The Worst Roommate in the World

A friend once told me that kids are the worst roommates in the world.

Boy, was she right.

Over the course of twenty four hours, Stella proved my friend right. After waking the Papa and me at about 5:30 am (Example One) and demanding a forty five minute story session, she deftly swiped everything atop my bedside table – books, lotion, picture and glass of water – off and onto the floor (Example Two).

She then decided to take the garbage out of the waste bin in the bathroom and tried to put it in the bathtub. Filling things is fun, right? (Example Three) She did, however, redeem herself on this one since she then quickly morphed into her let-me-put-it-in-the-garbage-myself-or-I-will-throw-a-total-fit mood and cleaned a good bit of the mess herself.

She then needed her diaper changed. I’ll let this little example pass since, well, you know.

At breakfast, my sweet cherub decided to spill all her milk onto her tray and then attempted to feed her oatmeal to our cat Vinnie. (Example Five) Fast forward to that evening where Stella decided that throwing marinara sauce all over the floor would be a decidedly valid lesson in physics. (Example Ten – remember we’ve fast forwarded here.)

Oh, and I haven’t even mentioned the emotionally unpredictable nature of this wee roommate. On good days, a full belly and rested head gives us some wiggle room as far as emotional health. On bad days, I honestly feel like I live with Sybil. (Example… oh, forget it.) On those tough days, Stella does feel like a crummy roommate. I find myself walking away, muttering silently in my head “it’s a good thing you’re cute, buster.”

But this is the thing: it always feels totally worth it. The mess. The piles. The frenzy. The complete irrationality of her whole self. Don’t get me wrong – there are days when I have to sit myself down and explain why it’s all worth it, and there are other days when I’ve earnestly looked for the exit sign and a parachute. But I always find myself convinced by my little pep talks, and I find comfort knowing that my parachute takes the simple form of a Saturday afternoon to myself. More and more, I can hear a calm and stable voice in my head telling me that this super needy, messy and unpredictable stage is going to pass before I know it and that she’s not doing any of this crap to bug me. In fact, she pulls most of these shenanigans because she feels loved and supported enough to discover and explore freely in our little family.

So she’s not the ideal roommate. I know this for sure. And one of my goals as a Mama is to raise this child so that she eventually becomes a roommate someone jumps over mountains to adore and cherish (as we do now). And hey, I really do have to remind myself that she’s still better than many roommates I’ve had in life. She’s worlds better than the one lovely lass I shared space with in college who, after dropping out, moved into our coat closet and then had the nerve to complain about the rest of us making noise in the living room at two in the afternoon. That’s right – two in the afternoon. Oh, and did I mention she actually peed in my boyfriend’s cup because she just didn’t have the energy to walk to the bathroom. Yeah, Stella may color on the table and need a new outfit after a dramatic blowout, but she’s better than that. And she’s definitely cuter too.

The Groove

I cringe at cockiness. Arrogance, among a few other unseemly traits, is one of my pet peeves. I’m all for confidence, but cockiness irks me. So when I catch a whiff of my own brand of smug, I’m downright mortified. But I suppose my few moments of prideful boasting help keep my ego in check because those moments always always always lead to moments of great humility. (Did you read my recent post about my honorable Jiggle Bum Drum? Case in point.) If I’m lucky, those moments of humility lead to moments of clarity.

So I’ve been noticing over the last year and a half that I have an almost prophetic ability to anticipate when I will dip into Crappy Mama Mode. It’s not that I actually become a Crappy Mama. It’s that I feel like a Crappy Mama. Mamas and Papas, you see the difference and hence feel my pain, right? This woo woo intuition doesn’t stem from my deeply centered state of spiritual consciousness. I don’t tap into my inner yogi for guidance here. I simply trip over my own little arrogant speed bump and BAM! I’m thrown back into the grind. Let me explain.

Life runs in cycles. We live, we love, we laugh, we cry, we breathe – all in cycles. Sometimes life flows effortlessly with the livin’, lovin’ and laughin’ components falling into place in abundance and with ease. And sometimes life’s flow stutters and splurts along like Chris Farley in a tutu with even that simple art of breathing providing challenge and struggle. I don’t really have a name for the latter (other than “Ugh, I’m in that crappy zone again!”), but I often refer to the good stuff as The Groove. When I’ve hit The Groove as Stella’s Mama, I have infinite patience, respect and adoration for my peanut. I happily follow her from room to room carrying a bowl of steamed carrots because I totally get that it’s just too much to ask of her to sit still while eating. I read the same story over and over and over again and entertain the following exchange with amusement:

Stella: What’s that?

Mama: A Ladybug.

Stella: What’s that?

Mama: A Ladybug.

Stella: What’s that?

Mama: A Ladybug.

Stella: What’s that?

Mama: A Ladybug.

Stella: What’s that?

Mama: A Ladybug.

Stella: What’s that?

Mama: A Ladybug.

I love The Groove. I feel strong and capable, exuding confidence about my actions and decisions as one of those never-annoying-but-oddly-enlightened Mamas. Oh yeah, I love The Groove.

Maybe it was all the Shakespeare I read in high school, but I sense that whenever I experience a bit o’hubris, reality crashes down with a big ol’ body check to the ego. Comedic fodder? Totally. Painful drama? Absolutely.

But fair dues, really. I’m not one for martyrdom or painful struggle. I’m just starting to recognize the balance of it all. Whenever I feel I’m in the Groove, I soak it up for all it’s worth. And the moment I start to acknowledge – or God forbid I actually brag a little – about how I’m rockin’ some aspect of the Mama gig, I’m nudged not-so-gently back to reality with a crash course in How To Live Life Without Patience of Energy. I wonder if my journey through The Groove and Crappy Mama Mode allows me to learn two things: First, life is simply full of ups and downs. And you can sing "Que Sera Sera" only so much. When you’re up you’re up, and when you’re down you’re down. Second, I think my Mama highs are actually enhanced by my Mama lows. I have a fantastic spectrum of experience to draw from when I reflect upon my “performance” as Stella’s Mama. I know what it’s like to be the Rock Star Mama who remembers the binky, the blanky, diapers, a snack and an extra change of clothing as she heads out the door with an excited babe. I also know what it’s like to be That Mom who has to humbly admit to the outside world that she in fact loses her patience – in public no less – from time to time.

So is it all about balance? In part, I guess it is. I think it’s also about faith in a strange way. Once I acknowledge that I’m diggin’ life in The Groove, I have all but secured my future in Crappy Mama Mode for the next week. (If I acknowledge The Groove out loud, watch out. It’s like the heavens rain down a gigantic Jinx Coca Cola Ninety Nine upon my not-so-humble head.) But, more importantly – and this is where the faith comes in – whenever I’m steeped in Crappy Mama Mode, I occasionally remember that The Groove will return. This too shall pass. And oh, the comfort that prophesy brings. It helps me dredge up a semblance of compassionate patience and makes that journey around the house with a bowl of steamed carrots all the more bearable, dare I say humorous.

Dignity Be Gone: A Mother's Journey Toward Humility

For totally self-imposed reasons – a substantial remodel – our life has been a bit crazy lately. We’re all a bit spent, and the emotions are close to the surface between Stella, the Papa and me.

Yesterday was another long, long, long day. Stella decided not to nap at all after waking bright and early at 5am. She then awoke today, chipper as ever, before 5am. Needless to say, my first thoughts after hearing her cry “Mama” that early weren’t, “Oh, my beautiful, precious babe!”

I dragged my sorry sleepy buns (note these particular buns) out of bed, read a gargantuan pile of stories to an eager toddler, played blocks, puzzles, dollhouse and basket climbing (an official sport according to Stella) all before 6:30am.

As we were eating breakfast, I looked at Stella with not-as-fond-as-I’d-like eyes and said aloud, “Okay, buddy. We’re going to choose to have a good day. That’s just how it’s going to be today, so where’s Mama’s smile?” Stella played along and I felt a meager but noticeable life in spirits. Good enough.

At least we’re all healthy and safe, right?

Totally right.

Well, Stella didn’t really settle for simply seeing Mama’s forced and weary smile. She donned her entertainer hat this morning and kicked my hiney (again, note the hiney) for real. She aimed for deep, dramatic belly laughs. And boy, did she deliver.

As we were coloring, I happened to… well…. pass gas? Can I say that here? Oh goodness. I’m literally blushing as I type this. Oh well. I suppose it’s good for me to overcome my aversion to public conversations (or displays for that matter) about bodily functions. After all, life with kids doesn’t really allow for physical modesty (remember the tush… hang in there). Assuming that Stella would carry on coloring without much ado, I was quite shocked when she uttered her new word – fart. Yup. My sweet girl shouted at the top of her lungs “FART!” and proceeded to point at me as she jumped up and down with absolute glee.

Fabulous.

I guess I can’t really blame it on the cat anymore. Or Stella for that matter.

Okay, so my humility was tarnished at this point, but I felt okay as we headed upstairs for the bath. After getting out of the bathtub, I stood at the sink brushing my teeth in my bath towel. Well, towels drop. They drop quickly. And I was simply too busy and hurried to care. We’re comfortable with “being nekid” in this house, so no big deal.

Of course, that was before I felt a tiny hand gently slap my buns. And of course, that was before I then heard laughter from a tiny child who had gently slapped her mama’s buns. Yup, Stella felt powerfully compelled to walk over to my bare bum and give’er an ol’ slapperaroo. And I supposed the jiggles that ensued were simply too amusing to ignore. She couldn’t contain herself (and nor could I) and howled with laughter.

Fascinating and entertaining – that’s what I’m here for.

So after being called out on my… well, you remember… and having my backside serve as a jello-like drum for my daughter, I really couldn’t fight it anymore. Despite the chaos and despite our collective fatigue, we are having a silly and happy day today. We’re tired, sure, but we’re reveling in Stella’s new “skills” and celebrating how absurd this glorious life can be.

A Favorite Moment

We have stacks of books everywhere in our house – a mess I’ll never detest. And Stella has picked up on this whole book thing. She’s obsessed. At first, I honestly felt a little smug about the whole thing. As an English teacher and an obsessive reader myself, I was pretty darn proud of my little reader. But as she’s grown, her fascination with “stories” has grown more and more fierce. For a small toddler, she possesses an uncanny ability to sit and focus on stories for about an hour each morning. Each night, she and I pick out a batch of new stories for the next morning, and with each passing month, she’s interested in longer and more developed stories. She’s recently discovered my old Paddington Bear books which has me beyond tickled. But I guess I could say be careful what you wish for because I now crawl out of bed with a hoarse voice from all that reading.

You won’t catch me complaining though. This simple morning ritual is one of my favorite moments of the day. After snuggling in bed together (the Papa leaves for work before any sane human should ever wake) and saying good morning to the cats, Stella asks for stories. We cover our eyes with great dramatic effect as we turn on the bedside lamp, hunker down with cozy blankets and read, read and read. It doesn’t matter what mood I’m in when I hear her squawk “Mama” from her crib, reading with Stella in the morning aligns my Mama juju and helps remind me from the get go of what a sweet, genuine and curious girl I have.

Stella seems to revel in these morning moments and asks for shorter encore performances periodically through the day. Like most eighteen month olds, Stella is on the go go go all day long. She possesses an enviable amount of confidence and strength and she knows it. Life is full. But there are moments when I can tell she feels almost betrayed by her abundant energy. She needs to slow down, but she can’t quite figure out how to move from frenzied point A to chilled out point B. Reading allows her a path toward that calmer state. And I wonder if she lingers so unusually long during these morning reading jags because she subconsciously knows that she’s got a long and busy day ahead of her.

And of course, this reading gig isn't so bad for me either. The other day, Stella handed me yet another story to read. It was around 4:30 in the afternoon – the witching hour, help us all – and reading another story frankly sounded horrid. I was drained and tired of giving. And giving. And giving some more. And I was tired of hearing my own voice. Silly, but true. But like all the mamas out there, I put on a happy face and read on. Well, Pollyanna be proud! As I hit page six of the story, I realized I was engrossed and relaxed. Like Stella, I allowed myself to sink into the book and found myself transformed. As I turned the last page, I found myself wishing for Stella to utter that magic story word. "More?" These reading jags don't serve as a surefire cure all, but they do provide a tune up of sorts - an oil change if you like - and I'm realizing both Stella and I need these little mood tweaks as we navigate life together.

So my voice is a bit rough right now, and I will honestly admit that reading Chrysanthemum six times in one day is a bit much for my taste – it’s a fabulous tale, but c’mon – but I’m soaking this up for all it’s worth. This fascination will most likely shift – as things tend to do with all things toddler – but it’s wonderful while it lasts. And in the meantime I’ll speak hoarsely with pride, pop the kettle for a cup of tea and help my hungry peanut find another story to explore.

The Secret Life of Toys: Part Two

Meet Lenny.

Lenny is French. Lenny is handsome. Lenny is downright debonair.

Lenny found love early on in life. He was thrilled to be embraced by a gooey spastic girl named Stella. He was beyond ecstatic that she loved (chewing on) his nose; his mother always told him he’d find someone who would grow to appreciate his rather unique features. Stella and Lenny were inseparable. For two glorious weeks, Lenny truly felt he’d found his soul mate, his life partner, his amour.

And then Stella stopped cut her first tooth.

Lenny suddenly found himself alone. A lot. He would sit idly in Stella’s crib as she discovered the joys of sitting up and the sensual pleasures of… well, let’s just say less desirable creatures.

It was a long two weeks, and he’s never really been the same.

Now Lenny lives in a turtle.

That’s right, a turtle. Lenny lives with countless other castaways. He finds them all tolerable, but he must admit to an elitist sense of superiority of these types.

But there’s something about this Wanda girl. He has his eye on her. She likes the cinema and seems like a girl who knows how to love without reservation.

And she sort of jingles when she walks. Oooh la la indeed.

I'm So Totally Embarrassed

A wee sample of my bedside reading...

A fabulous parenting book (the only one, in fact, that I read these days)

Almost always on my bed stand. Stella's middle name is Scout for a reason.

The Papa, Stella and I adore this story. It's not a newbie, but it's a goodie.

I love books that focus on kids with their dads. I love watching Stella and the Papa read this together even more.


Wait a minute... how old am I?

So I was recently sucked into the fanatical world of Edward Cullen and friends. Yup. I, a thirty-two year old mama, got totally hooked on Twilight. It’s not a series I ever thought I’d like. It was written for teenage girls and I had a crazy irrational fear of vampires as a kid. So consider me surprised that I found myself staying up until the wee hours every night reading all four of these silly books and loving every crush-worthy minute of it.

Of course, the English teacher in me can’t help but filter at least some of the books through my Overly Analytical Lens. I, along with a billion other “older” readers, can’t help but wonder why this book grips young girls (and, ahem, other older female types) with such fervor. It’s not like it’s the best story ever written. The book is clever, for sure. And it’s hard to not feel swept up by the urgency of the mystery and romance. But it’s still pretty much a silly thriller wrapped up in a grandly cheesy love story.

And I can’t really decide whether or not the heroine is worship-worthy. Clever? Check. Feisty? Check. Stubborn? Check. But is she strong? I’m not sure.

In any case, it’s got me thinking about how I would present such a story to Stella. (Let me introduce you to my Mama Lens.) I wonder if I would want her to be swept up by such a romance. As the heroine in the novels even admits to the reader, epic romances are often so tacky and overly dramatic. And constantly being the target of some dangerous villain - ya know, wicked vampires and werewolves… the usual – is sort of, well, victim-y. And I’m not sure I like that. Actually, I know I don’t like it.

I really don’t want Stella growing up believing those ridiculously miscalculated Lifetime Movies for Her are accurate or attractive. I already have a hard enough time with Cinderella and Snow White.

So why did I become thoroughly wrapped up in this silly story? The rational part of my mind recognizes that I’m drawn to it because it’s exciting and fun and totally different from what I normally read. It’s also a complete fantasy that’s pretty fun to focus on as I cringe every morning listening to NPR’s latest reports about the war in Gaza. A necessary escape, indeed. But the irrational part of me is mesmerized by this vampire boy, Edward Cullen. I have absolutely no ego left when I say quite frankly that it would knock my socks off to be protected by this dangerously lovely dude. I could go on, but I’ll refrain. I would like to head into this week with a small shred of feminist dignity.

I will say that I really am conflicted about this inane nonsense. I wrestle with a desire to show Stella a world where women don’t need the protection of men – hot vampire men included – but also a desire to show her a world where fantasy and dreams matter. Those two worlds don’t always go hand in hand. After all, the desires of our fantasies and dreams don’t always align neatly (or at all) with the desires of our everyday beliefs. The Papa and I wish to show her that epic romances are in fact lived out daily between best friends as they navigate the fantastic and the mundane. And this normalcy, aka life without vampires, far outshines the giddy butterflies-in-my-stomach kind of love found in Fabio-covered paperbacks.

The books eventually redeem themselves by awarding the klutzy heroine with some badass superpowers of her own. Through intellectual grit and emotional strength, she ends up protecting herself just fine, thank you very much. But it’s still so, so, so silly. Silliness aside, I think I'm fine with Stella crushing on Edward Cullen and dreaming of epic love. That’s cool. I get it. I want her to aim high in terms of love. If high means eternal vampire love, so be it. She deserves to be adored, celebrated, revered and respected. And just because my cynicism has always made me suspicious of a dozen red roses doesn’t mean she shouldn’t embrace grand romantic gestures. (Because, if I’m honest, I totally dig a love note here and there.) I just require that she do some protectin’ herself and kick some serious vampire butt of her own. That’s all this mortal mama can ask for.