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Wednesday, February 27, 2008

Spinach is not a good thing

The other night, I decided to reward my daughter with a "special treat."  These are two words Eliza has come to love because that "special treat" refers to some form of chocolate.  I only have to mouth those two words to send my daughter into a frenzy of happiness that resembles a dog and filet mignon scraps.

I decided to end a particularly fun day with a special treat of hot chocolate.  Unfortunately, in my infinite stupidity, I told my daughter about her "hot chocolate" as I put the kettle on to boil.  My daughter has no patience and when I promise her a special treat, she expects said treat in hand the moment the words leave my lips.  I told her I had to cook the hot chocolate.  Suddenly a tantrum ensued.  You know, the kind with spasms of surging limbs coupled with howling, mutilated animal-like wails.  My need to comfort my deeply distressed child turned out to be a big mistake.  She looked me right in the eye and said "I want my hot chocolate!"

Then she hit the side of my face as hard as she could.

I'd love to say this is the first time she's hit me but that's not the case.  Eliza started whacking me on a regular basis last November.  I'm sad to say it's something I've grown accustomed to.  Half the time, I barely notice it.  At first I was stunned and deeply hurt.  Now I realize that she's two, she doesn't know how to control her anger so she hits the person that's closest to her.  Do I like it?  Not at all but I don't think it's that abnormal.  

Since I'd offered her a special treat, I didn't feel like acting as her punching bag.  So I put her in a crib for a time-out (the only form of "punishment" that seems to work for her) and she cried for two minutes in her room while I finished preparing the hot chocolate and set it on the counter to cool.

I went into her room, all smiles, ready to forgive, forget and enjoy our hot chocolate.  Eliza held out her hands and I noticed both her palms were smeared with what looked like greenish-brown playdo.

"I got poopy on my hands," she said.

I got a whiff just in time to see her scratch her nose and get it all over her face.  

"It stinks!" Eliza screamed, now suddenly very upset by this odious odor.  I groaned and quickly ran to get a washcloth.  

Earlier that day, I'd bragged to a friend about how well Eliza eats.  She eats a variety of great foods, squash, peppers, broccoli, beans.  "She even eats spinach!" I bragged to my friend.  "She wolfs it down."

I wasn't lying and standing over her crib that night after our ill-fated time-out, I had proof.   

Friday, February 22, 2008

comPOOter

I just wanted to make note of the cute way my daughter pronounces some words.  A year ago, Eliza used to call coffee "cokie" and I knew when she pronounced it correctly, I'd be very sad.  C, a huge coffee drinker, used to laugh and wonder if she'd go to pre-school and say "My daddy does a lot of cokie."  She says coffee pretty well now so let me mark a few words before they go by way of  the cokie.

"comPOOter"  just the cutest word ever.
"swippers"  Eliza still can't say the letter L so most words with an L-sound have a W for now.
"chocquat"  she used to say "chocket."  I miss that one too.
"cooter" I'm afraid this word is pronounced correctly and by admitting she says this, I'm letting you know how politically incorrect I am.  Sorry, she sounds much cuter saying this word and pointing to the body part in question that she would saying the clinical term.
"Moms" lately she's been saying this instead of "Mama" or "Mommy."
"Grachel" this in reference to my friend's daughter Rachel.
"Wibby" this in reference to her cousin "Libby," also named Elizabeth (bet you didn't know that about Eliza)
"moobie" Vs are another letter Eliza hasn't gotten just right yet.  I couldn't say them either. Apparently, when I was little, for whatever reason, I wanted to run away.  I said something along the lines of, "I'm taking my new glubs (gloves) and my Billy brudder (brother)." Then I ordered my mother to get in the car and drive me to Grandma's.  I've heard this story all my life, certainly well before I gave birth to my daughter.

Eliza says "glubs" for now.  Now, if only she'd wear them.

Wednesday, February 20, 2008

Tutu

If you read yesterday, you saw that I had a lot going on.  I spent a good part of the day bleeding, I set up two interviews and had my first interview for my new "job."  (Hard to call it a job when I get no moolah.)  The interview went well, however my recording device was a bit of a disaster.  Had I taken better notes, I may have saved myself a few hours of heartache at midnight, but one of my hands was occupied--diligently pressing the microphone to the earpiece while my subject spoke on speakerphone.  
These busy days are difficult for me because all this time spent on the phone or stressing over the words I can't understand on my garbled recording device are hours not spent thoroughly loving my girl.  I yelled at her twice yesterday for stupid crap, shooed her off the bed as I tried to transcribe during "Mary Poppins," and didn't even notice she had a poopy diaper.  
Yet, we still managed to have a fantastic day.  My girl is amazing, resilient, imaginative, clever and thoroughly the light of my life.  
It started in her bedroom.  Eliza climbed on top of her footstool and said "I'm dancing on stage."  I applauded and watched her shake her hips and kick her leg out to the side in this odd pose that looks like she's swinging her leg over a fence post.  Then the lightbulb went on.  I'd recently purchased Eliza this pink tutu skirt because it was on sale for $3.  
"If you're going to dance on stage, let's put on a costume."  I rushed towards her closet.  At first she rejected the tights, but then realizing they were part of the costume, she selected pink tights over white.  I then twisted a red onesey over her shoulders and clapped as I said, "Now you're going to wear a tutu."
Eliza's eyes lit up.  I think Zoe, a character on "Sesame Street," has familiarized my daughter with the concept of poofy pink things.  More excited than perhaps I should have been, I pulled out the scratchy concoction of pink net and slid it over her hips.  Eliza's new pink "spring shoes" completed the outfit and she was on that footstool a'dancing!

I did some plies and she imitated me--sort of.  I raised my arms and she stiffly raised one in what seemed like an homage to the Statue of Liberty.  She jumped off the footstool, and bounced back on.  All the while I applauded like a madman.
While I tore through the apartment on my stress rampage, hauling laundry, stirring tomato sauce (Yes, I decided to make sauce because I happened to have all the ingredients), rinsing off bloodied pants and setting up the bathroom as my "office," (It has a lock), Eliza intermittently climbed aboard various footstools and "performed."  And it was lovely and delightful and amazing.  
After her bath, I propped Eliza up on the sink and wrapped her in a towel.  
"I want to brush my teeth," Eliza said.  
I reached for her toothbrush, then suddenly adopting a crazy German accent, said, "You vill brush teeth, but first Mama vill kiss you.  And kiss you and kiss you!"  
I really went to town.  Buried my nose in her neck, and slid my lips down her little shoulder.  Oh my, this baby is so delicious.  Eliza giggled and squealed, covered her head up with the towel.  Still sporting my probably so-not-German accent, I howled "Where is my Eliza?  I must ave my kisses!"  
And then a forehead would pop out, followed by smiling eyes, a button of nose, perfect little cheeks.  Then the smile that could illuminate an entire continent.  I pressed for her neck like a ravenous vampire, but touched her skin with only the tenderest kisses.
What a lovely, wonderful, fantastic evening.  Sometimes I think this is why I love the nights when C isn't here and his kids aren't over, not out of my feelings for them, but because these wonderful, yummy, so fabulous moments seem to happen when we're alone.
Me and my girl, made for each other. 

I Bleed

Yup, I'm having another miscarriage and it's so not fun.  If you read me regularly and know that I desperately want out of my current relationship with C, you're probably wondering how it all happened in the first place.  While I know all about the birds and bees, I was stunned by this pregnancy.  I've pretty much found every excuse to keep him away from me but he's persistent.  I used protection.  Even he didn't think I could be pregnant.

It doesn't matter how or why, I'm now on my third miscarriage.  And I'm really friggin' sick of it.  It was just like the last pregnancy.  I went for my seven-week appointment and there wasn't a heartbeat.  An ultrasound was scheduled for the following week, still no heartbeat.  Nothing could be said for sure so a third ultrasound was set.

I started to bleed the night before so I blew it off.  Didn't call, nothing.  I didn't want to waste what few babysitting hours I can afford on the phone or in the waiting room.  I've been through this before and I know what's going on.  We all knew from that seven week appointment, when the sack measured five weeks, that this was a downhill battle.  

I've been bleeding for over a week.  My first miscarriage was like this--I bled off and on for 10 days.  I remember racing to my doctor sure there was something wrong with me.  The worst of the cramps happened over the weekend and now it's just the inconvenience of blood.  It's inconsistent so that makes it tough to contain.  I don't want to overshare here so I'll just say it's been a mess.  I've had to run the mile from our bathroom (our living room is uselessly, ridiculously gigantic--hate to complain but I hate this apartment.  1,500 square feet of useless space.) into the bedroom to get clean underwear and pants.  I've had to ask C to do this for me when his older kids are here.  

Because I often run into the bathroom quickly, it's hard for me to keep Eliza out.  Once inside the bathroom, she slams my back with the toilet lid despite my pleas to stop hurting Mama.  She stares down into the toilet (even though I beg her not to) and says "It's pinky!"  Today I managed to lock her out and she pounded on the door, screaming.  Her little fingers slid under the crack at the bottom of the door and I really felt like my heart would break.  

I've got a lot going on here right now.  I'm writing for a magazine but unfortunately it's unpaid.  Maybe it'll give me some experience but right now, it's not helping my horrifying financial situation.  I have to interview a celebrity pediatrician today in order to write a profile for the magazine.  Since he's such a big shot, he's calling me between 4-7pm.  I'm going to have to start the dvd the second this guy calls, lock myself in the bathroom and hope for the best.  I don't have anyone close by I can call and ask to hang around my kid for three hours.  

I also have to set up an interview for next week, one that I hope will occur during my precious babysitting time.  Even with a sitter here, it's pretty difficult for me to have an uninterrupted phone conversation.  I'm also working on an article for a class I'm taking that I hope to sell to a magazine.  I have the first interview for that tomorrow. 

I don't have time for all this blood right now.  I guess there was part of me that was grateful for Eliza's presence in the bathroom during the worst of it.  She looked in the toilet, she saw what was left of the baby that wasn't.  In the chaos that's my life right now, it's easy to forget that every time I go to the bathroom, I lose pieces of another life that won't be.  When I hear about other people's pregnancies and spend time with the Moms who now have new babies, I wonder what's wrong with me?  

Three times with blighted ovum means there's a problem.  Hey, I'm 40, I've always considered myself lucky to have a kid in the first place.  The one child I have I had to steal.  I had to settle for a guy I knew could never like me or love me in the way that I want.  I'm not sure he loves me at all.  When I told my grandmother recently of some of the emotional abuse this guy has been giving me over the past few months, she said "How did you get mixed up with such a person?"  I told her the truth, no one else wanted me.

I got the daughter I wanted and I have no regrets.  It's funny, the new baby was a bigger impetus for me to get away from C.  I didn't want another child raised in a home that I share with him.  I was fired up, ready to go.  Eliza would have a sibling with me, closer in age, and the three of us would be a family.  Now, the paranoid, obsessive part of me fears that Eliza will prefer being with her father after we split.  With Poppy, she's got siblings, two healthy grandparents who own a beach house and like to stay active and do fun things.  With me she's got an autistic uncle, three good grandparents who don't like to go out much and a lifetime of poverty because I can't seem to get a job that pays.  

But I'm still getting out and maybe when I do, then I can mourn for all three of my lost little souls, the little children I should have had, but didn't.

Thursday, February 14, 2008

"Love You Forever"

Our neighbors left the children's book "Love you Forever" in the recycling area.  I've always seen this book prominently displayed at the bookstore but I've never purchased it because it seems like one of those books that appeals more to me than Eliza.  However, she's proven me wrong in this case.

Eliza hasn't been so interested in books lately.  She's too active and having too much fun jumping around and putting fake baby food jars into buckets to sit and listen to me talk.  She prefers turning the book pages herself and babbling, then throwing in a word seen in the artwork like "sun" or "green fish."  "I read, Mama," she says and I ooh and nod in agreement.

One days, she walked through our apartment pushing her doll stroller and I walked with her, picked up this book and figured I'd read it aloud, more for my own benefit.  She surprised me by pushing the stroller aside and demanding I sit on the couch.  I complied and we sat down.  This book is rather wordy but she sat through all of it and really seemed to understand what this book says.

This book is all about a baby that grows into manhood.  It starts with a mother holding her young baby, continues through his boyhood and the mother's old age.  Towards the end of the book, the man cradles his mother and sings the song she sang to him throughout his childhood. The last page of the book shows this man singing the song to his own baby.

And just about every I read this book I cry.  I cry because this girl who is going to be my only child, is growing up too fast.  I love all the great stuff she's doing but I really don't know how parents let their children go.  I know I have to do it, I think I will but it's so painful for me to accept this reality.  I remember holding her as a baby, thinking I didn't know how I'd cope when she wasn't a baby anymore.  For the first time, I really understood why my best friend had six kids.  

Now she's two and I did more than cope, I thrived and I'm still loving almost every minute of it.  But I hate to think of the future, of her in a life far removed from mine, of myself old and crippled with some kind of ailment.  So often, I find myself wanting to freeze time, to stay here just a little longer.  I promise myself if I could freeze one day, make it last 60 hours instead of 24, I'll cherish every minute.  I won't complain or yell or wish I was anywhere else.  

C's kids were over tonight and for the first time, Eliza asked for them to read to her, not me.  I know she gets tired of Mama, I know this is a good thing but I was deeply hurt.  I did the right thing, though.  I called Eliza's sister into the room and she happily trotted in.  

I'm going out tomorrow night and that's a good thing.  But I'm already mourning the loss of yet another evening without my girl.  I know I need a life because my daughter's already got one.  I spend an awful lot of time with her.  

But this time is so precious, so fleeting and wonderful, there's always a pang when I look at my watch and realize Eliza is in bed and I won't see her until morning.  

Just as a funny aside, as we read this book the other day and I was in my usual tearful state, Eliza held up her thumb and said "I've got a booger!"

Definitely cleared the tears from my eyes.

Saturday, February 9, 2008

Happy Girl


Kind of bummed here in New York for reasons I'll go into later.  But for now, here's a photo that certainly does wonders for my mood.  I hope it works for you!

I was cleaning the kitchen and wondered why Eliza was so quiet.  When I went into my bedroom, I found her looking like this.  This is what happens when Eliza digs into Mama's purse and samples the lip gloss.

Wednesday, February 6, 2008

Milestones

During my most recent visit to my mother's, Eliza crossed over from baby to big girl.  I know she's two, she hasn't been a baby for a while but over the course of a four day weekend, my girl blossomed in dog year time.

People have said she looks so grown-up lately.  Even my mother noticed how she looks so much more like a little lady when she first saw Eliza on Thursday.  Eliza paraded off the ferry in her pretty dress and my mother commented on the difference.  I kissed and hugged and cuddled my child and tried to tell myself, yes I can do this, yes I can let my girl grow up.

So the big news--Eliza is finally weaned.  I'd been thinking about doing it for a few months now for no real reason.  While I still enjoyed the calming effect of nursing and the bond it had created, nursing a very squiggly, active toddler gets less fun.  She's getting bigger, she used evening nursing to delay going to bed, I seemed to be getting crankier with it: it was time.  

I started by talking to her about it.  I'd tell her that she was getting to be a big girl and that only tiny babies nursed.  I'd send C in to get her in the morning but a lot of the time she wouldn't get out of bed.  She's swat at him and scream until I came into the room and held her.  I wondered how I'd be able to do this.  

Then Eliza got a stomach flu and suddenly what was a bad thing became an opportunity.  I explained to Eliza that nursing her made her sick and we couldn't do it for a while.  She was so sick, she didn't protest.  After a few days, she resumed with vigor.  

Then I got sick and didn't have the physical strength to nurse her.  C came home from work early and took over while I rested.  When she'd come up to me and start hiking up my shirt, I'd tell her than I was sick and didn't want to transfer the virus to her.  

She was okay with it.  She's ask, I'd say no, maybe she'd ask again and then get distracted by something else.  After three days, I really felt like we were done.  Friday night, she had a complete meltdown and practically ripped my shirt off.  I really didn't have much choice but to let her nurse.  However, contrary to what I thought, she didn't jump right back on the horse.  Instead, she didn't even ask the following morning.  Friday evening might be the last time I nursed my daughter.

As with anything, there's good and bad.  She's a good deal whinier without the comfort of the boob.  She gets angrier faster and reacts with more venom.  But on the other hand, she's actually become a great deal cuddlier, at least with me.  The only time I could hold my active, squirmy girl was when I nursed her.  This was the main reason it was so hard for me to give up.

Now I get to hold her.  She still wants me first thing in the morning.  She sits on my lap and puts her little arms around my neck and it's lovely, so lovely.  I finally get to hold my little daughter without popping a boob in her mouth.

At my mother's, Eliza slept in a bed by herself for the first time.  Suddenly the pack-n-play seemed too small so the bed was our only option.  Although she slept through the night every night, I'm not sure she was quite ready to hit this particular milestone.  But she was proud of herself.  When I'd tuck her in at night by lying down with her, she'd tell me how she slept in the bed like a big girl.  She'd wrap her arms around me and vibrate with proud satisfaction.  I think she was a little afraid when I'd leave her but she valiantly stayed in the bed, understanding that this was part of being a big girl.

Upon returning home, she went back to the crib with no problem.  But I can see the future and while I'm overjoyed at all the wonderful new things, I still feel sad about the stuff that's lost.  I had more than two wonderful years nursing my daughter; I really can't complain.  She's the only baby I'll probably have though, I can't help it I feel a void.

I asked my mom how people do it, how do they let their kids grow up?  I realize she's going to grow up, it's inevitable, it's normal, it's a good thing.  But how do I watch her grow up, smiling on the sidelines as she finds friends, classes, interests that take her away from me?  I want to be a good mother to my daughter and I am so excited by all the wonderful new things she does, I know I have the ability to let her go.

But how do I do it and not die a little inside as the great love of my love moves further and further away from me?