Julie Tullos

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.

 

It’s the little things – as Robert Earl Keen would say. It’s the way Baby Girl thumps her feet on the mattress next to my head when she’s awake at 5:00 in the morning. It’s the way she can destroy a room five minutes after I’ve cleaned it, or the way I find 12 different socks she’s discarded in every room of the house. It’s the way she chooses a bag of chips and then proceeds to pick out every other one as not being worthy enough to eat. Or the way she spits grapes into my hand because she doesn’t want it after she’s chewed it up – same with pancakes, chicken, or whatever …

It’s the way she can and will dump out her pockets of sand into the middle of her otherwise clean bed. It’s how she acts like a puppy 12 hours a day. Puppies are hard to feed and clothe by the way. In case you don’t own one. They don’t listen well and they pant a lot. In your face. It’s the way strawberry frosted mini wheats get ground into every floor in the house, or finding random goldfish under the couch or in her shoes.

It’s the way she can run beside me on the lawn mower while sporting a 100.8 degree fever. It’s the way she falls down and gets right back up saying “it’s ok!” when she feels good and bursting into tears when she doesn’t. It’s the way she climbs up on the tractor and snuggles into me while I drive it back to the barn – tired after running all the way to the end of the aisle. It’s her jumping in the water trough just because she wants to, and then running all over the property stark naked because she’s three. The way she wants me to give her a “shower” in the wash rack with cold water so she can pretend to be a horse (or a puppy). It’s using horse shampoo on her crazy hair, because hey, why not?

It’s the way she always wants to “help” me even when I could do it faster and better myself. And the way that I usually let her – even though I’m dying inside. The way she always want to help feed the horses, especially Muffin, because Muffin’s bucket is pink, and Corkie, because it’s “her” Corkie. It’s the way she takes it upon herself to create a stall in her wagon for her Breyer horses by using shavings that were already in an actual horse stall. It’s the way she genuinely loves all the horses, all the time.

It’s the way she mimics me and tries to wipe her feet when we enter the house. It’s the way we practice saying “hhhhhoooorrse” instead of “force” and giggle our heads off. It’s the way she tells me she can read her own name (she probably can) and that she wants to play with her friend Cora at school. It’s the crazy, undecipherable tales she tells me when she gets home complete with silly faces and re-enactments. It’s the way she takes my face in her hands and tells me she’s little and I’m big.

It’s the little things that are the most annoying, endearing, cringe inducing, loving, silly, best things of all.

In the car. “Mommy can you put the window down? Pweaaaassseeee?” “Baby it’s too hot outside for the window down.” “Mommy pwease!!!!!” “No Baby, it’s too hot.” “PWWWEEEASSSEEE MOMMY I NEED THE WIN-NOW DOWN PWEASE IT’S NOT TOO HOT PWEASE!”

“Baby, I can’t put the window down.” “MOMMY TWY!!! TWY!! YES YOU CAN! TWY!” And then the clincher – “Mommy I don’t feel good.” Which in effect means “put the window down before I throw up all over.” But she’s playing me – sometimes she really doesn’t feel good and other times it’s just a ploy to get me to put the window down. She’s no fool – she knows I won’t (usually) risk it. Cleaning up a screaming kid and a car seat full of chunk is ZERO FUN.

Persistence. It’s a good thing I love her so much. She has inherited this lovely trait from my Dear Old Dad – her beloved PaPa. Thanks ever so much Dad, for passing along this gene of NEVER GIVE UP. This is why Dad buys all the wine. He knows it’s his fault.

What? She’s just like ME? Surely not. I was never this demanding, this determined or this difficult. I was an angel child. I do not have a head of steel. I don’t push and prod and keep working until I get what I want. I do not put my head down like a battering ram until I’ve accomplished what I set out to do. You must have me mistaken for my Dad. That’s HIM. And his Fu-Fu.

Now, I’m not saying that persistence isn’t a Good Thing. It’s a great trait to have. When things get tough, or when you are damn sure going to finish this project or when something is, um, pissing you off – hard-headedness can see you through. Great and wonderful things can be accomplished with a little persistence and a lot of determination. When someone tells my Dad (and OK yes – me too) that something can’t be done you can visibly see our eyes narrow, our jaws set and that thing in our brains that screams “want to bet?”

However, when you are three years old and your Mommy is just wishing you would for Pete’s sake, LISTEN to her instead of doing it YOUR WAY, persistence is Hell. Especially when YOUR WAY is not working but you aren’t willing to admit you need help. Because you are three and because you are JUST LIKE YOUR PAPA. Just saying.

And I’m not putting the Damn Win-now down. Two can play this game and you can bet your fanny I’m going to win.

 

Baby Girl has certainly learned to be more expressive these days. She’s speaking more clearly, after her surgery, and she’s obviously hearing better as well. About a week ago or maybe two – it all runs together – my student Sloane came up to me in the barn and said “Baby Girl just told me that mommy pissed her off.” My head spun around – “What?! You didn’t hear that right – I don’t know what she said but it definitely wasn’t that!” Sloane says maybe not, but it certainly sounded like that’s what she said. So I go into the tack room and ask Baby Girl – what did you say to Sloane just now? CLEAR AS DAY she responded “Mommy pissed me off!” I sat down hard. I wanted to laugh but I knew better. So I told her “don’t say that Baby Girl!” That’s not a nice thing to say!” She looked at me and then… repeated it.

I admit, my family has its moments of profanity and bad language. I’m not above using a cuss word or two (or twelve) in a moment of passionate anger or frustration. I learned from the best (thanks Mom!!) and my brother and I wouldn’t blink twice if the F word was muttered when Mom dropped the jar of spaghetti sauce all over the kitchen floor. We would of course look at each other and bust out laughing, and then Mom would laugh too and we’d all help clean it up. Sometimes stuff like that is really just a moment in time that builds an awesome memory.

Anyway, stunned as I was, I was MORE stunned by that fact that she got the sentence completely right than I was that she actually used the phrase. She clearly did not understand what it really means, but she must have heard someone say this a lot in order to parrot it back so well. What, me? Me?! The MOMMY?! I’VE said it? Enough to have it as my epitaph?

Huh. Well I never. I suppose maybe… it could have been me….. Maybe.

Fast forward a few days. Baby Girl and Daddy and I are sitting in the living room. Out of the blue Baby Girl says to me “You pissed me off Mommy.” Now it’s Daddy’s turn to swivel around. “Um excuse me?! What did you say?!” Baby Girl calmly says “Mommy pissed me off.” I swear Daddy’s head is about to explode. I say to Baby Girl – “don’t say that Baby, that’s not nice.” And she looks at me kind of confused and repeats it, this time with a little whine in her voice. “DON’T SAY THAT!” says Daddy very strongly. Slightly taken aback she now really whines “but Mommy pissed me off!” Daddy gets mad and Baby starts to cry, continually saying the phrase.

Eventually Daddy threatens a time out and Baby Girl screams over the injustice of this and runs away. Problem solved.

I have no idea what Baby Girl thinks this phrase means but I guess I’d better start watching what I say. Problem is, you get so upset about something that you’re going to say it without even thinking about it. I even said it to HER one day, in total frustration. BABY GIRL YOU ARE PISSING ME OFF! So no wonder she’s confused – I said it to her – she should say it back to me, right? Ah, the joyous moments of stellar parenting. I was expecting a “shit” or you know – something else – but I was not expecting her to learn a complete phrase and parrot it back perfectly.

Like I said, her hearing is a lot better now.

 

Shopping with a toddler is hell. No holds barred, that’s what it is. Hell. You can not take your child successfully out in public until they are at least 10. Okay maybe that’s a stretch – I met my stepdaughter when she was 8 and she was pretty good. No tantrums. So, we’ll say 8 then.

Walmart a few months ago (she was still two) – Baby Girl has been pretty low key on this trip. Not phenomenal but no kicking, crying, laying on the floor, or otherwise making me cringe. Of course, we’ve only dropped in quickly to grab a few things on our way to Baby Girl’s first ever movie theater experience. We are at the checkout and Baby Girl spies the tiny Disney princess figurines they keep there just to MAKE DAMN SURE you don’t leave Walmart with all of your sanity and without an extra bottle of wine. She is playing with them while I check out. Fine, no problem. Then… Baby Girl, we need to go. Put those back please. “Mommy!!! I want one! I need one! Pweaseeeee!!” No, Baby, put them back. Slowly and grudgingly she puts them all back. Except one. That one too, Baby, put it down. “NOOOOOOO I NEED IT I WANT IT MOMMY I NEED IT SCREEEEEEEEEEEEEE” Sighing and ignoring the people around me, I go to pick her up at which point she instantly becomes a limp, but still screeching, spaghetti noodle. I have no idea how she does it, but somehow her limbs all become double jointed and she can slip out of my grasp any which way she wants to. The kid needs to be the next Houdini, the way she can just manipulate her limbs like this. She’s still hysterically screeching, I’m still trying to get a hold of her, and I finally get the princess out of her mechanically strong grasp and lob it to the cashier while simultaneously pushing the cart with my foot to get the Hell out of Dodge. While gasping over my shoulder at all the onlookers, saying I SWEAR SHE’S MINE – I’M NOT A KIDNAPPER.

Have you ever tried to put a mini-Houdini and/or limp spaghetti noodle that sometimes goes rigid just for the fun of it in a car seat? Fun times. Once, I just stood there in the parking lot while it was 800 degrees (car door open of course) waiting for her to decide to cut the shit out. A lady walked by and looked at me, and I said “oh I’m just waiting for the tantrum to be over.” She actually laughed and said “I’ve been there.” Thank God for you lady.

So anyways, tantrum finally subsides and we move on to the movie theater. We’re going to see Sing at the Dollar Theater. Just in case she doesn’t make it through the movie I won’t have wasted a shit ton of money. Seriously a good call on my part. Baby Girl is totally happy munching on her popcorn for about thirty minutes. Then she gets restless. “Mommy can we leave?” What? I say – you want to go home? “Yes.” I try to wait her out but she’s about to start crawling on her hands and knees under the seats so I give in and we leave. In the lobby there is this car game where you put money in and then pretend you are driving a car really fast until you crash. Baby Girl spends about twenty minutes playing on this thing (without the quarters) until I am thoroughly bored. Hey Baby, let’s go ok? “NOOOOOOOO!!!!!!” How is this more entertaining than the movie that I actually paid for? I finally convince her to leave with minimal fuss and we are sauntering down the mall halls (or what the hell ever you call them) and we are about to turn left to leave through the food court when Baby Girl spies……. THE PLAY AREA.

OH SHIT. In my head I’m screaming “NO NO NO NO!!!!” But she’s already heading towards it. “Mommy I want to play!!” CRAP CRAP CRAP. How did I get myself into this?! I wildly search for an escape – anything, ANYTHING but the play area! She’s there already kicking her shoes off and climbing up everything that every other kid and their snot has already been on. Seeing as how I have two choices – either give in or pick her up and insist we leave immediately – I decide to give in. Sure, Baby Girl, you can play for a few minutes. But we have to leave soon, ok? I might as well have been speaking Mandarin Chinese for all Baby Girl cared. So I sit down and scroll through my phone while keeping one eye on Baby Girl and the germs she’s accumulating. She makes sure she doesn’t miss any by crawling on her hands and knees and practically licking everything in sight.

She’s having a blast and I snap a few pictures. Finally I break it to her gently – it’s time to go Baby Girl. “NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO! I WANT TO PLAY!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!”

I finally pick her up and we have a repeat of the above scenario only this time she is over my shoulder while the other arm has her shoes and socks. Repeat on the car seat thing too.

As we FINALLY drive away I vow to myself to never come to the mall again. No more movies, no more Mommy wants to entertain the child and be a nice, fun Mommy. Mommy is going to buy extra wine and the kid is going to play in the house until she’s nine.

Baby Girl will not remember any of this when she’s older of course, and I’ll get to torture her with all the fun memories. Hopefully in front of a boy or two. Cuz I’m cool like that.

 

Baby Girl please put your shoes on. “I AM, MOM.” When the hell did my three year old turn into a teenager?! She calls me Mom more often than Mommy. She basically rolls her eyes when I tell her to do something – just hasn’t quite mastered the technique yet. “I AM” is one of her favorite new phrases. Baby Girl eat your dinner – I AMMMMMM. Baby Girl get in the car seat please – “I AMMMM!” Baby Girl please come on – it’s time to …. (any number of things) – her response is either “I AMM! or “I can’t. I’m busy.” In other words, leave me the hell alone. (She honestly probably picked that one up from me. Oops).

Now let’s add in some three year old tantrums to the teenage attitude. Also, absolute refusal to stop screaming and listen to Mommy (Mom). Finally, let’s continue whining and carrying on and repeating what you want 5000 times even though Mommy (Mom) is actually getting whatever it is that you are asking for. Example:

“I want water! I want WATER! I want WAAAATTTEEERRRR!” Baby Girl calm down I am getting you some water. See? Here I am with the cup heading to the fridge…. “WAAAAA I want WATER! WAAAAA WATER! I want water!” Look, Lovie – water is actually coming out of the fridge and into your cup. Pretty soon you will have some water. “WAAAA I WANT WATER!! I WANT WATER! I WANT WATER!” Look Kid I’m about to pour this water over your precious little head if you don’t shut it. “I want WAAAA…. sniff sniff… ” takes the cup from my hand and drinks as if she’s been deprived of water for three days.

The repeating thing drives me bat shit crazy. “What are doing Mommy?” I’m working baby. “Oh. What you doing Mom?” Um. Working. “Mommy what are you doing?” I’M WORKING FOR THE LOVE OF GOD.

“Where’s Daddy?” He’s at work Lovie (or he’s asleep, or he’s in the barn, or outside….). “Oh. What’s Daddy doing?” Baby I just told you. “Oh.” Five minutes later… “where’s daddy?” He’s still working (or sleeping or ….). “OK. What’s Sissy doing?” And on and on it goes. All day long. Until I want to stick a pitchfork through my ears.

Here’s another favorite: “Mom I want to watch Mouse.” OK Lovie let me put it in for you. “No not THAT one!” OK which one? “Um that one.” This one? “Yes.” I start to put it in the DVD player, get it all set up and push play. “NOT THAT ONE MOMMY!” Baby I just asked you which one! “No THIS one!” Fuming, I take out one DVD and put THIS one in. And she’s happy. For about 10 minutes. Then more often than not she’ll come bring me yet a different DVD and say “I want to watch this one.” And I roll my eyes (she’ll figure it out soon) and say too bad – watch the one that’s in there. Then I brace for the screaming, shrieking fit that is sure to follow. Because she can’t just meekly say “Ok Mommy.” She has NEVER just meekly agreed to my instructions or suggestions. That is so not her style. Even if I’m right. (Remind you of your teenager? I thought so.)

So here I am enjoying life with an actual teenager and a threenager. Yesterday I literally sat on the floor of Barnes and Noble while Baby Girl was blessedly with Ms. Troy and Mati, and I perused the parenting section. Alas, no books on the threenager. But plenty of books on how to parent boys (are they harder?!), books on raising a self confident kid (not a problem) , how to become tantrum free in three easy steps – yeah right – 800 potty training books – and finally…. “The SH!T NO ONE TELLS YOU ABOUT TODDLERS.” Ding ding ding!!! A book full of other moms telling you their horror stories, how bad they suck at parenting, how they figured shit out, and how they cope. No holds barred on explaining how toddlers are like well educated pomeranians, or angry monkeys. Moms admitting how they want to leave their kids in the produce aisle and just walk away. Moms that understand that wine is an adult food group. I am loving this book. Can I just crawl under the covers today in a dark room with a flashlight and just read? Please?

Some people dream of beach vacations or hiking through the jungles of Costa Rica – I dream of sleeping in a dark room all alone with the door locked and someone else listening for the strains of “MOM! I can’t find my paccy! MOM! where is my snuggie? MOM! Cover me! MOM! I need water!! MOM I want to watch Mouse!” I just want to hide and whimper “I’m not your Mom.” But no one else will come out and say that the ARE her mom, so I guess it really is me.

When they are born they should hand you an extra large bottle of vodka and say “you’ll know when you need this.”

It’s an absolutely beautiful Fourth of July – 86 degrees and sunny. A bit of a breeze. In years past I’ve spent the day at Willie Nelson’s Fourth of July picnic, in Luckenbach, Texas, on Lake Ray Roberts, at the seawall in Galveston, at Lone Star Park, and with family and friends all over Texas, and once in Idaho.

Today I am in my office, while Baby Girl is watching Tangled for the one thousand seven hundred and seventy sixth time. My husband (lucky dog) is out on the property – mowing, adjusting, fixing, and contemplating future projects. He didn’t even have his phone on him. (Which I rectified of course.)

I would love to switch places with him today. Plain and simple, I miss my previous way of life. I miss spending the entire day on the property, surrounded by nature – surrounded by horses. I miss that a horse was the only thing I would communicate with the entire day – besides possibly the lady at the McDonald’s drive through when I took a break for some sweet tea. I miss that having a sweet tea every day did not make a difference to my waistline because I was so active… and younger.

I miss the ability to wake up at my own time, in my own way (hellloooo 5 am and my bright eyed toddler). I miss getting the day started at my own pace. I miss the early morning silence – three year olds do not care what time it is when they feel like shrieking. I miss the complete autonomy to do what I please, when I please. I miss being able to sit on the porch swing in the summer evening drinking a glass or two of wine and listening to music while watching the day turn to dusk.

I miss getting completely absorbed in my work, spending hours working on something and not even realizing what time it is. Not having to stop to answer questions, change bobo’s, put someone down for a nap or get them a drink.

I miss not having fourteen arguments a day about whether to use the blue spoon or the yellow fork, the pink bowl or the orange one, whether or not it’s bath time, or time to go inside, or time to go outside or time to drink. (Just kidding).

I miss all that – I admit it – and I would give anything to have a few of those days back again. Not every day… just once in a while. A day like today, when the sun is out and the breeze is cool and the horses are just begging for attention. When the lawn needs mowing and the barn needs sweeping and the afternoon is long and the evening is sweet.

The flag waving out in my front yard is my constant reminder that, while I may not to get spend many days exactly how I used to, I am still free and living in a great country and I get to celebrate my independence however I choose. Today I choose to be grateful and yet nostalgic for days gone by. I choose to be happy that I still DO get to be free — and that Baby Girl does too.

Happy Fourth of July everyone! I’ll have a drink for you tonight, America.

 

 

Every night as I put Baby Girl to bed – in her own room! – I sit and stare at the Dr. Suess print on the wall across from me. It’s hanging ever so slightly crooked. Every night I tell myself I should fix it – that I will fix it because it is annoying to me. Every single night I put her in bed and sneak out. And I forget. And the print is still hanging crooked.

For two weeks I reminded myself to remove the two tupperware containers full of over-ripe cut up watermelon from the refrigerator and clean them out. Every day I would forget to do it. One day as I was speed washing dishes I actually remembered. And because my stepdaughter was here I was able to say “BRING ME THE WATERMELON CONTAINERS!” Of course she showed it to me before she threw the fruit out in the yard. It had grown little frozen spikes and looked like something out of a horror movie.

The other day I actually had to dump out an almost entire bottle of wine. GASP! I had forgotten that it was in the other fridge for about a month (after having been opened of course) and boy, that sure didn’t taste right. Of course I tasted it! Wouldn’t you?! Who voluntarily throws out a whole bottle of wine that could possibly be consumed?! Not me.

Speaking of wine, I have a gift of a bottle of (thankfully and currently unopened) wine for my assistant trainer for something she did for me …. hmmm… maybe in May? Been so long I’ve forgotten that part too. Anyway, it’s also been in my fridge for however long that is, even though I keep telling her I’ll put it in the barn for her. It’s probably going to end up being my emergency go-to one of these days. Sorry kid. Maybe next time.

Last night I was giving a lesson and the mom said to me – can we come on Wednesday for an extra lesson – what do you have booked on Wednesday already? I looked at her blankly. Wednesday? Isn’t that like in two days? Lord, I don’t know. It’s a damn good thing I do a monthly calendar because otherwise I would not remember any of these lessons. As it was, I was already teaching Monday evening because I had forgotten that the lesson was supposed to be Monday morning. Totally my bad. Sorry about that.

I swear I’m not a terrible house keeper or a completely unorganized instructor. In fact, quite the opposite. I’m extremely reliable and pretty OCD about my house. Sometimes I just have to close my eyes to the ridiculous mess of Hurricane Toddler and Unconcerned Teenager. Seriously they are almost worse as teenagers as far as mess-making goes. The other day Unconcerned Teenager actually said to me “this house is a mess.” And I, after inwardly seething with resentment, returned with “this house is always a mess.” NOT TO MENTION it doesn’t matter how much you clean it – it will STILL BE A WRECK until people literally no longer live in it. I also wanted to say “CLEAN IT THEN” to Unconcerned Teenager. But I refrained. Barely. I just poured myself another glass and kept my mouth shut.

And, as far as lessons go – I used to be able to tell you a month out who was doing what, and when. These days? Not so much. The monthly calendar is my go-to, every morning. Now what the hell am I supposed to do today? I ask as I pour the first glass. Of Diet Coke! Don’t judge.

Turning 42 today. Feeling every damn bit of it. Forgotten what was the point of this blog post…

Baby Girl is asleep in her bed. In her room. This is no small feat. Currently, Sissy is in there with her, to encourage her to stay in her room. Last night was the first time I insisted she sleep in her own room. An hour of screaming, kicking, crying, tears, throwing things and finally succumbing to letting me rock her and she was asleep in her own bed for the first time in months. She stayed there until 4:20 a.m. at which point she came back in my room.

Tonight? A little bit of fuss but no screaming. 15 minutes instead of 60. HUGE progress. I am sure at some point she will be back in my bedroom but I am encouraged nonetheless. It has been a very long time since I’ve been able to sleep in my room without Baby Girl in it. Some parents may think that I shouldn’t mind if she’s in there, these same parents don’t mind if their child sleeps in their bed with them. These parents are probably a lot more relaxed and outgoing than I am. Frankly, I need my space. If I’m going to be a good parent, the best Mom I can be, then I NEED my child to sleep in her own room. Since my Baby Girl has been, essentially, pretty sick for a long time, she has been on my heels day and night. She has learned a lot of bad habits during this time, and it’s time to get things back under control. The very first step is night time separation.

In the aftermath of her surgery, everyone asks if she is sleeping better. And the honest truth, is No. She is not snoring, that is true. I am pretty sure she is breathing a hell of a lot better. But she still wakes up and wants me to “cover her” and looks for her paccy, and her snuggie, and generally wakes me up about 3 or 4 times per night. After two weeks of recovery, and realizing this, I am aware that the sleeping in my room thing is a bigger deal than I thought. Since I am now assured that the kid can actually breathe and won’t strangle on her own spit in the night, I am cutting the rest of the cord as well. Baby Girl, you’re going to have to suck it up and find your own paccy, your own snuggie, and cover your own self up. Mommy is done and Mommy is tired, and Mommy is finally saying enough.

I have ordered her a “big girl bed.” It’s adorable of course, with shelving on the head board and storage underneath. I know my cousin will be thrilled to have her crib back. Just as thrilled as my Dad will be to store it until he can deliver it to her. I look at it though, as “wow, another milestone. Another thing we are through with – the baby crib.” And it’s kind of sad. It follows the bottles and the sippy cups and the diapers (which we haven’t quite finished with and which I actually won’t miss). She already is a little girl and not a baby. It’s astonishing to think she is now 3 years old. She loves Rapunzel even though I swore I wouldn’t encourage the Disney Princess thing. She can put her own shoes on (she will even ask me which shoe goes on which foot). She can wash her own hands and brush her own teeth. She can find the Pringles no matter where I hide them. She’s amazing. She is capable of so much, I know she is capable of sleeping on her own.

After sleeping in her own room last night for the majority of it, she was much better behaved today. Only one major tantrum as opposed to three or four. She was able to choose which toy she wanted at the store and put the others back. She was able to consider what I said when I threatened her with taking away her newly bought zebra if she didn’t shape up in the car.

The power struggle with a three year old is very real. The tantrums are worse as well. Baby Girl will say she wants something – no the PINK one Mommy – and then immediately pretend she has no idea what you are talking about, she actually wants the BLUE one now. She will say she’s hungry and then you set dinner before her and she freaks out and starts having a tantrum in the middle of the living room and refuses to eat. You don’t even know why. She probably doesn’t know why.

Somehow Sissy is able to get her looking adorable each morning. When Mommy tries to get her dressed, Baby Girl usually ends up in a skirt and her pajama top. Honestly Sissy is going to be a great Mom someday. She doesn’t take any shit. Of course, she also lets Baby Girl eat crap all day, in the living room, making a tremendous mess. Anyway, I digress. I know I need to take a stand, both Baby Girl and I need more structure. More rules and less struggle. I think that getting Baby Girl in her own room for sleeping is the key. More space for me, and better sleep, means that I will not be too damn tired to enforce the rules that Baby Girl so desperately needs.

The Aftermath of Surgery has been a hurricane. I’m ready for some mild weather.

 

Day 9 after surgery. Currently listening to Disney Princess CD in a desperate attempt to pacify Baby Girl and pry her from my hip for twenty minutes. Sissy says she sounds different now. Friends have asked if her voice has changed. I wouldn’t know – unless her new voice is a high pitched whine which is all I’ve heard for the past nine days.

The surgery itself went well. Nurses kept her occupied with toys and colors before surgery. Baby Girl had no idea what was about to happen. Protested mightily at taking off her pj’s and putting on the hospital gown even though it was covered with puppies and kittens. Absolutely refused to put on the fuzzy socks. Once they got her slightly sedated off she went, barefooted, into the surgical area, where I could not follow. Thankfully my friend Charlotte was there to distract me. She and Tony and I ate McDonald’s breakfast in the waiting room and it wasn’t until she left that I felt the nerves kick in. Only had to wait about ten more minutes though until the surgeon came and told me she had done perfectly and would be going back to recovery very soon.

When they finally let Tony and I back to the recovery room Baby Girl was just coming out of the anesthesia and she was frantic. I was already taking my shoes off when the nurse said “Mama you can get in the bed with her.” I crawled in and tried to console her but she would not be consoled until she was laying on top of me and I was singing Twinkle Twinkle Little Star. She fell asleep on my chest. And the nurse had already given her her paccy back so my strategy of taking her paccy’s away (because I thought it would hurt to suck on them) fell completely flat. Amazingly, the doctor said it was perfectly fine for her to have them. So I just totally let it go. Still letting it go nine days later… probably will be letting it go for another few months. Maybe years.

That was just the beginning though. Once we finally made it up to a room, the nurse told us that she would be in quite a bit of pain for a good 7 to 10 days. I thought – no problem, I got this. At day 9 I can tell you – I don’t got this. It has been ROUGH. People ask how she’s doing and I hedge … she’s doing OK I say. The truth is she has major ups and downs. She’ll have a good few hours where’s she laughing and playing and happy. And then the other 22 hours of the day she’ll be whining, crying, laying on my chest, stuck to my hip and otherwise totally miserable. And I feel so bad for her but at the same time I’m thinking will this ever end?!

I have to say Cook Children’s Hospital is pretty neat. The pre-surgical area is just one big room with kids in cubicles and nurses and doctors everywhere. The word swarming comes to mind. I didn’t mind it – it was actually pretty interesting and distracting at the same time. They had teenagers or maybe young adults (I can hardly tell anymore) whose sole purpose it was to bring toys to the children. Very nice nurses, very nice people everywhere.

And the nurse in the room was great, too. I was completely surprised at how much we were NOT bothered. If she was asleep they let her sleep. There would be hours going by where I would not see a nurse at all. The first nurse we had let her eat anything she wanted. Even crackers and stuff like that. She also encouraged us to visit “The Zone” – the play area. Baby Girl wasn’t ready for The Zone the first time we went. She just cried until I took her back to the room. The second (night) nurse did not want Baby Girl to eat anything except soft stuff and she had the harder job of administering more medications that were yucky. But we survived and Daddy arrived to take us home the next morning by 10. She slept the entire way home. AND SHE DID NOT SNORE.

Baby Girl is no longer snoring when she sleeps. This stresses me out because I am so used to listening to her while she sleeps that now I have to lean over and look at her and even put my hand on her chest to make sure she’s ok! Because, yes, she is still sleeping in mommy’s room.

Very slowly she is improving. We are just taking it day by day. Some things that have taken me by surprise –

1. Her breath. Holy Mother of God it’s like something died in there. Which I suppose it did. But couldn’t someone have warned me? Sonic doesn’t have enough mints for this!
2. The surgeon did not come check on her the next morning. We have a follow up appointment in four weeks (well three now). I guess she’s supposed to be perfectly fine between the surgery itself and the follow up appt a month later.
3. The lack of instruction regarding care at home. It was only days later that I discovered in my original packet from the doctor that I received at our “sleep study results” appointment the post-surgery instructions and care. Did not realize that was in there. Totally winging it before then.
4. The drastic change in my Baby Girl. She has lost weight, doesn’t want to eat, spent a week being constipated, and is sleeping without snoring but still wakes up from pain. I am still praying and hoping another few days will make a world of difference for her and we will come through this having learned a lot and with a new and healthier zest for life.

In my usual fashion I was completely prepared up to the day of the surgery without any thought of what happens afterwards. If anyone ever tells you that your child needs her tonsils out – yes, she probably does – but BE PREPARED. I wasn’t.

Thanks for the wine, Dad.