two little peas...

When I was her age, I was a neat freak. My room was always immaculate and my toys (as you can see) were neatly lined up around the perimeter of my room. If you were to sneak in my room late night and remove one of my toys, I would be in a nervous panic by 9am. I don't know if it's a curse or a gift, but my daughter is the same way.

It started early and has progressively gotten worse; but each time I walk into a room full of babies lined up like soldiers, I can't stop myself from smiling and hugging my girl. "You're so much like Mommy," I tell her, "like two little peas in a pod." "Yep! We are just two little peas in a pod!" she giggles, while giving me a half-ass eye roll.

This morning, on our way to school, she started throwing out her best "Scooby Doo" one liners, "...and then Shaggy said, “…with a face like that, I'd be scared too! HAHAHA!" We laughed, and then I asked (knowing all along what her answer would be), "So who's your favorite on Scooby Doo?" "All of them!" she replies. "No, if you had to pick just ONE..." "Velma!" she screams. "Why?" "Because she has short hair and she's really smart,” she advises. "That’s funny," I tell her, "Do you know who Ms. Alice's favorite is?" "Velma?" she asks. "Yes, and do you know WHY? Because she is smart! She likes Velma for the same reason YOU like Velma!" She smiles proudly and then says, "We're almost like THREE peas in a pod!" "Yes we are," I tell her, knowing full-well that there will never be enough room in our little pod for one more pea.

Absentee father...

We’ve had our share of ups and downs, but somehow or another, we’ve managed to stick together instead of sticking it to each other… and for that, I’m grateful. I’m not gonna lie, there’s a part of me that secretly wishes my parents would have had toughed it out and worked through their issues, but within the first six minutes of a phone call with my father, I’m quickly reminded of why that could never happen. Don’t get me wrong… I love my father. He’s got a bone-dry sense of humor to match his sun-parched skin and we’ve shared a lot of laughs over the years, but talking to him requires an amplified level of patience and three different prescriptions.  Even then, it’s hard to stay on the line.

I don’t know what it is about dads, or maybe it’s just mine, but we (as girls) spend our whole lives looking up to them. They can do no wrong… even when they’re never right, but that doesn’t prevent us from trying to please them. It’s funny how life works; we spend most of it trying to become someone and the rest of it wishing we were someone else.  Either way, it would be nice if he’d show some sort of interest. Again, that might just be me.

Lately, I’ve been wondering what my true purpose is. Though part of me already knows, the other part still questions the answer. I guess the part that questions is the same part that criticizes, and the third part of me wishes everyone (everyone being me) would just shut the hell up. One of these days, I AM going to listen to the first voice and finish what I started… and even though I’m sure he’ll never bend a page, I’ve learned enough to realize that it’s not about me. I’m glad, for my daughters’ sake, that the cycle ends here. With any luck, her voice(s) will come with a mute button, but if it does not, I know her daddy won't let it stop her from finding herself... whoever she may be.

Don't let your babies grow up to be... grown ups!

One day, many moons from now and despite her fathers' pistol swinging threats, our sweet little girl is going to be old enough to date. It's a scary thought and one that seems almost unattainable at this date in time, but we both know what's coming. The real question isn't when it's going to happen, because only her father and I have access to the key for her chastity belt; the question that haunts me is WHO?! Who is the asshole that is going to steal my daughters' heart and what in the hell can I do to stop it?

As a mother, I find myself constantly planning ahead. I'm always three steps in front of all decisions that affect my little sweetheart; (especially when it comes to matters of the heart), and I always base my strategy on how I think she will react to the situation. That being said, it should come as no surprise that I already have a "journal of sabotage" started for that dreaded day when Isla brings home, Mr. Right(now). If all goes according to plan, his car will leave a trail of burnt rubber from our driveway to the nearest confessional and, unless he shows up for phase 2 of the interrogations, we should be able to rest easy for at least another week.

I guess my biggest concern is the same as all mothers, "I just don't want my daughter to get hurt." But the truth of the matter is that she's going to... at some point, we all do. I think Friedrich Nietzsche said it best with one simple phrase, "What doesn't kill us makes us stronger." And, as much as I don't want her to ever really understand those words, she sorta has to if she wants to survive in this world. We all have our own ways of dealing with the unavoidable reality that is life. While some choose to embrace the present moment and not question the hand they're dealt, others prefer to swim upstream, causing friction and chaos within their own psyche. I only hope the tools that I'm giving her now will one day serve her well... better yet, I hope she's smart enough to use them.

Gold star reincarnated...

Since her very first day of (pre)school, I've never had to worry about Isla being naughty. My concern; however, was always in relation to her shyness and her ability to overcome it. For the past three years, I've sat back and silently observed as she cautiously and deliberately dismantled a notably secure and guarded wall. Still, despite a tenacious appetite for learning and a plethora of new friendships, she continues to dance to the beat of an entirely different drum, and nothing (or no ONE) will ever get her to change it. 

A few weeks ago, I arrived early for pick up. I snuck to the back of the school to look out the window, which overlooked the playground. There, I saw a dozen children running around screaming and laughing. I looked around to find Isla and was, at first, saddened by the fact that she wasn't playing with anyone in particular. She was laughing and running around like the other kids, but she wasn't really interacting with any of them. As I stood watching, I noticed that she was just following some of her friends around and directing them on where the other children were, "Grady! London is over there!" she'd point, contagiously smiling and laughing the whole time. I took a deep breath, feeling sorry for her... then glanced up and saw one of the other children hit one of her friends. I tapped the glass hard with my fingernails to get their attention, but no one heard me. Now, when I say "hit" what I really mean is "punch," and I watched in horror as this child kept throwing more of them. After each swing, they would glance down to see if the teachers were looking. In an instant, I was happy that my daughter was neither watching nor participating... best of all, she was smiling and having a great time in her own little world. 

As I was buckling her into her car seat after school, she reached over and hugged me. "Mommy never has to worry about you being naughty at school, do I?" "Nope!" she announced, "I always follow direction." "You've never had any of your friends hit you at school, have you?" I asked. "No, but some of the boys play too rough and I don't like it." "Well..." I begin, "If any of your friends ever DO hit you, how would you handle it?" "Um, I don't know," she confessed. "Sure you do. You just tell them, DO NOT hit me, and I don't like it!" I advised. "That's not very nice," she tells me. "Well, it's not very nice to hit your friends!" "Yeah, but you didn't say please. You should have said, please do not hit me."

When I picked her up from "summer camp" last week, she sprinted to her desk and grabbed a small sheet of paper containing twelve stickers. I didn't have to ask... I knew what those stickers meant, "Mommy LOOK! I got all twelve stickers!" I knelt down to get a better look and gave her a hug, "I am so proud of you, Isla!" Though I already knew the answer to my question, it didn't stop me from asking, "So.. what are you going to choose for your reward?" Then, like two Siamese twins, we both giggled and blurted out the answer, "Couch pillow!" As we walked down the steps out of the school, one of her classmates went whizzing by. Isla looked over at me and rolled her eyes, "Maitland didn't get any stickers," she whispered. "Shhh..." I began, "We don't want to make her feel bad for not getting any." "That's okay," she reassured me, "She knows she was being naughty." We laughed all the way to the car and all I could think of was how much I loved that little girl. "Mommy loves you more than anything in the whole world," I said. "I love you, too!" she countered. "I love you more!" We both smiled, knowing how this was going to end. She grabbed my hand to pull closer in, "I love you the S A M E way!" 

Death of an ego...

There's been a parasite living in my body for the past five years. You can't see it (not even with a microscope) and it doesn't seem to be causing much physical damage, but it's there and let me tell you... it is deadly.

Years ago, in a seemingly different life, I felt a joy that I've never experienced before. I was facing some of my (then) biggest fears; going through a divorce, buying my first house and being single again at 40. I was overwhelmed, scared and convinced that my life would one day consist of a small, cluttered room filled with nothing but newspapers and cats. There were days where I felt paralyzed by the fear of what if, and I found myself constantly trying to talk myself down off the ledge. I remember walking into to Borders one day (rest in peace), hoping to find some answers... and I did. I swiped my card, thanked the cashier and rushed home to start reading. Two days later, the fear was replaced by excitement, followed by an explosion of sheer happiness. I felt like a different person; almost annoyed at the fact that I was so fucking happy. That book, for the record, was Eckhart Tolle's, "The Power of Now." 

In May of 2004 (two months after reading the book), my divorce was final. I moved into my new townhouse on August 15th and two weeks later, set out on a 14-day Mediterranean cruise with one of my best friends. It was a trip I had won in a contest months earlier and one that I had originally booked with my now ex. By October of that same year, I was living in Florida with my best friend (turned boyfriend); and by October of 2005, we were standing barefoot in the warm Maui sand exchanging vows. It seemed as if all my dreams were finally coming true.

It's true what they say... that nothing lasts forever, and who knew that the birth of our beautiful daughter would also mean the birth of a parasite? It's weird how it sneaks up on you and eats away at such a slow pace that you hardly ever notice its presence, but I guess that's why it's called a parasite: it's completely dependent on you. It took a long time for me to notice it and to be honest, if it weren't for the $4k I just spent at the dentist, I might never have. As it turns out, the movement of my teeth started when my husbands industry dissolved five years ago and, apparently, I clench my teeth pretty hard when I feel anxious or stressed. Something else I found... when I get super stressed... I can't breathe! 

So here's the deal (and I can't believe I let myself succumb to another parasite in the same lifetime); when you wake up, it leaves your body... that's it! Five years wasted on tears, depression and constant suffering and all because I let my Ego (a/k/a the parasite) take over. In my defense, those little voices are hard to shut up sometimes and, if you listen to them long enough, you start to believe what they're saying. The trick is to stop them before they spread... cause, believe me, that shit'll kill ya! It's nice to be back. I almost forgot what it felt like to gain control of my thoughts and, although I'll probably experience a few set-backs, it's a wonderful feeling to enjoy the little things that I failed to see through the fog, especially the little thing I love the most. One day I know she'll read this... just incase I'm not around: Mommy loves you, my sweet little chicken-bone! Stay out of your head! xo

Girly girl

I'm sitting here and I'm thinking to myself, "How the hell did she get to be so f-ing girly? (Especially considering her mother's truck-driver mouth)."

I guess there's only so much you can do as a mother to ensure that your daughter doesn't turn into a puppy-totin' Hilton Sister; but when her room metamorphoses into a flaming pink vortex, it's hard not to begin the process for a pigmentation intervention. In my defense: when she was a baby, it was painfully challenging to find clothes that were any color other than pink. We were living in St. Pete Beach at the time, a small community where muscle shirts and flip-flops are considered trend-setting. On that rare occasion that I was able to slip her into a brown onsie, my victory was often met with the confused eyes of a random stranger who struggled to determine the sex of my child. "He's awful cute!" they'd praise. "Her name is Isla."

Through the years, I've managed to lock in on some brands that offer a bit more selection in regard to color and style.  However... now that she's (almost) FIVE, I find that she isn't as easily swayed as she once was and, come Monday morning when I lay out her outfit for school, she is quick to swap my creation (orange tunic, mint-green shimmer tights and perfectly coifed floral headband) with a neon pink tutu, an equally pink tank and an over-sized pink bow barely clinging to her thin, unkempt hair. "I suppose it could always be worse," I speculate, "She could be wearing that damn Rapunzel costume again!" Then again, she could take a turn for the rebellious worse like I did back in the day.  Hmmm... maybe pink really isn't such a bad color after all?! I guess she'll be the judge.

Wake up, Mommy... you're missing out!

I can't remember the last time I jumped up and down and just went crazy... okay; maybe it was the night we couldn't get tickets to see the Dead and ended up in a parking lot near CNN eating kind grilled cheese sandwiches, but that really doesn't count due to a controlled substance that caused us to get a wee bit out of control on that particular evening. Aside from that, I can't recall ever feeling as carefree and ecstatic as my darling little girl seems to be on any given day. Oh, what I wouldn't give...

In the hype of reality, we often loose touch with exactly that: reality. We forget to dance, smile, laugh and enjoy the moments as they stare us down--right in the face, literally! My husband and I have had an exceptionally difficult and frustrating financial struggle for what has turned into five years now. Some days we wake up hopeful, other days we wake up discouraged or worse yet, just plain beaten down. But we keep waking up, and we keep trying to find our way, even through the madness of our own daunting reality. This morning; however, we finally got on the same page. "It's been a long time coming," I thought, "but we're finally ready to get this party started." Though our hilarious and silly little girl seems unscathed by our mental absence, I know I've personally missed out on a lot of great opportunities with her... and those are moments I'll never get back.

The road ahead seems a little more manageable today. It's as if a landscaping crew snuck in while we were sleeping and cleared out all the weeds and debris. If I squint just a little, I can actually see the signs for the first time in a very long time: "Keep off the grass!" So simple, but at least I finally know what it means. Isla and I were supposed to have a play-date today. I know she's going to be disappointed, but I have big plans... not quite sure what they are yet, but rest assured, they will include a mother that is fully present and a child that is ready to be acknowledged--both of which who are truly happy to have the other. I'm no genius, but I'm pretty sure it doesn't get much better than that; unless, of course, we win the lottery... in which case, I will be jumping up and down.

Little miss wiseass...

I used to look at her and wonder what kind of hell she was going to put me through when she hit 13... now I'm gulping hard at 4-1/2 and praying she goes easy on me later. It started out innocently enough; she'd play hide-and-seek with daddy's toothbrush as he would be getting ready for work (later found in silverware drawer), she'd sporadically fly through the house (wearing nothing but a devious smile) as I'd struggle to get her dressed in the morning, and she'd leap behind the drivers' seat the second I unbuckled her car-seat (refusing to budge an inch and locking the door so I couldn't pull her out). These were just a few of the warning signs, but I should have known it wouldn't always be so simple.

Last week, we got into a little tiff over something insignificant... "You're mean! You're a mean mommy!" she screamed. "You don't even know what mean IS!" I argued. "Yes I do!" she reiterated. "Honey, I promise you do not, but I'll be happy to show you what mean is!" My words were met by a two-minute stare-down, followed by silence. I thought we were done; but then, out of nowhere, she looks at me and says, "Mommy, you look really ugly right now." "What?!" I cried. "You look really ugly right now!" My heart sank. I was eleven years old again hiding in a dark closet. "Wow! That was really mean, Isla. Why would you say that to me?" She looked at me with her dirtiest smirk and snickered; "See... I TOLD you I knew what mean was!" "Wait..." I thought to myself, "Does that mean I'm really ugly or are you just messing with me?" For the next thirty minutes or so I battled with the reality of what she said and wished life had a pause, rewind and delete button.

There is a point in time when you have to look inward, for me... that point came in the form of a dull knife with a sharp tip. I've always been somewhat of a smart-ass; well, perhaps always is a bit of an embellishment, but it has taken up a pretty significant chunk of my life. I'll admit, I thoroughly enjoy some good, old-fashioned witty banter (peppered with sarcastic undertones), but there is a fine line between sarcasm and meanness... or IS there? Here's the thing: I don't want my daughter to grow up to be a mean girl. I don't want her to ever say what she said to me to anyone else--even if it was just her way of making a dramatic point. When I was a kid, I had bucked teeth and every day of my young life, my brother would remind me of it, "Bucky-beaver, Bucky-beaver... ahhh huk, huk, huk!" he'd laugh, while sticking his teeth out as far as he could. I would spend a lot of time in my room, looking in the mirror, crying and wishing my teeth were straight. It was the start of what would soon be the end to any self confidence I ever had, and I'm fairly certain it was also the ground-breaking of a very well-constructed wall I built to protect myself from the lashing words that forced their way into my heart.

If I do one thing right as a parent, I hope it is to raise a thoughtful and compassionate child. Though I love her sense of humor, I don't want it to ever be malicious and hurtful--and her comment the other day was a big slap in the face... a wake up call for things to come. Since then, we've had several conversations about it. She claims she really doesn't know why she said it, but I think we all know that manipulation starts early and, if not treated properly, can turn into a boulder heading down a very narrow and mountainous road. I guess in a way, I'm glad she said it. It made me realize that I need to do some serious work on my tongue so that she doesn't have to bite hers so hard. I just hope I don't screw it up... at least not any more than I already have, but I guess you'll just have to keep reading to find out.

Take good care of that shit eatin' grin!

I wish someone would have pulled me aside three years ago and told me to take my baby to the dentist; maybe then I would have been able to stop that train from derailing last week at my daughters expense.  Instead, I sit here freezing my ass off at Starbucks writing about one of my biggest regrets in life.

So here's how it went down... after repeated attempts to get my husband to sign us up for dental insurance, I finally took matters into my own hands and signed us up.  Two days after scheduling Isla's first cleaning, she walks into the bathroom and hands me part of her broken molar.  I'm mortified, disgusted and exhaustively pissed off at myself--what the hell kind of parents have we become?!

I started brushing my daughter's teeth the day she was born... with a washcloth, twice daily.  By the time she was two, she was brushing on her own and flossing every other tooth.  I didn't worry too much; after all, they were just baby teeth.  That would be my FIRST mistake.  Though we had our fair share of snacks and sweets lying around, I justified them all by buying organic/natural ingredients, which would turn out to be mistake #2.  But my biggest mistake was one that I never even saw coming.

As the dentist is going through the massive list of things to do with my daughters smile, she informs me that the juice, or flavored water rather, that we've been giving her has caused major tooth decay.  "But there's no sugar, no calories... nothing!  It's just flavored water?!" I advise, as if seeking approval.  "It's not the sugar," she begins, "It's the citric acid.  It's a killer."  I'm sick.  "I've never heard that before.  Her doctor told us it was great for her.  I had no idea." I advise.  "Maybe so, but it's the worst thing for teeth!"  At this point, I can't talk.  I feel the tears well up in my eyes as she finishes her list, "Baby root canal, two crowns, and three fillings..." We spend the next twenty minutes discussing how to proceed and we both agree that IV sedation is the best option for us.  "I'll call you when I can schedule a date with our anesthesiologist." she tells me.  When I get to the car, I crank up Kids Place Live to muffle myself and I burst into tears.  It's official: I'm a terrible mother.

That night, I sit Isla down for a long talk and introduce her to the new sheriff in town. "No more juice!" I tell her, trembling with fear.  Aside from a few cries for an old friend, she takes it pretty well and we agree that she'll still be able to have (diluted) juice with meals only.  I spend the next few days scouring the grocery shelves for juice that does NOT contain citric acid and; much to my dismay, aside from milk, there are only a few sugar & calorie soaked options.  So, that's how it's gonna be... still, I can't figure it out: I grew up on processed food, candy and straight-up soda.  My parents didn't take me to the dentist until I was five and, even then, I didn't have one cavity.  WTF?

Last Tuesday, Isla told me her back tooth was really bothering her.  "Does it hurt a little or a LOT?" I ask.  "A lot." she says, cupping her jaw with her hand.  I call the dentist to see how soon we can get this IV sedation set up, "She's in a lot of pain," I tell her.  We decide there is no way we can wait until the anesthesiologist can schedule a time and I am forced to go to a third party dentist for immediate care.  When I call them, they tell me they can probably get us in within two weeks.  "No, no, no... that won't work!" I plead, "She's only four... I don't want to risk an abscess.  Please... isn't there any way we can get her in sooner?"  They transfer me to the guy who schedules the IV sedation. He's great and gets me set up for the next afternoon, but I need to get an exam with their facility beforehand.  Poor Isla, never been to the dentist and now she's seen three in one week.  Self-loathing at an all time high.

After the exam, they send us downstairs to talk to the sedation crew.  They inform us that she will be given Ketamine (a/k/a special "K") prior to slipping in the actual IV. Though relieved she won't have the experience/memory of an IV dripping through her veins, the thought of watching my sweet little girl go catatonic is almost more than I can bear... but I couldn't bear not being there for her either.  "It's gonna be a very long day," I thought to myself.  ...And it was.

I can honestly say, the only thing worse than knowing my child was going to be catatonic was watching it happen in real time.  While her father held her hands tight, the doctors held her legs down and injected the shot.  Me?  There I was, kneeling on the floor behind her, sobbing like a baby, stroking her hair and telling her repeatedly, "It's gonna be okay."  It was the worst thirty seconds of my life.  In the end, she had two root canals, two crowns, an extracted molar, a spacer, two fillings and parents who learned a valuable lesson at her expense.  The only positive that came out of this experience is knowing that these are not her adult teeth.  She has a second chance at a healthy smile and I don't dare screw it up for her (twice).  It's a shame they don't teach you the importance of baby teeth when you actually have a baby.  If my pediatrician had encouraged me to take her to the dentist upon getting her first tooth, I would have done so without hesitation.  Live, learn, pass it on; and for Christ's sake... take good care of that shit eaten' grin!

No mommies allowed...

There I was... in the bathroom (minding my own business), getting ready for work.  As I pulled the flat iron through my rapidly fraying hair, I could hear Isla and her father whispering in her bedroom.  "What are you guys doing in there?" I asked.  <Giggling>

A few minutes later, I walked through the living room and opened up her bedroom door.  "Hey!" she screamed, feverishly pointing to a custom-made sign taped to her door, "Can't you read?  No mommies allowed!"  I stepped back to get a better look, and there it was... a skillfully etched image of me in my skinnier days, minus a torso. As I stood in her doorway, laughing and shaking my head, she gave her final warning, "Mommy... get OUT!"

Whether he'll ever admit to it or not, I know her father played a small hand in creating that sign.  What four-year-old knows that a circle with a diagonal line through it represents NO?!  Reluctantly, I walked away and went back into my little hole, where I would spend the next 30 minutes trying to figure out a way to flat iron my face without scarring.  I ignored the continued laughter and whispering that day, but I thought about what it's gonna be like when she starts making her own signs.

I remember, as a teenager, getting so pissed off at my mother... "Go to your room!" she'd scream, and I'd slowly being my journey up the stairs, stomping my feet all the way, then slamming the bedroom door as hard as I could.  "Bitch!" I'd scream under my breath.  A millisecond later, the door would fly open and there we would stand, face-to-face: "What did you just say?" she'd ask, knowing full well what it was that I just said.  Tears (of fear) would fill my eyes and I'd whimper the first thought that came into my head, "I said I had an ITCH!"  "You're damn RIGHT you have an itch. You'd better watch your mouth little girl, before I give you a reason to cry!"  As she'd leave the room, I would feel the blood boiling in my face, but I'd cautiously wait for the door to securely close and listen for the stairs to creak before silently mouthing the word bitch, again.

I can already see the signs, though they haven't been made yet, and I know that this sweet and innocent child is one day going to give me a run for my money.  She is so much like me, sometimes I wonder who the mother is.  She'll stand in the hallway, hand on hips, delicately rolling her eyes, "I don't need to wear a jacket, mom, I'm warm blooded."  

We laugh hard, fight loud and love deep, but there is one rule, she knows, that we must never break: no matter how mad we get and how much we want to scream, we still love each other---no matter what.  That's an easy rule now, she's four, but <fingers crossed> if all goes according to plan, the same rule will apply throughout her teenage years and the remainder of our lives.  Such a simple rule, and such an easy one to break... let's just hope she doesn't.