Category Archives: Daughters

Breaking Lady Wind

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I started taking my daughter to a music class for kids. We sing songs and dance around like fools. It’s fun especially when my daughter takes a break from trying to eat the instruments and busts out in a swaying dance. Makes the wiggling around like a twit completely worth it.

The class gets a CD with an array of children’s songs. There are a few I can’t handle listening to for more than three seconds but most of the other ones are fine. There’s one song in particular that makes me howl with laughter. It’s called My Lady Wind. You can run with it as far as you’d like. But it brings one thing to my mind — farting: an Olympic event in our household. Naturally my hubby holds the gold medal, my daughter the silver, and myself the bronze for ones that manage to sneak out in my sleep.

As I’ve mentioned before when I was growing up, my father thought it was impolite to say fart so he made us say, “Did you pass gas?” which sounds ridiculous, but in his presence we must have followed this rule. With my daughter I always use the word toot. But now that I know of Lady Wind I’m starting anew.

Although this name also brings to mind another word that my father would have forbidden in our house: starts with Q and rhymes with leaf. But I’m not going to refer to Lady Wind as that, it’s going to mean fart. I’ll simply ask my daughter, “Honey, did you break lady wind? Say excuse me.” Or “We only break lady wind in private, not on Daddy’s head.” But really I shouldn’t say anything — I should just let it be. I don’t want her growing up thinking she can’t be comfortable. Besides her Daddy says it’s a natural function so it’s not like he’s going to reprimand her for blowing her butt trumpet…he’ll probably high-five her.

Look Away!

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The newest game with our daughter is we lift her shirt, press her belly button, and say “Boop!” Of course she thinks it’s hilarious and loves to return the favor lifting up Mama or Daddy’s shirt and jabbing our navels with her tiny little finger. I’m awaiting the day when we’re out in public and she raises my shirt to expose my less-than-flattering midsection to the world. I know it’s coming.

Even when we’re in the comfort of our own home, with no prying eyes I still have the same reaction to this intrusion of privacy. It’s not really an intrusion though. She’s my flesh and blood. She can punch me in the crotch, grab my boob, and put her head on my bum and I wouldn’t flinch. Well maybe I’d flinch, but it wouldn’t be weird. Just like it’s not weird that I have to slather her bum with paste five times a day and clean poo from her crotch biscuits.

I can’t help my reaction though. When she lifts up my shirt, I squeal and try to stop her. Mostly it’s because her hands are cold on my stomach, but the real reason is because I’ve never been good at exposing myself — unlike her father who proudly shows off any chance he gets (just like a man).

I’ve never taken to nudity. If given the chance I’d move to Alaska just so I could be bundled up year round. But I don’t want this for my daughter. I want her to be comfortable in her skin, at every age. I’ve told myself that I need to get over this hang-up so she doesn’t end up with it as well. But it’s not like I can turn back the prudish hands of time…especially when this body has been ravaged by pregnancy, too many slices of pizza, and not enough gym-time.

Being able to get dressed in front of my daughter should be no big deal. I shouldn’t hide my body from her. She should know that this is what a real woman looks like, and that those scrawny broads in magazines are 100% airbrushed. I hope I can do this for her later on. Right now it’s not that big of a deal because she’s not yet aware. But down the road when she’s capable of asking questions I hope I don’t hide in the bathroom or turn away from her. I will gladly share her pale, saggy, stubbly future with her.

Poor poor child.

Scarred For Life

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The Soup is one of my favorite shows especially now that I’m a mom and have zero time for TV. It takes all the best clips from the worst TV shows and bundles them all together for your viewing pleasure. That way you don’t have to waste all of your time figuring out which Teen Mom most recently went to jail or what the Kardashian sisters are squabbling about. They bring it all to you in one concise hilarious half-hour. And that Joel McHale’s not too shabby either…what can I say I’m a sucker for a funny guy.

Can anyone say inappropriate?

We’ve all heard of Toddlers & Tiaras, but if you haven’t, consider yourself lucky. It’s a horrifying show that makes me want to bleach my eyeballs after I’ve seen it. It’s a train wreck that leaves you feeling ashamed and outraged. But it’s the parents of these young girls who should be ashamed. Any mom who dresses her daughter like a prostitute, fictional or not, (see photo) must be high!

These stage moms are on a different level. I know we’re all proud of our little mini-me’s and want to show them off, but c’mon when your daughter is wearing booty shorts and shaking her non-existent ass on stage in front of a table of judges, there’s something seriously wrong with you. Don’t you even worry about the molester groupies who are probably attending every one of these pageants? Sitting in the back of the room with their greasy comb overs and their hands in their pockets?

The clip on The Soup showed a girl no older than four dressed in a bathing suit showcasing her best stripper moves all for what? A plastic crown and $100? It’s appalling. I wouldn’t want my daughter dressing and dancing like that if she were twenty let alone four. Yet her Momma was probably happy as a clam, clapping and dancing in step with her daughter as if she was the one to win that itchy plastic sash.

I used to like watching the Miss America pageants when I was young. Something about those glittery dresses and big hair. Nowadays I’ll be happy if my daughter doesn’t even know what a pageant is. The only contests she’s going to enter will be spelling bees and science fairs. No spray-tanning, fake teeth, or gyrating required.

Now What?

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Here we are. One year later. I’m no longer a new mom with a new baby. (I need to change my description over there on the side.) Now I’m just a mom with a 1 year old.

We survived her first birthday. It was a great celebration and I’m proud to say that I didn’t need that tranquilizer gun after all. I made it through the party without shedding a single tear. Maybe it’s because our whole family was cooped up inside our house due to inclement weather and it was too packed and loud to even think straight or become emotional.

It was a great party nonetheless. She smeared a beard of hot pink frosting all over her face and even managed to use some as eyeshadow before I called it quits and hosed her off. Of course she was beyond exhausted from not having a normal nap that morning. Naturally. She must have known she’d be called on to perform and didn’t want me to forget who exactly was in charge.

So now I’m left wondering where to go from here. It’s not like I have it all figured out — far from that — but I’m entering a new parenting phase and I hadn’t given it much thought yet. I guess that’s my problem though. If I think about all of this, I psych myself out and question everything I do or get overwhelmed thinking about her getting her license and talking to boys. I need to just go with the flow and look back in seventeen years and wonder how I survived it all.

It feels like I’m graduating out of the title of new mummy and settling in to being just Mom or Mum. (Even though I refer to myself as neither to her.) I wonder if I’ll feel like this with each passing year, getting a little more used to being a parent with each birthday. Or maybe I’ll always be surprised that I’m the boss calling the shots…at least until we reach those Terrible Twos. Aaagh.

No Longer a Baby

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Dear E,

Today was your first birthday! I don’t know how it happened because I swear the last thing I remember was…what was the last thing I remember? Who knows! The past twelve months have been a complete blur. But a blur of love, countless hours of laughter, and too much happiness.

You’re officially a big girl now. And you look the part. You’ve lost your baby face and you’re sprouting more hair (even though you barely have enough for a bow — sorry you get that from me). You’re so close to taking those first steps into toddler territory. You’ve taken a couple half steps here and there which is totally exhilarating, but you’re just not ready yet. And that’s fine. No need to rush everything!

To celebrate your first year on Earth, Daddy played hookey from work and we took you to the zoo. It was so much fun. You go absolutely wild over the animals. We fed a giraffe and although you didn’t get to pet it, you were thrilled to be so close to it. As we were driving home and you were in the backseat passed out and mouth-breathing, I had this feeling that I didn’t do enough for your birthday. I had this urge that I needed to do something really spectacular like set off fireworks or throw a parade, but then Daddy reminded me that you weren’t even aware that it was your birthday and I was doing a great job. I realized he was right and thought that spending the day together making memories is something that will last a lot longer than fancy fireworks.

After the zoo, we came home and gave you a cupcake with pink sprinkles and homemade frosting. You stuffed it right in your mouth like we knew you would. You are the world’s best eater and this was your first real taste of something sweet. We’re sure we’ve ruined you and you will demand cupcakes for every meal. But good luck with that. You’ll just have to watch us enjoy them while you nibble on veggies. Ha-Ha!

The dogs opened your presents for you and played with your toys more than you did. You were perfectly happy playing with the paper and cardboard from the boxes. So predictable. Now you’re sound asleep dreaming of cupcakes and giraffes and already working on getting older.

I hope you had the best 1st birthday imaginable because you’ve made my life happy beyond comprehension! I love you oodles!

Happy 12 months my love.

Level 5 Clinger

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Of course I’m not complaining that my daughter actually wants to spend every waking minute attached to my hip…soon she’ll be alerted to my momness and want nothing to do with me. But for now she’s a Level 5 Clinger. A term usually reserved for crazy, obsessive hose beasts who permanently attach themselves to their man like a barnacle on a boat. However, I’m using this term lovingly for my little girl who clings to me like a baby squirrel monkey on its mother’s back.

Separation anxiety is rearing its nasty head. There are times when I can’t even walk away from her for 5 seconds to put something in the trash without a screaming, teary meltdown. Mind you, I’m still within eyesight, talking to her the whole time so there’s no excuse for her end-of-the-world reaction. It’s not like I’ve left her starving, wearing nothing but a diaper out in the freezing cold snow. Now that would warrant such a meltdown.

Maybe it’s a bad thing I’m with her so much? Every waking minute we’re together and it’s been that way from day one. I’ve left her with grandparents, even a couple overnight watches, but the majority of the time it’s just the two of us. Daddy’s at work all day so it’s only natural there are times she wants my arms instead of his (which always makes me feel guilty but slightly smug — what can I say we’re both very competitive). Plus, what parent doesn’t get a bit of satisfaction when they’re greeted with tiny outstretched arms?

I worry about the future. What if she’s still a Clinger when she gets older and starts school? I doubt her teachers will let me sit in the back of the classroom and hold her while she learns her times tables or let me hold her hand while she gives a report on the Native Americans.

Deep down I know it’s not bad that we spend so much time together (it’s a great thing I’m lucky to have) and I know she won’t be a Clinger her whole life. Just when I want her to cling a little tighter she’ll be spreading her wings, ready to leave me in the dust..unless I get those wings clipped!

T- minus 1 Week

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I have exactly one week left until my daughter turns one…let the crying ensue.

It seems so surreal. For the longest time it was strange to think I’d actually given birth, became a mom, and had a daughter of my own. (Some days it still feels surreal!) And now I have to wrap my head around the concept that she’s not really a baby anymore but on her way to becoming a toddler. Waah, it’s not fair.

My friends try to tell me that it’s an exciting time, not a sad time. But it is sad. Yes, I love all the new things she’s doing and ways she’s growing and changing, but I’ll never have my cuddly little baby back. Not to mention that she’ll be a teenager before I blink. I know I shouldn’t be complaining — I’ve had the opportunity to spend a lot more time with her than most moms get because they have real jobs in the real world, but I want more time. I look at pictures of her from a few months ago and I hardly remember her chubby cheeks and roly-poly body. The way she cooed or flailed her arms around as if they weren’t her own.

It’s such a weird thing to be a parent. One minute you’re laughing hysterically filled to the brim with joy and the next you’re bawling your eyes out for no apparent reason. Just your everyday schizo.

I’m going to try my hardest not to act like a complete nutcase on her birthday. I’m excited for the huge milestone, but I might need to be shot in the ass with a tranquilizer dart especially once the singing starts.

Twenty-Twelve

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It seems as if my resolution was never to blog again, but alas, here I am typing away…finally.

For the record I don’t have a New Year’s resolution. When you don’t bother to celebrate the occasion, you don’t really give a crap about its traditions. Although I could say that I’ll stop cursing, eating junk food, and complaining but that would last a whopping ten seconds. So I’ll spare us all the drama.

It doesn’t feel like the new year has started, probably because I didn’t actually do any celebrating or ringing in of 2012. The hubby and I were in bed by 10:00. We knew what would happen if we stayed up late…we’d want to jump off a cliff in the morning when our daughter didn’t get the memo to sleep in until 9. So we celebrated the east coast New Year’s and called it a night. Just one more reminder that we’re old now (not that we need any more).

We didn’t feel like unnecessarily torturing ourselves just to say that we welcomed the beginning of a new year with Ryan Seacrest and Justin Beiber. That’s not a good way to start any year.

I used to be a night owl, but the baby quickly cured me of that. When I was a youngin’, I was always one of the last to fall asleep at our slumber parties. You know what happened to the girl who fell asleep first — bra got put in the freezer. (Sorry S). I was never going to let that happen to me. It’s funny to think that we were wearing bras and still having sleepovers…

I’m completely happy to be in bed early now. In fact, the earlier the better.

When I was young, it felt like I was getting away with something by staying up late, watching movies, and gossiping till the wee hours. It’s that same feeling that’s got me putting on my pjs and climbing into bed before 9 o’clock rolls around. Never thought I’d live to see that day.

Merry Freakin’ Christmas

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Christmas came and went, and now my daughter has a cold. Talk about a Merry freakin’ Christmas. Luckily the snot didn’t start pouring till after we opened presents. I should have known she was going to get sick when things started out sorta rocky.

5 o’clock Christmas morning she started squawking in her crib, and I thought to myself, if we get up now there’s no way I’m making it through the rest of the day. But after getting her pacifier back in, she slept till 7. A Christmas miracle!

So of course she had to eat breakfast before we opened presents. Gifts can wait, but a rumbly tumbly can not. And by the time I fed her, my stomach was growling.

We were finally going to open presents when I caught a pungent whiff of poo. Off to the changing table we went (which is an ordeal in itself these days).

The magical time had finally come.

Our bellies were full, the tree was on, the video camera was in place, we’d pulled our stockings from the mantle..and sniff sniff. I still smelled poo. I gave the dogs a dirty look thinking one of them flung a dingleberry on the rug. But then I literally put my finger in it. It was on the foot of her pajamas.

Back to the changing table we went.

Finally, after a clean, poop-free set of jammies was buttoned up and I’d throughly washed my hands, did we open our gifts.

Drumroll…

the baby didn’t care one bit.

We were warned this would happen. That she’d be more interested in playing with the boxes than her actual toys. I so badly wanted her to rip into one of the presents and give a big goofy grin that said she loved it and us even more for getting it for her. But I know those days will be here before I know it. Someday soon she’ll be delighting in the idea that Santa is so rich that he can leave $3 for everyone just as I was back in the day. But with inflation, Santa will have to pony up 10 bucks! Sorry dude.

At the end of it all, we had a great first Christmas as our own little family unit. I was overjoyed to share the holiday with our little girl — who is the best gift this Mummy could ever ask for.

Is It Just Me?

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No one ever told me that being a mom is a daily rollercoaster of emotions. There are highs and lows and moments when I feel like screaming at the top of my lungs and also moments when the ride is over and I want to go again.

I guess what I’m looking for is someone to confirm that it’s totally normal to want to bang your head against the wall because the baby is incessantly whining from the confines of her high chair because she feels she’s ready to feed herself when really if she gets the correct end of the spoon in her mouth it’s only by coincidence. (She’s got to learn sometime though, right?) At the end of the meal Mummy has an even bigger mess to clean up because someone insisted she knew how to eat oatmeal, but whatever to keep her from making that god-awful noise for 45 minutes. Or when she won’t stay still long enough for me to get a clean diaper on her. She flips over before I even have the old one off. It’s like wrestling a badger.

But then there are moments when she thinks me tickling her neck is the funniest thing in the world. She belly laughs like an old fat man before squealing with delight. I feel the rush and adrenaline as the coaster zooms down the hill, my stomach rising into my throat before shooting back down to my toes. It’s the best feeling in the world. I want to stay in that moment all day, but it’s over just as quickly as it started and I have to get back in line again. Trudging my way to the front, waiting through some more whining and crying before I get to that elusive moment of sheer joy.

It’s definitely all worth it.