My beliefs, in a lovely nutshell.

I know, I haven't written. Well, actually, that's not true. I've written a lot. It's also all on my computer, which has no Internet connection. So there it sits. But I had an interesting experience this weekend that I wanted to write about, so here I am, tapping away on my phone.

My stepdaughter was with us this weekend. She is 5 1/2. She can be very outspoken. We were going through downtown Salt Lake City on the train, and Ella thought she saw the Mormon temple. She said, "Someday I will get married there!" Hubby and I just made noncommittal noises to acknowledge her, as neither of us are Mormon,but don't want to discredit her beliefs. Then she turned to Hubby and I said, "Is that the temple you got married in?" I will admit for a moment I considered running away from the conversation, screaming. But I took a deep breath and said, "No, honey, your dad and I married each other under a tree on a sunny, blue sky day. We married ourselves."

Without skipping a beat, she immediately fired back, "Well, then you won't be with your husband in heaven when you die."

At that moment, my heart felt like it had been squashed. She said it so matter of fact, so bluntly, with no emotion behind her words. It was fact to her, and she was telling me I was going to be alone forever. So I decided to NOT lose the moment. I very calmly said, "Sweetheart, Daddy and I don't believe that. The way I married your daddy was right for us, and we believe something different. You can choose to believe what is right for you, and maybe someday you will have different beliefs. But Daddy and I believe that we will always love each other in every life, no matter what."

She didn't have anything to say back to that. I didn't feel angry or put off about her statement, just sad. I suppose I just wish children were given the ability to believe what their hearts tell them during childhood, instead of spouting doctrine before they have any idea what it actually means. She was parroting back exactly what she had been told. Did it mean she believed it? Probably. Did she know what it meant to tell someone their beliefs were invalid because they didn't match hers? No. Did she understand what it meant to us to be told that? Not a clue. But by golly, did she know how to preach it.

I don't ever want to discredit her beliefs, or make her feel like her relationship with her Creator is bad because we don't share the same beliefs. I just want her to understand that every person has different beliefs, even if they all go to the same church or share the same religion. I want to teach her to be sensitive to everyone's beliefs, and show her that they are all valid and important to each individual. And I want her to know that I believe in simply needing pure love to be with someone forever, and that I love her very, very much, no matter what she believes or how she feels about our choices. I think I'm on the right path.

Wish me luck.

Motherly Love

A commonly used phrase around my home is, "It's tough to be me!". While meant sarcastically and somewhat laughingly, in my case, it sometimes comes with some truth. Being a mom is tough. 

I know that there are billions out there that are also feeling the same way, so I'm not going to soapbox about all the dumb stuff. Yes, other mommies are snarky. Yes, we all seem to be carrying around some baggage about our personal image. Yes, our child won't sleep/eat/shut up/poop in the toilet/etc, etc. It's the oldest story in the book, and unfortunately for those of us who want immediate answers on problems, we probably aren't going to get them because your kid is a snowflake. There isn't anyone else out there like yours. I can't get any advice to get my picky eater to just try something. I don't know what to do about  the way he pronounces down as "own-d". I don't have any answers as to the multiple personal choices that I have made for him that I get flak about. Such is the life of a mom. We are snowflake protectors. We are exploring strange new worlds, boldly going where no one has gone before. 

For me, I kinda love it. I love knowing that my kid is unique to me. I know that he comes to me bright and smart and wonderful, and I know his needs. I love that even though we had all night sleeping and lost it when he got sick, I still get to hold him in the night, stroking his hair and whispering to him that he is so loved. He twines my hair around his fingers and pats me on the face. I know that this time is short. I will try to remember that, and try my best to avoid frustration when I'm tired. When he's grown up, I will ache for those moments. They are tiny, fragile, crystalline moments. 

But anyways, it's tough to be me. I work with a baby under one during weekdays, my son every day, and my stepdaughter every other weekend. It's a strange balance. My son goes from being an only child to an older sibling to a younger brother. He has learned to share earlier than most. He has a 9-5 job with me. He has to be flexible and understanding when I ask him to be. And I have to dig deep and find a world of patience for the 11 month old, 18 month old and 5 yr old children in my life. I have to stay on top of where they are developmentally, and I have to be tough on myself when I get tired. I cannot drop the ball. Being a mom is  being gentle and tough at the same time. Sometimes it's more of one than the other, but the sign of a good mom is one that can do both with skill and grace. I hope that I am one of those moms. 

So, if it's tough to be you, too, never fear. You are not alone...although you are your  own universe. You are the master and commander. You choose the fear and the joy. You choose the sleepless nights when the shape of your child's ear is majestic under your fingertip. You feel every heartbeat and count your blessings by them when you are covered in vomit. You smile so big when your son decides this week he is going to try language, for real this time. "More. Up. Mama." You die a little every time you see them stumble over a crack in the pavement, and you kiss the skinned palms and smell the sunshine in their hair. You are perfection and chaos all in one, bound in your ability to  choose your next moment. How beautiful is that??? Oh, mothers are such wonderful things. Can't live with them, can't live without them. 

Ciao. 

My narration of a hat episode.

A hat! Does it fit me? Oh no! It fell off! Do it again. Ok, it's on my head. OH MY GOD IT'S ON MY HEAD. Get it off! I can't get it off! Scream! It's stuck to my head! Scream! No, Mom,I don't want your help from all the way over there!!! Scream! I can't see! I'm going to run away from this hat! (Runs directly into a wall.) My face!! I can't see and now my face hurts! Mom! Mom! Mom! Scream! (Rips hat off head.) I can see! Oh, hey! A hat! (Immediately starts crying.) I hate this hat! I hate all hats! I don't like anything! No, I don't want milk! Scream! (Collapses on the floor, slams head into wood floor.) Scream! Why did I do that!?!? It hurt so bad! Ahhhh! I'm so miserable, I'm going to kick this wall! Ow, that hurts my foot!! Ahhh! Scream! Oh, look, my puppy. I LOVE MY PUPPY!!! I kiss puppy! Aw! Mama, look at my puppy! I hug him! Puppy has dirt on his foot. Oh no! Puppy is dirty! Ahhh! Scream! I hate Puppy! I throw him away! I need a hug!

This was a 2 1/2 minute bit of my son, a hat, and the internal narration I had while witnessing this event. He may never forgive me for this someday, but it's so worth it.

Be grateful, you.

I was going to write about how the last week was a living nightmare. About how my son got a stomach virus and spent 5 full days pooping and barfing all over me. How I watched him disappear into himself, gradually fading more and more until I said enough, and carried his limp little body to the emergency room for an IV of fluids and medication. I was going to write about how I had to hold him down and watch them struggle for a vein, and see him look shocked at the one person who was supposed to protect him from this shit let the bad people hurt him. I was going to write about how much I cried holding him, feeling his little frame shake, the sobs echoing down the halls. But instead I going to walk away from this story. I am going to say, "Maybe another day."

I hurt. My body is tired, my mind feels like old glue. I know that parents go though this kind of stuff, but nothing can prepare you for the feeling of wondering if your kid is going to come back. I watched his spark fade, and it made mine waver and shake.

But my son is back, in surprising speed and fire. He is being his normal toddler self, complete with teething pain, picky eating habits and irrational behavior. For a brief second, I almost miss the the moments when he was sick that he just let me hold him gentle and still. And then I watch him smear peanut butter in his hair, and throw a balloon in the toilet and fall on the floor crying because his shoe fell off. And I remember that fading spark, and I immediately prefer the spitfire pissant that I call my child. He is all here, and more. I wouldn’t trade that for anything, no matter how much I dislike the very early mornings where his dad and stare at each other while he screams at us because he just doesn't want to sleep, but he doesn't want to be awake either. Such is life, and I am grateful.

Being grateful is hard. You guzzle coffee in the morning and wonder how you are going to survive your kid all day after a night from hell...and then the radio tells you about a bombing in the Middle East where a whole family died in one instant. You grimace, and tell yourself to stop being the asshole complaining about a whiny kid. You remember that no matter what, it could be so much worse. That there are people out there that would kill and die for what you have, and a moment ago, you didn't want it. Be grateful. Be grateful for the moments you have with your screaming baby, your cold coffee, your morning commute. They are so precious.

Anyways, I am grateful. I have a maniac baby, a husband who only sighs sometimes, and dogs that shed like crazy but keep the carpet cracker-free. I am so very lucky. Have a wonderful day,everyone.

Teething, my personal hell.

It's just one of those things. Your kid will need teeth in life, and you can't exactly postpone them until it’s a favorable time for you. Like when you have 2 weeks that allow you to stay home, never get out of your pj’s and look like a crazy person. When you can drink yourself sane again late at night, when the screaming finally dissipates. When you can just stay inside because the dark circles under your eyes and the lack of proper shaving leaves you looking, well, less than "put together." That's where I am right now. My eyes are bloodshot. I'm not looking my best. My brain forgot how to turn on the stove today, and hubby found me just staring at it, saying, "uhhhhh.....". That's for reals, people. Teething has this effect on moms. It makes us forget to brush our teeth. It makes cereal and milk a decent option for dinner. It makes us wonder what celebrities do when their kids are insane. Go to Switzerland for a ski vacation and leave the kids with the nanny? Well, crap. I am a nanny. I'm fucked.

I keep holding my kid down to look at his erupting chompers. They never seem any better. They just look like they plan on making me certifiably crazy by the end of the month. I mean, come on! Move a little faster, would ya!?! I don't know how much more I can take! My kid bit me ON THE THIGH this morning. He was so enraged he just sunk his fangs into me, and I went down like a wounded buffalo. Moaning, thrashing, the whole nine yards. It was awful. Nobody believes me, either.

Anyways, if my level of writing descends into the pits of despair, this is my formal explanation. I am sleep deprived, riddled with tooth marks and in need of a vacation. Kate Out.

Scabby thumbs

Writing might be a struggle today. I have two bandaged thumbs....and not because I burned them making bacon, or in a snowblower accident. I am a mild self mutilator.

I used to bite my nails really bad. Like bloody stumps bad. High school was a bad time for manicures for me. My hands were eternally sore, and I would hide my hands because I was embarrassed at their scabby dry condition. Yuck. Eventually, I stopped. I found my hubby, who promptly told me it was a disgusting habit, and I should Just Stop That. So I did. And it worked. So now I have finger nails, but that didn't stop my self-destructive habit. I scratch my thumbs when stressed or worried. I've always done it, as long as I can remember. Needless to say, the inside of my thumbs are a wreck. I peel the skin right off, from the top of the nail, sometimes all the way down to my hand. Not good. Sometimes I get better. Not this winter, though. The dry air doesn't help, and I got stressed this winter. That explains the horrible fingers.

The bandaids keep me from scratching. It sorta works, but only if I keep from getting especially destructive when they come off. I go through a lot of bandaids.

So, today I am rocking a pair of bandaids. I am tapping this out on my phone with one finger, and it's making my hand sore. I think that's all I’ll say today. Wish me luck, poor neurotic, scabby me. I leave you with a picture of one of my thumbs, because it is impossible to take a picture of both your thumbs. Haha.

Gimme a break, SLC.

I am exhausted. The weekend was a long one, thanks to Presidents' Day, and I got more time off, but that seemed to make me more tired. Huh.

I gotta get better about time and planning. I feel like the weekends roll around and I just let the plans fly right out the window. Did I tell myself to keep a better hold on my money this weekend? Sure! Did I also go and buy a small jungle for my apartment because plants improve air quality? You betcha! Thank God for Ikea and cheap plants. I bought a bunch of palms, a jade, a small fern and a big money tree. It already makes me feel better about my apartment, on multiple levels. It filed in some empty space, looks nice, and improves the air quality. Can't go wrong there.

Speaking of air quality, the improving air quality has me thinking. A lot. Hubby and I have been talking about the possibility of our family growing again in the next few years, and while we certainly don't have immediate plans, we are still looking at the time line. And what's worrying me is how, this year, doctors are telling women not to get pregnant in Salt Lake City. Well, hell. That certainly is a bummer. I mean, what are our alternatives? Move away from the Valley? Don't have babies? Wear a hepa filter for 9 months? Yikes. For those of us who live here, that's tough. Hubby and I have already looked at the possibility of moving away, and for now, it really doesn't make any sense. We need to stay here for the next 5 years, minimum. And no offense to hepa filters, but I struggle to wear socks in the winter. How the hell am I going to manage that??

All this thought has me worn out. This winter has been the hardest one on me yet. I have never felt such deep despondency from bad weather. I lived in Buffalo! I should be able to handle it! The thing is, there were 22 red air quality days between January 1 and mid February. That's horrible. That's not bad weather, that's poison. So on top of bad weather, I had poison. No wonder I fell apart a bit.

So my problem is this: Do I pretend that the problem isn't all that bad and do my best next winter? Do I try for baby #2 sometime in the next 2 years and hope for the best? I don't know. I am very,very torn. Let’s hope a situation presents itself that isn't such a giant compromise on me and mine. Cheers, SLC.

I'm bringing sexy back. As soon as I find it.

Ok, I'm a slacker blogger. But in my defense,I had issues. Have issues. We have been without Internet for quite some time, thanks to my wonderful and smart son stealing the air card for the Internet, and promptly forgetting where he put it. That was about a month ago. Since then, I have been poking away at my tiny iPhone blogger app, (which blows, by the way) and cursing the heavens when I get hand cramp. 

Well, today that changes. I am determined to use this new app I found specifically for people insane enough to compose stuff on their phones, and I plan to Get With It. Let’s see how long I last. 

So, in Me News, the air is bad. I mean it. Salt Lake City, you are bad at it. Your air is terrible. I hate you for your copper refineries that wait for nightfall to burn, or your insistence on putting public transportation commuters in the poor house for a monthly pass. I hate your inversion, and I hate not being able to even see down the street in the morning, thanks to the "fog".   Fog my ass. If that's fog, than I'm a purple hippopotamus. Your fog is killing old people and babies, causing miscarriages and health disorders. Your fog is unsightly and horrifying. I mean, come on! This isn't China! This is a smallish city in the mountains. WTF? This city is in a bad way with pollution, and it makes me more and more  interested in moving far away from here someday. This is not my home. 

In other news, it's Valentines Day tomorrow. I think hubby is sending me flowers. I'm excited, of course, because when you are a mom and someone does something nice FOR YOU, you thank them. You adore them. You see the sunlight again and life is good. Also, it's 11 days till my birthday, so it's almost pre-birthday celebration. How fun!!!

Anyways, I'm going to try to upload this random jumble now. Let’s see what happens!! 

Hair, hair, everywhere, and almost no strange fuzz.

I've written a bit about post-baby hair problems. I think, finally, I can write about post-hair meltdown repair and recovery! My baby is 17 months, and my hair is starting to feel like hair again. It has gone through some pretty strange transformations in the past year and a half. It was thick and luscious and amazing right after baby came. I have never had very thick hair, so I was loving it. And then the Great Fallout happened.

My hair was falling out in handfuls, and considering the somewhat sparse quantity I usually have, I started to panic. I avoided ponytails and restrictive hair clips. I barely brushed it, for fear of brushing it all away. My hair was dull as well, tired and limp. I hated it, and started considering cutting it all off and starting over. This was me at my worst, because I like having longer hair.

And then the Fuzz began. I started to grow hair back. It was first seen creeping in around my hairline. Tiny baby hairs dominated my face, creating a forehead fringe. Then they began poking out of my head, sticking straight up. I had a halo of light, downy hairs all around my head.

That's when I noticed the first White Hair. At first, I just thought it was one of my blonde hairs. Then I realized, with much shock and astonishment, that it was, in fact, pure white. OMG. So I ripped it out. And every single one I have found since. Sorry, I'm not embracing my white hairs yet. It just ain't happening.

Luckily, the white hairs have stopped. I think I was going through a stressful phase, and it makes sense. Whew. Anyways, the rest of my hair seems to be on the mend, too. I am growing out the Fuzz properly, although I still look funny with a ponytail. I avoid tying it up a lot, because it still seems fragile and easily broken. I haven't cut it in months, because I'm trying to leave it alone. Good plan? I don't know. I don't really feel the urge to mess with it in the winter. Come spring, that may change. For right now, I'm just going to leave it be.

So, yeah...that's the saga of Kate's hair. Rather typical, if what I've heard it true. Some suggestions for new mamas who are going through something similar: get decent shampoo. It makes a world of difference. Your hair will thank you. I got a nice one with keratin therapy for a while, and now I've got a moisture one for the winter dry air. It helps. I also leave my hair alone a lot. It needs time to bounce back. No teasing it all crazy everyday, and no intense products. (Although I don't really do that anyways...) If you saw me now, you'd be like, "srsly? Your rats nest needs a comb through." And I'd be like "woah! I've got half a cup of yogurt, some Indian food and a little blood in it, thanks to my toddler. I think it looks pretty nice, considering!!!" And it does, thank you.

Voices of Mama

I listen to mama talk. Well, what I mean is that I listen to the way moms talk to their babies. I am always curious about the way they sound. Some mothers slow their voices down, speaking lowly. Some speed up, getting higher and higher. Some have little languages with them, blurring the lines of vocabulary to create something only they understand. Some speak more with their hands and eyes than their words. Some say almost nothing at all.

The reason it is curious to me is because babies understand their mama's speech so well that when someone else talks to them, they look at you like you are a Martian. They know the inflection, they understand the tone. They know the sound so well that begin to flap their arms like little birds if they hear it coming from far away. Being a first time mama, I finally get it. It's like watching a flock of sheep find their babies in a sea of white wool. How do they find their own lamb? Deep down, I know. I could find my lamb anywhere, and he could find me.

My son and I have a bit of a funny way of conversing. My husband says I sound a bit like a garbled hamster, chattering to him. I suppose to him, it might sound like that. (The funny thing is that he has begun to copy me a bit, so we are a family of insane hamsters. Ha.) To me, I am understood, and my son knows me. That's all I expect.

"Ciamar a tha thu, wee boyo? Ha we go have lunch? Yeah? Ok. No, no crackers now. Later. Take bite? Oh, good job! Chew, chew, chew. Ach! Leif! No! Dinna spit that out! *sigh* Ah well. Ha'mere, boy. Mama kiss? Nanks, baby. Ok, more food. Good job."

The little chatter we all have with our children is a huge part of their lives. They listen to everything we say, and eventually, will speak back, probably with a huge amount of our own little idiosyncratic mumbo-jumbo. But it also is our own unique pattern. It creates our own little space that our babies will never forget. They may not remember the way we talked to them, but they will remember how it felt to be understood, and to understand, from the very beginning. Our voices are very, very important, and little do we know how our words shape their lives.