The Woolly Mom

My garden laughs at me. Really. The vegetables and weeds all get together and come up with ways to shock, frighten, and flummox me all the time. Recently, they invented this new weed out of thin air that grows about 6″ a day, reaches a height of 5 ft., spreads through the yard really fast, and has spikes from root to tip that make my skin break out in a rash.

And then there’s the case of the tamaters (see, I’m learning to speak farmish!). I bought just normal beefsteak tomato plants. I fertilized once, put tomato cages over the plants, and kept the mean spiky weeds out of the raised bed. And look. They’re monsters! It’s aliiiive! It’s aliiiiiiiiiive!

All of my ‘maters grew together, sharing one brain (and I postulate, also coming to life at night). I don’t think I’ll eat them seeing as I’m pretty sure something has burrowed into them and is now living inside (I can feel the pulse of its heartbeat when I hold the tomatoes. Eek.) So I’ll just leave these on my deck as a little tomato surprise for the squirrels. If they’re not too frightened.

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3.3

Last night a funny little problem developed. See, after Lily shrieked in my ear for the fifteenth time yesterday (yes, we’ve now begun the shrieking when we’re unhappy phase), all of a sudden thick cotton plugs appeared deep in my ears. Or that’s what it seems anyway. I have some kind of tinitus - a funky condition where I can’t hear very well, except for this whirring humming-type sound. (Oh, except for Lily’s shrieks. I  can still hear those.) It sounds like I can hear my little brain factory humming away. And that is oddly less satisfying than I would’ve thought.

And since doctors’ offices don’t have much sympathy for a woman with no car during most weekdays, I’m just gonna have to ride this one out. Or learn to read lips really soon.

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3.4

Blank. Blank. Ok, let me check my brain again. Yep, still blank. It’s not just that I really have no ideas on what to share, post, write, or mock…I’ve been drawing a blank brain screen all day even when it comes to activities to do with Lily. Maybe I’ll sing her a nursery rhyme? Blank. Maybe we could go….um….Blank.

So this is a perfect chance for me to get some ideas from all of you who quietly read this blog. I know you’re out there. Why don’t you take a minute, and tell me the favorite thing you did with your child today? Or if you don’t have any children, please share what favorite thing you did for yourself  today. Maybe it’ll reignite my spark of imagination and general cognizance. Plus this is your chance to let loose about the good stuff in your day. I hope you’ll take the time to leave a note below.

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3.4

Lily spent most of the weekend at her grandparents’ house again. In theory this should be a joy for me

at getting some free time and quality sleeping in - plus knowing Lily’s bonding with her grandparents. But lately my mom and I have been butting heads like billy goats over how they care for Lily. I play the role of the up-tight controlling mommy who wants Lily’s food and nap schedules maintained, no matter what. And I want her meal schedules to stay on track - without giving my one year-old a full glass of water and some Chex Mix right before dinner (so the call goes: Kaaatie, she won’t eat her dinner. Is that ok? What should I do?…<sigh>…<sound of my head exploding>) Grandma plays the role of the care-free, she’s just fine why do you worry so much? grandmother who acts offended if I question Lily’s care, but acts entriely self-indulgent in her own fantasies of grandchild interaction - even if they’re age inappropriate. Rant rant rantity rant.

My parents decided to drop Lily off almost a full day early so that my dad can work with Dave around our house, and giving my mom and I ample time to visit and socialize. Hence why I’m sitting in a Panera Bread restaurant right now typing this post on my laptop and eating french onion soup. Angrily. I’m a chicken, I admit it. I ran away. Lily will forgive me later.

Am I the only one, or does anyone else have issues with grandmothers and boundaries?

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3.5 (1 person)

I thought I was some kind of crafty mom today, totin’ Lily outside with her brand-new collapsible mega-playhouse in the fresh sunshine of our backyard deck. A nice breeze, some quiet shade, the two of us can shake her bee rattles all afternoon. I can even have a Diet Coke with a bamboo umbrella in it, and lounge while basking in my mommy glory. But then I had to erect this house (my god, I AM a mom, I just typed “erect” without giggling. Sad.) which is supposed to pop up into place all by itself. So I tucked Lil’ under one arm and dragged the house over my shoulder from the garage, through the gate into the backyard. Of course, I didn’t figure that the nylon would catch so easily on the chain link fencing. I bounced back like an inflatable clown getting punched in the nose. Lily laughed. Then I heard another laugh. Great. Of all the days the quiet mom next door decides to bring her kids out to play.

So now I have an audience. A laughing audience. I’ve had nightmares about public speeches in my underwear that have been kinder. And a lot less like a Laurel & Hardy short. I haul the behemoth up on to the deck, over the wooden benches with baby in tact and everything. Good job, I tell myself. You’ve earned a pop with TWO bamboo umbrellas. But then the tent wouldn’t stand up. I fussed and I pulled, and I set Lily down. Lily crawls away to eat some twigs. I almost get knocked down by the tent as I try to scale it to get to Lily on the other side who has twigs hanging from her mouth like a walrus. My shorts start falling down, because of course this is the day I decide to wear my husband’s baggy jean shorts for comfort. Neighbor lady laughs and invites her kids over to the fence to watch. House blows off the deck. I’ve got Lily, her twigs, and the tent all in one arm, and the belt loops of my pants cinched in my other hand. Let’s try this again. But this time the front end won’t stand. And now there’s all this pressure not to swear because there’s another mom and her small kids standing 5 yards away from me. How many ways can I turn mother fuh- into a kosher epithet? So I throw the house as roughly to the ground as I can….which means swinging my arms wildly while the houses bounces back into my face like a jack-in-the-box. And I proclaim loudly that this is clearly bent! My husband must have bent it when he put it away last. Well, he’ll hear about this alright! (I would’ve yelled This thing is friggin’ wahped! Why do I always get a wahped one? but feared she watches Mel Brooks movies, too).

I stroll over to the fence casually with twiggy baby in my arms and smile brightly and ask her to say hi to her new baby for me, but now I’m headed in to change Lily’s diaper. Thank you Lily, for farting on command. Just go back in the house, Katie, and salvage some dignity. If only I had discovered before my fenceline greeting that I had chocolate animal crackers stuck in my front teeth, maybe I could’ve salvaged a little dignity. But I think that ship has really sailed now, don’t you?

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2.5

I’m awfully sorry to have a “Part 3″ yet. Last night I sat down with all of my printed invitations toneatly cut out and glue to the pretty backing cards. Unfortunately for me, Dave came home with a headache that day. A headache interfere with invitations, you say? Pish-posh. Well, he was so whiny about light and noise and he kept hunching his shoulders over in an irritated way, so I finally gave him 2 Aspirin and 2 of my Clonazepam to chill him the eff out. Unfortunately he chose to chill out just as Lily came wobbling toward me with arms outstretched.
And then it was all over. She had every invitation crumpled in her fist (while I threw my body over the cutting board and glue sticks like they were landmines) long before Dave ever finished lifting his head up off the floor. Kinda my fault really. When you think about it.

So now we’re on to printing invitations again. Hope to get everything mailed before the 4th. Self-imposed deadline staaaaaarts now!

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2.5

After much debate, and a staunch refusal to use anything Mickey Mouse (the Disney brand came keep their damn dirty paws off her until she’s at least two), I finally, finally picked a first birthday party theme. We’re going with Eric Carle’s book, The Very Hungry Caterpillar. We read it together everyday, she eats the corners of the book. And I never did find any Drew Carey party favors. So this will have to do.

Unfortunately, as you parents may have discovered already, kid party supply selection sucks. Sucks bad. Sucks real bad. We generally have about 5 major choices: princess, Mickey, Winnie the Pooh, butterflies, or Sesame Street. Then take your pick of whatever Disney movie is currently out, and add that to the list. Somehow Kung Fu Panda just isn’t quite right. Not because I don’t think ninja pandas are awesome. Or I wouldn’t want one living with me. Or I think that martial arts and bears don’t make a great birthday theme. But I haven’t seen the movie yet.

So the problem I’m having right now is finding plates and decorations to go with my newly chosen theme. I had the crafty idea to pick up some of the butterfly theme plates, and pretend that they have to do with the (SPOILER WARNING!) butterfly at the end of the book. It kind of works.

Then I decided to print my own invitations. This way I can just grab the copyrighted images right off the web for free (just kidding, you crazy lawyers out there!) and make invitations that actually resemble my theme. And I’m cheap, and this saves me money. But it turns out that I really stink at designing invitations and they didn’t turn out nearly as cool as some of my other design projects. No big deal, this is just a memorable peace of her life that will be cherished for years. And I’ve made it look like I pooped on a piece of cardboard and mailed it to my friends and family.

Next, on to the invitation list. Who the heck do I invite? This is a big dilemma. I want to include people so they’ll know that they’re important in our family’s life. But then I don’t wanna seem gift grabby either. Here, come sit around and watch a baby in a dress smash some cake. That’s always funny. Oh, and bring a gift. A good one! I’d like to say now that there’s very little she’s in need of (except what’s on her Amazon wish list…no, no - I keed, I keed) and I really don’t mind if no one brings her presents at all. Except her grandparents. It’s written into grandparent law that they have to. And I don’t want to bring the cops into this.

So now I’m deciding what friends or family would be offended if they aren’t invited. And which ones will be offended if they are. And then I’ll be wrong and everybody will hate me. Happy freakin’ birthday, Lily!

Right now my goal is to print and mail the invitations within the next week. And then I need to start planning a menu and learn how to bake a cake…since I decided to hand make a ridiculously elaborate cake. Stupid me. I’ll post pictures after I’ve made this steaming turd of a cake that people will laugh at, and I’ll pass off saying that Lily helped me make it.  And I was drunk. That’s right. I was drunk when I made it. Think they’ll buy it?

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2.5

I have a story for you. And I’d like to know if this is a familiar tale for all of you.

Once upon a time, a ravishingly beautiful Queen lived in her castle and spent her days tending to the baby Princess. This Queen cleaned the castle, cooked the feasts, cleaned the royal clothing, made apothecary appointments, and pulled weeds from the royal garden. Even though she’s a queen. It’s a cruel, cruel land that doesn’t let her just sit back and watch Montel all day with a box of Pop-Tarts and a flagon of mead.

Then one day, the Queen hears word that her mother is considering coming to visit her and the Princess for the day. So the Queen gets the bluebirds to scrub the castle floors until their little wings bleed, and scrapes the strained peas from the Princess’s robes. The morning of the visit, the Queen eagerly awaits word from her cell phone royal page to tell her if mother will be coming.

When there is no word, the Queen starts pacing and storming about the castle. Surely her mother hath gotten her arse out of bed and made a decision about whether or not to visit that day?

Finally when the day was half-gone, the Queen, growing impatient and wrinkled, called her mom’s cell phone sent a royal page to see if her mother is on the way. But word comes back to the Queen that the mother is still eating yogurt and pork products and hadn’t considered whether or not to travel that day.

The Queen, furious at her mother’s procrastination and lack of consideration, cast a spell and turned her mother into a frog (because it’s my fantasy, and in my fantasies I get magical powers).

The Moral of the Story: Housewives and Queens have lives too, even if all they seem to be doing is “sitting around the house all day”. If you’re going to visit, make plans in advance and don’t cancel at the last minute. Or I will unleash my magical fury on you.

The End

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2.5

Today, we’re back to theme of this mommy serving as a giant incubator for my husband’s child. And now that she’s born and crawling and eating bits of grass and fuzz and mud and learning to throw her toys, I have been promoted to mean nanny for my husband’s child.

Here I am, trying my best to understand that she’s going through a phase. Even though I’m the one that holds her when she cries, kisses her booboos, cleans her poopy bottom, and gives her her beloved Cheerios (not in that order), I am the big, mean witch that makes her daddy go away and takes all the fun out of her games (like “rip the safety covers off of the outlets”, or “bite the buttons off of the phone”). I see it every time she looks at me lately. Gone are the big open-mouth kisses she used to slobber me with. Gone are the big bear hugs. Gone are the “momomomoms” that she chanted while playing. Now she looks at me with contempt. Sometimes even disgust. The stink eye. The one that wants me to go away and never come back.

Now I know what you’re thinking: “Isolation drives housewife to barricade herself in garden shed, demand lobster dinner with Dustin Diamond - film at eleven.” No, I’m not losing my mind or reading too much into this. I know my girl. And the devotion isn’t there anymore.

And here’s the latest sign:

Me: Lily, say mom-mom.
Lily: Dada.
Me: No, Lily, mom-mom. I’m mom-mom.
Lily: Dada.
Me: Mom-mom?
Lily: DADADADADADA!

It’s just adding insult to injury. Especially when I was on the phone with my mom, describing the problem to her and Lily - who was being softly rocked in my arms - just heard me mention the word “mom” over the phone and started yelling a chorus of “dadada”. My mom laughed. I rubbed my temples red.

I know this will pass, and she’ll be like glue around me a few months, or maybe years, down the road. But in the meantime, I feel no guilt whatsoever when Dave is feeding her dinner and the baby pasta primavera starts flying. Ha. Let dada clean this one up!

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2.5

My weeks lately have been rather wrinkled. Very uneven. Let’s take a dose of a visit from mom, throw in a dash of doctor’s visits, a smattering of basement remodeling (trust me, more on that to come!), and you have a very whipped and beaten Katie who can’t even manage to open the baby-proof lids on the Tylenol bottle anymore.

And all this while I’m trying to live, work, and breathe under a mountain of hormones.

Today, though. Today things were supposed to calm down. But the day started with a bad omen: no peanut butter granola bars. My favorite unhealthy breakfast snack. So now I’m starting to wrinkle my forehead in frustration and it’s not even 7:30 am.

By 10:30 am, I started to regain confidence in my day. And that was my first mistake. Because then I heard the thud, and I saw my precious little pug dog, Billie, run his backside in to the baby gate dividing us. SLAM! And then he took off running. This is not like my little couch potato dog, who is more likely to sun on a window sill like a cat, than to lift his head to bark at intruders.

So I gave chase only to find him cowering on his snuggleball, and beginning to wildly convulse with a seizure. My heart stopped. This is not just a dog. This is my baby.

Being that this wasn’t his first seizure (he had a tiny little one two years ago) since coming to live with us from a rescue group five years ago, I had long ago researched what to do in case a seizure ever revisited him. And so this time I wrapped my arms around him like a cocoon and tried to block out as much light as I could, gently cooing “Mommy’s here, mommy’s here.”

The whole time I can hear Lily in the baby-proof playroom down the hall banging her sippy cup on the granite fireplace, and I am grateful. Noisy means she’s not in trouble.

Once his seizure started to let up, and he was able to walk again without falling, I scooped him in my arms and brought him out to the playroom while I sobbed and called the vet. And my husband. And nearly the whole world.

I’d like to take this opportunity now to thank Lily for deciding that now is the time Billie should learn how to play ball with her. Dropping hard plastic balls on my poor dog’s head just wasn’t nice. And it may mark the first time I was ever mad at my baby girl.

I recovered my humor as quickly as I could though and was able to distract her, comfort the dog, and then make it through an entire vet visit without sobbing once. Wait, I just need to pat myself on the back here. There. Job well-done.

The good news is that my Billie will likely be just fine. Hopefully some bloodwork they took will confirm his okayishness. And with any luck this was a rare epileptic fit that we will never have to speak of again. Oh dear gods above, please.

And just like Anne of Green Gables would say, tomorrow is a new day fresh with no mistakes in it yet. I mean, if I go out right now and buy a box of peanut butter granola bars, it will be.

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2.5