Motherhood

For lack of a more creative title…this is what I did Saturday

On Saturday, Caroline and I were slightly bored and desperately needed to get out of the house, so because I am crazy I decided that a trip to Target was a good way to spend the afternoon. I had bought Caroline her own little Christmas tree and had been planning on taking her to pick out ornaments…it seemed like a really good idea at the time.

I loaded up my little greasy, ranch dressing smelling child and we headed to Target. On the way there, she told me she didn’t like Target because she had to sit in a cart. I told her since this was a very special trip to pick out Christmas ornaments for her tree, she could walk next to me. In theory, it had all the makings of a lovely afternoon…ranch dressing smell aside.

In yet another sign that she may have inherited her daddy’s taste, she picked out some of the biggest ornaments ever, including a red, feathered bird that is about half the size of her 3 foot tree. But since this was her trip, I only edited a few of her selections because who really needs a glittery ornament that says “Diva”? We headed home with the ornaments and put the tree up in her room.

Of course, in my Hallmark moment delusions, I had forgotten a couple of key elements. The first being that I was dealing with a napless, opinionated three year old who smelled like a salad, and the second being that the trip to Target and enforcing the walking “beside” the cart and not running off into the throngs of shoppers had already worn me down.

It basically ended with her telling me to just “leave MY tree alone” and me saying “Fine, but there is NO WAY that huge bird is going to be able to stay on the tree without knocking the whole thing over.”

If only the video camera had captured this festive mother daughter moment.

So after she finished hanging all of the ornaments on the same two branches of the tree and tangling the whole thing up in some garland, we headed over to Mimi and Bops’ house because she wanted to spend the night.

I dropped her off and since P was gone, I found myself at a loss as to what to do with my sudden free time. And because I am a wild and spontaneous kind of girl prone to madcap adventures, I went and got a pedicure. Then, as if the pedicure wasn’t already complete madness, I drove to Church’s Fried Chicken to pick up some spicy chicken tenders for my dinner because I have never been one to shy away for fear of trans fats or chicken restaurants located in a bad part of town.

I can say in all honesty that for a few minutes as I waited for my spicy tenders, I was more than a little afraid for my life, not because of the partially hydrogenated oil that I was about to consume, but because of the massive amount of seedy clientele that apparently choose to hang out at Church’s Chicken on a Saturday night. I thought how embarrassing it would be when people would say “Yeah, what a shame about Big Mama. If only she would have gone to Burger King like a normal person.”

I also thought that if something happened, no one would ever think to look for me at Church’s Chicken, except for maybe P because he knows my fondness for greasy, fried meats. He even knows that I like Long John Silvers…and he loves me anyway. (and now that my love of Long John Silvers has been documented on the internet, there is really no end to what other embarrassing information I may divulge)

Finally, my chicken was ready and I headed home. I propped up my freshly pedicured toes, ate my spicy tenders and caught up on every episode of Brothers and Sisters.

And I loved every minute of it, but I can assure y’all that I had no desire to dip my chicken in any ranch dressing.
Giving thanks for no more trips to H.E.B. this week

It has been a long time since I have discussed the bane of my existence, also known as the Buddy Buck. If y’all weren’t reading my blog back then (and chances are good, since I had about 3 readers then compared to about 12 now), you can find past experiences with the Buddy Buck detailed here and here.

The thing about having a child is that even though I am not cooking any part of Thanksgiving Dinner (except for Chocolate Ice Box pudding which is a requirement for P to enjoy the holiday) I still had to go to the grocery store today to get the essentials of our household such as chicken nuggets.

Prior to Caroline’s birth, I would have emptied my pantry of all canned goods and served P and I a dinner made with a box of mac and cheese circa 1997 before I would have gone to the grocery store the week of Thanksgiving.

H.E.B. is stressful enough without all the people milling around, fighting for the last can of pumpkin or cranberries. Add in a racecar cart and a toddler and you’ve got yourself a recipe for stress.

As we’re cruising the aisles in our monstrous racecar cart, we spy Dwayne the friendly manager who knows us well seeing as how I’m following in the tradition of my Mema and Papa and go to the store almost every day. Dwayne gives Caroline a high five and hands her 3 Buddy Bucks.

She is beyond gleeful.

After waiting in an excruciatingly long line to pay for our groceries, we head towards the Buddy Buck machine. Now, don’t judge me, but sometimes I tell Caroline it isn’t working so that we can get the heck out of Dodge. That was my master plan for today.

But oh, the humanity. There were kids already playing with the Buddy Buck machine and a long line of others waiting their turn.

So, we get in line. I realize that I am a pushover, but I’m hoping that someday she’ll remember that her mama let her play the Buddy Buck machine and tell her therapist about it.

I don’t want to tell y’all how long we waited in line, but let’s just say that Dwayne must have been showering people with Buddy Bucks like it was manna from heaven. In fact, at one point Dwayne caught my eye and said “Do y’all want some more?” and laughed. See, it’s all just a game to him because it’s not his frozen goods and patience that are melting away.

People were walking by wondering what they were missing out on because “Wow! Look at all the people in line!”

Yes, get in line so that you too can have a plastic bubble with a number sticker inside. It’s totally worth it.

After we had secured our 3 plastic bubbles and our milk had soured from sitting in the cart so long, we headed out to the parking lot. As I lifted Caroline into her carseat, she stopped and hugged me so tight while she said “Thank you, Mama!”

See. It’s totally worth it.
The road to crazy is paved with sleeplessness

It was a fairly uneventful weekend around here. Well, I mean other than the fact that I almost had a nervous breakdown on Saturday.

It all started last Wednesday night when Caroline decided that sleep is completely overrated and just takes time away from more important activities like driving your mama flat crazy with a new, improved belligerent demeanor.

Toddler obstinance and fury…now three times as strong!

All my friends keep telling me that three is a really hard age and that it will pass. All I can say is from their mouths to God’s ears, because this new level of attitude is not appealing.

Anyway, Caroline has decided that she really only needs about 5 hours of sleep at night, punctuated by intervals of calling for me to update me on the current state of her non-tiredness.

And let me state for the record, that there is NO way she isn’t tired. I have run that child like she’s in training for a marathon in my futile attempts to ensure a good nights sleep for both of us.

So, after a fairly sleepless Friday night, which ended when she was up for the day at 4:45 a.m. (Lord have mercy on my soul), I was a prime candidate for some type of nut house. And honestly, if I thought they’d let me sleep while they put me in my straight jacket, I would’ve gone without a fight.

Fortunately, Mimi and Bops called Saturday morning around 9:30 while Caroline was eating a peanut butter sandwich for lunch (because when you’ve been up since 4:45, lunch is at 9:30), and heard the desperation and perhaps a touch of mental instability in my voice and came to the rescue. I’m not sure who they were trying to save, Caroline or me.

Caroline spent the whole day with them while I curled up on the couch and slept the sleep of angels.

Thank God for grandparents. And sleep, thank God for sleep. Oh, and the pan of brownies that sustained me in the midst of sleeplesseness.

It’s not so much just the lack of sleep that drove me to the brink of insanity. It’s the sleep deprivation combined with the constant testing to see if I’m still going to say no to all the things I’ve said no to in the previous 48 hours, followed by a screaming fit about the unfairness of life.

It’s so much fun.
Paging Dr. Dobson

I don’t really get my feelings hurt that easily. I tend to give people the benefit of the doubt and think if they say something hurtful, they probably didn’t mean it. Of course, I also spent the first 32 years of my life not being insulted by a person I brought into this world.

Yesterday, I arrived to pick Caroline up from school only to have her turn away from me and tell me “just leave me alone”. Excuse me?

She walked away from me and kept telling me to “just leave”.

I informed her that she had to come with me because there are laws about leaving her alone and like it or not, she had to get in the car with her mama and go home.

We get in the car and I’m already a little upset by her attitude and behavior. Then, as we’re driving across the parking lot, I hear her voice from the backseat saying “I didn’t want you to pick me up, I don’t like you because you’re an ugly girl.”

I pulled the move patented by angry, frustrated mothers everywhere, and one I remember well from my childhood. I SLAMMED on my brakes and I promise I laid rubber in the parking lot of the Methodist Church. Hell hath no fury like a mama who spent 24 hours in labor with no epidural until it was time to push.

I had flashbacks of my own childhood as I heard things coming out of my mouth such as “I am your Mother. You do NOT talk to your Mother like that. I will wear you out if I EVER hear you talk like that.”

And for all my big talk, what I really wanted to do was put my head down on the steering wheel and cry. I know she’s three, I know she’s figuring out the art of emotional manipulation, and I know that she was tired after her school day. I know I shouldn’t let it hurt, but it did. I wanted to yell, “I would give up my life for you without even a second thought and this is the thanks I get?”

I had to call Gulley for therapy and it makes me laugh to think of how much our lives have changed since we first became friends seventeen years ago. I remember nights spent talking about things like, “Do you think he likes me? What do you think he meant when he said he’d call?” and now I’m asking, “Am I a good mother? Am I doing something wrong? Why would she say that?”

I know that as the years go by, Caroline and I are going to have our ups and downs. It’s the dance that mamas and daughters have been doing since the beginning of time and we’ll be no different.

I know she loves me, she’s just figuring this whole thing out, pushing the limits, testing my boundaries to see how far she can go. As P likes to remind me, I did this. I prayed that we would have a daughter with a strong spirit because in all my rookie, hormonal, pregnant mama confidence, I believed we were up to the task of raising a leader. God is probably still shaking His head and laughing at me saying “Here you go, one strong willed leader coming right up.” I’m going to need all of His help to mold this spirit in the right direction, because that’s my prayer, to mold her spirit without breaking her spirit.

This evening after bathtime, all the drama of the afternoon was forgotten. I dressed her in her “I Love Mom” pj’s (a shameless ploy to make myself feel better) and we snuggled on the couch. She scooched up under my arm, looked up, kissed me and said “Oh Mama, I hope someday I have a big nose just like you.”

And that’s how I know, in spite of how she may act or what she may say, that she loves me.
Sydney Bristow would be so disappointed

Yesterday morning I was completely busted. Busted in a way that I haven’t been busted since I was 17 and snuck out of my best friend’s house to go to a party, which should really be a post for another time.

Anyway, Caroline had a friend coming over to play and our playroom was a complete disaster. I realize that it is in fact a playroom, which means it will never be a clean room, but even by playroom standards it was disreputable.

So, I began my stealth approach of casually throwing things into a bag to be thrown away. Broken pieces and parts, dried out playdough, Happy Meal toys, and a few Barbie shoes were quickly disposed of and some semblance of order was returned to the room. I was pleased.

But sadly, I made a flaw worthy of a mere rookie, not a seasoned OCD veteran.

I threw everything away in a Disney Princess bag.

I then placed the Disney Princess bag in my kitchen trash and pulled the whole thing out for P to take to the curb. However, he was doing something really important like buying ammo online and didn’t get the trash out before Old Eagle Eyes spotted the Disney Princess bag through the semi-transparent kitchen trash bag and she had a complete shall we say freak out.

“MAMA, why is my princess bag in the trash? WHY? Get it Mama, get my princess bag. Daddy threw it away! He threw it away!”

And so I let him take the blame.

No, I didn’t, but I thought about it, especially because he was watching this whole exchange with a smug grin on his face.

I said “Oh Mama must have made a mistake, let me get it for you” and I pulled it out of the trash while discreetly dumping out its contents.

She took the treasured bag from me and with her hands on her hips looked at me and said, “Mama, you are always throwing my best stuff away”

She isn’t the first person in this house to accuse me of this offense, but I’m sad that she’s on to me so early. I need to brush up on my stealth moves and remember the first rule of any good spy, always destroy the evidence immediately.
Oh, how times have changed

This is me 15 years ago when daylight savings time ended.

Everything is all bleary eyed and hazy as I yell, “WHOO HOO! Everything is open a whole hour later. Let’s go charge some more beer on my dad’s Chevron card and party! Whoever thought up daylight savings time is awesome!”

This is me 15 years later, as in this morning.

Everything is all bleary eyed and hazy as I barely whisper, “Lord have mercy, does that clock say 5:15? What are we going to do with a day that starts at 5:15? Whoever thought up daylight savings time is some kind of fool who has never had a toddler.”