But I'm Perfectly Me

I yelled at the baby last night. She was fussing and struggling, tired and fighting sleep, whining and making that half-cry of hers that just drives to the center of my brain, so I yelled at her. She stopped, stilled, stared at me with huge, wet eyes, and then her face crumpled up and she cried in earnest, fat tears rolling down her cheeks and onto my shirt.

Eventually I rocked her to sleep, and wondered what the hell was wrong with me that I would yell at a baby.

Yeah, I'm tired. Yeah, I'm stressed. Yeah, I'm struggling. Yeah, I haven't slept well the last couple of nights. Yeah, I have been a single parent since last Thursday morning (last Monday if you figure Someone was busy packing and getting ready for his trip), and yeah, I have been trying to catch up with housework that has been left undone for far too long (and is easier to do when no one else is home, like mopping the floors).

So what?

She's a baby. She laughs, she cries, she occasionally shrieks with fury or delight. She can't tell me she's hungry, or uncomfortable, or tired; it's a guessing game. She resents falling asleep. She fights it until the last moment, struggling until she drops off, suddenly limp and warm against me, and that's some of the best stuff right there.

So I yelled at her.

And I felt like crap for it, and cried right along with her.

I held her while she slept that deep, profound sleep that only babies know, and reminded myself that she will not remember, that she will not be scarred for life. When she woke up at three in the morning and wouldn't let me put her down, I carried her into my room and let her cuddle up to me until she dozed off and then woke again at eight. Much of that time, I was only half asleep, aware of the little girl next to me, aware of her breath on my neck, aware of her soft little sighs, aware of her warmth and weight...aware, and grateful.

I do my best, and I am so very aware of how often it is barely, or not quite, enough.

My poor kids...I'm not perfect...

Hard Lessons

When I was a kid, I left my favorite book outside our apartment, on a picnic table in the yard. Horton Hatches the Egg. I loved that book. It was my best friend. I took it everywhere with me. That night, it rained. Mum wouldn't let me go outside to get it, because it was quite a storm...so I knelt on the back of the couch and watched my beloved book get rained on, and I cried and cried. It was ruined, and I was devastated...but I learned a lesson. Bird's father let him have his old iPhone. Bird loved it, and played with the apps constantly. He'd fall asleep with it. Little Dude still wets the bed. The iPhone got wet and died, and T bought the boy an iTouch. Bird has played with it non-stop since he got it, downloading apps and watching videos. It has seen him through long waits in doctors' offices, long car trips, and is part of his bedtime ritual - play in his room until lights out, then play with the iThing (as I call it) until it's time to wrap it up and go to sleep. Then the iThing gets plugged in to charge and Little Dude goes to sleep. Can you see where this is going? Thursday evening, Bird told me his iThing wouldn't work. I told him to bring it to me - sometimes the battery is really, really dead and it just needs charging...but this time I could see something wrong. There was moisture inside the screen. I asked him if it had gotten wet...and he had to admit that he'd fallen asleep with it and wet the bed. I put the iThing in a bag of rice - sometimes it helps. Tonight, I tried to plug it in, but it wouldn't take a charge, wouldn't turn on. I'm going to try again tomorrow night, but don't hold out much hope. The iThing is dead...and Little Dude?? He's devastated. He's been crying in his room all evening. He was warned - if anything happened to the iThing, he would not get another. It is an expensive toy for a child to have. He was warned that he must look after it, was responsible for keeping track of it, and that he could not sleep with it, because if it got wet, it could be ruined. I hurt for him. We all have to learn this lesson...and it's not easy to watch him suffer his loss. In a perfect world, I could let him be sad for a while, let him learn his lesson, and then replace it eventually...but I can't. I don't have the money to buy such an extravagant thing, and T made it clear when he bought it that he would not replace it...so Bird's most cherished possession, his prize, the best thing his Daddy gave him (and part of his attachment to it is that it came from his father, so it's precious) is lost to him. It's a hard lesson, and it sucks.

Weighty Matters

Sprout is reaching a point where she wants to be put down rather than held. She wants to look around, to gurgle, chuckle, coo, and squeak, to wave her arm, kick her legs, get the hang of this "life" thing. She is awake more and more (which means I can't sleep all day any more...dang), smiling, interested in the world around her.

Mind you, I like holding her. There's a special sweetness to a sleeping baby...especially when that baby's been fussing. Her warmth, her little hands resting on me, her limp collapse into me, the weight of her in my arms, these things I treasure, knowing as I do that they are all too fleeting. I will hold her for hours, just loving the feel of her.

Still, it's something of a relief, because even though it's usually just for a few minutes, I can get more done with two hands free...it's awfully challenging doing dishes or laundry or cooking a meal with a baby in one's arms. And typing a blog? Let's just say spell check and the backspace button are a mum's best blogging buddies.

Medicine for the Heart

I'm tired. I'm sore. I'm tired of being sore (What, it's too much to ask that nine whole days after what amounts a major surgery, I'm all healed up and ready to go??). I can sleep on my sides and back again, but have to move very carefully. The recent spate of Winter weather means the Evil Genius has been stuck indoors for several days, and he's full of beans and wants constant attention, which I cannot give him.

Life has not pushed the pause button while we adjust to our new family dynamic. Not that I expected it to - this isn't my first rodeo.

So I'm tired, and I'm sore, and I'm tired of being sore.

Sometimes, out of nowhere, for no reason, I feel my chest tighten, my eyes burn with unshed tears. I want to go lie down and hide under the covers until my hormones play nice.

Luckily, usually just when I could use it most, I catch sight of something like this:

And it helps.

Team Lift

Have you ever purchased a piece of furniture from, say, The Evil Empire? You know, one of those dressers that comes with Some Assembly Required? The kind that comes in a long, flat box and is made of particle board, laminate, paste, and hope?

Ever notice the warning on the box that says "Team Lift" or some variation? It usually shows one stick person trying to lift the box, little pain lines radiating from its lower back, a red circle with a line through it around the scene (like some kind of preemptive police tape), and then a happy picture of two stick figures, each lifting one end of the box and carrying it merrily along their way.

Team lift.

You know what? There are things about a baby that are much easier when you team lift.

Take feedings. Sprout's pretty low-key. She sleeps a fair bit (newborns may sleep up to 20 hours a day - nice life, huh??), wakes up when she hungry or needs a clean nappy (this is one of those babies who resents the hell out of being soiled), and is a cuddle bug. Given her druthers (and ours), she'll eat every three hours or so during the day and then sleep for a good chunk of the night. Don't hate us - we both know that could change at any time.

Around dawn, she usually wakes up quite peckish. One person could have their hands full with meeting her needs. Luckily, there are two of us to team lift. Generally, Someone gets Sprout from her crib and hands her off to me for a boob attempt. Meanwhile, he staggers into the kitchen and preps a bottle. He comes back to bed and when she's done with me (which never takes as long as I'd like), he'll either hand me the bottle or take her himself and feed her. When she's sated, she'll go all limp and nestle in for a nap, and we have a couple of hours of cuddle time. Good grief, that's a sweetness that cannot be described.

Another team lift situation occurred a couple of days ago. I was going to photograph it, but wound up lending a helping hand instead. You're probably better off. There was this nappy, see...it was...erm...epic. Sprout isn't a frequent pooper, but she makes up in volume what she lacks in frequency. She has elicited cries of surprise and dismay more than once, and we're expecting her deposits! Suck grand displays of alimentary prowess are not easy to contain or clean up alone...but again, there's two of us. One fetches a warm washcloth for bum wiping (there are some things no baby wipe was built to withstand) while the other cleans the baby. One gets her freshly frosted (Burt's Bees nappy ointment is my beloved go-to, and I call it butt frosting because it's white and smells loverly), nappied, and clothed. Sprout barely has a chance to protest before it's all done. Sometimes it reminds me of calf roping.

It's not all sunshine and roses. With me fairly out of commission (but not entirely, because despite my claims to the contrary I can't sit on my arse all day and do nothing), Someone has to pick up the slack...and he does. That means he's constantly up and down the stairs for laundry, cooking dinner, cleaning cat boxes, and running trash, recycling, and compost out on top of baby care. Sometimes, Sprout fusses. She isn't a cry-for-no-reason baby, but we can't always figure out what's wrong right away. Sometimes it's gas, sometimes it's a wet nappy, once it was the nappy she had on (it was rubbing and chaffing). Those little fits can last a few minutes and are distressing.

Team lift.

Someone offers Sprout comfort until he can't stand it, then passes her to me. I go a few rounds until I'm ready to cry, then he takes over. Eventually, one of us will figure out what's up and deal with it, and Sprout will snuggle up against us and all is right with the Universe.

There will be plenty of times when one of us is alone and having to do all the heavy lifting. It's nice to know we can and will team lift, though, when the opportunity arises.

Breathing

Yesterday was quiet. The Nurse Practitioner said Sprout was just perfect, excepting that she'd lost another ounce and is now down to 7 pounds, five ounces. It is normal for babies to lose a bit of weight after birth, and she'll gain it back fairly quickly, but we'll be a little more proactive about waking and feeding her during the day. I'm still inclined to let her have her six or seven hours at night, though. Yep, selfish, me...and having gone through this same thing with Bird, I know she'll be fine.

Speaking of Bird, Gypsy borrowed the Evil Genius for the afternoon, took him to the park and let him run wild with her son. He came home a little less Whirling-Dervish-y than usual. A little. Whew.

I was hurting a bit all day...partly healing and partly because maybe I am trying to jump back into what passes for normalcy around here a bit too soon. I loathe being couch/bed bound. I don't like constantly asking Someone to fill my water cup or fix dinner or whatever. He's marvelous about it, and actually chastised me for not asking him to do more...but it flies against my nature and I'm used to being the care giver, not the care receiver. I am used to hiding my hurt and soldiering on, to ignoring my needs in favor of meeting the needs of others. No, no, I'm not into being a martyr...mostly, I'd just rather get on with life...in my experience, folks mollycoddle when it isn't wanted, and I'd just as soon focus on something else until I'm better.

The doctor told me I shouldn't do anything but feed Sprout and rest for at least two weeks before gradually becoming active again. Hah! Two weeks? I can't make it two days...but I have refrained from attempting laundry or sweeping the floor and I cooked eggs and bacon for lunch yesterday because I wanted to and needed to be on my feet for a bit - my arse is beginning to resemble a flat-iron, I'm on it so much! I may even attempt a shower sometime today, for which I am certain Someone will be quite grateful, as simply washing with a rag doesn't quite cut it.

I love to watch Someone with our daughter. His voice, his eyes, and his smile are so full of love, so gentle...whew...good thing I got my knittin' knotted or we'd be in this same boat again a year from now! I'm too danged old to be wanting/having more spawn! The way she stares up at him, puzzling out who he is, her face so serious...the way he looks down at her, marvelling at his wee lassie...oh, how full it makes my heart! She turns toward him when she hears his voice, follows his blurry form with her eyes when she sees him moving about. Completely relaxed in his hands, she'll sigh and fall asleep on him, nestling in to his shoulder or chest, content to be Papa's baby girl.

Yesterday evening I was changing her nappie (one of the few times I've done it - Someone is Johnny-on-the-Spot about nappy changing) and had a quiet moment with her. It has always awed and amazed me how a tiny baby can engender such vast feelings. I said a little blessing - "May the Gods who blessed me with you bless me also with a long life, so that every day I may love you, Little Big Brother, and Papa a little more."

It has only been since Tuesday, but already I cannot imagine a life any different than this one. I love my family...love how we are growing into each other...love how Sprout falls limply and completely asleep on Someone's chest, warm and safe under her cuddly blankie, happy when she's skin to skin with him and can smell/feel him. While my heart was the first primal rhythm she knew, and will always be the tempo in which she finds comfort and peace...his is the second drum which will calm her, to which she will dance in her dreams.

Last evening, he was holding her, giving her a bottle (you'll hear more about that later), and my eyes teared up a bit. There was such love between them, and an aura of peace about them.

I had to remind myself to breathe...I was sitting so still, loathe to disturb the quiet...loathe that even one hushed exhalation should flutter across the room and interrupt their tableaux.

Life, though, has a way of going on whether one will or no, and soon enough Someone was busy cooking dinner and I was comforting a mysteriously unhappy baby - she had one of those jags that only babies are capable of, that cry that at once pierces the ears and heart and drives parents to distraction trying to discover whatever the matter could be and right it at once. Poor thing...likely it was just gas, a bubble that wouldn't come or go and so made her middle ache. She finally calmed and went to sleep, once more our peaceful wee bairn.

In the last few days, I have had several happy occasions to remind myself to breathe...and I anticipate plenty more in the future, which makes me smile. It'll help the other "breathe" moments - the ones fueled by doubt, by hormones on the rampage, the ones that overwhelm me and threaten to overshadow everything else - pass.

So...what's made you stop and take a breath, lately??

Bah! Or Some Junk

Woke to rain and ice, how nice.

I drove into the city for my weekly appointment with the Specialist, and that was fun...but at least people were being slightly more cautious than usual. Half of the parking lot was blocked off because of ice, and there were icicles hanging from car mirrors and roof racks. I was very careful walking into the building - didn't want the ambulance sitting in the port cochere to have a second passenger!

Sprout is doing fine. Little minx, she's turned toward my spine so we can't see her face on the ultrasound, but she was happy to show me her butt.

Came home to a crying Evil Genius. I usually let him know the night before I have an appointment so he'll know I won't be here when he wakes up, and he's fine with that. I forgot to last night. He saw me driving away and though maybe I was leaving him here and not coming back.

Ouch.

We had a cuddle and read a bit, and I once again reassured him that I would never, ever, just go off and leave him. He's still feeling clingy, though.

Sigh.

I would like to go hide under the covers for a bit...but there's no vacation from being Mommy, no Spring break or Summer break, or even coffee break. 24/7 for the rest of my life, and most of the time I'm more than fine with that.

I need to finish addressing holiday cards. Every year, the list shortens. People die, or move, or grow so distant as to make it seem moot. Sometimes I wonder if it's worth it. Does anyone even give a damn? Would they notice if the little cards with the photos of the Evil Genius tucked inside and the hand-written greetings stopped coming?

There are one or two folks whom I believe are happy to receive what may be the one missive I fire off during the year...but the rest? I wonder why bother. Who cares?

I'm having a difficult time mustering good cheer, this year. Depression sucks. Anger sucks. Being broke and broken sucks. It might be more bearable if there was an end in sight, but given I've hauled this load since I was a child, and given that it has never, ever, lightened...I ain't holding my breath.

Nothing's right, right now.

It'll pass. It always does. Sooner rather than later, I hope...because ready or not, whatever my frame of mind may be at the time, come late January a certain Sprout is going to spring into the world...and I'd like her to see me smiling.

And Then He...And Then He...And Then He...

When I was about six-ish (give or take), I stammered. It would take a try or two to get a sentence out. I can remember Mum telling me to stop, think about what I wanted to say, and then say it.

It wasn't that I couldn't speak properly or clearly...the trouble was that my mind was going so fast, my mouth often couldn't keep up.

I sang a lot.

I remember reading long ago that people who stutter when speaking don't do so when singing. Hmm.

Every now and then (maybe once every two years or so), I still have a slight stutter. Folks don't usually notice, but I'm aware. Sometimes humming helps make it go away, if it's particularly bad.

The Evil Genius has an odd habit of speech - not quite a stutter or stammer, but...almost. Sometimes he'll repeat the first half of a sentence three or four times before finally getting it out...and often, he'll change course halfway through and start a whole new sentence. It's because his mind is whipping along so fast, he can't catch the thoughts in his teeth and articulate them.

I tell him to slow down, to wait, to let the thought finish forming, think about what he wants to say, and then say it.

I think I was a better listener at his age. But he does try.

He's not aware of how exasperating it can be, waiting for him to "spit it out", and he hates when people try to finish a sentence for him, so we're stuck trying to be patient and as often as not failing.

From time to time, without really giving it much thought, he'll sing what he wants to say. I have not taught him this.

I know it'll pass - Big Brother did the same thing when he was a kid, and I've known countless kids in my "career" in childcare who did it...brains zipping along while they struggle to keep up.

I think part of the solution comes when they finally realize that they can be silent...that not every thought is worthy of vocalization, that they can condense it all down into concise communication...which means we lose some of their storytelling, some of the verve and joy in what they say, but we gain clarity, precision, and coherence.

I wonder if it's a fair trade...

Relentless

There's a Simpson's episode - please don't ask which one - wherein Bart is being a complete little boy. He's playing, making his own sound effects and music to help fuel his imagination.

Homer is trying to concentrate on something.

He yells at Bart, telling him to be quiet. Bart falls silent, looking hurt...crushed...

Poor Homer.

I know how he felt.

Little boys...little kids...don't have an "off" or a "mute".

They are on 24/7, full tilt. When they're quiet, that's when you worry.

And as much as parent love their kids...whew...sometimes it's difficult not to yell at them to please, for the love of all that's holy, just shut up for a minute; just stop with the incessant noise, the constant barrage of little kidness; I don't need to hear every little thought that flits across your mind, I don't care about the details of whatever game you're playing now, I neither need nor want your presence wherever I am so stop following me around the house and forcing me to be an unwilling audience to your one-man show, and can I have a moment's peace??????

You can't say that to them, though. They don't understand the value of silence or solitude. They don't know about the need for a few minutes to just...think...or stare out into the void...or write uninterrupted. They're kids, and they understand play, and love, and tickling, and the world revolves around them and why wouldn't we want to be/take part in the wonderment that is they?

Children are walking, talking egos.

I love my Evil Genius...even when I'm exasperated. I know I'll miss these days when he's a few years older and won't speak to me for days, surrounded by a fog of sullen teen silence. I know I'll wonder what happen to the hugs, the kisses, the little guy who thought hanging out with/helping Mom was the best thing ever. Knowing, though, doesn't always help...although I've managed, so far, to keep from screaming at him or telling him to just shut up...I must admit my head has throbbed a time or two with the need for that release.

He's just being himself...his wonderful, brilliant, relentless self.

Groan...

Parenthood

Yesterday afternoon, the Evil Genius and I found ourselves watching a movie. We'd met my sister-out-law J, and Bird's dad T for breakfast, come home and done a few chores, and I needed a little break...so I turned on the TV in the middle of the day. I haven't done that in a while, but I was tired of cleaning and shuffling toys, and the mess will be there tomorrow or the next day when I'm ready to clean it up.

So we watched Parenthood.

I adore that movie.

Of course, one has a different take on the film depending upon where one is in life...and right now I'm a mum, I'm pregnant, and I'm hormonal, so I got sniffly and a little scared and kinda thoughtful.

It reminded me of something I told Mum a few years ago. Story time...

A few years back there was a spate of storms that ripped through the Southeastern US, including our little corner of Redneck Central. These storms were quite rude, waiting until the wee hours when folks were asleep to come and party, sending tornadoes this way and that and wreaking havoc.

One tornado thought to pay a call on Big Brother's neighborhood. It missed his his house by a bit, although it did knock down all his trees on its way by. As the storm approached his house, he thought to call Mum and warn her. He told her to call me, too, as he was herding his family into their storm closet and he figured I'd need a heads up.

Mum ended the call, looked at the clock, and went back to sleep. She called me later the next morning.

She knew I didn't need a warning. Never mind why.

When she called and told me about her wee-hours call, she asked "What was he thinking??"

I told her "You're Mommy. No matter how old we get, no matter where we are or what we're doing, you'll always be Mommy. It never ends."

At once exhilarating and terrifying...because it is so very true. No matter how old I get, when things go bad or I need reassurance or comfort, I reach for Mum. I dread the day she's not there, reaching back.

Not matter how old he gets or where his life takes him, the Evil Genius will always be my sweet boy, my heart, my best good thing. Don't get me wrong...the Sprout will be my sweet girl, my heart, and my best good thing. Mums can do that...bend the physics of love around our children any way we like, redefine vocabulary to suit our reality.

I hope that, when my children are "grown", I am as good a mother as my Mum is to me. Gods know, I lean hard on her, more often than I'd like...and although she gets tired, sometimes, of propping me up...still, she does. Because she's Mum...Mommy...Ma...

And that's a job title that we never lose.

I promise (maybe).

I read this over at Noble Pig, and it reminded me of when I was a kid and one of my (many, many, no really, I can't count them all) quirks; I don't make promises.

Not often, anyway.

When someone does manage to wrangle a promise out of me, I'll promise to try, but not to do. I won't make a promise I am not certain of keeping - if I think weather, time, humanity, or my own perfidy will keep me from keeping my word...I won't give my word.

Promises flew through the air like popcorn from a lidless hot-air popper when I was a kid. I can't begin to tell you how many trips to Disney World were promised by my grandmother as rewards for good grades and/or behavior - but I can tell you that I went once, with someone who never promised we'd go, just showed up one day and asked Mum if he could borrow me and my brother for adventures in the home of the rodent with a side jaunt to Cape Canaveral (Thanks, GDH - that was awesome). Other than the one person who'd never promised to take us anywhere, the trips never happened. When I was six, I really believed the promises...then I cottoned on.

From my grandmother I learned that people make promises because it's more convenient than being honest, because they want something from you.

Now, I am not referring to mistakes like mixing up dates or times, or when something catastrophic happens and things can't be avoided.

Nope. I'm talking about promising your ten-year-old daughter that you are coming to visit her at boarding school this weekend and not showing up. And she refrained for going roller-skating with the rest of the dorm because she was waiting for you. So instead, she spent Saturday in a tree coming to the conclusion that she meant absolutely zero to you. That's what I mean.

If it happened only once, that would be one thing - but more than thirty times in four years? Umm...that's a pattern, a habit.

From my father, I learned that promising is easier than telling someone they mean less to you than the party, the boat, the hunting trip, the inconvenience of the effort of keeping that promise.

I was probably fourteen when the last straw hit me. It was such a stupid thing, really - my grandmother decided I wasn't fucked up in the head enough and maybe an eating disorder and an unhealthy attitude towards food were just the things I needed, so she placed me on a special diet. Easy for her to do - I lived at a boarding school where she didn't have to implement this bizarre diet - the staff did. Bless their hearts.

I was seriously limited in my dining options, since I wasn't permitted to consume anything with wheat, oats, sugars, yeast, or anything remotely resembling "tasty".

One night a week, we planned our own meals. One week, the other kids decided to have root beer floats for desert. I didn't say anything, just knew I wouldn't have any. As usual, I would probably just leave the room.

One of the relief house-parents knew about my restrictions and offered to get me some special ice cream - I couldn't have a float, but at least I'd have a special treat, too. Since I'd been living on rice cakes, tofu, and tree bark for months, I was happy to believe in her promises.

The anticipated night came, and we had our dinner (lasagna for everyone else, salad with no dressing for me)(yes, some eighteen years later I remember - that garlic bread smelled good!). I didn't mind that I couldn't have lasagna or garlic bread - I had a treat waiting for me.

Or...did I?

Yeah, umm...it seems that a certain relief house parent (I don't have room to explain this, here. maybe some other time) had forgotten.

So while the other kids were digging in to ice cream and pouring root beer, I was quietly waiting for my promised Tofutti. A plate was thrust under my nose. A plate with rice cakes on it. As an added bonus, some old, rancid, organic, no sugar added, stir the oil back in every time you open it peanut butter had been swiped across the tops. Festive.

And definitely not on par with Tofutti, ice cream, or root beer floats. I asked what had happened to the Tofutti she'd promised. She casually said "Oh, I forgot about that" and she made it clear that it meant nothing to her. I started to cry. Yes, I know, it was a stupid thing to cry over...but she'd promised. I'd looked forward to it for a week, endured meals I wouldn't feed to the worst of humanity knowing I had this one small thing in my future. I mentioned that she promised, and she basically told me to get over it, I was being childish (Umm, hello? I was a child!!), and it didn't matter.

When I declined the offered taste treat, I was called ungrateful - ungrateful for the effort this woman had made in un-bagging some stale old rice cakes and topping them with something akin to baby shit but with less appeal.

I took the plate, stared at it for a moment, and did something I'd never before done. I lost my shit. I threw the plate at the woman (I missed, but the offending cakes did stick to the wall in a most satisfying manner)(organic peanut butter apparently makes a fine stand-in for wallpaper paste, should you run out) and left the dorm. She yelled at me to stop, and I kept right on going.

I'd never rebelled against anything, never lost id like that before. It was a revelation. She stood in the doorway screaming, and I kept right on walking, over the lawn, past the big hexagonal school building, and into the woods. If I had known the word "fuck" at the time, I think I might have used it.

That was the last time I believed in a promise. Oh, sure, I'll hope that someone means it, but I don't put any faith in the vow - I don't trust promises, and (sadly) I am rarely disappointed in their breaking. I am (more sadly) usually stunned in their keeping.

I, myself, will not be forsworn. I'll die first. That's not hyperbole - I mean it. If I promise a thing, I will kill myself keeping my word. I have not broken any of the rare promises I've made in life, nor will I. I may ask to be released from a promise, but I won't break it. I won't disappoint my son the way I was disappointed - I won't wound him with that kind of carelessness. I won't do that to anyone.

Hell, I even hedged my wedding vows, promising not to love forever, but to remain as long as love lasted. No "'til death do you part" for me. Nope. It was "As long as love lasts". I won't promise forever...won't even promise next week. I'll promise the moment I'm in and no more.

I could go on about the promise that's kept me kicking through this old life, and the aftermath of my tempestuous, teen-angsty blowup over Tofutti (today, I would consider it a favor if you didn't give me any)(and doubly favored am I if you never, ever offer me anything with tofu it), but this has gone on enough.

I'll post that other stuff another time. I promise.

Oh, and? Noble Pig didn't break a promise - she made a simple mistake from which she and her child will recover and learn. I just feel the need to point out, again, that it's not the same...because she's a terrific woman, a loving Mum, and human. It was the disappointment that reminded me...that's all...

See-Saw

Bird just wandered into the living room and lost his mind over...I have no idea what. Something to do with his cup. We told him he can't have an open cup in his room, it has to be a straw or sippy cup - they don't spill. He wasn't pleased about that...

He came into the living room and told me he never wanted to drink from that kind of cup again, then burst into tears and didn't want me to look at him. Huh. Kids are an enigma. I coaxed him onto my lap - he didn't want to climb up while there were tears in his eyes, but they wouldn't stop coming, wouldn't leave him alone. I told him he could wipe them on my shoulder - no, that wouldn't work because he was wiping them on his own should and they were still coming. His words. He didn't want his mum to see him crying. Good grief, he's only FIVE!! Can't he be allowed free emotional release for a few more years before he has to man up?? I don't know who told him big boys don't cry, but I will knock them into next week if I find out they did it again. I will hunt them down and knock them into next week. Let my kid be a kid, for cryin' out loud!!

Like I said, I managed to get him onto my lap, and I asked him why he was crying...was he sad? Angry? I explained that I cry when I'm angry or sad, or even happy, which is completely unreasonable. He smiled. I told him it was OK to cry when he felt strongly about something - it helps to get the sad and mad out of him. I also told him that I found it helpful to talk about what made me sad or mad. He thought about that, then explained about how he wanted big-boy cups in his room, but he was bad at night and he couldn't have them. Wha...? I told him he's not bad at night...I know sometimes (OK, most of the time) he plays even after the lights have gone out, but he DOES eventually sleep. Poor little guy. I think it's easy for the mind of a child to blow things out of proportion. I think he was crying because he talked himself into believing that his straw cups would go away forever, and it broke his heart. And everything else followed.

I held him close and told him a mommy story (one I made up, he likes them even if they are about as interesting as watching tar harden) and sent him to bed. One little outburst later, he snuggled on down clutching his straw cup. Oh my goddess, I love him so much, it makes my heart stutter. I can't keep him from hurting, even if it's only over a cup...but I can still make it better. Mommy power still in full effect. Whew.

Up, down, up, down...