This morning, I asked Bryce (age 6) if he knew who Martin Luther King, Jr. was, and why we celebrate him.
He responded with this…
“Yes, I know who he is. He was a great man who went to jail, like thirty times, so that black people and white people could eat together.”
(Insert proud mom moment here.)
It’s a simple answer, yes. A complete answer, no. But through the eyes of a six-year-old, it’s one hell of a start. 🙂
This is the conversation I just had with my son, Bryce (age 6).
Bryce: Mom, I love this rock! (It’s a plain river rock.) Can I carry it with me everywhere? Even on vacation?
Me: Sure. You really seem to love rocks. Maybe you’ll be a geologist when you grow up. (Case in point, I fished three rocks out of my washing machine this morning, because he picks them up everywhere he goes and leaves them in his pockets. One of them wasn’t even a rock, it was a broken bit of concrete.)
Bryce: What’s a geologist?
Me: A scientist who studies rocks.
Bryce: Oh, cool. But can I also still be a secret agent?
Me: Sure, buddy. You can do both.
Bryce: Sweet!
Kids are awesome. 🙂
Hello, world!
The summer has flown by, as I knew it would, and as I predicted, I only got about three posts up all summer. Figures.
But life continues to be busy. Since I got home from my grandparent’s house at the end of July, I hosted my college roommate and her family for a few days, was sick for two weeks with a nasty virus that closely resembled strep throat, threw a birthday party for my son and twenty of his closest six-year old friends, and got both of my kids back to school. So yeah, life and children continue to dominate my time and attention. Blogging has been on the back burner for a long time, and I’m hoping now that I have both of my kids in school full-time that I’ll have more time and attention for both myself and all of you.
Being sick for two weeks wasn’t fun. I went to the doctor about five days into it and she ran all the typical tests to rule out bacterial infections. It felt like my head was going to explode, and every time I swallowed it felt like my eardrums were bursting and I was trying to swallow crushed glass. Fever, fatigue, and all the glamorous parts of feeling like total shit. My husband had to be out-of-town for work for several days, so taking care of the house, kids, and all the pets when all you want to do is lay down and die was no picnic. Unfortunately, the doc couldn’t give me any drugs because it was a viral infection, and it took a solid two weeks before I felt human again. To add insult to injury, going to the doctor in the first place is always such a mind-fuck. I already felt like shit, and have you ever noticed that going to the doctor makes you fat? Seriously. I walk in and immediately feel like I’ve gained ten pounds. Then the nurse puts you on the scale and you realize that in the two hours since you got dressed and hauled your sick-ass to the clinic, you really must have gained ten pounds because their ancient scale, that must be counter-balanced with massive invisible boulders, says so. Why don’t doctors use modern digital scales that will weigh me the same as when I’m at home? And now that I feel like a sick, ginormous, fat cow, I have to sit, forever, in the little room and wait. 
And there’s a mirror in there that is now confirming what the scale said. Somehow my face looks heavier. My ass seems to be climbing up my back and my muffin top is more muffin-y. And now I want to cry because my throat hurts, my ears hurt, I can’t get any meds, and just walking in the door made me feel like Martha Dump Truck.
Damn, I’m glad that’s over.
My son’s birthday party was fun, and humiliating. But I found my self-respect at the top of a bounce house, so that was an unexpected bonus. We had the party at Pump It Up. If you’re unfamiliar with the Pump It Up franchise, it’s basically a party venue with giant inflatables. Each room is a massive, two-story room with multiple indoor inflatables, like bounce houses, obstacle courses, rock climbing walls, and things like that. We had the Glow Party, which is like a super cool rave for kids with music and glow in the dark everything. I had promised my daughter that I would do some of the inflatables with her because as the big sister, she was the oldest kid at the party and didn’t really want to hang with the six-year olds. Thank God it was dark in there. I was a little dressed up for the party and my nice jeans were somewhat confining. Also, you have to wear socks in these things, and I quickly realized that with
This looks similar to the structure I was attempting to climb. The picture doesn’t do the height justice, though.
socks on it’s hard to get any grip on the structure with your feet. So, I was attempting to climb this two-story monstrosity that was part rock climbing wall and part slide in tight jeans and slippery socks. You see where I’m going with this? You had to put your feet on these small squares and then use alternating tether straps for your hands to climb up. Well, the tiny-made-for-five-year-old-feet squares would collapse under you if you didn’t move fast enough. Half-way up there was this ledge you had to get over, and then another ledge all the way at the top. I fell trying to get over the first ledge. Kids were flying past me and laughing as I flailed and dangled by the tether straps. Did I mention it was also pretty steep? And also that I’m not a ten-year old? Anyway, I dug deep and hauled myself to the top, and as I was struggling to get over the second ledge, and considering saying fuck it and just letting go, my son’s friend from his class was sitting at the top of the ledge, and she was watching me as I hung on the tethers. She’s an adorable little girl and she says, “Keep going Mrs. B! You can do it!” Sweet Jesus. How do I fail in front of her now? I couldn’t, and it was ugly, and I’m glad it was dark in that room, but I managed to get my fat ass over that ledge and to the top. I was sweating and tired, and when I went down the slide it was so steep and fast it actually launched me out of the shoot and I landed in a heap in front of several parents watching from below. There was no way to play it cool, so I laid there like a lump, catching my breath. Thankfully, several parents said how impressed they were that I even attempted to get to the top, so at least I got some street cred out of it. Or they were just trying to make me feel better. Either way, only one other parent attempted the same structure and made it to the top, so that makes me one of the cool moms.
My kids went back to school on August 31st, so I had three days last week of blissful alone time. I’ve never had that, and I savored it. I read several of your blogs, did some housework, ran errands without children, and met friends for lunch. It was heaven. I’m really looking forward to this school year. And for the first time since my oldest daughter started school eight years ago, I didn’t cry at drop off on the first day. I fucking celebrated and went out for sushi!
Life is good, people. Life is Good!!!!!!
That moment, when you reach across the bed and feel his forehead, praying that the heat has left his little body in peace…
Bryce has been sick with a nasty virus for the past week. We’ve battled six days of high fever and other bodily functions I’m sure you’d rather I not go into detail about. Well, that’s too damn bad cause I’m totally going into detail about it. The kid has had diarrhea like an arterial spray. I’ll let that visual sink in for a moment. You’re welcome.
My kids are both very healthy. They only get sick once or twice a year, but when they do get sick, it’s serious. It’s a knock you on your ass for a week kind of sick. Their bodies hold onto infection like a fucking grudge. It’s horrible and scary. When you’re holding your child while their body feels like it’s on fire with heat, you can’t help but be terrified for them. They get that glazed look in their eyes, and when they talk, half the time it’s delirious gibberish.
I took Bryce to the doctor on day five of the fever and she told me it was a virus going around that was lasting 7-10 days. She said his fever shouldn’t last for more than five days. I explained to her that we were already at day five, as Bryce lay in my arms burning up at 103 degrees. She reprimanded me for allowing him to have dairy products. I explained that I was giving him whatever he wanted to eat because he had no interest in food and had already lost two pounds in five days. She scowled at me. I scowled back. She is not my regular pediatrician. (She was correct though. I shouldn’t have allowed him to eat yogurt and milk.) Then Bryce had a meltdown in the office when the nurse tried to give him a dose of Tylenol. With tears in his eyes and a hot pink flush to his face he explained that their Tylenol was different than our Tylenol, and he preferred to wait until we got home and take our Tylenol. He said their Tylenol was yucky because it wasn’t the right color. I eventually got him to take it, but with the last sip he gagged and then regurgitated a large portion of the dose back at me. I carried him to the car, both of us splattered with Tylenol vomit. Good times.
![i-need-a-sick-day-to-recover-from-my-kids-sick-day-19c3d[1]](https://agirlnamedwanda.files.wordpress.com/2015/08/i-need-a-sick-day-to-recover-from-my-kids-sick-day-19c3d1.png)
For six days I monitored his temp, coaxed him to take medicine to reduce his fever and slept with him so I could feel his body and watch his breathing. I held cold packs to his back, forehead, stomach and legs. He would look at me with glassy eyes and say, “Am I still your little fireball, mommy?” It was the kind of fever that could have killed your child before the days of modern medicine. Thank God for modern medicine.
Finally, this morning, as I reached for Bryce’s forehead next to me on the pillow, I felt it. That cool, dewy ring of sweat around his head on the pillow. The gross, disgusting, beautiful ring of sweat that indicates his fever has broken. His little body was so quiet and deep in sleep, which was a blissful change from the constant moaning, rocking and shivering from the past six days.
I’m exhausted. I’m relieved. I can’t wait to get the hell out of this house. I need to drink wine on the beach and watch the sunset with my beautiful kids and my husband. I need to take him to the park and watch him run, and climb, and laugh, and play. I need to see him smile with excitement, health, and joy. That’s all I need. 🙂
Recently, my family and I were over at a friend’s house for their son’s birthday party. It was a party for a four year old, so there was a lot of fun stuff going on. There was a clown doing balloon sculptures and face painting. There were awesome little arts and craft activities and a bounce house. Of course, all the kids LOVED the bounce house. So, imagine lot’s of young children running around a picturesque yard with no shoes, squealing in delight over the endless fun of the afternoon.
And where there’s fun, there’s bound to be drama.
I was sitting on some patio furniture talking with friends when I see the hostess of the party run into the back door of the house with another mother and her child clutched in her arms. They were frantic. I could tell something bad had happened by the way the women were reacting and rushing the child into the house. A busted lip? A cut to the forehead? Did the child need immediate medical attention? Stitches? Who knows….it’s not my circus, or my monkeys. My kids were not involved, so I thought the best thing to do was to not over-react and let the adults in charge handle the situation.
A few minutes later, the hostess of the party (and I should mention she is a good friend and a great mother) poked her head out the back door and asked me to come inside. I gave my husband the ‘uh-oh’ look and walked into the house, where I was met with complete chaos.
![11128630_799132960183928_8023045032805565439_n[1]](https://agirlnamedwanda.files.wordpress.com/2015/07/11128630_799132960183928_8023045032805565439_n1.jpg)
Both my friend and the other mother were frantically rushing around and talking loudly in panicked voices. The child that I saw being rushed into the house, a beautiful little girl about five years old, was sitting on the bathroom counter with her feet in the sink soaking in cold water. She was crying uncontrollably. I didn’t see any blood or immediate signs of injury.
My friend says, “She stepped on a bee and we’re not sure what we need to do! We took out the stinger but she’s still crying and it’s swelling! I knew YOU would know what to do!” There was a first aid kit on the counter with all kinds of gauze, medical tape and bandages spread out everywhere.
What? They think I’m the most capable adult to handle this situation? When did I become the most adulty adult? When did I become the person you grab when you don’t know what to do?
I looked at the girl’s foot and there was no swelling. There was a tiny red mark where she had been stung. That’s it. She was simply terrified and carrying on because the adults in the room were upset. I guess I’m still surprised how many parents don’t realize that if you don’t lose your shit in front of your kids, more often than not, your kids won’t lose their shit either. I realize that sometimes it’s hard not to freak out when your child is upset or in pain. And it’s even harder to be objective when it’s your child whose experiencing something traumatic. But kids need to have faith that their parents can handle anything. They need to know that you are in charge and you are capable of seeing them through the tough shit in life. And when you’re five, your first bee sting is some tough shit. I guess my ability to keep calm in these situations is what makes me the most adulty adult. Sigh. That thought is so depressing.
I didn’t do anything heroic to save the day. I asked the sweet little girl what her favorite song was and asked her if she could sing it to me so I could hear what I was certain would be a beautiful voice. She immediately stopped crying, beamed her pleasure at me with a toothless grin, and began belting out Twinkle Twinkle Little Star. While she sang, I put a Band-Aid over the red spot on her foot. All better.
Her mother threw her arms around me and hugged me so tight, thanking me for my help. I left the room and went back outside to sit by my husband. He asked what happened and after relaying the events to him I said, “That I’m the most adulty-adult at this party really scares the shit out of me.” 🙂
Hello, world! I’m home!
The family and I spent nine days visiting with friends and relatives throughout the Midwest. I call this trek our annual Midwestern Tour, as we hit Illinois, Indiana and Michigan in the same week. This time of year the area where I grew up is amazingly beautiful. You wouldn’t believe how green everything gets. Even the corn fields look beautiful when I haven’t seen them in a while.
We spent the first couple of days in Chicago, then drove south to central Illinois to visit my grandmother. We then drove three hours north through Indiana and Michigan to reach my mother, other grandmother and various relatives who live in the area. It was fast, organized, exhausting and incredibly fun.
Here’s the highlight reel…
![10635748_10152955877379574_8811372455149121989_n[2]](https://agirlnamedwanda.files.wordpress.com/2015/07/10635748_10152955877379574_8811372455149121989_n2.jpg)
While in Chicago, my college friend hosted a house party and invited all of our girlfriends from school, along with their families. We BBQ, drink, laugh and relive our glory years together while our kids run around and make new memories and form new friendships. This year the adults sent the kids to the basement to play so we could play the game, Cards Against Humanity. If you’ve never heard of it, it’s an adult card game of mostly vulgar and inappropriate topics. If you’re not too uptight and appreciate a dirty joke, then this game is for you. I will say that I did surprisingly well in the game, and my two most popular cards read, “Altar Boys,” and “Two Midgets Shitting in a Bucket.” Feel free to use your imagination here as to what these cards may have been in response too. 🙂
We visited my grandmother, who is 94 years old. I’ve always had a very close relationship with my Nanny and she’s an incredible woman. She is in amazing health but starting to lose some of her short-term memory. We looked at the same photo album about four times, and although it was new for her every time, I continue to be amazed at her ability to remember details about family history from the late 1800’s and early 1900’s. Her own mother was born in 1897, and every conversation feels like a history lesson, but one you don’t want to miss. When I ask her how it feels to be 94, she tells me, “getting old is not for sissies!”
St. Joseph, Michigan
Yeah, I got to grow up there. It’s funny how so often in life we don’t appreciate what we have until we can look back with some perspective. Growing up, I didn’t appreciate the beauty of the fields, the lakes or the small community that looked out for each other. I took it for granted and was more excited to see other places. I guess what I’m trying to say is that the older I get, the more I appreciate where I come from, and this annual trip means more to me every year. I want my kids to experience the things I loved about growing up in the Midwest. Admittedly, my kids have opportunities that I never had as a child, and I’m thankful for that. But I also want them to appreciate the simplicities of life. The small things and traditions that add up to big things when you look back on your life and remember what you loved most about your childhood.
I want them to gorge themselves on strawberries while picking them fresh from the fields, and then bring the berries home to make fresh strawberry jam in grandma’s kitchen. I want them to canoe the rivers of my hometown and camp under the stars, even if it’s just in their grandmother’s back yard. I want them to catch fire flies, sit around a bonfire in a field with their cousins, learn to water ski on the lake and marvel at the incredible beauty of the leaves turning in the fall. I want them to know who their people are, and why, no matter what they choose to do in life, it will always be special that their family comes from this incredible place.
So yeah, it was a good vacation. 😉
That moment, in the early hours of the morning, when it’s still dark outside, and your kid, who managed to wiggle their way into your bed in the middle of the night, suddenly sits up and declares with panic in his voice, “My tummy hurts.”
Nooooooooooo!!!!!!!!!!!
You bolt awake, adrenaline filling your system as you grab your child, and run as fast as you can to the bathroom before Mount Vesuvius erupts in the middle of your bed. You just changed the sheets and a bed full of vomit is not something you want to deal with at 5am.
An hour later, after cuddling him through the stomach cramps, wiping his tears of fear, rubbing his back, administering Sprite, Tums, and a few Saltine crackers to get something in his stomach to absorb the acid, he looks at you and says, “I guess I just had to fart a couple of times, mommy. I’m ok.”
So, yeah. Good morning.
I sent my daughter off to camp today.
Her entire fifth grade class left this morning for science camp. They get to spend five days in the San Bernardino Mountains, doing science experiments, learning about nature and doing a ton of other cool stuff, like archery and zip-lining.
Five days.
And no contact with parents is allowed.
No contact. For five, whole days.
I’m a fucking mess.
![1375266_183307995188929_1395468096_n[1]](https://agirlnamedwanda.files.wordpress.com/2015/06/1375266_183307995188929_1395468096_n1.png)
She was pretty nervous about going, and the last few days have been hard for both of us. Hard for her because she was suffering from anxiety and nerves. She’s never been away from us for that long. Hell, she only started feeling comfortable doing sleep-overs this year, and she’s ten years old. Outwardly, I’ve been supportive and encouraging. I know this is important. I know she needs to spread her wings and begin to learn to be more independent. She needs to see how capable she really is, and that can only be achieved by working through tough stuff. In this case, it’s working through her separation anxiety and realizing that she will be ok and can have fun, even when she’s missing her family. In this sense I’ve done nothing but tell her how much fun she’ll have and what amazing memories she’ll make.
Inwardly, I want to shout and scream and demand that the school bring my baby home now! I can’t believe I paid for this shit! I can’t believe I agreed to let my daughter go two hours away into the mountains and be supervised by people I’ve never met. Doomsday images keep floating through my head. What if there’s an earthquake? THE earthquake? The big one that will supposedly redefine the west coast? How would I get to her? What if there’s a bus crash? What if she meets up with a bear? What if some asshole ten year old from her class shoots her with a goddamn archery arrow? What if one hair on her beautiful head is damaged in any way? I will go ape shit and rip that camp apart looking for retribution, that’s what!
(I’m taking some deep breaths right now.)
This was probably the wrong week for me to give up wine and coffee, but that’s a post for another day.
The truth is that my heart feels like it has a giant hole in it. The house feels empty. The hallways sound hollow. She’s only been gone for twelve hours and her absence has left its mark on all of us. This morning her little brother cried. He loves her so much, and he couldn’t understand why his Bryn was leaving for so many days. I held it together until the bus pulled away from the school. Then I couldn’t stop the tears. Other parents saw me quietly crying, despite my giant sunglasses covering my face. They offered me sympathetic looks and as a few of them tried to talk to me all I could do was put up my hand to ward them off and march home, crying the entire way. My husband held me and offered to take the day off work so we could spend the day together and take my mind off of Bryn’s absence. While I adore his gesture and love him more than words can say, I decided to just keep busy and get on with my day.
A few of the other parents have been thoughtful and kind enough to text and email me today, checking in to see how I was doing. While I truly appreciate their consideration and thoughtfulness, it makes me feel like a giant candy-ass. For fuck’s sake, it’s just camp! My head knows this, so why does my heart feel like it will be ten thousand years before I see her again?
We’re a close family, and we don’t like to be separated. I’m so thankful for that. I’m so thankful that our family unit is so connected that when one of us is missing, we are all affected. I grew up in a household where that wasn’t the case, so I am doubly appreciative of the bond my husband and I share with our children and with each other. It’s priceless.
And learns how to do her own ponytail!
So, I am now trying to banish the ugly, apocalyptic thoughts racing through my head and find the silver lining. I’m trying to focus on the good things that will come from her week at camp. She will learn how to manage a bit without me. She will learn to be more independent and self-assured. She will learn how to keep track of her own stuff. She will learn how to pack her own damn suitcase when it’s time to come home. And, for the love of God, if one of her friends actually manages to teach her how to do her own hair, then it will be worth every tear shed and every expensive dollar that it cost to send her there.
So, if you feel like contributing, I would love to hear your best camp story. 🙂
Parenting children is so glamorous. If I’m not pulling teeth, wiping bums, or determining the source of crusty residue left on various surfaces, then I’m a scientist/medical doctor in training attempting to help my children decipher their bodily functions and the source of any problems that arise.
I apologize for the gross topic of this post, but I had this conversation with my four year old son this morning, and for a lack of anything more interesting to write about, decided to share the poop story love with all of you.
You’re welcome, world.
This morning I heard Bryce muttering to himself in the bathroom.
Bryce: Why is my poop green? What makes green poop?
Me: Is something wrong? Do you need help?
Bryce: Yes. My poop is green mommy.
(I joined him in the bathroom, and yes, his poop was a shamrock green color. WTH?)
Bryce: Why?
Me: I don’t know, buddy. Maybe it has something to do with the blue icing you ate last night on the cake. But it will be ok. Poop changes color sometimes based on what you eat.
Bryce: So the blue icing and the chocolate cake made green poop?!
Me: I’m not sure.
Bryce: What does red and green make?
Me: Probably a brownish-gray color. Why?
Bryce: Well, then to turn my poop brown again, I need to eat some Red Velvet cake! Can you get some of that for me, because we need to fix this!
LOL! Little boy problems are so fun. I heard him talking to himself a while later saying, “I never should have eaten that chocolate cake!” 😉
Update: About two hours after I posted this, my family and I were shopping at the local mall, picking up some clothes for the kids. In the middle of the girls department at Macy’s, I look over and Bryce has his pants down around his ankles, his underwear around his knees, bare-ass, inspecting the inside of his underwear! He was so worried about the green poop, he said, with big fat tears in his eyes and a sad look on his face, “I had to make sure the green poop didn’t get into my underwear.” We left the store and got him a Red Velvet cupcake just to ease his worries. 🙂
Hello, world.
I’ve been out of the social media/WordPress mix for a little while for a variety of reasons. I’ve been volunteering to help with a fundraiser at my daughter’s school and between that and the time I’ve been spending recovering from my sessions with my personal trainer, I haven’t had the time or energy to think about anything interesting to share with all of you.
Until today….
Yesterday a package arrived for my daughter. That’s not necessarily surprising as she sometimes gets small packages from grandparents without warning. I asked my husband if he ordered anything for her, or if his mother did, and he said he wasn’t expecting anything and hadn’t ordered anything himself. What was interesting was that the package came from Walmart, and we rarely shop at Walmart.
So I opened it to see what was in the box and if there was a gift message on the packing slip.
Keep in mind this box came addressed to my ten year old daughter.
Here is a picture of the packing slip…
WTF?
What a random assortment of items. Pop tarts, K-Cups, toothpaste and feminine hygiene products. Really?
I realize this must be a shipping mistake. How Bryn’s name and address ended up in the Walmart database is curious because we never order anything from them. I went to Walmart’s website and tried to track the order number so I could see who purchased the items, but because my email address didn’t match the order number the website wouldn’t let me in to see anything, which is a good thing as it protects the information of the person who actually did order these products.
Bryn thought it was funny and wanted to examine the contents of the box, and as she was looking through the box she said, “What are Pop Tarts?”
Did you hear that? Do you know what that means?
In this moment, right now, I feel like a good parent. I feel like I might have done something right.
Who knew in this moment of random, shipping mistake, box full of assorted grocery store items, that I would find validation of my parenting choices? My chest swelled a little and I smiled.
My daughter is ten years old and she doesn’t know about Pop Tarts! As crazy ass Charlie Sheen would say, “I am WINNING!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!”
I’m a winner too, Charlie!
I grew up on the most processed, non-food imaginable. Nutrition in the 80’s and 90’s at my house was all about Hamburger Helper, Tuna Helper, Pop Tarts, Cheez-Whiz, Bagel Dogs, Twinkies, and sugar cereals. The most fruit we ever had in our house was when my mother was making a batch of her famous Sangria.
Now that I’m the parent, I don’t feed my kids that stuff. My kids have never tasted Cheez-Whiz and they have never had pasta out of a can. Now, that doesn’t mean that I’m a super-freak about everything they eat. After all, pizza is their favorite food and they act like the apocalypse is looming if we run out of Eggo pancakes. But my kids eat real food, and I try to buy organic, whole food as much as possible.
But that is not the point of this post. The point, my dear friends, is that Walmart has inadvertently made me feel like I might be able, at some point, to claim that ever-elusive Mother of Year award. I am one step closer thanks to their misprinted shipping labels!
Thank you Walmart! Thank you, and please understand that I never shop in your store due to the lack of enforceable dress code and tendency to run into ‘The People Of Walmart.’ 😉
Same Shit, different Dave
Listen to your inner self..it has all the answers..
Chef, Blogger and Food Photographer
Finding my way back out of motherhood -- while mothering
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“Twenty years from now you will be more disappointed by the things that you didn’t do than by the ones you did do. So throw off the bowlines. Sailaway from the safe harbor. Catch the trade winds in your sails. Explore. Dream. Discover.” ~ Mark Twain
If you want to be a hero well just follow me
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A Girl Named Wanda 