Hashtag Anxiety

In what is pretty much normal for this house, my girls woke up already in middle of an argument. I’m convinced that they are telepathically connected in a way that allows them to begin quarreling even while they sleep so that when they wake up they can immediately bring the fight to the next level.

Decibel level.

When they finally found an activity to enjoy together I committed to being relaxed about the activity and to stop it only at the danger of actual death [to clarify, one kid blacking out for a minute here or there is not danger of actual death.] The activity in question was the methodical destruction of every drawer filled with neatly folded clothes. Unfortunately, there were only three drawers like that in the entire house and the activity ended all too soon. That’s when #hashtagrivka spied the bag of plastic shopping bags that we keep in the hallway and figured it could do with some emptying out. Now, a bag of bags in which I carried food home? We musta had hundreds of those.

So I planted myself on the couch and watched the girls gleefully jump into piles of bags like they were at Disneyland. It took only a minute for me to realize that I was tense. And that the only thing my brain was letting me see, over and over, was an image of my kids blue in the face. My heart was pounding and I felt hot and uncomfortable.

I tried to reason with myself. I was sitting right next to them. They weren’t putting the bags on their heads. If one of them would jump headfirst into the pile my problem would be a cracked skull, not suffocation (you can see how helpful I am at helping myself. /sarc font/). The logic didn’t help.

In an instant I was up off the couch, shouting panicked warnings about asphyxiation and grabbing plastic bags in a frenzy. The girls got caught up in the cleaning activity but they were disappointed and bewildered.

Having a mother with an anxiety disorder isn’t easy.

Having anxiety and mothering a tenacious #hashtagrivka is no antidote.

I felt sorry after the episode, wishing I could go back and deal with it calmly, in a way that would actually teach them something. But I know better than to dwell. I don’t tell myself that there is always tomorrow to do better, I tell myself that there is now. Now I am going to start over. Now I am going to try to be mindful and present and not let the anxiety get the best of me.

In Sickness and Insanity

It has come to my bleary-eyed attention that I get pretty cranky when I'm tired.

And I get pretty tired when my kids are cranky.

And my kids get pretty cranky when they get sick.

If you paid any attention during algebra class you may have figured out that my kids are sick and cranky and I am right there along with them.

When my kids get sick, I take on this martyr role and generously tell G-d that I would do anything, anything, to be sick in their stead.

And then when my prayers are answered, and I get sick, I turn to Him indignantly and demand to know exactly why He allows mothers to get sick. Mothers. What purpose could there possibly be in that? Mothers should never get sick.

It seems my complaining has landed me in a heap of hot, smelly stuff. Cuz now Mommy and both of her girls are sick.

At. The. Same. Time.

(The Man of this house would probably suggest that he is too big and strong to get sick but us girls are pretty sure he's been spared only because he spends most of the day at work, far away from our germs.)

We are a sneezy, coughy, wailing mess. Tissues have piled up around the house like house plants and my counters are littered with every natural and non-natural medication that exists. I have reached out to family and friends to collect every weird superstitious magical healing spell that has every been used. I have rubbed Vicks on size 28 feet and spread chopped onions around the house like potpourri (spoiler alert: real potpourri has suddenly become desirable).  I have locked myself in the bathroom with tired, crying children, turned the shower to blistering and nearly passed out in its steam. I have tried multiple types of humidifiers, shoved vitamin-filled fruits and vegetables down unwilling, sore throats and mixed up soups with the vengeance of a mother on her very last thread of sanity.

For all my work, I was blessed with the green light from my doctor that my big girl was well enough to go to school. Coughing, I was informed, might stick around all winter. But the virus in her itty bitty body is all gone. Her lungs have become exhausted of opening on their own, what with all the coughing, but I am more than happy to visit her classroom daily to spray magical albuterol in her mouth. Anything but keeping her home any longer.

Now there is just me and the baby. The 2.5 year old toddler that I insist on calling "baby" because I think it will make her tame and docile. My dedicated regiment of herbs and meds has graciously gotten her to the point where she well enough to make trouble, but still too sick to sleep sweetly.

So raise your Tylenol glasses with me and pray for the deliverance of sanity to mothers everywhere.

Chee -- hachew!---rs.

Oh!

(Adapted from Dr. Suess' Oh The Places You'll Go!)

Congratulations!
Today is your day.
You now are "postpartum"!
You’re off and away!

Your brains left your head!
You can't find your shoes.
You can no longer roll back to sleep if you choose.
You’re on your own. And you know what you know. And YOU are the Mommy. So there's no where to go.

You'll look up and down closets. Look'em over with care. About some you will say, "How did that get there?!"
With your head full of fog and shoes on the wrong feet, you're too tired to care if your house isn't neat.

And you may not find any time to lay down. In that case, of course, you'll want to skip town. But sorry my dear, you're needed right here.

Right here things can happen and frequently do, and mommies are needed; mommies like you.

And when things start to happen, don't worry. Be cool. Just go right a long. It's a job just for you!

And Oh! The Places You'll Kegel. 

You'll want to get thin!
You'll climb up and down flights!
And you will do kegels all day and all night. 

You won't lag behind, because you'll have the need. You'll pass the whole gang while you kegel with glee.
Wherever you kegel, you'll be best of the best. You'll even do kegels while you take a rest. 

Except when you don't.
Because, sometimes you won't.

I'm sorry to say so but sadly, it's true that spit-ups and throw-ups can happen to you.

You can get all hung up on a diaper clothesline. And your baby will poop. And you'll want to cry.

You'll look down and frown at your unpleasant bump. And chances are, then, that you'll be a grump.

And when you're a grump, you're not in for much fun. Un-grumping yourself is not easily done.

You will come to a point where you can't move in a hurry. Some days are alright. But mostly they're blurry. A time you could lose both your calm and your grin. Do you dare to go out? Do you dare to stay in? Have you kegeled enough for your clothes to fit in?

And if you go out, should you turn left or right...or climb down one more flight? Or go around back and sneak in from behind? To check on the babysitter; what might you find? Oh gosh if only you could make up your mind!

You can get so confused that you'll start to wander around at a slow-pacing speed, and grind on for days in a half-asleep state, headed, I fear, toward a most useless place. 

The Wailing Place...for people just wailing.

Wailing because the baby won't sleep, or the kegels won't keeg, or the other kids are wailing because it's their speed. Everyone is just wailing. 

NO! That's not for you!

Somehow you'll escape all the wailing and whining. You'll find a nice park, or a bed, or a spa. You'll take care of yourself because you're a great Mom. 

And all great moms know, yes they certainly do, that taking some Mom-Time is what you must do. Mom Time is important, it's proven, it's true. Mom-Time is just something that keeps all the Moms cool.

So don't feel all guilty, don't worry, don't wait. Go plan your Mom Time and make your escape. You can kegel during Mom Time, you can simply stare on. You can sleep during Mom Time or just lay on the lawn.

Except don't. Because your kids will find you there. 

Family

The other week my daughter and I went grocery shopping together. In the pasta aisle (duh) I met a cousin of mine and we chatted.

"Mommy, who was that Mommy that you were talking to?"

"That's my cousin, sweetie."

"Your cousin? How come she never comes to our house?"

"Oh," I answered, "We're not so close."

That comment was, perhaps, my greatest Motherly Lie.

This past weekend my mother's extended family gathered together for our first family reunion, commemorating sixteen years since my maternal grandmother's passing. I don't know how to describe the joy, the laughter, the love; it was family. We shared some tears, some sniffles, some deep thoughts; but mostly we celebrated.

We celebrated the legacy my grandmother left behind. We celebrated her life, her lessons, her focus. We celebrated the beauty of our too-many-too-count growing families.

I was young when my grandmother passed and I don't have many tangible memories of her. (Although, as my relatives stood up and shared their memories of her, I could have sworn they were talking about my own mother.) I didn't share my strongest memory of her because it occurred when I came marching through her house in a pre-teen (is that tweenage?) huff, slammed the bathroom door behind me so I could wail in "privacy", and promptly dislocated a tile from her bathroom ceiling. My grandmother wasn't one to promote bouts of pointless tears, especially at the cost of her ceiling. I don't remember my grandmother reprimanding, me, however; perhaps that speaks louder than anything else.

(My mother did reprimand me.)

(And I deserved it.)

This weekend I learned about simplicity, love, generosity, encouragement, belief, and happiness. I learned about struggles, triumphs, obstacles, and success. I learned about my grandmother, my mother, myself, and my family. I close my eyes now and will these moments to stay with me forever.

So, my dear daughter, I was wrong. My cousin and I; we are very close. We share an unbreakable bond that was melded years ago and will last for eternity.

Why doesn't she come over? That might have more to do with the hundreds of cousins thing. But I'm going to make a greater effort now to help you feel how close we all are.

Positive Parenting

Eight.

Eight is the amount of times that we chased our baby toddler out of her big sister's bed last night and back into her own. This occurred well after eight O'Clock in the evening. This was not fun.

Maybe it's summer fever.

I read all the books, all the magazines, all the just-be-firm-and-say-it-positively articles and I try to put them into practice. My latest adventure has been trying to word things in a positive way, as in "Rivka sleeps in Rivka's bed," with a big fake smile, rather than the negative, teeth-clenched version, which sounds like "DONOTGOINTOCHAYA'SBED!"

So I tried to concentrate on my wording the other day.

I walked into Rivka's room (on grounds of suspicious silence) and found that every single book was removed from the book shelf and several had already undergone her rehabilitation efforts. I took a deep breath, closed my eyes and carefully said:

"Rivka. Books are for reading. We treat books nicely. We read books and turn pages of books and we are so gentle with books."

When I opened my eyes she was in the kitchen, self-selecting snacks from the pantry.

So I tried again at bedtime.

"Rivka. I see that you are very excited (acknowledge her feelings). Bedtime is for sleeping (state the rule). I would like to see you lay down now (state the objective). It appears that you disagree with me (state the obvious). STOP JUMPING (give up.)

There is only one magical word that can stop Rivka mid-action and I (try to) use it sparingly.

That word is: raw.  She has seen my dramatic, full-fledged horrified panic when she once reached out to touch raw chicken and has been cured from ever attempting to touch something labeled "raw" (salmonella, hello!).

So far the disgusting water fountain at the park, the bucket of rain water near the front lawn, and the filter on the air conditioner have all tested positively for raw.

Any chance I can make her sister's bed turn raw at 7:00pm?

#MotherlyLies

By the way, this is what reasoning looks like when your toddler spent most of the night jumping out of bed.
Not to be confused with what reasoning looks like with a toddler at any time. 

Twenty-Four

Somewhere between I Can't Believe This and Finally, my baby is turning two. Thankfully I don't feel like I've just given birth yesterday but it still seems entirely too soon for a second birthday.

Twenty four months.

It's been twenty-four months since she was born, a rainy Friday morning. Months since we brought her home only hours later that afternoon. Months since we introduced her to her older sister, who was wholly unimpressed with our decision to create this new addition. Months since postpartum depression caught me like the plague and threatened to never let go. Months since I came out of the fog, smiled with my baby's smile, laughed with her first laugh, squealed and cheered on her first crawls, and full-out jigged when she began to walk (spoiler alert: rapidly progresses from wobbly to dangerously quicker than Mommy.)

Tonight my husband and I are sitting and reminiscing about time gone by. As we talk, it becomes painfully obvious that my memory has been significantly damaged by pregnancy, childbirth, and an unnatural amount of night feedings. (Sorry but there's nothing natural about feeding another human being when I'm supposed to be sleeping.)

It's hard to think that these Mommy Brains of mine might not remember all the things I love about my little girl. So here are twenty-four of them that I never want to forget:

1. The way she climbs out of her crib in the morning and barrels straight out of her room like a cannon.
2. The way she calls me "Mama" in a baby voice, when she needs me to melt. 
3. The way she refuses to separate apples from other fruits. Mommy, I want one apple-pear.
4. The way she throws in extra consonants into long words. Mommy, I want a banalanalalana.
5. The way she eats yogurt with her hands.
6. The way she brushes her hair with the bristles facing out. 
7. The way she swallows the (fluoride-free; relax) toothpaste and then spits out saliva. 
8. The way she runs, by kicking her feet forward and bouncing on the heels of her shoes.
9. The way she smiles for a picture, by tilting her head and blinking rapidly.
10. The way she jumps off ledges without looking and then runs frightened from strangers.
11. The way she says "eweven." It comes after ten.
12. The way she beckons with her tiny little hands when she wants you to follow.
13. The way she bellows "SHHH!" when she's hiding.
14. The way she cheers for her accomplishments. Even the ones that follow my desperate cry of "No!" Like when she jumps off the back of the couch. Or swings off the table. 
15. The way she wiggles all of her fingers when she tries to hold up just two.
16. The way she holds out her hand and says, "Stop!" when you're going too fast. 
17. The way she pronounces her name as Rishka.
18. The way she sings Happy Birthday to herself nearly every morning.
19. The way she swings off the counters and climbs onto nearly any surface. 
20. The way she opens the refrigerator and helps herself to its contents. 
21. The way she puts soggy cereal back in the box when she's decided she's had enough.
22. The way she puts her face directly into mine when she wants my attention.
23. The way she watches men working out in the park and then proceeds to work out with them. 
24. And G-d knows why, but the way we found her in her crib tonight. Sleeping peacefully in her birthday suit.

The hours between 4:30 and 6:30 every night feel like an eternity each time around, but somehow it is still hard to believe that all this time has passed.

Happy Birthday Rivka! 

Here's to another year.

Full throttle. 

Living-In-Brooklyn Milestones

I Killed a Cockroach Before Breakfast and Other Living-In-Brooklyn Milestones

Table of Contempts

Chapter 1: Parking Tickets are Part of my Monthly Budget.
Chapter 2: I Refuse to Watch Ratatouille.
Chapter 3: I Don't Really Know the Difference Between the Upper and Lower Ends of Manhattan. But I Can Tell You Which Trains to Take.
Chapter 4: I Pay More for Rent Than I Do For...Anything.
Chapter 5: Cement + Swingset = Park.
Chapter 6: Pigeons are Only Afraid of People in Other Cities.
Chapter 7: Um...Sure, New Yorkers Have a Real Inclination for Ice Cream at 3:00am.
Chapter 8: Brooklyn Mice can Outsmart Mouse Traps.
Chapter 9: What Sun?
Chapter 10: I Killed a Cockroach Before Breakfast.

But I told my kids that the Raid just put him to sleep. Cockroaches don't belong in our house, I told them, so I'm putting him to sleep and putting him in the garbage. And then the garbage truck will take him to where he is supposed to live.

I didn't want to pass on my cockroach fears. So we all said hi to the dead sleeping cockroach.

And now my toddler looks for cockroaches every morning. Her face lights up as she imagines saying hello to her friend with the ugly, huge, ugly, huge, and also ugly, antennas. I tried explaining that the cockroach only came around because the kitchen floor had been partially taken out to be fixed.

She's still looking for the cockroach.

Should I be proud that I am raising open-minded children with an appreciation for nature?

Or recognize that I have created a monster.

Pass the Raid wine.