Our son went to sleep in a big cardboard box, his imaginary spaceship, surrounded by stuffed animals. We watched Ms. Kleborg, in her interview with Diane Sawyer, grapple with the reckoning of her son's life and it's horrible ending. We could not un-remember the tragedy that brought us to our literal knees 17 years ago. I specifically remembered asking God to end it right away and prevent more death.
Tonight we considered the statistics of how much young people are exposed to violent video games and movies. We wondered, quietly, how we can be good parents who thwart our only child from the evils of this world while feeling helpless against its rulers. I did not disturb my husband as he snuggled against our four-year-old son in his bed, a physical shield against the ravages of this world. I texted a message of, I hope, comfort and support to my 17-year-old nephew who battles these same evils.
What incredible times for us all.
Showing posts with label real moments. Show all posts
Showing posts with label real moments. Show all posts
February 12, 2016
July 26, 2015
pure love
Last night we watched Brother Bear together, an animated story about a native American pair of brothers who get separated when one gets turned into a bear. At the end of the movie, there is a touching scene of restoration and love. But that's not what I'm blogging about.
Now that my son is old enough to sit through at least half a movie, we're enjoying the occasional movie night. We gather on the big sectional downstairs, there's usually popcorn involved, and the boy is typically ready to go to sleep afterwards. As we snuggled into the couch, he looked up at me with a big smile and said "I love you." I touched his chin and said "Oh, thank you sweetie. I love you too."
As the closing scene unfolded on the screen, I watched the wonder in my son's eyes as he commented on the brother who decided to remain a bear to take care of a motherless cub. And the words pierced my heart as they took shape in my mind: There is no love so pure in this world as that of a child.
I am blessed beyond belief.
Now that my son is old enough to sit through at least half a movie, we're enjoying the occasional movie night. We gather on the big sectional downstairs, there's usually popcorn involved, and the boy is typically ready to go to sleep afterwards. As we snuggled into the couch, he looked up at me with a big smile and said "I love you." I touched his chin and said "Oh, thank you sweetie. I love you too."
As the closing scene unfolded on the screen, I watched the wonder in my son's eyes as he commented on the brother who decided to remain a bear to take care of a motherless cub. And the words pierced my heart as they took shape in my mind: There is no love so pure in this world as that of a child.
I am blessed beyond belief.
July 1, 2015
supporting the person with dementia
Yesterday I talked about my dad and mentioned his diagnosis of dementia/Alzheimer's. As it happened, I had an appointment with my therapist later that day. And as it happens, she specializes in geriatric depression. Divine appointment?
I expressed my feelings of sadness, helplessness, and frustration at my lack of ability to help him. I wish I could offer him more than a phone call or visit. I wish God would heal him. But until or unless that happens, there is fortunately something I can do to support him. That is to engage his mind.
Supporting a person with dementia is all about meeting them where they are. Putting oneself in their shoes. Understanding the emotions that they grapple with, which in my dad's case must be deep depression, unresolving anger, and utter fear and helplessness that I can only imagine. What if someone told you that, as of now, you can expect your memories, awareness, and comprehension of life to slip away from you slowly, one day at a time, like a dripping faucet until at last you don't know your family or where you are? How do you live for today, for right now? What can you hold on to?
My therapist likened the daily life of a person with dementia to Swiss cheese: On good days, you're in the cheese and you're able to remember things and participate in normal activities. On other days, you're near the edge of a hole in the cheese, just holding on to pieces of conversation or struggling to remember your birthdate.
Engaging the mind is one of the best ways of holding on to it, and two ways of doing that are through activities and memories -- tapping into the past.
My dad used to be a pool shark. He and my mom used to go out and play pool before they had kids, and rarely had to buy their own drinks. He taught me everything I know about pool, and I got to play with him last month. He didn't make too many shots, but he was keen enough to point out the mistakes I was making and congratulate me on good moves. He genuinely enjoyed himself and remarked on how he had more stamina than he thought he would. So, every time I see him from now on, I will take him to play pool with me.
I've been calling him at least twice a month, but now I will make sure to call once a week. And when I do, I will ask him questions about his past. What is his favorite 4th of July memory? What was it like during the Depression for him and his brothers? What is his happiest memory? These questions tap into those precious pockets of long-term memory and engage him beyond the present. It's also a safe bet that no one else is asking him such things. Not because they don't care, but just because it's not something most people think of doing.
Oh yes, and the next time I see him I will give him a big, long hug and cook him a good steak.
I expressed my feelings of sadness, helplessness, and frustration at my lack of ability to help him. I wish I could offer him more than a phone call or visit. I wish God would heal him. But until or unless that happens, there is fortunately something I can do to support him. That is to engage his mind.
Supporting a person with dementia is all about meeting them where they are. Putting oneself in their shoes. Understanding the emotions that they grapple with, which in my dad's case must be deep depression, unresolving anger, and utter fear and helplessness that I can only imagine. What if someone told you that, as of now, you can expect your memories, awareness, and comprehension of life to slip away from you slowly, one day at a time, like a dripping faucet until at last you don't know your family or where you are? How do you live for today, for right now? What can you hold on to?
My therapist likened the daily life of a person with dementia to Swiss cheese: On good days, you're in the cheese and you're able to remember things and participate in normal activities. On other days, you're near the edge of a hole in the cheese, just holding on to pieces of conversation or struggling to remember your birthdate.
Engaging the mind is one of the best ways of holding on to it, and two ways of doing that are through activities and memories -- tapping into the past.
My dad used to be a pool shark. He and my mom used to go out and play pool before they had kids, and rarely had to buy their own drinks. He taught me everything I know about pool, and I got to play with him last month. He didn't make too many shots, but he was keen enough to point out the mistakes I was making and congratulate me on good moves. He genuinely enjoyed himself and remarked on how he had more stamina than he thought he would. So, every time I see him from now on, I will take him to play pool with me.
I've been calling him at least twice a month, but now I will make sure to call once a week. And when I do, I will ask him questions about his past. What is his favorite 4th of July memory? What was it like during the Depression for him and his brothers? What is his happiest memory? These questions tap into those precious pockets of long-term memory and engage him beyond the present. It's also a safe bet that no one else is asking him such things. Not because they don't care, but just because it's not something most people think of doing.
Oh yes, and the next time I see him I will give him a big, long hug and cook him a good steak.
June 30, 2015
the slow death of my father
The other night I had a dream about my dad. He was youthful, and we were going to an amusement park for the day. We were smiling and talking together as we walked. My dad loves roller coasters, and especially loves to sit in the front row since he can't see very well (which scares the crap out of me). The last time we did this was probably 10-12 years ago.
In the years since, he lost his business. Then lost his big, beautiful house. Then had brain surgery. Then had a stroke during that surgery. Then suffered balance, vocal chord, and short-term memory problems that he cannot recover from. Then received a diagnosis of dementia/Alzheimer's. Then started giving the middle finger to his meds, his wife, his diabetes diet, and just about anything that would give him a better quality of life with the years he has left.
The morning I woke up from that dream about him, I stood at the kitchen sink and cried. My dad is losing his body and his mind.
How do you help someone who's suffered one load of shit after another in life, and is giving up trying anymore?
As much as I love Colorado and can't imagine living anywhere else, I'd give just about anything to be close to my dad who lives in southern California. So I'm making more frequent trips there starting this year. I've been there twice so far this year - once on my own, once with my family. If I could swing it, I'd go out there once a month for the rest of his life. I don't know how realistic that is, and it depends on whether I could stay at his house. But visits with me and my extended family seem to be the only thing that helps to pull him out of himself. What wouldn't I do to help him?
I also am determined to make sure my son knows who his grandpa is, and one day be able to tell someone who he was. I also just miss him terribly.
I guess this is the heartache of growing older. Surviving your parents and trying to serve them as they approach the bridge that we all will one day cross. If he won't pursue quality of life, then I will do what I can to enjoy it more with him.
In the years since, he lost his business. Then lost his big, beautiful house. Then had brain surgery. Then had a stroke during that surgery. Then suffered balance, vocal chord, and short-term memory problems that he cannot recover from. Then received a diagnosis of dementia/Alzheimer's. Then started giving the middle finger to his meds, his wife, his diabetes diet, and just about anything that would give him a better quality of life with the years he has left.
The morning I woke up from that dream about him, I stood at the kitchen sink and cried. My dad is losing his body and his mind.
How do you help someone who's suffered one load of shit after another in life, and is giving up trying anymore?
As much as I love Colorado and can't imagine living anywhere else, I'd give just about anything to be close to my dad who lives in southern California. So I'm making more frequent trips there starting this year. I've been there twice so far this year - once on my own, once with my family. If I could swing it, I'd go out there once a month for the rest of his life. I don't know how realistic that is, and it depends on whether I could stay at his house. But visits with me and my extended family seem to be the only thing that helps to pull him out of himself. What wouldn't I do to help him?
I also am determined to make sure my son knows who his grandpa is, and one day be able to tell someone who he was. I also just miss him terribly.
I guess this is the heartache of growing older. Surviving your parents and trying to serve them as they approach the bridge that we all will one day cross. If he won't pursue quality of life, then I will do what I can to enjoy it more with him.
May 11, 2015
1 week after potty training
Last weekend we took the boy out of diapers and announced, with much fanfare, that he's a big boy and doesn't need them anymore. Nine days later, I'd say that's about 65% true. I've since discovered how best to balance lessons and expectations.
Nobody ever told me that potty training really has three distinct steps, which might have helped (at least mentally):
After doing some research, I think the best thing I can do is gently give him the option of pooping in the potty when he's ready and just don't mention rewards or anything. Some suggest offering to give him a diaper to poop in. Not sure how I feel about that, but what have I got to lose?
Aside from #2, the only other remaining issue is overnight training. This I'm more than willing to take our time on, because this kid is a deep sleeper (and I'd rather not deal with the morning revele just yet). Always has been. As in, 12 hours a night since he was 4 months old. I imagine it'll be another year before we see him dry in the morning long enough to jump that hurdle. Until then, we can all relax together in the early morning while he hangs out in his squishy diaper for just a few more minutes.
Nobody ever told me that potty training really has three distinct steps, which might have helped (at least mentally):
- Learn to pee in the potty
- Learn to poop in the potty
- Stay dry overnight
After doing some research, I think the best thing I can do is gently give him the option of pooping in the potty when he's ready and just don't mention rewards or anything. Some suggest offering to give him a diaper to poop in. Not sure how I feel about that, but what have I got to lose?
Aside from #2, the only other remaining issue is overnight training. This I'm more than willing to take our time on, because this kid is a deep sleeper (and I'd rather not deal with the morning revele just yet). Always has been. As in, 12 hours a night since he was 4 months old. I imagine it'll be another year before we see him dry in the morning long enough to jump that hurdle. Until then, we can all relax together in the early morning while he hangs out in his squishy diaper for just a few more minutes.
May 4, 2015
our big fat potty training weekend
Saturday morning, after breakfast, we took off our son's diaper and announced he'd be going diaper-free from now on. We cheered and smiled and patted him on the back. The rest of the first day left me more exhausted than I've been since he was born.
I never found the courage or self-discipline to use charts or follow books. It was time to just cut the cord and go cold turkey (where in the world does that saying come from anyway?). We did prepare by doing these things:
That first day, he was so worn out from going potty at least 10 times that he passed out in my arms at the dinner table before 6:00 p.m. My husband and I sat in a daze on the back patio, cocktails in hand, and were grateful that the first day was over, and over so quickly!
Then the second day came, and we prepared by drinking a boatload of strong coffee so we could smile even more broadly. He pooped in his underwear again, but tried on the potty anyway. By afternoon, he finally turned a corner. We were outside, and I was sweeping when I noticed silence which scared me. I found him, pants down, getting ready to pee on his own in the grass. "Look Mommy!" he said, as he went all on his own. I was so excited I wanted to cheer. I did. We gave him a toy. It went uphill after that. He went to bed half an hour earlier than usual (with the overnight diaper, of course).
Today is the third day, and I can see he's internalized the weekend's lesson. He started to have an accident, but told me he needed to go so I dropped everything and he finished in the potty. GOOD BOY!
Two days and he's on his way to being completely rid of diapers. This tells me that, really, we could have done this months ago. But oh well, I won't punish myself. Raising a kid is hard enough without self-imposed guilt.
Here's to the start of a great week.
I never found the courage or self-discipline to use charts or follow books. It was time to just cut the cord and go cold turkey (where in the world does that saying come from anyway?). We did prepare by doing these things:
- Cleared the schedule and did not go anywhere except to buy him new underwear.
- Stocked up on whatever motivating treats and cheap toys he might like.
- Pushed the fluids so he had plenty of opportunities to go.
- Got ready to clean. A lot. All day long.
- Set aside a bucket to put soiled clothes in (after rinsing)
- Made a big deal out of shopping for underwear. He now has about 16 pairs.
That first day, he was so worn out from going potty at least 10 times that he passed out in my arms at the dinner table before 6:00 p.m. My husband and I sat in a daze on the back patio, cocktails in hand, and were grateful that the first day was over, and over so quickly!
Then the second day came, and we prepared by drinking a boatload of strong coffee so we could smile even more broadly. He pooped in his underwear again, but tried on the potty anyway. By afternoon, he finally turned a corner. We were outside, and I was sweeping when I noticed silence which scared me. I found him, pants down, getting ready to pee on his own in the grass. "Look Mommy!" he said, as he went all on his own. I was so excited I wanted to cheer. I did. We gave him a toy. It went uphill after that. He went to bed half an hour earlier than usual (with the overnight diaper, of course).
Today is the third day, and I can see he's internalized the weekend's lesson. He started to have an accident, but told me he needed to go so I dropped everything and he finished in the potty. GOOD BOY!
Two days and he's on his way to being completely rid of diapers. This tells me that, really, we could have done this months ago. But oh well, I won't punish myself. Raising a kid is hard enough without self-imposed guilt.
Here's to the start of a great week.
April 28, 2015
quadrophenia, magnolias, and the puzzle box
I flew out to Orange County, CA to stay with my dad for three days while my stepmom has been in the hospital for a couple of weeks. I wanted a chance to keep him company and make sure he's okay. Mission accomplished. I fly home tomorrow.
This is the first time I've been away from my husband and son overnight. I thought it would feel like a vacation, but instead it's been a quiet journey, inside and out.
My flight got in Sunday morning, and we spent that day doing nothing but talking and hanging out together. I went to the grocery store. I cooked dinner. We enjoyed the first one-on-one company we've kept in about 15 years. We went to visit my stepmom today and hung out with her for a couple hours before the impending doom of traffic sent us back to home base.
Early this morning, I went for a walk before my dad got up. Not knowing the area, I just headed north (uphill) and kept going until the street ended. I found The Who's Quadrophenia on my phone and decided it was the perfect soundtrack for my journey through the wilderness of my youth. You see, I grew up around here and moved when I was 18. From the magic of childhood through the torrents of the teen years, I lived for Disneyland and the beach and parties. But I was ready when I decided to migrate to Colorado with my mom - away from the crowds, the peer pressure, and the culture of pleasure and plastic. I've never looked back.
On my walk, I swooned at the constant wafting scent of magnolias and jasmine. I stared at the succulent trees and bushes (!) of poinsettia. It was like walking on a different planet.
Meanwhile, the lyrics from the album sank into my head: "The heat is rising... the past is calling. Is it me, or a moment?" Memories of the things I enjoyed most about this place came back and filled the corners of my psyche.
Nothing like the grounding of your past to lend perspective to who you are.
My stepmom told me about a box she'd packed for me of some of my deceased grandmother's collector plates. I found the box and, in addition to the plates, found the most interesting assortment of things. Pictures of me. My dad's birth card with date and time hand written, plus his resume from about 1964 (a different time in the Los Angeles area, that's for sure). A plastic hinged box with one gold ring -- presumably my (divorced) grandmother's wedding ring. Together, they are pieces to a puzzle I know little about.
Tomorrow I'll fly home to kith and kin, working and family, punch and grind. But I have decided that I do not want to stay away for years at a time anymore. Not when my dad's body is 20 years older than it should be, and not while I can give my son a chance to know him as well as where my side of the family comes from.
This is the first time I've been away from my husband and son overnight. I thought it would feel like a vacation, but instead it's been a quiet journey, inside and out.
My flight got in Sunday morning, and we spent that day doing nothing but talking and hanging out together. I went to the grocery store. I cooked dinner. We enjoyed the first one-on-one company we've kept in about 15 years. We went to visit my stepmom today and hung out with her for a couple hours before the impending doom of traffic sent us back to home base.
Early this morning, I went for a walk before my dad got up. Not knowing the area, I just headed north (uphill) and kept going until the street ended. I found The Who's Quadrophenia on my phone and decided it was the perfect soundtrack for my journey through the wilderness of my youth. You see, I grew up around here and moved when I was 18. From the magic of childhood through the torrents of the teen years, I lived for Disneyland and the beach and parties. But I was ready when I decided to migrate to Colorado with my mom - away from the crowds, the peer pressure, and the culture of pleasure and plastic. I've never looked back.
On my walk, I swooned at the constant wafting scent of magnolias and jasmine. I stared at the succulent trees and bushes (!) of poinsettia. It was like walking on a different planet.
Meanwhile, the lyrics from the album sank into my head: "The heat is rising... the past is calling. Is it me, or a moment?" Memories of the things I enjoyed most about this place came back and filled the corners of my psyche.
Nothing like the grounding of your past to lend perspective to who you are.
My stepmom told me about a box she'd packed for me of some of my deceased grandmother's collector plates. I found the box and, in addition to the plates, found the most interesting assortment of things. Pictures of me. My dad's birth card with date and time hand written, plus his resume from about 1964 (a different time in the Los Angeles area, that's for sure). A plastic hinged box with one gold ring -- presumably my (divorced) grandmother's wedding ring. Together, they are pieces to a puzzle I know little about.
Tomorrow I'll fly home to kith and kin, working and family, punch and grind. But I have decided that I do not want to stay away for years at a time anymore. Not when my dad's body is 20 years older than it should be, and not while I can give my son a chance to know him as well as where my side of the family comes from.
April 15, 2015
my son's first lie
Yesterday morning was a battleground. At stake: an unearned potty treat (fig newton). Somehow the boy rationalized that, since he peed in his diaper, he gets a treat. Um, no son, that's not how it works.
We went back and forth several times, but I held my ground even as he wailed endlessly through breakfast and toothbrushing. I went on about my business, getting ready for work.
As I was about to head for the front door, he asked again for the treat. I asked him point-blank if he peed in the potty. He said he did and, knowing this was probably not true, I gave him the treat. A few minutes later my husband asked whether he'd used the potty and he said no. We took this opportunity to explain the difference between telling the truth and telling a lie, and emphasized that this is wrong. I did not take the treat away from him, believing that to do so would set him off and he'd just forget what we were trying to say.
We caught him in a lie.
So now, when he insists on a potty treat I really have my hands full helping him to answer wisely and truthfully. That, and I don't think this reward system is having its intended effect. Ah, parenthood.
We went back and forth several times, but I held my ground even as he wailed endlessly through breakfast and toothbrushing. I went on about my business, getting ready for work.
As I was about to head for the front door, he asked again for the treat. I asked him point-blank if he peed in the potty. He said he did and, knowing this was probably not true, I gave him the treat. A few minutes later my husband asked whether he'd used the potty and he said no. We took this opportunity to explain the difference between telling the truth and telling a lie, and emphasized that this is wrong. I did not take the treat away from him, believing that to do so would set him off and he'd just forget what we were trying to say.
We caught him in a lie.
So now, when he insists on a potty treat I really have my hands full helping him to answer wisely and truthfully. That, and I don't think this reward system is having its intended effect. Ah, parenthood.
March 9, 2015
beautiful interruption
Last night, my son was going to bed early (according to pre-daylight savings time anyway). The lights were out already. I sang to him a few bars of "Yes Jesus Loves Me" and then invited him to our regular prayer. I started reciting it and he interrupted me. "No mommy! Stop." I asked what was the matter, and instead of replying to me I heard him praying his own prayer. I couldn't hear most of it but I caught "... bless Mommy and Daddy... In Jesus' name. Amen."
I'm pretty sure I just sat there with my mouth open. Then I tucked him in and wished him sweet dreams.
How beautiful is that? Sweet dreams indeed.
I'm pretty sure I just sat there with my mouth open. Then I tucked him in and wished him sweet dreams.
How beautiful is that? Sweet dreams indeed.
November 24, 2014
the first view of the christmas tree
Yesterday I put up the Christmas tree. Yeah, I know, it's not even Thanksgiving yet. But I'm so excited to celebrate the season with my family, and we're hosting Thanksgiving, so I am in a bit of a rush to set a festive atmosphere. I am waiting until after Thanksgiving to put up the ornaments though.
Anyway, the boy woke up on the wrong side of the bed after taking a long afternoon nap. He would just randomly scream at nothing, wail after stubbing his toe or getting frustrated with a toy. I told him he could help me set up the tree, and he was certainly interested in playing with the tree stand while I hauled the pieces upstairs. After finally coaxing the stand out of his hands (more screaming), I got the tree set up and told him to come look at it. He preferred to play on the stairs, so I left him alone. After a while, he made his way up the stairs talking to me or himself.
After a few minutes I realized it was very quiet. I walked around the kitchen corner to find him standing still, staring open-mouthed at the Christmas tree. Six feet of gleaming white plastic with brilliant, twinkling lights in front of the living room window. I smiled to myself. This was the tree that we bought when I was in the midst of depression in 2010, as it felt like a beacon of hope.
The season of wonder. The one I've been waiting for so I can finally see it through his eyes. The chance to show how beautiful the whole world is because we're celebrating the birth of Jesus by exchanging presents and baking cookies and decorating everything from the state capitol building to the artwork on the refrigerator. The season of joy, love, and hope.
Anyway, the boy woke up on the wrong side of the bed after taking a long afternoon nap. He would just randomly scream at nothing, wail after stubbing his toe or getting frustrated with a toy. I told him he could help me set up the tree, and he was certainly interested in playing with the tree stand while I hauled the pieces upstairs. After finally coaxing the stand out of his hands (more screaming), I got the tree set up and told him to come look at it. He preferred to play on the stairs, so I left him alone. After a while, he made his way up the stairs talking to me or himself.
After a few minutes I realized it was very quiet. I walked around the kitchen corner to find him standing still, staring open-mouthed at the Christmas tree. Six feet of gleaming white plastic with brilliant, twinkling lights in front of the living room window. I smiled to myself. This was the tree that we bought when I was in the midst of depression in 2010, as it felt like a beacon of hope.
The season of wonder. The one I've been waiting for so I can finally see it through his eyes. The chance to show how beautiful the whole world is because we're celebrating the birth of Jesus by exchanging presents and baking cookies and decorating everything from the state capitol building to the artwork on the refrigerator. The season of joy, love, and hope.
October 27, 2014
losing his last nap and my sanity with it
My son's life is a series of transitions, and currently he is transitioning away from his midday nap. I'm not sure, but I think this transition is supposed to last a couple of months decades. Some days, he naps. Others, only if he's strapped into a carseat and forced to sit still for an hour. Still others, like this past weekend, he skips the nap and slips into a coma right before dinnertime.
Friday we let him nap since we couldn't reasonably wake him, then he was a major crankybutt until bedtime. Sunday we just gave in and put him to bed. Predictably, he was awake at 5 this morning. Argh!!!
Meanwhile, I've started seeing my therapist again, and my next appointment is tomorrow. I’m thinking of going back on antidepressants for a while. My insomnia is just an absolute plague, and when I can’t sleep I can’t handle my son very well (let alone the rest of my life). Case in point: Yesterday was day 6 of terrible sleep for me. The day went okay, but of course the boy didn’t nap. Late in the afternoon he just got more and more upset, throwing tantrums over next to nothing. I knew it was because he was exhausted, but every episode just ratcheted up my stress level. I was trying to put lotion on him after his shower and he got all fussy, yelling etc., then he full-on hit me in the face (not hard, of course). I grabbed his arms and rather yelled “I know you’re upset but I won’t let you hit me!” This shocked him enough that he burst into tears, so I held him and he continued fighting me. My husband took over and I just sat in the chair in our son's room sobbing, helpless to the situation.
In a way, it was a blessing that he crashed at 5 and my husband and I had a quiet evening together (we even got to eat dinner in front of the TV!), but then of course I couldn’t sleep and then he was up at 5 this morning… Whatever "it" is, I’m starting to lose it.
As my therapist reminded me last week, a happy mom is a good mom. What's a stressed-out, depressed, overweight, insomniac mom??
The most productive thing I did last night, since I was awake, was go into the living room in the dark and talk to God. Actually, I argued with him. As I poured out my frustration, I said I felt like I was talking to a brick wall, and asked Him to let me know He was actually listening. After a while, I turned on a light and started reading my Bible -- a Good News Translation version that my dad gave to me on my 13th birthday. I randomly flipped over to the middle section, wordlessly asking for a Psalm. Up in the left hand corner was a drawing of a person leaning over another one who was lying in bed, and the caption was from Psalm 23:4. "Even if I go through the deepest darkness, I will not be afraid, Lord, for you are with me." Tears in my eyes, I turned off the light and went back to bed.
Friday we let him nap since we couldn't reasonably wake him, then he was a major crankybutt until bedtime. Sunday we just gave in and put him to bed. Predictably, he was awake at 5 this morning. Argh!!!
Meanwhile, I've started seeing my therapist again, and my next appointment is tomorrow. I’m thinking of going back on antidepressants for a while. My insomnia is just an absolute plague, and when I can’t sleep I can’t handle my son very well (let alone the rest of my life). Case in point: Yesterday was day 6 of terrible sleep for me. The day went okay, but of course the boy didn’t nap. Late in the afternoon he just got more and more upset, throwing tantrums over next to nothing. I knew it was because he was exhausted, but every episode just ratcheted up my stress level. I was trying to put lotion on him after his shower and he got all fussy, yelling etc., then he full-on hit me in the face (not hard, of course). I grabbed his arms and rather yelled “I know you’re upset but I won’t let you hit me!” This shocked him enough that he burst into tears, so I held him and he continued fighting me. My husband took over and I just sat in the chair in our son's room sobbing, helpless to the situation.
In a way, it was a blessing that he crashed at 5 and my husband and I had a quiet evening together (we even got to eat dinner in front of the TV!), but then of course I couldn’t sleep and then he was up at 5 this morning… Whatever "it" is, I’m starting to lose it.
As my therapist reminded me last week, a happy mom is a good mom. What's a stressed-out, depressed, overweight, insomniac mom??
The most productive thing I did last night, since I was awake, was go into the living room in the dark and talk to God. Actually, I argued with him. As I poured out my frustration, I said I felt like I was talking to a brick wall, and asked Him to let me know He was actually listening. After a while, I turned on a light and started reading my Bible -- a Good News Translation version that my dad gave to me on my 13th birthday. I randomly flipped over to the middle section, wordlessly asking for a Psalm. Up in the left hand corner was a drawing of a person leaning over another one who was lying in bed, and the caption was from Psalm 23:4. "Even if I go through the deepest darkness, I will not be afraid, Lord, for you are with me." Tears in my eyes, I turned off the light and went back to bed.
October 8, 2014
things to remember when your child gets angry
This is a link to an article I received yesterday from a website I'm following very closely -- AHaParenting.com. 11 Things to Remember When Your Child Gets Angry
At first I thought "Oh, so now I can't even put my two year old in time out?" But I guess it's more situational. I don't send him away because he's screaming. We give him the "uh-oh song" when he does something inappropriate like banging a toy on the wall after we've warned him a couple times not to. I have to say that this distinction is helpful and important.
My son gets pissed off about a lot of things, like waking up too late or not wanting mommy to pick him up -- "No! Want Daddy!!" Well excuuuuuse me...
As if on cue, this morning I had a chance to live out the website author's advice. I'm pretty sure my son has an internal compass that tells him when Mommy wants to get out of the house early (so I could attend a Weight Watchers meeting, no less). He played, he ran away, he dawdled. I think it took half an hour to convince him to put his pants on. Yeah, that kind of morning. I was frustrated enough when it was time to leave that my husband (God bless him) stepped in to gently force him out the door. The boy then didn't want to get in the car seat, and my blood was about to boil. I stated very firmly that we had to get into the car seat so I could give him a mint, and that we need to leave because Mommy's running late.
Seriously. When has the argument that we need to leave EVER resulted in compliance? Never. Ever.
He went ballistic. I mean, practically foaming at the mouth screaming and crying. I stopped. I changed my approach instantly, realizing that a) he had no control over these big, scary emotions and b) this wasn't an emergency and I could spare a few minutes. I gently put my hands on him and said soothing things like You're okay. You're safe. I'm right here. I love you. And I let him cry for a bit. Then he told me he wanted some things, including a snack bar. I said "You got it. Let's get you into your car seat and I'll get you a snack bar." He was still crying, but let me buckle him in. I got the snack bar and we drove off and he was fine. Darned if that loving tactic didn't work beautifully.
Lesson learned. When my son is at his worst, that is when he needs me or Daddy the most.
At first I thought "Oh, so now I can't even put my two year old in time out?" But I guess it's more situational. I don't send him away because he's screaming. We give him the "uh-oh song" when he does something inappropriate like banging a toy on the wall after we've warned him a couple times not to. I have to say that this distinction is helpful and important.
My son gets pissed off about a lot of things, like waking up too late or not wanting mommy to pick him up -- "No! Want Daddy!!" Well excuuuuuse me...
As if on cue, this morning I had a chance to live out the website author's advice. I'm pretty sure my son has an internal compass that tells him when Mommy wants to get out of the house early (so I could attend a Weight Watchers meeting, no less). He played, he ran away, he dawdled. I think it took half an hour to convince him to put his pants on. Yeah, that kind of morning. I was frustrated enough when it was time to leave that my husband (God bless him) stepped in to gently force him out the door. The boy then didn't want to get in the car seat, and my blood was about to boil. I stated very firmly that we had to get into the car seat so I could give him a mint, and that we need to leave because Mommy's running late.
Seriously. When has the argument that we need to leave EVER resulted in compliance? Never. Ever.
He went ballistic. I mean, practically foaming at the mouth screaming and crying. I stopped. I changed my approach instantly, realizing that a) he had no control over these big, scary emotions and b) this wasn't an emergency and I could spare a few minutes. I gently put my hands on him and said soothing things like You're okay. You're safe. I'm right here. I love you. And I let him cry for a bit. Then he told me he wanted some things, including a snack bar. I said "You got it. Let's get you into your car seat and I'll get you a snack bar." He was still crying, but let me buckle him in. I got the snack bar and we drove off and he was fine. Darned if that loving tactic didn't work beautifully.
Lesson learned. When my son is at his worst, that is when he needs me or Daddy the most.
September 25, 2014
early riser
Captain Sillypants came creeping into our room at 4:30 this morning and plopped a stuffed animal on my back. I jumped and startled him, causing him to fall onto his bottom in the dark. We told him it was still nighttime, to go back to bed, but he wanted to sleep with us. In our exhaustion we acquiesced. So, every time I started drifting back to sleep I’d get a foot in my back or hear the jingle of his plush puppy. Sigh.
I gave up and made coffee at 5:30, and he was up complaining he was hungry at 6:00 (guess who's going to bed early tonight if it's the last thing I do?).
So I dropped him off at school early and treated myself to a breakfast burrito from a gourmet food truck. The end.
So I dropped him off at school early and treated myself to a breakfast burrito from a gourmet food truck. The end.
September 16, 2014
"gimme kiss"
This is what my son says to me lately, every time I drop him off at daycare. And he means it -- he'll give me a kiss, then walk away, then turn around saying "gimme kiss" and come back for another one. This will happen 3-4 times before I duck out the door and on to work.
Sigh. I just love that boy.
Sigh. I just love that boy.
August 21, 2014
"i wanna go IKEA!"
Why? Why does my son say he wants to go to IKEA? Maybe it's because the shopping carts twirl in every direction, or because he can play with their toys and then scream when I won't buy them.
Sorry Son, Mommy's not willing to drive to the ass-end of the city on a week day just to indulge you for the fact that you probably just like saying the word "IKEA."
Sorry Son, Mommy's not willing to drive to the ass-end of the city on a week day just to indulge you for the fact that you probably just like saying the word "IKEA."
July 19, 2014
so my toddler may have swallowed a piece of plastic
I may never know, but there's a good chance my son swallowed a piece of plastic that broke off of a little spoon while we were eating ice cream yesterday. No bigger than the size of the white part of my pinky fingernail.
I was running out of things to be paranoid about, anyway.
So I called the pediatrician, and the nurse told me that since he didn't act like he was choking or anything, if he swallowed it it did not go into the lungs. Fortunately, as she explained, everything below the lungs gets bigger on its way down so more than likely it will pass through. I have to watch him over the next week for signs of stomach aches, bloody stools, or vomiting which could indicate that the piece has gotten caught on its way down.
My mom and I prayed for the boy that afternoon, but as I laid down to sleep I started thinking about him again. I knew I wouldn't stop worrying, so I got up and prayed. I asked God to dissolve the piece of plastic if it's still in there and restore his health. After a few minutes I got the sense that my petition had been heard, and I felt peace.
I went to bid him a final goodnight, and opened his door. It was completely dark except for a dim nightlight, and I hadn't turned on a light to pray. As I started to close his door behind me, out of the corner of my eye I saw three bright, white lights flash in a row -- pulse. Pulse. Pulse. At the first one I figured it was my eyesight adjusting, but by the third I realized something was different. I looked around -- everything was dark and still. I checked the CO2 and smoke detectors in the hallway -- normal. Headlights? No -- the blinds are closed and the door was too far shut for them to come in no matter what the angle. Burglar with a flashlight? Unlikely, since the pattern was steady and not erratic.
What did I just see? Or, what did I miss?
I went to my son's bed and just rested my hand on his torso. Breathing normal. I went back to bed and eventually went to sleep.
I was running out of things to be paranoid about, anyway.
So I called the pediatrician, and the nurse told me that since he didn't act like he was choking or anything, if he swallowed it it did not go into the lungs. Fortunately, as she explained, everything below the lungs gets bigger on its way down so more than likely it will pass through. I have to watch him over the next week for signs of stomach aches, bloody stools, or vomiting which could indicate that the piece has gotten caught on its way down.
My mom and I prayed for the boy that afternoon, but as I laid down to sleep I started thinking about him again. I knew I wouldn't stop worrying, so I got up and prayed. I asked God to dissolve the piece of plastic if it's still in there and restore his health. After a few minutes I got the sense that my petition had been heard, and I felt peace.
I went to bid him a final goodnight, and opened his door. It was completely dark except for a dim nightlight, and I hadn't turned on a light to pray. As I started to close his door behind me, out of the corner of my eye I saw three bright, white lights flash in a row -- pulse. Pulse. Pulse. At the first one I figured it was my eyesight adjusting, but by the third I realized something was different. I looked around -- everything was dark and still. I checked the CO2 and smoke detectors in the hallway -- normal. Headlights? No -- the blinds are closed and the door was too far shut for them to come in no matter what the angle. Burglar with a flashlight? Unlikely, since the pattern was steady and not erratic.
What did I just see? Or, what did I miss?
I went to my son's bed and just rested my hand on his torso. Breathing normal. I went back to bed and eventually went to sleep.
June 17, 2014
potty training fail and random success
Last week I talked about the top
5 signs my son is ready for potty training, and I geared up by reading a
highly-rated and seriously detailed book. I honestly thought training the
trainer was the way to go. Then reality slapped me back to the ground.
I had the book and the potty training doll and the treats. Then I forgot my precious book at work. In a panic, I downloaded it on Kindle Saturday morning (training day). Then my mind started flooding with endless questions: In what order do I perform all the steps? Do I warn him that we’re starting the half-day marathon called potty training? What if he doesn’t do anything – do I still reward him? What if there are interruptions, or he just keeps asking for treats? My mind was reeling.
By mid-morning I called it quits. Yep, I chickened out of potty training. I felt ill-prepared to take on this momentous task. Monday morning I polled my friends to see what method worked best. And you know what? Most of them had an unorganized, downright lackadaisical way of going about the whole thing. I began to wonder if it was possible that I was overthinking this. Who, me? The one who analyzes processes like a chef hunting down the Perfect Recipe?
Based on my friends’ input, I decided there was one small step I could take: I would begin with one small ritual with rewards. So last night, I excitedly told my son that we would start learning how to use the potty before bathtime. If he went, he could get a special potty treat as a reward. He sat on there for maybe 10 seconds before deciding he needed that treat. My reaction? “Oh well, that’s okay. We’ll try again next time. Let’s take a bath.” I didn’t give him the treat, which he wasn’t happy about, but we moved on.
This morning as I was in the bathroom putting on makeup, he came in and I asked if he’d like to use the potty. He said “Yeah.” I took him through the steps of pulling down his shorts, helped him get into position, and reminded him to point his thingy down so that when pee comes out it will go straight into the toilet (no guard on this seat).
What did he do? He farted. Ha! He looked up at me in surprise, and I exclaimed “Good job! Mommy’s so proud of you.” He decided he was done, and we moved on. There was no mention of a treat.
When I dropped him off at daycare, I mentioned how ready he is and they said that no, he hasn’t gone there yet either. Not 10 minutes later, one of the teachers called me to announce that he pulled off his shorts, marched right into the bathroom, and peed in the toilet. I told her it was okay to give him a gummy bear as a special potty treat.
Can I just tell you how much that made my day?!
I know, this is just the beginning. And complete success could be months away. One small step for (little) man…
So, for now, I think I’ll take my hands off the reins and follow his lead a bit more. I will encourage and praise him for every tiny effort. Maybe, like a fellow mommy blogger, I’ll just say no to potty training.
I had the book and the potty training doll and the treats. Then I forgot my precious book at work. In a panic, I downloaded it on Kindle Saturday morning (training day). Then my mind started flooding with endless questions: In what order do I perform all the steps? Do I warn him that we’re starting the half-day marathon called potty training? What if he doesn’t do anything – do I still reward him? What if there are interruptions, or he just keeps asking for treats? My mind was reeling.
By mid-morning I called it quits. Yep, I chickened out of potty training. I felt ill-prepared to take on this momentous task. Monday morning I polled my friends to see what method worked best. And you know what? Most of them had an unorganized, downright lackadaisical way of going about the whole thing. I began to wonder if it was possible that I was overthinking this. Who, me? The one who analyzes processes like a chef hunting down the Perfect Recipe?
Based on my friends’ input, I decided there was one small step I could take: I would begin with one small ritual with rewards. So last night, I excitedly told my son that we would start learning how to use the potty before bathtime. If he went, he could get a special potty treat as a reward. He sat on there for maybe 10 seconds before deciding he needed that treat. My reaction? “Oh well, that’s okay. We’ll try again next time. Let’s take a bath.” I didn’t give him the treat, which he wasn’t happy about, but we moved on.
This morning as I was in the bathroom putting on makeup, he came in and I asked if he’d like to use the potty. He said “Yeah.” I took him through the steps of pulling down his shorts, helped him get into position, and reminded him to point his thingy down so that when pee comes out it will go straight into the toilet (no guard on this seat).
What did he do? He farted. Ha! He looked up at me in surprise, and I exclaimed “Good job! Mommy’s so proud of you.” He decided he was done, and we moved on. There was no mention of a treat.
When I dropped him off at daycare, I mentioned how ready he is and they said that no, he hasn’t gone there yet either. Not 10 minutes later, one of the teachers called me to announce that he pulled off his shorts, marched right into the bathroom, and peed in the toilet. I told her it was okay to give him a gummy bear as a special potty treat.
Can I just tell you how much that made my day?!
I know, this is just the beginning. And complete success could be months away. One small step for (little) man…
So, for now, I think I’ll take my hands off the reins and follow his lead a bit more. I will encourage and praise him for every tiny effort. Maybe, like a fellow mommy blogger, I’ll just say no to potty training.
June 11, 2014
recovering from family visits and why my husband is father of the year
My MIL stayed with us for two weeks. It was a good visit. We spent time together, she had plenty of quality time with the boy, and we didn't get too worked up over anything. The boy was thrilled to haver her around -- enough so that, toward the end, his sleeping habits became erratic. It would take over an hour of taking him back to bed and getting him to settle down, long after the bedtime stories and lullabies and tuck-in had happened. Naptime started to get just as hard. It ruffled my feathers to say the least.
Once she went back home, it still took a couple days to get back to normal. I think we’ve now recovered from my MIL’s visit. Bedtime is still kind of a battle, but at least he’s going down the first time instead of continually getting up.
Last night I just about blew my top – he didn’t want a bath, wouldn’t let me help him put on his nighttime diaper or jammies, refused tooth brushing completely by screaming at me… I finally yelled "That's it! You're in time out!!" and went into the other room where DH was standing. I walked past him and pounded my fists into the bed to let out some anger while our son continued to scream and cry in his room. It wasn’t a pretty scene. I was so frustrated I wanted to scream and cry myself.
Fortunately for all of us, DH took over. He went into the boy's room and shut the door. I went and sat on the couch with my head in my hands, feeling like an idiot for losing my temper. The boy continued to cry and scream for several minutes, but DH didn't give up. He stayed in there, rocking the boy in the rocking chair and just holding him until he finally settled down. Eventually the boy settled down enough that he let DH tuck him into bed -- something he has demanded exclusively from Mommy for the past two weeks -- and actually went to sleep.
And that is why my imperfect, ever-evolving, back-aching, long-suffering husband of 13 years (as of next week) is Father of the Year. This one's for you, honey.
Once she went back home, it still took a couple days to get back to normal. I think we’ve now recovered from my MIL’s visit. Bedtime is still kind of a battle, but at least he’s going down the first time instead of continually getting up.
Last night I just about blew my top – he didn’t want a bath, wouldn’t let me help him put on his nighttime diaper or jammies, refused tooth brushing completely by screaming at me… I finally yelled "That's it! You're in time out!!" and went into the other room where DH was standing. I walked past him and pounded my fists into the bed to let out some anger while our son continued to scream and cry in his room. It wasn’t a pretty scene. I was so frustrated I wanted to scream and cry myself.
Fortunately for all of us, DH took over. He went into the boy's room and shut the door. I went and sat on the couch with my head in my hands, feeling like an idiot for losing my temper. The boy continued to cry and scream for several minutes, but DH didn't give up. He stayed in there, rocking the boy in the rocking chair and just holding him until he finally settled down. Eventually the boy settled down enough that he let DH tuck him into bed -- something he has demanded exclusively from Mommy for the past two weeks -- and actually went to sleep.
And that is why my imperfect, ever-evolving, back-aching, long-suffering husband of 13 years (as of next week) is Father of the Year. This one's for you, honey.
June 9, 2014
top 5 signs my son is ready for potty training
Yesterday, DH and I decided that this coming Friday is Training Day. We (uh.. that really means me since he's working) are going to potty train the boy. Below is a list of the top 5 signs we know our toddler is ready for potty training.
- He wants to help me by being in the room, trying to wipe me with tissue way before I'm ready, and flushing the toilet for me. Hey, I'm not shy about letting him get to know the ropes.
- He plays with the integrated toilet seat and enjoys putting little bits of tissue in there, then flushing to watch it go down.
- He doesn't want me to change him when he's got a number 2, but then he wants to wipe himself as soon as I get started (I haven't given him the opportunity to play with the contents but I'm sure he would).
- He investigates the area with a finger.
- The other day, we put him in his room for naptime. According to the evidence, he apparently took off his diaper, peed in front of his bed, then went to sleep naked below the waist on his bed where we found him 2 hours later. If that's not a sign, I don't know what is.
- A doll that wets
- An extra stool for the downstairs bathroom
- A second integrated toilet seat for the downstairs bathroom
- A variety of tasty drinks, treats, and candies
- Special stickers
- Big-boy briefs
- A special reward for mommy to be enjoyed at the end of the day
June 3, 2014
random thoughts: sick again?
I can’t believe I just did this: shut my office door and laid down under my desk for about 10 minutes where I dozed off and on. I think I have a virus that my son passed on – he was sick from both ends for half a day Sunday. We thought he overate the day before because he was fine the rest of the day. Me? Not so much.
I need to go home.
I need to go home.
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