you know we'll have a good time then

We are eating dinner when the song comes on.  Harry Chapin's voice always makes me pause.  The cats in the cradle and the silver spoon, little boy blue and the man in the moon and as she's taken to doing more and more M inevitably asks what's this song about?

So we begin to explain, we stumble around a bit but finally get to the point. It wasn't quite as hard as explaining Coming into Los Angeles by Arlo Guthrie, what are keys mama, who is Mister Customs Man and why doesn't he like him mama....but we still muck around, partly or mostly because I fear what she might say and she does. She says exactly that. 

But mama, you are gone at work a lot.  Sometimes you come home late. I don't like it so is that like in the song and in that space a million puppies died and chocolate milk ran out forever. J's silent, he's not helping out with this one, he thinks I work too much too and besides this song was practically written for him and his dad and he kills him every time it plays.  

I tell her I am sorry, that I know it's hard understanding why I have to go to work every day and how one of the main reasons we are moving is to change this cycle we are forced to be on in order to make ends meet. I think of how so many families work 2 and 3 jobs and how some folks don't want to spend time with their kids but others truly cannot because they are working so hard to survive. And then I think of the precipice we are on and if we can make it work and if we can sustain it and realize once again everything we know to be true is about to change.

in the blink of an eye

I'm so happy to welcome Mama Tulip and her resounding voice to one plus two. It's hard to believe that I've never met or spoken to her beyond blogging and email given how much I care for her and how much her words of wisdom as a mother and as a daughter have meant to me over the past year and more. Thank you, MT for spending the day over here.

After leaving my dignity in the Tim Horton’s drive-thru on Friday morning, I was bound and determined to have a better day Saturday. With Dave busy putting the new floor in the living/dining room, I was parenting solo and wanted to do something fun with the kids. I decided to take them to a huge beachfront park in my hometown. It’s a bit of a drive, but there’s lots to do (read: it’s a good way to kill an afternoon). After feeding the kids a quick lunch, we donned hats and sunscreen, grabbed some cold bevies and got on our way.

Being Labour Day weekend, the area was packed and it was slim pickin’s as far as parking was concerned, but after a fucking thousand few spins around the block I managed to snag a spot in a prime location. Sweet!, thought I, and off we went.

We’d been at the park for about ten minutes when Oliver announced that he had to pee. This is classic Oliver – no matter what the destination the boy has to urinate upon arrival. Every. Time.
As we walked down the beach to the bathrooms we talked about what we’d do after Oliver peed; Julia wanted to take her shoes off and wade in the water, and since I could feel the sweat dripping down my back, I thought that was a FINE IDEA. Once in the bathroom, Oliver made a beeline for a stall, pushed open the door, stood in front of the toilet…
…and peed his pants.

“I peed in my pants!” he announced enthusiastically; clearly this was something he was quite proud of.

“Yeah, I see that, buddy,” I said weakly. Inside, however, I was screaming, I drove forty-five minutes only to have you piss yourself ten minutes after we get here?! WTF? And of course, I’d brought sunscreen and hats and drinks and money for ice cream, but I hadn’t brought a change of clothes for Oliver.

I called Dave as I herded the kids toward the car. “We’d been here all of ten minutes before Oliver peed his pants,” I said, bordering on whining. “What am I going to do now?”

Dave suggested I go to Value Village and get him a cheap pair of shorts there, which is exactly what I ended up doing. But instead of going back to the beach and spending half an hour looking for another parking spot, I decided (to the kids’ delight) to take them to a big park/splash pad instead. The sun was shining, the birds were singing, I bought them some snacks, they got wet and played at the park…a good time was had by all.

Until it was time to leave. I’d been standing under an apple tree watching them slide down a pole, but when I walked over to tell Julia it was time to go, Oliver was nowhere to be seen.
My eyes darted to the splash pad, but he wasn’t there. He wasn’t on the main play structure nor was he on the smaller one, and as I climbed the stairs to the middle of the main structure for a better vantage point I could feel hot tears pricking up behind my eyes. Losing Oliver is one of my biggest fears – he’s easily distracted and prone to taking off; he’s the kind of kid who could disappear even if you were looking right at him.

“Oliver!” I shouted. “OLIVER!” Below me on the spongy ground, I could hear Julia calling his name, too.

He didn’t come. I kept shouting and shouting, but he didn’t come.

I started to panic. Everything started spinning. The sounds around me – children’s laughter and squeals and mothers calling to their kids in cautionary tones – were echoing; I felt like I was falling down a well. All I could hear was the rising panic in my voice and my heart pounding inside my head. I was running now, shaking and running, circling the playground, my eyes scanning the soccer field, the tennis courts, the fence line by the street…

Oh god, I thought. Oh god oh god oh god. Where is he? WHERE IS HE? I felt sick.
And then I heard Julia shout, “There he is!”

I scanned the park again and spotted him, over by the parking lot, running toward me with a bewildered look on his face. I started off toward him, Julia beside me, and scooped him up in my arms, kissed his flushed cheek and whispered in his ear. “There you are,” I breathed. “Where were you?”

“I couldn’t find you, Mummy,” he said in a small voice. “I was lookin’ for you.”

We started toward the car, Julia holding my hand, Oliver safe in my arms. “Were you lost, buddy?” I asked. He nodded, and on the way home we talked about what to do when you’re lost.
I glanced at him in the rearview mirror many, many times on the way, my beautiful blonde-haired, fair-skinned boy, with his big eyes, wide grin and chipped front tooth. I was still shaky when we got home – hell, I was still shaky when I woke up the next morning.
A whole lot can happen in the blink of an eye.

behind curtain #3

M has become preoccupied with dying. We have no idea where its coming from, no one we know has died nor has she suffered a loss. But regularly, as in daily she says mama, i really don't want to die. When she says that a little part of me actually does feel like dying, her earnestness and questioning is entirely beautiful and it slays me. So we'll talk about it a bit, what dying is and how it's as natural a part of life as anything else. About how we hope that we'll all be together for years and years and years until any of us dies, and that she has a long life ahead of her first.

But then she'll ask but what happens when i die, do i get born again? Ah, baby. Your grandma would be so proud I think to myself. But explaining this to a near four year old is hard. Honey, none of us really know what happens. Some people believe we become angels or that we go to heaven, in fact if you talk to grandpa and grandma that's what they believe. Some people think we will return to earth again, and some think nothing happens at all. I don't know the right answer, no one does for sure because we are all still alive. So what we get to do instead is make sure we have the best life we can, we make sure we make every single day count.

How do we do that? She askes me then. By loving each other as hard as we can. By being fearless and by helping others and our planet and saying yes as much as possible.

And hugging. We should keep doing lots of hugging, she says.

Absolutely, baby girl. Hugs are at the top of the list. Your daddy and I don't have all the answers but we can promise we'll be right here with you trying to figure it out, okay?
That's good, mama. I like that. Let's do that.

And it shatters me, this conversation. Every single time it shatters me.

this is your anthem

I wonder if you see your every day glory. You give birth, you comfort in sickness, you nurture into health. You stay home all day or you work all day but either way at night you are there. You paint or you read or you sing or you cook or you draw or sometimes a little of each. You teach them how to do the most basic to the often extraordinary and you are always there to cheer them on. You are there for the good stuff and for the not so good stuff too. You make sure they eat well and sleep well and have what they need. You listen to them and encourage them. You are always, always there, patiently creating a space for them to thrive. You might have better days than others but it's the sum rather than the parts that matter in the end.

And then you take the time to chronicle some of it. Sometimes it's the ugly bits and sometimes you brag and you brag because you've earned it and because it let's us celebrate along with you. You are brave enough to put issues into the light and ask for help when you need it. You are honest in self reflection and often more self-deprecating than is fair but we see right through it anyways. You create a history, not only for you but also one day for them. You challenge yourself to do more. You seek balance and sometimes you even find it. Your heart is moved in unspeakable ways every single day and you allow it to happen even if it hurts.

And you get up every single day and try your best to do it all over again. If you think about it, you are amazing, simply just by being you. At your worst, at your self-described worst you are still a bright light in the darkness. You always, always show up. I know this because I read about it every day in all of you. Bits and pieces and everywhere else. This is who you are.

And that makes you pretty damn cool.

three going on thirteen

The girl's got a mouth on her. A few gems from the last few days:

Me warning her not to fall warrants a: it's my life and i can do what i want! That one's rich, child. I can almost picture you stomping out of the house with a bag of coke and some loser boyfriend in tow.
Me asking her to stop kicking me in the head while laying together on the couch: I don't love you when you are mean, I only love you when you are nice! Ouch, kid. Now get off my head.
Me telling her to get her sweet ass into a time out for similar above behavior: No! You can't make me! What, a challenge? I love a challenge. Two time outs! Four!
Me asking her not to stand up in the tub: Stop telling me what to do! Only I know what to do!
Sweet. You can drive your happy ass to the ER on your trike later too. And I'm totally not forking over a princess band-aid either.

I'm in serious, serious trouble. If I didn't find it hilarious even more so.

behind the scenes

M's dance class is usually during the week but she had a make up day this past weekend and since I've never gotten to see her in action I wanted to be the one to go. Little did I know it would resemble some sort of demented popularity/election/who gets the most valentines on Valentine's Day process I endured in middle school.

First thing I notice as I sit outside the room in the viewing area is that M is the only one not wearing a little dress. She's got on sweats, J had supervised the dressing, this is what she always wears, he said.

All the other little girls are in little girl dance dresses. Ribbons in their hair. I notice but since M's never once said anything about needing a dress, not having a dress, I figured it was no big deal. One of the other moms sits down next to me. Which one is yours, she says. That one, I point proudly at M, her wild and unruly hair flying everywhere. Oh, she says. No dress then?

Three little words, no big deal but somehow they are. Well, I say, I am never the one to bring her, I had no idea everyone else wore a dress. She's never mentioned it. I suppose she would, she says. That one's mine. Adorned in dress and ribbons. She's cute, her kid.

I come to every class, she says. Are you fucking kidding me, woman? I think and instead I just say I'd love to but I have to work. I want to stupidly elaborate. I work in non profit. People who have no homes. Mmmhmmm, she replies and I look at her. I tell myself I'm going to be blogging this later so bring it on, chick. I bet you drive a gas guzzling SUV.

The class starts and let's just say ballet is never going to be M's thing. But she's having a great time and that's all that matters. After a few minutes the mom says do you practice with her outside of class? As she's talking I watch her kid, she looks like she belongs in some 70's era Maoist state run school, you know, the ones where they force the kids into these camps and work them 10 hours a day? Exactly like those kids. No, I reply. We don't really practice.

We practice every day, she says. Touche, I think and say well, she's only three and a half. (Her kid is obviously even younger but what the hell, I'm starting to get annoyed). Oh, mine just turned three, smug, she is. So I say I figured she was older, seems like wanting to practice every day would be something that might come later but maybe that's just me. My kid prefers you know, to play. If there was the equivalent of a kick in the shins I've just offered it, I'm petty and besides, you've been pissing me off for 10 minutes and if I had a gold star I'd give you one, your kid is so totally better at three year old ballet than mine and she's got a dress on too. That must feel really, really good. You've just won this bullshit competition. Like I said, I'm petty like that.

We don't exchange another word for the rest of the hour and that's just fine with me. But there was one point when a teacher didn't notice immediately that her kid's shoe was off and this woman almost came unglued. She's talking to the teacher through the wall but of course there is no sound. Fix her shoe, fix her shoe, she's agitated and coincidentally within seconds the teacher happens to notice and does. I lean farther in the other direction and wonder why I'm feeling so defensive, why I'd let any of this matter to me at all.

Part of me still stings so when the class is over I say to M I noticed everyone else has on a dancing dress and she says yeah and I so I ask her if she wants one and she says no, that's ok. But when I get home I tell J about the woman and I can't help saying it's worse than a reality show in that viewing room, the competi-mommies are hardcore and he replied I'm usually the only guy there so they all just sit in a pack and leave me alone. But you should have told me about the dresses, I reply and he looks at me sideways but I can't help the urge to make sure M is mothered in all the ways she needs to be and yet at the same time I realize this is more about me or better said more about others than it is about her and I wonder again why I let it matter, even for one minute, what someone I do not know decides to think about the way I parent my kid.

she walks in sunlight

she moves me in unspeakable ways and it always, always makes me catch my breath. she is a garden fairy princess warrior girl baby love sweet mango syrup child of my heart and soul and skin and blood. there are moments, these quiet moments when her concentration is elsewhere and i stare drunk on her innocence and guile and candy and rainbows and i stand still, i stand so still and sear her preciousness into my soul but no matter how hot the flame i can't find the wound, her shapeshifting metamorphosis dances away leaving flowers and glitter and paperdolls in her wake.

making it

M: I want a baby in my tummy.
Me: Well, you can't have a baby in your tummy right now but you can when you get older
M: Why?
Me: You need to be older because your body needs to change a little bit and then you have to decide you want a baby in your tummy and then you make one (dammit i can't believe i said that wait for it now count with me people you all know what's coming 3, 2, 1.....)
M: How do I make a baby?
Me: Dude, you are three. I'm just not prepared to get into this right now. (Whatever, call me a chickenshit, at least I was honest and didn't use the phrase twinkle in my eye)
M: Ok. Orange is my favorite color.
Me: Me too, baby. Me too.

cracks and fissures pt 2

So I've talked about her before, this little girl who breaks my heart but what I haven't talked about is how cruel she is to M, who worships her, talks about her incessantly, always setting aside little treasures to bring her, allowing her good days to rise and fall on this other girl's mood. She told me the other day she brings her presents so she likes me mama, I just want her to like me mama and why doesn't she like me mama i try so hard. And I saw myself and a thousand girls in her and I wanted to pull the car over on the freeway and cry because there will be a lifetime of this and I can't believe it starts so soon.

Little girls can be mean, hurting little girls even more so. Nearly every day M will tell me her latest heartache, ______ was mean to me today, the next day _______ spit on me (note to little girl, you do not spit on my kid.) I know this little girl is in pain, the sorrow hangs heavily on her face but she's learning, she's learning so soon the art of cruelty, the masterful way words can punish and wound. It's not her fault and yet she wounds my girl all the time and no matter how many times M and I have gone round and round, from the trying to remember not everyone feels the same way to sometimes we all have bad days to M, my baby girl, you simply do not deserve to be treated like this and there will come a point where you simply will have to stop trying and I'll be right here when you do.

And it wounds. It wounds because she's not yet four. It wounds because every day I leave her to defend herself and she can't quite figure out how to do that, how to let the nice girls matter as much as the one whose attention she wants the most. I've talked to the teachers, I've even talked to the little girl but words are small, they are little scraps of paper blowing around the windy playground sticking to the fence. They blow and swirl around my girl and yet every day she tries again, her wide open heart runs straight up to her and waits to see if she'll be turned away. She catches my eye in those moments, the ones I'm there to catch and I see her face fall. Today I went to her and gathered her in my arms, the other little girl watching us and while part of my wanted to gather them both my arms are not quite built for two.

it's everything

Upon retiring for the evening, resplendent in her pajamas and a pink and orange party hat.

You are the sweetest little mommy in the whole world. I'm going to keep you forever.

I hope so, baby. I really hope so.

ding ding ding

It's been so warm, warm enough to crack a beer in the middle of the day. I never drink beer in winter, that alone must mean a lot. So I sit with my cold beer and the windows wide open and the sun is setting and life is good.

Today M and I went to her friend's birthday party today at one of those all encompassing child play centers with loud blinking lights and roaring sounds and little people climbing all over the place. I don't know that I was looking forward to it but once there I realized it's a hell of a lot of fun. They had all those stupid games that give you tickets when you win and those tickets get traded in for little bits of crap. I don't care about the crap but damn if I don't like getting the tickets. So M and I took a ton of tokens and went crazy much to the dismay of probably every other parent there. We whackamoled and dumptrucked and threw balls and made frogs climb and then she bought a bunch of temporary tattoos and little bracelets and pranced around like a rockstar.

It's shifting again, this mothering gig. I find myself finding new ways to love her and learn about her and teach her about me. I am tremendously, tremendously moved by her spirit, by her wide open heart, by her boundless joy and rapid fire smiles. I never knew she would exist and now I can never imagine her not.

into the wild

We've intentionally started hiking every weekend. We found a book with kid friendly mountain hikes and let M choose each time, a choice she bases mostly on the interesting names. She doesn't know it but we are doing this on purpose, teaching her to love the simple act of walking where there is nothing but nature to entertain her. Teaching her it's okay to be tired and hot and even how to pee outside if she must. She has a hard time at some point almost every time, boredom or she's tired or THERE'S A BUG A BUG THERE'S A BUG NEAR ME or she's simply being three so a meltdown inevitably ensues and partially ruins the day. We've noticed that if we work through it she comes out better on the other side, stronger and a bit more adventurous. So we push on, knowing it's okay and knowing we are trying to broaden her comfort level, something she'll need more of in the months to come when life starts to look nothing like it does today.

Yesterday's hike was especially tough, the book downplayed the arduousness of it (You bastard you said this was perfect for kids and yet it was hard for me let alone her you dumbass hiking writer and if that was only 100' of altitude change then smack my ass and call me Sally) and we weren't planning on so much heat. We ran out of water and it started feeling really hard when we still had a ways to go. We took turns carrying her and making up stories, anything to occupy her mind. She was terrific and we made it and I lifted her high and whooped and whooped We did it girl, we did it and she threw her head back and laughed and screeched wildly yes we did mama yes we did.

people are people no matter how small

I adore going to the movies. When J and I have an infrequent night to ourselves we invariably find ourselves going to a film. So it was with great excitement that we decided it was time to introduce M to our favorite escape, after proving her mettle in a couple of long distance sitting accomplishments lately that perhaps, oh the joyous thought perhaps, she'd be ready to sit through a movie.

And we were almost right. We took her to see Horton Hears a Who, a double bonus for me because Dr. Seuss far and away kicks the shit out of Disney. We took her to one of the newer theaters with all the bells and whistles on purpose because we wanted to watch her face light up.

It did not disappoint. The bright lights, the cavernous room and enormous seats and the screen, the movie is so BIG, mama, so BIG in hushed whispers with shining eyes. We'd smuggled in a snack and she sat like the princess she pictures herself to be, regal and quiet until she became unruly and louder. And hey, the movie was really terrific too.

We went home and a little later in the evening I got a call from work and learned there was something I needed to attend to so I headed over to the shelter, the day had become night and smelled like rain. I walk in and was taken slightly aback as always at the amount of people huddled on the floor. It's still early but many folks are lying down, belongings stashed underneath them and borrowed blankets on top. One guy was fast asleep with his legs poking out and shoes still on. One guy came up to me limping. It's gonna rain, he says. I know it because all the metal in my leg acts up and I can barely walk. Rain's coming, he says and limps away.

And midway down the enormous room sat about 25 guys on hard wooden benches staring at a 20" TV screen. I pause for a minute and one turns to greet me and I think it was an old Bruce Willis film but I can't be sure. They are transfixed, all bodies leaning slightly forward and all eyes fixed on the screen. There's no popcorn and the lights are bright but it's movie night here, too. The irony strikes twice and I leave the cold into the colder, heading back to the warm.

finding her there

I wake to a foot in the ribs, I turn over and realize she's crawled in sometime hours ago. I watch her sleeping, her chest rises and falls. She's exquisite, her perfect red lips pursed against her milky skin. Her wildly curled hair wrapped around her neck. I watch her, I notice a freckle, one I've not noticed before if that sort of thing is possible. I run my hand over the curve of her back.

Her foot kicks me unaware, she stretches in her sleep and wiggles her head back and forth, the movements she's made since she was a tiny baby, she makes them now. She's about to open her eyes and I want to close mine so I can still observe her unnoticed yet of course, I can't have it both ways. She's magnificent in the early dawn, but then she's magnificent all the time.

She wakes facing me. Her eyes light up, the brightest smile. Hi Mommy. And I smile broadly in return with tears pooling in my eyes. I am humbled that there are these moments of overwhelming grace and joy, that this little riblet is in my life teaching me how to love and risk and wrestle and try. I try and find new words and they don't come and yet I revel in this feeling, this amazement at her life.

A new day awaits us, a lazy one and I remind myself to live it with intention, to make each moment with her conscious and worthy of the magnitude it is.

yet another reason blogging has saved my ass

The famously hip and gorgeous Kiki heard my cry and sent me a care package with her daughter's old princess dresses in it a couple of days ago. Crown included.
Mere words will not suffice in expressing the outrageous joy in a little California town this weekend. Dresses have been simultaneously worn and not yet removed, not even for sleep. We went out to dinner in the above dress and M pranced around the various tables plaintively whining do you see I'm a princess? I'm a princess! to anyone who would glance her way.

And in case you missed them, our Just Post roundtable is just below. It was a fantastic round up this month.

so this is christmas

As with most holidays this one has snuck up on me, shocking me with it's imminent arrival. By design I keep things mellow, no big travels, no huge festivities. It ensures I dance around the holiday without ever fully succumbing to it, an art form I've long appreciated over the years.

But M shakes things up with her joyous exuberance over lights and friends stopping by with packages. She squeals over cookies and snowmen in windows. It's infectious, this simple joy. We spent almost two hours in a line of cars last night waiting to drive through a park that's been outfitted with holiday cheer, a wait we hadn't realized until it was much too late. But buoyed by her enthusiasm (and fearing her wrath if we bailed out) we sat and inched forward in the dark singing makeshift carols and groaning periodically about the wait. We finally got inside the park and M was out of her seat and in our laps pointing and screaming while the rest of us smiled at each other in awe of her wonder. When we finally came home she sat down at her table and proclaimed with a grin Mommy, that was the greatest adventure of my life.

And all I could think as my eyes glazed over with tears was how every single day she's the greatest adventure of my life and how honored I am that I get to share it with her.

Happy Holidays, friends. I'll be thinking of you and feeling immensely blessed by the riches your words and friendship have offered me all year long and I'll be looking forward to seeing what trouble we can get into as we continue to move forward together kicking life in the ass and using all of our superpowers for good.

the tao of M

Tonight before bed we were playing a game of pretend driven by M. She decided I was the baby and she was the mommy and we went through a series of complicated processes including her fixing me dinner (cookies!) and putting me bed (twelve times for about 15 seconds each) as well as describing her work (she apparently plants plants at her work) and my baby class where I like my other baby friends (for which I am grateful).

At one point something fell off the bed during the lamp turning off and on in rapid succession and when it fell to the floor it made a loud sound. She immediately looked at me and then popped back into character and said it's ok baby. i'll take care of you. and then she proclaimed sometimes things work out and sometimes they don't. and that's okay, baby.

It just doesn't get any more zen than that.

submission and resistance

We had the opportunity while M was with a friend to get some early shopping done since we'll be on holiday soon and the thought of any sort of endeavor after Thanksgiving gives me pain (such a damn grinch i am). We aren't big consumers but we've still recognized we've got to figure out a way to blend our beliefs without totally destroying the wee and precious excitement M has over the things she's already being brainwashed about.

We had a few rules: nothing character driven, Dora and Diego and Disney characters in general were off the table (we are such depriving assholes). Minimal plastic. Toys that were interactive and creative. Realizing that no matter what we bought we'd still be supporting the mass production and consumption that we profess to disdain. How hard could that really be?

Holy shit. I haven't been inside a full on toy store in a long time. It's overwhelming in it's plasticky marketing. Everything seems to represent a TV show of some kind. Everything is plastic, whoa, the plastic.

Dudes. I Am Grinch.

So after a while of perusing we end up with Lincoln Logs. We decide if we are ever in a bind we can actually use them for firewood (although they are probably covered in some deathly chemical). And PlayDoh. A set that did not include Dora (that bitch is EVERYWHERE). And a game from the 70's, one we remember. There's plastic involved. It's unavoidable, this plastic. We have other toys that are plastic already, every time I look at them I cringe.

It's a balance, this mothering. This constant acquiescing of standards. And it removes some of the joy, the joy undoubtedly found by blindly purchasing whatever you want.

And then there's the spending of money on these luxuries at all. I read somewhere recently that "if you have food in the refrigerator, clothes on your back, a roof overhead and a place to sleep you are richer than 75% of this world. If you have money in the bank, in your wallet, and spare change in a dish, you are among the top 8% of the world's wealthy. And if you are reading this on your own computer, you are part of the 1% in the world who has that opportunity."

We've got all those things. And I can't stomach showing my gratitude by using it to buy my kid more crap and yet here I am. How does one balance allowing your child happiness while teaching the utter privilege in that? How do we show her this isn't normal when everything around her suggests it is? Makes me want to get to the jungle as fast as we can because at three, it already feels too late. Her programming has been swift and effective. And my guilt balloons. I am hypocritical in my convictions and I long for ignorance. Or to just lighten the hell up.

because this is how she rolls

Driving home after a long day:

Me: What should we do when we get home?
M: I know! I'll watch my show while you make dinner for me!
Me: Ah, I see. Is that how it's going to be?
M: Yes! Because we are team, right? This is TEAMWORK! I LOVE teamwork!

Nicely done, kid. Very smooth.

three

Speaking of not finding my bliss: Three is a pain in the ass. The temper tantrums. The whining. The incessant tantrums and whining. The 0-60 hysterics.

Truth be told, I might lose my shit.

I try reasoning but it's impossible. I try rationalizing only to have it stamped on and tossed out. I try discipline, the wussy-ass Time Out sort of discipline but she's got my number there too. And when she acts out in public, the throwing herself on the ground and kicking and screaming....let's just say I try and find My Happy Place but it's left the building. I actually find myself fantasizing about public buses in third world countries. You know, buses travelling far from here. Camels and sitars. Coke in a bottle. Ruins. See, I am doing it again now.

Everyone says it'll pass. I even believe you. But that doesn't make the moment any less annoying. And I try and find the humor, and often I do find the humor, but at the end of it all it's simply a hard job. It's a terrific job and I love my kid and I embrace the motherhood and all that blah de blah, but you know, it's still hard sometimes. I want to be a good mother. J says I over-indulge her (a pox on you, man) at times and she needs to figure some of this out for herself, that it's not helping her and it's exhausting me. I see his point, and yet I can't ignore it when she's having her third meltdown wailing for me at the top of her lungs. Or the fourth. And so on.

This sounds like I am whining but mostly I'm just saying what's what.

Happy Halloween, yo. I am banking on a certain Garden Fairy rocking the house in between tantrums and shrieking.