Motherhood Uncensored

I Ate Pills

I admit to having a few anxiety issues. I imagine that at one point in time, they would have been medicatable, but I managed to laugh-cry, giggle, and obsess my way through most of life without any major breakdowns or attacks.

But the combination of raging hormones, having a kid, and free unlimited access to Google searches has driven me near the brink of insanity.

Yes. You know what I mean. Your kid coughs and rubs her eyeballs about 3 times in a row and you're rushing to Google to find out what the hell is wrong with her - only to realize that it could be anything from late stage AIDS to chronic asthma. Or just allergies. Or maybe NOTHING AT ALL.

And so. My anxiety levels are piqued. I'm a pinging ball of frazzle, just waiting to explode.

Like a few days ago when I was happily enjoy my morning tea and blogs. The daughter had moved from my zone to the huz's zone (you know, like zone defense - we call it "zone parenting"). However, he seems to forget her penchant for getting into things and low and behold when I found her, she had opened up my large make-up case. And next to her was a zip-loc bag of multi-vitamins.

I made no effort NOT to freak out. Sure. The bag was sealed tighter than Katie Holmes lips during labor but still. Oh shit. She could have opened them. And swallowed 5 large disgusting pink pills. And then reshut them with her perfect 2-year old finger dexterity.

And so I lost it.

"Did you see her with these pills?" I screamed. "Did she eat this pills?"

"Um. No honey. I don't think she did."

"Hello. She could DIE RIGHT NOW!"

So I asked her. "Quinlan, Did you eat these pills?"

"Uh-huh" she replies.

"WHAT???!!! How many did you eat?"

Points to her mouth. "1, 2, 3, 4, 5..." She continues to about 15 - her maxed out counting number of late.

"Are you sure you ate them, honey?"

"Uh-huh."

I frantically whip around the house in a flurry, trying to stop my husband from leaving for work wiht one hand while calling poison control with my other. Except my phone was still wet from its juice dive the day before, and it kept cutting out. She's dying right now I thought and I can't get my fucking free piece of shit phone to work. I'm going to hell. RIGHT NOW.

So, while my husband drives to work and is calling poison control, I run to Q. But before I can ask her anything she says:

"I ate pills, mama. I ate pills!"

What? No no no no.

That was it. And I started an in-depth police-like interrogation. "Did you eat daddy's mouthwash?"

"Uh-huh"

"How about daddy's foot scrubber?"

"Uh-huh"

"Okay. Now open this bag. NOW. OPEN IT!!!" She couldn't do it. So I did it and offered her the pills.
"EAT THIS. Mommy wants you to eat one NOW." She spit it out, barely able to place it on her tongue. "Close the bag. CLOSE IT!!!!" She tried valiantly, but could not get any type of seal.

And while you'd think after all that, plus the call from the huz that said she's fine unless she ate more than 10, I'd have full reassurance that she, in fact, did not eat the pills, I didn't.

Because all day long, she wouldn't stop chanting "I ate pills right der" (points to her mouth). And in my head, all I could hear was...

"I need pills. I need pills right der" (pointing to my mouth).

That Friend

We all have a friend like her.

She's sweeter than cherry pie, but would put her neck on the line to defend you. Even with three kids, she remembers your birthday with a card. She'll call you out of the blue just say to "hi."

She's extremely talented, but spends most of her time chasing after her children and cooking dinner for her husband. She lives a simple existence and has endured life's challenges. She's religious, but it doesn't bother you - because you understand why.

She doesn't have money to spare, but she'll give you the shirt off her back in a heartbeat. She never sounds frazzled or tired, even though she has every right to be.

Her laugh is contagious as is her energy and zest for life.

But for the love of all things sacred in this universe, if she sends you ONE MORE ridiculously long chain-spam email, you may be inclined to pull out your own eyeball.

Quinlan with Wall Background: Picture #247

So the birthday has come and gone. And aside from the 14 pictures of her opening presents and eating the icing off her cake, I have the same darn picture of my daughter - Quinlan and Wall. Granted, she's pretty darn cute, but I get the feeling that people are going to start thinking that I have only one wall in my house.

I know it would help if I had some type of camera belt holster that would allow me to grab shots of her doing fun stuff - like drawing on the walls, or sticking eggs up her nose. And really, those shots of her doing her "thing" (be it naughty or nice) are the best ones of her. She's in her element, she's laughing, smiling, and engaged. And she's beautiful.

But alas, I don't. And so all the shots that I take of her are BORING. Really. And now that she's at the age where she refuses to stand still for more than ONE nanosecond, it's more like "the back of Quinlan's head and LOTs of the wall." I can hear myself explain to hear when she goes through her pathetic photo album. "Yeah. No that's you dear. See. You can tell my that one hair I caught in the frame. See it? Yep. That's you honey."

So, thankfully I've befriended the lovely and talented Tracey of Picture This. And what luck? All month she is talking about Context - namely, take pictures of kids IN their element. And you know what? She's right. Also, Tracey's covering Composition as well. Check out these amazing shots my good friend took of her. Apparently she's pretty good at it as well...

And so. I'm going to give it a try. No. I'm not going to make belt holster. But I am going to check out what Tracey has to say (and if you have no idea what Context or Composition are in photog terms, then you should check it out too). I don't know either but I'm thinking they are important (Just a little guess here). Perhaps with her guidance (and my camera closer to me) I can take some great shots of my daughter doing what she does and less of the wall.

Finally, My Daddy's Girl

Damn. Kids are quick learners. Sure it takes some repetition – like reading the same book for 4 weeks in a row at every bedtime. But, now, my 2 year old can “read” her own bedtime stories.

But even better is how they figure out who will give them what they want. And as you might have guessed, that person is NOT me, because dear old daddy pants is the softie in the house or more like the “clueless-I-don’t-know-what-the-heck-I’m-doing-so-I-let-her-do-
whatever-takes-the-least-amount-of-energy” parent.

And so, since I won’t rock her to sleep any more, she asks for Daddy at bedtime. Fine. He suffered from breastfeeding envy (or more like attention deprivation) and loves that she asks for him over me. Whatevah.

But even better, when she wakes up at 11pm now after just a few hours of sweet slumber she screams for Daddy – and daddy only. No mommy, mama, or mom. Just daddy. Or otherwise known as “the-one-who-will-put-her-in-our-bed-or-rock-her-back-
to-sleep-and-offer-her-ice-cream-at-2am.” Okay, maybe not the ice-cream, but he might as well offer it to her. I mean really.

Oh, and do not tell him what to do in front of her. It (and I quote) “undermines his authority.” Ha.

So guess what I did when she was throwing a full on tantrum tonight when he was trying to leave while I laid in the bed in her room (after he put her in OUR bed when she woke up)?

I LEFT.

Yep. He chastised me for telling him to not say anything and just put her in the bed in front of her. Because him holding her and telling her he has to brush his teeth and that she did it too earlier and BLA BLA BLA works very well in getting her back in her bed.

And so I walked right out.

You handle it CHAMPY.

Because heck. I put her to bed every night for her first year of life. EVERY NIGHT. And I still put her to bed most nights and go in there on most nights and sleep in her room on most nights.

So, she can call daddy all she wants. It doesn’t bother me ONE BIT.

And I will enjoy the new “Daddy’s Little Girl” thing that’s happening. Because we all know the title that will soon be following:

"Mom’s Always Right and She Told You So You”

I Am Worthy

On many days, I feel unworthy. This is not new. I've spent much of my life feeling unworthy. It's by no fault of my own, really. Years of emotional abuse and fundamentalist beliefs will do that to a person.

"We are all sinners and guilty of being human, bad bad humans" I was told. And I digested every bit of that for years.

And so for most of my life, I've believed that any fortunes that had come my way were based on my own merits. I worked hard and I earned it. Because if people knew who I really was, who Kristen is, then they would know the truth.

That I deserved none of it.

I always wanted a happy life, but I just never thought it was mine to have. So, I signed a contract with myself at 15 that I would never get married, and I truly believed that I would never be able to have kids. Because I didn't deserve them.

And I stuck my head in my work. Because someone made me believe I was worthless and that I was only the sum of what I could achieve. It was easier to say I didn't want them then to believe that I was not worthy to have one. "At least I wouldn't screw anyone up. Just what the world needs. Another screwed up kid" I would tell myself over and over like a skipping cd.

But when I met my daughter, things changed.

She didn't know that I had written two textbooks and made headlines as the youngest director of a music therapy undergraduate program in the country. And she didn't know I that I used to model, act, sing, and make people laugh.

And she didn't know that I had lived in pain for many years, stuck in my own inability to take control of my own life instead of letting it control me.

And frankly, she didn't care.

So while I have come to a place where I feel worthy as a person, I'm still struggling to feel worthy as a mother.  Worthy of this sweet and dainty creature with a quick mind and a soft, gentle spirit. This little person who touches everyone who meets her and who doesn't care that I spent 15 hours in labor, breastfed her until she was 21 months old, and changed her diaper more than I care to remember. A little person who doesn't require me to prove myself in any way, shape, or form.

I've never really known a relationship like that.

And so, my little Goose, I'm not quite sure how you landed in my arms exactly 2 years ago, but I'm so thankful that you arrived. Your presence alone has given me clarity about this life.

And because of you I know that good things do happen to good people.

You're one of good ones, Goosie. And now I know that so am I.

Happy Birthday, Q!