Author: Julie

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.

Today it rained in Heaven

God surely shed some tears

When he took you there to live with him

He couldn’t leave you here.

Your pain too great

My heart ripped deep

It really wasn’t fair.

You were absolutely beautiful

Everyone agrees

One of the most gorgeous horses

I have ever seen.

The kindness in your eyes

Your shining chestnut coat

I won’t ever forget these things

I can promise you I won’t.

And tomorrow I’ll be strong again

Even though you’re gone

Tomorrow I’ll walk around like

There is nothing wrong.

Tomorrow I will ride again

It won’t be the same I know

But sometime after tomorrow

I’ll have to let you go.

Tomorrow you will fly again

In heaven’s green and gold

With angel wings you’ll soar

Like all the brave and bold.

And tomorrow I won’t stand bawling

With a fistful of your hair

But tomorrow is another day

It’s today I cannot bear.

I should write more often. I know I should. I want to, I think about it all the time. But when it comes time to actually sit down and write – something stops me. Exhaustion I guess. Brain Fog. An unwillingness to make my thoughts concrete. Too many thoughts – too many feelings – the niggling idea that other people simply won’t care what I have to say. The mountainous list of tasks waiting to be done. The desire to crawl into bed and stay there. For days.

There is a saying that you can’t take it with you when you go. The intended idea being that you should not accumulate or have strong feelings for material things. What are material things, after all? Just stuff. Stuff that surrounds you and doesn’t change. When you have anxiety or a fear of change, that “stuff” that surrounds you can be mighty comforting. Your blankets and pillows and favorite pj’s. Pictures with quotes on the wall or images of your fun memories and favorite people. Books that you’ve carried with you since college. Stuffed animals that have sat on your bed or in your closet since elementary school – or longer. Pull that ratty giraffe out when you are feeling low and he is sure to lift your spirits. A reminder of easier times. Of the love you have for the person who gave you the ratty giraffe. And the love they have for you.

I can touch this you think to yourself. Ratty giraffe is real and tangible. He isn’t going anywhere. He is constant. Those books on my shelf, those nic knacks, that carved cat I got in Jamaica – they’re still the same. Everything around me might be changing but these things I love are not. High schoolers are shooting up their schools and kids are ruining other kids on social media and I’m desperately afraid for this country but here in my house? All is well.

Maybe I just got fired from a job, or had an argument with a loved one or a friend all of a sudden isn’t a friend anymore. You are so stressed that you can’t swallow. You literally can’t eat anything. Or else you are shoving last night’s macaroni and cheese down at midnight and eating all the sweets in the house for breakfast. You break down in tears for no reason. Or for every reason in the world. You couldn’t care less about the Royal Wedding or the Kentucky Derby or whatever but you watch it just the same. Because everyone there is happy. Well, unless you are the trainer of the horse that finishes second.

But if you can’t even leave your house because you are afraid of the world, rest assured my friend that everything in your house is not going to change unless you change it. All those things will bring you comfort if  you let them. Look out your window. That view and that tree and those fences will stay the same when the rest of your world is falling apart. The mess on your husband’s desk? Comforting. Annoying, but comforting all the same.

Most people have been there – that lonely and terrified place where you cannot be touched. I’ve been there. So reach out. Reach out to those things that you can touch without anyone else’s help. Take a note from my Baby Girl who will go find her snuggie and her paccy for comfort before she melts in my arms. Even she knows. These are her things, her things that will not change. She can always count on them and they will never let her down. Don’t be affronted by material things. Breathe them in, let them be part of you.

And stock up on gummy bears. They go great with wine.

I have very strong opinions – about pretty much everything. Even if I don’t always show it, inside I am always burning. You could say I’m passionate about things that make our planet better – recycling, supporting/teaching children, being kind to one another, and treating animals right. Giving a leg up to those in need. And I’m very passionate about making my sport – hunter jumpers – accessible to kids to whom it may not generally be affordable.

But, I also have strong opinions about raising my daughter. And she, in turn, has her own very strong opinions about how I’m doing that. For example:

When said daughter takes my Diet Coke and then spills it on the carpet in the office because she’s “working” and I take the rest of the drink away and move it into the kitchen where I put it out of reach on the counter – Baby Girl very strongly feels that “you can’t take things away from people!” While sitting, crying, in the kitchen I explain that well yes, yes I can. Because I’m the mommy. “No you can’t! It’s not right to take things away from people!” When people spill Diet Cokes on the carpet then it’s ok to take the drink away from the little person who did that I explain. Baby Girl does not appreciate the logic here. We compromise with finishing the drink in the kitchen.

Also, Baby Girl very strongly feels that as long as you put the apple in the trash can it shouldn’t matter how many bites you take out of it – four or five is acceptable. Whereas, I, the mommy, feels that the apple that was asked for fourteen times ought to be fully or at least three quarters eaten before it is thrown in the trash can. Likewise, if Baby Girl insists on me buying and then having a banana, and then refuses to eat it, Mommy is going to feel very strongly annoyed. Baby Girl thinks I am overreacting. I think she is just asking for food to be in control. Mommy eats the banana. Mommy needs the potassium anyway.

I have a strong opinion about bedtime as well. I think that the fact that we have the same routine and she goes to bed at the exact same time every night is a very good thing. I believe that a little five minute, sometimes ten minute, warning that bedtime is approaching is also a good thing. I swear Baby Girl uses that five or ten minutes as an opportunity to build up her impending screech and tantrum to the “Oh My Lord is it time for wine yet?” level. Of course, that level is fairly low for me, especially at bedtime. She strongly feels that bedtime is highly overrated and should be ignored every single night. And since she can’t change my mind, she’s certainly going to let me know how she feels about it. In case I was in any doubt.

My little girl is not meek. Or mild. Or even tempered. I’ve learned it’s important not to say things like “ARRRRRGGHH DAMMMMMIT” when you get frustrated because apparently three year olds have the ability to recognize that when THEY get frustrated they should get to express themselves the exact same way.

She is mostly potty trained now. You know why? Because she decided to. I had absolutely nothing to do with it. One day she decided to wear panties. Both day and night. And that was it. A few accidents, yes, but 90% of the time she’s good. I just shake my head. All those months of worrying and trying to figure out how to “fix” it and all along she just had to make that decision for herself. I hope I remember that in the years to come.

She and I are going to butt heads. A lot. But I’m glad she’s opinionated. I’m glad she’s passionate. I hope she learns to channel those things in a positive way. And in the meantime I’ll just become overly familiar with the Total Wine store.

When I was young I could have a headache, or pain of some kind, and I’d go ride and I’d forget all about it. Physically I did not feel whatever was bothering me if I was riding. It might come roaring back as soon as I was off the horse, but for the time I was in the saddle, it abated. A useful tool, I have often “gone riding” when all else around me was falling apart or I was just having a rotten day or just needed some sunshine and horses. As you get older though, and life and living gets in the way, you tend to forget those things that make you feel alive. There is always a reason why I can’t ride – I’ve got too much else to do being chief among them. Even though riding and training horses has long been part of my livelihood, riding just for fun, just for me, has almost become an obsolete pleasure.

Riding now does not offer the same obscurity from pain. I definitely feel it in my back, my neck, my lethargic muscles and usually, also my right hip. I can’t remember the last time I rode pain-free. I’m sure it’s been at least twenty years. Pain only occasionally stops me from riding. Pain is just a reminder that I’ve had some pretty good falls and injuries, and I am still ok.

Living on this ranch, myself and my husband are the ones that take care of everything and anything. I have one employee, to help teach lessons, and two barn rats that help out occasionally. I also have a three and a half-year old who wants my attention nonstop. She eats, and plays, and sleeps (sort of) and eats some more and needs a bath, and needs this and that and I am forever trying to clean up the mess left by the little tornado. If I need to clean stalls, she of course wants to help. Or else she disappears. And then I am calling her name and making sure she’s ok. (She’s fine). Feeding the horses in very cold or very wet or very windy weather is always a fun task with a small child tagging along. But she has learned, I admit, to pretty much behave herself and stay out of the way while I feed. If the weather is nice I can have her outside playing while I do things. Still it’s not as easy as it once was, as obviously, her needs always have to come first. And then she climbs on the gate, or is squealing over an injured mouse she’s found, or covering herself and all her toys in the sand in the driveway and I’m terrified a car will not notice her when it drives up. My attention, at best, is divided.

And, I admit, I am now a fair weather rider. I am not the die-hard I used to be. I remember, once, as a teenager, I drove to the barn after school one day and got my horse ready and mounted, all the time wondering “where the heck is everyone?” My trainer finally drives up in her car about thirty minutes later and comes over to where I am walking around the arena and says “what on earth are you doing? It’s 25 degrees out here!” This was of course before cell phones, so I did not get the message she left at my house that lessons were canceled that day. It never occurred to me not to ride, just because it was cold.

These days, if it’s at all windy, it’s a no go for me. Wind is the arm pit of weather as far as I’m concerned. Wind makes me cold and I do not like to be cold. If it’s below 45 it’s probably not going to happen either. Or above 90. I can handle a fair bit of heat but I do draw the line depending on the humidity. Most days I have to force myself to go out and do the training rides that are required. Sitting at the computer, working (most of the time – I do like to surf through Amazon a lot), is so much easier while also watching / playing with / or attending to the needs of the kid. If husband is not at work or sleeping he usually also has some barn thing that needs doing. Especially if the weather is nice.

BUT. Today I rode. For me. And it was fun and I enjoyed it. A large pony my husband and I have broke and trained together, Hugo is fun for me. He’s smooth and he listens and he learns. He moves up under me and isn’t sluggish. He moves over when I press with my leg. He’ll jump anything and even though he’s young and still learning, I enjoy riding and teaching him. But the best part about him is, if I just want to ride, and not teach him a damn thing, he’s all for that too. And it was a beautiful 60 degree weather day with very little wind. And Baby Girl was at school. I was able to take my time grooming and playing and just breathing in horse. It was a Good Thing. Next time I tell myself that I don’t have time to just “go ride” I will come back and read this post and I will go do it. My uplifted spirits are so worth it.

This beautiful, tiny, sassy, wonderfully bright child of mine has the most amazing gift. She does not believe in the word No. She understands what it means, but her brain automatically shifts into “negotiation mode” when she hears it.

Baby Girl, what would you like for breakfast? I should learn not to ask her this type of open ended question but somehow first thing in the morning I am not thinking clearly, based on four or five hours of continually interrupted sleep. So I ask. And she says “chips!” And I say No. And so it begins. “You can have chips for lunch Baby.” “How about NOW?” she asks. “No Baby, chips are for lunch not breakfast.” “But I like chips. How about chips now?” “No.” “How about cookies?” “No.” “But I like cookies! How about chips?”

Once we’ve gotten through the ultra annoying litany of how much she likes chips and cookies things usually deteriorate into tears and tantrums. And then we’ll hit on a compromise. Like a tortilla with butter. I would offer her oatmeal, but she just eats the brown sugar off the top. Toast you say? Well if I cut the crusts off she might take two bites before she just licks the butter off the rest of it. Cereal? How about only eating the marshmallows in the Lucky Charms? Nix the Lucky Charms. Only buying Mini-wheats now. She’ll only eat the PINK mini-wheats. Not regular, chocolate or blueberry. How about waffles drowning in syrup? This is acceptable. But DO NOT miss a waffle piece when you are putting the butter on Mommy! She will point out “here and here, and here” directing my butter efforts.

During the day she will negotiate ANY TIME she hears the word “no” or “stop”. “Just one more!” She says with her finger up (in case I don’t know what one is) and an adorable pleading expression on her face. She’s jumping on my leg while I’m sitting on the floor. “Baby stop, you’re hurting me.” “But I will jump softer Mommy.” Discussing when we are going to visit Granny and PaPa – “on Christmas Day we will go see them.” “But how about now?” she implores.

We’re only reading ONE book tonight Lovie. “But how about TWO books Mommy? Just two! TWO Books.” And IF I give in, she quickly introduces book #3. And I roll my eyes. It’s time for a nap Lovie. Then we’ll watch Mouse and then we’ll go to the store. “How about we go to the store FIRST and then watch Mouse?” Conveniently forgetting about the nap. I’m going to make dinner and then I will play with you. “How about you play with me FIRST Mommy?! Just a few minutes! Please!”

You cannot ask the child an open ended question. Are you ready to go to school Baby Girl? “No. Not yet. I’m still playing.” Closed choice questions are my best friend. “Baby Girl do you want to wear the blue shirt or the pink shirt?” instead of asking if she’s ready to get dressed. This usually works out for me, but even so she will somehow sneak some negotiation in there anyway. “How about the skirt Mommy? I want to be a princess.” NO baby, it’s FREEZING outside. No skirts! “But Mommy please! I want to be a princess! I need to be a princess!” That’s not really negotiation but you can see that I (the Mommy) NEVER get a “Sure Mommy, that’d be great.” Never. Ever. Ever.

So my Christmas Eve wish is that the smallest Negotiator I know eases up on her Mama a little bit and says “Yes, thank you” to a single solitary question or statement that I make tomorrow.

Just one.

Please Baby Jesus.

Happy Birthday by the way.

Baby Girl tells me from the back seat – “you be Miss Stormy!” As I drive, I think fast – who the hell? Do you mean Miss Toni? From school? “NO! MISS STORMY!” OK, um, do you mean Mystery? Miss Martha? Miss Janet? In the back seat she’s getting frustrated and she starts to cry “noooo MISS STORMY MISS STORMY.” OK baby I’m not sure who or what you mean so we’re going to have to let this go for now.

Over the next few days we repeat this conversation multiple times, never with a positive ending. Then, one day, we are dancing to Disney Princess music and in the Beauty in the Beast song, she sings, “true he’s no Prince Charming….” and Baby Girl says “See?!?!? You be Miss Stormy!” Lightning flashes and I stop dead. PRINCE CHARMING?! You want me to be Prince Charming? “YES!” she screams in delight. Ok sure, Baby, how did I not get this sooner? Because Miss Stormy sounds exactly like Prince Charming.

Another day – I have forgotten now what she was responding to – but she rolls her eyes at me and says “I KNOW Mom.” Because clearly I am the stupidest person on the planet. So I say, “I know you know, Baby, you know everything!” She responds “yes I do!” totally delighted with herself. And Daddy says “hey Baby Girl, where’s Dallas?” She doesn’t miss a beat, just looks at him like why are you asking me this? and says… “It’s outside.” The kid doesn’t even know she’s already showing signs of being a smart-ass.

The day before yesterday I was talking to her about why she should wear panties and be done with the diapers. (Actually pull-ups but she calls them Bi-pers. And she might as well, because she certainly doesn’t pull them down or up.) I said, “Baby if you wear panties you can use the potty instead of your diaper. Using the potty is what you’re supposed to do, it’s better if you use the potty.” She looks very seriously at me and says “Why?” She is so serious about this that I respond with “um, well, um because it’s better that’s why.” That obviously should have convinced her, right? I am certainly convinced there is nothing on God’s green earth that is harder than getting this child to use a potty. I don’t say “potty training” anymore because God knows the kid knows how to use it. She just won’t. She simply doesn’t see the point.

And as for Santa Claus? Let’s not rely on him. Please. She sees a My Little Pony play castle/house/one more piece of plastic in my house thingie on a TV advertisement and she exclaims “Look Mommy! I don’t have that! We should go to the store and get it!” And I say, well maybe Santa Claus will bring something like that. And she says, perfectly seriously, “or we could just go to the store and get it.” Who needs Santa Claus?

Baby Girl has a bad ear infection. Both ears, dripping gunk and causing pain. Last night for a few minutes she starts to eat and play on her own. I’m excited, thinking she’s turned a corner and I say “hey Baby Girl are you feeling a little better?” She considers my question and responds with “No. I’m still sick.” She is just so sure about everything. There are no grey areas for her. She is confident about everything she says. My conversations with her about school go something like this:

“How was school today? What did you do?”

“Cora wouldn’t play with me but I was a puppy in the gym and Arden got a boo boo and he cried and he was driving the cars and I … and I … and I … and Cora played with Rose and Colt wasn’t there he was sick and so and so got a time out and he cried but I didn’t.”

Oooookay, sure Baby. You didn’t get a time out? “No.” Did you eat your lunch? “No I didn’t.” Why not? A repeat of the above run-on, mostly indecipherable litany of the day. No direct answer. Now you have as much information as I do about what goes on in her school day. I listen to her ramble on and on, full of confidence that I am understanding every word.

I am not sure why I ever worried about her talking. I waited a very long time for her to say Mommy consistently and with confidence. She now speaks in full sentences, using words that I didn’t even know she knew. On a daily basis I look at her while she talks and think “where did you learn that?!” It’s amazing. This age she is at is amazing, and extremely frustrating. She knows everything. She can do things on my iPad that I don’t even know how to do. She speaks like a little literary genius. She can do latches on gates and buckles on saddles. Yet she won’t use a toilet consistently and still spills her milk at dinner. Every day she astounds me, and then reminds me that she’s still only three. Don’t grow up too fast Baby Girl. This world, your world, is still safe and fun. Stay in it as long as you can, and I’ll stay in it with you.

It appears that the better Baby Girl sleeps, the better I sleep. The better I sleep, the better mood I’m in. And the better Baby Girl sleeps the better mood she’s in. A win win. Except I can’t get her to sleep well.

We have progressed to this:

Baby Girl goes to bed in her OWN bed in her OWN room about 7:30 every night. It was 9:00 every night but I finally decided that her naps were just screwing everything up and she’s better off without them. I had to acknowledge that I would also be better off without her naps (I was typically napping with her) because staying up until 9:00 pm with her was driving me nuts. It took me months to acknowledge this and then to actually change the routine. I hate change. It’s scary and uncomfortable. Let’s just continue on the way we are indefinitely because it is working – sort  of.  Sure, it could be better but it could also be worse! Glass half full, right?

So about three to four hours after she goes to sleep she’s awake, crying briefly, and coming into my room to sleep on the toddler mattress by my bed. I ALWAYS wake up during this process. Not least because I am expected to go get her blankie, snuggie and paccy and bring them to her, and then cover her up. With the fuzzy side of the blankie on the outside. Of course. Oh and get my water while you’re at it Mommy. So then she snoozes fitfully, on and off the mattress until about 6 am. As soon as the cat thinks that she is even a teensy bit conscious, he starts meowing. Loudly. Consistently. If he has been working, my husband arrives about 2:30 am. I am aware of every one of these activities. So despite having gone to bed at a reasonable hour, and getting up about 6:15 am (I would prefer 7:15)  – I am always exhausted.

These confessions lead to more confessions, and more future battles. She still has her paccy. Yes. They’re messing up her mouth, I know this. Not terribly, but some. She thinks she can’t live without them. I think she can. I have yet to test this theory. She cannot be convinced she doesn’t need them – I’ve tried that. So the only thing is, do I make a huge deal about taking them away, or do they simply all disappear? I cannot decide how to handle this, thus she still has her paccy’s and I am still beating myself up over it. (Advice on this dilemma is welcomed – maybe someone’s advice will piss me off enough that I take action.)

Toddler mattress in my bedroom. I could move it, I suppose. But I truly think she would simply sleep on the floor. The bigger issue is keeping her in her bed in the first place. I have a baby gate that I could attach to her doorway so she cannot get out. And how many nights will she scream bloody murder and cry like she’s been abandoned to the wolves before she understands that if she sleeps the whole night through she won’t even notice there’s a gate there? Also, what furniture or toys will she move so that she can climb over and out? And what about those paccy’s? Do I do take them away before or after I install the baby gate?

And finally – water at night. I am fully aware that if she drinks water at night she will need to pee. She is not potty trained yet, because she simply refuses. She does not care if she’s wet. She barely cares if she’s poopy. She is absolutely able to use the potty and will do it if the mood strikes – usually when she’s in the bathtub. We even tried a potty chart, with prizes and M&M’s which she loves. This worked for two weeks and I really thought we were on the right path towards panties. Then, inexplicably, she simply stopped. I am flummoxed. I try not to make a huge deal of it, because I think that if I insist and get all flared up, she will dig her toes in even more. She is my child, after all.

So battle lines NEED to be drawn here. I know it, my husband knows it and Baby Girl knows it. Husband and Baby Girl are both waiting on me to take a stand. Frankly, I’m waiting on me to take a stand. Like I said earlier, if you have advice on any of this feel free to lay it on me. Can’t guarantee that yours is the advice I’ll take (or any of it, frankly) but I am desperate enough to entertain someone else’s ideas!

It’s time to grow up a little Baby Girl. Mommy’s working on it.

I wake up into a black hole, a tornado – blackness swirling in my head. Anger, irritation, a fierce desire to crawl into my bed and stay silent. Please don’t talk to me, please don’t ask me to do anything. It’s too much, I can’t… I can’t.

But I have to. I have to be the Mom, that’s the main thing. I can’t let my darkness envelop her too. I have to put that brave face on, as much as I can, and be the Mom. But if it’s a school day then I only have to do it for a little while before I can drop her off with a fake smile to the teaching staff, have a great day Baby Girl, and I can let it all drop away again with my car door closing. On those days it’s back home immediately, I can’t handle the traffic, the people, the noise. If you call me I won’t answer. If you text me I will ignore it. I will troll Facebook without seeing, I will smile vaguely at Instagram. I will not watch the news, or read the stories about the evil in the world. I will not communicate with anyone who might give me unwelcome news. I will not send any emails or do any work. I can’t. I can’t meet you for lunch my friend, please understand. I can only survive – push through the day with as little drama as possible and pray that the darkness is short lived.

If it’s not a school day, then it’s waiting, waiting, waiting for Daddy to wake up (he works nights) so he can take over and I can give in to the darkness. It’s play with me Mommy and help me do play-doh and I’m hungry and please please please wake up soon Daddy because Mommy is drowning. If I can give in, just for a little while, maybe it’ll be ok again. Maybe it’ll push back, fade away enough for me to be the Mom later in the day and be the Instructor and Barn Owner and horse person. Maybe the exhaustion will lift just a little. Just enough. Maybe I can even be the Friend, or the Wife. But to be Me? That’s too much effort. That gets left behind until I am feeling better, until the darkness recedes and the light comes in.

The light is always there, I tell myself, it’s there – behind the darkness. It’s there waiting to be seen. Like the scene at the end of the movie Twister where the tornado breaks up and the sun comes out. That’s how it feels, that’s what I need to happen. Sometimes it’s only one day, sometimes it’s weeks or even months. But the light is always there and it always comes back. I have to remember that, hold onto it, because the darkness is so complete, so strong that it’s easy to despair. Hold on to me Baby Girl, hold on to me – just be happy Mommy she says, I want us all to be happy. Oh me too, baby, me too.