Her First (Last?) Sleepover

I am so angry today.

Angry at myself.

Angry at another mother.

Yesterday, I got a call from a mom of one of G’s friends from kindergarten. I know this woman, we’ve had play dates together. Our girls have been friends since the first day of school. She asked if G could come over to her house after school to color eggs. After that, they’d go to the movies and to the park. I told her that I’d meet her after school. If G wanted to go, then of course she could go.

When I asked G if she wanted to go, her face lit up and she said a very high pitch “YYYYEESSS!”

I gave the mom $10 for her ticket and a snack and told her to call me when they were home so I could come get my daughter. 5pm I got a phone call.

“Can G spend the night?”

My heart sank. The only people my daughter has spent the night with are my mother and my sister.

“Does she want to?” I asked.

“Well, here, I’ll let you talk to her.”

I asked her if she wanted to. I could hear the excitement in her voice. “Yes, Mommy! Please?”

I didn’t want to say yes. “She’s only 5.” I thought to myself. “And, yes, I know the mom, but I don’t really know the mom.”

My gut was saying “No no no no.” But my daughter was saying “please please please.”

I thought back to when I was little. I was never allowed to spend the night anywhere, unless they were people from the church or my dad could “verify” that they were Christians. I thought about all of the times I was shunned the day after a sleep over. “You can’t sit with us. You weren’t allowed to come to my sleepover.” (True story) I never want my daughter to feel like an outcast the way that I did. I never want hre to miss out on fun times with her friends because of her over-protective mother.

But she’s only five.

Adding to my concern was the fact that the mom is a single mom who lives with her father. I don’t know the father. I only know what she tells me about him. And he sounds really wonderful. But I don’t know him.

All of these things went through my head. And yet, I told her yes, my daughter could spend the night. I told her I would bring her stuff right over.

My husband drove with me over to her house to take G her things.

“Are you okay with this?” I asked him.

“No. I’m not.”

“I’m not either. But she really wants to. She’s so excited and this is the first time she’s been invited to spend the night with a friend. I don’t want to ruin her fun.”

We talked about it. We decided if we continued to feel uneasy, we’d call the mom and make up a lie. I even went so far as to come up with the lie right there in the car. “Something came up. We need to leave early in the morning. We have to come get her.”

I should have just said no.

When we pulled up to the house, G and her friend came running out. They were covered in pink eye shadow, lip gloss and glitter. “Mommy! Did you bring my blankie?” She squeeled.

I pulled her to the side. “You sure you want to stay?”

“Yes!” she repeated as she jumped up and down. Her friend came up, took her by the hand and said “Let’s go finish playing house!” She said.

“Bye Mom!” G shouted as she skipped away with her overnight bag.

We told the mom she could call us AT ANY TIME if my daughter changed her mind. “You can call me at 3am. I don’t care. I’ll come get her.” I said. She assured me everything was going to be fine. I believed her.

But not really.

Me and my husband went to grab a quick dinner, then headed to Target to get some last minute Easter things. I felt a bit more at ease after I had seen how happy she was, but there was still this little ache in my heart. This little… I don’t know what, telling me that I shouldn’t have let her stay. I kept my phone with me, just in case she called. I even turned the volume all of the way up.

The phone never rang.

Around 9:30 we went to pick up the boys from church. I was happy she hadn’t called, even telling myself it was silly to get so worked up about a sleep over. Around 11pm, I checked my phone, JUST IN CASE.

There was a voice mail.

My heart sank.

Around 10:00, I had received a phone call. From The Grandpa.

“G doesn’t want to stay, I’d be happy to bring her home if you can give me your address.”

How did I miss the call? I have no idea.

I called the mom’s cell. No answer.I called the home number. No answer.

“Why the EFF did the grandpa call?” Tony said.

“That’s a good question.” I responded.

“If the mom left my daughter there with the grandpa, I’m going to be SO PISSED.” Tony said.

My heart sank. Would she have done such a thing? Would she have betrayed my trust like that? She never told me she was going to leave. She never asked me if it was okay if her dad watched my daughter.

We couldn’t get a hold of anyone by phone.

“I’m going to get my daughter.” My husband said.

He jumped in the van and headed over there. I stayed home, just in case the grandpa called back. He never called. But Tony did.

“No one is answering the door. Give me their number again.”

10 minutes later, Tony called. “I have my daughter.” He said. “I practically banged the door down, but I got her.”
I could hear her in the background. She was SOBBING.

“She won’t stop crying.” He said. “And she won’t tell me what’s wrong.”

My heart– it was pounding. I allowed my mind to go there. I hated myself in that moment. Why hadn’t I listened to my gut? Why did I give in? Why was I such a bad mother? WHY WAS THAT WOMAN SUCH A HORRIBLE PERSON TO LEAVE MY DAUGHTER LIKE THAT?

He was home within 3 minutes. My daughter was hysterical.

“Please. Take a deep breath. We need to talk.”

She couldn’t calm down. I did everything in my power to help her, but she was so upset. After about 10 minutes, I was able to get her to talk.

“What happened?” I asked. “Did something happen?”

She tried to talk through the tears.

“I was just so scared. I didn’t want to stay there with E’s grandpa. I don’t know him. I was so scared and you didn’t answer the phone and I wanted to come home and…”

She was hysterical again.

“Did he yell at you?” I asked.

“No, Mommy.”

“Did he touch you?” I asked.

“No.” she said.

“No one touched you or did anything mean to you?”

“No. Mommy. I just didn’t want to be there. I was scared when E’s mom left.”

E’s mom left.

I’m angry about that. And my husband is angry about that. We entrusted our daughter into her care, not her father’s.

I’m angry with myself too. I’m angry that my poor judgement could have resulted in disaster for my daughter. We were lucky. Nothing bad happened. I mean, it was awful that she was scared, that she didn’t feel safe, that she felt like we had abandoned her (by not answering the phone the first time they called.) But that was something we were able to talk about, something she was able to understand and to heal quickly from.

I feel so lucky.

But I also feel anger. I’m so angry with that mother. But mostly, I’m angry with myself. For not listening to my gut instinct. For saying “yes” when what I really wanted to say was “no.”

(edited to add: I wanted to make it very clear that the grandfather did nothing wrong. As Marinka pointed out, he called us when G told him she didn’t want to stay. My issue is solely with the mother, for leaving my daughter without asking if we, as her parents, were okay with that.)

Suddenly, My Obsession With Photography Isn’t “Annoying.”

I was 11 years old when my youngest brother was born.
I thought he was my baby.
I fed him. I changed him. I babysat him.
For the most part, I was The Best Sister Who Thought She Was a Mother that a little kid could ask for.
Except for the one time he almost died on my watch because I was too busy talking on the phone with a boy I had a crush on to notice that he was eating OVEN CLEANER.
I loved that little baby so much.
Last month, that little baby got engaged.
My baby brother is getting married!
They’ve asked me to be their wedding photographer.
Here’s the thing.
I love photography. It’s a passion of mine.
But! I’m not a professional. So I am very nervous about this. At the same time, I’m flattered that they think I’m good enough at it to SHOOT THEIR WEDDING.
Last weekend, they asked if I would shoot some photos for their “save the date” cards. Of course, I said yes.

I can only hope he doesn’t regret asking me to photograph one of the most important days of his life.

Slowly But Surely But Saggily

The last time that I posted about my weight loss progress was on February 3rd.
I had lost 42 pounds and weighed 195 pounds.
Today, almost 2 months later, I weigh 188 pounds.
49 pounds, gone.
1 pound away from 50.
If you’ve followed my story, you know why it’s a B.F.D (thank you for that, Joe Biden!) that I’ve been able to lose almost 50 pounds.
The best part of losing 49 pounds has been how much better I feel every minute of every day. Physically. Mentally. Emotionally. In The Sack-ually.
The worst part about losing 49 pounds has been The Sag.
It’s bad.
Everything is sagging. My skin. My face. MY BOOBS.
The other day, my daughter caught a glimpse of Naked Me as I was getting ready to get in the shower.
“Eww.” She said. “Your boobs. Why are the pointing *down*?”
I try not to dwell on The Sag. I try to dwell on the fact I’m decreasing my chances of getting diabetes, that my blood pressure is now normal, that my knees no longer hurt when I walk, that I don’t get winded doing the simplest things.
I am 1 pound away from a HUGE weight loss milestone. That means so much more to me than perky tits.
What 188 pounds looks like.

(before and progress photos here)

This is What “I’m Taking Back Blogging Because I LOVE TO WRITE” Looks Like. Unfortunately.

My mom is a good cook. She can cook a MEAN Mexican meal. Which is weird because she can’t cook German food. And she’s German!
White people are weird.
As delicious as our meals were growing up, they were not particularly healthy.
In fact, they were not healthy at all.
Almost everything was breaded and fried and smothered in lard. Portion control? WHAT? Are you kidding me? You must have seconds! And thirds! No thirds? ARE YOU STARVING YOURSELF AGAIN?
Vegetables were never served.
Except! Every once in a while, my parents would go on a “You’re going to eat vegetables!” kick and they would force us to eat vegetables.
And by “vegetables” I mean “peas or corn.”
One night, we’d sit down for meatloaf and my Mom would be all “We’re having peas (corn?) tonight. And you have to eat them until their gone!”
I would start crying. My brothers and sister would start crying.
“We hate peas! Peas are gross!” We’d cry.
“Well, you’re gonna learn to like them! They’re good for you!”
Because I am very smart, I figured out that I didn’t have to actually eat the peas. I could put a bunch of peas in my mouth and swallow them down with water. Like pills!
It worked for a while. Until my mom decided that eating peas that way was cheating. I had to actually chew and taste the peas!
(Which to this day, I do not understand.)
One time, my mom pulled the “you have to chew them” crap with corn. CORN! Here’s the thing, corn makes me gag. (I’m a texture girl, remember?) I warned her. “They make me gag! I can’t chew them!” She had no mercy. “CHEW YOUR CORN!”
I chewed my corn.
And then I threw it all up.
Because of this traumatic childhood experience, I rebelled against ALL vegetables in my teenage and young adult years. It was very troublesome to my husband who could live off of vegetables. He’d beg me to try them and I’d be like “vegetables are gross” and he’d be all “but zucchini is delicious! You have to taste it at least once!” and I’d have flash backs to when I was forced! to! chew! peas! AND corn! and I’d be all “NEVER!”
I’m happy to report that I was able to get over the Traumatic Vegetable Experience of my childhood and have learned to eat and enjoy vegetables. I’m even happier to say I’ve been able to teach my children to (mostly) enjoy (some) vegetables.
Except for peas. I have not been able to put one in my mouth since the last time I was forced to eat them. And no child of mine has ever nor will ever be forced to put one of those little satan veggies in their mouth.
Pea H8R 4LIFE.

Red, Represented

One of my favorite photography sites, Beyond Snapshots, is giving away a red Lola epiphanie bag. All you need to do to enter is post a photo on your blog (or facebook, flickr) that represents “red.”
Because I have the ugliest camera bag in the history of camera bags, (ask Isabel, who likes to ask me if she can have a juice, because it looks like a drink cooler. UGH.LEE.) I am more than happy to enter this contest. If I don’t win, I may just have to break down and order myself an Epiphanie bag because ENOUGH WITH THE CAPRI SUN JOKES, YOU GUYS.

If you’d like to enter, visit Beyond Snapshots for complete instructions.

making a wish

I’m Available For Parties!

On Tuesday I had to go see an ophthalmologist.
(There is something weird happening in my right eye that leads to headaches that my doctor feels I need to have checked out. CT Scan next month. FUN!)
He did some weird things to my eyes that didn’t hurt at all, but totally freaked me out (numbing the top layer of my eye, what?) When he was finished, he didn’t see anything wrong with my eye, but wanted to do a few more tests to be sure. He had to go get the nurse, so he did something kind of dangerous.
He left me alone in the room with his computer. The computer that had my medical history. As soon as he left, I got up to look.
Right there on the screen was my medical history.
The thing that stood out right away was something titled “Problem List.”
You guys.

The thing is– that’s just a snippet of the list! (Look at the scroll button! So much scrolling!) I wasn’t brave enough to scroll. Too afraid of a) getting busted by the doctor for playing on his computer b) finding out new things that I didn’t know was wrong with me!
I GET IT, MEDICAL RECORD. I’VE GOT PROBLEMS.
And one of them is GERD.
I’m never telling my doctor about the peeing when coughing. I don’t need to see that on the list.
This is why my doctor calls me “a fun mess.” you guys.
Except, I’m pretty sure there’s nothing fun about GERD.

I Guess What I’m Trying to Say is That I’m Tired of Feeling Intimidated to Write On My Own Blog

I still remember the first time I found “blogs.”
I had followed a link from a weight watchers chat room. The blog was written by a woman named Melly. Ordinary Morning, was the name of the blog.
It was 2001.
It was the most amazing thing I had ever seen on the internet.
Granted, I had only been on the internet for a total of *maybe* 3 months, but still, MOST AMAZING THING.
Here was this young, single mother, writing openly and brutally honestly about her life. She was smart, beautiful, devastatingly funny.
I found myself wanting to get to know Melly. I wanted to hear more of what she had to say. “I think we’d be great friends!” I’d think to myself as I would read her words.
I started clicking her links and those links lead to new blogs that, yet again, BLEW MY MIND.
I wanted to know these people! I wanted to be in on their “inside jokes!” But mostly, I wanted to write and put my words out there. Maybe someone could relate. Maybe I could make someone laugh.
I love to write. I would most surely love to blog!
I won’t go into the entire history of how I finally got my blog up and running but I will tell you that a complete stranger was kind enough to answer all of my blogging questions and help set up my very first blog on blogger.
I had a blog.
And I started writing in that blog.
And people started reading.
(One of those people was Melly. And I was right. We became friends. The best of friends. She even came to California (twice!) to visit my family.)
I would write stories about my boys, who at the time, were only 9 and 4 years old.
I was mommyblogging before mommyblogging was a “thing.”
I would suggest you go into my archives and see what I was writing about, but my archives are painful to read. I was going through a severe depression and writing through it all. I wasn’t thinking about “attracting marketers” or “My brand.” I only cared about telling my story, as painful, ugly, honest, and sometimes hilarious as it was.
I showed my stretch marks to the world before there was a movement online to do so. And I took the hell that came along with that. People telling me to keep that shit private because “no one wants to see your disgusting body.”
I was just this stupid girl putting it all out there because it felt right at the time.
It felt safe. There was this core group of people reading. And we were all friends. Kathy. Joelle. Mikey. Wendy. Statia. Trish. Robyn.
But things started to change.
Suddenly, what I was doing had a name. “Mommy blogging.”
And then people started fighting because HOW DARE YOU PUT ADS ALONGSIDE YOUR STORIES ABOUT YOUR CHILDREN YOU DEVIL CHILD EXPLOITER I HOPE YOU DIE IN HELL1!!11!%%!!!!!%%@#
And now people are all “DON’T GO BAREFOOT AT CONFERENCES AND DON’T DRINK WINE OUT OF SIPPY CUPS BECAUSE YOU ARE PROFESSIONAL WHO MUST BE TAKEN SERIOUSLY!”
And I’m all on twitter going “come see pictures of my daughter’s first hair cut!”
Blogging as I know it has changed.
And I just can’t keep up. Because this blog isn’t a business. This blog is personal.
I just want to keep writing about my life. About my kids. About my struggles with health and weight and body image. I just want to write.
I feel like a complete misfit in blogging, which is so weird because I’ve been doing this since 2002 and what the hell?
Blogging is a business! Build your brand! YOUR BRAAANNNNNDDDD!
There’s no denying that I’ve been given some pretty amazing opportunities through blogging. (Interviewing the cast of New Adventures of Old Christine. Meeting Tony Hawk.) And that still amazes me. But that’s not WHY I do it. That will never be why I do it.
And suddenly, it feel like– if that’s not why I’m doing it, why even bother?
I used to be able to sit down and write a post about the most trivial things– like my trip to the doctor’s office yesterday, for example– hit publish, enjoy the comments and move on to the next post. Now I doubt every post. “This isn’t good enough” “no one will care about that” “People are writing about HEALTH CARE REFORM AND YOU’RE WRITING ABOUT PEEING WHILE YOU SNEEZE YOU ARE DOING IT WRONG.”
I also used to be able to write about important things, like depression or body image and feel safe. Feel like it mattered. Like by writing my story I was helping people and that people were helping me by reading, by sharing their stories. I know that is still true, but sometimes? I feel like the stories aren’t being heard because we’re all too busy about traffic and page views and twitter followers and OUR BRRRANNND.
And that’s fine! It’s wonderful that women are finding success because of their blogs– I mean it, it makes me so proud. But also? A little sad. Sad that those of us who are just here for the writing, for the stories, for the good content are feeling so out of place and irrelevant.
I don’t even know where I’m going with this anymore other than to say I’m struggling with blogging right now and I hope that by writing this out I will be able to make some sort of peace with it all and stop over thinking this shit and JUST START WRITING AGAIN BECAUSE I MOTHER FUCKING LOVE TO WRITE.

Next Up: Manicures by Nail Painters

On Friday I took my daughter to have her hair cut at a Real Salon. I decided it was time to stop putting her through the torture that is Haircuts By Mommy and let a professional do it.
She was thrilled about getting her hair done in a “big girl salon for women.”
On the way to the salon she asked question after question about she should expect. “Oh, Mommy! I can’t wait to meet my hair saloner!” she said. “I hope she’s going to make me look SO BEAUTIFUL!”
Waiting for her “hair saloner.”

So! Excited!

The consultation

Her favorite part– the wash.

Admiring the finished cut

That was the best $25 I ever spent.

Mom 2.0 Auction is Live!

The Mom 2.0 auction, which is raising money to go to Haiti, is now up and running.
It would make me very happy if you would go and take a look. If there is something that you love (and trust me, there will be photos you will love. And that will look beautiful hanging in your home) please make a bid.
(I’m about to bid on my own photo. Is that weird?)