Love is Blind

 

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.

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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

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 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.   

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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. 

 

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...

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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...

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 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...

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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 ....

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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 ...

 

 

*VIDEO AFTER THE JUMP*

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 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. 

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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...

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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...

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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...

 

 

 

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 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)

 

 

video after the jump ...

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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. 

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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...

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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..

 

 

(way too many photos after the jump.)

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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.

 

This year was almost like...

 

 

 

(video after the hippity-hop)

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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.

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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.....

 

(memory lane pics after the jump)

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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.

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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

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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.

 

 

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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...

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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...

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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.

 

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.

 

Photos and video after the jump...

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