Toddlers - The Littlest Jerks

 ***Warning: This Mama is kinda punchy. Proceed with caution!***

     Can we take a moment and talk about toddlers? Yes. We can. (Why? Because I'm the one writing… I choose the topic, Friends, and today, I need to rant about the small people aged 1-3!)

     Toddlers are this crazy half-breed of oversized-baby and grumpy old man, have you ever noticed that? They're partially non-verbal (which leads to a great deal of frustration for themselves and others), they walk with an awful lot of falling if there's not a supportive object to hold onto, desperately want their independence but need someone to make sure they aren't eating the deodorant again, require their food to be mashed or cut into small chunks, should wear a bib but what's the point of even trying, need some bathroom assistance (or things get pretty messy pretty quickly!), get grumpy easily and without provocation (particularly if a nap is missed), love to play with keys but probably should not be driving, have about half of their teeth, thin/fine hair, and are chunky in all the wrong parts.

     Sound familiar? It should. Because toddlers and grumpy old men make their presence known more than the average person. Seriously, my little man farted in the doctor's office today and smiled sweetly when he was finished. You know who else did the same thing? The old man about 4 seats away from us. (He, also, smiled sweetly.) My older toddler sneaks into the pantry to get junk food when no one is looking, despite being told 'No' about a thousand times. You know who else used to do the same thing when he was alive? My grandpa. Tell the man a million times that he has diabetes and can't have chocolate, and he'd pop one of those candies into his mouth, barely taking the time to unwrap it first!

     It's like toddlers are just practicing for the day when they can shuffle around the Senior Center, whacking unsuspecting people in the shins with their canes. Do you wanna know why toddlers aren't like little old ladies? Because little old ladies are NICE. Toddlers, quite frankly, are pint-sized jerks. (Ok, not all the time, but A LOT of the time!) Case in point….

     Today, I needed to go get my allergy shot. I noticed that the line was incredibly long, so I took my munchkin to the lovely air-conditioned store so we could pick up a few items while we killed a bit of time. But munchkin was not happy in the air-conditioned store. Rather, he was not happy that he had to sit in the shopping cart. He proceeded to share his dissatisfaction with the entire store, exhibited by screaming, grabbing things off the shelves and then throwing them, grabbing things out of the cart and throwing them, standing up in his cart and trying to crawl out, and smacking me every time I got into arm's reach. So… that was fun.

     To save the other patrons a headache, I let my gremlin loose on the ground. Finally… he stopped screaming. However, he did clear off the bottom racks of at least two aisles before I was able to catch him. He also shoved my cart over my sandaled toes, hit a saleswoman, and pulled down three pairs of sunglasses from a full rack, nearly toppling it as he did so. He also decided to learn the word “No” today… he practiced it loudly and frequently. He did not like it when I practiced it back.

     We finally made it to my allergist and, lo and behold, Mr. Mood Swing turned on his big cheesy grin as he shared his bag of Cheerios with a couple next to us. This was before he made a mad dash for the elevator and threw himself against the door in a screaming fit because it wouldn't open to let him inside. Once we were actually in the elevator and going back down to the 1st floor, he threw another fit because he wanted back out of the elevator. (I mean, who can argue with that kind of logic, really?)

     And what's with the irrational fears that go along with this crazy little age? Loves the vacuum cleaner but is terrified the grass. Doesn't blink an eye at fireworks but loses his mind when water touches his face. The two-year-old has also decided that fear shall rule his world without reason. He's decided to be terrified of clouds. Why? Because he's afraid that every cloud he sees will bring thunder. And how do you explain to a toddler that white clouds on a sunny day and storm clouds on a rainy day are different? Oh, you can't. Don't even try. Because either way, whatever the cloud-type, this is what you'll get….

     This is followed by sobs and half-prononced words like “FUNDER!” and “POWER!” He also believes that every evening, the power goes out. Why? Because the sun goes away. Nevermind that our lights still turn on… we have lost power. Plain and simple. And if you dare suggest catching lightening bugs outside, be prepared for a short-legged little man to go barreling past you at full speed, holding his ears and screaming “FUNDER!” the whole way. (Please. For the love of God. Call them fire flies!!)

     In order to make a little more rational sense out of the picture, my husband offered up this beautiful portrait as a replacement.

At least this would make sense, right??

     I'd like to say that it'll be better when they're older, but I have two older children, so I know that's a lie. And I'm pretty sure I've never met a rational teenager, so that's probably out of the question, too. One thing is for certain: children do NOT get more lucid as they age. It appears that people show small amounts of rational hope somewhere around mid-life, but then it's back to that half-breed we spoke of earlier.

     So, until mid-life, I'll keep picking up thrown objects, hugging in between punches, and devouring the shared Cheerios… even if they are slimy and covered in dog hair.

The Reason I Write

     A few weeks ago, I was perusing the Twitter world and stumbled upon an adoptive mother's profile. It read this:

“Hate my adopted kids. Please Help. Need hope.”

     That was it. That was her profile. Out of all the things she could've said about herself, this was what she chose. Not that she's a coffee-drinker, that she loves yoga, that she has 3 kids and a collie. Not that she is an adoptive mom looking for other adoptive moms to connect with. Not that she is a wife, a career woman, a health nut… nothing. Her only sense of identify had come down to the rawest of the raw – the ugliest truth she will ever reveal about herself, written plainly and simply for all to read.

     My heart began to ache a familiar ache for her. Oh, this sweet woman… How long had she been feeling this way and how desperate she must've become that she had to resort to Twitter for help? I quickly scanned her most recent tweets to find that she hadn't posted anything for 6 months. Six lonely, hopeless months. What devastated me even more was that she had only 3 followers… and that no one had responded to her pleas for help. This broken-down woman had placed her most vulnerable feelings in a bottle, cast it out to sea, and nothing but her own empty words had returned to her.

     A panic settled over me as I sent her an urgent message, asking her to contact me as soon as she could. My eyes were fixed on the computer screen before me, tears streaming down my face, willing her to respond. But it's been weeks. And there has been no response.

     I know many probably read her profile with haughty derision, critically casting mental stones in her direction. But I read her profile and immediately wanted to drive to wherever she was, whichever state or country it may be, so that I could wrap my knowing arms around her and let her cry and scream and say all the horrible things that needed to be said so that she could release the pain that has been strangling her for God knows how long.

     You guys, no mother wants to feel this way. No mother asks to hate her children. Little girls grow up envisioning a happily ever after, a till death do us part kind of family…. Not one of them dreamed of anti-depressants and ulcers and years of family therapy. This woman – this Twitter Mama – she loved children enough to adopt. She loved them enough to put up with whatever Life dished out to her for however long it took to break her. And I can feel her pain. Her disappointment in herself. Her mind telling her that she's a failure – that the kids would've been better off with their birth parents, or anyone else for that matter – that she's not just a rotten mother, but a rotten human being and that no one could love what she has become. I know her profile was short with very little details, but Friends, you just don't write that unless you've been to Hell and back.

     I know this to be true, because I was that woman.

     Just like Twitter Mama, I had adopted children. First of all, many people are usually quite vulnerable once they get to the place in life where they choose to adopt. For most, there is a reason they've chosen to go in that direction; be it infertility, difficult pregnancies, loss of a child, health problems, genetic make up, single parent, etc. Whatever the reason, there is a level of grief, anxiety, and worry that gets mixed in with the excitement of getting the call for a child. You have no idea what to expect, no time to prepare, and sometimes no information of what the child has already been through (if they're older, like ours were).

     The goal is for the new family to bond and to begin to heal one another. But what about the times where this doesn't happen? What about the times when the little people you "saved" start repeatedly (and sometimes intentionally) breaking your heart- that precious heart that was already so fragile to begin with? Combine an already broken and glued back together heart with a set of unique and difficult-to-manage children, and you're looking at a recipe for disaster. 

     There I was, months and months into anger and frustration, all my things being broken, feeling trapped in my own home, dealing with very persistent and inappropriate behaviors left and right, downright suffocating while trying to look like a good wife, mother, therapist, Christian. Our pre-adoptive baby that'd we had raised from birth had just been taken from us and I was in my first trimester of my pregnancy - sick and hormonal and grieving and raging like a machine.

     Finally, I snapped.

     This is where Twitter Mama has given me courage to say the hard things… to say them out loud and for others to read...

     I told them I wished I'd never adopted them. I told them that I hated them.

     They cried. And I'll never forget the feeling that came over me because it was followed by another feeling that mixed and mingled so well, I could barely tell them apart. I remember thinking how good it felt good to see THEM crying for a change, to know THEY were now feeling half as miserable as I was. And then the next feeling followed and blended into the folds of my heart somehow. The feeling that I was evil. That I had been so changed in this process, and that I was a shell of the person I'd used to be. That I was too far gone.

     Hate me if you must. Judge me. Scowl at me. Un-friend me. But you guys, this was where I was and how I lived for the better part of a year. Maybe more. I didn't choose to feel this way. I didn't want to be that person. I hated her to the core… and I blamed them for making her, me, that way. I blamed my husband for not being perfect amidst his own grief. I blamed my family and friends for not understanding how truly desperate our situation was. And I blamed God for allowing me to fall this far.

     In the heat of the moment, I left everyone. I grabbed my keys, my bible, my journal, and my cell phone. I ran out of the door and drove to a deserted parking lot. I screamed as loudly as I could until I felt sick to my ever-growing stomach. There I sat with shaking hands, gasping for air and recklessly leafing through my Bible, desperate to find any passages on how to learn to love those you hate. But there wasn't a guide to change it. Everything seemed vague and uncomforting, telling me to do things that had no real action plan… things like letting God change your heart, or turning the other cheek. Enraged, I tossed my Bible into the back seat and went to the Internet.

     'What to do if you hate your kids' wasn't in Google… the only thing I found was 'what to do if your kids hated YOU'. Because mothers aren't supposed to hate their kids! Even Google knows that! How do you make yourself feel love? Is it like an arranged marriage where you wake up and all of a sudden feel something for the other person? Or do you regret it for the rest of your life…? Why were their no answers? Why was everyone talking about the amazing ways that adoption changed their lives and why was no one else going through what I was facing? What was I doing wrong!

     When I called therapists, they told me I should try medication, but that our county was slammed with referrals and the wait to see a counselor was so long. And frankly, as a therapist in the same community I lived in, I was nervous to share my true thoughts with someone I already had interactions with professionally. It seemed to be a dead end.

     The weight of depression and condemnation pushed me into a tailspin. Trapped and hopeless, I contemplated taking my life. Not that I ever had a plan, not that I thought I would. But I needed to weigh all of my options. It was almost the one thing that let me feel a modicum of control in an otherwise uncontrollable situation. I could always just leave.

     I know the level of despair that I felt, and I still couldn't bring myself to be as outwardly honest as Twitter Mama… how much more desperate was this poor woman? She, too, looked for help and found nothing. Where was she now? Had she also contemplated leaving life? Leaving her family? Without the help she asked for, did she go through with it?

     My heart used to break for my own situation. And now, three-and-a-half years into our life with these kids, things have slowly changed. We gradually moved from hate to tolerance, from tolerance to fondness, and from fondness to love. I still have days where indifference threatens to settle back in. (Days like today, in fact!) But I know they are fleeting moments, because Jesus did do a work in my heart. He started to heal me, bit by broken bit, patching up all the grief and the loss and the anger and the intolerable pain. It was so slow I almost didn't see it happening. Of course, He was sure to leave the wounds open enough so that I could still feel the remnants of the scars and taste the bitterness that once was. This allows me to remember His grace and how far He's brought me. And it allows my heart to no longer break for my own situation, but to offer a hand, a heart, and a hug to others going through their own personal turmoils.

     Friends, will you do me a favor? Can we join together and lift our fellow sister up before the Lord? Will you agree to pray for this precious woman and her children, whoever she is, wherever she is? You don't have to agree with her, you don't have to understand where she's at. But then again, she doesn't need you to. She didn't ask for anyone to understand her or agree with her. She simply asked for hope. We can be her hope! We can stand in the gap for a woman we've never met because GOD knows her. He knows every hair on her head and every flutter of her heart. We have no idea where her heart is with Jesus, but we can certainly pray that she finds the rest and the peace and the saving Hope she so courageously asked for….How amazing for this woman to get to Heaven some day and see hundreds of women, men, parents, and unknown friends greeting her with a smile to say, “So glad you made it!”

     The lady on twitter…. That was me. And she is why I write.

     Dear Twitter Mama~

     I love you. I don't know your story, but I know you are in pain. It is horrendous and intolerable on good days, devastatingly terrifying on bad ones. But know this, Friend. You are so not alone. You have an army of angels hovering over you, a Lord going before you, and a confidant standing next to you. I would love to hold your hand through this storm and whisper words of peace over you as you rage/panic/shatter/collapse/do whatever you have to do… I struggled to find someone who could understand, and the embarrassment of sharing my pain took more courage than I could muster. YOU are a hero for being brave and vulnerable. I am so sorry there was no one to answer when you pleaded for help. No one was there to pick you up when you were at your weakest. I can only tell you that you will eventually walk again.

     I will walk with you. And you will walk with your children. They will see your courage and your tenacity… they will follow in your lead, Mama. You are so much stronger than you feel. Rest on Bigger Shoulders tonight, because you ARE NOT TOO FAR GONE. xoxo

HOPE. HEALING. LOVE. FAITH. JESUS.

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Day Trips With Littles

            People who bring their young children on day trips must be medicated. I see no other possible answer. Because I have done the day trip thing. I have packed the coolers, stocked the diaper bags, loaded up multiple changes of clothes, the sunblock, the towels, the bug spray, the strollers… I’ve packed our van so full of all the possible things we could need that it then becomes impossible to find the children amidst the bags and bags of necessities.

            As Moms, we prepare for all things. We have to. Because if we don’t, something terrible will happen… something like…. People will have to go without an afternoon snack. Or people will have to share towels…. Or people will have to carry their own belongings instead of using the stroller as their own personal pack mule. Guys. These are NOT terrible things. But we, the Moms, know that the terrible thing is what occurs if all these small people are not given their way or are slightly inconvenienced.

            The whining. The crying. The tantrums. The perpetual question-asking about the item that is not packed. The embarrassing mooching off of strangers to make up for their lack of item that is missing (did you know that toddlers will literally walk up to other people’s coolers and take food for themselves, shoveling it into their little mouths without a second thought? Yeah. That’s awkward.). The sighs of exasperation. The ungrateful attitudes for taking them on a day trip in the first place.

            This is why we prepare for all things. This is why people who bring their young children on day trips must be medicated.

            There is a local waterpark that our family had yet to try. So, in a moment of courage (and insanity), I scheduled a day trip to the park for our family of 6 and my sister-in-law, along with her three kids. We were outnumbered, yes, but since my niece and nephews are slightly older, we knew we’d have extra hands, thankfully.

            We arrived at the park and realize we’d forgotten the worst possible thing. The diaper bag. Hello… what are we, rookies?? Luckily, I had two swim diapers for each of the little boys in my own swim bag. But no wipes, no baby snacks, no regular diapers for the way home. This last one would come back to haunt us in the end.

          With children and adults loaded up with the rest of our packed belongings, we made our way through the sea of people to the dreaded changing rooms. Husband and I decided to divide and conquer… which usually looks a lot like us dividing and screaming, without ever actually reaching the conquering stage. He took our oldest and the 2-year-old while I took our daughter and the 1-year-old.

            I could write an entire blog on changing rooms. But to sum it up, let’s just say: 1) They’re gross with wet, slippery floors that cause overloaded Mamas to fall and small children to slip and whack their little noggins on a slimy, grimy surface. 2) They smell. Enough said. 3) Children who have been exposed to not so great things in the past tend to stare uncomfortably at strangers’ naked bodies in communal dressing areas, despite zillions of talks about the inappropriateness of the situation. 4) 1-year-olds can and will crawl out of your dressing room while you are half-naked with your pants around your ankles and unable to chase them. 5) You will have exactly 2.5 seconds to wiggle yourself into a too-small one-piece and pack up all your crap before a 7-year-old will begin pestering you about taking too long. 6) Babies hate swim diapers and will attempt to thrown themselves off of changing tables at the site of them. 7) You will hear your 2-year-old screaming bloody murder from the next room. 8) So will everyone else. 9) Your 7-year-old will announce to one and all that the screamer belongs to us. 10) Everyone will stare at you with sour faces.

            By the time we emerged from the changing room, I had already regretted our decision to come to the waterpark. I was sweaty and exhausted, and we’d only just begun! Luckily, there was no gate around the pool area, so our impulsive two-year-old had free and clear access to a day full of drowning. Thankfully, the 1-year-old decided to hate water with a very high degree of passion, and he expressed that passion exuberantly when brought anywhere near the water. Good thing it was a waterpark.

Happy... as long as kept away from all sources of water.

            The big kids were off and running. Where to? We never really did find out. They popped back to our camp of towels and lawn chairs long enough to binge on snacks before rushing off again.

And this is why we couldn't find him!

          The 7-year-old, still struggling to get the hang of swimming, was required to stay with a big person for the day. “But Mom,” she complains, “Watch, I can swim underwater!”

            “No, baby, that’s called sinking. Stay where you can touch and keep with us or your big cousin.”

Patiently waiting for an adult to swim with her.

            As a parent, you know that day outings aren’t about you. They’re obviously about the kids. That’s why you hold your pee in the entire day, so you don’t have to get everyone out of the pool and stand outside the restrooms without wandering off. And that’s why you forgo all the yummy snacks you packed, just in case one of the little ones would happen to get hungry later on. It’s why you hold your head high when the baby knocks your left boob out of its swim-suited holster as he tantrums over his missed nap and you try to one-handedly fix your suit while not dropping him on his head. Its why you wait in line with a swarm of 8-year-olds to go down the world’s slowest water slide, because your daughter is terrified of you not being at the bottom to catch her when her time arrives. And it’s why you smile as your 2-year-old pees a river in the sand pit and you have no other choice but to kick a neighboring sand castle over it and hurry him from the play area.

Pre-River-Making.

            How do other mothers look so relaxed, so calm on these outings? Do they not have worries? Are they not fearful of kidnappers, sun poisoning, dehydration, tantrums, slip and fall accidents? Have they NOT seen the dry-drowning article on Facebook??? I know I’m a worry-wart… it just took so long to get these kids in the first place. I can’t imagine having to start all over. Because in the words of one of society’s greatest poets, “Ain’t nobody got time for that.”

          But at the end of the day, no one ingested a horrible amount of water and showed signs of dry-drowning. (All those nightmares… all that panic!) Everyone was appropriately sunscreened with only a few random body parts that were missed, evident by odd streaking patterns. All were happy, all were fed, and all were sufficiently worn out. But none of them more than me. For I had been holding my breath against all that could have gone wrong all day. And some of them did, but a lot of them didn’t. Sure, the toddler walked into the house and urinated all over the floor, which then spread to the baby toys and books…. But it’s not his fault we left the diaper bag at home!

            So, when my sister-in-law suggested that we do another date to the waterpark before the kids go back to school, I offered up an enthusiastic Yes! After all, what’s the worst thing that could happen?

Taylor Takes On The Dentist

            Today, Taylor had dental surgery. Let me start off by saying that anxiety-ridden 7-year-old girls who already have a high propensity for drama, mixed with the expectancy of teeth extractions, equals one hot mess! The poor thing was born into bad teeth. I know this because her biological mother had no teeth. Nada. Zero. Zip. Her biological brother, also our son, Cameron, also has terrible teeth. She’s already had multiple fillings. Caps and orthodontic work are a given. Extractions are a must.

           Despite brushing twice daily and consuming very little sugary products, we still have found ourselves in a stressful predicament. The days/weeks of nerve-wracking anticipation for the grand teeth pulling, the months of headaches, the gum pain, the tears… oh, the tears! Let’s just say our dramatic princess has been even more emotional than usual!

          My alarm went off at 5 am and I staggered nauseously down the stairs to Taylor’s room. I turned on her light and touched her arm. And before her little eyes even opened, the tears started slipping from beneath her long lashes. But there was no time for another cry-session as we had to be out the door by 5:15, so I hustled her along and we were in the van without a moment to spare. She asked to watch a movie in the car. She chose The Tooth Fairy.

          It seemed appropriate and kept her occupied on our 1-hour trip to the surgery center. Miraculously, she held herself together through the intake process, even when we had to go through yet another explanation of her adoption, talking about her past family’s health issues, and completing another change in guarantors on her medical forms. (Side note: how many times do we have to do this? Shouldn’t we be in the system by now? It’s been 3 ½ years since the adoption already! Don’t these people know that talking about the bio family each and every time we have to go to a doctor isn’t helping my kids??)

          Once we got back to the prep-room, the nerves reemerged. Luckily for me (and now, for all of you), Taylor was given Silly Juice. And let me tell you, it lived up to every bit of its name! In less than 10 minutes, my shy/nervous/clingy little girl turned into the picture of a tipsy patron who had just emerged from the local establishment. She was, in fact, a walking margarita.

          It started with the giggles. There she was, in her gown and cap and fuzzy socks, cracking herself up like a loon.

          After listening to her cackle at six-bloody-thirty in the morning, I casually mentioned that I could really use another cup of coffee. This was her response to me:

“Mommy! Don’t EVER stop drinking coffee…. It’ll just ruin my life!”

(Ok, I was starting to feel amused.)

“Why’s that, Tay?”

“Because of all the spaces!”

“Because of what spaces, honey?”

“What spaces?”

“I don’t know that’s what I’m asking you.”

“What spaces?”

(Trying not to giggle) “I don’t know honey, nevermind.”

(Terror suddenly spread across her face.) “Holy crap, where ARE we?”

(Ok, definitely starting to giggle.) “Honey, we’re at the dentist, remember?”

“Oh… did Wyatt run away? Where did he go?” (She starts frantically looking around for the baby.)

“Taylor, Wyatt is at home with Daddy. We didn’t bring him, remember?”

“Bring him where? Where are we?”

(Ok, giggling is turning to all-out laughter.) “We’re at the dentist, honey. Here, you wanna play a game on my phone while you wait?”

          I set her up with a kid’s app that allows her to practice typing like in a text message. She typed her name. Five minutes later, she typed me this gem and slurred an explanation that this was a love letter to me.

          I thanked her for the lovely message… whatever it said. That’s when Daddy called on the phone to say hi to her. She grabbed for the phone and started talking into it upside-down. I helped her flip the phone the correct way and she proceeded to giggle and slur all sorts of silly things, spit slipping from the corners of her mouth in tiny bubbles. As she talked, her eyes began rolling in circles and she told me that I have more than one head. (It was obviously time to take the phone.)

          “Mommy…. I wanna see the streen. The streen. The streen. The…. I don’t know. Doyouhaveany lipstip? Lickstip? Litstick? Litstit? For my lits?”

          And this is why I started taking videos. I don’t care, you can call it exploitation of a child when they’re in a vulnerable state. But I call it Heaven. When I die, I expect this to be played on a continuous loop while I’m in that mansion in the sky. Yes. This is my favorite thing ever.

          Suddenly, my daughter raises her finger as if saying “Check please!” as she yelled to a passing doctor. “Exxxxuse me? Where’s my mudder? My mudder? My mother?” The doctor chuckled and made a comment about the fantastic powers of Silly Juice as I gently touched her arm and assured her that I was directly next to her…. Exactly where I had been for the past 45 minutes. She looked at me like I was an alien. Then, with sudden recognition, she goes, “Heeeyyyy. I see you there! Ha. Ha ha. Hahaha, hehe. Hum.”

          Is it wrong that I love her more like this? I mean, that is wrong, isn’t it. It is. I know it is. Ok. Sorry. (Actually, no I’m not. This is fan-tas-tic!)

          And then it got even better. As I was just finishing a text to my husband, I looked back up and noticed that my daughter was sliding out of her chair like a slippery fish. She looked like pure liquid as she seamlessly glided over each bump and curve of the big recliner. She landed in a puddle on the floor and laughed so loudly that nurses came running to see what the commotion was! I picked up my jello-y daughter and tried to situate her back in the chair, but it was no use. She was a complete blob.

          So, I slumped her as best as I could and secured her pillow and blankets around her to keep her upright. And then…. Stage two of Silly Juice set in. This is where she started tripping.

“Ahh, oooohhhh…. I don’t want my teeeeeeeth pulled!” (Sobs. Tears. Yells.)

“Where am I? Oh my gosh, where am I??” (Fear. Terror. Hysterics.)

“Moooommmmmy! I’m having bad dreams!” (Hallucinations. Horror. Panic.)

“Hey, you look funny… I look funny. Ha, am I upside-down?”

“Don’t let them kill me, Mommy…… pleeeeaaaaase!!”

          Ok, it was getting less funny very quickly. The nurses said I could pick her up and hold her until her gurney arrived. She asked if I would “cubble” her. I think she meant cuddle. So I did. And when her bed showed up outside our curtained room, she wailed in fear.

          She screamed my name for all to hear as they wheeled her down the hall and out of sight. And it was definitely not my favorite part. I remembered back to a time several years ago when she used to scream for her biological mom like that. I used to feel so hurt. And now, even though her screams broke my heart, I felt a sense of warmth pour through me. I am that mommy now.

          I returned to my place in the waiting room, sipping my 6th cup of teeny, tiny coffee as I patiently froze to death in the sub-zero temperatures of the office. My coffee tasted like dirt. I was contemplating a 7th cup with the doctor came into the waiting room.

          “First off, your daughter did great. So no worries. Two teeth pulled, two capped, two filled. Secondly, does your daughter tend to be a little dramatic? I checked her over good and she’s in great health, everything went well, she didn’t even need stitches. But she’s very difficult to calm down. Is that normal?”

          “She got a papercut once and wanted to go to the ER. And then there was the time she got a splinter and I thought she was being murdered when my husband tried taking it out… he hadn’t even touched her yet when she started screaming. So…. Yeah. Normal.”

          “Ok! Just checking. You guy are good to go!”

          On the way home, she was every bit the gem I’d envisioned she’d be. I thought about taking her back to the hospital and asking them to keep her until the new teeth grew back in. But it hardly seemed fair to their staff. Not that she’s not in pain… I know it must feel terrible! But once she started sobbing uncontrollably over the vanity of having caps and now looking “stupid like Cameron”, I decided it was probably time for a mandatory nap!

          And she’s been sleeping ever since. The final stage of the Silly Juice is apparently a coma. And for this, I am grateful.

Teenage Girls

     There I was, being a good little mother, minding my own business, when all of a sudden all of my children decided that they wanted to be teenage girls. If you have a teenage girl, you already feel sorry for me. If you don’t, let me explain what the past week in our household has looked like.

The Indecisive Child:

Cameron (the 9-year-old)- “I want to play with play dough.”

Me- “Go ahead.”

C- “Ugh….. but I don’t really WANT to play with play dough… UGH!!!” (This was followed by 45 minutes of tears. I kid you not, my child sobbed when given his way.)

The Mood Swing Child:

Taylor (the 7-year-old)- “Thanks for having us do homework over the summer, Mom! I don’t wanna forget everything I’ve learned before 2nd grade even starts!”

(2 minutes later) “I forgot how to add. I FORGOT HOW TO ADD!!!” (Let the tears begin.)

(5 minutes later) “Oh, nevermind, I remember! Ha!” (Smiles of pride replace the tears.)

(3 minutes later) “I forgot it AGAIN!!!” (Tears resume.)

The Entitled Child:

C- “I think you should give me $10 every time I do yard work for you.”

Me- “Nice try. It’s called being part of a family. We work for free around here.”

C- “That’s not even fair!”

Me- “I think you should give me $10 every time I do your laundry. And cook you dinner. And flush the toilet for you. THAT would be fair.”

C- “You guys never give me anything!”

Me- “Shelter… food… clothes… swim lessons… any of these ringing a bell?”

C- “But I want money to buy things!”

Me- “So do I! Either get a job or get a more grateful heart, child, but either way, you’d better get out of arms reach if you’d like to continue living here rent-free.”

The Screaming Child:

Wyatt (14-months-old)-  Frustrated by his inability to articulate his needs, and the fact that he has FOUR TEETH COMING IN (including a molar), he has taken to screaming. Screaming during the day, screaming during the night, screaming when his screaming becomes too laborious for him, screaming when he’s bored…. He even screamed when I refused to let him stab me with a pen. Not kidding.

And the higher the pitch, the more delight he seems to get out of his new hobby. It’s awesome.

The Rude Child:

C- “Why don’t you EVER take us anywhere cool? You’re not any fun.”

Me- “Well, I thought the circus was fun… and the pool. And the amusement park, VBS, the library program, hiking, the park, out to eat….”

C- “McDonald’s is NOT out to eat.”

Me- “I’m sorry that McDonald’s is so beneath you. Your advanced pallet of hot dogs and ramen noodles obviously has you spoiled. Well, we certainly won’t be going there anymore if you can’t show a little appreciation for the things that we do. I’m sorry I can’t entertain you every second of every day, but you’re old enough to use your imagination and be creative. You can play and do some things on your own while I do work.”

T- “It’s not OUR fault you have to work though….” (Said with such attitude!)

And that’s when I took away all electronics, made them put on play clothes, and banished them outside. I told them they could come in when they were no longer teenage girls. They looked at me in confusion. I locked the door behind them.

And they tell me I’m not fun!

The Dramatic Child:

Isaac (2-year-old)- “I want a yogret.”

Me: “Ok, you can have a yogurt in a minute. Let me finish putting the dishes away, ok?”

 I-“I want a yogret now!!”

 Me: “Honey, hold on. Mama’s almost done.”

 I-throws himself down into a prone position, screams into the floor, kicks his legs, cries hysterically, spits all over the floor and rubs his face through it.

T- “Isaac, you wanna come play with the trains?”

I-“Yeah!!!” (Jumps up as if nothing’s happened.)

The Utter Ridiculous Child:

T- “Mom, please take me to the park to ride my bike!!”

Me- “Taylor, there are a lot of hills and it’s almost dark. We’d have to rush the entire time without any stops or they’ll shut the gates on us and we won’t be able to get back out. And you always need breaks, remember?”

T- “No I don’t, Mommy, please! I really, really, really want to ride my bike on the smooth roads!”

     I finally agreed because I wanted to get some exercise anyways. We arrived at the park and were a total of 30 feet into our 2.5 mile walk/bike ride.

T- “Mom, I HATE this! (sobs) I want to quit! (gasps) Will you push my bike and hold my helmet? (flops to ground in “agony”) PLEASE, Mom, I really, really, really want to go back home!”

Me- “Toughen up, cupcake. It’s gonna be a long ride.”

She sobbed for exactly 2.5 miles.

      My husband wants to send them all to the gynecologist to have their ovaries removed because he fears their menstrual cycles have all synced up. And I, the only one with actual working ovaries, am in full agreement. God help us if this summer doesn’t end quickly because these children… they’re flipping nuts.

     I feel the need to say that I love them… but those of you with adolescent girls already know that this is not a necessary clarification, so I’ll just let it go. Bless you, parents of teenagers. Bless you for your patience. Bless you for your strength to not smother them in their sleep. Just… bless you.