Month: July 2018

Tomorrow is my mom’s birthday.

I did not grow up in the South. My mom did, and my dad did, but my brother and I grew up as Army brats and spent a significant portion of our early years in Europe. Even though my parents grew up in the South they, oddly, did not call their mom’s Mama. And neither did we. When I was 8 years old and living in Ft. Leavenworth, KS, I heard some friend of mine call her mom Mama. I considered it in my head. Hmmm. I tried it out loud. Sounds a little kooky to me. I tried it on my Mom. “Mama?” I say. She turns her head and looks at me weird. It sounds weird. I abandon it immediately. Not for me I decide. Mom it is, and Mom it always will be. As a teenager another friend of mine, living in Texas at this point, called her mom Mommy. Consistently. Not just when she wanted something. I hadn’t called my mom Mommy since I was about four. I’m guessing, because honestly I don’t recall ever calling her Mommy.

Another thing I learned when I was 8 years old is that most people do not “warsh” themselves or their dishes. They wash them. I did decide right then and there that from that point on I was a “washer” not a “warsher” type person. Sorry Mom but apparently I had to make my own way with that one.

My mom is the original possessor of the Witch Face. The Look. The You Better Stop Right Now or You’re Going to Get it expression. I learned from the best, although my own Witch Face is generally reserved for when I am exceptionally annoyed by something, not necessarily a ‘you’re going to get it” look. My mom “clicks” her tongue when she’s annoyed. Apparently she’s not the only mom to do this, as evidenced once by a young checkout boy at the grocery store who looked terrified when my Mom inadvertently did this while waiting to pay for her groceries. “I’m so sorry for your wait ma’am, I’ll get this stuff bagged up right away.” Poor kid. I feel his pain. I have caught myself many times unconsciously mimicing my mom’s “click.” It really works. But you have to be a master at it. You have to mean it without even realizing you are doing it. The click is not something to be taken lightly. You hear it, you better snap to attention because the Witch Face or the Look is coming up next. It’s mom’s ever so gentle way of saying “you are really pissing me off right now.”

Memories of my mom in the past hit me every day. My favorites include the Click for sure – but also this:

Coming in the kitchen from work, from running errands, etc – Mom grabs the ancient plastic yellow pitcher and slams some Lipton Iced Tea powder into it (who needs measurements?!) and then running the tap at full force she fills up the pitcher and slams the whole thing back onto the counter, grabs a glass, fills it with ice and pours the tea and gulps it down. I used to watch her do this whole ritual with a sense of awe and appreciation that my head wasn’t that yellow pitcher. I still miss that yellow pitcher. Now you can buy ready made tea in jugs. Just isn’t the same.

My mom used to keep her keys in her pocket whenever we were out shopping. She would jingle them continuously and I would follow that noise. Never worried about getting lost because I could just stop and listen and I would find her. There was a brown leather strap on that key chain. Something that jingled. I don’t remember what it was but it sure was a comfort in my younger years.

My mom had a blue cotton sweater that she kept in the Copperas Cove Library for when she was working. I’d go and stay at the library til it closed at 9 pm on Thursdays. That was the only night she worked late. She’d pick me up at school and take me back there. I learned the dewey decimel system by the time I was 12. Occasionally I’d get to go behind the counters and help out. There was a hole in the pocket of that blue sweater. M&M’s would sneak their way out and I’d pick them up and pop them into my mouth. I would get to go in the kitchen of the library to eat my dinner. I felt tremendously special. Those were some of the best times – that library.

From my Mom I learned the power of books, and words. The ability to drift away in a story. The sheer admiration of others who could write. The Pulitzer Prize. The Caldecott Award. My mom and I both prefer true stories – she always loved adventure stories and blood and guts – like the Jon Benet Ramsey story, or Into the Wild by Jon Krakauer. I love biographies. People who did amazing things with their lives. Historical accounts of wars and civil liberties and strong personalities that never gave up. Both of us have always preferred books to movies, to conversation, to just about anything. She used to spend her time at the kitchen table reading until late after I’d gone to bed. I can still picture her there.

My mom is an amazing, wonderful person. I am so grateful that I was able to give her, after all these years, her amazing and wonderful granddaughter. One of my greatest joys in life is watching their eyes light up when they see each other. They were absolutely meant to be Granny and GrandBaby. I was meant to be the intermediary between them.

Happy Birthday Mom. I love you more than I could ever say.

Baby Girl is having a day. Once again, she is in tears and screaming because she isn’t getting her way. Multiple times a day we face the same road block. I would like her to do as I say and she would like to do what she wants. We are not polite about this. She screams, I shut my eyes and count. I try to speak. She screams some more. She cries big elephant tears and tries to negotiate. I try to wait her out. This is stupid – I have never been able to wait her out. She has more persistance than the squirrel from Ice Age. She has a neverending supply of tears and snot and air in her lungs. How is she as little as she is?

I give her The Look. She sees it and cries louder and longer. She covers her backside if she thinks a swat is coming. Daddy steps in and she screams louder. I try every way possible to tell her if she would just STOP screaming we would be able to get somewhere. Daddy wouldn’t step in, she wouldn’t get a swat. She wouldn’t get sent to her room (where she will cry “I don’t want to stay in my room FOREVER mommy!!!”) which is hilarious as well as heartbreaking.

She already yells “FINE” and stomps off if she’s angry. Fine I think. Go to your room, give me a damn break. I can see in my mind’s eye a 13, 15, 16 year old yelling FINE at her Daddy and I get more determined to stop this behaviour while she’s young while at the same time being almost positive that it’s impossible.

I am also certain that a lack of sleep is the root cause of her meltdowns and tantrums. I had her allergy tested a few months ago. We sat through twenty minutes of pure Hell after they stuck her back with needles and she screamed and cried and wasn’t allowed to scratch. I had to hold her arms, facing me, so the stuff wouldn’t be rubbed off prematurely. I wondered why they don’t provide alcohol to the parents holding the child. It turns out…. she isn’t allergic to anything at all. I was astounded. And a little bit pissed off. What do you mean she’s not allergic to anything?! She’s been getting allergy medicine since she was six months old! Well, the allergist explains, people don’t actually start showing allergies to things until they’ve been exposed to them for about three years. Um. WHAT? Shouldn’t her pediatrician have known this for Pete’s sake? Why exactly have I been giving her medicine she clearly doesn’t need?

We had to go get ice cream after that. Both of us were totally traumatized.

Next step – a new pediatrician. We’ve been seeing a lovely NP for about two years, ever since I decided her old pediatrician just wasn’t getting the job done. And she’s great. But she couldn’t do the four year well visit or whatever it’s called. So she recommended someone and we went. Baby Girl warmed right up and was happy and talkative. I explained all about her tonsillectomy and her adenoids and her ear tubes and how she still doesn’t sleep. I explained about the allergy testing. I said the allergist recommended blood work. He raised his eyebrows. He kindly said don’t be ridiculous. And the whole time we’re sitting there Baby Girl is trying to lift my shirt up. The poor doc was trying so hard to avert his eyes while I was trying to push her off my lap and keep my shirt down at the same time. He probably claimed hazard pay for that visit.

So he checked her out and told me she’s fine. We discussed her sleeping schedules and he agreed she isn’t sleeping enough. He recommended a clock that lights up a different color when it’s time to get up in the morning. I went home and ordered it right away. It’s still sitting on my desk, un-figured out as of yet. Because I had to get up at 6 am this morning when my Pet decided she was awake. Because I’m too damn tired to read the fine print and figure the thing out. Because I just handed it to Daddy and said would you please do this for me.

Then the nurse asked her to lay on the table which she quite readily agreed to. Then the nurse tricked her into counting something while she jabbed the first needle in. Baby Girl was so shocked – you should’ve seen her face. All happy and giggly and counting and then her eyes go wide and her mouth opens and she screams like she’s being attacked by a grizzly  bear. She tries to push the nurse’s hand away. Which makes me sort of laugh because I try to do the same thing to the chiropractor because it hurts. Well at any rate, we survived the checkout process after the shots and went screaming to the car. She did get some pretty nifty pink camo bandaids out of it. Once we got home I let her go swimming and she told me I had to carry her because she couldn’t walk because her leg hurt. So for the rest of that day, whenever she remembered that her leg was supposed to be hurting, I had to carry her around.

It’s almost sleepy time. I am downing wine and bracing myself. This will go well I chant in my head. It will be fine. She’ll go happily to her bedroom and put her pajamas on and she’ll cheerfully brush her teeth and climb into bed and shut her eyes and promptly go to sleep.

And then I laugh and laugh. Better than crying.