when she’s watching Dora and Blues Clues. And quite possibly also Little Einsteins, Barney, The Backyardigans, Doodlebops and Go Diego Go!)
But, other than all of that stuff that I mentioned above, and also the fact that I have to wake up 3 times a night to take her potty, having a potty trained child is really is the GREATEST THING IN THE WORLD![/sarcasm]
Bangs.
I have a history of doing really bad things with scissors.
Every time that I pick up a pair of scissors to cut someone’s hair, I know that I shouldn’t do it, because it always ends up badly. But every time, I convince myself that “this time I can do it! Because, this time, I will be careful and will just cut this ONE LITTLE PIECE.
And every single time, I screw up in a very big way because “I have to even it out!” and an innocent victim is left without sideburns, or with an entire chunk of hair missing in the back of their head, or with a hairless dog peenie.
OR…
Waiting. Worrying. Writing.
Last night we had to call 911 because my daughter could not stop coughing. She coughed to the point of throwing up and to the point of her lips turning blue.
While they were here, taking her vitals and doing what they needed to do, one of the fireman gave her an adorable little stuffed animal.
Her eyes immediately lit up and she said in her weak little voice “Thank you, fireman.”
She loves that dog and has clung to it all day long.
Tonight, she took another turn for the worse, burning a high fever and extremely lathargic. I’m usually the parent who freaks out and thinks the worse and I can always count on PigHunter to calm me down. Not tonight. Tonight, he’s the one that said “She’s bad, I’m taking her to urgent care. He just left a few minutes ago and I’m sitting here typing furiously, trying to calm myself down.
Perhaps it’s just the flu, or some virus that will pass quickly! But, it’s her history with RSV and lung problems that has me worried.
I’ve had less than 8 hours of sleep over the past 3 days, but I don’t mind because I signed up for this when I chose to bring these little human beings into this world.
I just want to know that my little girl is going to be ok, and I want her to get better already.
Ok, and maybe, just maybe, I’d like to get a little sleep, even if it is with a coughing little girl laying on my chest.
Update
They’re treating her for pneumonia, which is so funny (not) because the doctor who saw her this morning actually shrugged his shoulders (literally, shrugged them!) and said he had NO IDEA what was wrong with her, prescribed her some cough medicine and walked out of the room.
That’s what happens when you have an HMO and your doctor is “out for the day.”