With everything going on in ONE’s life lately, I’ve really felt the need to find ways to be softer with her. Being soft with her is a daily struggle. From her first month on earth she wanted to be turned around to face the world. She batted away kisses, didn’t like the restriction of hugs and emotional connections were on her terms only.

I was disappointed, but there’s only so many times a girl wants to be screamed at for lovin’ on her kid, so I gave her her space. And then over the years I became addicted to the space and felt like I needed to protect it. It was a guilt-free pass to “me time.”

But I also knew that if I didn’t want a cats-in-the-cradle type life situation, I had to moderate it. So I’d go on regular >>jags<< with parenting her. Stretches of times when I’d focus on her and finding ways to connect on her terms, just to “even” things out.  And when I made the effort I always found something meaningful in the everyday, applied my good intentions, had success and then binged on “me time” directly afterwards.

But being entrenched in her school anxiety has made me realize that my half-assed efforts won’t cut it anymore. I need to put a little more of me on the shelf and I need to be an adult about it. So once again I’ve put away my computer during the day and tried to focus more on her. And since Thursdays are our days with nothing planned, I was determined to do something special, something soft, with ONE.

She must have sensed it because right after TWO went down for her nap ONE asked if she could use her special porcelain tea set for lunch. I said yes. Then she asked in a casual voice if I wanted to join her. She hesitated as she asked, which made me a little sad, because I could tell she was expecting me to turn her down. So instead I said yes.

She jumped up and down while I retrieved her special tea set. By the time I handed it to her she was already in a costume. She set everything up on the floor while I made sandwiches and prepared the lemonade. And as I watched her pretend to be a princess, I knew exactly how I could make the experience soft and meaningful for her.

I slipped upstairs into the attic and retrieved the only real Halloween costume I’ve ever owned. A Maid Marian get-up I bought years and years ago for a party that she’s never seen, and put it on. I walked back into the room and when she finally noticed I was dressed up, her entire face smiled and she whispered,

“Oh, Mama. You look like an angel!”

This is where I’d normally end my post with a photograph of the two of us in our costumes picnicking in the living room.

But I’d left my tripod in the car.

And my car was parked down the street in front of my neighbor’s house. (>>The neighbor I accidentally flashed<<, remember her?)

And I knew I had to be careful about getting my tripod because I didn’t want to break the spell for ONE. So I raced outside, in my costume, across the yards grabbed the tripod from the car and got back into the house without anyone (to my knowledge) noticing.

And when I walked into the house, a giggling ONE handed me my camera.

And as I sat down to eat it occured to me, my girl was just like me. She was growing up just like me…

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©2009 CEK, GVK. All Rights Reserved. Touch our stuff and your ass is ours. AND you’ve stolen from child.

Want some daily affirmation that you’re not the only bad mommy out there? Follow me on Twitter and we’ll bad-mommy-it together.

It’s not that eas-y be-in’ mom
Having to spend each day pre-tend-ing to be calm
When I think it could be nic-er
Bein’ left alone in quiet or something much more comforting like that

It’s not that eas-y be-in’ mom.
It seems you blend in with so many oth-er or-di-nar-y moms
And peo-ple tend to pass you over
And you catch yourself remembering simple things you used to do
And wish for them back

But mom’s the giv-er of wings
And mom can be cool and friend-ly like
And mom can defend like an army
Or give refuge when there’s hurting
Or heal with a kiss

When mom is all there is to be
It could make you want to cry
But why lose it, why lose it?

I am mom, and it’ll do fine.
And it’s beau-ti-ful.
And I think
It’s what I want to be.

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©2009 CEK. All Rights Reserved. You know the drill. Touch any of this sh*t, especially my photographs, and your ass is gonna get pummeled.

Want some daily affirmation that you’re not the only bad mommy out there? Follow me on Twitter and we’ll bad-mommy-it together.

__________________________________________________

PS: This photograph of ONE in her Halloween costume is a photo finalist over at parenting BY dummies. If you have a minute and can cast a vote in her favor, please click >>here<< scroll down to the comments field and vote for #3, “Hermione Who?”

I’m really sorry.

Don’t roll your eyes. I AM sorry. Let me explain.

First, I’m sorry for judging you. I know I said I wasn’t, but I totally was. I’m sorry for chipping away at your core with posts like >>this one<< in which I claimed that you expelled your gross factor, as well as part of your manliness after I did all the real work, birthing your child. I’m especially sorry for “grrrrr-ing” each time you pretended not to notice one of our rank children frolicking around the house in crappy pants and how you consistently pawned off the one dirty diaper you got stuck with each week.

Because now I understand. I finally get it. All because of:

Don’t worry. I haven’t bought new furniture. This belongs to the nursery I’ve been helping out in lately. And as you might imagine, part of “helping” is diaper rotation. Two weeks ago I got stuck changing the poopy diaper of a sweet, tiny child I didn’t know and it was so gross that I gagged. Not “gag-me-with-a-spoon” gag, but watching-someone-else-vomit gag.

And I continued to dry heave for a few minutes after I put her back down on the floor. For the rest of the shift I actively ignored any other child who smelled as though he/she might have a little somethin’ goin’ on in there. I was NOT the one getting paid to be there. I was just the HELPER.

And then this week when I found myself filling in again, this same adorable child took a man-size dump and wandered over to me to ask for a new diaper. This time when I changed her, my eyes teared and bile crept up the back of my throat. I actually had to step away from the changing table for fear that I would throw up on her. Thankfully she didn’t take the opportunity to escape, as TWO would’ve.

About twenty minutes later another kid had a sh*tty diaper. And it was a boy. Since I’ve never changed a poopy diaper with a penis in it, I just couldn’t do it. So I pretended he was fine. Wished a rash-free existence on he and his family. Waited for the woman in charge to notice. Which she did, God bless her. She changed his stinky behind without a complaint, although I think she might have “grrrrr-ed” at me. I’m not sure.

So like I said, I understand now and I’m sorry.

Because if I changed just one poopy diaper per week and was so wholly unfamiliar with the smell of our kid’s poop that it made me gag, I’d pawn it off on the nearest adult too. And if you stayed home with the kids and changed diapers all day long, I’d also say things like, “Daddy’s better at things like this,” and “What’s one more?” and then walk out of the room.

Because really, what’s one more?

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©2009 CEK. All Rights Reserved. Touch my stuff and you’d better watch your back. And your car. I don’t pelt with eggs, my friend. I’m packing heat. Hot, steamy, poopy diaper heat.

Want some daily affirmation that you’re not the only bad mommy out there? Follow me on Twitter and we’ll bad-mommy-it together.

If we don’t look out for each other, who will?

Be That Woman – Pass it on!

To my friends and readers:

Thank you.

Thank you for your comments and prayers and phone calls and emails. I had no idea when I wrote this post that it would draw in such support, push so many buttons and introduce me to so many voices I’d never heard from before. All I knew was that my husband and I were feeling overwhelmed and scared. And that I needed to get this guilt out of my head.

ONE had a good week at school. No tears, no lies, no excuses. She even slept well, which for her is a big deal given her history of night terrors. I received the number of a highly recommended child therapist who I’m seeing tomorrow by myself. We’ll see what happens after that. I will certainly post updates.

Thank you again to everyone for reading, reaching out and sharing your hearts. I was humbled by the realization of how surrounded and supported I really was.

-CK

<<…LAST TIME ON THE-MAN-AT-TARGET-WHO-TOUCHED-MY-DAUGHTER

I was escorted into the office last week. The principal in front of me and a teacher behind me. The door closed. We all took a seat. “We-Don’t-Know-Where-To-Start” looks from them. A blank look from me. The last time this happened I’d gotten caught smoking during lunch. This time I felt equally as guilty, even though I had no idea what happened.

Turned out ONE’s teacher was concerned that she has anxiety issues. While they boarded the bus for their class trip he played a game with the kids where he pretended to sit on their laps. When he got to her she panicked and said, “Please don’t sit on me. And DON’T touch me, either.” And later when she asked him a question, he squatted down to her height to answer and she backed away from him and almost started to cry.

He told me that he and the class assistant stopped calling everyone “Sweetie” because it so visibly upset her to even hear the word. He also made sure that the assistant (who is female) was the one to help ONE with everything she needed, down to walking with her to the water fountain. He asked if she was anxious at home or if there was anything else I could think of that he could do to make her more comfortable. He also requested that I accompany the class on all future field trips.

Five days later I was back in the office, this time to pick up ONE who was sitting in the back room because her “tummy felt yucky like she was going to throw up.” About a half-hour after we returned home she told me she was actually fine, she just didn’t want to stay at school. She insisted that she wasn’t lying though, because being near her teacher made her feel like she was going to throw up. She continued to beg me to get her into another class because she was afraid he’d touch her like the man at Target did.

Switching classes is impossible (there isn’t another 3-day class) and even if it wasn’t, I wouldn’t want to do it anyway. She’s got 12 years of school ahead of her where she won’t have the option to chose her teachers. And this teacher is actually working with us. Doing everything he can to accommodate her and make her comfortable. So it’s actually a safe environment for her to get beyond what’s stuck in her head. She just hasn’t gotten beyond it. Yet.

But at the same time, she’s only 4. She knows her teacher wasn’t the man from Target, but it doesn’t seem to matter. I mean, is this normal behavior for a child who experienced something like this? I’m at such a loss. What if making her stay is screwing with her wiring?

She also understands that if I pull her out I can’t get her into another class and that she’ll have to stay home all day with me instead. Some days she doesn’t care. But other days, like Wednesday, she pumped herself up to go back to school. She sang and jumped and danced. And there were glimmers of her getting stronger.

But the moment she saw him, she turned away, couldn’t make eye contact, mumbled a “hello” and somehow disappeared into her clothes. I couldn’t see her. She gave me a hug and a kiss and marched right into his class anyway. And then cried that night about not wanting to go back. And woke up 5 times sobbing in her sleep last night. And each time she cried I realized that I was already up. Not worrying. Just praying. Floating half-way between sleep and awake.

And as we passed the principal’s office on our way to class this morning and received the knowing, encouraging smiles, I wondered if this would be the day she moves past it, or the day that breaks her. I’m not sure how many more times I can make the walk. Or she can make the walk. Or if we’re doing the right thing.

I just feel helpless. And yet for me, no word is more unacceptable and elicits more guilt than that.

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©2009 CEK. All Rights Reserved. Just don’t touch my sh*t, okay? I’m not in the mood.

Want some daily affirmation that you’re not the only bad mommy out there? Follow me on Twitter and we’ll bad-mommy-it together.

Teaching you how to dress yourself seemed like a good idea.
Until you undressed in the pharmacy while I secretly tried to study the Anusol cream. I knocked several boxes to the floor while reaching for your bare arm. Secret’s out. Thanks.

Giving a crying baby a pacifier seemed like a good idea.
Until she turned two and strangers found it impossible to mind their business. And instead of keeping their traps shut and reveling in the quiet for which I’d sold my soul, they found it necessary to share the downsides of pacifier sucking. Guess what, a**holes? I KNOW. PS: Her father and I had sh*tty teeth. She was going to need serious dental work anyway.

Changing a toddler’s diaper seemed like a good idea.
Until she threw a tantrum mid-wipe, smacked her heel in poo, splattered it on the wall and then flipped over to crawl away while I tried to clean it. Hope she enjoyed the impromptu after-nap nap as much as I did.

Grabbing the toy car from your sister (that neither of you liked anyway) seemed like a good idea.
Until she yanked it back and swung it at your head. You didn’t know about her aim, did you?

Ignoring me and jumping on the top bunk of your bed seemed like a good idea.
Until your head made contact with the ceiling, as I suggested would happen. On the upside, the bang seemed to have scared the mice…

Water-skiing your sister around the house in socks seemed like a good idea.
Until she let go of your shirt and you both landed on your faces.

Letting the two of you play alone on the porch seemed like a good idea.
Until your sister wandered back out covered in greasy healing ointment. I’m glad you “healed” her. Thanks.

Pretending you were sick so that the school would call me to pick you up seemed like a good idea.
Until you returned home, got caught lying and were then forced to spend the rest of the day continuing to pretend you were as sick as you said you were. Hope you enjoyed that 3 hour nap, no TV and no sweets as much as I did.

Having a kid seemed like a good idea.
Until about three weeks after I gave birth and found myself trolling the pharmacy for Anusol. Oh it was fun to silently mock old ladies who purchased it, but I was in my 20’s. Surely it would go away by the time I hit 30…

Surely motherhood would get easier…

Surely the pains in my ass would not personify into the little people I’d eventually share my life with…

Surely…

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©2009 CEK. All Rights Reserved. Touch my stuff and I’m telling everyone that the Anusol was for you.

Want some daily affirmation that you’re not the only bad mommy out there? Follow me on Twitter and we’ll bad-mommy-it together.

While getting ready to leave the park, a young mom marched in with a double-jogging stroller. It was the kind of forceful push that showed that SHE needed to be there. The kids probably did too, but she REALLY needed it. I know that walk well.

As she neared us I realized that she was pregnant. I was struck with awe by how she had it so together that she was already using a double-stroller. And then she passed us. She looked to be about 6 months pregnant, and her child was about 18 months old. And inside the other side of the stroller was baby carrier. With an infant in it.

At first I was confused, but then I remembered hearing of a young mom in the neighborhood who had a set of Irish twins born 11 months apart. And when she went in for her 6 week check-up after the second birth she found out that she was pregnant again.

I tried to focus on collecting the girls and their shoes, but all I could think about was the Irish-twin-having mom. HOW DID SHE DO IT?

Seriously?

I mean, I can barely keep it together these days and both of my kids are older than all three of hers.

I watched her for a minute. Chasing after the toddler, checking in on the baby in the carrier and stretching her back. She just did it.

We all just do it.

Like when there’s a sick baby who doesn’t understand that being sick means laying down and sleeping and watching TV. And instead they whine and cry and puke all over the house.

We just do it.

Or when we’ve almost made it through the store and our kid looks up at the cashier and asks, “Why does she have a beard?”

We just do it. We die a little inside, but we still do it.

Or when our kid misbehaves on a playdate and we raise our voice and everyone around us jumps at our tone and someone actually gasps. But not our kid, she doesn’t seem phased.

What? That’s just me? Fine, whatever. I just do it.

When the day melts down by 2pm and it’s raining and it’s boring and it’s loud in the house.

We just do it.

Or when there’s nothing to make for dinner and it wouldn’t matter if there were because we’re not going to cook anyway and we really want to order out but we know we can’t afford it.

We pull out the pancake mix and just do it.

Because there’s just something about being a mom that makes us do it. Some strange, autopilot strength that kicks in when we’ve shut down and carries us through to bedtime.

Because sometimes we just need to make it to bedtime.

There’s always hope at bedtime.

And quiet and peace and a moment to ponder how glad we are to have done it.

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©2009 CEK. All Rights Reserved. Touch my stuff and your ass is just messed up.

Want some daily affirmation that you’re not the only bad mommy out there? Follow me on Twitter and we’ll bad-mommy-it together.

Everybody deserves their birthday off.  If ever there was a day, your birthday should be the day you don’t get up at 4 AM to write a blog post. Instead, I’m guest posting for my wife.

____________________________________________

Ten years ago, we celebrated your birthday with dinner and a movie.  It was all on a shoestring budget – dinner at the Chinese Restaurant on Samson, and Fight Club in the awful theatre on JFK… or was it even as far north as Vine?

By that time, I already knew we would get married.  The rest of the future was very uncertain, but in it, I did know that we were together, facing it day by day, month by month, and year by year.

I don’t remember if I pictured Arlington or not.  I doubt it.  Not the kids, a house with a yard, and a golden retriever… God, that doesn’t sound like us.  Me leaving for work, you getting our two daughters ready for the day.   And I never envisioned two girls.  Maybe two boys.  Or maybe, maybe, one of each.  But never two girls.

And even then, I could only see us as 22.  I guess I imagined the future, but we were still the naïve kids we were then, only now, we were trying to manage families and careers and personal time.  I couldn’t conceive that God would teach us how to be man and woman, husband and wife, father and mother.

Now, it’s ten years from then.  We’re in our 30’s.  Our weekdays are all pretty much the same.  I spend most of my time at a desk.  When I get overwhelmed, I click onto your blog and read something about how you spend your days.  I picture the three ladies in my life trudging out to the park or the market and I smile and I keep on.  Our weekends are a little more vaired; we try our best to enrich our children’s lives while still making a little time for ourselves.  And if you didn’t have what we have, it might all sound very mundane.  But these are some of the best days of my life.

Today, it’s your birthday, and once again, I’m trying to picture what our future looks like another ten years down the road.  And I can’t possibly imagine how our kids could possibly grow to be more wonderful, or how you and I could possibly fall further in love.

The rest of the future is very uncertain, but in it, I do know that we’re together, facing it day by day, month by month, and year by year.

Happy birthday, Boo.

I can still love you more than you love me because I'm bigger.

I don’t like it when you smear yellow on my chin just to see if it “works.”

I don’t like the way you “can’t hear me” when you race off to the areas of the field to get flowers for your “wedding.”

I don’t like finding pollen in my pocket or petals melted to the walls of the dryer.

I don’t like pulling long, twisty stems out of the beater bar of the vacuum.

I don’t like cleaning water off of your dresser when the paper cup vase you used disintegrated.

I don’t like how damp and sandy they always feel, regarless of the time of day.

And I don’t like wondering if I have to keep holding them, or if I can toss them in the grass after you seem to have forgotten.

So I always hold them. I always bring them home. They always die on my counter and make their way under furniture.

Because I know that for the rest of my life, as I walk through the park and see dandelions and “peanut-butter cups” dotting across the tops of the fields, I will think of you.

And as you grow older and your taste in flowers matures and you bring me gifts of lilies and roses and tulips, I will love them. I will arrange them in beautiful vases and smile at you over the tips of their petals.

But weed bouquets will always be my favorite.

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©2009 CEK. All Rights Reserved. Touch these flowers and your ass is mine.

Want some daily affirmation that you’re not the only bad mommy out there? Follow me on Twitter and we’ll bad-mommy-it together.

Now I dump your ass in bed
Ignoring every word you’ve said
So sleep or read or cry or whine
It matters not, for I decline
To hear the hollers from your room
And once I’m gone you may resume
To “scratch your butt” for exercise
Or scream extremely loud good-byes
Or slam your toys down on the floor
You think I care? I’m out the door

But since we’re on a hiney kick
Stop egging on your sister’s trick
To use her potty as a tool
To scale the tub and leave her stool
Or flee the room with nothing on
And treat my floors like porta jons

And one last thought, to set things straight
The next time we’re down aisle eight
To buy ricotta for lasagna
Don’t sing of your “cheese vagina”
You are loud, your diction’s clear
And everyone around us hears

If I should die before I wake
I pray the Lord my God to make
You think of me while seeking poo
Your children like to hide from you
And when they streak in public places
You will see me in their faces
Smiling as you grab their hands
And try to force them back in pants.

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©2009 CEK. All Rights Reserved. Touch my stuff and your ass is mine. And you’re a perv. Shame on you.

Want some daily affirmation that you’re not the only bad mommy out there? Follow me on Twitter and we’ll bad-mommy-it together.