Am I raising a serial killer?

I stay home with my children and try to do a good job raising them.  I  don’t quite know exactly what I’m doing at any given moment, but I swear I’m doing the best I can.  I am confronted with turmoil atleast three times a day. The source of all of this drama, my 3 1/2 year old.  I am quite certain that God sent him to destroy me.  The child is ridiculously stubborn.  He has been known to go on hunger strikes, vomit on que and quit drinking (sometimes for days) in effort for me to give in to his terrorist demands.  He really is a sweet kid, until the world strays from his plan.  If things don’t go exactly as he feels they should,  he has a total emotional meltdown.  I have tried everything to correct this behavior, and I am simply at a loss.  I refuse to give up, but I have to wonder if this is the way Mrs. Hitler felt.

Recommended Toddler Reading

So, I have ranted on bad kids books in the past, but my three year old requested one of our favorites last night and it made me realize it might actually be more useful to mention a few of our off-the-beaten-shelves favorites. So here goes:

1. Flawed Dogs — The rhymes may be more than a stretch, and a few of the subtler themes, well, a touch mature but the illustrations are spectacular and the moral of the story nearly brings me a tear every time. We may all be different (and some of us more so than others), but we all need love and are loveable.

2. Harold and the Purple Crayon — This one won a major award for its illustrations, but I value it more for its approach to creativity and an independent spirit (as well as love of ones own bed).

3. The Giant Jam Sandwich — Again, stunning illustrations feature prominently in this book. And to be honest, it isn’t a morality tale on its surface (despite the line about Itching Down not being a Waspish sort of town, perhaps. But I might be reading into that one). This one is just fun to read, with a nice rhythm and good characters.

4. The Maurice Sendak Nutshell Library. While Wild Things gets all the press, these little gems are not to be missed. A particular favorite is Chicken Soup With Rice, though I can’t really say why. Guess I’m a sucker for a good bowl of soup, particularly under water. But the set also includes good alphabet and numbers-based books along with Pierre: A Cautionary Tale in Five Chapters and a Prologue. (oh, and I read another Sendak at Amanda’s recently, a Little Bear collection, that completely rocked. The kids were enthralled and not only did I not chuke reading it, I found it rather sweet.)

5. Oh, let’s end this list with a swell tongue-tier: Tiki Tiki Tembo. Truely astounding illustrations, in quite an unusual style. Excellent cultural aspect along with that tried and true moral we all love–listen to your mother. But I can’t help but notice a theme running through these few books: They are all nice to read aloud; they have a strong oral quality that makes them particularly suited for the inevitable multiple reads.

Mommy Mush Brain

In keeping with the theme of Michelle’s last post, I must admit that having children made me dumb.  I’m not claiming that I was ever a MENSA member, but I wasn’t always the bumbling idiot that I am today.  Years ago, I kept up on all the news, I enjoyed the science and psychology of politics.  I was familiaar with all of the government officials holding office.  I kept up on local happenings as well as world affairs.  I was well read and frequented museums.  I could hold up my end of a conversation.

Now, I am what people refer to as slow.  My husband  is a very brilliant man.  Often times, I am expected to go places with his collegues.  The playing feild is not level.  It is true that I have always considered my husband and his compatriots to be super geek nerds.  But I could at least keep up with them.  Now, when a discussion involving the market comes up, my only input is that I need eggs.  When the topic shifts to celebrity news, I tell them that Bob the Builder has a new machine named Zoomer.  In fact, I once excused myself from the table by saying that I had to go to the potty.  Thank God I had the sense not to mention I had to go poopie. 

I am not just socially crippled, my vocabulary has taken the worst hit.  A few months ago, I was at Linens and Things looking for a coffee carafe.  I went to the coffee section and my mind went blank.  A young girl came over to ask me if I needed help finding anything.  “Yes,” I said.  This was followed by a long pause in which drool dropped down my chin.  The girl waited patiently while I blankly stared.  “What is it you need?” she kindly continued.  “I need one of those things you put coffee in.”  “Okay.  What kind of thing?”  (She really was quite patient.)  “You know a coffee thing” I insisted while miming pouring coffee.  The girl, assuming I was special tried to verify the item by asking yes/no questions.  “A pot?”  “No.”  “A cup?”  “No.”  “A mug?”  “No.”  “A grinder?”  “No.”  (Girl is now visibly irritated while I dumbly stare)  Finally, after naming everthing on the shelves, we come to the carafe.  “Yes!”  I shout, “that is what I need!”  The girl then walked me to the front where she checked me out being sure to speak extra slowly.  I tried to explain to her that I simply forgot the name of the item, but I know she watched me walk into the parking lot to see if I got onto a short bus, and I can’t blame her.

Missing: Brain Cells

I have a fairly responsible job. I meet deadlines every week and am often asked to participate in larger organizational strategy, new product launches, and the like. So it is fair to say I have, in some circles, been considered to be a fairly bright woman. No more.

I heard many rumors that giving birth lowers one’s intelligence, but I’d always figured it was like brunettes (like me) telling jokes about blondes (like Amanda). You know, the non-moms being a bit snarky about the breeders. Uh, no. I won’t say that my brain cells actually left my body via the afterbirth, or that they were necessarily absorbed osmosis-style by my wee fetus, but damn if they didn’t disappear. It could be the fact that I almost never have the luxury of focusing on one task any longer; it is amazing what I can accomplish one handed, or while also reading a story, or with one window of my screen on work while another one is open playing Bugs Bunny Classics on YouTube (okay, I’m a bad mom, too).

But today takes the cake. I just realized I have house guests coming Sunday. From France. I actually wrote the date on my calendar for these same dates Next Month. I know that I could save up for breast augmentation to undo some baby-related damage, but what about my IQ? Do they have vanity surgery for that?

Bad timing

Why is it that people only want to talk to me when I am hiddeous?  Last week, I was having a relatively good hair day and I was wearing make up.  I almost looked like a woman.   I didn’t see a soul other than my own kids.  No one ever sees me when I look lady-like.  I only run into people when I look like a sasquatch.  I was just taking the trash out in my husbands boxer shorts, a stained tee shirt and no bra (yes, the ape hangers were flopping all over the place), of course, I wasn’t wearing any make up either and I have a pimple so large, it has its own pulse.  This is  when a few of the neighbors come over to chat.  I didn’t want to seem rude, but if my boobs are not corralled, I’m not talking to anyone.   I  tried to duck out of the conversation, but, I chance to say that no one has ever found me quite as rivetting.   

Doll Surgery

My son loves “Postman Pat.”  “Postman Pat” is a Brittish childrens show centered around a lovable  mail carrier.  The show is actually quite cute.  My son’s love for the show is so great that he often pretends to be Pat himself.  You can imagine my glee when I discoved an e-bay store that sold “Postman Pat” paraphanelia.  I was able to find a plush Pat in time for my son’s birthday last year.  That gift was deamed the “bestest thing ever.”  Every night since Pat has slept with my son.  Even when we go on vacation, Pat comes along.  Recently, Pat’s glasses were broken.  Despite my best efforts, I was unable to reglue Pat’s spectacles.  My son was heart broken.  “What will I do without Pat?  Whaaaaaaa”   I was able to pry the doll out of my son’s hands and use my sewing kit to remove the broken glasses.  Unfortunately, I did not know that Pat would no longer be Pat with out the glasses.  Like a baby bird touched by human hands, Pat was rejected and I was ostracized for thinking he was good as new.  Then, brilliance struck, I pretended to put contact lenses into Pat’s eyes.  Immediately, I was praised for my optamalogical genius and Pat was back to being the bestest thing ever.  Forgive me for gloating, but it is not often that I think quickly enough to outwit the harshest critic I have ever known.

Sleep Help Wanted

All and all, my girl is what is known in mommy-circles as “a good sleeper.” She slept 6 hours a night at 6 weeks, took two naps until about 18 months and still takes an afternoon nap, despite a short spell where it seemed to be vanishing. Yet, like all children, we have bouts of sleep-resistance. This week, the nighty night ritual has been extended well beyond winding down, jammies, and tucking in. You see, everything is wrong. If the fan is off, my daughter is too hot. If the fan is on, it is bothering her. Shutting it off isn’t enough, now it must be removed from the room. Oh, but wait, her dolly’s hat fell off and “WAHHHHHH” she can’t get it back on. When it is pointed out that no one sleeps in hats, not even dollys, near-hysteria ensues. How dare anyone question her fashion expertise?!? I could go on all night (and so could she, it seems).

When these cycles start, I always get sucked in on the first night or two, but even a slow-witted-mom like me catches on eventually: My girl knows she’s got me on a string and damn if she don’t love yanking it. My dear husband is a touch slower to accept that we are having a test-my-parents’-limits phase. His sweet girl must have a perfectly good reason for having trouble falling asleep. After night two of this round, he suggested we put her to bed a bit later as she clearly isn’t tired at 8:30. Huh?

Well, tonight I’ll be laying it down like napalm. Ya, she’ll be going to bed on time and she’s getting no parental response. Sure hope she empties that bladder before she gets into bed (the wily thing has been known to save a few drops so that when she insists she has to go only 10 minutes after having been put to bed… then squeezes out about six drops “just to show me.”). I’ve been sucked into weeks of this bedtime yo-yo hell in the past, but like I said, even I catch on eventually.

Family Relations

For every one of us who has a familial horror story to tell, there’s a mom out there who can do one better (or worse, I suppose). I, for example, have a relative-by-marriage who refuses to make eye contact with me at family gatherings, but sends my daughter gifts for every conceivable holiday via grandma & grandpa. Well, get a group of gals started on this topic, and be prepared to be stunned.

I know a woman whose mother in law drops by any hour of the day or night unannounced. This psycho grandma made a three year old macaroni and cheese for breakfast, after he rejected the pancakes she’d made him–which, of course, were what he’d asked for. She tells the toddler’s mother that she’s too hard on him because she expects him to, say, hold her hand in a parking lot or when crossing a street. But the coup de grace? This grandma fake-cries when she wants attention from the three year old! She feels that it is completely reasonable to demonstrate to a child that crying is the way to get what you want. Sweet. Toddlers aren’t already predisposed to this tactic. But what is mom to do? Her biggest “personality flaw” is that she’s way too nice.

My family is quite aware that they will simply never have unsupervised time with my child if they insist on baby talking to her, much less going against our “big issues” like vegetarianism. The best retort this particular beleaguered mom came up with actually puts her own judgment in question. When she and hell-grandma were “discussing” child rearing, she was dying to say: “Yes, and look what a great job you did; you practically socially handicapped your son!” But then again, she chose to marry the man.

What happened to us??

Before we had children, my husband and I could stay out all night.  We would go out to eat at a nice restaraunt and walk to the bar with the best band.  When the band stopped playing we would walk toward home, stopping at our neighborhood bar where we would stay until closing time.  Once the bartender uttered those dreaded words, “Closing Time”  we would finish our walk home where we would have drinks and visit until dawn. 

Last night, we got a babysitter and went to a wonderful restraunt for a romantic evening away from the kids.  Our reservations were for 8:00pm and we enjoyed a wonderful meal complete with desert and coffee.  We wrapped up the meal around 10:00.  We got in the car and drove back toward town (living in the suburbs involves a lot of driving to and from places).  It was durring this drive that the following conversation took place…

        Husband:  “Where do you want to go now?”

        Me: “Home.  Belly full, me tired.”

        Husband:  “I know, but if we go home now, we didn’t give the sitter a chance to make any money.  We can’t only give her two hours, some one else will swoop in and take her from us if we can’t keep her happy.  Besides, she’ll think we’re old and lame if we go home now.”

         Me:  “We are old and lame.”

         Husband:  “We have to atleast stop for a drink.  We can’t go home yet.”

        Me:  dirty looks and yawns

       Husband:  “Real mature.”

So, begrudgingly, we went out for the afore mentioned drink.  When we arrived at the bar, we were accosted by a drunken woman spewing jibberish.  Once I was able to pry this woman off of my husband we went inside and discoved just how old and lame we were.  My husband complained the band was too loud (it really was ridiculous) and I dreamt of climbing into bed.  Once enough time had passed that we felt the sitter wouldn’t laugh at us and start booking another family for Saturday nights we were finally able to go home.  We really did have a nice time, its just that now, sitting on the couch is a nice time too. 

Take Pride

I read with much empathy the My Turn column in the July 23 07 issue of Newsweek, entitled “Stop Setting Alarms on my Biological Clock.” Carrie Friedman tells of woman aggressively recruiting her womb to their way of life–the mommy way. One woman actually reached under her shirt, placed a cold hand on her abdomen, and asked that charming question, “Why aren’t’ you pregnant yet?” Having had the gall to wait until I was 37 to procreate, through eight wonderful years of marriage, I know what my girl Carrie is talking about.

I can’t say how many times this question arose. Almost as bad were more veiled approaches, like my mother referring to the dog as her grandchild. I had women say I was “wise not to have kids” since I was so committed to my career. Oh the various jabs and snarks I endured. Most vividly, I recall the funeral of my grandmother, a working mom from another era who was my most powerful role model and influence. A younger cousin and her friends (all more than 15 years my junior) were following me in a wonderfully flattering way. They formed a circle near me, when the well wishers shook out into chatting groups. In my circle, a woman said she liked what I’d said about my grandmother’s influence in my life, about how she’d shaped my desire to succeed. But, she asked in a knowing voice, wasn’t having a baby the most important thing I’d ever done?

The silence from the 20-somethings was deafening. My cousin’s look said, “okay role model, how you gonna answer this one?” I took a deep breath, as one should in these situations (lest one’s unfiltered thoughts about the likely emptiness of this woman’s head, and life, spew forth) and I replied: “I have been lucky enough to have a great many accomplishments. I have worked hard, and done many things I am proud of. My daughter has the potential to surpass me in all things, but frankly, giving birth is a function of nature. Raising a good person, well, that would be an accomplishment.” Seeing my cousin’s smile, and proud nod to her friends, may well be on my list forever.