Once more now, with should-haves

More than two years. That's how long it has taken me to come to somewhat peaceful terms with Fly and his PDD-NOS diagnosis. Pervasive Development Disorder Not Otherwise Specified. So, he has autism but it doesn't fit the typical autism mold. So mild, the diagnosing physician told JP and me, that in a few years no one would probably know.

I think Fly is at that point now. After finding out about multiple food allergies (typical of people on the spectrum), learning from a DAN doctor, behavior therapy, two years of going to occupational therapy twice a week and trying different tactics with Fly to see what works -- here we are.

We were told not to tell anyone because he would probably outgrow it. A couple other doctors we worked with later said they didn't think he would outgrow his main issues, but some of his challenges could be overcome.

Depending on which day you would see Fly, you would think he is a regular five-year-old boy or a kid with severe ADHD who has vocal stims and meltdowns and no impulse control.

And we don't medicate.

And so we live on the edge, literally. We aren't special-needs enough for the special needs community, but we aren't normal enough for the rest of the world.

A very frustrating edge to live on.

I have learned so much the past two years. I wish I could have blogged about our journey. But when I came to write, I just couldn't do it.

It was too painful.

And I'm pretty sure I've lost most of my sense of humor.

Having a child with Fly's challenges was so consuming, and yet I couldn't write about it. (And that doctor had said not to go around telling people because he is so mild...so I couldn't talk about it, either. Most of my real-life friends don't even know.) I have been frank and honest on this blog, and not being able to share what was really going on ... it shut part of me down.

I wish I could have blogged about the shame I felt when Fly was kicked out of soccer. When he was told not to come back to preschool. When finally, after a year of potty training, he could go on his own after treating him for a yeast infection in his digestive tract that we didn't know about. When I was judged by other parents for his public meltdowns. When he hit or bit other children. When he went through testing. Again. And again. When we found a lovely new school for him. When we started seeing breakthroughs. When friends started avoiding us. When a psychologist told us she couldn't see us any more unless we gave Fly medication -- which we didn't. When I felt I myself needed medication to help me deal with it all. When I just lost it. So many stories I could have, and should have, shared.

And then there is the Junebug. Sweet, easygoing almost-three-year-old Bug who has had to put up with so much. He continues to bear the brunt of Fly's wrath and controlling ways, and doesn't get his share of attention or time. But he is happy and smart, and tough, and I look out for what's best for him despite having a brother with challenges.

This blog started out about raising a baby boy, and then another, and helping them grow the best I could. I don't know where to go from here, both with my life and with this blog. In life, Fly is set to go to a regular kindergarten in August after a summer at social skills day camp, and I am so afraid the kindergarten won't be able to handle him and turn him away. Bug will go to preschool a couple days a week, leaving me wondering "What's next" for my life as well. In this blog, well, I have a couple other blogs I am known for but where I don't write so honestly -- but I will always love this first blog and the good memories I have making my first blog friends and sharing stories with other moms.

So I may or may not blog here again.

Fly's story started out here as a baby yet to be born, and I know his story will continue despite any challenges or diagnosis or trouble he gets into. And I plan to be there with him, helping him and helping to heal him.

Beauty and art

So it's the end of the year, and I miss my blog here. I miss sinking into a chair during naptime and catching up with my good old friends. I miss doing things because I enjoy them, as it seems my life has become dominated by a to-do list and practicality. And for some reason, Fly lately has been telling me, "I miss you."

Maybe that's why recently I've been craving beauty and art.



And I'd like a side of order.

I look around my house and see the clutter of toys and Christmas packages and stuff JP has left out because he, too, has become stretched and straightening up isn't a priority around our house.

Not beautiful.

I grab a handful of baby fat at my waist and fear that jowls are sneaking up on me.

Not beautiful.

I wake up groggy after five hours of broken sleep, and brace myself for what new three-year-old defiance Fly will hurl at me this day.

Not beautiful.

But I remind myself that this is beauty.



And this is art.



Maybe order will come in time, but until then I will just try to go back to my mantra, "A mama needs to have more fun."

Wishing you a more fun-filled 2010!

I guess I am THAT mom

The kind of mom who thinks it's fun to dress her kids the same. Sigh. I know it's probably tacky, but I just couldn't help myself. It's just for a little while, before Fly starts getting all independent-like and demanding to wear only certain outfits. (Right now, he doesn't care what I put on him.) I mean, it's just a couple of shirt, right? And they have to wear clothes anyway. It's not like I dress the boys the same every day.

Yes, I sound exactly like a person in denial.

Someone please tell me this is completely within my realm.

Or direct me to good group therapy.

What I didn't know about motherhood

Did anyone see the "Secret Lives of Moms" show on Oprah yesterday? There was some blogger and Twitter buzz about it because Dooce appeared on the show. (Dooce, the blogger and writer who needs no introduction or explanation -- she was on Oprah because of her blog! And her book.)

I don't watch Oprah much, but I tried to catch a bit of the show yesterday. Moms were confessing things they have done and talking about how hard motherhood is and how they sometimes feel like failures. And it seemed a good part of the show was about how no one tells you stuff like this is going to happen before you become a mom.

I might have mentioned here before that a friend tried to warn me about some of motherhood's rougher areas -- but she did it at my baby shower. Where everyone was happy. Where people were talking about Fly with excitement. Where I was opening gift after sweetly wrapped gift. Where I likely had a sugar high.

That's not a good time to tell the mom-to-be, "You know, motherhood is tough. Sometimes your baby won't sleep, and so you won't sleep, either, and that alone can make you go crazy. A baby can put a strain on your marriage. Have you and JP talked about this?" That kind of thing. My friend caught me off guard. I tried -- but probably failed -- to appear interested in what she was saying while giving her non-replies.

Thinking back to my baby shower, and thinking about yesterday's Oprah show, I wonder if it really would have made a difference if my friend had tried to talk to me in a different time or place. Every one of us moms might have a "I wish had known about" list in our minds when it comes to being a mom.

But I'm not sure if it would have mattered if my friend had taken a different tack with me. I think some things you have to learn on your own, from experience -- and I think motherhood is probably one of them. Of course, having some knowledge beforehand can prepare you on one level, but living it day to day? I don't think anyone can really prepare you for that.

I had read breastfeeding is actually hard. But I didn't know in Fly's first several weeks that I would come to dread every time he had to eat because it made me cry in pain.

I knew I would lose sleep. Duh. But I didn't know sleep deprivation does nasty things to your mind and your personality.

I knew I wouldn't have much time for myself. But I didn't know that would mean my skin would feel like it was crawling after three days without a shower, or that I would feel invisible passing beautiful young women in the store, or that part of me would be desperate to travel a couple hours away to snorkel, hike or look for birds.

I knew JP and I would need to adjust to being a threesome with our Flybaby after having been just the two of us since we met each other at 15. But I didn't realize I would have rather uncharitable thoughts toward JP because his life hasn't seemed to have changed as much as mine and because I still get jealous of him whenever he's sick because he goes straight to bed and just lies there until he's better (which I can't do).

I had a mild notion that it could be hard to stay home with a baby all day, but I didn't know even two and a half years later that every day I wrack my brain to answer, "What am I going to do with this child all day?"

Motherhood is too big of a life change to be prepared and ready to tackle everything that comes at you. And as your child grows, new challenges come at you all the time. I was just talking with a friend last night -- an "experienced mom" -- who says worrying over your kids can get worse after they have left the house and started their own families.

Once a mom, always a mom.

So while I think it's definitely helpful to clue in a mom-to-be with the realities of what it's like to be a mom, I don't think anyone can expect to really know what they're getting into. Each child is different, anyway. The only way to work motherhood is just jump in there and do what has to be done for your individual child. We each write our own manual by day-to-day parenting.

And maybe that's the ultimate advice for moms-to-be: be prepared, get advice or help. And write your own mama script every day.

Viral

Fly had a virus last week, after we returned from the Bahamas, and we spent most of last week just basically doing nothing.

And it was so, so nice.

When we finally came out of our cave, I confessed to friend Guinevere I actually enjoyed Fly getting sick. She didn't flinch, wasn't shocked, didn't gape at me or carry her child away from my toxic presence. What a friend.

She understands that Fly getting sick meant he was by my side most of the day -- on my lap or in my arms for a hug, even -- he didn't act up and I got some much-needed rest, even though I had to get up with him in the middle of the night.

It was good to know I can still soothe my boy and that he still wants his mama to be there for him.

Big mean mama

Believe it or not, Fly isn't the most obedient two-year-old this world has ever seen. I know, you are shocked. The Fly you know is smart, charming and terminally cute. But he has a strong will. If you put him on the floor in the Capitol building when Democrats and Republicans are arguing, they will agree to anything if it means finally getting him out of the District of Columbia and not having to deal with him again.

Sometimes when he doesn't listen to me, I call his bluff. For example, when we come home from being somewhere, he doesn't want to come inside. He wants to sit in the driver's seat of my car and play with the controls, run down the street, see what's in the neighbor's yard, smell the other neighbor's flowers, check the mailbox and pick up stray sticks or leaves. But I might have to pee, or I might have heavy bags of groceries, and it's time to go inside right now. Fly doesn't understand right now (unless he wants a cookie). So I might go inside and close the door, watching him from there and hoping that gets his attention.

Sometimes it works. Sometimes it doesn't.

Today, Fly didn't want to take a nap. But I knew he was tired. I told him it was time to sleep. I went to his room, hoping he would follow me. He didn't. I would have picked him up and carried him to his room, but I am in a phase when I am trying to get him to listen to me without intervening like that. (Hey, I can hear you! Stop laughing!) Ten minutes later, he showed up, when I grabbed him and sat him in my lap as usual for some songs and talking about our day so far. Fly hurled himself off my lap and onto the floor.

Because it had already been a tantrumy day, I'd had it. "You can put yourself to sleep!" I said, calling his bluff and and retreating to another room.

And that's exactly what he did.



And when I came back and saw him curled up on the floor, I felt like a big meanie.

I think I need a time-out.

I don't know how you good little bloggers do it

It's 11 pm.

I am tired.

I have a busy day ahead tomorrow.

I have 28 unread e-mails.

I don't even want to know how many unread blog posts are in my reader. (They are probably all yours, but because I haven't been visiting your blog, you probably aren't visiting mine, either, and so of course you don't know this.)

Another day I have failed as a blogger.

Sob!

On an up note, someone on the Bustin' Out Babies list "graduated" last week. I have added several bloggers since I started the list about a month ago, and there's room for more! If you know someone expecting a baby or if you had a baby in 2008, I'm happy to add to the list.

It's beginning to look a lot like ... uh-oh!

Because JP is the manly-man Mr. Fixit, I rarely go to Home Depot. I had to go, though, for some gardening items.

I didn't realize Home Depot had turned into Holiday Central. It looked like this:



Fly was extremely excited and led me right over to all the Christmas displays. The biggest one was a train going around on a track with loads of miniature decorations, all surrounded by a short picket fence.

Fly loves anything with wheels, and he couldn't resist the lure of a moving train just inches away from him -- and at his eye level (of course!). He reached through the picket fence and grabbed the train.



The train derailed just enough that it stayed mostly on the track but wouldn't run anymore.

After I was done reproaching Fly and told him not to touch anything else, I reached over the fence and tried to set it back on track.



Oops.

I tried again. The train looked as though it was on the track all right, but it still wouldn't move. The wheels were turning, but nothing was happening.

I glanced nervously around. I was hoping someone in an orange vest would appear, smile, say, "It's all right. Third time today!" or something to make me feel better. But no one seemed to notice.

Then I saw what looked like the train controls, attached to a plug that disappeared under the display. I pushed a button on the control unit, hoping to turn it off.

CHOO! CHOO! CHOO! jingle jingle jingle chug chug chug....

Whoops. Wrong button.

I tried another button. The train shut off.

The sound was still playing, though.

Maybe I should just stop trying to fix this thing and leave well enough alone, I thought.

Glancing around nervously, I redirected Fly to an aisle of moving lit-up reindeer.

And none of the orange vests seemed to notice.

But I still felt like this:

What keeps me awake at night

At 2:30 in the morning, I still couldn't sleep because I was thinking about how so many children have disappeared and gone missing.

I suppose I was overly tired and my mind just turned to darker thoughts, as I do sometimes at night. Names of many children who disappeared or were abducted came to mind, and I thought of ways they might have suffered -- might still be suffering. My imagination got the best of me, and I had to check on Fly to make sure he was really still in his room, asleep.

It also doesn't help that I am in uncharted territory: just in the past two weeks, I have allowed Fly to walk on his own in public. Up until recently, he was either in a sling, in a stroller, in a cart or in my arms. But because he is getting so heavy (he's more than 30 pounds now), and because he greatly protests strollers and shopping carts (he threw himself face down on the ground at the entrance of the supermarket at the idea of being put in a cart, and he usually cries almost the whole time he is in one) -- and also because he is two now and needs to learn -- I have been allowing him some freedom. I require Fly to hold my hand in many situations, but sometimes I need both hands. When I can't hold his hand, I constantly remind him to stay close.

Fly, of course, has no fear. He knows I am nearby, and that is enough for him, emboldening him to tuck around a corner where I can't see him or to race ahead of me. He has always been an explorer; he's my son.

He is curious. He is friendly. He is cute. He is innocent. I know what could happen.

And so I come to a question every parent asks at various points in their child's life: how do I give my child freedom while making sure he is safe?

It was a fitful sleep, a night with worries and no answers.

So it was a relief to be woken up by my little boy, interrupting my dream about taking him somewhere to buy a toy.

Joy does come in the morning.

But those nights will nag me.

Apolitical

For better or for worse, I have been blessed (or cursed) with the ability to see all sides of an issue. That doesn't necessarily mean I agree with all sides -- but I do agree most of the time that each side has a valid point. (A professor indicated this would help make me a good journalist.)

This can make it hard for me to make a decision or take sides.

When it comes to elections, this is especially difficult because voting is a hard-earned right and is so important. There is a lot riding on each person's individual vote.

The thing is, with the upcoming presidential election, I don't feel either of the two major candidates deserves my vote. There are things I really don't like about both. I have reservations about either of them leading my country.

For most of my voting lifetime, I have felt I was choosing between the lesser of the two evils when it came to voting for a president. I wonder why I can't have additional choices. Other countries have more than two main political parties. I know the United States has parties other than Democrat and Republican, but those parties are in the minority and seldom discussed, other than perhaps the Libertarians.

Discussing some issues that I actually take a side with, you might think I am a Republican. But on other issues, you'd swear I was a Democrat. There is no in-between. I'm not conservative enough for Republicans, and I'm not liberal enough for Democrats, so neither really cares what I think, anyway.

And that's what literally turns my stomach: the bipartisanship. The Democrats are going to negate anything the Republicans say. The Republicans are going to wave away whatever Democrats say -- and it's just a big power struggle to see whose team can win. It's as though America has divided itself in two and is just looking for an opportunity to prove the other side wrong.

How does this division really help us as a nation? Certainly, a healthy debate has its benefits. But the "I'm sticking with whatever my party says" attitude prevails anyway -- a Democrat isn't going to change a Republican's mind or get that person to see things in a different light, and vice versa.

This ridiculous two-party push and pull completely turns me off politics, and I refrain from talking about politics with people unless I can make a lighthearted joke about something that is being said.

My problem now, though, is I have a child. I am a woman who needs to vote for the sake of her child's future. But in all good conscientiousness, I am not sure I can.

I can't possibly be the only mother who has these beliefs. I'm not asking for a show of hands -- I just wonder when the country will wake up and realize there are more than two flavors.

Fear of weird plants and other stories

Maternal Mirth tagged me for a meme to list six unspectacular things about myself. We haven't known each other online for long, but she already knows me well enough to know I will have no problem reveling in my unspectacularness.

Let's see....

1. I have a bad habit of biting my left forefinger knuckle when I'm sitting and thinking. Seriously. I don't know where this came from. It's only been since Fly was born. I actually have a callous on that finger from the biting. Beautiful.

2. There are still wedding gifts JP and I haven't taken out of the boxes. We got married 13 years ago.

3. I have a fear of weird-looking plants. Bizzarobotanicaphobia? When JP and I (used to) hike, whenever we'd come across a plant I didn't know and that looked weird, I could swear my heart stopped beating for a second and I'd do a little jump before slowly backing away from the crazy-looking thing.

4. I am greatly annoyed I still have bad melasma on my face, which was supposed to lighten up/go away after Fly was born. That's what I get for going to the Bahamas on my baby moon.

5. Since Fly, I've gotten really bad about writing thank-you notes. I forget for weeks or even months. JP's parents went on vacation this spring and brought back some nice souvenirs for us, and I never thanked them in written, postal mail-able form (as I'm sure they expect).

6. As a kid, I once convinced a friend's classmate I had two birthdays just because I knew she was the gullible type. I also told her the older kids not only had to learn cursive writing, but cursive numbers, too.

I'm supposed to tag six people, but my meme MO is to open it up to anyone who wants to do the meme. If you do, let me know!

My trophy

On the couch we hardly use. In the living room. I think only a handful of guests have sat on it. But I was sitting on it then. The room was dark, except for lines of light shining through the slats of the window blinds. I wanted to be somewhere dark, to hide. I put my feet up on the good table because I didn't care.

That was it -- I just didn't care.

No -- I did care. I just wondered why I even bothered.

Because you love him, I answered myself immediately. If you didn't love Fly, it wouldn't bother you. The opposite of love isn't hate; it's indifference.

Yadda, yadda, yadda, I told myself back.

If I can't even get along with myself, how can I expect anyone else to? Especially someone who's not even two years old?

I crossed my arms and tried to put myself back together while going over the day and what I could have done differently to make it better. When Fly threw everything off the table at the restaurant, turning a drink into a puddle on the floor and causing the manager to quip, "Want a refund on this piece of bread?" When he almost pulled the earring out of my ear, slapped my face, pinched me and pulled my hair from its clip, all while screaming. When Fly repeatedly climbed onto the glass table JP made -- but not quite well enough to stand up to stomping feet -- and I had to put him in timeout. Twice. When he defiantly grabbed a book I was reading to him out of my hands and threw it across the room. When I finally put him, thrashing and wailing, into his crib for the night. What could I have done differently to make it better? There must be something I'm not doing right, or just don't know that I should be doing -- some key ingredient to parenting that got left out of our family recipe.

The couch was getting softer, the room darker, and my thoughts couldn't walk a straight line. I was thinking about how nice it would be to not be thinking and instead just go to sleep.

Then JP found me and sat down next to me on the couch. He got me talking about things other than tantrums and timeouts and the spectrum of discipline theories. He told me he's glad we think the same way about raising Fly.

And JP told me he thinks I'm doing a good job. Inwardly, I brushed it off, certain I am not.

But because the only awards passed out for mothering toddlers come from fathers' encouraging words, that's the trophy I'm placing on top of my mental shelf, and the hope I'm hanging onto today.

You might be a reformed white-trash mom if...

I've heard you can take the girl out of the country, but you can't take the country out of the girl. Once a country girl, always a country girl?

Is that true for white trash too?

What I mean is, maybe I'm white trash and don't know it. Or maybe I'm still white trash -- just a little bit reformed.

Tell me what you think:

You dress your child in camo,



but the pajamas are from Baby Gap.

You own a pair of faded, frayed shorts like this,



but you never wear them.

You often look like you're still in the 80s,



but only because you just woke up and haven't done your hair yet.

Your husband keeps a pair of rusting motorcycles in the yard,



but, well, I have no defense here.

Kids can get blamed for anything!

I thought I lost my cell phone this weekend.

And I got excited because I thought this would be my ticket to convincing JP I should have the new iPhone like some cool people I know, especially now that the price has come down.

But then I found my phone the next morning in the car.

Now I'm wondering how long it would take if I just gave the phone to Fly....






Hey, I'm just joking!

Sort of.

Adventures in Cleaning

After the fifth time of opening a certain kitchen cabinet this weekend and having something fall on my head, I'd had enough!

After Fly was asleep, I took everything out of the cabinet.

I was surprised to find five thermometers (five! I couldn't even have found one!) and one dead bug. The bug was especially surprising because I really would have thought there would be more. I also was surprised at the great quantity of tea I have. Apparently, I really like tea -- green tea, white tea, herbal tea, family-size tea -- and chai.

I wiped things down and took a look at my stash.



And this is just what would fit on the left side of the kitchen. I regret not taking a picture of the other side. And I really regret not photographing the state of the cabinet before I took everything out, but as I mentioned, that would have been an action shot.

And please don't laugh at my crock pot. It's old, and making fun of it would be a cruel thing to do to a senior appliance.

Before I go any further, I should mention most people keep their medicines in a bathroom cabinet. JP and I are rebels, though, so we have always kept them in a cabinet in the kitchen. The problem with this is when you are looking for a can of soup, you are likely to be hit on the head with Benadryl.

Once I sorted through everything, I was amazed at how many medicines were expired and how many empty prescription bottles there were. There was even a prescription bottle for a cat we had who died in 1999.

I am so ashamed!

Here is what I threw out:



I hope this will be a lesson to you. I hope no one else out there has this same sickness.

Now that my cabinet looks like this:



It just looks so bare to me!

(The middle right side? All tea.)

If anyone else wants to clean out their cabinets and toss unusable medicines, consider this a meme!

The Mighty Wind

I was sick recently and, because I'm still nursing Fly, couldn't really take cold medicines. Instead, I drank large quantities of super-immune-boosting, vitamin C-laden juices in the hope of kicking the miserable cold you know where:



Except, all of those juice smoothies didn't quite agree with me and my digestive tract.

One night on the way home from the bookstore, JP was putting Fly into his carseat while I was getting into the front seat, and a Mighty Wind did blow!



"Whew, Fly must need a diaper change," JP said.

"Um ... yeah!" I agreed, as the fabric ceiling liner in the car started peeling off.

Guilty!

- - - - -

This post is a cheap imitation of the real thing, written by Oh, The Joys. If you want to read the real thing, go here. And if you want to write a post in the style of another blogger, please do -- and share!

More love

The longer I am a parent, the more angry I get at my own parents.

Usually, it's different -- becoming a parent makes you appreciate your own parents even more.

I get angry at my parents because I see what has gone into the caring and rearing of Fly, and I know the lengths I would go to for him.

I don't believe they did the same for me.

- - - - -

My mother and dad were both on their second marriage when I came along. Then they divorced when I was three or four -- old enough to remember them fighting.

My mother had a string of boyfriends before marrying my stepfather, who turned out to be an alcoholic. My dad almost immediately married my stepmom, who was kind and nurturing while I was little but who became emotionally abusive when I turned into a teenager and young adult.

I remember my grandmother watching me a lot when I was young, and I remember going to babysitters' homes too.

But I don't remember any good times with my mother and father together. Not a run to the ice cream shop, not a walk around the block, not reading a book in their lap. Nothing.

My parents shared custody of me. I lived with my mother and stepfather for the most part but spent weekends, summers and holidays with my dad and stepmom until I was old enough by law to choose. Then I left my mother's partying ways and moved several states away to live with my dad and stepmom.

Today, my stepfather is dead, and my father lives I-don't-know-where in the South but hasn't tried to get in touch with me in 13 years even though he knows how to reach me. (A half-brother gave him my information.) My mother and I have reconciled, but she lives far away, and there's still a part of me that doesn't trust her completely. My stepmom insists she cares, but she puts everything else before returning my calls and e-mails, often not contacting me for months at a time.

- - - - -

I'm sharing this not to ask for some awful pity party, but to point out I don't really have a good role model when it comes to parenting. And I don't have a parent figure I can turn to for help or ideas when I am struggling with Fly. Reading parenting blogs really helps, because I get an idea of what it's like for other moms.

A few years ago before Fly came along, I told all this to a neighbor. I told her I really thought having a child would be wonderful, but I was afraid my experience with my parents would leave me clueless and empty of parent-love -- not something I wished on a helpless baby. My neighbor assured me that children are a blessing from God and so God would help me figure out how to care for a child and raise that child in the right way.

Her advice made sense then, and it's something I remind myself now. Some days, I even take a little pride in the idea that I am parenting in my own style and tell myself to be glad I don't have to rely on what my parents did (because they didn't do anything) or that I don't have to ask them for advice because I am relying on God.

But some nights after a trying day with my fussy Fly, I compare myself to Fly and wonder what it would have been like to grow up in the love of parents who actually cared.

Although, if they cared, then I might not have moved away, and I wouldn't have met JP, so then there would be no Fly.



And some days I look at Fly and wonder how I am going to do this parenting thing, even with God's help. During those pressed-but-not-quite-crushed days, it makes me angry because I know my parents took the easy way out.

And then, of course, I realize I need to forgive my parents and move on.

But I still miss their lack of love.

And that makes me want to stay in the game even more, for Fly, so he doesn't say the same thing about me when he grows up.

Almost every parent wants for their children more than what they had themselves -- and for Fly, oh, what I want for Fly is more love.

Either/Or

Today I did something extremely stupid and possibly slightly, very mildly heroic.

Fly and I were at a mall that has a large indoor playground. (God bless these places. When you are shopping with little ones who can't stay stuck in a stroller for long, you need a place like this to let them burn off some energy.) I had been following Fly around the play area for about 15 minutes when I noticed a little girl had gotten stuck inside one of those climbing towers. Her parents were on the other side of the grate wall of the tower, trying to tell her how to get un-stuck. They weren't speaking English, so I don't know if they were telling her to go up or to come back down. She was crying, halfway up a steep step with one leg stretched out to the grate where her parents were and the other leg dangling.

Fly got stuck in a different play area last month, so I could relate. He had surprised me by being able to climb to the top of the tower, then not understand how to crawl into the tube and go down the slide. So I had to crawl up into the tower. I showed him how to get to the slide and come down, for future reference. It was cramped, but I made it. Fly cried the whole time -- and I've been reluctant to go back since! This play area was built for larger children, so Fly couldn't climb it.

I watched the parents and the crying little girl for a while and wondered if they wanted her to learn how to get out on her own. But she still wasn't budging. The little girl was frozen. Her dad was obviously too big to get into the tower to get her -- and her mom was pregnant. So I offered to get her. Turns out her parents spoke English too, and almost before I could finish asking, they told me to please go inside and bring her back down.

And here is where I made my mistake.

I should have asked one of the girl's parents to watch Fly while I carried their little girl back down the tower.

It took me less than 30 seconds to crawl up and get her, but that was 30 seconds no one was watching Fly. He could have left the play area and started wandering around the mall. Another child could have hurt him. An adult could have grabbed him and taken him away. Anything could have happened.

Perhaps even before I offered to help the parents, my subconscious had already calculated the risks and determined it would be fine to help the other family. Maybe that instinctual, mothering part of me -- the same part that wanted to help the little girl -- knew it would be OK. Possibly, it was faith that God would keep Fly safe if I helped another child. Some people would call it karma or some kind of checks and balances in the universe, e.g., help someone else out and you're taken care of in the process.

But the truth is I didn't think these things. I may have felt them, sensed them, known them within my inner self -- but I didn't stop and think.

On the way home, I berated myself for leaving Fly unattended and told myself I can't do that ever again.

And I wondered if that meant not helping others in need when I have Fly to care for. Even as I wondered that, I knew it couldn't be right -- at least not all the time, in every situation. Surely, I thought, it can't always come down to either taking care of your child or helping another child. In many cultures and animal species, several adults watch out for all the children -- not just to each her own. But it's not right for Fly to suffer if I happen to momentarily be more interested in someone else's child.

Those 30 seconds and the what-ifs and the philosophical questions have been beating me up. I'd like to believe it was faith and instincts that led me to help the little girl -- having that real sense of just knowing Fly would be OK -- and I'd like to tell myself I'm overthinking something simple. And I don't want to swear off helping others if it means my attention is diverted from Fly for a while. However, I also realize I am Fly's only mother and that he looks to me for protection.

If it's true that a mother to one is a mother to all, then there must be a balance within each of us so no child is neglected.

And yet ... there are neglected children.

Stupid and heroic sometimes go hand in hand. Where do we draw the line?

We wish you a muggy Christmas and a humid new year

Sometimes you want to go where everybody knows your name.

Sometimes, not so much.

When JP and I go to church, Fly usually gets a free trip to the nursery. He's happy there, so we're happy.

On Christmas Eve, though, there's a service just for families with kids. Here was our chance to all be together. We took a wiggling Fly and found a seat in the back.

Fly wasn't content to sit on either JP's lap or mine, however. He didn't want to stand on our laps. He didn't want to stand on the floor between us. Fly wanted to run around -- preferably straight down the center aisle to the large Christmas tree in the front. JP and I passed a fussing Fly back and forth for several minutes.

The minister was praying, but I couldn't concentrate because of Fly's maneuvers. Finally, she said, "And all God's children said, Amen."

Except the church sounded like this: "And all God's children said, AAIIEEEEEEEEAAAAAAHHHH!" Great timing!

Fly was so loud -- and there was a crowd of at least 300 -- that the minister actually said, "Let's try that again. And all God's children said...."

By which time an usher appeared to ask if we'd like to take Fly to the nursery.

We didn't. JP and I skulked to the farthest reaches of the back of the church -- somewhere near South America -- and stood up for most of the rest of the service, juggling Fly and trying to be invisible.

Which is why God created church nurseries, I suppose.

Fly fussed the rest of the evening, but he was a good sleeper, and Christmas Day was a huge toyfest of gifts from family, which made him happy.

And I am glad to say I think I made him a bit happy too:



(Sorry you had to see my rear view.)

(Oh, and the playhouse didn't get quite finished. But Fly still played in it anyway. Pics when it's done....)

In which I accidentally glue my toes together

Running around over this past weekend, I spotted this:



A beautiful vision of perfect toes came into my mind. The fake nails weren't a lot of money, so I figured I'd try them out. You can try just about anything once, right?

So after Fly was in bed, I sat down with the nail kit. The creepy little disembodied toenails. The cancer-causing glue. The impossibly small nail stickers. I wasn't deterred.

The first toenail went on perfectly! The second one was a little crooked, but who would be able to tell?

By the third toenail, though, I was getting overconfident in my fake-nail-putting-on ability. I got cocky. I was a little too haphazard with the glue. And I darn near glued my forefinger to my ring toe. Then I really did it -- I glued my forefinger and thumb together! Ack! S l o w l y, I pulled them apart. Yikes! This stuff is really sticky.

I moved on to the other foot. I started with the big toe. It didn't look right. I compared it to the first big toe. Gah! There are two sizes of big toenails in the package! Now I had two mismatched big toes! One normal, one Shrek-sized. But there was no going back now.

Fingers and thumb covered in rough patches of dried glue, I finally finished!



And then I realized I glued two toes together. Great.

Glue issues aside, I was still worried the toenails would fall off in bed and I'd wake up to little toenail carcasses littering the sheets. So I put socks on and hit the hay. (They're still on.)

I promise this isn't turning into a foot blog....