Motherhood Uncensored

Defiance.

I wasn't ready for it.

I called for her to come back and apologize. She just kept walking -- pretending that she couldn't hear me calling her name.

I chased after her. Shocked.

She sat in the corner for awhile and then I came to comfort her. Letting her cry has never done anything but make things worse. It's been like that since she was a little baby. She escalates into a huge fit of rage and cannot regulate herself.

She was tired. So was I.

I held her like I always do and asked her why she was upset. She never knows, but she usually apologizes for making a bad choice, my tight grasp reassuring her and calming her down almost instantly.

But not that night. She adamantly refused.

She asked for daddy. She asked to be left alone. She asked for "a breath."

But she would not apologize.

I've spent over three years being everything to this little someone. Her comforter, her protector, and the one she always turns to.

My mind flashed through all those times where I wanted a break from those roles. Where I wanted my husband to take her so I didn't have to hold, rock, pat, and nurse her.

It was so hard. I was so tired.

But I was wanted. I was needed.   

I wasn't ready for her rejection. And I'm not ready for her to grow up just yet. I only wish I had realized this a little sooner. Maybe then this wouldn't have stung so badly. 

Oh Those Ingenious Southerners!

Even though I've lived in the South for almost five years on and off, it still holds many mysteries that I have yet to solve. For one, who decided it was okay to deep fry a pickle? Also, what exactly does "might could" mean? And what is with this obsession with bows?

Yes. Hair bows.

Now I know that it's not just the South that has a penchant for larger than the child's actual head hair bows. Sort of like Midwestern hair, there is certainly a large conglomerate of bow lovers out where the sun don't shine for but a few months out of the year. Maybe that's why they are wearing bows -- to celebrate not having to wear a skull cap and boots.

But in my own personal experience, having lived in both the Midwest and the South, the Southern folks don't fuck around when it comes to bows (yes, that's a compliment South. Take it while you can) because Dag-nabbit, the instant that baby comes out, they slap a bow right on her head.

Or technially, glue. 

Or some weird adhesive that is "long lasting" but then comes right off. Or, better, Karo Syrup. No wait. Toothpaste.

And KY Jelly. (I swear I'm not just making that one up, JULIE).

Why I ask? Why the baldy bow?

Is it not clear from the miles of taffetta and chiffon on the one month old baby that she is not a girl? Do her triple lacy socks not indicate to anyone with eyeballs that she is indeed of the female persuasion? Isn't the customary one-day old ear piercing enough? (Thanks TNG). Have you no better use for your KY Jelly people of the South? I beseech you!

But alas, as the good Yankee who is trying to embrace my new surroundings (hellooo, new blog duds people), I will embrace this "tradition" whole heartedly. 

My baldie *ahem* needed a little sprucing up anyway. 

We've Come Quite a Long Way Since Pac-Man

And you didn't think I liked the South. Come see my new blog and about page redesign by Tool of the Matriarchy. Mmmmmm Waffles.

For all my twos of years as a blogger, if there's anything I've learned is that people never cease to surprise me. Of course, there are the obvious hot button issues, like crying-it-out and leashes, that bring out the parenting nazis. But then I'll write about something like Crocs or DVD Players in cars, which quite personally didn't seem like anything hugely controversial, but yet had everyone up in arms.

So, admittedly, I'm curious to see how folks respond to my three-year-old daughter's recent introduction to the world of video gaming.

That's right. Video games for 3-year-olds.

As a rule, I'm extremely low tech. I don't own an iPod (although this thing might force me to buy one), I had a palm pilot for all of three minutes until I ran screaming back to my trusty scratch pad date book, and I scoff at the kiddie laptops.

Scoff.

But then this came in the mail, and I decided to give it a try. Clearly my block building and lego creating daughter would turn her nose right down at a tiny pink game with cute little pink princesses that she gets to dress up.

Ha. Haha.

C'mon. Of course she loves it. Looooooves it. The dressing up. The drawing. The coloring. The memory matching games. The piano. The instruments. Did I mention the dressing up?

I even had to ask my husband how long a child should be playing such things. Seriously. Her little paws wrapped around a tiny stylus dressing up some animated character in dresses and flip flops for 30 minutes straight isn't exactly what I had in mind.

But hell if it doesn't save me from having to be Cinderella the Exploring Princess on a thrice-daily basis. And it certainly saves a lot on drawing paper. 

See. I'm green!

I can definitely see where it might get out of hand, or extremely boring if she was a little older, but for now, she's in love. Luv. Lurve. Whatever you want to call it.

And I don't really mind it.

Now I don't foresee this taking the place of all the games, art, dressing up, and everything else we do on a daily basis. But for long waits, car rides, and plane trips, it makes sense. And quite frankly, I'm at a point where I think it's not so bad to embrace technology, even though I'm still trying to figure out how a fax machine actually works. 

Or maybe it's because I like to listen to my daughter play and sing songs like "I'm a Princess, Yes I Am" to the tune of "Mary Had a Little Lamb" with her little pink stick. 

So it just goes to show you that you can never say never. Hell, the next thing you know, I'll be wearing bright orange crocs, walking my son on a leash, and sporting a diva cup.

You know, with flying pigs circling above me.

Is your tot a gamer yet? Ever? Never?

I Suppose If I Had to Be a Princess

At least I'm a verrrry prepared one

With a cute and handy accomplice.

Everything She Needs to Know About the South She Learned From Shirley Temple

In my haste to celebrate Quinlan's bypassing the large princess dvd section at our local library or as she calls it "The Pwincess Collection MOMMYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYY!," I allowed her to bring home something that had me wishing for a few pudgy fairies and a golden spindle.

Shirley Temple.

Yes, apparently my daughter has graduated from princess pink to "child actress forced to act for 12-hour days and wear curlers" pink. I was so excited that she decided to forgo the Disney movies that I looked at the rating (PG), threw it on the counter, and then shoved it in our DVD player faster than you can say "Good Ship Lollipop."

Except it wasn't the Good Ship Lollipop.

It was the Littlest Rebel.

You know, as in the Confederates. General Lee. Slaves. Damn Yankees *swoon*. Slaves. War. Death. Treason.   

The South.

Good times, particularly when you're fending off inquisitive three-year-old questions with your Super "Damn You're a Flipping Idiot" Mom wrist bands.

"Mommy, why are those black people serving all those children cake and ice cream?"

"Mommy, why are those men [Yankees] stealing their candles?"

It's clear that the Disney Princess movies are not without their fair share of huge life issues, but as I've come to learn, they're masked in cute songs, singing animals, and beaaaauuuutimous dresses.

And while Shirley Temple can tap a mean tap dance and whistle Dixie, she's still bossing around her slave and dance partner.

I'd call him her "caretaker" but clearly the dude is not getting paid. And chances are, he didn't ask to be there. 

Oddly enough, I'm more than happy to engage her in these types of conversations, not because they're easy, or have clear cut answers, but because it's my job.

My new job!

As I graduate from ass wiper and nose blower, I become the question answerer and discussion starter. I hold a wealth of knowledge about life by the reins and become guide and explorer.

It's exciting. It's scary.

And it does make just a little bit of me wish for the princesses if only they represent a bit of innocence lost. Where everything has a happy ending.  Where everything works out in the end.

But then I realize, it's my job to help her get to that place. Her happy ending is very much in my hands. And I'm here to do my best to send her in the right direction.

Straight North about 500 miles.

(heh)