Washing My Mouth out with Soap

I have no one to blame but myself. It is amazing to me how our children can so easily latch onto the least favorable qualities within ourselves and adopt them as their own. Some of these "qualities" must be ingrained in their DNA. For example, I think Isabelle must have come out of the womb possessing no patience. (Of course, after going through a forty-plus hour labor, one can hardly blame her for being tired of waiting!) She gets this impatient streak from her father who has been known to quickly lose it when things do not go perfect the first time.

However, the latest not-so-lovely "habit" is most definitely my fault. You see, despite my efforts in the last several years to, shall we say "tame my tongue" I, nonetheless, still maintain a tendency to swear. Especially when watching sports, specifically hockey. Watching a ref make a bad call against the Red Wings, can launch me into a tirade of language that could most likely make a sailor blush. I am also known to get a little irritated at what passes for journalism these days when I watch almost any evening news program. Unbiased? Please! My colorful vocabulary stems largely from a beloved friend of mine who in high school dropped f-bombs like a thunderstorm drops rain. She was as unconscious of it as one is of breathing, and I soon became the same way. In college, the swearing diminished considerably, but I confess I did not work very hard to eradicate it completely. Now, as a mother, I am once more painfully aware of what words I say, and I try very hard to clamp down on the trailer trash side of my vocabulary.

Although, it would seem not completely. Last week, Clay and I set up an Easter egg hunt in our house for Isabelle. The eggs were scattered in our downstairs family room, and Isabelle quickly got into it, racing around with her basket and piling the colored eggs inside. At one point she momentarily stopped and surveying the room stated excitedly, "They are "friggin' everywhere!" Clay and I, sitting on the couch observing, turned simultaneously to one another and he mouthed, "friggin?!?" I shook it off, determined to believe we had misheard until a few minutes later she said the offending word once more. Despite being rather alarmed by my beautiful daughter's utterance, I found myself not quite capable of keeping a straight face. There was something completely hysterical about watching this small, angelic picture of innocence say something that should be coming out of the mouth of a character like Rizzo in "Grease." Now, though I am rather chagrined and determined to do better in curbing my wayward tongue. In my defense, "friggin" is a much better substitute then the other "f-word!"

Hamster Wheel

Some days I would like to just keep moving, keep running and never stop. I pound that treadmill track, lungs sucking in oxygen, heart thumping, blood flowing through my body, my muscles moving in perfect coordination totally without conscious thought. It feels good. It is simple. It is living at its basic, stripped of all the complexities, big and small, that make up a person's life.

This morning I thought I didn't want to get on the treadmill. I felt tired. The kind of tired that goes beyond the physical to the point where your soul and mind are just craving for... quiet. But I stood on the scale and saw the number and stretched my muscles with Isabelle mimicking my movements beside me. The first few minutes on the treadmill feel sluggish and I keep glancing at the time I have left and thinking, "I feel like crap."

But ten minutes in I am running, ignoring the slight stitch in my side as I cross the point where I am no longer thinking about running. The music playing on the TV fades away as does Isabelle babbling as she plays with her toys. My heart thuds in my chest as I run, run away from my fat thighs, run away from whiny kids, run away from meowing cats, run away from dirty laundry, dirty toilets, dirty dishes. I do my best to pound out the stress that has been tying my neck into a steady knot for the last three weeks, to release the worry, the ceaseless, gut-wrenching worry about things I cannot control, to rest my brain from trying over and over to come up with some way to truly help Clay. I run away from my insecurities about my looks, my inadequacies as a mother, my tendency to try and always meet everyones needs and wants even at the expense of my own. I keep going on my own version of the hamster wheel until the time winds down and the treadmill slows, and then I am walking and the room is slowly coming back into focus and my life still surrounds me - both the beautiful and not so beautiful parts. And I know I have not solved anything and a small part of me wants to just keep going.

The responsible part of me thinks about what I need to do for the day and reminds me that I do, in fact, feel better. And I do. While nothing is solved the body is strong and energized, and for the moment my head is not quite so clouded. My optimistic side comes to the surface, as it always inevitably does, and tells me that while I may stress and worry and feel down, life has a way of working out the way it is supposed to. I pound that thought into my stair treads as I head upstairs to get my shower.

Hard-Headed and Proud of It

Well, it finally happened. I figured it would sooner or later, and actually it is amazing we almost made it to three years old before taking a really good whack. Yup, that's right: Isabelle finally hit her head. I mean HIT her head, not just one of the billions of times she has bumped it (once you have a child you will understand the difference, trust me.) The kid has fallen down the stairs, rolled off of the bed, fallen off a deck and a dock, and walked into doors more times then I can count, but this injury definitely goes on Isabelle's top ten list (number one, for now).

Last night Clay was lifting weights, which he does three/four times a week. Isabelle loves this and frequently counts for him as he does his reps or picks up her own weights (little one lbs.) and imitates Daddy. Well, he was doing his arm curls (20 lbs. in each hand). For those of you who don't know, this involves raising the weight up in a "curl" and then bringing it back down to his side. As Clay was bringing his left arm down, Isabelle took that exact minute to run into the room behind Clay and right into the weight, which proceeded to bounce off of her forehead.

Yes, that is right, 20 lbs. connected with my daughter's skull in the matter of a split second and before Clay even had a moment to realize she was there, let alone react. It is in that moment that time seemed to slow down and I felt every organ in my body jump into my throat. One thought played quickly across my mind. "Please, God, do not let it be too bad." Well, of course, all hell ensued, with Isabelle doing an immediate about face and rushing into my arms screaming at the top of her lungs, which if you have not been privy to hearing ranks up there with a thousand "yippy" dogs howling. She was so distraught that I could not even get a look, so while I held her I sent Clay to grab a cold washcloth and the all important "Boo-boo Bunny." "Boo-boo Bunny" is a creatively folded yellow washcloth with eyes and a nose and ears, but more importantly holds a tiny frozen ice ball in it's belly and is kept in the freezer. He works miracles and will be held on any offending injury by Isabelle without complaint. Thank you to Mom for buying it and to the craft show lady who made it!

After repeated gasping sobs from Isabelle, Clay and I finally got a look by pushing her bangs out of the way and each of us let out a collective groan. On the right side of her forehead an ugly black and blue mark had already appeared and was swelling to an impressive size, making my little girl look like she was about to pop a nubby deer antler out of her head. I spent the next forty minutes holding Isabelle and applying the cold washcloth and "Boo-boo Bunny" to the ugly bump. Fortunately, she did not break the skin and Isabelle was most definitely functioning normally, informing all who would listen that she "bumped" and going on in her typical dramatic fashion about how "it was accident" and "she cried." I managed to put her to bed shortly later after checking that yup, pupils were equal and reactive and that the crisis seemed to be over.

This morning Isabelle is sporting a lovely bruise, which thankfully, is hidden by bangs and the swelling has faded right down due to our quick application of cold and ice. I have no doubt it will fade much quicker then any of my bruises, as Isabelle possesses every child's freakishly wonderful ability to seemingly heal over night (too bad we can't hold onto that as we age). Clay is incredibly relieved as he was feeling enormously guilty, but I cannot say I am all that surprised. After all, she is my daughter and if she takes after me at all she will be hitting her head a lot over the coming years. But God seems to have planned for this frequent occurrence by blessing me (and I suspect my daughter) with very hard heads. Thank goodness.

Trip down Memory Lane

Something in my dreams last night triggered a childhood memory. (I don't believe it was the dream where I was dressed as a chipmunk in a fur-filled musical being attacked by a rather large puppy. No joke! That was one of my dreams.) Anyways, I woke up at something like six in the morning suddenly remembering this incident from when I was ..... I don't know maybe sevenish? It was during the summer, and I went over to a neighbor's house to see if they wanted to play. (This was before all the hyper-scheduling of playdates nowadays.... children just actually spontaneously played together, imagine!) It was one street over and their last name were the Heffernans (or something along those lines. We will go with Heffernans even though I think that is the last name of Doug and Carrie on all the "King of Queens" re-runs. Sorry, back to the point.) The Heffernans had a daughter a year younger than myself.

When I got there Lena already had a friend over, and they were playing in the basement. I have no idea how long we played, but I remember that after a bit Lena disappeared upstairs to talk to her Mom, and when she came back down, Lena's mom called for me to come up. Standing rather awkwardly in front of her and feeling nervous, I waited to see what she wanted. In a very serious manner she bent down and blinked rather large eyes at me, and then solemnly informed me that I needed to go home because Lena just wanted to play with her one friend right now. Essentially I was not welcome, and she was booting me out the door. Feeling awful, I left the house as quickly as possible. I never went to Lena's house again.

Now, after all of these years, I can still sort of feel the remainders of the rejection and embarrassment, and I wonder why such a moment should be so ingrained on my psyche. I think for a couple of reasons. One, it was the first time that I had an idea that a grownup had perhaps done something wrong. Up to that point, adults in my eyes were still all-wise and all-knowing and, therefore, to be deferred to without question. When this incident happened, I did not know what exactly I felt, only that I was somehow unfairly treated. Looking on it as a parent today, I think Mrs. Heffernan handled the situation badly. I know I would be more inclined to help my daughter find ways to include all her friends and enforce the idea that excluding a playmate might hurt that playmate's feelings. Ya know, the whole "how would you feel if someone did that to you" kind of thing. To me, it was like giving your child permission to be rude. Plus, it seems almost anything would have been kinder then basically saying "my daughter doesn't want to play with you." Especially when it is an adult telling this to a young child. A second reason this little moment has stuck with me is because it was the first time I had really felt rejected. And I mean not the older brother dumping little sister kind of rejection but the I wasn't good enough, likable enough, fun enough, or cool enough, kind of rejection. It stings. Hell, even as adults we still all want to be liked.

I do not know if I ever told my mom. I think I was too embarrassed. Ahh, the painful days of childhood! Funny how the mind works, and I still wonder what dream or random thought that I am not remembering triggered this trip down memory lane. It also makes me realize Isabelle will someday face rejection and hurt feelings, and like any parent I wish I could spare her, but it is all part of growing up, isn't it?