FLASHBACK: November 12, 2011
Dad: “Your daughter likes to tie up the limbs of her stuffed animals.”
Me: “Um. That’s worrisome.”
Dad: “Oh, You have nothing to worry about. You don’t have to date her.”
…It’s always illuminating when the parents come to visit…
It’s 3:30am. I jolt awake and roll over to see Billie, wide eyed and smiling, at my bed.
“Mommy. I think we have to dance.”
Uh. Hell yes we do.
And we did.
And it was awesome.
I didn’t even think about it, guys. My kid was like, “dance party?” And I was like, “duh.”
Except now I’ve been up since 3:30 and I have a super long day ahead of me.
Damnit.
…When am I going to realize that I’m the parent in this relationship?
FLASHBACK: August 17, 2012
There were grandiose promises of going to the water park before naptime today. Billie put on her “babe-ing” suit and was ready to go when I discovered that she had broken into the refrigerator and emptied the entire contents of her almond milk on the floor. I think this was partially my fault. We were talking about being brave and fearless while watching Dora the Explorer do random gymnastics moves today. She wanted to be brave, too, I guess, so she said she was “milk skating.”
I could’ve killed her.
Instead, we sopped up the mess and I told her that, because mommy had to mop the entire house (which, of course, had milk tracked all over it by a certain milk-skater), she had to go down for a nap- thus no water park. Well, until after nap at least. She was devastated. The whole, “we will go later” argument doesn’t compute to a two year old. I might as well have told her I had, single handedly, burned the water park to the ground and then danced on the ashes. Fits were thrown. Tears were cried. Curses of “you’re a MEAN MOMMY” were heard throughout the neighborhood. Still, it was naptime.
And then the thunder started.
See, we just came back from a two-month hiatus in California. I had forgotten all about the mid-day thunderstorms that plagued our quaint little part of Louisiana. Half of me felt vindicated. Like, “See? We couldn’t have gone to the water park anyway! Who’s the mean mommy now, sukkas!?” And then the other half of me remembered: Shit. Billie’s afraid of thunder.
I walked into Billie’s room to find her huddled desperately in the corner of her bed with her hands over her eyes. She was shivering in fear held to the bed by the imaginary threat of mean mommy going nuts on her if she were to get out. The “stay consistent” mommy in me should’ve let her ride her fear out alone. Most mommies of two-year-olds know better than to interrupt the pre-sleep-naptime process. You leave the kid alone, no matter the circumstance, and let them pacify themselves into sleep.
But, damnit, that’s my kid.
She’s shivering in fear as the thunder raps intensely at the ceiling above her, as if it wanted inside her room. Am I going to let that fear consume her until she falls into an uneasy sleep? Am I going to let her “figure it out” on her own? Should I be consistent? Stick to my guns? Why do I have the sudden urge to sit on the couch in sweats and stuff my face with ice cream while watching reruns of “The Talk?” Get it together, Heather. Make a decision.
She’s still covering her eyes so she doesn’t see me when I enter her room. I don’t bother explaining to her how futile it is to cover her eyes (especially since you can’t see thunder), I pick her up and hold her. She’s freaked out, “NO MOMMY! No! I want the bed! I want to hide! The bed!!! The bedddd!” She’s crying now.
“Can I show you something?” I ask gently.
She’s still sobbing when I walk her outside and she clutches desperately to my chest. It’s raining harder than I anticipated and she starts crying more.
“My bed! My bed! Let me hide! I want my beeddddd!”
“Wow, Billie, look!” I say, pretending not to hear her screaming nonsensical ‘mean mommy’ curses, “Look at the plants! They’re drinking allllll the rain up. And see that? The animals will be able to drink that puddle and play in it! And, over there! What a pretty flower! I bet that flower is happy for the rain!”
“Flower happy? For the rain?”
“Yes,” I say, “And look how green everything is! I bet it’s because of all this rain.”
The thunder crashes again, Billie’s clutches me tightly but doesn’t scream. I explain to her that the thunder is saying, “Hi,” and that the thunder is helping the rain feed the plants and animals (that’s technically incorrect but, c’mon, she’s two. Baby steps).
“Nooo,” she whines, “It’s scarrry.”
We’re soaked now. The rain is relentless and I’m beginning to think this lesson was more idealistic hippy thoughts than actually good practice. Shit. Well, I’m in deep now, might as well keep going.
“It is scary,” I say, “But if it didn’t happen then things wouldn’t grow. Then you wouldn’t have flowers. Or birds. Or bunnies.”
“No bunnies?”
“Nope. No bunnies.”
She thinks a minute. I watch the rain drops collect in her hair before eventually soaking into her curls. She finally sighs.
“The thunder is scary, Momma. But I’m brave. And we need bunnies.”
“We definitely need bunnies,” I agree.
We decide to go inside and re-try the nap thing. I lay her down just as the thunder roars right above us. She shakes and looks as me expectedly. “It’s OK. You’re OK. The rain will end and the bunnies will be happy and then we will go play.”
She seems to be at ease with that logic. I kiss her on the forehead and walk to the door.
“Momma?”
“Yes?”
“The thunder says hi?”
“Yes. It’s saying hi.”
“Well. You tell it I need to go ni-night.”
She was asleep within five minutes after that.
I will never cease to be utterly captivated by her resilience. Her thought process. Her.
And I think I learned something. Lately I’ve been consumed by fear. I live in a new place where can’t find a job worth having to save my life. I’m consumed with the fear of failure to a point where it sometimes immobilizes me. I often feel that, maybe, these problems are too big for me.
…But I just watched my daughter conquer something that felt too big to her.
And she did it anyway with grace and wit and courage.
So, next time shit gets too real- too scary- I’m going to think to myself, “Yes. This is scary. But I’m brave. And we need bunnies.”
…Keeps it all in perspective, if you ask me.
FLASHBACK: April 8, 2013
6 months ago Billie was into Monsters.
Like, Monster everything. Monster Movies, Monster Books, Monster Socks, Monster Artwork on her wall. Being a monster was cool. Having a monster under your bed? Even cooler. This child would play “Princess and Monsters” and DEMAND that she was the monster. So, I hope you get the point when I say: she really fucking liked monsters.
Flash forward to now: she’s hovering in her bed, shaking with terror, crying hysterically for her daddy to come save her from, you guessed it, monsters.
Apparently the peaceful alliance she had once had with monsters is now over.
Maybe it’s a phase. Maybe she instigated it and told them they sucked or something. Or maybe it went to hell after they saw how much she liked that “How to Train Your Dragon” movie and the monsters were like, “WHAT. We’ve let this kid into our hearts and caves (monsters live in caves… right?) and now she’s gunna ditch us for those fire breathing sell-outs? Eff that noise. This bitch is toast.” And then they went all ape-shit and hid in her dresser drawers forcing her to go days without wearing underwear.
Oh, yea, she doesn’t want to wear her underwear anymore.
Because of the monsters.
Not that I can really blame her- especially since the kid wears two pairs of tights, a skirt, leggings, and knee high socks ALL AT ONCE. It takes everything in me to not be like, “Meh. You’re covered there anyway, kid. Have at it.” But then I have that vision of her falling ass over tea kettle on the playground, crotch to the world like some Bad Mom Bat Signal. So she wears underwear. And the monsters don’t eat her. Hell, those chickens don’t even show up. But that doesn’t seem to matter to Billie. Thus me standing over her dresser drawers every morning with a stuffed Lion and baseball bat. You know, for protection. From the… imaginary… monsters.
Christ. Either I’m a rockstar mom or I’m just as crazy as she is for enabling this behavior…
Either way- let’s hear it for Daddy who swooped in and held her until she fell asleep in his arms. I would’ve done it guys, really, but I had the audacity to suggest that the monsters were just manifestations of her inner fear of not having complete control in her life. As a direct result, I was banned from the monster recovery party.
Three year olds just don’t get psychology.
Hacks.
I was a tough child. Well, I’m a tough person in general. But strictly speaking, were you to ask my mom who the hardest kid to raise was, she would say me. Every time.
Obviously, I am honored and humbled by the distinction.
Now, thankfully, Billie is not like me. She does not try to make every day hard just because she can. She doesn’t do mean things just to illicit a response. Hell, I’ve never even seen her try to throw a knife let alone at someone’s head (which is something that a younger me may or may not have done. Twice. At my sister’s 8th birthday party). She’s kind with her words, generous with her time, and always down to laugh or crack jokes. She’s basically awesome.
Except when she’s not.
Last night was a rough night for Billie. She had a meltdown as we left her daycare and decided that hitting me and throwing things at my face was the appropriate response. She screamed in the car the entire way home. In response I blasted the radio. Bruno Mars crooned “All you young, wild girls- you’ll be the death of me” as my daughter’s screams pierced through every layer of sanity that I had left. When we finally got home she was out of the car and on our neighbor Emille’s front porch before you could spell “Xanax.”
Now, before I continue, you must know about Emille. Emille is New Orleans. He is everything quirky and great and socially inappropriate about this city. At 70 years old Emille spends most of his days shirtless on his front porch watching the neighborhood. He has all the swag that being an old black man in the South could possibly afford him and he uses every ounce of it to cat call passerby and love on his grandchildren. He has signed for more of my packages than I have and is always there to help when I need him. He is an ever-present source of humor and love. And Billie adores him.
When I go to retrieve my tyrant of a daughter from Emille’s porch he has already disappeared inside his house. “He’s gone to get me a toy!” Billie informs me excitedly. Funny, seconds ago she was screaming in my ear and, now, she’s smiling serenely in anticipation of her new gift.
Oh. Fuck that, kid. I think, You’re the devil. No toys for you.
When Emille returns I thank him for the gift and inform him that Billie will not be receiving it tonight. Billie has misbehaved egregiously and I will be holding on to it until she can redeem herself. Emille’s face melts from the pleasant, rosy faced grin that I’m used to into what I imagine the Grim Reaper would look like during a particularly rough bowel movement. “Bille,” he starts sternly, “You didn’t tell me ya were a bad girl.” His old cajun voice is broken glass over gravel and Billie shrinks behind me as he reprimands her loudly. See, while Emille is nice, he is also Southern. And bad manners, disrespect, and empty beer bottles are really the only things that are not tolerated in the South. Naturally, Emille’s old Southern roots took over and he starts in on Billie, “Now, let me tell you bout yourself, kid. Your momma works TOO DAMN HARD for you to be actin’ a mess…”
Our other neighbors are getting out of their car with their two pit bulls in time to hear him scolding her. “Ooooh, Billie! Looks like you in trouble!” they warn good-naturedly. Billie has had enough. She doesn’t know how to handle the negative attention and decides that screaming loudly will be the best way to interrupt it. Emille’s eyes narrow. My other neighbors halt their dogs to watch the show. I, not wanting this to escalate, grab Billies hand to lead her to our front door. Unfortunately, Billie sees this as an attack and goes to bite my hand. Of course, I am quick and switch hands while still walking her toward the house before any damage is done. But Emille sees her try to bite me. He starts screaming “WHIP HER! WHIP HER! OH HOLY LORD JESUS WHIP HER!!!” while jumping up and down shirtless, all 250 pounds of him swelling and heaving with each new jump. The pit bulls start barking. Billie is still screaming and trying to bite me. I make it to the door under a hail of howling, laughter, and chants of “WHIP HER!!” I can barely get my key in the door. Billie is still screaming. Three people cross the street to watch the show. There is a brief moment of silence when I finally get the door open. I can finally hear myself think. Things get really still for one, beautiful moment.
Then I hear Emille. “Have you whipped her yet?”
Billie screams. The dogs try to rush at Billie.
I push her inside and slam the door to find Doug standing there. He’s heard the commotion and was coming to help.
“You guys OK?” He asks concerned.
“We’ve had a rough day.”
“Aw,” His concerned eyes flicker toward Billie’s tear stained face as he goes toward her, “My poor girls–”
“Hug her and I kill you.”
He stops and meets my eyes. I watch him put it all together. The yelling. The dogs barking. The screaming Billie. And me brandishing my patented ‘don’t fuck with me’ face. He doesn’t know exactly what happened- but Billie is somehow the common denominator here. He takes a deep breath.
“Billie. Go to your room. Now.” His eyes follow her out the door, “Mommy. Go get yourself some Jameson.”
Good man.
Good man, indeed.
As I walk passed Billie’s door I see her throwing things against her wall and screaming “THIS IS NOT HILARIOUS. YOU ARE A BAD MOMMY. I WANT MY TOOOYYYSSSS!!!”
Sigh.
Maybe I should air mail my mom some whiskey. You know, as belated apology of sorts.
…I’d better make it a barrel of Jameson.
My bad, mom.
FLASHBACK: September 1, 2011
The upside to having a kid with asthma is that, while you’re forcing the inhaler to their face urging them to inhale, you can introduce counting. To make the whole “sticking an angry looking plastic thing to your face” experience a little less intense, Doug and I count to ten and make all sorts of silly noises to make the process a little less scary. Plus- once we reach “ten” we stop- it signifys the end and gets her comfortable with counting.
When we started this routine she would try to count with us- but she could only get up to “two.” So it would go something like this:
Doug and I: “One”
Billie: “One”
Doug and I: “Two”
Billie: “Two”
“Three”
“Two”
“Four”
“Two”
“Five”
“Two”
“Six”
“Two”
“Seven”
“Two”
“Eight”
“Two”
“Nine”
“Two”
“Ten!”
“TWOOOOOOO!”
Just last night, though, she got a little more inventive with her counting:
Doug and I: “One”
Billie: “One”
Doug and I: “Two”
Billie: “Two”
“Three”
“TREE”
“Four”
“No.”
“Five”
“More”
“Six”
“I’m”
“Seven”
“All”
“Eight”
“Done”
“Nine”
“FINE”
“Ten!”
“Byeeeeee!”
and then she runs away…
Haha- I love it…
FLASHBACK: April 28, 2012
So Billie had picture day at school a couple months ago. Sadly, we weren’t able to get any pictures of her because we couldn’t pick her up that day and then, when they came back 3 weeks later, we were in California. LAME. But, thankfully, they gave all the kids they photographed T-shirts with their picture on them. This is the most amazing idea ever. Hand a narcissistic two-year-old a T-shirt with their own face on it. I wish I had been a part of that marketing strategy. I’d be a millionaire.
Anyways, this is a real conversation I had with Doug the other day. It made me happy.
Doug: “So, Billie’s wearing her special shirt tonight and I promised her she could wear it for school tomorrow, too. So, please. Just let her wear it or she’ll go nuts.”
Me: “Her special shirt? Which one is that?”
Doug: “The one with her picture on it. She’s obsessed. Everything I said to her tonight I also had to say to her shirt.”
Me: (I can’t help it. I’m laughing. The visual is just too much) “Wait. She made you talk to her shirt?”
Doug: “Oh yea. I’d say, ‘Goodnight Billie. I love you’ and kiss her on the forehead and she’d go, ‘Now say it to Billie, too’ and hold out her shirt. So, there I was, a grown ass man. Talking to a shirt. Felt a damn fool.”
Me: “Oh. That’s amazing. Did she make you kiss the shirt goodnight too?”
Doug: “I’d rather not say.”
Me: “You kissed her shirt goodnight, didn’t you??”
Doug: (hangs his head ashamed. Then thinks for a moment) “What is with the narcissim in this family?”
Me: “Well. Can you blame us? We’re fucking beautiful.”
Doug: “At least we know it’s genetic.”
I’d like to also add that Doug is an amazing father. I don’t know too many men who would willingly have a conversation with a shirt all night.
FLASHBACK: September 23, 2012
Billie has three toys she’s playing with right now. A zebra, a dog, and a cow. She’s been trying to stand them up on her lap for the past 10 minutes. Inevitably, the zebra knocks the cow over who then knocks the dog over and all three fall onto the floor. Finally, she gets frustrated and sits on all three of them while crossing her arms indignantly.
I looked at her, sitting on her animals in silent rage, and asked, “Um. What are you doing?”
Her response?
“It’s the circle of life.”
…
…..
…….oh. my. god.
I don’t know whether I’m raising a genius or a sadist but I’ve been on this couch laughing to myself for the past 10 minutes.
Billie’s sense of style could very well be the only reason I believe in a spiritual power greater than my own. I have seen that child put together an outfit comprised of 6 different types of patterns, two different bathing suits (one one- piece and one bikini bottom), a tutu, a scarf, one rainbow tennis shoe, one princess tennis shoe, and a jean jacket and BY GOLLY IT WORKED. Not only did the outfit work conceptually, I daresay it looked good. Really good.
Me? I live in gym shorts. I know this did not come from me.
If I had to guess this gift was either a) inherited from her super stylish father or b) she sucks the creative soul juice out of all of our artist friends. Either is a possibility.
Anyway, I digress, the kid’s got style.
Continue reading “ALL MISMATCH ALL THE TIME!”
When it comes to parenting, people always talk about that moment. That one moment when a child is born that forever changes their lives and offers a very specific clarity to the world in which they live.
I have never had such a moment.
My daughter was born and there was no magical revelation. No crazy, earth shattering catharsis. There wasn’t even a life- altering, soul expanding, decree of “NOW THE WORLD MAKES SENSE” or some shit.
There was just panic. And stress. And love, of course.
But I thought I was a failure because I didn’t have that moment. Because I didn’t immediately get washed up in some love tidal wave that left me oozing with appreciation and adoration of the thing that just tunneled its way out of my loins. I thought some secret Mommy Mafia was going to rise up from the bowels of the earth, screaming Raffi lullabies in latin, and ripping my kid from my arms as the people from Child Protective Services did the the ChaCha in celebration.
It carried this weight with me until my daughter was well out of diapers. I didn’t have that moment. I wasn’t one of those parents. I failed. Anyone with a Facebook who is friends of new parents will tell you that that moment is fucking crucial for social validation. The “OMG I JUST MET THIS LITTLE GUY AND I’M SO IN LOVE ALREADY” is the most standard and banal of captions coupling baby’s first photo. To not have this moment, or feeling, relegates you to a bad parent wasteland where your selfish mindset is almost always the first thing highlighted.
I spent years thinking that was the answer. I didn’t have that moment because I was selfish. I didn’t put my own child’s existence before mine thus allowing her birth to be the single most incredible lightning bolt to the heart that has ever happened in the history of ever. And that fact alone made me a bad person. And a terrible mother.
Then the clarity settles in.
See, I dropped Billie off at her daycare today. She asked for a hug and I gave her one. Before I knew it- the other ten kids in the daycare surrounded me, screaming desperately for a hug. I’m not one to voluntarily hug strangers’ kids but I know enough about children to know that, if they’re asking for a hug, it’s because they need it. So I start dolling out hugs. Billie stands to the side watching as the kids line up to hug me. The last kid, a little girl, gives me the hugest smile and the most epic of hugs. I tell her, “Happy Friday, beautiful! Have a great day.” The little girl turns to leave, but changes her mind and barrels back into my chest before I’m even able to understand what’s going on. Billie looks at me and says, “I told her your hugs were magic. She needs all the magic right now.” When the little girl pulled away from me she was still smiling but now there were tears in her eyes. I found out later, from the teacher, that the little girl’s been having some “trouble” at home. I doubt Billie was aware of any of that- but she knew enough to know that the little girl needed kindness. And that I could give it.
I realize now that I didn’t have that sudden parental love moment not because it wasn’t there; on the contrary, it was always there. That moment of extreme love and catharsis was present in Billie’s birth and every millisecond thereafter. It was there when she was an infant- sick and vomiting into my shirt as I held her. It was there when I found myself fantasizing about punching a 5 year old on the playground for making fun of her hair. It was there in her first bike ride. See, I’m not the kind of person who relinquishes herself to love easily. I’m the kind of person who doesn’t understand that what she’s feeling is love until it’s burrowed so deeply into her flesh that she mistakes it for a biological necessity. I’m the kind of person who wears her love completely, like skin. It’s not something that just gets magically added to your life in profound light bulb flashes. It’s something that is already a part of you. Something so deep and embedded that sometimes you won’t even know it’s there until you’ve already used it. Something that seems invisible until the light hits it just right.
Like magic.
Billie's Momma 