Failure

The trouble with being a full-time mom is that you really start to believe in what you're doing.

You see the importance of your job. You're glad you don't have to hand over your kid to some daycare worker on days when they're sick or scared or feeling a little extra shy, to be looked after by four or five adults in a room full of other children. You count it as an enormous blessing that you have the opportunity to be the one to bandage boo-boos and listen to half-hysterical explanations of how Bunny was accidentally left in the car. You're lucky, really, to be one of the few who get to read the same wordy story about the Little Blue Engine over and over and over and over again to your kids every single day, because it means you're the one who's there for your kids, every single day.

So you try to do it all-out, giving every day every ounce of your energy. You put all of your brainpower and emotional control into being patient and careful and loving. You work on being protective without being a hellicopter, teaching without taking away their own unique style. You try, and you try, and you try.

And sometimes, unlike that Little Blue Engine, you fail.

And because you believe in what you are doing, because you think it's the most important thing you'll ever do, because you love the funny little people you are doing it for so fiercely that you would do anything, ANYTHING, to succeed for them--

Well...failing sucks.

Birdie has been inconsolable lately, and I don't know why. She is normally such an intensely joyful little person that I honestly don't get it.

She isn't wet. She isn't hungry. She isn't teething. She isn't sick.

I try feeding her. She doesn't want it. I try feeding her something else. She only gets more frustrated.

She screams when I lay her down for naps. Maybe she's ready to give one of them up. I cut out the morning nap.

Definitely NOT ready to give up the morning nap.

I change diaper brands, thinking maybe the old kind was scratching her. She cries. I try bringing around her Mimi (a blanket, for those not fluent in Birdian) with her everywhere we go. She calms down for a minute, then cries again.

Little Miss went through this, too. Am I crazy? Am I that horrible at understanding what my kids need? Am I just such a lousy mom that my children end up shrieking in fury at my incompetency?

I know no one is perfect. I know that lots of kids probably go through this. I know that. Of course I do. But it's like changing diapers or cleaning up vomit or wiping noses--it's different when it's your kid. When you've devoted your life to them, any failure, big or small, feels crushing.

The worst part is that I feel so ridiculously helpless. Here's my beautiful baby girl, screaming like someone is stabbing her, and I can't do a darn thing.

I tried for an hour tonight to get Birdie to eat something before bedtime. She'd barely touched any food all day, and I didn't want her to be hungry. That's a reasonable thing for a mom to want, right? She wasn't interested in eating, though. She was only interested in sobbing.

Finally, I did the only thing left I could think of and laid her down in her crib. I gave her a kiss, closed the door behind me, and went into our bedroom and did a little sobbing of my own. Then, I knelt down and prayed.

And the answer?

You're doing a good job. Just keep trying, trying, trying, trying, trying.

The Trouble with Delays

Here's the deal.

I promised you good stuff when we got back online. I promised you regaling tales of Christmas. I promised you the oh-so tragically funny story of our holiday trip to the E.R. I promised tales of sibling manipulation.

But now, here I am, a new computer on my lap (thank you, Apple!) and I've kind of moved on already. Like holly wreaths and kitschy Santa dolls and strings of colored twinkle lights, Christmas stories have an expiration date. By the time December is over, I'm always ready to tuck them back up in the attic (or throw them out the window) and take my life back, already.

So, I would like to propose a compromise. Rather than a full blown blog post on each of the above topics, I'll tell you the short version of the best one. Then, we can all move on to other exciting topics, like world debt and my masochistic refusal to go to bed early.

Christmas at the E.R.
Every year on Christmas Eve, we get all gussied up in our nicest clothes and have a fancy dinner. Then, before opening up our new Christmas pajamas, we have a dance. Now, none of us are dancers. None of us are even close to being dancers. It's sort of an occupational hazard of growing up tall and lanky with huge noggins. It's sort of like putting a grape on the end of a toothpick and expecting it to dance the rumba. We're not exactly a graceful bunch.

That's OK, though, since the dance is just for us. We skip and stand on toes and pretend to tango and are generally as silly as can be. I'm sure we all look like idiots, but that's sort of the fun of it.

So there we were, dancing a rather overly-enthusiastic conga around the dining room table, when Little Miss tried a little pirouette and wound up slipping and cracking her chin on our new hardwood floor.

Thus ended the festivities. One ruined party dress, one blood stained Daddy-shirt, and a tearful trip to the emergency room later, we had a stitched up chin and a lesson learned: grapes don't make for very good Ginger Rogers'.

To Be Continued...

Yep. I'm still alive.

My computer, not so much.

I'm typing this now on a borrowed laptop--a laptop I need to return to its rightful owner all too soon. My computer--my poor, lovely computer--has succumbed to some tech disease or another and is refusing to even so much as turn on. It sits there, it's computer screen black with mourning, bemoaning the blogs that might have been.

And oh--the stories are good. You'll see, once I get around to telling them. They're totally worth checking back soon. Sibling manipulation. The E.R. on Christmas Eve. It's good stuff, I tell you. Good stuff.

But until then, there may have to be radio (or blogger) silence, since my only options are typing on my iPod touch or prying W's work computer from his stiff, workaholic fingers. (Love you, honey! Love your laptop, too! Thanks for soloing the whole bringing-home-the-bacon bit!) Neither option ends pretty.

And so, I'm off to the Apple Store. Cross your fingers for me. Toes, too, if you're able. And then send me a picture, 'cause that'd be a trick you don't see every day.

Blackmail

I'm a blackmailer.

A dirty, mean, heartless old blackmailer.

I've blackmailed my child into good behavior. I used one of the the oldest tricks in the book--done something I swore I'd never do--and lied to her straight faced.

I told the Little Miss that Santa would only bring her presents if she was good.

Before I had kids (and was, therefore, the best parent in the world), I promised myself I would never use Santa as a jolly old bribe. Now, I'm not one of those nutters who doesn't believe in including Saint Nick in any Christmas celebrations. I love the old Elf. I just thought it was stooping a bit low to claim only kids who made their beds got stacking blocks and candy canes.

Chalk up another in the long list of things I said I'd never do. It's just too tempting.

Little Miss is finally old enough to understand the whole Santa/presents thing this year, and as such, she is incredibly excited. It's amazingly fun, teaching her about reindeer and the North Pole and elves. I don't think I've been this excited about Christmas since I was a kid myself.

As for the whole, "He's sees if you've been bad or good" thing, I've been playing it up for all it's worth.

We sat at the kitchen table at lunch today, eating our peanut butter and honey sandwiches and listening to carols. The Little Miss was filling me in on all the Christmas info she's been gleaning from books and songs.

"And reindeer fly in the sky like a balloon and bring Santa and Santa comes down the chimney and brings me presents and Birdie presents and Mama presents and he says 'Ho, ho, ho!...'" she rambled on, her eyes wide and expressive.

I nodded solemnly. "Yup, you're right. But only if we're good, huh?"

She nodded back, her expression serious. "And be nice to Birdie and share..."

"Uh-huh..."

"And eat bananas and listen to Mama..."

I smiled, my attention wandering back to my plate.

"And don't draw on Birdie..."

"Wait. What?"

"And don't put Gazette in a box..." My eyes widened as she continued. "And don't color on walls and don't spit on the floor and don't put stinky diapers under the bed..."

I stifled a small gag. Was all of that what she normally did? This is what went on in that little brain of hers?

I stared at her, mouth agape, as she proudly finished up her list. "And no throwing carrots at the cat."

I blinked. "Um, yup. You're right. Santa doesn't like it when you do any of those things. All of that--all of it--that makes Santa sad. So, um, don't do those things. Ever. Ever, ever, ever."

"And Santa brings presents?"

"And Santa will bring you presents."

Thankful

I'm grateful for hot showers and blueberry pie and days off of diets.

I'm grateful for online shopping and customer-with-child parking spots.

I'm grateful for escapist blogs with fun new ideas to try.

I'm grateful for inspiring friends who are strong and loving and increase my faith every day.

I'm grateful for a cat who curls up on my belly while I read and waits up with me when W works late.

I'm grateful for interesting books.

I'm grateful for comfortable couches.

I'm grateful for our beautiful new home and W's job that makes it all possible.

I'm grateful that for the first time in almost a decade, we feel like we've landed.

I'm grateful for a healthy toddler who loves to "help" and sing and wear ruffles and sees the world in terms of "magic wand" and "not a magic wand."

I'm grateful for a healthy baby girl whose laugh is like a chirp and is so happy, so truly joyful, that it's impossible not to feel lighter when she's around.

I'm grateful I married my best friend. I'm grateful that through almost six years of marriage, two kids, fat pants and skinny jeans, a handful of persistently premature white hairs, a few serious lows and innumerable highs--through all of it--W still slow dances with me in the kitchen. He listens to my crazy ramblings, is the world's best father, and gets dressed up for our YouTube-dance-lesson dates in the living room. He is still my favorite part of every single day.

I'm grateful for long naps.

I'm grateful for air conditioning.

I'm grateful for spectacular Southerton falls. I'm grateful for days in pajamas. I'm grateful for giggling and happy squealing and watching my family play.

I'm grateful for a husband who cooks Thanksgiving dinner while I sit on the couch and blog.