I originally posted this on a blog that I keep for my son. I thought it would fit in nicely here just because I wrote it. :) Up until now, I've left our names out of my posts. I decided to leave them in since you'll probably figure them out eventually anyway.
This is the story of one adventure in DJ-land.
DJ likes Pixar animations…Cars, Monsters Inc, A Bug’s Life, etc. I was so excited when my husband found Toy Story and Toy Story 2 at the thrift store for $2 each! I loved the first one, still hadn’t seen the second one.
Remember VCRs? Yeah, we still have one. It’s a DVD player and VCR in one. That piece of machinery along with the magical moving picture box that sits just below it are the most amazing inventions ever. My husband, Gary, and I are tv-aholics so it was only a matter of time for our child to become one. Don’t get me wrong…we don’t just sit and watch TV all day. It’s just always on. We don’t always pay attention to it…that is, until a Pixar animation is playing in all its grandeur and glory.
Oh I wish I could go back and change time. Everyone always says “If I had known then…” well, this is one of those moments. I’d go back and slap myself silly for even thinking of putting that movie in the VCR. I’d give myself a carpet shock when I reached for the “play” button. I want to go back and remove the $4 from my husband’s wallet so he couldn’t buy the movies.
Why do I wish this stuff? Because now, I’m raising Buzz Lightyear. My precious little boy has gone to infinity and beyond more times that I can count. It’s a good thing that Buzz is a space man because DJ, ahem…Little Buzz, has seen a lot of stars.
It started out simple. Standing on a pillow on the floor and jumping off. Then he moved to the child-size chair that came with his table, followed by the hassock, then the couch, and then finally, the grand pooba of all furniture…the recliner. Children are forbidden to climb on this looming piece of furniture, but alas, therein lies the excitement apparently.
Last night, Little Buzz decided to climb onto the arm of the recliner, plant both knees firmly onto the arm, and lean forward. No arms out to brace the fall. Gary and I watched in horror as infinity stood still and froze us in time. Neither of us was able to get to him in time. It all happened too fast. He leaned forward. The sound that followed woke us from our stupor and we flew in after him. I’ve never heard that sound before. It sounded like a cross between eggs cracking and baseball bat hitting a ball. It was sickening.
Then Little Buzz screamed.
Gary got to him first. He grabbed our adventurous baby and picked him up. I tried to see what happened. Was there blood? Is his nose broken? Are his eyes still in place? Does he still have teeth? All of these things run through the mind of a panicked mother who’s seen one too many horror movies.
Finally, Gary turned around and I was able to see the damage. Nothing. No blood. Nose wasn’t broken. The only thing wrong with his eyes was that they were filled with tears and a Mother never wants to see that in her child. He looked at me through those tiny waterfalls and cried, “Mama!” He just had a small bruise right between his eyes and a broken ego. I sat with him most of the night to make sure there was no concussion. He was fine…he just had a headache the size of gamma quadrant in sector 4.
So, for now, and to use a phrase from the movie, Toy Story and Toy Story 2 have been shelved.
Monday, August 30, 2010
Pre-Me
In my early 20’s, I was young, immature, and manipulative. I made terrible financial decisions and thought the world revolved around me. I thought I was the only one who knew the real story to everything. Frankly, I’m surprised someone didn’t stick me in a trunk and push the car off of a cliff.
When I was 24, I finally started to realize that maybe…just maybe…there was more to life than me. Imagine that! I finally landed a stable job with a real salary and rented my own apartment. I was determined to right all of the wrongs I had done. I went back to school. In two years, I earned an associate’s degree in business, which, by today’s standards, doesn’t amount to much more than a high school diploma on a resume. Still, there is no way I’d let a $13,000 piece of paper go unframed and hidden in a drawer! No! I had that sucker framed and proudly displayed on my wall.
In the middle of gaining knowledge of banks in Japan that I’ll never visit, I met the man of my dreams. We got married and moved into our very own house. I was a real adult! I was officially a grown-up! What was the next logical step? Children.
One Saturday in April 2007, I was showing signs of not being pregnant. I decided to take a test anyway. Negative. Bummer. I even held it up to the light, turned it in every direction…wait, is that a line? No. I took it apart and held the little pee soaked stick over the light bulb until I wasn’t able to see even an imaginary line through all the spots in front of my eyes. I was sad. Since I wasn’t pregnant, my husband and I decided to get the tattoos we were wanting that day. I sadly checked the box next to “No” when the form asked me if I was pregnant.
Monday morning. I had one test left in the box. Being the crazy pee-stick addict I was, I decided to just take the stupid test and get it out of my drawer so it didn’t call to me every time I had to pee. Almost immediately there was a faint line. With shaking hands, I somehow managed to call the doctors office and scheduled a test for that afternoon. The doctor announced those holy words, ‘Yep, it’s positive’. I was pregnant. I called my husband and told him over the phone. Yes, I told him over the phone because I knew I wasn’t able to keep it a secret from all of the people I would see that day and I wanted him to be the first one to know. He was flabbergasted and excited! And yes, I told everyone that I encountered that day whether they cared or not.
The pregnancy was normal. My weight was normal. My blood pressure was normal. Our baby was normal. Up until his birth, the only thing exciting that happened was a bit of food poisoning at 20 weeks: the exact same day of the “big ultrasound”. They didn’t see any problems with our baby and that was the day we found out “it” was going to be our little boy. The due date was still set for January 16, 2008. I had no reason to think what was going to happen would happen.
Saturday, December 1st, my water broke. I was 33 weeks and 3 days pregnant. We packed my suitcase and went into Labor & Delivery. I was having a few contractions, but nothing that indicated “real” labor so they admitted me and said we’ll just wait it out. If I didn’t give birth by Wednesday, they were going to induce me. The doctor told me that the baby would probably be around 2-3 pounds and wouldn’t be able to breathe on his own. She said that he would need a ventilator and that he may not cry when he’s first born until she can get him suctioned out. She also said he’d be in the hospital until his due date. Luckily, the Vicodin induced stupor they kept me in helped to soften the blow of what was going to happen to my baby.
Monday, December 3rd, the labor pains started up again around 2pm and after many fiascos with IV’s and monitors not picking up contractions and a doctor that didn’t believe I was in labor until she checked me herself at 5pm…our son was born at 7:06pm at 33 weeks and 5 days gestation. He was 5 lbs 10 oz and took his first breath on his own. Baby – 1, Doctor – 0.
His lungs weren’t completely mature yet and he was working hard to breathe. He used a CPAP machine, but he did the work. The following 20 days were the hardest days of our lives. The absolute worst day was December 6th, or “that Thursday”. We couldn’t touch him. We couldn’t hold him. We could only pray and watch as our little boy set his monitors blinking like Christmas lights every 10 minutes because he forgot to breathe. Nothing can prepare you for the helplessness and horror that fills your heart when your child is struggling and all you can do is watch and pray.
On December 17th, we took a class to learn how to use an apnea monitor and to do CPR on an infant. We were informed by his doctor that we couldn’t take our son home because he wasn’t eating as much as she thought he should. That was the worst Monday in the history of Monday’s.
Two days later, on December 19th, his doctor went on Christmas break and the new doctor said he was well enough to come home. This new doctor didn’t understand why the first doctor wanted our little baby to eat so much! We brought our son home, but the onslaught of spitting up and monitor beeps scared us too much so we brought him back to the NICU.
He came home with us for good on Sunday, December 23rd. Our Christmas miracle. He spent the next 4 months on medication, in a danny sling and sleeping wedge in his crib, and strapped to a monitor. Poor kid had wires coming out of everywhere. He looked like an electroshock therapy patient and always drew stares from children and looks of pity from parents. Slowly, he grew stronger and bigger and we received the ok from the doctor to rid him of the monitor, medication, and danny sling.
Today, he is a happy, healthy 2 ½ year old that thinks that all bugs are going to “git me” and all dirt is “icky gross”. Most boys can’t wait to get outside and dig in the dirt and track mud all over the kitchen. Not my kid. My kid will squeal like a little school girl if a bug gets near him or if a tiny bit of dirt sticks to his knee. Perhaps I was a little too overprotective of him.
My life changed the moment I heard that tiny cry. Without him, I wouldn’t be the person I am today. I now know the value of one day of pregnancy. I now know that the will of a child to live is stronger than any science. I now know that even when life seems hopeless there is still a reason to live. That reason looks at me every morning at breakfast with milk dripping down his chin and Fruit Loops on my kitchen floor. My preemie made me what I am today. I am who I am supposed to be. I am Mama.
I am finally me.
When I was 24, I finally started to realize that maybe…just maybe…there was more to life than me. Imagine that! I finally landed a stable job with a real salary and rented my own apartment. I was determined to right all of the wrongs I had done. I went back to school. In two years, I earned an associate’s degree in business, which, by today’s standards, doesn’t amount to much more than a high school diploma on a resume. Still, there is no way I’d let a $13,000 piece of paper go unframed and hidden in a drawer! No! I had that sucker framed and proudly displayed on my wall.
In the middle of gaining knowledge of banks in Japan that I’ll never visit, I met the man of my dreams. We got married and moved into our very own house. I was a real adult! I was officially a grown-up! What was the next logical step? Children.
One Saturday in April 2007, I was showing signs of not being pregnant. I decided to take a test anyway. Negative. Bummer. I even held it up to the light, turned it in every direction…wait, is that a line? No. I took it apart and held the little pee soaked stick over the light bulb until I wasn’t able to see even an imaginary line through all the spots in front of my eyes. I was sad. Since I wasn’t pregnant, my husband and I decided to get the tattoos we were wanting that day. I sadly checked the box next to “No” when the form asked me if I was pregnant.
Monday morning. I had one test left in the box. Being the crazy pee-stick addict I was, I decided to just take the stupid test and get it out of my drawer so it didn’t call to me every time I had to pee. Almost immediately there was a faint line. With shaking hands, I somehow managed to call the doctors office and scheduled a test for that afternoon. The doctor announced those holy words, ‘Yep, it’s positive’. I was pregnant. I called my husband and told him over the phone. Yes, I told him over the phone because I knew I wasn’t able to keep it a secret from all of the people I would see that day and I wanted him to be the first one to know. He was flabbergasted and excited! And yes, I told everyone that I encountered that day whether they cared or not.
The pregnancy was normal. My weight was normal. My blood pressure was normal. Our baby was normal. Up until his birth, the only thing exciting that happened was a bit of food poisoning at 20 weeks: the exact same day of the “big ultrasound”. They didn’t see any problems with our baby and that was the day we found out “it” was going to be our little boy. The due date was still set for January 16, 2008. I had no reason to think what was going to happen would happen.
Saturday, December 1st, my water broke. I was 33 weeks and 3 days pregnant. We packed my suitcase and went into Labor & Delivery. I was having a few contractions, but nothing that indicated “real” labor so they admitted me and said we’ll just wait it out. If I didn’t give birth by Wednesday, they were going to induce me. The doctor told me that the baby would probably be around 2-3 pounds and wouldn’t be able to breathe on his own. She said that he would need a ventilator and that he may not cry when he’s first born until she can get him suctioned out. She also said he’d be in the hospital until his due date. Luckily, the Vicodin induced stupor they kept me in helped to soften the blow of what was going to happen to my baby.
Monday, December 3rd, the labor pains started up again around 2pm and after many fiascos with IV’s and monitors not picking up contractions and a doctor that didn’t believe I was in labor until she checked me herself at 5pm…our son was born at 7:06pm at 33 weeks and 5 days gestation. He was 5 lbs 10 oz and took his first breath on his own. Baby – 1, Doctor – 0.
His lungs weren’t completely mature yet and he was working hard to breathe. He used a CPAP machine, but he did the work. The following 20 days were the hardest days of our lives. The absolute worst day was December 6th, or “that Thursday”. We couldn’t touch him. We couldn’t hold him. We could only pray and watch as our little boy set his monitors blinking like Christmas lights every 10 minutes because he forgot to breathe. Nothing can prepare you for the helplessness and horror that fills your heart when your child is struggling and all you can do is watch and pray.
On December 17th, we took a class to learn how to use an apnea monitor and to do CPR on an infant. We were informed by his doctor that we couldn’t take our son home because he wasn’t eating as much as she thought he should. That was the worst Monday in the history of Monday’s.
Two days later, on December 19th, his doctor went on Christmas break and the new doctor said he was well enough to come home. This new doctor didn’t understand why the first doctor wanted our little baby to eat so much! We brought our son home, but the onslaught of spitting up and monitor beeps scared us too much so we brought him back to the NICU.
He came home with us for good on Sunday, December 23rd. Our Christmas miracle. He spent the next 4 months on medication, in a danny sling and sleeping wedge in his crib, and strapped to a monitor. Poor kid had wires coming out of everywhere. He looked like an electroshock therapy patient and always drew stares from children and looks of pity from parents. Slowly, he grew stronger and bigger and we received the ok from the doctor to rid him of the monitor, medication, and danny sling.
Today, he is a happy, healthy 2 ½ year old that thinks that all bugs are going to “git me” and all dirt is “icky gross”. Most boys can’t wait to get outside and dig in the dirt and track mud all over the kitchen. Not my kid. My kid will squeal like a little school girl if a bug gets near him or if a tiny bit of dirt sticks to his knee. Perhaps I was a little too overprotective of him.
My life changed the moment I heard that tiny cry. Without him, I wouldn’t be the person I am today. I now know the value of one day of pregnancy. I now know that the will of a child to live is stronger than any science. I now know that even when life seems hopeless there is still a reason to live. That reason looks at me every morning at breakfast with milk dripping down his chin and Fruit Loops on my kitchen floor. My preemie made me what I am today. I am who I am supposed to be. I am Mama.
I am finally me.
Thursday, August 19, 2010
Going Girly
When I was little, I wanted to be girly. My hair was long, I wore dresses, skirts, and shoes that clicked on the sidewalk when I walked. That all changed when I got to 2nd grade.
In Kindergarten and 1st grade, I was pretty popular. I had a lot of friends. This was at a time when "You can't come to my birthday" actually worked as a threat. Ahh, childhood. Right before 2nd grade, I got my first perm. I dreamed of the long flowing spiral curls that bounce with each step the lucky girl takes. Those dreams only come true for people with hair not like mine. My hair had to be curled tight in order to even hold some of the curl. Then it was cut short. That's when the teasing started.
I remember being chased around the playground by a couple of girls who would pull at my curls to see if they would bounce back. I remember a boy that I thought was cute telling me he didn't like me anymore because I was ugly. I would do my hair in the morning and dress up all pretty in a skirt and my clicky shoes. I thought I was pretty. My Mom said I was pretty. My Aunts and Grandmother's said I was pretty. So I was pretty, right?
Nope. Well, not according to the 2nd graders in my class. At the time, those 2nd grader's opinions meant more than anything. I wanted to be accepted. I wanted people to like me. Just like everyone else. Even the best friend I had at the time said she didn't want to see me anymore because I was getting fat.
Great. I was only 8 years old and I thought I was ugly and fat. It didn't help that I had to wear thick glasses due to a lazy eye. I remember shopping in the "pretty plus" section of the store. I wanted so badly to wear the cute clothes the other girls wore, but they were either too expensive or I was too big. Seriously, $100 for a pair of jeans for an 8 year old? Really? I can buy two weeks worth of groceries for that!
Anyway, that was the start of me trying to hide myself from the world. I stopped wearing dresses. I stopped wearing clicky shoes. I tried a hundred different hair styles, each worse than the last in my eyes. My glasses got thicker along with my waist. I stopped trying to be girly and decided it'd be better to be "one-of-the-guys". I never saw the guys judging eachother. Baggy jeans. Tennis shoes. Flannel shirts. Big t-shirts. Anything I could find to hide my body and my plummeting self-esteem.
We moved and I mostly just hid in my room. Until I got to 9th grade. I was teased relentlessly on the bus to and from school. My books were knocked onto the floor. I was pushed down the stairs. Then I hurt my knee and was on crutches for several weeks. I was accused of "faking it" so I didn't have to play in gym class. I was accused of just wanting attention. I even had one kid kick my crutch out from under me when I was trying to get to class. The worst was one time when I was trying to get off the bus with crutches and a backpack full of homework. It was winter time and I slipped. I fell and all my books scattered. Everyone on the bus laughed. The driver yelled "Are you ok?" He didn't even wait for my answer. He closed the doors and drove off. I layed there for a minute and cried. Not too long after that, Dad got a better job and we moved again.
It was a small town and I could start fresh. I still hated myself. I hated the world. Life sucked. I was 15. I was normal. The remaining years of high school weren't too bad. I was the band geek. The choir chick. The church girl. Although my classmates seemed to be pretty tolerant and accepting of everyone, I still felt out of place. I realize now that I was depressed. I managed to slither through the last couple years and made it to graduation. I thought that day would never come. That was 12 years ago.
I spent the next few years fighting myself. Depression, gaining weight, abusive relationships, financial issues, etc. I'll get into that more at a later time perhaps.
Then about 5 years ago, I met the man of my dreams. Every girl wants a tall, dark, and handsome man to sweep her off her feet. Well, Mr. Tall-dark-and-handsome is now my husband. He tells me I'm pretty. He never wants me to change...except for one thing: be more girly.
Ok. How do I do that? I've spent a good chunk of my life hiding and trying to NOT be girly! I even said if I ever had kids, I wanted boys so I didn't have to be girly. I hated the color pink. I hated dresses. I hated bows in my hair. I hated shoes, make up (unless it was just cover-up), perfumes, curling irons. I hated anything that would make me girly. Because that is when the teasing started. When I tried to be what I thought was pretty. I would get my nails done and my hair dyed, but even that brought stares and raised eyebrows. Maybe I was imagining it. Maybe it was just my own insecurities assuming the worst in people's glances. Why was I so concerned with what others thought of me?
Several months ago, I started selling Avon. I don't know why. It just popped into my head one day as a way to make some extra cash and I signed up. I was told one of the best ways to sell is to be a walking advertisement. So I bought a bunch of stuff. I was actually excited when my new make-up arrived. I put on the make up and did my nails in my new polish. I put on some new clothes that my husband picked out and bought for me that he thought were more "girly" than my normal oversized polo shirts.
I remember walking out into the living room. Bracing myself for the laughter. Waiting for that familiar feeling of humiliation. I took a deep breath. I asked the question that most men quiver in fear when they are asked, "How do I look?" He looked at me, gave me a huge smile, and said, "You look pretty."
I finally believed it. I felt pretty. I think it's about time I keep going girly.
In Kindergarten and 1st grade, I was pretty popular. I had a lot of friends. This was at a time when "You can't come to my birthday" actually worked as a threat. Ahh, childhood. Right before 2nd grade, I got my first perm. I dreamed of the long flowing spiral curls that bounce with each step the lucky girl takes. Those dreams only come true for people with hair not like mine. My hair had to be curled tight in order to even hold some of the curl. Then it was cut short. That's when the teasing started.
I remember being chased around the playground by a couple of girls who would pull at my curls to see if they would bounce back. I remember a boy that I thought was cute telling me he didn't like me anymore because I was ugly. I would do my hair in the morning and dress up all pretty in a skirt and my clicky shoes. I thought I was pretty. My Mom said I was pretty. My Aunts and Grandmother's said I was pretty. So I was pretty, right?
Nope. Well, not according to the 2nd graders in my class. At the time, those 2nd grader's opinions meant more than anything. I wanted to be accepted. I wanted people to like me. Just like everyone else. Even the best friend I had at the time said she didn't want to see me anymore because I was getting fat.
Great. I was only 8 years old and I thought I was ugly and fat. It didn't help that I had to wear thick glasses due to a lazy eye. I remember shopping in the "pretty plus" section of the store. I wanted so badly to wear the cute clothes the other girls wore, but they were either too expensive or I was too big. Seriously, $100 for a pair of jeans for an 8 year old? Really? I can buy two weeks worth of groceries for that!
Anyway, that was the start of me trying to hide myself from the world. I stopped wearing dresses. I stopped wearing clicky shoes. I tried a hundred different hair styles, each worse than the last in my eyes. My glasses got thicker along with my waist. I stopped trying to be girly and decided it'd be better to be "one-of-the-guys". I never saw the guys judging eachother. Baggy jeans. Tennis shoes. Flannel shirts. Big t-shirts. Anything I could find to hide my body and my plummeting self-esteem.
We moved and I mostly just hid in my room. Until I got to 9th grade. I was teased relentlessly on the bus to and from school. My books were knocked onto the floor. I was pushed down the stairs. Then I hurt my knee and was on crutches for several weeks. I was accused of "faking it" so I didn't have to play in gym class. I was accused of just wanting attention. I even had one kid kick my crutch out from under me when I was trying to get to class. The worst was one time when I was trying to get off the bus with crutches and a backpack full of homework. It was winter time and I slipped. I fell and all my books scattered. Everyone on the bus laughed. The driver yelled "Are you ok?" He didn't even wait for my answer. He closed the doors and drove off. I layed there for a minute and cried. Not too long after that, Dad got a better job and we moved again.
It was a small town and I could start fresh. I still hated myself. I hated the world. Life sucked. I was 15. I was normal. The remaining years of high school weren't too bad. I was the band geek. The choir chick. The church girl. Although my classmates seemed to be pretty tolerant and accepting of everyone, I still felt out of place. I realize now that I was depressed. I managed to slither through the last couple years and made it to graduation. I thought that day would never come. That was 12 years ago.
I spent the next few years fighting myself. Depression, gaining weight, abusive relationships, financial issues, etc. I'll get into that more at a later time perhaps.
Then about 5 years ago, I met the man of my dreams. Every girl wants a tall, dark, and handsome man to sweep her off her feet. Well, Mr. Tall-dark-and-handsome is now my husband. He tells me I'm pretty. He never wants me to change...except for one thing: be more girly.
Ok. How do I do that? I've spent a good chunk of my life hiding and trying to NOT be girly! I even said if I ever had kids, I wanted boys so I didn't have to be girly. I hated the color pink. I hated dresses. I hated bows in my hair. I hated shoes, make up (unless it was just cover-up), perfumes, curling irons. I hated anything that would make me girly. Because that is when the teasing started. When I tried to be what I thought was pretty. I would get my nails done and my hair dyed, but even that brought stares and raised eyebrows. Maybe I was imagining it. Maybe it was just my own insecurities assuming the worst in people's glances. Why was I so concerned with what others thought of me?
Several months ago, I started selling Avon. I don't know why. It just popped into my head one day as a way to make some extra cash and I signed up. I was told one of the best ways to sell is to be a walking advertisement. So I bought a bunch of stuff. I was actually excited when my new make-up arrived. I put on the make up and did my nails in my new polish. I put on some new clothes that my husband picked out and bought for me that he thought were more "girly" than my normal oversized polo shirts.
I remember walking out into the living room. Bracing myself for the laughter. Waiting for that familiar feeling of humiliation. I took a deep breath. I asked the question that most men quiver in fear when they are asked, "How do I look?" He looked at me, gave me a huge smile, and said, "You look pretty."
I finally believed it. I felt pretty. I think it's about time I keep going girly.
Wednesday, August 18, 2010
Frog Potties and Thomas Underwear
Have you ever had a dream that you were falling? That is how the thought of potty training my children makes me feel. Potty training is the ultimate battle between an educated adult and a child that can prove them wrong at any moment.
My son is 2 ½ years old and had no interest in potty training. We tried for a few weeks after our daughter was born. That was a bad idea. Each attempt ended with tears and a wet diaper anyway. So we decided to wait awhile. He would not lay still for diapers so we just kept him in Pull-ups full time. I believe that was our mistake.
Over the weekend of July 4th, we were at my Grandparent’s house. We had quite a few family members there including one little 3 year old boy that belongs to my cousin. He was playing in the play room with my son. I was in the bathroom at my Grandparent’s house, putting on my make up, and my cousin’s little boy ran in, stripped himself naked and sat himself down on the toilet and commenced peeing. My son ran in after him and asked “What you doing?” I explained that he was going pee in the potty because he’s a big boy. Suddenly, a light bulb clicked in my son’s brain. He wanted to go pee in the potty. We got home on Monday and he decided he had no interest in the potty anymore. Sigh.
On July 26th, my Mom, who watches our kiddos while we’re at work, thought it would be a good idea to start potty training my little man. We all watched the potty training video and were all fired up. A week went by and there was no progress. My kid is s t u b b o r n.
My husband decided, once and for all, that he was going to get our son potty trained. He’s such a brave man. A friend had suggested that we just put our son in underwear and go from there. So we did. My husband took our son to the store and let him pick out his own big boy underwear. He picked out a package that showed the characters of the Thomas and Friends train cartoon on the butt of each pair. He loved them. He couldn’t wait to wear them. And we had the next week off of work as vacation.
Monday morning, 7 am. My husband explained to our son that he gets to wear big boy underwear now and that he can go potty on the frog-potty on the floor of the bathroom. Then he gets to stand on the step stool to wash his hands in the big boy sink! Then if he peed in the potty he would get 2 stickers to put on the chart that we put on the fridge and if he poopied, he’d get 4 stickers!! Yay!!
We set the timer for 20 minutes and watched him like hawks. He went through all 7 pair of underwear that first day. The second day we were about ½ way through the morning when I thought maybe he wasn’t exactly sure what it was we were wanting him to do. I didn’t know how to explain it to him. We were frustrated.
Then, finally, a miracle. The little frog with a cup in its back on the floor of my bathroom finally got used for what it was made for! We made a HUGE fuss!! We hugged him, gave him extra stickers and high fives, called Grandma and Grandpa, and told him over and over that we were so proud of him. He got the hint! The rest of that day he only had 1 or 2 accidents. We set the timer for 30 minutes if he just used the potty and every 10 after that if he didn’t go. The 3rd day: only 1 accident and no timer. By the end of the week, he was a pro.
It’s now been 2 weeks since that day and he’s now comfortable with going to the potty. Almost a little too comfortable. He likes to go all the time now whether he actually has the urge or not! It gets him out of time-out and bed at night! He knows that if he says he has to go potty, we’ll take him so we don’t derail his training. He’s not dumb.
Dare I say it? Potty training is a success.
My son is 2 ½ years old and had no interest in potty training. We tried for a few weeks after our daughter was born. That was a bad idea. Each attempt ended with tears and a wet diaper anyway. So we decided to wait awhile. He would not lay still for diapers so we just kept him in Pull-ups full time. I believe that was our mistake.
Over the weekend of July 4th, we were at my Grandparent’s house. We had quite a few family members there including one little 3 year old boy that belongs to my cousin. He was playing in the play room with my son. I was in the bathroom at my Grandparent’s house, putting on my make up, and my cousin’s little boy ran in, stripped himself naked and sat himself down on the toilet and commenced peeing. My son ran in after him and asked “What you doing?” I explained that he was going pee in the potty because he’s a big boy. Suddenly, a light bulb clicked in my son’s brain. He wanted to go pee in the potty. We got home on Monday and he decided he had no interest in the potty anymore. Sigh.
On July 26th, my Mom, who watches our kiddos while we’re at work, thought it would be a good idea to start potty training my little man. We all watched the potty training video and were all fired up. A week went by and there was no progress. My kid is s t u b b o r n.
My husband decided, once and for all, that he was going to get our son potty trained. He’s such a brave man. A friend had suggested that we just put our son in underwear and go from there. So we did. My husband took our son to the store and let him pick out his own big boy underwear. He picked out a package that showed the characters of the Thomas and Friends train cartoon on the butt of each pair. He loved them. He couldn’t wait to wear them. And we had the next week off of work as vacation.
Monday morning, 7 am. My husband explained to our son that he gets to wear big boy underwear now and that he can go potty on the frog-potty on the floor of the bathroom. Then he gets to stand on the step stool to wash his hands in the big boy sink! Then if he peed in the potty he would get 2 stickers to put on the chart that we put on the fridge and if he poopied, he’d get 4 stickers!! Yay!!
We set the timer for 20 minutes and watched him like hawks. He went through all 7 pair of underwear that first day. The second day we were about ½ way through the morning when I thought maybe he wasn’t exactly sure what it was we were wanting him to do. I didn’t know how to explain it to him. We were frustrated.
Then, finally, a miracle. The little frog with a cup in its back on the floor of my bathroom finally got used for what it was made for! We made a HUGE fuss!! We hugged him, gave him extra stickers and high fives, called Grandma and Grandpa, and told him over and over that we were so proud of him. He got the hint! The rest of that day he only had 1 or 2 accidents. We set the timer for 30 minutes if he just used the potty and every 10 after that if he didn’t go. The 3rd day: only 1 accident and no timer. By the end of the week, he was a pro.
It’s now been 2 weeks since that day and he’s now comfortable with going to the potty. Almost a little too comfortable. He likes to go all the time now whether he actually has the urge or not! It gets him out of time-out and bed at night! He knows that if he says he has to go potty, we’ll take him so we don’t derail his training. He’s not dumb.
Dare I say it? Potty training is a success.
Milking My Patience
Not long after our 6 month milestone victory, my daughter’s first tooth sprouted from her swollen little lower gums. She nipped once while nursing. I adjusted her and we were fine. I thought that was it. Smooth sailing!!
Uh huh.
A week later, when the 2nd tooth popped through, we were sitting quietly in the living room and that’s when it happened. Searing pain radiated throughout my body and blood spewed from the epicenter of the demolition site. My sweet precious baby turned vampire and bit me. I cried. My husband, sweet man, ran to get ice in a cold wash cloth. The baby was screaming, I was bawling, my son asked if I died (where do kids come up with this stuff??). A kind hand gave me the wash cloth and took our girl and calmed her down. We were able to finish nursing that evening, but not without a few more tears.
A week later, the same thing happened. I was done. I went to bed that night sore and defeated. Apparently I spoke too soon when I wrote out my previous post. I decided to exclusively pump from then on out.
I spent the next several days just pumping and feeding her with bottles. I struggled to keep my supply up. Several times, I tried desperately to nurse her again. She either wouldn’t latch or would bite. She made it clear that she was done as well. She liked the bottle better. Although, nursing was the easiest and best way to get milk from me to her tiny belly, it was also the most frustrating and painful at this point. I was beginning to dread it. That’s not a good thing.
I tried, in one last vain attempt to nurse my daughter one night at midnight when she was sleepy and I thought she couldn’t really struggle, but I knew she was hungry. She bit me. We’re done.
Pumping exclusively is hard. Let me tell you that right off the bat. Luckily, my body responded well to the pump. I was able to keep up with my daughter’s needs and have a little extra. Slowly, however, the “little extra” began to dwindle. I started pumping more often. Every 3-4 hours I was by myself in the kitchen trying to get more milk for my baby. I held steady for a few weeks.
Then things started to happen that made me think I was being told to quit and I wasn’t taking the hint or I need to continue and this was some twisted test I was taking and failing miserably. One night during a storm I needed to pump. I got everything set up and was just about to turn it on and the power went out. Luckily we found the battery pack and I was able to pump. A few days later, I sat down and got everything set up, plugged in the pump and nothing happened! I turned it off, checked the plug in and it was very very hot. I managed it get it out and turn it over. Then I saw the frayed cord. Darn it! My husband suggested I call my cousin (who had a pump) to see if her plug in matched mine. It did and she let me borrow it. Then there were several days at work where everything was so chaotic that I couldn’t leave my desk to pump when I needed to. It was just one thing after another. My supply plummeted.
I talked to and went to lactation consultants, our doctor, many friends and family members. None had any advice that could help me get her to quit biting. I took the maximum dosage of Fenugreek every day for 2 weeks, ate oatmeal for breakfast, snacked on honey nut cheerios, drank water to replenish the tears, exercised, and generally tried to stay positive. I didn’t see any improvement in supply. It actually went down.
I wanted to badly to make it to the coveted 1 year mark for breast feeding my baby. I tried and tried and did my best, but I still wasn’t good enough. I couldn’t do it. I failed. I suck.
One night last week, I was hugging my daughter, crying, and apologizing to her for failing her. Then, out of nowhere, the deep, kind, caring voice of an angel spoke to me and said, “You didn’t fail. You gave her 8 months of milk. Be proud of yourself.” Ok, it wasn’t an angel, it was my husband. He was right though. From what I’ve read online, most women don’t breastfeed at all after 6 months. I guess I should be proud of myself. In 3 short years, I went from thinking that breastfeeding is disgusting to actually mourning its loss. I’ll continue to pump and give her what I can get until I can’t get any more. Formula is not the enemy. It kept my son alive. My daughter will be just fine as well.
I’m proud of myself.
Uh huh.
A week later, when the 2nd tooth popped through, we were sitting quietly in the living room and that’s when it happened. Searing pain radiated throughout my body and blood spewed from the epicenter of the demolition site. My sweet precious baby turned vampire and bit me. I cried. My husband, sweet man, ran to get ice in a cold wash cloth. The baby was screaming, I was bawling, my son asked if I died (where do kids come up with this stuff??). A kind hand gave me the wash cloth and took our girl and calmed her down. We were able to finish nursing that evening, but not without a few more tears.
A week later, the same thing happened. I was done. I went to bed that night sore and defeated. Apparently I spoke too soon when I wrote out my previous post. I decided to exclusively pump from then on out.
I spent the next several days just pumping and feeding her with bottles. I struggled to keep my supply up. Several times, I tried desperately to nurse her again. She either wouldn’t latch or would bite. She made it clear that she was done as well. She liked the bottle better. Although, nursing was the easiest and best way to get milk from me to her tiny belly, it was also the most frustrating and painful at this point. I was beginning to dread it. That’s not a good thing.
I tried, in one last vain attempt to nurse my daughter one night at midnight when she was sleepy and I thought she couldn’t really struggle, but I knew she was hungry. She bit me. We’re done.
Pumping exclusively is hard. Let me tell you that right off the bat. Luckily, my body responded well to the pump. I was able to keep up with my daughter’s needs and have a little extra. Slowly, however, the “little extra” began to dwindle. I started pumping more often. Every 3-4 hours I was by myself in the kitchen trying to get more milk for my baby. I held steady for a few weeks.
Then things started to happen that made me think I was being told to quit and I wasn’t taking the hint or I need to continue and this was some twisted test I was taking and failing miserably. One night during a storm I needed to pump. I got everything set up and was just about to turn it on and the power went out. Luckily we found the battery pack and I was able to pump. A few days later, I sat down and got everything set up, plugged in the pump and nothing happened! I turned it off, checked the plug in and it was very very hot. I managed it get it out and turn it over. Then I saw the frayed cord. Darn it! My husband suggested I call my cousin (who had a pump) to see if her plug in matched mine. It did and she let me borrow it. Then there were several days at work where everything was so chaotic that I couldn’t leave my desk to pump when I needed to. It was just one thing after another. My supply plummeted.
I talked to and went to lactation consultants, our doctor, many friends and family members. None had any advice that could help me get her to quit biting. I took the maximum dosage of Fenugreek every day for 2 weeks, ate oatmeal for breakfast, snacked on honey nut cheerios, drank water to replenish the tears, exercised, and generally tried to stay positive. I didn’t see any improvement in supply. It actually went down.
I wanted to badly to make it to the coveted 1 year mark for breast feeding my baby. I tried and tried and did my best, but I still wasn’t good enough. I couldn’t do it. I failed. I suck.
One night last week, I was hugging my daughter, crying, and apologizing to her for failing her. Then, out of nowhere, the deep, kind, caring voice of an angel spoke to me and said, “You didn’t fail. You gave her 8 months of milk. Be proud of yourself.” Ok, it wasn’t an angel, it was my husband. He was right though. From what I’ve read online, most women don’t breastfeed at all after 6 months. I guess I should be proud of myself. In 3 short years, I went from thinking that breastfeeding is disgusting to actually mourning its loss. I’ll continue to pump and give her what I can get until I can’t get any more. Formula is not the enemy. It kept my son alive. My daughter will be just fine as well.
I’m proud of myself.
Are you going to breastfeed?
I heard this question a lot. It irritated me even more. When I was pregnant with my son in 2007, I was asked this question at every doctor visit. I always said no. Breastfeeding was disgusting. Why anyone would want to do that was beyond me. Why on earth would I want to stick my boob into a poor innocent baby’s mouth and make him/her drink by bodily fluids? I ranked it right up there with molestation.
I was wrong.
When my son was born 6 weeks early, I contemplated it for a minute until the nurse said I wouldn’t be able to breast feed him. She meant actual baby-to-breast but I thought she meant “at all”. I could have pumped until he was big enough to nurse, but I didn’t know that then. I didn’t know anything about breastfeeding. I didn’t know the nutrition value or the ease and convenience of it. I also didn’t know how special it can be.
My son had reflux and breathing problems. Mostly typical issues for being a preemie. He came home on a breathing monitor and reflux medication. We tried several different formulas before finding one he could tolerate. Of course, it was the most expensive one! When he was a little bigger, we tried the store brand formula and he tolerated it well so we stuck with that one. For an entire year we lugged around a can of formula, bottled water, and bottles. I did it because the thought of breastfeeding made me want to puke.
I now wonder if some of the struggles with his health could have been avoided had I just given it a shot. From the time he was born, my son has had some health issues. Nothing too pressing or life altering. Just annoying. Ear infections, colds, allergic reactions, hives, random fevers, etc. The latest was a couple of weeks ago when he suddenly spiked a 104 temp that proved to be from pneumonia.
Do you want to know the end-all, final-say was in what made me decide to breast feed my second child?
Depression.
I was diagnosed as bi-polar with anxiety disorder when I was a teenager. I found that I am allergic to the antidepressants and mood stabilizers that I tried so I just deal with it on my own.
After my son was born, I went into a deep depression. He’d cry to be fed and just wanted to run the other way. I would just hold him and cry and think of how much easier it would be if he wasn’t there. I remember how horrible I felt for thinking that. I felt useless. Heartless. I was nothing more than “the baby-maker”. I meant nothing.
My husband was wonderful. He had nothing to do with how I felt. He did most of the child care when he was home because he wanted to. He fed our son, bathed him, dressed him, rocked him, etc. I just wanted to sleep. He tried so hard to get me to want to take care of our son, but to no avail. Those of you with depression will understand that you can’t just “snap out of it”. It just has to ease up on its own and until then…you just deal with it. When our son was about 18 months old, I finally started to see him as the miracle that he is. I’ve spent every minute since then trying to make up for the first 18 months of his life.
When I found out I was pregnant with my daughter, something changed in my heart. I honestly can’t tell you what or when. One day it just crossed my mind that maybe I should give breastfeeding a shot. Maybe it was the guilt of not even trying with my son? I started reading about it and asked a lot of questions. I had a lot of concerns and hesitations. The more I read the more I felt that maybe it was going to be ok. I was becoming convinced by the nutritional values, health benefits, and (to be honest) the cost factor didn’t hurt either.
I told everyone that I was going to try. I didn’t want to say “I will” because that just seemed daunting and like I was setting myself up for failure. If I said “I’ll try” then I had an out which I knew I wouldn’t take. I had taken the breastfeeding class, bought the pump, watched the videos, talked to the lactation consultants, interviewed my cousin (she breastfed her son for over a year), threw away all sample cans of formula, etc. I was ready. I knew it all. Yeah…that all went out the window when I tried to latch her on!
The first week was, and I’m not going to sugar coat this, HELL. There were tears, screaming, temper tantrums, fussiness, and frustration. My baby girl didn’t seem too happy either. She was born on a Wednesday. By Sunday, I wanted to quit. As I sat in the chair with her screaming from hunger and my breasts sore and throbbing, I bawled. My husband (sweet, sweet man) knelt down in front of me and took our daughter until she calmed down enough to latch on. I continued to cry. He looked me in the eye and said “You’re doing great! You can do this.” He was so sincere and supportive. I cried again. Monday morning, as if by some miracle, the pain started to subside. By Wednesday…one week after her birth…breast feeding didn’t hurt anymore and I actually started to look forward to it.
I haven’t slept a full night since she was born. She’s still up at least once a night. She still wants to nurse from 6:30 until 9:30 every evening. But she’s only had one instance of bronchitis and even that was minor. Her diapers don’t reek to high heaven. We’re not out at midnight trying to find an open store because we forgot to buy formula. I AM the vending machine (as my sister calls me). We don’t have to bring an extra bag full of bottles, formula, and bottled water. The only extra item we have is my pump which I bring to work and on long trips (just in case).
Today is our 6 month milestone for breastfeeding. It has NOT been easy. I’m not a morning person and being up several times during the night doesn’t help. However, I know this is best for her. We have a bond now. It’s a very different bond than what I have with my son (the bond with him isn’t any less…just different). I wouldn’t have it any other way.
Hello, my name is Jennifer and I’m a formula-to-breastfeeding-attitude conversion survivor.
(originally written on June 9, 2010 by me)
I was wrong.
When my son was born 6 weeks early, I contemplated it for a minute until the nurse said I wouldn’t be able to breast feed him. She meant actual baby-to-breast but I thought she meant “at all”. I could have pumped until he was big enough to nurse, but I didn’t know that then. I didn’t know anything about breastfeeding. I didn’t know the nutrition value or the ease and convenience of it. I also didn’t know how special it can be.
My son had reflux and breathing problems. Mostly typical issues for being a preemie. He came home on a breathing monitor and reflux medication. We tried several different formulas before finding one he could tolerate. Of course, it was the most expensive one! When he was a little bigger, we tried the store brand formula and he tolerated it well so we stuck with that one. For an entire year we lugged around a can of formula, bottled water, and bottles. I did it because the thought of breastfeeding made me want to puke.
I now wonder if some of the struggles with his health could have been avoided had I just given it a shot. From the time he was born, my son has had some health issues. Nothing too pressing or life altering. Just annoying. Ear infections, colds, allergic reactions, hives, random fevers, etc. The latest was a couple of weeks ago when he suddenly spiked a 104 temp that proved to be from pneumonia.
Do you want to know the end-all, final-say was in what made me decide to breast feed my second child?
Depression.
I was diagnosed as bi-polar with anxiety disorder when I was a teenager. I found that I am allergic to the antidepressants and mood stabilizers that I tried so I just deal with it on my own.
After my son was born, I went into a deep depression. He’d cry to be fed and just wanted to run the other way. I would just hold him and cry and think of how much easier it would be if he wasn’t there. I remember how horrible I felt for thinking that. I felt useless. Heartless. I was nothing more than “the baby-maker”. I meant nothing.
My husband was wonderful. He had nothing to do with how I felt. He did most of the child care when he was home because he wanted to. He fed our son, bathed him, dressed him, rocked him, etc. I just wanted to sleep. He tried so hard to get me to want to take care of our son, but to no avail. Those of you with depression will understand that you can’t just “snap out of it”. It just has to ease up on its own and until then…you just deal with it. When our son was about 18 months old, I finally started to see him as the miracle that he is. I’ve spent every minute since then trying to make up for the first 18 months of his life.
When I found out I was pregnant with my daughter, something changed in my heart. I honestly can’t tell you what or when. One day it just crossed my mind that maybe I should give breastfeeding a shot. Maybe it was the guilt of not even trying with my son? I started reading about it and asked a lot of questions. I had a lot of concerns and hesitations. The more I read the more I felt that maybe it was going to be ok. I was becoming convinced by the nutritional values, health benefits, and (to be honest) the cost factor didn’t hurt either.
I told everyone that I was going to try. I didn’t want to say “I will” because that just seemed daunting and like I was setting myself up for failure. If I said “I’ll try” then I had an out which I knew I wouldn’t take. I had taken the breastfeeding class, bought the pump, watched the videos, talked to the lactation consultants, interviewed my cousin (she breastfed her son for over a year), threw away all sample cans of formula, etc. I was ready. I knew it all. Yeah…that all went out the window when I tried to latch her on!
The first week was, and I’m not going to sugar coat this, HELL. There were tears, screaming, temper tantrums, fussiness, and frustration. My baby girl didn’t seem too happy either. She was born on a Wednesday. By Sunday, I wanted to quit. As I sat in the chair with her screaming from hunger and my breasts sore and throbbing, I bawled. My husband (sweet, sweet man) knelt down in front of me and took our daughter until she calmed down enough to latch on. I continued to cry. He looked me in the eye and said “You’re doing great! You can do this.” He was so sincere and supportive. I cried again. Monday morning, as if by some miracle, the pain started to subside. By Wednesday…one week after her birth…breast feeding didn’t hurt anymore and I actually started to look forward to it.
I haven’t slept a full night since she was born. She’s still up at least once a night. She still wants to nurse from 6:30 until 9:30 every evening. But she’s only had one instance of bronchitis and even that was minor. Her diapers don’t reek to high heaven. We’re not out at midnight trying to find an open store because we forgot to buy formula. I AM the vending machine (as my sister calls me). We don’t have to bring an extra bag full of bottles, formula, and bottled water. The only extra item we have is my pump which I bring to work and on long trips (just in case).
Today is our 6 month milestone for breastfeeding. It has NOT been easy. I’m not a morning person and being up several times during the night doesn’t help. However, I know this is best for her. We have a bond now. It’s a very different bond than what I have with my son (the bond with him isn’t any less…just different). I wouldn’t have it any other way.
Hello, my name is Jennifer and I’m a formula-to-breastfeeding-attitude conversion survivor.
(originally written on June 9, 2010 by me)
Swimming with Self-Confidence
I haven’t owned a swimming suit in over 11 years. The mere thought of one sends shivers down my spine. The last time I went swimming was in 1999 at a friend’s lake house. We were walking up the trail to get back to the house after swimming and my “friend” told me I should start working out more because I was starting to get some extra fat on my thighs. We’re not friends anymore.
Since then, I’ve gained a few pounds and suffer the heat of every summer behind long pants and baggy shirts hoping no one will notice how fat I’ve gotten. Not this year. I quit. No more hiding. I’m obviously not going to be a supermodel so I’ll just keep trying to get healthier and hope for the best. Those are the words of a confident woman, right? It’s amazing how confidence can ease into terror so quickly over one small comment.
Two days ago, I was informed that my sister (whom I love dearly) would like to take my son swimming. At first, I was terrified. He can’t swim. He could drown! What if an ambulance couldn’t get there fast enough? I know CPR, but could I remember it in that situation? All of those horrible thoughts ran through my head in about ½ second. Then a new fear started to creep into my subconscious and terrified me even more. What if he wanted me to swim with them? Oh no…I couldn’t. No one should be subjected to seeing me in a swimming suit, but I can’t go in the pool in shorts and a t-shirt (pool rules). He’d be so disappointed. I can’t disappoint my child. I’d do anything for him. Wait…does ‘anything’ include wearing a swimming suit? Crap.
I went onto Target’s website to see if they carry swim suits in my size. I got to the swim suit section and realized that I have no idea what ‘my size’ is! I saw some sizes that were the same as my pants size and figured that had to be close so I checked store availability for one suit that I thought might work. I entered our zip code and clicked go. I closed my eyes and willed the screen to come back with “None available”. I slowly opened my eyes and saw “Available”. Darn. So, I loaded my daughter into the stroller and my husband, son, and I walked down to Target.
My husband and son went to find water wings and swimming diapers. My daughter, who was happily playing in her stroller and blissfully unaware of the turmoil her mother was facing, went along for the ride when I took her to the swimming suit section of the store. I grabbed 5 suits that I thought might work. I hooked the hangers over my arm and pushed the stroller towards the dressing room. The attendant pointed me towards the family dressing room and I let myself in. I parked my daughter in the corner and locked the door. I hung the suits on the hook on the wall and started to undress.
I took the first suit off of the hanger and put it on with my back to the mirror. I looked at my daughter and asked her what she thought. She blew me a raspberry. I turned around and looked in the mirror. I agreed with her and blew myself a raspberry. That suit was wishful thinking. Too loose on top, too tight in the rear, and showed way too much stomach. I wanted to cry. I sat down on the bench and felt the tears well up. I looked at my daughter and silently cursed society that deemed it cute for my 6 month old to have rolls of fat, but grotesque if I have them. Then I thought to myself that I hope she never feels like she has to hide. She’s beautiful inside and out no matter what anyone else says. At that moment, it dawned on me…take your own advice, stupid!!
Boldly, I stood up and changed into the other suits. Each one worse than the last. Just as I was about to give up hope, I turned around to face the demon in the mirror that was wearing a one piece skirted black swimming suit. I immediately braced myself for the internal battle that ultimately ends in my own defeat. I looked at myself in the mirror. Not bad. Turned around…ok, not so good. Turned sideways…ok. I asked my daughter what she thought…she started crying. Yeah, that made me feel good! I decided that this was the one regardless of what my little girl thought. I calmed the baby, dressed, and walked out of the dressing room with a new confidence. I actually smiled as I put the swimming suit into the cart along side the kids' swimming items.
I realized in the 15 minutes we were in there that I need to look at myself as I look at my kids. I think they are amazing, beautiful, and capable of anything. If I want them to love themselves, have confidence, and be strong people…I need to show them how. I need to be their example. I need to be what I hope they will become. Even if that means wearing a swimming suit in public.
Sorry public.
(originally written July 1, 2010 by me)
Since then, I’ve gained a few pounds and suffer the heat of every summer behind long pants and baggy shirts hoping no one will notice how fat I’ve gotten. Not this year. I quit. No more hiding. I’m obviously not going to be a supermodel so I’ll just keep trying to get healthier and hope for the best. Those are the words of a confident woman, right? It’s amazing how confidence can ease into terror so quickly over one small comment.
Two days ago, I was informed that my sister (whom I love dearly) would like to take my son swimming. At first, I was terrified. He can’t swim. He could drown! What if an ambulance couldn’t get there fast enough? I know CPR, but could I remember it in that situation? All of those horrible thoughts ran through my head in about ½ second. Then a new fear started to creep into my subconscious and terrified me even more. What if he wanted me to swim with them? Oh no…I couldn’t. No one should be subjected to seeing me in a swimming suit, but I can’t go in the pool in shorts and a t-shirt (pool rules). He’d be so disappointed. I can’t disappoint my child. I’d do anything for him. Wait…does ‘anything’ include wearing a swimming suit? Crap.
I went onto Target’s website to see if they carry swim suits in my size. I got to the swim suit section and realized that I have no idea what ‘my size’ is! I saw some sizes that were the same as my pants size and figured that had to be close so I checked store availability for one suit that I thought might work. I entered our zip code and clicked go. I closed my eyes and willed the screen to come back with “None available”. I slowly opened my eyes and saw “Available”. Darn. So, I loaded my daughter into the stroller and my husband, son, and I walked down to Target.
My husband and son went to find water wings and swimming diapers. My daughter, who was happily playing in her stroller and blissfully unaware of the turmoil her mother was facing, went along for the ride when I took her to the swimming suit section of the store. I grabbed 5 suits that I thought might work. I hooked the hangers over my arm and pushed the stroller towards the dressing room. The attendant pointed me towards the family dressing room and I let myself in. I parked my daughter in the corner and locked the door. I hung the suits on the hook on the wall and started to undress.
I took the first suit off of the hanger and put it on with my back to the mirror. I looked at my daughter and asked her what she thought. She blew me a raspberry. I turned around and looked in the mirror. I agreed with her and blew myself a raspberry. That suit was wishful thinking. Too loose on top, too tight in the rear, and showed way too much stomach. I wanted to cry. I sat down on the bench and felt the tears well up. I looked at my daughter and silently cursed society that deemed it cute for my 6 month old to have rolls of fat, but grotesque if I have them. Then I thought to myself that I hope she never feels like she has to hide. She’s beautiful inside and out no matter what anyone else says. At that moment, it dawned on me…take your own advice, stupid!!
Boldly, I stood up and changed into the other suits. Each one worse than the last. Just as I was about to give up hope, I turned around to face the demon in the mirror that was wearing a one piece skirted black swimming suit. I immediately braced myself for the internal battle that ultimately ends in my own defeat. I looked at myself in the mirror. Not bad. Turned around…ok, not so good. Turned sideways…ok. I asked my daughter what she thought…she started crying. Yeah, that made me feel good! I decided that this was the one regardless of what my little girl thought. I calmed the baby, dressed, and walked out of the dressing room with a new confidence. I actually smiled as I put the swimming suit into the cart along side the kids' swimming items.
I realized in the 15 minutes we were in there that I need to look at myself as I look at my kids. I think they are amazing, beautiful, and capable of anything. If I want them to love themselves, have confidence, and be strong people…I need to show them how. I need to be their example. I need to be what I hope they will become. Even if that means wearing a swimming suit in public.
Sorry public.
(originally written July 1, 2010 by me)
Introductions come first
Hello.
My name is Jen. I am a wife and mother of 2 children. My husband and I both have full time jobs (Thank you, God) outside the home. We are struggling just like everyone else, but make sure to count our blessings every day.
This blog is to share little stories of things that happen in my life. The events in the stories won't necessarily be in chronological order. It's about an adult growing up with her family.
Remember, these are just my own thoughts and opinions. They may differ from yours and that's ok. I have no intentions of causing any drama or making anyone else feel bad. We all live in this world and have to share. Please remember that as you read my ramblings.
Enjoy! :)
My name is Jen. I am a wife and mother of 2 children. My husband and I both have full time jobs (Thank you, God) outside the home. We are struggling just like everyone else, but make sure to count our blessings every day.
This blog is to share little stories of things that happen in my life. The events in the stories won't necessarily be in chronological order. It's about an adult growing up with her family.
Remember, these are just my own thoughts and opinions. They may differ from yours and that's ok. I have no intentions of causing any drama or making anyone else feel bad. We all live in this world and have to share. Please remember that as you read my ramblings.
Enjoy! :)
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