Every once in a while the sound of my husband getting ready for work early in the morning will wake our daughter up. Usually, she’ll ask him for a drink, or to quiet down and then she’ll crawl back into bed and fall back asleep.
This morning, she woke up at 4:30 am and never went back to sleep.
I knew that this meant REALLY bad news later that afternoon when she came home from school. A Tired My Daughter is a GRUMPY My Daughter.
After I finished picking up all 3 kids from 3 different schools (hate! driving! so! much!) I decided to make a quick trip to Trader Joe’s to get a few things for dinner (and also- pumpkin butter.) This wasn’t very smart parenting. I knew my daughter had been up since 4:30 in the morning. I should have went straight home and put her down for a nap. But, I also knew that if I didn’t go to buy groceries, we’d end up ordering a pizza or some other unhealthy food for dinner. So… to Trader Joe’s we went.
By the time we got home, my daughter was physically and mentally exhausted.
My husband was home from work, so I asked him to take care of her so I could get back to work.
“Please, put her down for a short nap.” I asked.
15 minutes later I hear crying from the kitchen.
“But, daddy! I want to make strawberry juice!”
“No, sweetie. You can’t smash the strawberries to make strawberry juice. Mommy bought strawberry lemonade. Why don’t you drink that?”
“BUT I WANT TO MAKE STRAWBERRY JUUUUUUUICE” she cried, as she ran down the hall towards my bedroom.
She walked up to me and started crying. “daddy won’t let me smash the strawberries to make strawberry juuuuice.”
I was annoyed.
Annoyed that my husband had not put her down for a nap. Annoyed that my daughter was whining over SMASHING STRAWBERRIES. Annoyed that no one seemed to care that I was working.
I took her by the hand (ANNOYED!) walked her over to my husband (ANNOYED!) and asked him to kindly PUT HER DOWN FOR A NAP BECAUSE SHE IS SO TIRED AND I HAVE TO WORK AND PLEASE DO IT NOW. (ANNOYED!)
Oh, The Drama!
She started crying and saying mean things like “I don’t like your face, Daddy!” Completely out of character, for her. She adores her daddy and never talks to him like that.
“You don’t talk to your father that way!” He snapped back at her.
“But I don’t like you with your glasses! They’re ugly!” She cried.
I knew that the things she was saying were completely out of line and unacceptable, he had every right to be upset.
I also knew how exhausted she was.
I got up to intervene.
I pulled my husband aside.
“Be gentle with her.” I said. “She’s very tired.”
He seemed confused. Did I not just hear the way she was talking to him? Did I not think it was inappropriate?
“I know what she was saying wasn’t okay. But I also know she woke up at 4:30 this morning and is a complete mess emotionally. She’s exhausted.”
He couldn’t wrap his mind around what I was saying. In his mind, her behavior was unacceptable and he had every right to scold her.
He picked her up, put her in her bed and walked out.
A few minutes later, I heard angrily flipping around in her bed.
I didn’t like what I heard. She WAS being bratty. What she was doing wasn’t okay. I could have been upset with her. I knew I needed to go into her room and deal with her. But I wasn’t quite sure how I would handle the situation.
I took a deep breath.
I walked into her bedroom.
I laid next to her on her bed. Instead of scolding her, I wrapped my arms tightly around her tired little body. She fought it at first. But then, she melted into my arms and broke down.
“I know, sweetie. You’re so tired. You don’t feel good. It’s okay, mama. Just close your eyes.”
She wept softly into my chest as I ran my fingers through her shiny, long hair.
Within 5 minutes, she was asleep.
I could have went into her room when I heard her flipping about angrily in her bed and shouted at her to “STOP THAT RIGHT NOW!” But I chose to go with a loving embrace instead. Because, as unhappy as I was with the way she was acting, I knew that was what she needed.
Today I learned that sometimes when our children push us away the hardest is when they need our gentle, loving arms to hold them close to us the most.
I Should Have Posted This 3 Weeks Ago.
Click over here to read about it. Or, just enjoy the photos. Because the photos are always the best.
I Guess What I’m Trying To Say Is That… I’m Sorry, Twitter
Today, for the first time in years, I suffered a massive panic attack.
(I blame Carbonite. More on that later…)
In 2003, I suffered from severe depression and almost debilitating panic attacks. Things got so bad, that I had to take an unpaid leave of absence from work and attend out patient group therapy.
One of the things that I learned in the weeks of therapy was how to deal with panic attacks. So, when I felt this panic attack coming on, I knew what to do.
I tried calling friends. No one answered.
I talked out loud to myself, saying things like “this is JUST a panic attack. You’re going to be fine.”
I took deep breaths.
Then, I did something I kind of regret.
I took it to Twitter.
I’m sure that people probably thought I was being a drama queen, but it was a genuine cry for help. Lucky for me, someone heard and called me. Unlucky for them, I was in the midst of the attack.
If you’ve never suffered a panic attack, you have no idea how awful and frightening they can be. I had hyperventilated to the point that my entire body had gone numb. My legs, my arms, MY FACE. I couldn’t speak, I was shaking, my heart was pounding.
When the phone rang, I didn’t recognize the number, but I answered anyway. As humiliating as it was to answer the phone WHILE HAVING AN ATTACK, I knew that talking to someone could help calm me down. I won’t go into the details of the call, but I will tell you that I was embarrassed and apologized a lot. This wonderful soul was kind and understanding and I can never thank her enough for her kindness.
It took me a couple of hours to recover fully from the emotional and physical effects of the attack.
Of course, I am now slightly alarmed that this could happen again. It’s been so long, I thought perhaps I would never have one again. Now, I’m wondering– do I need to see my psychiatrist again? Would it be wise to ask for medication to prevent this in the future?
I don’t want to overreact. I know this was brought on by a very specific event. (Losing a TON of photos that I *thought* were backed up on carbonite, but, apparently, NOT. Because did you know that if you delete files from your hard drive, Carbonite then deletes those same files 30 days later? Which makes me ask the question– BACKUP SYSTEM, HOW? I suppose it’s my fault for not reading all of the fine print. I suppose I shouldn’t have assumed that a backup system meant all of your files were backed up, even the deleted ones. But, seriously, isn’t that the point of having a backup of your files? So if they are lost or deleted, YOU HAVE A BACKUP OF THE FILE? Stupid, me!) But I can’t help but wonder if this is something I need to speak to a professional about again. Maybe?
We’ll see.
If you follow me on twitter, I do apologize for the trainwreck tweets. I truly wasn’t trying to be a drama queen, I was legitimately reaching out for help. But, even still. AM EMBARRASSED.
.17.
This morning I woke up feeling mixed emotions.
On one hand, I was excited and proud.
On the other, I felt like I had been punched in the gut.
Every year, I write about the complex emotions I feel on this day. Every year I write about how bittersweet this day is. The day I became a mother.
17 years ago.
17 years.
Before I woke him up this morning, I studied his Almost a Man face. Not a trace of the little boy who I used to hold tightly in my arms. “He looks so much like his father now. Where did the time go?” I thought.
Then, strangely, all of his “firsts” came rushing to mind. His first breath, his first time sleeping through the night. His first tooth. His first steps. His first words. His first day in Kindergarten. Then, I thought of all of the firsts still to come. His first job, his first paycheck, his first broken heart.
How lucky I am. I have this incredibly kind, hilarious, talented son that I’ve had the pleasure of raising for the past 17 years. His possibilities are endless! His future is bright! It’s very exciting and I should be SO DAMN HAPPY.
And I am. I truly am.
At the same time… wasn’t it just yesterday that I was cradling him in my arms while rocking him to sleep? Wasn’t it just yesterday that we were discussing who his favorite Power Ranger is? Now, we’re discussing prom and his future in law enforcement.
You can understand why my heart is so conflicted, yes?
By the time I climbed in the van to take The Birthday Boy to school, I was a bit of an emotional wreck. “My baby is almost a man! My heart can’t take this!” I thought to myself as I watched him climb into the car.
*****
“You need a haircut.” I said, as we were pulling up to the school.
“I can’t get one, mom.” he responded
“What do you mean you can’t get a haircut?”
“I made a bet.”
“A bet? Oh Lord…”
“If I get a bowl cut, Jordan is going to give me $10.”
I think I said something like “you realize if you get a bowl cut, you’ll have to shave your head to fix things, right?”
“I know, Mom.” He said, in a Very Annoyed Tone.
I wished him a Happy Birthday as he got out of the car.
“That pretty much sums up the experience of having a 17 year old son right there.” I thought to myself.
And then I laughed. And I laughed all the way home.
Because, my son is 17 years old. And while while 17 year olds think they’re so smart and know more than you do about life, he’s still just childlike enough to agree to a bet that involves GETTING BOWL CUT.
Happy Birthday, my sweet baby boy. I do love you more than you could possibly even begin to understand.
Peaceful Sunday
Warning: This Post is Full of SO MUCH CHEESE
I took this photo in the presidential suite of a hotel in Chicago. I’ve always been incredibly proud of this photo. Mostly because it has 3 of my favorite people in the world in it.
Last weekend, I had the privilege of seeing that photo hanging in the Fotofest “Defining a Movement” gallery in Houston.
(Can you tell how proud I was feeling? Because I was feeling proud.)
The experience was overwhelming. To see something that I created in such a beautiful space, among so many incredible photographs, moved me to tears.
Having friends there to share the experience with me made the experience richer, sweeter. (If only Lena could have been there. Sigh.)
As I walked around the gallery, admiring the other photos hanging on the wall, I thought to myself “THIS is why I love blogging. The women. The creativity. The friendship.”
I’ve written before about how little I feel in this world. But that night, I felt like I belonged. That night I was embraced by women I admire. Intelligent, creative, loving, wonderful, honest, real women. They wrapped their arms around me tightly and they told me how proud they were of me. They cried with me, they shared in my joy, in my moment. I felt so loved, so understood.
“What you do matters.”
After this weekend, I am choosing to believe that.
Coming Home is the Best Part
“You know what, Mom?” She asked. “I just love you very much. You’re the best Mom in the world.”
I wanted to hug her so hard. But I was in a hotel room in another state. So, instead, I cried.
“I love you right back.” I replied. “And you’re the best daughter in the world.”
She giggled.
“I can not wait to see you tonight.” I added.
“Me too, Mommy! I’m so excited!”
Later that evening, I stood outside the ever busy LAX, watching out for our minivan.
I wanted to catch her reaction the moment she saw me open the van door, so I took my camera out of my camera bag and put it around my neck.
I saw the van pulling up.
I saw my husband pointing while saying something to her. I imagine he was saying “There she is. There’s your Mama!”
He pulled up to the curb, I walked around to pop open the back hatch. I held the camera up to my eye with one hand and opened up the door with my other.
I heard her scream. It was a happy scream.
I snapped a shot.
“MOMMY! MOMMY!”
“My daughter! My sweet daughter!”
I climbed into the backseat and wrapped my arms around her. She squeezed me tightly. We both had happy tears in our eyes.
Only gone for 4 days, but it felt like 100.
“Mommy? Will you play a game with me when we get home?”
“I’m so tired, but I promise you, first thing in the morning, we will play whatever game you want.”
And first thing in the morning, she informed me she would like to play “make over with mommy’s makeup.”
I put make up on her sweet little face. We talked about the things she did while I was gone. I told her about my trip. She told me she missed me every night. I told her I missed her every minute of every day. She asked if she could wear my special necklace.
“Of course you can, darling.”
I love traveling to spend time with women I admire. The experiences that I have on those trips almost always help me to grow as a person, to become a better mother. I love a little alone time away from the realities of life. But make no mistake about it. I love coming home to my family 1000 times more.
Oh, Yes I did
This is Me and My Dress Having Fun in Houston
I am totally impressed with myself, balancing in heels like that.
Also? Totally proud of myself for putting aside my insecurities about my body to wear something pretty and to have a good time.
Embrace the body you have now, ladies. If you’re not happy with the way you look and you want to lose weight, then do it. BUT! DO NOT STOP LIVING in the mean time. You deserve to enjoy your life whether you’re 110 pounds or 300 pounds.
Life is good. And life is short. Don’t waste a minute of it.
The Dress (That Makes My Husband Horny. But This Isn’t About That.)
This weekend I had to do some shopping.
For clothes.
More specifically, for a dress.
Here’s the thing. I hate shopping for clothes. Mostly because of my size. But also the shape of my body.
Everything is large and sags and the roll of fat on the right size of my waist is much bigger than the one on my left and it annoys the ever living piss out of me.
When I am forced to buy new clothes, I really try to focus on the progress I’ve made. I focus on the fact that I can now buy size 16 jeans instead of size 22 jeans. I focus on the fact that I can buy Regular ol’ Large instead of X-large in shirts. I try NOT to focus on the extra 50 pounds still clinging to my body. I try not to focus on the lumps and rolls.
But dress shopping is different.
I can’t cover the (uneven) belly rolls. I can’t hide my Shelf Ass. I can’t hide the back of my leg, just above the knee area, that is so lumpy and unattractive.
That is why I don’t buy dresses. No matter how cute. No matter how much I want to wear them. I just don’t.
Except this weekend, I bought a dress.
A fitted dress. That shows my arms. And my (uneven) belly rolls. And my Shelf Ass. And the back of my leg, just above my knee area. It shows it all.
And then some.
And by “some” I mean “my boobs.”
I almost didn’t buy it. But I posted it on twitter and everyone was like “you look great! Buy it!” And I chose to believe them because my friends are honest and I don’t think they’d want me going to a party looking like a Lumpy Asshole.
Speaking of assholes… my boobs. I will be wearing a cami, so, fear not! There will be no wardrobe malfunctions! (Unless, I drink too much wine. Then I’ll probably want to go to the bathroom and take the cami off because “I just want to be freeeee!” What I’m trying to say is DON’T LET ME DRINK TOO MUCH WINE, HOUSTON.)
I’m feeling insecure about wearing the dress. I can’t lie.
But here’s the thing (that I just decided.)
Life is too short to NOT wear pretty dresses.
So, I’m going to squeeze all 194 pounds of me into that dress, put on a pair of hot shoes (that I bought at Target. For less than $25) and enjoy the hell out of that party.
Oh, yes I am.
