The Ripple Effect

We missed mother-daughter dance class the previous week. Coach taught the group more steps when we were gone so when class started daughter and I were lost.

"Just do what you know," said Coach, in an attempt to get us up to speed. Little did she know I did do what I know and damn I rocked it.

We're dancin'. 

The music is always too fast. We're cruising through the parts we do know and then we arrive at the point of the unknown. Other (normal) moms finish their part when the music stops. Not me. No. I am spinning in place thinking I've got this. During the spin I let one rip. Like full-on ripping denim sounding fart. It's something I know and I'm good at. My body's good at it.

At this point the moms are in a straight line directly to my right. The daughters are in a straight line to my left. My audible and I are the base of this V-shaped disaster with darling daughter, the understanding child of mine, right next to me, hiding her face in her hands. I see a physical ripple of mom heads turning to each other with "did she just do that?" "was that a fart?" "did that just happen?" working its way to the right with Coach at the end. She starts laughing. The daughters, now clearly understanding what happened, are screaming and pretending it stinks.

So I did what anyone should do in this situation. I yell out, "Okay! Now that we have that out of the way, can we learn the next move?!"

The way I see it you should hit any natural disaster head on.

Mother-Daughter Dance, Year Three, Day Three

Everyone who has survived two seasons of mother-daughter dance raise your hand if you're able.


I'll wait.

That's right. Me. I did. My daughter did.

We started Season Three with a bang and by bang I mean she's already rolling her eyes at me, I've already bounced her entire body to the floor off my boobs and I've got a new crowd of moms wondering what. the. hell. is wrong with me. I seriously look like the dancing overbite in Harry & Sally.


We've already blown through one coach...so far. I mean, it's the fourth night tonight, why not? The room is 87 degrees, we have daughters ranging in age from 4 to I think 25 (isn't there a cap?) and mothers of varying abilities to legally wear yoga pants. A couple moms are seasoned dancers which is bad news for the rest of us since doing the splits is still something I will never strive to accomplish.

The assistant coach has figured out my theme song to life is "Shake it Off" and thus plays it on repeat. Unable to help myself, I break into a geeky attempt at shaking mine off while a couple moms whoop at my fist pumps and darling daughter averts her eyes. She has a friend who has since joined her in misery and is also truly embarrassed by my lacking sense of rhythm. But I don't care. I'm like Harry above. Just keep dancing overbite.

Last week we had to jump with the end goal being threefold: 1) kick your heel into your butt, 2) stay in beat (5-6-7-8!) and 3) for heavens sake don't fall down. When I fall down I lose track of where I am which then puts daughter in a tizzy which causes us to giggle which ends with me crossing my legs so I don't leave a puddle.

Coach has also tasked us with practicing our sassy walk. I, of course, have not. Tonight's practice will include more "MOTHER" screams from my partner. It's a good thing "Shake it Off" is played so loudly so no one can hear my expletives.

Mother-Daughter Dance Class, Day 4 - The Boob Bump

I'm improving. Coach says.

Actually, no, it's just that daughter is learning to get out of the way. I only stepped on her teeny little pinky toe once last night. She said it didn't hurt...

That other mom, the one in front of me...she can sway her hips when we do that step-turn-pivot-something. When I do it I feel like something straight out of "Napoleon Dynamite."

We added some parts last night, some parts that require me to 1) hold a beat; 2) do something with my arms; and 3) walk closer to daughter by the time we get back to "1". We have mirrors, it's not like I'm not forced to watch my flailing. Yet still on "5-6-7-8" I marched right over to her, arms opposite everyone else in the room, bumped her with my boobs and she went flying.

I got the giggles and we lost count. I honestly don't know if she hit the deck because I was doubled over laughing too hard and hoping I didn't also let one rip. Now THAT would be awkward.

Time Capsule

Offspring #1 has an end-of-year project that involves a considerable amount of work for mom. Offspring #1 has no interest in this type of thing - or anything that doesn't involve Legos, paper airplanes, Legos, or well frankly... Legos. Guess who gets to figure out what to fill a metal can with for some odd years later when graduation hits?

I'm thinking about putting some Legos in it. Will he notice those missing pieces or do I have to go buy a small set to stick in there (you know the ones : they're placed at eye-level in the checkout lane so each and every time you run in for milk, eggs, and carrots the kid asks if he can have one)?

In addition to the ten things Son (aka Mom) must pick out for this metal can, I was requested to write a letter to Son from Mom for when he graduates. I devoted time during this busy week to write a letter and here I am writing a blog about it instead.

And another thing. Where do I find a metal can big enough to stick all this stuff in? Does it need to be airtight? Will it be buried so bugs will eat my letter? Do I take a preemptive strike and have Son get a tetanus shot prior to graduation? Does this mean I need to drink cheap coffee for a while?

All these things a mother worries about.

Competition

Growing up my brother and I were taught the tips and tricks of competitiveness. After all, it was a major component of our genetics we should learn how to work with it instead of against it. Basically it worked. I couldn't be anywhere but on top.


As I entered my thirties I realized that competitiveness had waned quite a bit. Was it becoming a parent that changed this in me? Was it the lack of time to be as intensively physically active as I was in my high school and college years?


Well tonight things changed and frankly it startled me a little. My son, in his 8.75 years, had his first baseball scrimmage. There he was, skinny kid with my build and his daddy's fielding abilities, watching the crowd as a grounder sped past him. I think I saw three balls caught the whole scrimmage. But hey! This is kid ball, most of them are novices. Great night for a ball game.

I started hollering. At 7 and 8 year olds. Who is that woman on her feet bellering for the gray team to round third? And why is she telling the gold team his foot pulled off the base? Did she just tell that batter where to hit the ball?

I parked my rear back on the bleachers and looked at my husband to see if what I thought just happened actually did happen. I kept my mouth shut the rest of the game but it dawned on me that in the next few years I'll be sitting in the bleachers quite a bit and I better learn to bite my tongue. It's not my game anymore.

But I bet I would be a killer third-base coach...

The Bully

My son was bullied after school one day this week. He walks to a neighbor's house after school and she saw it happen. So did another parent. The kid was confronted right away, scolded, and everyone went on their merry way. Both adults who saw it happen talked to Buddy to make sure he was okay. He said he was.

When I finally got to see him, he had forgotten about the incident. But we did talk about it for a long time and in the end, I knew he did the right thing (he yelled and yelled and yelled until he got an adult's attention). I know he's not scarred by the whole affair. He had his heros that day.

But his hero wasn't me. The child bullied was my own. I couldn't protect him from one of the things I fear most for him. I wasn't in control of his innocence and compassion. If this kid had asked nicely if he could please have Buddy's lunch money, and Buddy would have had anything on him, Buddy would have given it to him. His frustration was that the kid kept yelling to hand it over and not hearing Buddy say he didn't have anything to offer.

Two things: 1) Teach your children what to do if they get bullied. It's a scary moment when a bigger kid comes at yours, but please make sure they know what to do, who to tell, and when to deal with it. 2) If you have a child who has a history of picking on other kids, please make it stop.
Please.
Make it stop.

Mom, You Didn't Tell Me

Dear Mom

You didn't tell me a few things about being a parent that I've had to learn as I've grown as a parent.

I could still use a little assistance on how to make first-initial shaped pancakes. Actually, while we're at it, I could use a lot of help learning how to make that first pancake on the griddle edible. I usually throw it away. Did you know kids don't have patience for a sacrificial pancake?

While we're on the topic of staple kid food, I could have used a tutorial on making rice, too. Seems I can't prepare two infinitely simple foods.

You never shared that I would be perfectly comfortable walking around at work with sludge on my shoulder. Or that vomit wouldn't bother me - including fresh vomit contained in my fully-functioning purse while standing in line at the pharmacy waiting with 23 other people who also witnessed my moment of panic.

I didn't know I would be able to easily and legally burn through medical flex dollars on Barbie and SpongeBob BandAids. I also didn't know a BandAid fixes anything. I learned that BandAids are frequently used for non-existent injuries to please a screaming, crying, overreacting toddler.

Did you know an adult at an office gets a lot of comments on Barbie BandAids on her finger?

You always fed me bananas on peanut butter sandwiches. Kids don't like banana-peanut butter sandwiches. Did you make that up?

I don't believe you ever fully extrapolated exactly what a "stool sample" entailed.

How do I answer the question of where babies come from? At what age do they ask what actually happens in the hospital? What did I believe when you told me?

When my four-year-old child informs me, "Mommy, life isn't always fair," do I laugh at the maturity of that statement coming from someone wearing a plastic tiara, a four-foot wide tutu, and puddle jumping boots or do I cry because she's right?


At what age do I step in and control the wardrobe selections? And then what age do I have to stop again?


Come to think of it, I didn't get the memo on how the smell of a freshly-bathed and lotioned infant could render me completely useless until I had sufficient cuddle time.

And Mom, there are a few things I figured out after I became a parent that have helped me figure out what it really meant that you had eyes on the back of your head. I honestly didn't figure this out until my oldest child started getting into mischief.

Reflections are everywhere. I now know I can check things out in the reflection of the pan on the stove and see which offspring is climbing on the counter for another pickle.

I figured out how to sneak a peek without a child noticing, turn back around, then discipline with my back turned. This, Mom, is how you did it. This, Mom, is how I got in trouble stuffing food in Brother's mouth when I thought you were around the corner. (I hate meatloaf!)

I have learned to recognize the specific sound my older child makes when he's sighing and can tailor my question to whether he's frustrated and needs help or I think he can work through it. And I can tell which child is walking into the room based on her footsteps.

I can now anticipate a fight, someone getting hurt, and when something as simple as an unsharpened pencil can do damage to kitchen walls, the seemingly-safe clock way up on the wall and a potted plant. I can sense without hearing the water sloshing out of tub. I know a silent child in a room without toys is dangerous and should be addressed immediately.

When I was young I could not understand how you could do all this. Now I know and I consider this valuable information going forward. And I get how a chocolate fix is needed no matter what time of day.

Should I tell my kids these revelations? Nah. I think I'll let them figure it out, too. I'll continue this evil tradition.

P.S. Mom? I love you.

Questioning Authority: What Higher Power?

In my youth, I was quite healthy. I had more than my fair share of the common cold but nothing a small investment in Kleenex couldn’t contain. Never broke a bone, never needed stitches. I was so lucky. Must be good genes.

The dream was to have my good genes and my husbands healthy genes pass down to our children. I figured our kids would take an occasional trip to urgent care for an ear infection, a need for stitches on an elbow, and maybe strep a few times. That’s normal for kids, right?

How about 2 rounds of stitches in 3 weeks? How about a major non-life-threatening chronic disease diagnosed every 6 months for 6 years? How about one of those being moderate asthma? How about another being a severe allergy to fish? How about autism, reflux, ADHD, sensory processing disorder, language processing disorder, alarming weight loss, strabismus surgery, more medications than any one form has space for, and a broken foot from the pool (who breaks a foot in a pool?)? Are those all normal?

Lemme tell you something. Lemme tell you a few somethings, actually. I am not an expert by any means on these ailments but I come damn close. Just one of my beautiful children has had to deal with the entire list above.

Why.


Why?

Each time my child was diagnosed with something else I grew more and more angry at God for inflicting this much on one small child. Yes, I’ll admit I have had my fair share of “Why me?” moments and frankly I’m a mother, I’m allowed a few of those. But I’m beyond that.

How did God allow my body to create such havoc in my child’s? Why does God think this little being, this blue-eyed, compassionate, forgiving, teaching child should have to put up with all this garbage? It’s all garbage. None of it has defined him as a person. None of it created his compassion or his big blue eyes or his love for family.

Or was God or any god involved at all?

If God was watching over my child, wouldn’t things have been different? Didn’t he hear all my prayers? My cries to him? My silent chats with him? I had long, constant conversations with him for years and today as I write this…well. I don’t sense that he is with my child or has heard my cries. I don’t feel his presence anymore.

Does this make me a critic? A hypocrite? If he is here with me, where is a sign? I’ve asked for a sign and my child keeps getting more health issues.

So tell me. What am I missing? Am I missing anything? Was I speaking to him wrong? Not enough? Too much?

And does publicly blogging on this topic make others feel differently about me?

Mom's Health Comes Last

I've fought plantar fasciitis for almost three years already. Many times in the last 34 months I have considered how to clean up after me taking a hack saw to my ankles to get rid of the pain in my feet. Really, at certain times I've convinced myself the pain of whacking off both feet would be less than continuous, 24-hour pain.

Okay, to give myself some credit, I have been to foot doctors. I've been to three in fact. First foot doc I saw took x-rays, told me I didn't have bunions, then took a 3-week vacation before he told me what I can do to help my pain. NEXT.

Next foot doctor said he had no clue what was going on, recognized I had pain, then sent me to a neurologist to zap my legs because of a suspected nerve issue. The neurologist, while most likely utterly confused and deeply amused at his new calling, zapped both legs from knee down (a most unpleasant and annoying process I may add), and declared plantar fasciitis. NEXT.

So here's where that whole "mommy's issues get pushed to the back burner" thing comes up. I have a title to my ailment, two foot doctors and a neurologist who really don't want to see me again, and a deep frustration inside me that said, 'forget it. On with life. I don't have time for this.'

I have 2 young kids. One has special needs that has brought hours and hours of research, doctor visits, experiments with diet, medications, and therapies. One has an attitude. I love my kids and will do absolutely anything to get them what they need. Unfortunately, those needs and tests and doctors and research always took away any free time I had to find a new foot doctor. Oh well. I chose this. Deal with it...

Two years later, I had to stop all physical activity. Buying groceries for the week puts me on my rear for the rest of the evening since my feet hurt so bad I couldn't fathom the idea of walking anymore. I was a college athlete, a good one in fact. Me stop being active? My coaches wouldn't believe it if they saw me now.

A close coworker of mine always has beautiful words of wisdom and doesn't beat around the bush when we talk. She is genuine, sees beauty in everything, and has an outlook on life that wakes me up and makes me want to be better each and every day. She keeps telling me I can't put my health issues on the back burner for my kids, otherwise my health issues will take me away from being able to be there for my kids.

Why didn't I listen to her?

Today I'm contemplating when I should call my newest (and sympathetic and responsive and aggressive) foot doctor to schedule surgery. I let it go long enough that now he's gotta hack up my feet.

If you're reading this and wondering how a person gets plantar fasciitis, two words. Listen carefully. Are you paying attention? BAD SHOES. That's all it took for me. Day after day of wearing dress shoes that had no support. If there is anything you should take the time to research and spend a little more money on, it's your feet. When your feet hurt, your life hurts. Do yourself a favor and find good shoes.

These are the brands I've been told are good for plantar fasciitis:
NAOT
Birkenstock
Dansko
Hafflinger
Think!
Keen



My guess is my foot doc's hack saw will be a little more sanitary. I'll give him that benefit of the doubt.