Love is Blind

Dear Blog, I think it’s time I say “Goodbye”

2009-07-29T05:50:00Z

I’m afraid my blog and I are calling it quits. You heard me. I got straight to the point and let you know what was on my mind, a rare move for Megg Lasswell.

I had every intention of letting those of you who are kind enough to read my blog, know that I was leaving behind Love is Blind…weeks ago. Unfortunately, I am a bit of a non-confrontational asshole and I'm letting you know right now. Right here and now, in this, my “dear john” letter. I’m hoping that you all will forgive me for exiting on this last blog post instead of telling you and then posting some more. That’s such a bitch move, right? I know, and I hang my head in shame.

The good news, if you choose to see it that way (and I hope you do), is that I will be moving out of the Love is Blind home and into the Strollerderby complex. I’m absolutely excited and totally blessed to be a part of the Babble family and so I hope you will tune in at my new locale. I shall be there a few times a week, with my random words, just for you. As for my GiGi updates, you can always find us at my Mommy Martini blog, which I promise to update quite a bit. I haven’t been as diligent about updating it while posting here, so you can bet your ass that I will be on top of that blog from here on out. In fact, some reasons for my bye bye blogging are on my latest post. I have a great many things to learn and experience as a first time mother so why not commiserate with or laugh together.

You can, of course, also find me on Twitter or Facebook if you like. See, I’m not going far.

It’s been cathartic, amusing, blissful, and resourceful blogging here. To those of you reading, thank you so much for letting me do what I do and for never ever seeming to be that offended. Thank you for your often sweet replies You’re lovely. Yes, you.

So then, I suppose this is Goodbye (for now. from here. )

Sorry and the apologies

2009-07-22T17:31:00Z

(Believe it or not, this is a fake cry. see, I tld you she was good.)

Today, like any other day, GiGi hits me. She flails around or smacks me (along with the bed, books, chair, doll, etc) out of frustration and a myriad of other reasons Im not quite sure of. I am 100% positive that this is just some sort of a toddler phase that we will outgrow soon. In the meantime, GiGi has decided to pick up on the word “sorry” to make up for all the hitting she’s doing.

I started teaching her that when we hit (we meaning her) that we need to say “sorry.” She caught on abnormally quick to the right moments for the correct opportunity to say “sorry.” The first 40 times she said it, it was heartfelt and I think we both cried during the apology. Recently, she has begun to say it, fake cry, and then hit again.

Somewhere along the lines of meaning the apology and faking it, she decided that if she simply said the words, it must be okay to continue doing what she was doing before I reprimanded her. So, now that she has figured out the effects of one “sorry mommy”, on said mommy, she is abusing this get-out-of-jail-free like phrase. We seem to be back to square one with things like kicking me at the dinner table and then apologizing WHILE kicking some more.

Maybe I’m aiding the little vixen in her actress like ways and unsympathetic like protests of guilt and genuine apologies because I laugh every single time she pretends to cry. So I guess I deserve my thigh full of bruises, right?

Potty Training Myself

2009-07-13T12:17:00Z

Teaching a toddler, my toddler in particular, to pee and poop on a toilet has always been something that I didn’t particularly look forward to. You can call me lazy, awful, horrible and a shitty parent all you want (no pun intended) but I just never got super excited at the thought of potty training GiGi. First of all, the word “training” instantly brings me thoughts of the Olympics, or animals who do tricks, both of which are quite cool but not exactly the image of my child on a potty seat. The idea of my daughter learning to go to the bathroom outside of her pants isn’t first on the list, however screwed up that is. So, the wording alone puts me off, never mind the actual possibility of my child giving me more fun messes to clean up in the future. (****And on a side note - if they call it "potty training" does that make me the coach? If so, where are my whistle, jersey, and both head and arm sweatband? Do we need a sponsor?)

I want her to have the independence that comes along with going to the bathroom alone, really I do. I also love entertaining the idea that my wallet will be fatter from spending less money on diapers, etc. With anything that my babe does, it’s on her schedule and at her pace, this much I’ve learned. Family and friends and lovely sites have talked about toddlers+bathrooms=challenge. It was inevitable that being a first time mother I would try to pick up some tips on what might make sense for potty training bathroom Olympics protocol. One week GiGi had this epiphany that peeing in her diaper is something far too exciting to keep to herself, and when she shares that news with me I change her diaper. Voila! Picking up on what she was layin’ down, I began the whole potty training thing with the deluxe clone of a big potty that comes in the delightful shade of baby blue and produces stickers when she flushes and music when she is both trying to go potty and when she actually goes. Sensors, stickers, music, and a flip up toilet seat…what’s not to love right? Right. GiGi played with the potty constantly. Played as in the past tense of play. I opted for a potty seat that fits on the “big girl potty” and removed the deluxe toddler potty because the only use we were getting out of that was a make shift ipod (or would that be ppod?) and a removable pee holder that my kid would suck on. Don’t worry, it isn’t as gross as it sounds. If she had actually sat on the seat with a bare butt to pee instead of giving the seat a little ass-drive-by, then I would have freaked out a little more.

GiGi is the proud owner of a princess pink designed potty seat that I couldn’t care less about and she doesn’t understand at all (fyi: we have stricken the word PRINCESS from our vocabulary here. Unless there is one shaking your hand at Disneyland or you’re referring to a Disney song sung by one). She has a little step to help her off of the potty and a few other items to assist in potty time. Being that I am doing this whole “training” thing and the last that this situation arose I was a kid myself and on the learning end of it – I don’t know jack about what I’m doing. Peeing and pooping and loving GiGi are all natural things so I figure I’ll just wing it.

(Potty Animal)

I know that I have, thus far, created a potty monster. She is getting awfully demanding in the bathroom although Im sure if she had better-than-terribly two- manners it would just seem ritualistic and normal. Anytime she is set on the potty, she screams “water!” and “bookie! Fish!” which means, “Hey mom can you please fetch me a little cup by the toothbrushes and fill it with water and then grab my Dr. Seuss One fish two fish Braille book? Thanks, you’re a dear.” If the previously stated needs are not met, then I get to deal with potty boss and her wicked refusal to pee. I try to shutdown her crankiness, and appease her wishes, since I am the one who created this standard of potty training. When I originally started taking her to the bathroom, I brought her a book for double reasons. 1.) maybe she would sit longer with a book she loves, and, 2.) who doesn’t like something trashy to read on the toilet? I’m sure most people don’t find Dr. Seuss trashy, and on the whole I don’t either, but how responsible is it to have a fish driving a car in the water? And counting too? Sounds like a sobriety check to me, don’t you think (coughcoughLindsayLohanoftheFishWorldcough)? Im just saying its like a toddler version of In Touch magazine….ish. The water thing was a suggestion by a few people as a tool that might make the pee come out faster than the molasses-long wait we had been having.

Water, book.

On tough days I sing the Kimya Dawson song Pee Pee in the Potty, to her but I fear it only makes her giggle the pee in instead of out. I’ve learned to keep her on the potty for a little bit because my luck has been to take her to the bathroom, grant her book, water, and song wishes and then finally let her red-ringed booty climb down off of the toilet only to have her instantly pee wear she stands.

The whole potty training thing is going along like anything new and challenging. There are times when she just wants a book and a sip of water so will say “potty mommy!” knowing I will rush her to the bathroom (and then nothing!) Then there are those occasions where I will tell her that she can go potty after mommy, and she ends up peeing where she stands because she really did have to go, minus the books and water. She is also doing really well with saying “POOP” right as she begins to go. I keep asking her to tell me when she has to go, and although she’s doing just that, Im hoping she will give me a longer heads up. It’s quite the learning experience for the both of us.

There is also the ever-present elephant in the room when it comes to talking about potty training with other parents. We all know that this milestone, like feeding themselves, walking, and talking, are all things that move our kids toward independence. Move them toward trust from us to do little things they can handle, alone. I trust GiGi to walk into her room and play with her toys. I know that she can tell me what she wants now whether it be milk, dinner, swings, books, kisses, or peeing. What I’m nervous about, to be quite honest and bearing too much information is the bathroom, and more specifically poop. I know that kids are messy and I also know that they try hard to not be, sometimes. How, with a severe visual impairment, is GiGi going to learn to umm, maintain that aspect of the bathroom going process? I posed this question in a parenting forum anonymously: “How do you teach your children when they can stop wiping after they have gone poop/number two/ deuces?” Do you know what the response has been?

“what are you blind?” or “what are they blind? You can just tell by looking.” or "it's not hard, just look."

Thus my dilemma. There is no forum for this kind of a question on a “parents of blind children” website, nor do I really feel all that outgoing with a question like this. Does that make any sense? I mean I can explain my frustration here, but to ask a group of parents who have been in my position, with or without anonymity …feels slightly silly. The answer feels like it should be an innate part of raising a child with visual impairments and my asking would prove I’m truly an idiot. I don’t feel like being the one that the other parents point and laugh at over this subject. I’m sure it seems like a trivial question and all, but the lack of an answer plagues me and sometimes intimidates me. So our potty training continues, with a what-feels-natural vibe and a ton of questions that I suppose I will have to figure out on my own and then put in a public web-place somewhere so that other mothers don’t have to go “oh fuck. How am I going to teach little Sally THAT?!” like I’m doing.

In the midst of all the odd bathroom rituals we’ve created together, GiGi and I use bathroom time as bonding time, just like my sisters and I did and still do. When I was younger, our bathroom was always filled with girls. I blame my parents need to build such a large bathroom for invoking bathroom gab fests for the duration of my life. To this day, locked or not, you can expect the bathroom door to open at some point during your time in the bathroom, and some family member walking in to talk about something in secret. It feels like the same thing is beginning to happen with GiGi as well. It amuses me that we spend so much time in the bathroom together, reading and singing; talking about ABC’s and counting to ten. I think it’s because of this that I can relax for the moment and let nature takes its course, instead sitting there uptight because I don’t really have a clue what I’m supposed to be doing.

Short of Breath.

2009-07-01T01:16:00Z

On Saturday morning I packed the car with my suitcase, plenty of GiGi-type-food, and a granola bar for good measure. It had been at least 3-4 weeks since I had last stayed the weekend with my girlfriends in the bay area, so I was looking forward to a weekend of uncensored girl talk (complete with words and topics to make my mother blush). It was especially exciting to get a tiny break from being a snack making, mind shaping, potty training mommy and passing her along to spend time with her daddy-o. I had high hopes of bouncing out to the car at 7 am on the dot, and actually succeeded in doing s, despite the super stress of dealing with a slight fender bender the day before.

Backing out of a parking spot in a most unfavorite superstore chain, I looked both ways several times, and then smacked into a driver who decided to play “raceway” in the parking lot isles. A small woman in a large suv hit the brakes to “wait for a parking spot” to empty out and I backed into her going .0004 mph. I hit her tire and gave the rubber a little of my silver paint, and my back bumper suffered a dent the size of a hand…or a fist punch. This seems like the true meaning of the word “accident” in my opinion. At least it does, on my end. GiGi seemed fine aside from the obvious distraction in our plan to acquire some much needed milk from Starbucks. She didn’t make a peep, and since it really didn’t feel like anything at all, I considered us both v. fine. I stepped out of my car with my paper, pen, insurance card and license on hand. The woman in the other vehicle refused to move. She also spoke zero English and even after someone who spoke her native tongue arrived, still couldn’t manage to understand my need for an exchange of information. I’d like to say that it worked itself out smoothly after that, but there was an ambulance, a police officer, several eye rolling witnesses, and a very near fight (a lovely father of two confronted the driver and her passengers while they requested an ambulance and I believe my favorite phrase was “come on now, this is a fucking scam and you know. There’s nothing wrong with you OR your car.”)

In the end, she drove away in an ambulance while the officer continued to look for any sign of damage on her vehicle. He came up negative on that one, just as he did with proof of her insurance. I was left sobbing, wondering why someone would be deliberately trying to take advantage of the situation.

So on Saturday morning, I tried to be positive and hush the neon words in my head, like “$1000 DEDUCTABLE” and “SCREWED OVER” and “MY INSURANCE JUST WENT DOWN. NOW THIS!?!!” I managed to get into a happy groove and drop off the tot to her dad, and get over to my haircut, eyebrow wax and dye appointment with 10 minutes to spare. I got all dolled up and then drove over to A’s house. I remember taking an allergy pill the moment I arrived because I was feeling a little snotty. Staying with her is hit or miss on the sneezing thing. We were roomated for years, and so her home and the kitten condition is nothing new to my nose, but sometimes it affects me a little worse than other times. I honestly assumed that I was just more sensitive that day, considering that I wasn’t there for that long before she and I, and two other of my lovely ladies went to lunch.

(The brows. The hair.)

At lunch I still felt sort of sneezy, but short of breath as well. I chalked it up to a pretty fucking miserable symptom of allergies, but nothing more. By the time I got into bed that night, I was having harder time breathing. I flipped through pictures on my phone of GiGi, since I hate spending an evening away from her, and thought about the little things I was trying to remain positive about. Sometimes working hard to remain positive takes it toll and at night I just lay tere thinking of all the shit that I need to really get a hang of. I had gone through every class listed in the Fall Schedule catalog for college and gotten onto a few waitlists and nothing for sure. I had a doctor appointment for GiGi and needed to make another that I totally forgot to do. This accident was going to impair my ability to finally pay off my debt, as well severely bother me with its unethical crap a-brewing from the other party….and now on top of all of those things I was having hard time breathing. Awesome.

The next morning I woke up with the same issues of snot and sneezes and shortness of breath. I trudged along through a movie (The Hangover. Hilarious IMHO) and lunch with my best friends. As I picked up my daughter and hugged her like I hadn’t seen her in 17 years, I noticed that it physically ached to pick her up. I started to think that I had tweeked my body somehow and that I was slowly crumbling into an old woman who just had a domino effect of some odd illness. Maybe I was getting the newest swine flu…like… the Siberian tiger flu or something?

My ex had explained that GiGi pretty much refused to eat for the 26+ hours he had her. That never sits well with a parent, does it? We got to L’s house and after to guiltful small fries later, she was crying less but whining more. After four hours of attempting to get her to go to sleep she finally went down at midnight. At that point in time, I was afraid to fall asleep because I was having such difficulty breathing. Genius right? To think like that and not go to the ER…I’m brilliant? I’d like to say I had a better reason other than, eep! My kid would be hard to handle in ER, and I couldn’t impose on anyone to watch her while I sissy out and go to a doctor.

As 6 am rolled around and I could barely pick GiGi up without feeling like I was going to pass out, I made up my mind to skip the endocrinology appointment for her, and drive home to see a doctor. To keep myself calm, and the babe happy, I absolutely indulged her road trip whims so that I could just get home. Yes, one of those whims were her newly acquired and not so often tasted “fries!” at 11 am.

Would you believe that this whole thing was an asthma attack? A three-day asthma attack to be precise. I’m sure it sounds like a typical attack to someone who has asthma, but since I don’t, er…didn’t think I had it, it never crossed my mind that that’s what was going on. The doctor, who I call Magic Man, said it was a combination of allergies, and asthma attack but also, an anxiety attack tossed in to really fuck things up. I was told to calm down, and I’m so glad my sister was there with me because I thought I was a really chill person. From the outside, to others, I guess I am a little high strung. Hrmm.

A few types of pills and an inhaler later, I am feeling wonderful again. My upper body is still sore from apparently working overtime to help get some air (and sanity?) but other than that I am feeling like…me. Im ready for whatever it is my busy toddler bring my way, and as GiGi says:

Hold it now, Hit it.

2009-06-24T01:38:00Z

We are at a point in our lives where hitting has taken over previously mellow manners. I tell GiGi “no. we don’t open the cupboards,” and she lies on the floor crying out my name until I pick her up so that she can hit me in the closest of proximities. She’s sly that way. I’m not sure when the buzz grabbed a hold of her ear and identified a 1-2-punch-scratch combo as the coolest new thing around, but there it is. Like white on snow, like gum under tables, hitting has arrived and it’s not going anywhere, anytime soon. At least, that’s what it feels like.

I have resorted to buying the book, The Happiest Toddler on the Block, to try and salvage some of my midday sanity. I wasn’t really enthused with the idea of buying the Happy baby/tot books, but after someone on my favorite parenting/lady/witty/life-saving forum mentioned, the author and I share the same method of acting a tantrum out. Or so I’m told. I figure if I am already like-minded in some teensy way to this author, then maybe there is a useful sentence or ten in this book that can save my arms, face and chest from the wrath of the ever-growing and relentless nails of my babe.

For most of the day, GiGi is a happy individual. We play and read books and there is plenty of singing going on, but, when she snaps – she snaps. At home, I set her down and say “No. We don’t scratch mommy (or hit).” In public, however, I can’t just set her down. She seems to know this too, which is why she quietly scratches the shi*t out of my arms and attempts to throw herself backwards, right out of my arms. This habit has been going on for quite some time, but I just feel like now that she’s older and is repeating everything, and understanding 99% of what I say, things should be a little different. Maybe I’m silly and maybe I should stop whining about the hitting and scratching, but it just seems like we’re at a place where there is enough communication forming to forfeit the struggles just a little bit. Yes? No?

Today she woke up in a bad mood. Last night GiGi went to bed at her recently changed and newly normal self taught 9:45 pm bed time and woke up twelve hours later. I’m not sure if the skewed schedule has altered her mood, but I can’t pin the whole hitting thing solely on that. I mean, she is two after all. So…she woke up and got off to a rough start this morning and after slamming not only her fingers in a drawer while standing right next to me, but also her foot in a cupboard that she was slamming the door to, the morning was shot. Tears, tears and more tears followed by her hitting me yet again. I took her to her bed and told her that she could lay there and try to restart the day. Did she understand me? No, probably not those terms, but I think she understood that when you have a tantrum and mommy puts you in bed, that you had better simmer down and say “sorry.” Sorry, the word we have been working on for a week now.

When I picked her up out of her bed a few minutes later, she laid on me and continued to coo and ramble in my ear and occasionally scratch me or slap my chest and then start crying. For a few moments I started to think that she was cutting teeth or constipated, or maybe even had another issue to which I wasn’t aware. I just held her and tried to think of what I could do.

…and then she pushed herself off of my chest and rubbed her little eyes with two little fingers under her sweet little magenta glasses and puckered her lips out. Her shoulders shook and she gulped a few times fighting back tears and said “ss.ss.s….sorry,” and then began to sob.

And then I cried.

And I’m pretty sure my mom, sitting an arm’s length away, wanted to shed a tear or two out of pure heartbreak and sympathy.

I hate that she was so upset and looked so pitiful, but I feel proud that she is getting the hang of this whole hitting and apologizing thing. I hugged her and tried to keep my explanation of the rules, brief, but she cried more. Well, she cried and then randomly stopped, giggled, and said “peek-a-boo!”

So I think we’re making progress, and I’ll be glad to thumb through someone else’s idea of what a parent might do in a situations like the ones I’m facing, but I’ll still opt for what feels right. After the “sorry” from GiGi, she lasted a whole 9 hours before she did it again. That’s something right?

Mellow.

Mouth Like a Sailor

2009-06-16T15:05:00Z

I have a foul mouth. While I would love to admit that I have mouth like a sailor, I must say that I have been around quite a few maritime men and never met my match (proud, aren’t you mom!). I’m not completely devoid of decency and morals and though I enjoy the perfect opportunity to use a filthy word, I refrain as much as possible around elders and little ones. That being said, I am human.

I’ve dropped a few+ f-bombs around the babe and I always just considered them as words floating around the air that landed where they may. As long as I wasn’t teaching her to say words like shit, fuck, crap, damn it, hell, and the many other creations you can come up with, I figured I wasn’t really doing my child any disservice. I also really, really don’t think it’s appropriate to yell in front of GiGi so any bad words were said in jest or simple conversation for the most part.

…and then she learned to talk overnight.

All at once my little girl went from being a little girl into becoming this walking, talking, curious toddler. I’d like to think that the whole “do as I say not as I do,” thing works, but it just doesn’t when it comes to kids learning to speak. GiGi has been a good mirror for my awful mouth and while I highly enjoy my language, I realize just how much I use the wrong words in front of her. I would die, absolutely die, if she said the ‘f’ word in front anyone. So, I’ve begun to swap damn it for darn it and take up saying the word flock instead of fuck and shoot/shite/shitake in place of shit. I’m trying my hardest to clean up my mouth even if it means saying sass instead of ass. ***P.S.- sasshole isn’t nearly as satisfying.

I was sitting on the steps outside of our bath tub last night, taking a video of my bubble faced child singing in the water. It was one of those adorable remember-this-moment-when-you’re-gray times and then I saw poop floating amidst the watermelon scented suds. My worst nightmare caught on tape. This was worse than the pooping on the slide incident from a few weeks ago. There were so many bubbles in the bath that I couldn’t find it/them. I needed to get her to stand up so that I could rinse her off, and then take her out of the tub. In the split second that I took to make a game plan in my head, she took the drain stop out and began to splash like crazy, grabbing at things, poop included. The entire time I tried to get her to stand up, she’s splashing poop particles in my face (at least that’s what I told myself) and she’s raising bath toys to her mouth as I bat them away. A slippery child in a poop bath is not a good test for someone trying to refrain from using bad words. The whole time I struggled to get her out, I would say “GIGI!!” and she would “reply “DAMN IT! DAMN IT! DAMN IT! GiGi!”

I struggled and she said “come on!” or “stop.” Both phrases are definitely more appealing than damn it, but even she understood the proper usage of the words. Last night wasn’t the first night she said the words “damn it,” but it was the first time she said “shit.” I don’t like that she said it and on normal circumstances I would reprimand her and give her a little talking-to about words on the No-No List, but when I’m on my knees with purple gloved hands, picking poop out of the bath, it isn’t the perfect learning moment. Especially when you realize the water isn’t draining because a poop log is stuck in the drain.

Gross.

No no…FUCKING GROSS.

How am I going to get through moments like that without cussing? Can I just try my hardest to watch my mouth in normal settings and then save up those words for something really bad like poop baths? I suppose the bottom line is that it isn’t cute when a toddler says bad words. Okay, maybe the first time, but after that it’s just trashy. I don’t want her to be the 12 year old who calls her friends bitches, or lets the f-bombs drop around her grandparents. Am I the only one actively struggling not to cuss or is everyone okay with saying darn and oh shoot!?

(I'd love to provide photo or video from last night but, the camera is giving me some isues. Enjoy a pic from Saturdays' stroll in the park!)

Shear Addiction

2009-06-10T17:05:00Z

Someone needs to come into my home and physically remove all scissors from my cabinets, drawers, and desk organizers. What I thought would be a simple trim to remove the halfway-there-mullet from the back of GiGi’s head, has turned into a daily haircut.

Is there a documented, known condition in which one feels like they must keep cutting hair? I swear I’m addicted. My hands tingle and those shiny trimming shears that my mother keeps next to her barbers’ chair outside call to me at unexpected times, like when I’m eating a banana and watching a little Adventures in Babysitting. The hairs on her sweet little baby noggin seem long and unruly, even though they were just trimmed the day before, and the day before that. I’m out of control.

The good news is that her hair has not been butchered and/or severely altered for the worse. Also.. mo more constant pigtails or hair in her eyes. The first person I asked was my sister, who let me know that it looked nice. Of course, she winced at the idea of me cutting her hair so soon (is two really that young for a first haircut?). I set up Salon d’megg in the bathroom and as she ran past the door on the way to the kitchen, I asked her opinion. There was a brief “awwww” and then a “don’t forget to save a lock of her hair,” as she vanished from the room. Dude. How could I have forgotten to keep hair? I’m like, Queen of Sentimental and Sappy. I reached into the sink where the hair was swirling around the sides, headed for the drain, and swiped the little lock left in there. So, wet and funky looking, it sits in a little Ziploc bag. I wonder what I need it for. Surely my mother has a lock of my hair from my first cut, but to my knowledge and recollection I’ve never seen it. You’d think she would have pulled it out by now and shown it to some ex-boyfriend or best friend as proof that I’m not really a brunette. Proof that I wasn’t ever a red-head. Evidence that I’m blonde and blonde can be. Bu no, no she hasn’t. She what do I need it for?

When my dad saw the trim he was delighted by the new do and impressed that I hadn’t “messed it up,” which I must say, I was too. If anyone is going to give me a completely honest opinion it would be my dad, so I trust that it isn’t wretched.

So, my problem is not that the haircut is awful, or that I fucked up a precious head of hair, but that I cannot STOP cutting hair. Every day I notice something that needs correcting. Like, her bangs aren’t short enough or that her hair is .000005 millimeters longer on the left than the right. Then I tried to make sure her hair would sort of curl under, so I put a tiny spritz of product in her hair and used the blow dryer.

OH MY GOD.

If someone doesn’t stop me, GiGi will have a faux hawk or some other equally modern style. I will slowly become a stage-mom sans the stage and bedazzled trophies, and have lip gloss on her lips by age three and a push up bra by age four. No, I don’t agree with any of the gussying up of small children, but I’ve already put product in her hair and become addicted to the sweet goodness that is hair cutting addiction – high on the existence of shape and lack of mullet. In love with the fact that she doesn’t resemble the jail mugshots of Gary Busey or Nick Nolte from the back anymore. What’s next? Baby highlights?

(ooooh bangs!)

A letter to the climber

2009-06-05T17:01:00Z

Dear GiGi,

I know that you may find me bothersome at times, because I seem pushy. I know when dinner comes along you are just trying to catch a meal in your brightly colored high chair and I am too busy pleading with you to use fork or spoon for you to really enjoy your food. I realize that this is tiring and you want to poke me in the arm with that fork, right before you launch it across the room. I understand, really I do. Why on Earth should you use an oddly shaped piece of plastic to pick up your strawberries when your hands work oh-so-much better? Why the f* would you TOUCH applesauce when you can just cry until I say, “fine, fine! I’ll feed you!” It’s slimy, hard to handle, and too cold to be bearable in the palm of your hand.

Honestly, bunny bee, I get it. There are things I don’t understand yet about what makes you thrive and what sends you over the edge in terms of touch and taste. I will try to keep that in mind but I will also encourage you and keep presenting you with a fork and spoon. Maybe I will just start preparing 12 forks each with a bite of dinner so that you don’t have to break down with trauma filled tears every time I say “let’s try using our fork to get ANOTHER bite.”

You’re two years old and I already feel like I’m baring a slight resemblance to one of those mothers who can be too pushy for their own good.

I’ve pushed and you’ve pushed back with ample force. On April 7^th, when you got a slide for your birthday, I had high hopes that it would help you climb and slide and learn some fantastic skills on your own. Instead, you stood at the slide and patted the seat while smiling. Since it’s been yours, I have picked you and put you at the top of the burgundy slide and helped push you down. Pushy me, pushing you. You love it, from what I can tell. There are even times when you attempt to climb up the slide the wrong way. I applaud your efforts to interact with the slide at all, and so I let you climb up it any old way you want for now.

I’ve tried to show you how to put one foot up and then bring the other foot up next to it, onto a thin blue step, but you freeze. You go all sorts of tin-man-in-the-rain on me, and refuse to try to climb the two steps it takes to get to the top of the slide. Just like the fork and spoon and eating events, I try to put myself in your shoes and imagine what it must be like. I would be scared to climb on something as tall as me and then swing both feet up, one at a time, and sit down, with nothing at my back. I would be scared so I stop trying to push you so hard. Then I realize that you and I are different , and I think you are much braver than I’ll ever be, so I push only a little bit. I know you’ll push back so it’s okay.

And then, when I’m wondering if anything I ever do with you counts, since you are on your own schedule, you go and do something as little, as simple, as GIANT as can be for me, and climb up the slide. Unanticipated, there you go, climbing up the steps and down the slide. Again and again and again, there you go.

I’m proud of you. I sat back today and thought about how cool it is that you finally began to climb the slide since its been....2 months? It seems like longer. I know that this is just something cool you figured out how to do, and when you’re ready to pee on the potty, eat with a fork, or even slide down a slide all by yourself, you will. Thank you for doing such small things to blow my mind and make me all the more happy I’m your mother.

You, baby, are wonderful creature.

Love,

Mama

(Here is a little footage I caught of GiGi on the slide. Is it just me or does her hair resemble Nick Nolte or Gary Busey and their arrest record? Past 8 pm…..the hair goes downhill……)

On, Off, On, Off, On, Off, On, Off, On, Off...

2009-05-29T02:51:00Z

Two years old seems to be way too early for pms, so what is the issue with my child? What on earth is GiGi thinking while lying on the floor kicking and screaming because I direct her attention away from the television and its knobs? What is she thinking as she throws herself backward onto the ground as I tell her “no no, that’s mommy’s keyboard.”

The television and its buttons are quite mesmerizing, I get it. I understand that when you are visually impaired to a somewhat indefinable (at-this-point) degree, having a flicker of light 2 mm from you face can be quite inviting. GiGi adores standing in front of our tv for 20 minutes at a time if I let her, turning the damn thing on and off. For a while she was changing the channels also, but that quickly got her removed from the situation, so I think she’s caught on to the idea that the one button in charge of on/off is the safest route for tv play. I find it hard to be that mad when she turns it on and then presses the off button, and so on and so on.

It bright

Its dark

Its bright

Its dark

It’s interesting if you are two and your mother is reading, working on something, or writing and letting you get away with what you have been told “no” to …at least a gaziladozen times. I feel bad that I tell her no sometimes and then pretend not to notice other times. The reason she doesn’t listen when I say no is clearly illustrated in my actions, so I suppose I will deal with it. I’ve created the monster or at least indulged her. I’m still going to be annoyed. I wonder when the buttons lose their luster.

GiGi also likes to b-line right to my computer when I’m running through the house doing this or that. I can usually find her at the tv or with her little hands grasping the space bar. My laptop is out of whack now thanks to GiGi and her molesting of the keys. I don’t know how she does it, but she found the delete key and removed some photos that I had up on the screen. We’ve got this pretty well established routine for computer time, and when I find her playing with the keyboard or within a few feet of it, I call her name. She responds with a quick “no no!” and then she goes into wet noodle mode, going limp and falling backward to the ground. It’s lame; lame and frightening because you never know what she’s going to land on, back first. Books, toys, you name it, it’s possible.

Another awesome item on GiGi’s daily planner is cupboard opening. The child is addicted to opening every drawer and cupboard she can get her hands on. Every bathroom, kitchen, and bedroom cupboard is opened and closed about the same number of times as the the tv buttons or the space bar. It’s predictable. It’s obsessive. It’ s also loud and humorous. She hasn’t ventured INTO the drawers or the cupboards so I can breathe a sigh of relief for that. It’s only a matter of time before we get super-pinched fingers and she actually figures out that she can just reach for the cookies in the cabinet instead of standing there and saying “mama, cookie!” for five minutes at a time.

Telling her not to do these little things isn’t so troubling for me, but the constant meltdown that accompanies it is.

This is how today has gone. And yesterday, and the day before and the day before. I’m sure it is how our day will go tomorrow and the day after as well. I just hope that it ends soon. Wouldn’t it be nice to ask our kids to simmer down and set a time limit on when they can do these things? “GiGi, I don’t like that you open doors, turn the tv on and off 300 times an hour, or that you type faster than I do on my laptop –BUT- if we can call a truce and say, end this whole gig next Monday, that would be awesome.”

“Deal?”

“Right on! Carry on with the spacebar grabbing.”

Why can’t she hurry with the aging so that I can bargain with her? Sure, she’s tiny and adorable and fits on my hip and under my arm, but I can’t wait for the age of reason(ing). I’ve only got, what, twenty more years before that happens?

GiGi...pre-television/laptop/drawer/cupboard-no-no-ing

Single Parent in School: 101

2009-05-22T13:05:00Z

It’s been a year and half(ish) since I moved back to the home I had once slammed doors in, got grounded and confined to, and yelled “I HATE YOU” within the walls of. Thanks to age and wisdom I have yet to do the above (within earshot) this time around. Before I made the decision to move back into my parents home after leaving it at age seventeen, I told myself that I would go back to school. I had every intention of hopping into classes and getting something done. There was one slight problem, as I hadn’t yet figured out what I was going to do.

Feeling like that, the cluelessness and la-di-da attitude, reminds me of when I was seventeen and all I wanted to do was take art classes and be left alone. It’s understandable at seventeen but at t twenty seven? Not f*cking cute at all. For the past year and a half I have done quite a few things that I wanted to do. I’ve overcome my personal and confidential panic attacks and bonded with my daughter more than I ever thought I would be able to. I’ve loved it. We’ve played at the park during the day and painted and made silly things that I normally wouldn’t have been able to do during the hours of 8-5 because normally I would have been asking some random man on a ship where the captain was and making small talk about the weather and families. I would have been smoking an Assos cigarette with a handsome man from Greece and having my ego eye-stroked by non-English speaking crew members. I would have done those things forever had I not given birth to the most incredible human being in my life. Okay, I may have done those things (hello bills and rent in the bay area!), minus the cigarettes, had it not been for the whole baby/birth/incredible child thing, and the panic and guilt associated with a little things called visual impairment.

Now that we have gotten settled into being mom and babe, we are catching the razor blades that life hurls at us and *POOF* turning them into cupcakes. We’re doing well. We’re doing so swell that the idea that has been somersaulting around my brain is finally materializing.

After our first appointment with a pediatric ophthalmologist, the very next person we met was a Visual Impairment specialist who worked with the Blind Babies Foundation in Oakland. She came in with a bag of toys and a box of reading material. I stared at her materials and then whipped out a box of my own. Papers upon papers of information pertaining to her diagnosis and anything else I could find that might explain what I should be doing for GiGi at that point in time. Books that the Blind Babies Foundation (BBF) had quickly sent to my house in two days flat. It was information overload I admit. Pamphlets and booklets galore sat between the two of us and she looked at me and said, “Wow. I’ve never had a parent present me with more information than I’ve brought along at a first time meeting.” I remember feeling such a huge relief at that moment, because someone else in the world was responsible for sharing the things parents need to know after learning their child is blind. I’m still glad that I did all of the research that I did, but knowing that someone was sitting in front of me saying “you don’t have to do it all, let me help,” was more relief than I could have imagined. Since then, we’ve obviously moved and GiGi and I have a new group of people who come into our home and honestly words cannot describe how amazing these people are. Their skills, the kindness, their sincerity…. It’s like having more family to lean on sometimes. Knowing that I can ask my questions and get an answer from someone who has been around children with the same impairment is comforting.

I want to be that person. I’ve wanted to be that person since the first Visual Impairment Specialist said “wow.” In the past year and a half so many things have changed, but the fire to help parents in my same situation hasn’t been fanned. I’ve been known to make quick decisions on things, but the really really huge things take time to dissect. They take time to commit to, and being a commitmentphobic lady, that’s a tough task.

The internal pressure to piss or get off the school pot has been mounting and this week I finally got off of my indecisive ass and pissed. Was that too graphic or do you get what I’m saying? I signed up for school! I can take a lot of online classes which works for me since I can also keep up with the projects I already have, as well as play peek-a-boo every five minutes with GiGi. The financial portion of the school is working itself out quite nicely and my family and close friends seem to be hiding the “god she’s so annoying” face from me well, and slapping on the supportive one. They are encouraging.

I keep telling GiGi everything that I’m doing because I already feel like the leg work to get into school means Im neglecting mommy-gigi-playtime. I say to her, “GiGi, the financial aid office just called. Guess what they said.” I don’t really think she gives a giant crappity-do about what I’m saying but, I try. I read to her from the Child Advocacy book I have from a correspondence course I’m taking at the Hadley School for the Blind and she will repeat the words I say. Its win-win I think, and when she cries because I can’t give her my full attention at the moment, I calmly sigh and tell her, “this is all for you, baby. All for you.”

I’ll need a bachelors and I’ll need a masters degree, but I know I can do it.

She will be proud of me someday, and I will be proud of myself and eventually, the two of us will make a difference in the world of visual impairment and the people who live wonderful lives with it.

(see, we are totally happy doing things like...sticking our arms into vases)

Calamity G.

2009-05-16T18:03:00Z

My darling tot has an ambitious mind and legs to support it. The moment I explain to her that roads are dangerous and hills are steep, and NOT to go whichever way it is she isn’t supposed to go– she makes a run for it. GiGi and I were playing in the front yard of my sisters’ home on Wednesday and instead of giggling over the furry bunny rabbit hopping about the front yard, she opted for falling. Not once, but several times.

The yard has a tiny slope to it and in the midst of some serious running momentum; GiGi stumbled and ran into the cute scalloped brick border around one of the breezy trees. She slammed into them and then rolled down the tiny hill. *tiny* hill. Her poor shins are scratched to pieces and both bare bluish purple bruises that make me feel like crap every time I see them. She shook it off pretty quickly and was more upset that I was holding her than the fact that she had blood on her legs. She sprinted out of my arms and so I let her go. Nothing appeared stitch-worthy and while I would like to have bandaged her up and pampered her little legs, she would have no part of it.

She got a good five minutes of running in before she decided to venture toward the brick surrounded flower beds. I stood in front of them, trying to plead with her to play with her cousin and explaining the harsh environment that roses lived in. Brick, thorns, and tiny baubles are not a girl’s best friend. She screamed and screamed and when I redirected her to the lawn, she ran the other way. She zigged, I zagged and the bushes caught her. I rushed her inside to scope out the blood, bruises and tears and again, she only wanted down so that she could play again. My child is a tiny Wolverine, an x-babe of indestructible force.

The back of her right leg looks like I pulled a bush out of the ground and smacked her with it and her shins look like Tanya Harding got a hold of them. Its sad.

We opted not to go back outside at my sisters house, so when we arrived home she was more than ready to run free outside. GiGi is pretty simple when it comes to outdoor play. Run, run, run and run some more toward danger (i.e. pools, roads, rosebushes.) If not, she likes to swing or jump on the trampoline. I say “jump” but its more like her sitting in the center while I jump around and watch her slightly fly into the air. If I were to really jump, I’m sure that I could catapult her into the neighbor’s yard, so I lightly jump. She was so excited to be on the trampoline. There were many a giggle and snort-giggle from her before she tried to stand up while I was mid jump. She fell down and face planted her sweet little nose into the harsh black trampoline.

So now, on top of the bruises, hello kitty band aids, red marks, and scratches, we have a little red nose. I mean, she’s a tough kid but at some point isn’t she going to say “Okay, enough’s enough. I’m off the running and trampoline-ing for a bit ma.”

She’s been sick for the past two days and all I keep hoping is that a.) she gets better and b.) I don’t have to take her to the hospital so that I can field questions about her injuries.

"Sorry doc..she......

She ran into a tree.

She fell on a bush.

She hit her nose on a trampoline.

Oh that little scar? She fell off of a tiny window seat and onto a box."

I love her, and I want her to spread her little wings and fly, but the child is accident prone. That’s what it is right? She’s tough, but she still has accidents. Is this totally toddler or is my child going to be in casts, wraps, splints and braces for the duration of her adolescence? Or is she *gasp* a tiny me?

Oh yeah, there's innocent love too.

2009-05-12T02:47:00Z

Scribbled in blue ink pen across my fifth grade yearbook are the words “good luck with daniel.” My then friends had written messages in the back of the book about the summer and the boys we all had crushes on. My crush, at the end of my fifth grade year, was a boy named Daniel who lived down the street.

I had forgotten all about this boy until my nieces pulled out a dusty yearbook from a pile of elementary school memorabilia my mother was looking to get rid of this week. There were horrid photos of my sisters and I wearing neon bike shorts and shirts with the sleeves rolled up. There were report cards from various years and of course, yearbooks. A smile found its way upon my lips and remained there for the duration of a skip down memory lane and back.

When I was younger I sat in my room and talked about boys endlessly with my friends. We were still in the “playing at so and so’s house” phase and not quite into the “hanging out” phase yet. I would talk on the phone from the time I got home until the time my mother called me to help with dinner, and my friends and I would analyze our pre-teen beaus and their charming classroom ways. It was a small town and there wasn’t exactly much to do in the evenings except for playing M.A.S.H. (please tell me you all know about this game. I can't be alone in this.) and drawing hearts around boys' heads in the yearbooks from previous years.

It was innocent and sweet.

It was love.

*I* loved the boys, each and every one of them, whose names graced the pages of my binders and the lips of my friends. It makes me smile to think about that innocent love. Those crushes that kept me up for hours smiling, or alone crying, crushed with their adolescence.

After flipping through the pages of those books, and recalling the loves I knew, if only ever in my head and heart, I couldn’t help but think of my own daughter and the loves she’ll have.

Anyone who knows me well can tell you that I have spent countless hours as a parent, horrified at the idea of GiGi dating and the crap that goes with it. The broken hearts and side tracked ambitions. Love and sex. Pregnancy, disease, egos, trust, faith. I had a difficult time imagining her as a girl who would grow up some day and potentially go through the same things I have gone through. My panic attacks about her future in woman hood have always revolved around the image of her as an adult. I don’t know why I never really thought of young love that springs up like wildflowers. Youthful, innocent crushes and love from simple girls with simple things on their mind. Somewhere along the lines I veered off course and headed into a cynical place where I compare my daughters’ future to my past.

I’m glad we cleaned the drawers in the kitchen out and Im pleased that I’ve finally realized that GiGi’s life won’t be any more or less difficult than any other girl or boy when her teenage years arrive, thanks to a few old pictures and yearbooks. She will learn so much from those heartaches and crushes, but will grow the most from having loved countless boys, and losing them just the same. It took me long enough to remember the good thing about relationships. Sometimes they’re real and messy and other times they’re all in your head. Either way, I’m settling into the thought that someday, someone will be writing “good luck with Daniel,” or whomever he /she may be, onto the last pages or her yearbooks.

What a wonderful image

my soul shaker:

...and the words fell like raindrops

2009-05-05T15:14:00Z

The topic of speech therapy and whether or not GiGi would ever say anything other than mama, bite, mimi, dada and papa has been on the table at our weekly in-home services for a little while now. Should we get assistance if there aren't more words by age two or three or two and a half. Does she need them? Are blind children more likely to require these services? I admit to being an overly pushy person when a casual mention of needing something extra is thrown out. I jump at the chance to get her help. However, the older she gets the more I realize that she is a tiny girl writing down her story one page at a time and sometimes she’s super slow. Sometimes she gets writers block. In the end, she always gets the story done. Speech is just another page in her journal and as her mother I need to be less insistent on fixing something and more accepting of who she is and her speed of development.

I’ve said it before and I’ll say it as many times as I see fit; finding out that your baby has something as serious as no vision, at four months old instead of immediately, plays with the mind. It plays with mine constantly. There is still a big fat huge wagon full of guilt that I carry with me most of the time, and its got “how did you NOT know?” written all over it. She’s two years old now and while its such a silly issue at this point, I still fee like going way overboard when it comes to her care. Medical, physical, whatever care it may be, I don’t want her behind because I didn’t pay attention. There shouldn’t be any more heartaches and shocks because I simply didn’t know.

So with the guilt following me around, it’s hard to learn a healthy balance between being GiGi’s parent/advocate/teacher and then JUST being her mother. Letting her do what she will and develop how she was intended. I never thought having faith in my child at this age, this young, young age, would be so difficult, but it is. She has wowed me since birth and yet I constantly doubt that she will just naturally begin to do whatever it is that I’m worrying about. I feel bad about that.

For the past few months her vocabulary has been limited to mama, dada, papa, pamma, mimi, bup (for up), bite, nana, peekaboo, cookie and cracker. I was happy that she was at least communicating that. Those are all very important words. There were words here and there that she picked up, but then laid back down almost the next and went back to. It was frustrating.

…..and then she said rock-and-roll.

(because she *is* rock and roll in my book)

I grabbed her hand last week (I mean, I grab her hand all the time, not just last week. In case you were wondering) and said to her, “let’s rock-and-roll.” She giggled and said, “rock-and-roll” which comes out a little like bock-ann-bowl, but it’s pretty damn clear to everyone what she is saying. Since rock-and-roll, we have added words to the bank and they are actually sticking. I suppose that folks are right when they say that certain things happen is blah-lah-blah ways, they seem to just happen at a much later age for us. Her words are falling long raindrops now. The sprinkle of nouns and proper nouns are over. We finally have a steady stream of verbs, adjectives, nouns and even interjections. Here’s a little samplin’ from what I get to hear:

Mama

Dada

Pamma (my mother)

Papa

Mimi

ouch

Maddy

Bite

Sister

Trace

Bye-bye

Down

Pee pee

Poop!

Rock-and-roll (my heart melts every single time)

Vegetable (one of the most clear words, believe it or not)

Peek-a-boo

Water (sounds like “wassa” – another heartmelter)

Bath

Milk

Chicken

Baby

Potty

Glasses (which sounds like vlasic and Im quite happy with that)

Arm

Shoes

Wee!

yuck

stinky

Jump

Slide

Step

Egg

cooking

Ding-ding

Ham

cheese

Walk

Drink

Wassohl (which is, um, asshole. And Im trying to NOT say that word. Cute the first time, really bad the other times.)

…..oi. The list goes on and on and it seems like its happened overnight, the words and my being able to say that. She repeats so much of what I say and it’s exciting. Really truly honestly exciting and entertaining. I like that she can tell me what she wants now. She will wake up in the morning and say down mama. Once she’s down she will usually say egg, or drink. I understand what type of drink she wants as well, and that must be so much cooler for her. She doesn’t have to drink milk when she really wants water or vice versa. My mother handed her a cookie and she smacked it away and said nana, which made me feel good because I’d rather she wanted a freeze dried banana than a cookie. Oh, and because she expressed herself too. Yeah, that’s it.

When I’m cooking in the kitchen my little wanderer usually strolls over to the stove to smile and say mmmmmm! She caught on to cooking and the fact that it smells yummy, so now when I’m grabbing coffee or we pass a restaurant she will start chanting mmmmm and cooking. Its fantastic. I think we’re both happier with the communication, granted she still has huge tantrums because she understands the word no and likes to not only revolt against it, but use it toward me as well. I asked her to stop playing with the drawers in the bathroom and she stopped, came over to me and said “NO.” I was shocked that she knew how to use the word and was so good at being aggressive with it. Words like that aren’t the greatest to hear, but they are so much different and in a lot of ways better than the other words. I mean, great, she eats and egg and say egg. I’m totally excited by that. BUT, when she pinches her finger in the drawer and says ouch, that is kind of cool. Seeing your child injure themselves isn’t fun, but the acknowledgement and expression that it didn’t feel good is.

I’m hoping that with her love of music and tendency to repeat everything, I can start teaching her band names and albums. It’s going to be a little while before she can say Beirut or the The Flying Cup Club, but I have faith she will be able to do it soon.

*ps* You can follow my ramblings about GiGi's ramblings here

Poop.

2009-04-28T17:36:00Z

*please note, we're talking crap. lots of it here.. so a little TMI warning is hereby issued*

GiGi and I are crazy young ladies with wild on our side and a pocket full of routine to keep us grounded. It’s a cute pocket, but it’s awfully heavy. At night, GiGi either takes a bath or cleans up in a tot bath in the gigantic shower we are blessed enough to have. When we finish with the lather-rinse-repeat, my child and I stroll back to my bedroom where she avoids her diaper and I attempt to get pajama’d in record time. It’s a simple routine; showering, getting dressed, and then brushing our teeth before bedtime. I’ve learned that if I change the bulletin list in any way, trouble arises.

A few nights ago, GiGi ran down the hallway yelling “Papa! Papa!” so I figured that it wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world if I were to let her tell my father goodnight while I scurried to get dressed and ready her pjs/ lotion/ diaper/ nightly shot (growth hormone, not tequila)/ toothbrush and book. What’s cuter than a baby tush flashing past their grandparents? Nothing.

It all seemed so innocent. Naked time for the babe and a series of loud “awwww’s” and “ well hello there’s” followed by giggles. I was done in two minutes flat. Do you know what can happen in two minutes, aside from dressing and prepping?

Poop.

Everywhere.

I walked down the hallway to grab my naked monster baby who I could hear rambling at the other end of the house and as I approached the end, I saw it. It looked like little hot wheels scattered across the carpet where the hallway finished and the living room began. “is that poop?’’ I thought. I stopped and listened and only heard GiGi talking to herself. If it was poop, there wasn’t anyone who had noticed it. I flipped on the light and found big people sized pooplings laying about, mocking my new, capricious routine of letting GiGi run naked. The cute had officially worn off and faded into a crap stained carpet. It’s never a good idea to rattle the elders at night so I quietly ran to the kitchen to grab some cleaning supplies. When I returned and looked closer at the mess, not only did I see the poop, I saw two smooshes. One was an obvious foot smashing and the other? The other was a wheel mark. I’m not going to lie – I panicked. Not only was there a mess on the carpet, but now it was a traveling mess. I didn’t want to leave the ass debris on the carpet for grandparents to find, but I also knew that I had a naked toddler in the family room, doing who-knows-what with I-know-what on her body. Or feet. Oh god! Her feet! I scooped the poop and ran to where she was standing which was of course on the leather couch. She was jumping up and down on the couch, no doubt impressed by her recent body emptying. As I walked toward her, in the flash of a second, she started laughing and peeing simultaneously. I scooped her up but the pee still landed on the side of the couch. And me. And her. At this point I’m thinking to myself, “are you fucking kidding me? Really? THIS is how we get to end the night??“

I guess I’m lucky because the couch was left pretty much unharmed compared to, say, the carpet or the…what’s that? Is that…is that poop on the SLIDE? It all made sense the moment I saw the slide and realized that I had only heard one “Weeeeeeeeeee” from GiGi which meant she wasn’t hanging out quietly with my family. She simply didn’t like the feeling of poo-slide.

Common sense says : “Hey lady, grab a diaper and cover that butt up.”

Tired mother says: “oh fuck. Clean up the mess as fast as possible so as not to hear an angry I-told-you-so from parents, and please please say there are no permanent damages. I’d put a diaper on but that takes time and …she’s got to be all done by now right?”

Common sense should speak up, because parents are not likely to be able to understand the advice under the warble of their own thoughts and echo of grossed-out poo-induced horror. GiGi, as it turns out, was not finished and ended up peeing in another spot. Great. My child turned into a new puppy in the few minutes it took for me to put on a bra, undies, pj bottoms and shirt. The situation was a code green/ red/ hazard/ ohmygod/blue. Crying felt like a plausible solution but instead I sucked it up like a normal person is supposed to do, and realized that the whole damn thing was my fault anyway. I passed on a small bladder to my sweet and unassuming daughter, and *I* was the one who let her take a nudey stroll to cap off her night.

Paper towels upon paper towels, cleaning supplies, baking soda and a bowl of water later…I have learned my lesson. Either diaper that ass, or lay down puppy pads when letting her wander free and nude.

*note* I invite all poop stories because, well, we are parents and we all have them. I hope.

Going Solo

2009-04-21T18:21:00Z

I remember the times when I would lay my sleeping babe in the middle of my bed and create a wall of pillows around her so that we could both rest and relax in peace while she napped for a few hours. We never had the need for a monitor because I was glued to her. In the beginning, I had a larger studio but still yet – a studio apartment. In a studio you can pee, do dishes, and rock the baby to sleep all while watching TV and occasionally answering the door all in the same location. That said, leaving her alone wasn’t ever really leaving her alone if you catch what I’m saying. When we moved to our current location, I checked on her as she slept. I was a nervous, messy, wreck of a mother with custody and medial issues for GiGi, so I didn’t really give her much space in the beginning. GiGi + Playing = me right there.

As she got older and started hitting the milestones, like sitting up, I started backing off. She was and is, a late bloomer/ milestone maker/ going at her own pace, and so it didn’t really bother anyone to let her play in my room while I ran to the bathroom or needed to get lunch, do laundry, etc. She simply didn’t move, not even really ever attempting to roll over, so letting her have some short time alone wasn’t an issue.

Now that she’s older, and is a super walker, things are the same. The house is pretty safe from big scary falling objects and the hazardous chemicals are locked up. Doors are shut and gates are up. I don’t like to squash her independence or smother her with inane mommy ideas that repulse her. Case in point – today I pulled out these awesome bristle blocks that she got for her birthday, and I started to build things. Engaging yet not so pushy, there I sat under a heap of blocks and there she went…to play by herself. “No no!” she says.

It’s not the first time I’ve tried to play with my daughter, I promise, it’s just that we interact with one another in such a sometimes-odd manner. We do things together you know? We go places and cook together and take walks, but toys? Nah. Maybe it’s her age or maybe it’s us, but we don’t play really –with toys that is- together. She will sit on my lap and listen to music for hours. She can run around on the grass for as long as I will let her and she can play with her own toys for a long time. She doesn’t like to play in the same room with kids very much either though. GiGi is a very busy girl on the go, and she doesn’t like to slow down and play with others very often. The thing is, I feel a little guilty sometimes when I read magazines or articles or even other blogs that mention parents playing random things with their children. How hard do they play, because I’ve got to say – I don’t get it. Am I just different?

If I go into a room that she is playing in, she will let me entertain her and vice versa for ten minutes or so and then she leaves. If I try to write or get things done by hanging out with her and taking what I need to do, to her spot in the house, she leaves. I don’t want to take it personally, so I don’t, but…?? Do I stink? Do I have bad breath? Has she fallen out of love with me?

If I stay put, at my desk, she comes in and out of the room to check on me, kiss me, talk to me, play with her toys, leave, and then starts the process all over again. One of her teachers explained to me this morning that toddlers like to play near each other but not together. I think GiGi and I are both toddlers. We like to do a few things together but the rest? The rest is solo time to do your own thing and not share. She doesn’t like it when I ask her to cook me a pie in her pretend kitchen and I don’t like it when she tries to type my blog &*(h*^*$$#$#@i%^&R$^# LIKE&*%%%%%%%& THIS.

I’m not sure if I’m making any sense at all actually. I suppose the bottom line, the big question over my head here, is ….do you “play” with your child. Trucks, kitchen, princess, magician, PLAY sort of stuff? Did I miss the boat or is toddlerdom just a whole new, semi solo game?

Through her Looking Glass(es)

2009-04-17T19:13:00Z

I’m not sure whether or not the sudden boom in speed and activity is a glasses related change or not, but it’s happened. Change has happened. My child is an acrobatic wonder, moving with extreme speed and velocity as she climbs on and off of the furniture and attempts to climb up her indoor slide the wrong way. The jumping on our furniture game has become a leading sport in the Lasswell/**** household. At times I find myself encouraging the activity. I know it’s wrong to encourage this sort of thing and then say, “no no! don’t jump on the couch,” another day, but after months and months and months of quietly begging some creature in the sky, rubbing rabbit feet, pulling apart the wishbones, kissing mini Buddhas and putting out a crapload of good karma, etc, to tempt the fates into allowing GiGi to crawl, or *fingers crossed* walk, I feel I am justified in being torn between good parenting and an aww-fuck it- go jump! kind of an attitude. ESPECIALLY since she is now wearing glasses because the doc thinks she is seeing things. Real things, not like acid flashback or kooky in the head -seeing-things sort of "seeing things."

When GiGi first got her glasses, there were a few very subtle differences in her behavior. It was a short adjustment period for her to get used to wearing them. She hasn’t really ever fought me on the issue of putting them on, or wearing them all day. That said, she has already figured out that glasses are important and very interesting articles of “whatever” for mama. When she wants something she isn’t getting, she will rip them off and throw them. She seems to know that doing that bothers me. A lot. She says “glasses” so clearly, and knows where they are. If she falls or bumps them on the carpet, or otherwise mushes them on her face, se will adjust them herself and get them back to the right spot. She will fix them until they are perfect. Its unusual. It’s, it’s like they have always been a part of her. The way she needs them to be perfect just seems to tell me that they do something for her. Something more than what I thought they would do for her vision.

When its playtime and GiGi is wandering around clapping her hands, or rambling some new inaudible song lyrics, she will stop and look into the stove and move her head from side to side, like she’s noticing something. She’s begun to do this in mirrors and the dishwasher, refrigerator, etc. I wonder what she can see in a reflection.

Another totally mind-blowing move she makes: holding her tiny fingers close to her face and moving them around like a new baby. I’m happy for her discovery and a bit sad from time to time, thinking of all the things she really did miss in the beginning. I know she didn’t know any other life or way of being, but *I* still have these weird issues.

(busy. that's the best word to describe her these days)

I took her to our favorite park yesterday and watched her explore. It’s the first time since she’s had her glasses that I really let her just walk around and climb on things without telling her “no no!” or “we can’t walk there.” There was no agenda, no other person to interfere in our non-schedule and nothing to stop her from getting into some playground/ rolling hills of green-to-greenish shades, curiosity. She hopped off of park benches and took off running (ish). She slid down the slides while only holding my hand for a minute. It was exciting to watch her be a little speedy ball of excitement.

What I didn’t do, ugh, is buy scratch resistant blah-blah-blah, super glasses. Big mistake. She still holds every toy with flashing lights, up to her face (she holds everything to her glasses now that I think about it). Glasses and toys don’t always mix well upon contact. They also slip from her face a bit and the string holder thingymajiggy doesn’t seem to do any wonders to stop that. If anyone out there has ANY site/item/miracle they can recommend to us so that I can get her glasses to not slip so much, I will forever be indebted to your knowledge.

Oooh…. Glasses are so much fun!

(weeeee)

(dammit!)

(see mommy, perfect!)

Easter Candy, etc

2009-04-13T22:33:00Z

I know that Easter has already come and gone, but I wanted to make sure that I wished everyone a speedy recovery from the chocolate coma I'm sure most of you are in, myself included. GiGi indulged in chocolate bunny ears for breakfast, cookies for lunch, and cool whip for dinner and dessert (and a post-dinner snack). I think that somewhere along the way there may have been a bowl of soup, some scambled eggs, BBQ food, and toast, but for the most part it was sugar madness. I'm not one to let her devour that much fructose absurdity, but I feel like holidays are different. Candy carnage is allowed. We are of the eat-until-you-almost-barf belief when it comes to holidays like Thanksgiving, Christmas and Easter.Chocolate is a rarity for little g.

Seriously, I'm hoping that my efforts to lose weight (19.6 lbs so far, woo!) were strong enough with ripping through bags of veggies, to thwart off any pounds that might have stuck from the jelly beans I ate. And mini kit kats. And dove eggs. and ... fuck. Lots of chocolate in small portions. Smalldelicious portions.

This year was almost like a first Easter all over again. I painted eggs for GiGi since her idea of helping with egg coloring involves throwing them at her cousins. We used a puffy paint kit so that there were textures for her to feel. She actually responded well to eggs and played with them for a bit. Hiding them is sort of a cruel joke at this point, so I had them scattered in the hallway and she sat to play with them once she found one at her toes. it was pretty nice to see her enjoy the holiday and a little relieving I might add. The only thing she didnt appreciate was the dress I had her wear for the first hour of Easter. Too much fluff= cranky toddler tugging at clothes.

(Dress 1- lasted 1 hour)

(Outfit 2 lasted at lead 6 hours)

We had a busy busy household, with lots of company, but she did suprisingly well with the noise. I'm noticing that she doesn't like it when I take her glasses off (to clean them or let her rest her head on me) which is a good sign, I think. She seems to be holding things up to her glasses here and there, and attempting to decipher what those things are. it was a lovely holiday with a house full of family and friends enjoying and watching this new devlopment. It was truly a wonderful day to share with those we love.

Hopefully you all had a similarly excellent weekend.

Please enjoy a litle sugar carnage...on us! (There's more here)

Kid On a Leash

2009-04-11T15:51:00Z

Raise your hand if you have ever stared at a parent in some public place or another, with their hand nestled a foot thick under a soft looking leash attached to a toddler. Go ahead. Raise it. Now raise your hand again if you’ve ever silently vomited and swallowed it back down again, at the idea of EVER using one with your own child.

I raise both hands, to both cases. I have been Senora El Judge-y in the past, numerous times, and I’ll bet that I’m just asshole-enough to have made a comment ever-so-quietly-yet-audible-to-the-parents who held leashes.

My reasoning in the past was solely based on aesthetics alone. There is a CHILD on a LEASH. How wretched. How lazy. How on Earth can you wake up one day and say, “fuck it, let’s put the baby on a leash today and forgo the hand holding and actual watching of our child.” I gave unintended dirty looks formed out of a single twenty-something mentality and a mild fear of babies. I created this Karma that has now come back to bite me on the ass as I wrap my hand around a brown “tail” attached to a monkey that sits atop GiGI’s back.

I’m not the first to say that everything changes when you have a child. I’m also not the only other person to ever feel like that either. Pre-GiGi, I didn’t understand a lot of things (ie, why don’t parents make their kids stop crying in public by giving them toys or sugar? Why do kids always have a snotty nose? Why must parents dress girls in pink and boys in blue? Why would you leash a human? Etc.). Then, I had a child and smacked my forehead with each of the ah-ha’s that came along the way, at obvious different points in new parenting. Pink is unavoidable. It’s cute and um, people may just stop saying HIM or HE to your child named GiGi.

Snot? Who the f- knows. Kids are just snotty….for years. It’s no ones fault.

Stop the crying in public? Ha! You have to be tough sometimes and not let your children make their own rules. With that…sometimes crying is necessary in stores, because letting them have the toy that sings 1009 songs, or the gum that their cousin put into their two year old hands, isn’t.

…and leashes? Leashes are a necessity (yes, I said n.e.c.e.s.s.i.t.y.) when you have a severely visually impaired child who won’t hold your hand, has just learned how to walk without assistance, has new glasses and is a ticking two year old time bomb of tantrum fury. Sure I joked with one of my best friends A., about buying leashes when our kids were old enough and taking them to the park with puppy pads, and water dishes, and calling them “Bruno” and “lady” while we fashioned leashes and fed them animal cookies while patting their heads. That was a silly joke though and I actually use the kid leash, or as I call it, GiGi’s monkey friend –ChaChi, the way it was meant to be. I loathe the feeling of what it looks like on the outside: lazy parenting. I hate the thought of people judging me, as I judged others, and talking under their breath about how cute my child is but how awful her mother is.

It’s not all in my head either. The first day I used ChaChi (such a less frightening term/name, right?), we were waiting for GiGi’s new glasses to be crafted and decided to window shop. She and ChaChi were securely fastened and I began to plunk money into the parking meter. As I was doing said plunking, a young Banana Republic couple skipped by and fake smiled then said, “oh. Ew. I would NEVER do that.” Unless I’m mistaken and she was talking about my ass and those jeans, or the type of shoe I picked that day, she was referring to my leashing. I knew the public distaste coming, I just didn’t expect it in the first few minutes.

This was a group idea, I should mention. A general thumbs up amongst GiGi, my family, and the teachers who aide in my millions of questions and GiGi’s progress. She is independent beyond all of my wildest dreams, but refuses, no no ABHORS the thought of holding my hand while she walks. She hates her stroller. In fact, I wouldn’t be surprised if she is secretly plotting to disassemble or break it when I’m not looking. So what are my options for safety? How exactly do I keep her feeling satisfied with her independence, allow her to be adventurous, and make sure that she doesn’t magically sprint across the street while I bend down to pick up my wallet (or whatever) should it fall. I can’t predict what situation would force me to stop looking at my child walking near me, for 4+ seconds, but I can prevent her from being kidnapped, abducted by alien pod people, or running into a dangerous zone.

Google the word “child leashes” or “toddler leashes” and see the wrath of parents/ non-parents/ and strange pod people everywhere (pod people= bitches like Ann Coulter who probably think that not only am I a single mother raising a victim/serial killer/ future gang member, but now I’m turning my child into a puppy). It’s harsh. I won’t spend my time pleading my case to every evil eye, dirty look and snippy comment. On a bad day, I’m sure I will have my own comments under my breath for those people, but for the most part I will try to remember what is important The only thing I can do is be glad that this system works for us, for now. GiGi finally feels her freedom, and I get to hold her hand, even if it’s in the form of a monkey tail.

Happy 2nd Birthday, GiGi

2009-04-07T09:07:00Z

Dear GiGi,

You came into this world at 8:56 am on a Saturday morning in the hospital we picked out in Berkeley, CA. It was barely warm outside on the afternoon before, when I entered the hospital for a routine check-up before you were to come into the world the following week. I wore a sundress in, with an aqua hobo bag on my arm and the doctors kept me.

You were due on April 3^rd, and I was scheduled to have you on April 10^th. You arrived on the 7^th, the day before Easter.

Our doctor gave me something to help you along since there was a dangerous amount of fluid left to protect you. According to her, you would be here at noon the next day. She left our room late that evening.

…and two years ago today, at this exact moment in time, I sat in a hospital bed in Berkeley and complained “I think I have some cramps,” with a puzzled face and heart full of nervous happy.

I stepped into the restroom - My water broke - I barfed.

I cried in your daddy and nurse Suri’s arms and walked back to my bed with paper towels under my feet and gross on my toes, scooting, like they were ice skates.

When the nurses said “the baby will be here in an hour,” you came out 15 minutes later.

From the first of the five pregnancy tests that I took came out positive, my eyes filled up with a thousand tears at the thought of actually having to give birth. The test was positive you were in my belly and I was positive that child birth would kill me. I was scared. I was petrified.

Right before the doctors came in and I was about to push you around, into this world, I asked if I could take a nap. I was comfortable and coherent and otherwise pleased that you were coming. Labor was not painful, and I wasn't scared at that mment, and no....childbirth didn't kill me.

I said I was having a boy and would name him Wolfgang Oliver, and alas you were, and are, a little girl.

The doctor said “We have a healthy baby!”

Your dad said “I told you so! We have a little girl!” and placed you on my chest.

We took one look at you and he said “She’s no Luka. That’s not her name at all.”

We were all planned to name you Luka Lorraine, but you ended up with Gia Lorraine instead.

He thought of your name and I agreed, only because I would be able to call you Gia.

Newborns cry all the time, at least that’s what I had read and heard, but you couldn’t have been a more different baby than those in the articles. You were the most quiet and calm baby in the world. Everything that could be said to me about babes in belly and babes fresh out of the womb, couldn’t have been farther from who you were and what you were about. I don’t know how it’s possible, but with every fear I had and still have, you comfort me in the most simple way. YOU take care of ME whether you realize it or not, and I love you for many reasons including that one.

We’re a team.

Two halves that make up an insanely silly whole.

We fumble along at times, but get through everything singing, and dancing when no one else is.

When I learned you were blind, I melted. Well, first I pretended that I was the most positive person in your world and that nothing could faze me or alter my hopes for you. It only took a few months before I couldn’t take another moment in the real world, away from you, thinking about things that didn’t change the outcome of ophthalmologist #1.

We moved, and we began to heal and move forward, however far from our friends we may be. In these moments, in these past two years, I have watched you grow into an amazing and independent little girl that I become more proud of every single day. My focus is on you and we're better for that. Nothing you could do, even when you scratch and grab my eyes until I think you’re actually holding one in your hands, could make me love you any less. You break every rule that seems to be in place for you and I expect nothing less.

You’re a rebel.

A gorgeous little fighter.

You woke up this morning after half of the night in bed with me and I watched, with one eye open, as you turned yourself around wrapped your arms around my knee and your feet under my back. You’re odd and everything you do is unexpected. I can’t stop smiling when I think of the little things you do that make you, you.

I love your Eskimo kisses.

I love the fact that since the day you were born, you buried your head in my neck , on the left side and wrapped your hand around the other side. Always the left.

I love your taste in music. Your taste, not mine.

You love Miles Davis, Prince, The Slits and The beatles.

You seem to love soup, in all its’ forms, and showers, and sunshine, and wagons.

You demand personal space.

You are not average in the least and I never really thought you would be. With our latest news of your seemingly low vision and ability to wear glasses for an enhancement, I can’t wait to see what comes along next. You give me hope, amongst everything else you unknowingly give me, you give me hope for this world and I can never tell you in words how much I appreciate that and love you even more.

Your little hands are out already reaching for the world, and I say you should go get it. Whatever “it” is. It's been two years and you've changed so much. You've changed me, in fact, and I am relieved. Happy second birthday,GiGi. I can’t wait for this next year of watching you grow.

Love,

Mommy

Welcome to the world, GiGi. 04.07.07 approx 9:15 am

GiGi's 1st birthday. Wake up time! 2008

Happy2nd bithday...ala... 5:34 ish am. 2009

Love Wears Glasses

2009-04-02T18:09:00Z

I had a few post all lined up about various things going on in mine and GiGi’s life. Places we went last week and new people we met. All of those posts are sitting in my Babble folder with their little jaws dropped at this post I’m writing now. Those posts have nothing on the news I have now.

My alarm was set for 4:30 am on Wednesday morning. In case you all weren’t aware, 4:30 is an “a.m.” too. I thought I would let GiGi sleep and then I would put her in the car in her pajamas and just change her at the pediatric ophthalmology office once we arrived. Fat chance. She woke up once we hit the cool morning breeze outside and smiled over whatever it is that GiGi smiles about when the wind kisses her cheek (natures affection?). I was glad that she had a sunny disposition so early in the morning, especially since she is nearing two year old and it’s an every-five-minutes toss of the dice which way her mood leans. I was in a bad mood. Terrible in fact. Tuesday went downhill, slowly, and I ended the night with ice packs on my poor head and TUMS in my tum. The prospect of a doctor visit to an office that had recently yelled at wasn’t making me feel any better.

The receptiawench had left a message on my cell phone – on a Saturday – to say that GiGi’s appointment was cancelled. I cried, punched y pillow, and then vowed to sleep on the news before I called back. Monday morning I gave the wench a ring and no answer. After the fifth phone call I left a message saying, “Hi, this is GiGi ****’s mother and I got a call saying that her appointment was cancelled. I just wanted to confirm that the appointment really is cancelled, because this visit is WAAAAY overdue and if we really aren’t getting in, then I might just pass out. But when I regain consciousness Im afraid I might just punch your office in the face. So, um, can you call me back at ***-3**-04**. Thanks”

Beep

She called back five minutes later, a little shaken up, and said “oh no, Miss Lasswell, we just want to confirm her for an EARLIER appointment, will that be okay?” I absolutely thought that they were luring me there to arrest me for the punching in the face comment.

So then, where was I? Oh yes, post-migraine, feeling barf-y, and worried about the possibility of being citizens arrested by a receptiawench, I got into the car and headed to the bay area.

Stuck in traffic due to an accident with a crying toddler in the car, I gave the office a courtesy call to say I would be 15 minutes late (and I was, on the dot, even!). They welcomed us with minimal awkward stares and took us right back to the doctor. I was prepared for the 5 minute “we’ll see her in a few months. Oh look- her pupils dilate!” conversation as per usual, and then a freshly added session of “guess how much your staff sucks?” and “babble readers told me to say this” but I didn’t get to. I didn’t get to launch a full blown and much need rant to them or about them, because my doctor knocked me over with the most fantasmic and breathtaking news I could have never expected.

Doc: “Im just going to dim the lights now”

Me: (refrain from dirty joke to pediatric doctor)

Doc: (flashing light into GiGI’s eyes) “Does it ever seem like she’s trying to look at you? Make eye contact?’’

Me: Well, sometimes I think so, but then it fizzles out and she gets distracted. Or… I get new tape and strap my hopes down.

Doc: “Oh”

Me: why?

Doc: “…because she just looked right at me.”

I had a series of jumbled up word barf come out of my mouth, and I think there may have been questions attached, but mostly, I cried. I cried as hard as the day we found out she was blind. Is blind? Was blind? Ah.

He explained that he has seen some children with similar things happen; children with Optic Nerve Hypoplasia who tend to have an increased vision around age two, which she will be on April 7^th. Also around age three-four things change too, when communication is better. Sometimes… sight is extremely slow to develop and maybe that’s just her case. Will she need Braille? Yes. Will she Drive? Probably not? But, according to the doc, she looked right at him so if I’ve recently thought that she’s been trying to make some contact, visually, then she probably is. I told him about all the little things that people point out to me (as if I hadn’t noticed) and asked him if that man vision or heightened GiGi skill. He says both, but definitely include vision in it.

GiGi will make her laps throughout the house and occasionally we will move her toys to a different place. Sometimes she will walk right to something, placed in vast emptiness, and pick it up. Other times she will bump into everything and I mean EVERYTHING. He seems to be under the impression that she goes for things because she has some sight, however small, and knows something is there.

The best part of the big news is that he recommended that she wear glasses starting at age three, but no later than age four. As if I wasn’t elated from that news alone, asked if I thought she would keep them on now. If so, he would go ahead and write her a prescription to try out for the next six months…to see what they do. Her doctor even said that he has every hope that she will be able to see our faces, even if just a little bit, by four years old.

Can I describe how this feels? Probably not the way I could if I weren’t crying every single time I thought about this. There have been quite a few eye doctors and pediatric ophthalmologists since she was about 3-1/2 months old. The very first pessimistic ophtha told us that “short of a brain transplant she would never be able to see us or anything.” The second runner up told us that “sometimes mother nature need(ed) time to correct herself. “ Better answer, nicer man, but I wanted more. This doctor, this progressive, positive thinker, just tossed our world around and painted a happy face on it. I don’t know how long it’s going to take for it to sink in that she will see her own reflection someday. I don’t have to kill the optimism to save all of our feelings in the long run anymore, and now I can really hope for things. A pregnancy filled with thoughts on art happenings and visual opportunities galore, turned into a different approach to life for the past two years. And now, again, I find myself daydreaming about things I haven’t thought of in so long. I know that she is still blind in all senses of the word, but there is something there, however vague, and she’s workin’ it.

I just, I don’t have the words to express my happiness right now. Not the right words anyway.

GiGi hi-fived the doc and we strolled to the front desk to tidy up our visit, Kleenex in hand with the receptiawenches. At that moment, all I wanted to do was hug everyone. Chest-bump, hi-five, hug, scream, you name it. I swear, if the angry looking woman in the office, who has never liked me, were to have stepped a little closer, I would have kissed her on the mouth – tongue and all. I was THAT excited.

We drove to get the glasses at any place that would do it in an hour, even if those tiny specs ended up being a zillion dollars and two pennies. You’ll have to stay tuned to hear about how she is keeping them on and what I notice so far. What SHE notices.

Tiny Chef / Big Tummy.

2009-03-29T14:36:00Z

Thanks to a slight sinus infection and overall funk for GiGi, I now have a child who will eat more than tomato soup, applesauce and goldfish crackers. Is it inappropriate to thank a sinus infection for an increase in appetite? Oh, who am I kidding, THANK YOU SINUS INFECTION FOR BEING CLEARED UP IN THREE DAYS AND LEAVING BEHIND ONLY AN APPETITE!

Up until the Whinefest ’09 that happened to be two weeks ago(and lasted about the same before an actual doctor warranted illness came about), I couldn’t get GiGi to try anything really unless I was prepared for a session of crying, flying food, and a good old fashioned sippy cup toss. Sometimes eggs got a little breakfast play, and toast was a total winner (still is) but anything else was the worlds most idiotic idea ever posed to a tot, according to my child. I can't count the number of times that I tried to give her a piece of banana and was met with a complete meltdown. The silent cry, you know the one, with flowing tears and that upside down smile that amazes you because its so heartbroken and so forlorn and all you wanted was to give your child a bite of banana flavored potassium.

Three days of prescription and my child is a full fledged eat-a-saurus. It’s wildly fascinating to watch her love of food grow with every meal. I have been going a little overboard in my quest for a smaller ass, and the recipes can get a little odd, but GiGi likes them. Yes, the child who melted at mere touch of a banana is now eating garlic-soy chicken pitas.

She's also started to walk into the kitchen when I'm cooking and basically cling to my leg. I try let her sit in her highchair while I prepare our meals and let her stir things on her tray or feel things that I chop, etc.

It’s interesting to dissect the cooking process and share it with a child, period. Sharing the process with GiGi lends itself to a learning experience for me also. Everything begins with how different and equally cool each utensil is. The temperature of each spoon, whisk and spatula and the texture. Having her help with multigrain pancakes on Thursday was a great learning time, but totally messy. She stirred them very well and when I turned to grab a towel, she licked the spoon. I screamed, she smiled. (I'm one of those people that use a million napkins, towel, wash cloths, because I hate hate hate dirty things so cooking with a tot is a total challenge). Then there is the magnificent and I would imagine, mind-boggling, event of turning something like big strawberries into a smaller and more wet version of itself when slicing, to the end result which is of course a Strawberry/Blackberry sauce for pancakes. We taste the pinch of sugar and the squeeze of fresh lemon that goes into the sauce pan and she squeals at every sample. She licks the cooled off sauce spoon and says “bite” with a smile. She tastes the yogurt butter and kicks her feet against her high chair while clapping. I serve her a nibble of pancake and she says “mmmmmmama” and claps again. Cooking breakfast with GiGi is a lengthy process and some days do not allow for me to actually stand there and let every single thing be touched, licked, tasted, spilled, flung, clapped over and helped with. I feel bad about those days where I just share a bowl of shredded mini wheat and a slice of toast with her, but I think that at least cooking with her for 1 meal a day/ avg is better than not.

The most beloved kitchen time activity is by far the moments when I have something simmering and I pull the lid off while holding her. When the steam escapes and hits her nose, her face lights up. Cooking on the sove is harder with her, because she doesn’t like it when I grab her hands. I’m guessing that her hands are her eyes and when I try to control them, even if to help her, it pisses her off. Understandable. Understandable, but not something that will allow for me to let G help stir over the heat. Then again, maybe she's just a toddler exerting her independence and I'm a dipshit for trying to guide her. Or so say her?

I’m still amazed at the interest she has in cooking and now eating. I made a roasted veggie dish with sweet potatoes, parsnip, red potatoes, carrots and onions and she ate it. Do you know how shocked I was? It doesn’t stop there either, we have also had gyozas, gnocchi, tomatoes, olives, chicken (quite a bit), graham crackers, pears, sausage, apples, amys pot pies, bell peppers, quesadillas and a few other things. I don’t make her a separate dinner anymore unless she really didn’t eat her lunch. It’s…nice.

Maybe if she gets the flu she’ll start eating Pad Thai or be able to cook me breakfast?

(strawberry/blackberry sauce over multigrain waffles, or as I call it "Drool inducing cakes")

People and Places I'd like to Punch in the Mouth

2009-03-25T03:22:00Z

I am a pretty nice person. My heart is in the right place most of the time and I can be considered as one who keeps her calm with people who don’t really deserve the calm version of me. I am also likely to go ‘bitch’ on someone when it involves unfair/insane/ and otherwise ridiculous rules and regulations pertaining to my child. So in an effort to NOT throw a phone at the wall and to keep myself from crying and then sucking it all up only to smack a random recipient, I’ve made a list titled: “People and Places I'd like to Punch in the Mouth,” and exactly what I want to tell those people. Here are numbers 1-3...

1.) One of the 3 Health Insurance Companies we have.

Dear Asshole Representative(s),

I think the word hate is a word that I could only use if I were to have some kind of long standing relationship with you, so I will use it. I hate dealing with you and truth be told, on most days I hate you in particular. You, because you are the you who talks to me like I’m crazy for wanting to get my daughter into an appointment for oh, I don’t know, her vision or lack thereof. I also think that you SUCK suck SUCK suck SUCK for randomly changing our health group without telling us and then advising us that our pediatrician is not taking new patients. That’s fine, because my daughter is not a new patient. GiGi, that’s her name by the way, not just Member# &^*(*&*, but an actual flesh and blood human named GiGi, has know her pediatrician since she was 25 hours old. She isn’t new, but as old as they get. Give us back our doctor. While we are on the subject, no – her pediatric ophthalmologist is not a new doctor either. We have seen him since she was 6 months old and the fact that you need to reject the referral from our pediatrician so that we can contact our secondary insurance and they can reject us as well and then send us back to you so that you finally approve our visit- EVERY TIME, makes me want to jab unsharpened hello kitty pencils into your ears since you don’t ever seem to hear me anyway.

Thanks to a new case worker that aids in our genetic disability portion of the insurance game/ torture, we only need to use you like we would hair smoothing oil, butter, and hemorrhoid cream - sparingly. I started out in a very positive mood this time around, but it’s been almost two months and I just received the go ahead this morning to make a pediatric ophthalmology visit. Way to go Insurance company A. Insurance company B has just decided to take over since you all give us headaches and pain-in-the-ass spasms. You can officially suck it until it's time to make a dental appointment. Oh yeah, and change our health group back to the old one before our next appointment. Please, thanks, and oh-my-god-this-is-like-an-abusive-relationship-that-I-can't-get-out-of. I will call you tomorrow.

2.) The Receptionist at the pediatric Ophthalmology Office

Dear ReceptiaWench,

I’m not sure if the job outline that you received on your first day of work included the duty of being pleasant to patients, but it should have. When I call the office and you say dim-witted things like “I’m sorry, I can’t check on your file today because we don’t do that on Tuesdays,” I want to scream. Scream into the phone like a drunken Megg mother sailor because you can’t seem to type four tiny letters into your system to pull up my childs name and info. My eye is actually twitching as I think about this, because you sigh loud and noticeably as if to tell me that your time and job are more important than my child and her check up with our doctor (which is part of your job, I might add). You won’t tell me if my insurance troubles are resolved with your office since they seem to be with the insurance people. You have GiGi on a waiting list to see a doc that should have seen her quite a while ago, and you are a total bitch when you shove me off into another direction to do work that every other doctor, insurance company and normal thinking person in this world says is your job. If I’m not asking you to do anything at this point other than to look up my childs name in your database and thumbs up or thumbs down us, what is your fucking problem. Why must you treat me like I am some jerk? I’m one mother trying to make one appointment after 6 months of being out of your hair. Does GiGi have any more vision than she did at the last visit? I don’t know, because she can’t express that to me yet and you are too busy sighing, and brushing us off to give a damn. I’m sweet as pie on the phone and try not to push you out of the range of helping us, so please take a step back and realize that the voice at the other end of the phone has a face and a heart and little person in need of the greatness your boss provides…and help. Please.

ps- I tried to let all of this go, rage included, because I thought that maybe you were just having a wetched day but apparently your bad day has extended into months. I'm sorry that your sad, but have a cup o joe and do your job.

3.) Braille Libraries that Don’t Carry Books.

Okay, I can’t pretend to vent and write a letter to anyone in particular. I wouldn’t know where to start. What I do know, and loathe, is the fact that I can’t put my daughter into the car, drive down to the public library and check out a book. I love books. I love everything about books from the way they smell and feel in my hands, to the marks that others leave as little reminders that I’m not alone in my interests. Libraries are wonderful and so full of history, so why wouldn’t I want to share that with my child?

I don’t get to though. The selection of books on the topic of Braille and Blindness in general is few and far between, even at larger city public libraries. It’s infuriating. Since day 1 of the news that she is blind, I have hit up libraries and found old outdated materials that are as appealing as a racist joke or someone that uses the word “retard” to describe a handicapped person. So yeah, not very. Now that GiGi is sleeping in her own bed at night and she enjoys books more than she used to, it breaks my heart that she looks for words on the other side of her fingertips and all she gets is emptiness. Smooth, lifeless emptiness that only means something to her wacky mother. It truly upsets me. Yes I can purchase books online that have words for the sighted as well as Braille words, but what about those people who can’t?

Our Visual Impairment Specialist has sent quite a few books our way, and we are quite thankful for that, but I want to share my favorites. We want to go to the library damn it. Okay, I want to go to the library, but so will she if my book lovin’ rubs off on her.

I've been excited for a year now about a Braille Library within driving distance to our home. What a sweet little treat for our general area....I thought. When I called the library yesterday to get the hours of operation and ramble on incessantly about the size of their childrens collection, they informed me that they don't actually have books.

me: I'm sorry, come again?

him: Unfortunately, we don't carry books here, just cassette tapes of books and listening devices.

me: okay, um, A.) cassette tapes? and B.) why would you include the word "braille" in a place that houses anything but? Why not just call it "every other library."

him: you can buy books online!

me: dude. It's not the same.

...and it totally isn't.

Wow, that felt good. I could have sworn that I was angry at more people but I guess not. My ill feelings are mostly aimed at the heartless rep, receptionist/scheduler from hell and library geared for everyone BUT my child. Don’t worry, I will keep my rant list flowing and report back with the bad karma folks soon enough.

Anyone irritating the crap out of you?

(here's a photo of someone I LOVE who only irritates me when she does the tantrum dance)

*disclaimer- I've never punched anyone in the mouth. Slapped? Yes, but it was a completely valid slap from me to a drunken man who grabbed my ass in front of a strip club.

Terribly Two

2009-03-19T14:07:00Z

My fingers are lightly tapping the keys in hopes that the noise will drum up some memory of the days when GiGi would get mad and I wouldn’t end up feeling like I could use some help getting through the tantrum. I’m getting nothing. For all the millions of little moments that my daughter and I have had in the past 23-1/2 months, I cannot recall a single time she was upset with a situation and it didn’t turn into a full blown meltdown.

I hate to say that my daughter is doing her terrible twos, so instead I like the idea of her being terribly two, and all that this age will bring about. Maybe she’s pms’ing, but in an “almost two” way instead of “.period.” way.

The slightest hint at the word “no” results in a catastrophic tantrum. Sometimes it’s a two-part problem. For example, when we are eating dinner and she feeds herself a bite of something she doesn’t like and then spits it out, pushes the food off of her tray and then smacks the tray/my hands/ anything near her. I admit that since she has recovered from her sinus infection her eating in general has been the best it’s ever been, but she still has her days. I don’t think the table troubles and clearing of the tray to the floor is acceptable, so after a few warnings, she gets to get out of her chair. That causes a mini war in our home. Last night was a perfect example, in fact, of the wackiest meltdown. I ended up eating later than her because she seemed to be starving and needed to eat at 5:00 last night instead of our normal dinner time. As I was finishing up my dinner, she cruised over to my lap and caught a few bites of salad. When she decided that she didn’t particularly care for it, she spit it out and began to wiggle around and hit me on the chest a few times. I’m not a big fan of being hit (who is, right?) so when she does that I try to keep it simple and tell her that it’s not a nice thing to do and that it hurts mommy. I attempt my best “let’s say sorry to mommy” spiel, and then sit her down. I don’t want her to think that doing that will allow her to continue sitting on my lap. You do something mean, you get to sit by yourself.

Somehow, she hasn’t caught on, and she still hits. She will smack the floor once or hit her leg once or twice when mad. I don’t hit her (or anyone), my family doesn’t hit her, no one hits me, so I don’t know where this hitting thing comes into play. Just being terribly two or should I worry?

The other thing my little babe does (this one I have to absolutely turn away and silently giggle or cover my mouth over) is her clapping. When she gets blood boiling mad over something (ie, “no more cookies, GiGi.” Or “We have to go now,” or even “please sit down. We don’t climb out of our chair.”) she will clap. It’s a very angry little clap. It reminds me of a person who claps when their pup is doing something wrong. It's a hard clap, and it's short and fast. Is it wrong that I find this mildly amusing? We don’t have a dog and I sure as hell don’t clap at her that way. We do a lot, I mean an obscene amount of happy clapping or “gigi applause”, but none of the angry stuff.

Around 6:45 pm yesterday evening, I brought her into my room to change her diaper. How stupid of me to change a poop-filled diaper when she had a puzzle to play with. She screamed and flailed and would not let me put her diaper back on. I’m sure with a little persistence I could have but …who really wants to do that so close to bath, book, and bed time? Not me. She took her shirt off and proceeded to sit amid a carpet lined with toys, naked, crying, and playing. She would stop when a good song came onto her playschool MP3 player, and then go back to giving me an angry clap here and there. Who knows, maybe my kid is onto something. Maybe we should all strip naked and clap while listending to a little Prince and playing with toys and puzzles to get over being an angry hot mess. yeah?

I’m becoming one of those mothers who is a little intimidated by the outbursts and tantrums in public, but I’m not going to let it prohibit me from shopping, taking walks, running errands, taking photos out and about, or anything else we want/need to do. It’s just makes the day a little more lively I suppose. So if you happen to see the screaming toddler in a Target or Trader Joes, just know that she is crying because she isn’t getting her way…and…. because I need frozen gyozas and deodorant.

Man. I’m puzzled. I am puzzled, but also completely fascinated by how she expresses her frustrations with life. It’s an exhausting daily battle to explain what is right and wrong in relation to human kindness, but a necessity. It’s tiring to say “no,” but a must. She’s almost two, and I can handle this, right? It’s a year and 2-1/2 weeks until age three but… but hey, what does three bring to the table?

(Polaroid like photo of a child who only wanted to walk hand-in-hand with my sister instead of getting in the car after lunch, out.)

Get Up and Go

2009-03-13T10:28:00Z

Normal 0 false false false EN-US X-NONE X-NONE MicrosoftInternetExplorer4 GiGi has been totally dependent on her shopping cart since the day she was introduced to it. It was pretty much a whole and perfect union for months and months. In fact, I have one in the trunk of my car, always ready to lend a helping hand to GiGi at any given location we roll into. There is a shopping cart at home also, and she spends almost all her waking moments pushing it in the same pattern around the house. I was positive that the same exact travel pattern - every day all day - was a direct result of GiGI inheriting some sort of obsessive compulsive gene from me (or let’s face it, her father), but it turns out that it has proven to be her best practice technique.

In my last post I shared my joy over her latest success in walking, hands and pre-cane trainer free. Since Monday, she has become increasingly ill with a nasty cold, and more determined to walk alone than I’ve ever seen.

Yesterday, I felt like I was at my wits end with GiGi. The constant crying I can understand, because she genuinely doesn’t feel well (we have a doc visit set for today), but the tantrums and hitting I can’t get on board with. She wanted to be near me at all times, even if it was to hug me or throw a fit. I seriously felt like we were having a horrible sick day that wouldn’t end, until she took a break from me and crawled from my room to the front room to greet my mother. I could hear my moms excited tone so I walked down the hallway to find my tot walking on her own. According to my mom, she just pulled herself up to her and started walking. Now, anytime she decides to walk alone, I’m proud. Since my last post she has actually done it so many times I can’t really count. Usually a walk initiated by me, my sister, and of course my mother. The walks were shorter distances but she seemed to be getting a little more confident.

My mother and I were watching her walk and commenting on how happy GiGi will be once she figures out how to stand up on her own. She’s tried a few different ways to stand up, but they all just sort of seem like downward facing dog poses from a yoga class I wasn’t aware she was taking. Until yesterday, she had never stood up without pulling up on something – ever. We were literally talking about and standing next to her as she got up on her own and jetted off. I wondered how it was that she could navigate herself so well through the house, even when I remained quiet at times. Both my mother and I were walking with her (my mother guiding her by voice while I filmed) and she began to go faster and faster. I walked in front of her for quite a few laps around the living room, kitchen, family room, entry way, and then back around again. It’s the same route she takes with her shopping cart every day. That little shopping cart helped her to mentally map the room and now that she has put walking together with getting up on her own, I’m in trouble. Well, maybe not trouble, but I am at least in for some work now that I need to bubble wrap all the sharp cornered furniture. When she strolled with the shopping cart I never worried about the corners since the wheels of the cart sort of provided a bumper. She never got close enough for me to cringe.

Now? NOW I cringe when she strolls past the sharp stuff. Suddenly the house looks as dangerous as it did when she first started crawling. I’m sure it’s not, but the tot proofing will take a more defined turn soon enough. We did have a tumble. GiGi started to pick up speed and shifted her walking to more of a slight run, and she ran straight into a big soft chair and fell straight back – stiff as a board – like a cartoon character. It took her a few minutes to shake off the ego blow, but then she was down and off walking again. Her left foot seems to move forward first in a protective motion which I find interesting. Other than the run in with the chair, only minor bumps and bonks to report. We are leaving for three days so Im hoping to watch her wander other places also. She’s an adventurous little girl!

I can’t describe the feeling of watching her get up and go, all by herself. She clapped so much while she roamed around in circles, and she giggled like you can’t believe. You could just tell by watching her that she was so satisfied to be walking. For a few hours out of the day she forgot that she was sick, and just wandered, giggling, through the house. And I, followed…..

(Okay, I officially just shouldn't talk in videos.)

No cane? No problem!

2009-03-10T01:14:00Z

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GiGi’s orientation and mobility teacher (o.m.) brought over a pre-cane trainer a month or so ago. I like it, GiGi finds it annoying. She’s scratched it, thrown it, pushed it away, cried at the mere touch of it, hit me for offering it, and anything else you can think of that would express her hatred for it. On a few occasions, I’ve pushed optimism out of my body and let it form the words “oh, yeah, I think she might be liking it a little more today.” The truth is, I’m either being overly hopeful or full of shit. You pick.

(the common reaction to the pre-cane trainer)

I suppose her reaction to this PVC rectangle, this tool, is normal and to be expected. I mean, how exactly are you suppose to explain to a 23 month old, that a rectangular piece of hard plastic-y stuff that is at tall as she is, should be us to sweep in front of her for objects. How do you explain that she can’t lean on it or she will fall over? I’m not really sure about this one, but I don’t have an explanation for her. It boggles my mind to try and understand whether or not she should be using this to assist her in walking alone at some point or if she needs to be taking independent steps first before this items becomes beneficial.

She stands tall and proud, clapping her hands, when she has successfully balanced herself for a minute or two. I keep thinking that this means she’s ready to move on to a pre-cane trainer, because she is doing that more and more lately. I keep thinking this way until, what’s that? What is she doing? Is she…

…is she walking toward my sister?

SHE IS WALKING TOWARD MY SISTER!

One step, two steps, three, four…… she just kept walking. My sister hugged her and then I called to GiGi from 7 or 8 steps behind she and she pivoted, all on her own, and walked toward me. It was amazing. I know that she has been walking with her shopping carts, and I do, by all means, consider that walking. It’s just supported walking. I also know that she has walked unassisted before, but it stopped after that. This time around she’s ready. I don’t know what to do at this point other than to take her hand with me everywhere I can, because she thoroughly enjoys walking hand in hand these days. Even while shopping at target a few days ago, she held my hand the entire which made the shopping trip last, oh, 2 hours. At home, she is beginning to walk all the time, if I initiate it. I’m trying to be encouraging and not pushy but sometimes I know it happens. Ack! I notice it helps when I clap or snap as I walk backwards and she walks towards me, but when she tries to copy it usually results in a tumble. We’re learning as we go it seems, but I do try to give her some audio ques as to where we are and where we’re going.

(Taking some steps, while being bribed with a shower – she loves them. *Please disregard the over-jubilated voice of mine. I get high pitched when she does something super amazing)

So will she use the pre-cane trainer? I have no clue. I’m planning on still making it available for her since this is extremely new and uncharted territory but I don’t know if she’s going to bypass it like the mini rocker she seems to be. Nonetheless, I’m a very proud mama, as always.

*Is your babe/tot/big kid doing something phenomenal these days? Pat them on the back and let us all know. I would like to virtually hi-five all the rockin’ mamas and tots out there. So please, brag J