Lumps, bumps, and Teddy Grahams

I know I said in my last post that I don't tend to do a lot of worrying in life, so what I'm about to launch into is really going to put my credibility into question. I accept that.

It's hard for me, though, not to worry about lumps.

But they're scary for everyone, aren't they? Haven't we all been conditioned to fear that mysterious lump that seems to have just appeared out of nowhere? And to then wrack our brains as to whether or not it did just mysteriously appear at all - or just maybe it's been there for ages, creeping up slowly and steadily in size, and now there it is whispering our name ominously, and oh God... what IS that? Am I dying? Okay let's just stop and be rational, we think. Don't Google it, whatever you do, you tell yourself - except well, it's probably best if I just have a quick little Google check. I'll only click on the first few links, and I promise not to visit a single forum. And above all bloody else, I'll stick to the code and I Will Not Press the Images Button. ...Okay I did. This is bad. It's bad. ...It's bad.

And so what, then, if that little lump shows up on your child? Dare I even venture down that path to explain to you how scary to the power of one hundred it is to see a lump on your little walking, talking toddler?

It happened to us once already - a lump, ensuing tests, uncertainty; a cancer scare - and behold, benign that little tumor ended up being, rendering us utterly and completely beside ourselves with relief. But little did I realize at the time, it ingrained within me a quiet, silent and steadfast fear - or a realization, maybe - that this baby girl of mine could be snatched out from under me at any time. Finding a tumor on my daughter inadvertently had this effect on me.

And this morning we found ourselves at the doctor's office once again, this time to bring to attention two tiny lumps sitting right below Margot's bottom eyelash line on her right eye. I will confess that they've been there for what seems like an eternity - probably six months or more - but as time passed, and they didn't disappear, I decided it best to talk to her pediatrician about it. She gave us a referral to an ophthalmologist, and this morning we made our way over with some distinct level of trepidation.

I really hate taking her to doctor's appointments, in all honesty. Without fail, the mood is light while we're in the waiting room, and then the moment a nurse comes around the corner and says her name, she loses all her shit. Every ounce of it. She screams, "NOOOO!" while tears careen down her face, then clings to me like should she release her grip from around my neck even slightly, the world will implode and all of humankind will disappear into oblivion.

So this morning, pre-appointment, I was tense. I coached her throughout breakfast, though, maybe as much for her benefit as for mine.

"We're going to go to the doctor's office today, okay, babe? Everything's gonna be just fine. Mama's going to be with you the whole time; and I need you to be a big girl, okay? No crying."

But sure enough, emotions exploded out of her face as soon as it was our turn to be called. It was a long walk down that hallway, loud and disheveled, but eventually we made it; and while I like to think we achieved calm thanks to my presence, my voice and my touch, there's really no question it had everything to do with three huge stickers and a little bag of Teddy Grahams that the nurse procured.

And, after a wildly successful examination, I'm relieved once again to report that these little eye bumps are nothing more than blocked oil glands, with no further need for attention in the foreseeable future.

Maybe I'm a worrier, maybe I'm a Class-A stereotypical textbook first-time Mother. Maybe both.

At any rate, we made our way back home and rewarded ourselves with some time together, gallivanting around in our backyard. Me with my camera, and she with her tummy full of stickers on the outside, and Teddy Grahams on the inside.

Two, I love you.

I know age two is hard. I've heard it a thousand times over; and it's been ingrained into my system that two is just a precursor to three, which is, in its own right, a fresh hell demanding to be conquered when all systems scream no.

And I know we're only six days into it, but oh... I need to hop softly onto this fragile limb and report how insanely and unbelievably delightful two has been so far. Two, yes, and all the days leading up to it.

I'm not saying I'm any stranger to tantrums, misbehavior, sneaky secrets, or fierce, unwarranted independence - I am not, I assure you - but Margot, in her purest form, is just one of the sweetest human beings I've ever had the pleasure of meeting.

She has no qualms about barreling through a crowded room with a small footstool or doll stroller, bumping into grownup shins or rolling over grownup toes. She always smells faintly of peanuts even though she carries her distinctly perfect she-smell. She still sucks her thumb to garner peace amidst chaos, and still vocalizes the questions she wants to be asked, then responds to your offer as though it was your idea all along:

"Are you hungry, mama?"

"Margot, are you hungry?"

"Okay."
__

"Hold you, mama?"

"Want me to hold you, babe?"

"Okay."
__

She routinely removes her socks & boots when we're driving anywhere, in spite of our current mantra being PLEASE LEAVE YOUR SOCKS AND BOOTS ON WHILE WE'RE DRIVING; and then goes, "UUGHGGHHHH!" as soon as I open her car door and see what she's done - thereby so considerately saving me from having to do it. (Thanks, girl, but I still so need to UUGHGHGHHH when these sub-zero temperatures are freezing my fingers as I claw around the backseat for strewn footwear, then re-attach them to ten tiny little toes on two sweet feet.)

If I decline any request of hers, she says, "Okay, mama; maybe later."

I believe there exists a delicate balance of time together and time apart in order to make any relationship good and well and ultimately lasting; and while I undoubtedly go through pangs of missing her while I'm at work (always), and equally so, bouts of needing to fly off into the sunset when we're home together, I'm so grateful for this rhythm we're in. We're making it work, and I feel so blessed to call this girl my own.

This babe of mine, nary a babe at all anymore, is aging rapidly yet steadily and I'm still trying to figure out how I ever cared to do life before she existed.

Breathing room, or lack thereof

I've been issued a court-legislated restraining order from my dear darling daughter. And by that I mean Daryl just got home after a day at work, and having had received a number of texts from me containing a long list of expletives, he all but stuffed my feet into my boots and shoved me out the door so that I could take care of myself and pick up my scattered pieces. Today started out completely fine, and then transformed into an afternoon of me grasping desperately at straws in order to gather my Qi and become zen, then failing miserably, then opting out of even trying anymore whatsoever. This afternoon in its final form turned into an angry mess of noise while Margot bawled her eyes out on and off for hours, and I yelled back at her as if I was ever going to win a contest by making my voice louder than hers.

It's amazing how I can hear a voice travel through my head on repeat telling me not to let my own emotions rise up, match or rival those of a cranky toddler - and yet disregard it wholly while my heart screams back that I do not care - and it does so with great indignation - because right now I'm angry and she's angry and the angrier we are the angrier we get and yes it's very loud in here but WE'RE JUST BEING HONEST ABOUT HOW WE FEEL. And honest communication is the pillar of any good and healthy relationship, right?

And because correct me if I'm wrong, but is there anybody else in this house at this moment who's here to deal with this girl? Or to whisk me away to a cloud of pillows and feathers and billows of dry ice, then take over my role as mother and comforter and disciplinarian and supporter and teacher and nose-blower and tear-wiper and and and and and...?

And if a tree falls in the forest, will a toddler who only napped for 45 minutes today express any notion of level-headedness or rationality when there's a blanket touching her arm (the nerve) or when her sippy cup isn't placed precisely in the south-west corner of her crib? NO. The answer is no. So if another tree falls in the forest, ....no. I just don't care. It turns out that today I'm inevitably going to err on the side of extremely and overtly irrational in my response. I'll issue a formal apology later. But for now, I'm stewing and decompressing. Because I'm lucky enough to have a husband who throws me out the front door, throw a handful of cash at me, and tells me to take the laptop and sit at Caribou Coffee while he insists that I don't dare walk back in the door a minute before dinner at 6:30.

Okay. Deep breaths.

I'm still a post-miscarriage pile of crap. Did you get that notion? I'm not writing frequently enough, I'm not nurturing my heart or my soul enough, and I've essentially turned into a sedentary lump that wafts between feeling like a firefly trapped in a mason jar, and like ...like a sedentary lump.

And how dare I yell and stew and swear and frown and stomp and whimper when I share my home and my life with this person?

I blew the dust off my camera the other day and took pictures of this heart-stoppingly beautiful human being; of this little person who nuzzles into my neck and tells me of her own accord that she loves me "so muts" and who laughs and dares me to tickle her armpits and who eats her weight in yogurt as though it's going extinct tomorrow and who dances with fervor to Sia's Chandelier and Toto's Rosanna and pretty much anything by Justin Timberlake.

Being a parent is an overwhelmingly wild ride. Raising a child demands of us every fiber of energy we possess, and then squeezes us harder at exactly the moment that we start to relent. It calls us to exercise superhuman levels of patience and humility, and to show unending grace even at our very weary worst, and somehow - somehow - raises us up all the while to do every one of these things with great and tireless love.

Even when we need to put our boots and coats on and lie down in the street and roll ourselves along down the road and drag our bodies by our cold and determined fingers to the nearest refuge / coffee shop for a series of long, deep breaths.

Honesty is always the best policy

I know that generally speaking, silence is a bad thing when there's a toddler around. That is certainly no exception in this household. But as kids grow up, they're apt to avert punishment if they're doing something they know is wrong, usually by lying, skirting around the issue, or bending the story.

With Margot, though, I feel as though I'm stuck in this magically hilarious blip in time where yes, silence usually means she's up to no good, but she knows nothing yet about deceit - and to boot, she loves to talk.

So this morning, while I was toiling away at putting plastic up over our windows to keep the near-freezing outdoor temperatures from creeping into our house, there came a point where I realized I was too absorbed in what I was doing, and that Margot had disappeared. She'd been keeping me company up until that point, doing some doodling in Daryl's bedside notepad, using a little photograph as a telephone on which to call her Nana for a chat, trying on a pair of Daryl's underwear, sitting on her potty while perusing a copy of National Geographic ...that sort of thing... but then suddenly she was gone. I wasn't overly worried, as there were only so many things she could've been doing, but nonetheless I hollered out, "Margot? What are you doing?"

And thanks to this little blip we're living in wherein her great love for narrating everything she sees and does overrides any inclination to sidestep the issue at hand, she replied, "I'm eating lotion!"

And sure enough, I found her in her room, graciously returning the Aveeno bottle, little slobbery dispenser and all, back to its place on her change table.

Why, thank you so much for your honesty!

Chaos and wild greatness

Sometimes I forget to eat and sometimes a load of laundry takes three days to process and usually I'm suppressing cuss words while I'm cleaning up messes and generally speaking I'm getting really good at putting a jacket on a moving subject and tying shoes onto kicky feet and in the last 12 months I've swept the floor probably more times than all the other times in my life combined.

The things that come out of my mouth most often are, "please stop throwing food on the floor" and "how do you ask?" and "what did I just tell you?" and "do not touch the computer" and "you sit on your bum if you're going to be in that chair" and "put the mustard back in the fridge" and countless other new me-isms but nothing do I tell my girl more often than, "I love you" and "I love you" and "I love you."

The days are long and the nights are just not long enough and the months and the weeks pass by at varying rates of speed but all of it, as it turns out, is just exactly my definition of perfect.

Today sucks and I am complaining.

As I write this, there's a little storm cloud hovering above my head; I'm sitting on a chair in my dining room gorging on chocolate peanut butter ice cream and effectively nursing a throbbing wound in a self-serving pity party. There's no question whatsoever as to whether I'm being dramatic, here - I am - but I'm on Day Four (going on Day Five) of single-parenting while Daryl's demanding work schedule requires him to spend nearly all waking hours away from home and the only time we're spending together are those quiet hours where we're fast asleep with drool running down our cheeks. Either that or we're conversing for fifteen seconds over which one of us should be on Margot duty since she's just woken up and is calling out for someone to hold her, and I make a point of taking every chance I get to lie in bed while someone else takes care of her.

But I digress. The amount of whining and crying and screaming I've weathered from one tiny human who stands, like, two feet tall has been far more than I can handle today. She was being a royal turd at home all morning, so I decided we needed to get out of the house so that she could be a royal turd somewhere else for a little while. I don't know whether she's working on a new tooth or going through a developmental leap or whether she's tired or gassy or what her deal is - and might I take this opportunity to implore the good Lord as to why he didn't equip babies and toddlers with some sort of adequate signage? - but at any rate, we were fresh out of Chill Pills in this house, so we went out.

And it was worth our while! I have to confess something, actually. It's something I feel weird saying, because this is entirely out of character for me, but I'm saying it anyhow: I went shopping. I bought clothes. Now for those of you who know me well, I absolutely loathe shopping. I can't stand it. My eyes glaze over when I stare at racks upon racks of clothing and over my dead body am I up for trying any of it on. Which is why Daryl, my husband, and Ashley, my middle little sister, are my saving graces and my personal shoppers - once every year or so, one or both of them has the opportunity to drag me through a few stores, grab stuff off the rack, and go, "Here. Try this on." And I obey, I fall in love with a few basics (I mean, serious basics. My wardrobe consists of jeans, t-shirts, tank tops and hoodies. I don't do "nice" well.), and we move on. Then I wear those pieces until they're full of rips and holes, and we start again.

So today I mysteriously for some reason took myself shopping at Target. We had just been there yesterday, as it happens (uh... I go there a lot), and I had walked past some really great stuff and I remembered how much I like Target's clothing. I usually buy all my clothes at H&M or American Eagle or Joe Fresh (if I'm lucky to be back in Canada!), so Target is never really on my radar. But today, because I was so at my limit and all my patience had dripped out my ears a few days ago, I went, and I tried on, and I bought. Only three things, I should say, so for me that's going crazy but probably not for you, but I felt better! Imagine that! I understood for the first time that feeling that people get when they need to shop out their frustrations.

Today just sucks, though. I swear I'm going to work on my attitude as soon as I'm finished writing this post, but I'm just so tired. Yesterday was a remarkably hot day considering how relatively mild this summer has been, and for some reason I thought Margot's nap time would be the perfect time to mow all the grass on our property. It took an hour, and by the end I was drenched in sweat, and I got a blister on the back of each of my heels and one on my hand, and today all my muscles hurt. And I'm tired and there's still laundry to do and dishes to wash and junk to put away and vacuuming to do and I think I've already swept the floors in this house 14 times today but I'm still stepping on crumbs and dirt and why isn't sock & slipper season here yet and I know that this is a run-on sentence and that it's just gratuitous complaining but it's my blog and I can complain about stupid stuff if I want to, right?

But why do toddlers have to be so hard? I mean, really - WHY do they have to be SO HARD? I should try keeping a tally of the number of times in a day I repeat myself saying, "Margot, don't touch that." "Margot, what did I tell you? Don't touch." "Miss Margot James. I have asked you nicely. You know that's a no-no. Do not touch that!" Then inevitably, "MARGOT. DON'T. TOUCH." And my voice comes out of my mouth sounding like Zuul's (please tell me you've seen Ghostbusters and you know what I'm talking about here).

Parenting involves so much push and pull and there are days where every limb is being stretched in a different direction and today just happens to be one of those days where the demands of motherhood and marriage and keeping a home from accidentally imploding became so great that I sent Daryl a text so long that it probably took him an hour and a half to read in full, in which I said something at least once about wanting to kill everyone I know. (I did say I was feeling dramatic today, didn't I?) I think I need a hot bath and a bottle of wine with a bendy straw.

Image source: Google Images

In case you're feeling whisked away by the current.

When will we stop comparing our children to others, or measuring them up against something we were told or something we read online? I know it's nearly impossible to disregard it when your child seems to be falling behind the pack; if they're all gums while your friends' kids have teeth, or when their first birthday has passed and they haven't taken a single step yet, or when they should be saying 20 words and they're only saying three with any certainty whatsoever. It's hard not to feel less than, or as though you must not be doing something right - that maybe you're not investing enough time, maybe you're letting them watch too much TV just so that you can make dinner or unload the dishwasher or take two weeks' worth of trash to the end of the driveway - but it needs to be said that you are good enough. You are more than enough, in fact. You as a parent offer your children everything they need, and I guarantee they do not care whether you're still in your pyjamas at 4 o'clock or that the fridge needs to be cleaned out before some of those tupperware containers grow fangs and bite you. 

I just don't think we as parents are apt to give ourselves quite enough credit; or to remember that our babies are developing at their own rate, regardless of what skills come before others. Their brains are constantly working, growing and changing; and I know I'm one of many to sit there and pore over what might possibly be coming next, because Margot wasn't rolling on time, sitting up, or walking before any of the other babies her age. 

The thing is, though, it's imperative that we not get wrapped up in what we think our kids should be doing while we worry over all the things that they're not doing. Remember what a miracle your child is - and how fascinating it is to watch them grow and develop, regardless of what's happening with other kids their age. Remember that you're floating in a magic learning bubble right alongside them. And remember that at your most exasperated, when your baby or your toddler has been acting at their absolute worst, not sleeping, not listening, and throwing fits left and right, it's not unlikely that their brains are going through a major developmental leap. Being a baby is HARD, am I right?! Give that kid some slack.

I don't think any of us are alone in admitting that when a point in time passes by and a particular milestone hasn't been hit, we're suddenly investing all our power into willing our children to hit another stage of development via telekinesis. It so happens that my daughter didn't take her first unassisted steps until she was 16 months old - but I knew why: she was busy mastering language. I'm not exaggerating when I say she was able to count to 10 in English and French before she was walking. And yet... within the past few weeks alone I've witnessed her stick a thermometer into a tower fan (and walk around with its tiny battery in her mouth, unbeknownst to me until she spat it out), toss her shoes in the garbage, because "garbage!", and eat a crayon while saying, "Mmmmm! Yum!" She's a toddler. She doesn't listen, she throws tantrums, she plays with the cat food when I'm not looking, and last night she pooped in the tub. And it's all okay. I'm okay, she's okay.

Your baby is not my baby, and my baby is not somebody else's baby. Trust yourself and your instincts, and remember that that sweet little baby of yours is developing at his or her own rate, and you need not feel intimidated by what's going on outside of your bubble. Especially if you're busy cleaning up poop from inside it. I know all about it. 

My apologies to the departed

This past weekend we took a whirlwind trip to the southwestern corner of the Minnesota to attend Daryl's grandma's funeral. It was a bittersweet weekend, but we filled it with family and parks and puppies.

puppy!

The service itself was a lovely tribute to Grandma Olive, and the church was inundated with her family and beloved friends. I didn't spend a whole lot of time sitting down listening to any of what was being said, though, since I was on toddler duty. And overall it was fairly unremarkable, up until we drove to the cemetery for the interment and Margot pulled an almighty stunt. She snuck off a few feet away from where we were all standing, leaned down on all fours hovering over somebody's gravestone, and spat out a mouthful of chewed-up banana onto it. Daryl and I both noticed it, and were horrified, albeit we couldn't stop laughing. Of course we scolded her, stifling our laughs, and then inadvertently had to scold her again when not ten minutes later she wandered back to the same gravestone and found a little bit of leftover banana on it and smeared it all over the place. Insert absolutely mortified emoji here.

We spent one night in a hotel, which I can effectively say was a nightmare consisting of sharing a bed with a toddler with a horrible cough and an inability to lay in the same position for longer than 60 seconds. She screamed and cried when we tried putting her down in her pack 'n play, so after an hour we caved and brought her to bed with us; and nary did I get a wink of sleep thanks to the non-stop jabs of her knees, elbows, feet, hands, and little bum flying around everywhere. I don't for the life of me know how people bed-share with their kids. I was up all night.

No matter, though, because on the drive home she went from this to this in about three seconds flat and she stole my heart with how adorable she is and suddenly it didn't matter that I hadn't gotten a wink of sleep the night before. 

No I'm just kidding. It sucked. She's cute, but nobody's THAT cute.

In case you forgot that you're hard to live with, too.

I think we can all acknowledge the number of times in the course of any given day that we fantasize about dropping our kids off at a yard sale and putting a lowball price tag on their foreheads, can't we? There seems to be a steady stream of events that take place throughout the day that inevitably causes us to contemplate whether pulling out our eyelashes one by one would be equally or less painful than trying to negotiate with a toddler. 

But have you ever thought about how those toddlers feel about us? How hard it is to live with the heavy-handed, fun-suckers that we are? Parents are the worst. We learn this somewhere in the early stages of toddlerhood, and this concept usually stays with us until right around the time we move out, and realize that ramen noodles are only delicious so many times in a row (two times max), and how on earth do you get wine stains out of your roommate's top, and oh by the way can I borrow $20? Thanks mom. I couldn't find any change in your jacket pockets otherwise I wouldn't have had to come to you like this. 

So until that magical day when your children realize what a doting parent you've always been, and thanks you for wiping countless boogers from their noses WITH YOUR BARE HANDS, it's important to remember that that love is a process. And that many a day will pass when your toddler will want to flush you down the toilet because you didn't think it was appropriate to allow them to stick their finger up the dog's butt. 

Without further ado, I present to you a small, non-comprehensive list of the things that Margot has hated me for over the last week or so. 

1. Telling her that under no circumstances does the power cord to my computer go in her mouth. It is not a chew-toy, nor is she a dog, nor would this be appropriate even if she was.

2. Asking her to kindly refrain from licking the shopping cart handle

3. Having the audacity to suggest she do a little drawing on the Magna Doodle 

4.  Reminding her that until she has a working knowledge of how a record player works, she is effectively banned from turning one on by herself

5. Taking the kitty litter scoop out of her hand and reminding her sternly that cat poop is not to be played with

6. Insisting that blueberries are for eating; not for squishing between your thumb and forefinger and throwing on the floor

7. Reprimanding her for using the cat's water dish as a hand-washing station

8. Reiterating that if I say that playing with the dustpan is yuck, that doesn't mean rub your hands all over it

9. Not allowing her to eat a live bumble bee

10. The couch is too slippery to climb onto. Yeah. Like that's my fault.