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Monday, September 1, 2014
Tuesday, August 26, 2014
The Technical Difficulties
So I have not abandoned this beloved adventure, but we are movin' and groovin'.
I am currently building my own website to host this blog. Seriously, I bought a real name and have spent more hours than I like to admit with HTML code. But cross your fingers and say prayers (because I am not tech savvy and I just want to write) but hopefully it will come together soon. The big announcement should be at the end of this week and I will post on here the new place to follow your favorite little Misfit Mama. Thanks to every reader! Now let's go bowling, and drink some White Russians, and find a rug to tie the room together.
I am currently building my own website to host this blog. Seriously, I bought a real name and have spent more hours than I like to admit with HTML code. But cross your fingers and say prayers (because I am not tech savvy and I just want to write) but hopefully it will come together soon. The big announcement should be at the end of this week and I will post on here the new place to follow your favorite little Misfit Mama. Thanks to every reader! Now let's go bowling, and drink some White Russians, and find a rug to tie the room together.
Monday, August 18, 2014
Paint it Pink
There are no gender roles in our home. I do not cook. I do not clean. In the words of Rhett Butler "Frankly, my dear, I don't give a damn." When company is coming for a Christmas Eve, Thanksgiving, or an Easter dinner then I give a damn. I light the Yankee Candles which give off the appropriate scent for the season and I clean. But otherwise, my house is where I live. It is not a showroom. My husband does most of the cleaning. He vacuums, does dishes, and laundry as well as most of the cooking. My son, as all little boys do, wants to be like his father. He loves his vacuum and his broom. Toy companies have not realized the times are a changing as almost every vacuum and broom are covered in Minnie Mouse. Meaning they are mainly pink.
My son's favorite toys are a broom and a toy swiffer which we tell him is a vacuum. I searched locally at department stores for a neutral non-pink vacuum and broom. They were not available. I could order them off Amazon for a semi inflated price and pay shipping costs. I chose not to because I came across a deal at Marshall's around Easter time. It was a cleaning cart set consisting of a broom, swiffer, and a little fake spray bottle. It was all pink, hot neon pink. At $12.99, I wasn't passing it up.
Friends come over and see the little cleaning cart. The question is always the same. "Why does your son have a pink broom set?"
"Because he loves to use his broom and vacuum," is always our answer. This is why he loves it so much.
Daddy vacuums. He wants to be like his Dad. He mimics the roles he sees his father play. Cleaning is not a woman's role in our home, and if it was well..it would never get done with the exception of holidays. We have had the next advice handed to us on more than one occasion.
"You can always paint his broom. They make spray paint that will cover the pink."
My answer is "he doesn't know pink is a girl color. And it's his broom, I wouldn't change it." His pink broom is one of his most beloved items. Changing the color is showing him at the age of 18 months, he is not allowed to play with pink toys. He can play with pink, purple, blue, yellow or any color of toy he chooses to play with. They are his toys. If they make him happy, I won't change them. We are not defined by the color of our toys. A pink broom doesn't make him less of a little boy.
When I was a little girl, I wanted to be the first girl to play in Major League Baseball. I would go out every day and practice mainly by myself. And everyone said "you can't play baseball, you are a girl." And I believed them. They were wrong.
A girl can be whatever she chooses whether it is a ballplayer, a writer, a mechanic, or anything in which she devotes the time and effort into learning. A boy can sweep the floors. He can be happy in doing chores which were once labeled a 'woman's job.' A woman's job ended when she left the house, got a job, and contributed to providing to her family.
A man is not less of a man because he assumes household chores. He is a damn fine catch. I will never paint your broom, baby boy. I will, however, take it away when you hit windows and glass after I repeatedly tell you to stop. But your pink broom is your broom. It's just a broom, the color never mattered anyways. Seeing your face light up because you could be like your Daddy is the only feeling that ever truly mattered to me.
Friends come over and see the little cleaning cart. The question is always the same. "Why does your son have a pink broom set?"
"Because he loves to use his broom and vacuum," is always our answer. This is why he loves it so much.
"You can always paint his broom. They make spray paint that will cover the pink."
My answer is "he doesn't know pink is a girl color. And it's his broom, I wouldn't change it." His pink broom is one of his most beloved items. Changing the color is showing him at the age of 18 months, he is not allowed to play with pink toys. He can play with pink, purple, blue, yellow or any color of toy he chooses to play with. They are his toys. If they make him happy, I won't change them. We are not defined by the color of our toys. A pink broom doesn't make him less of a little boy.
When I was a little girl, I wanted to be the first girl to play in Major League Baseball. I would go out every day and practice mainly by myself. And everyone said "you can't play baseball, you are a girl." And I believed them. They were wrong.
A girl can be whatever she chooses whether it is a ballplayer, a writer, a mechanic, or anything in which she devotes the time and effort into learning. A boy can sweep the floors. He can be happy in doing chores which were once labeled a 'woman's job.' A woman's job ended when she left the house, got a job, and contributed to providing to her family.
A man is not less of a man because he assumes household chores. He is a damn fine catch. I will never paint your broom, baby boy. I will, however, take it away when you hit windows and glass after I repeatedly tell you to stop. But your pink broom is your broom. It's just a broom, the color never mattered anyways. Seeing your face light up because you could be like your Daddy is the only feeling that ever truly mattered to me.
Friday, August 15, 2014
Clueless from the Beginning
Oh, the first kiss. Remembering some strange awkward boy who I met on Kelleys Island, and how he licked my face. It was an epic fail. Slobber ran down my chin and my gut reaction was to push him away and run. Gross, unromantic, and terrified are the words to summarize this milestone. Parenting feels similar. My first child has provided many gross and terrified moments. This is my first child and I truly have no idea what I am doing, much like my first kiss.
Maternity leave was romanticized as a bonding experience. It was not. Before having a child, and on most days now, I visualized moments where my child and I would sit learning important life lessons. I didn't realize the first life lesson would be plunged upon me shortly after he was born. I had to teach him to eat. After being handed a tiny bottle with a red nipple, I was told he needed to learn how to suck so he could be taught how to eat. No one prepared me for this first. It never crossed my mind that he wouldn't know how to eat. Within the first week of bringing him home, I knew I had to readjust my thinking. Because the baby I had imagined spending my maternity leave with was more on the 8 month old baby level and not the newborn we had brought home. Newborn baby was way different than the 8 month old baby.
Eight month old baby could sit up and crawl around. He was aware to some extent of his surroundings. Newborn baby couldn't even hold his head up. As a first time parent, I was unaware these things would have to be learned over time. A lot of firsts followed. I didn't know you had to suck out their boogers because they didn't know how to pick their nose or blow out boogers. We are now reaching the point where a finger is finding the way up his nose. I try to tell him it's a private thing and we shouldn't do that in public. I have to teach him about picking his nose. I am on the fence about whether a car is a private or public place, it seems to be where I witness many strangers participating in a private activity.
These kind of human behaviors go along with other disgusting things like teaching him what poop and pee actually mean. Son stands up in bath tub. I ask "do you need to use your potty?" He shakes his head "no." Then he does it. He just pees while shaking his head "no" in the bath tub. I reconcile again, he must be taught about bodily functions. Everything to him is a constant learning experience and he is discovering their meanings and the appropriate words.
My son started day care last week. He goes for two days because I want him to become socialized. It is yet another lesson for him. He is not the only little person his age and there are many other little people just like him in the great big world. Plus since he is our only child and the only grandchild on both sides of his family, lessons in sharing along with how to treat others is a good experience for him. After his first two days of daycare, our family was treated to another first. We let him out of his bubble and within two days he was sick.
Oh his second day at daycare, we had to fill out an incident report. My child bit another kid. I am pretty sure the kid he chose to bite got the last laugh as my child has slung green and yellow snot EVERYWHERE. And both of his ears are infected. He could have also obtained the disease from licking another kid's shoe, or finding some half eaten food on the floor which is something he just always has to eat. Who really knows where he got it. But it was another first for us. Since he hasn't learned to properly blow his nose yet, he just uses his hand, or a sleeve, or a blanket, or his pillow, or the couch, or any place he feels like rubbing his infection all over the house. Within a few short days, we were all infected.
From each experience, I am constantly reminded I am a first time parent and I have no idea what I am doing. And since our son is our first little human, he is learning right along with us. He doesn't know either. He won't know until he is taught things like how to blow his nose, or what pee pee actually means. He doesn't understand enough to say "Hey guys, I just had the biggest blow out in my pants so we are gonna be late for our play date. And Mom, I left some on your sleeve so you might want to change too." Nobody in this house has any idea what we are doing. We are flying down first kiss lane at a rate of a thousand miles per hour.
Maternity leave was romanticized as a bonding experience. It was not. Before having a child, and on most days now, I visualized moments where my child and I would sit learning important life lessons. I didn't realize the first life lesson would be plunged upon me shortly after he was born. I had to teach him to eat. After being handed a tiny bottle with a red nipple, I was told he needed to learn how to suck so he could be taught how to eat. No one prepared me for this first. It never crossed my mind that he wouldn't know how to eat. Within the first week of bringing him home, I knew I had to readjust my thinking. Because the baby I had imagined spending my maternity leave with was more on the 8 month old baby level and not the newborn we had brought home. Newborn baby was way different than the 8 month old baby.
Eight month old baby could sit up and crawl around. He was aware to some extent of his surroundings. Newborn baby couldn't even hold his head up. As a first time parent, I was unaware these things would have to be learned over time. A lot of firsts followed. I didn't know you had to suck out their boogers because they didn't know how to pick their nose or blow out boogers. We are now reaching the point where a finger is finding the way up his nose. I try to tell him it's a private thing and we shouldn't do that in public. I have to teach him about picking his nose. I am on the fence about whether a car is a private or public place, it seems to be where I witness many strangers participating in a private activity.
 |
| campaignbrief.com |
My son started day care last week. He goes for two days because I want him to become socialized. It is yet another lesson for him. He is not the only little person his age and there are many other little people just like him in the great big world. Plus since he is our only child and the only grandchild on both sides of his family, lessons in sharing along with how to treat others is a good experience for him. After his first two days of daycare, our family was treated to another first. We let him out of his bubble and within two days he was sick.
From each experience, I am constantly reminded I am a first time parent and I have no idea what I am doing. And since our son is our first little human, he is learning right along with us. He doesn't know either. He won't know until he is taught things like how to blow his nose, or what pee pee actually means. He doesn't understand enough to say "Hey guys, I just had the biggest blow out in my pants so we are gonna be late for our play date. And Mom, I left some on your sleeve so you might want to change too." Nobody in this house has any idea what we are doing. We are flying down first kiss lane at a rate of a thousand miles per hour.
Wednesday, August 6, 2014
Yes I Am.
Mommy the Magnificent will capture the Terrific Toddler. A chase ensues where each tiny footstep is echoed on scratched hardwood floors. Mommy the Magnificent knows a great battle is at hand. Because once the Terrific Toddler is captured, Mommy the Magnificent will place the Terrific Toddler in an invisible bubble so he is never allowed to grow up. She will keep him little forever. She will protect him from the Big Bad World and never allow an ounce of harm to find the Terrific Toddler. No mean words will cross his ears. He will never face a bully. He will never have his heart broken.
We play this game almost every evening. After the work is done and the computer is closed, a rambunctious game of cat and mouse is played. I always let him escape to the safety of his castle which is a lion mat and his blankie. Because there is no invisible bubble. There is no way from stopping the inevitable. He will grow up. And there will come a day when my imagination can't compete with the technology. I can't compete with a little girl who he finds to be so pretty. Or a woman he chooses to marry.
Looking beyond his almost 18 months on this earth, I carry the greatest hope in the fact he will find his mate. I know our phone calls will become shorter. Our breakfasts, lunches, and dinners will cease to exist in my every day life. But I am not sad. Because I never look at him finding happiness and creating a home as a loss.
When we read "The Giving Tree," I am always shaken into the reality. He will one day not want to climb a tree and swing from her branches. He will one day want a home. He will want love, and a wife. He will not be my little boy. One day, manhood comes a calling. As a mother, I hope I have prepared him. This is my greatest job. To teach kindness, to teach caring for others, to teach compassion and respect. I hope to teach him that strong women are not to be feared, but admired for their beauty and strength.
Today I received my third rejection letter for my first short story. It didn't break me. It made me stronger and more determined. It made me want to write something beautiful. Tomorrow my son begins his journey outside of his family confines to a day care. He will meet little people just like him and I hope he finds friends. Because Mommy the Magnificent can't keep him in a bubble. I can't keep him little forever. All I can do is shelter him from the Big Bad World the best I can. When the time comes, I hope I have prepared him for the world.
And when the world says "you are not good enough," it is my hope that he will give the world the big middle finger with every vein exploding persistence and determination, and he will say loudly "Yes I am." Because this is who I am raising him to be.
We play this game almost every evening. After the work is done and the computer is closed, a rambunctious game of cat and mouse is played. I always let him escape to the safety of his castle which is a lion mat and his blankie. Because there is no invisible bubble. There is no way from stopping the inevitable. He will grow up. And there will come a day when my imagination can't compete with the technology. I can't compete with a little girl who he finds to be so pretty. Or a woman he chooses to marry.
Looking beyond his almost 18 months on this earth, I carry the greatest hope in the fact he will find his mate. I know our phone calls will become shorter. Our breakfasts, lunches, and dinners will cease to exist in my every day life. But I am not sad. Because I never look at him finding happiness and creating a home as a loss.
When we read "The Giving Tree," I am always shaken into the reality. He will one day not want to climb a tree and swing from her branches. He will one day want a home. He will want love, and a wife. He will not be my little boy. One day, manhood comes a calling. As a mother, I hope I have prepared him. This is my greatest job. To teach kindness, to teach caring for others, to teach compassion and respect. I hope to teach him that strong women are not to be feared, but admired for their beauty and strength.
Today I received my third rejection letter for my first short story. It didn't break me. It made me stronger and more determined. It made me want to write something beautiful. Tomorrow my son begins his journey outside of his family confines to a day care. He will meet little people just like him and I hope he finds friends. Because Mommy the Magnificent can't keep him in a bubble. I can't keep him little forever. All I can do is shelter him from the Big Bad World the best I can. When the time comes, I hope I have prepared him for the world.
And when the world says "you are not good enough," it is my hope that he will give the world the big middle finger with every vein exploding persistence and determination, and he will say loudly "Yes I am." Because this is who I am raising him to be.
Thursday, July 31, 2014
Pure Hell: A Guide to Toddler Torture
Last weekend was all about how my husband and I could torture our little boy. We started with taking him to our local amusement park. Because it claims to have 'Fun for All.'
Although the park does not have the latest and greatest thrill rides, it is a quaint place where every child who has grown up around this region is guaranteed to make fond first memories. How dare we try to make first memories with our child? Especially at the place where his Mommy and his Grandfather worked their first jobs. I was unaware this type of behavior is forbidden in toddler world. What to do next since we are at a fun place? Well, if you are even remotely familiar with Camden Park it is a must-do to eat the local fare known as the "Pronto Pup." So with anxious hearts and stomachs, we purchased our son's first Pronto Pup. He snubbed his nose at it and decided the Larabar we had brought with us was a much better option than a deep fried corn dog. Yes, in theory he is right. But this was supposed to be a treat.
Can you imagine the torture of being offered a rare fair treat? How dare we do such a thing? The final act of torture to culminate our first family adventure to the local fun place was something absolutely horrendous. Since we were scared to leave him on a kiddie ride because he has no fear and severe separation anxiety, we....ohhh, I can't even type it. Hanging my head in shame at this very moment. We took him on a carousel ride where I could hold him.
You read this correctly. We took him on a ride. Not a ride where you throw your kid on and get adorable pictures. Because we knew if we did this he would barrel back to us with all his strength and put others and himself in danger.
As we climbed on the carousel. I chose a cream colored horse and attached the safety belt around him. He begins what we call 'meltdown mode.' His next great move is to hurl his body weight off the horse directly to me with the death grip on my shirt. As I look around, I notice an empty bench on the carousel and decide that may be a better place to enjoy his first ride. I unbuckle his safety belt and begin to move towards the empty bench. A bell rings signaling fun is about to begin. There isn't enough time to make it to the bench before the carnival music begins and we go spinning round for what felt like forever. I immediately grab the bar attached to our chosen smiling horse and bear hugged my son. Other children laughed and posed for cute carousel pictures. Mine screamed, round and round we went with a red faced waling toddler.
We were done with fun for all after this. So on the next day, I followed the horrific event known as an amusement park with something equally as traumatic. He was treated to his first haircut. Here he also screamed while throwing his body weight around, except this experience had more snot involved. And did you know the phrase 'spitting mad' is not just a phrase? If my child is angry enough, he spits. First time parent learns yet another lesson. So here you have it, your very own guide to toddler torture. Amusement park, deep fried food, a carousel ride, and one hair cut is all it takes to thoroughly piss off a toddler.
You read this correctly. We took him on a ride. Not a ride where you throw your kid on and get adorable pictures. Because we knew if we did this he would barrel back to us with all his strength and put others and himself in danger.
As we climbed on the carousel. I chose a cream colored horse and attached the safety belt around him. He begins what we call 'meltdown mode.' His next great move is to hurl his body weight off the horse directly to me with the death grip on my shirt. As I look around, I notice an empty bench on the carousel and decide that may be a better place to enjoy his first ride. I unbuckle his safety belt and begin to move towards the empty bench. A bell rings signaling fun is about to begin. There isn't enough time to make it to the bench before the carnival music begins and we go spinning round for what felt like forever. I immediately grab the bar attached to our chosen smiling horse and bear hugged my son. Other children laughed and posed for cute carousel pictures. Mine screamed, round and round we went with a red faced waling toddler.
Tuesday, July 22, 2014
Corsets Laced with Hope Strings
Perfection is the goal. To present ourselves as golden rays beaming happiness. It's not always so. I can redefine beauty in the terms of motherhood, but I still play another role. The role which began almost 12 years prior.
He didn't have a ring and we had only been dating for 8 months. I was crying and an emotional Pisces can break through the thickest Scorpion skin. He had never felt such an emotional attachment combined with fireworks every where else. And he knew, we both knew from the beginning. I called him my 'kismet.' I didn't know at the time when I rejected the first proposal it would be seven years later before I heard those words again.
And it wasn't perfect. It has been one of the briar patches in our relationship. He told me to pick a ring off the internet, keep it under a grand, and I did. He tried to take me to the museum to make it some kind of a real thing, but the roads were icy and too steep. It was a week before Christmas and I already knew the proposal was coming. It was either coming, or I was on my way out the door. I had waited long enough. So we headed back to our little apartment on this particular not special evening and he asked me to marry him. I asked him to get down on one knee because it was proper.
I hate telling this story because it hurts. He robbed himself of the excitement for not going out to find a ring on his own and doing the surprise proposal instead of the forced one. And I sold myself short. As I look at this unbearably hard lesson, I also look around where we are five years later. Despite a bad engagement story, we have created a beautiful home and filled it with the most precious toddler in the world (I know I am being bias on this because that toddler is ours, but he is pretty damn cute.)
Beauty is felt on the inside as I play the role of mother. However as a wife, I struggle. I struggle to want to be sexy. To feel sexy. To broadcast any sort of sex appeal into my relationship. I keep hearing these words pour out of my mouth "I am only a mother now."
Throughout the maternity leave, I told myself it would pass. It was postpartum depression and once I returned to work, and started putting makeup on in the mornings again that these feelings would pass. It didn't pass. It is almost two years later and it hasn't passed. When my son was four months old, I dyed my hair pink in some hopes to reclaim a bit of femininity.
But it was just pink hair. It didn't spark me into wanting to get all dressed up. It didn't make feel more womanly. It was just pink hair.
Looking back, the roles changed. And I am adaptable. I was a girlfriend who became a fiancee. Then I transitioned into a wife and finally a mother. And I stopped caring about any role I had once my son arrived. I want him to have the best childhood. And that is my main care. As my husband robbed himself of engagement excitement, I know I am robbing myself of the experience to be a wife and a mother. Women can be both. Once upon a time I was lady who loved corsets, thigh high black boots, and hours spent on my sexy makeup look. I don't know where that lady went. I don't know when one has a child if that lady dies. But I can't find her. And I really am not looking too hard for her either. I'm too tired to look.
We have a running joke in our house. "Poker sounds awesome on Tuesday." Because before the baby came, we played poker with our friends almost every Friday for over ten years. And on Tuesdays we are excited about having friends over and playing. Then Friday comes, and we are exhausted. And staying up till 1 or 2 a.m. is like running a marathon after you smoked a pack of cigarettes. There just isn't enough breath. We are the same way about going out to dinner. It sounds great on Tuesday. But on a Friday night where a grandparent watches the little one overnight, we want to be lazy. We indulge ourselves in relaxation.
People will say "you always have to work at your relationship." And I know this is true. I work a full time job along with writing articles, short stories, and this blog; I don't want anymore work. I've worked since I was 15. I know how to work but I don't know how to be someone that I don't want to be.
Sexy isn't in my vocabulary right now. And I make no apologies for that. As with my engagement, in five years a lot of things change. A Pisces always has one thing, we always retain hope. Maybe one day a glimmer of the old me will return, maybe she won't. For now, this lady is perfectly fine in her white stained tank top and plaid pajama pants with her corsets locked away in a closet.
He didn't have a ring and we had only been dating for 8 months. I was crying and an emotional Pisces can break through the thickest Scorpion skin. He had never felt such an emotional attachment combined with fireworks every where else. And he knew, we both knew from the beginning. I called him my 'kismet.' I didn't know at the time when I rejected the first proposal it would be seven years later before I heard those words again.
And it wasn't perfect. It has been one of the briar patches in our relationship. He told me to pick a ring off the internet, keep it under a grand, and I did. He tried to take me to the museum to make it some kind of a real thing, but the roads were icy and too steep. It was a week before Christmas and I already knew the proposal was coming. It was either coming, or I was on my way out the door. I had waited long enough. So we headed back to our little apartment on this particular not special evening and he asked me to marry him. I asked him to get down on one knee because it was proper.
I hate telling this story because it hurts. He robbed himself of the excitement for not going out to find a ring on his own and doing the surprise proposal instead of the forced one. And I sold myself short. As I look at this unbearably hard lesson, I also look around where we are five years later. Despite a bad engagement story, we have created a beautiful home and filled it with the most precious toddler in the world (I know I am being bias on this because that toddler is ours, but he is pretty damn cute.)
Beauty is felt on the inside as I play the role of mother. However as a wife, I struggle. I struggle to want to be sexy. To feel sexy. To broadcast any sort of sex appeal into my relationship. I keep hearing these words pour out of my mouth "I am only a mother now."
Throughout the maternity leave, I told myself it would pass. It was postpartum depression and once I returned to work, and started putting makeup on in the mornings again that these feelings would pass. It didn't pass. It is almost two years later and it hasn't passed. When my son was four months old, I dyed my hair pink in some hopes to reclaim a bit of femininity.
 |
| Picture taken by Tammylynn's Photography |
Looking back, the roles changed. And I am adaptable. I was a girlfriend who became a fiancee. Then I transitioned into a wife and finally a mother. And I stopped caring about any role I had once my son arrived. I want him to have the best childhood. And that is my main care. As my husband robbed himself of engagement excitement, I know I am robbing myself of the experience to be a wife and a mother. Women can be both. Once upon a time I was lady who loved corsets, thigh high black boots, and hours spent on my sexy makeup look. I don't know where that lady went. I don't know when one has a child if that lady dies. But I can't find her. And I really am not looking too hard for her either. I'm too tired to look.
We have a running joke in our house. "Poker sounds awesome on Tuesday." Because before the baby came, we played poker with our friends almost every Friday for over ten years. And on Tuesdays we are excited about having friends over and playing. Then Friday comes, and we are exhausted. And staying up till 1 or 2 a.m. is like running a marathon after you smoked a pack of cigarettes. There just isn't enough breath. We are the same way about going out to dinner. It sounds great on Tuesday. But on a Friday night where a grandparent watches the little one overnight, we want to be lazy. We indulge ourselves in relaxation.
People will say "you always have to work at your relationship." And I know this is true. I work a full time job along with writing articles, short stories, and this blog; I don't want anymore work. I've worked since I was 15. I know how to work but I don't know how to be someone that I don't want to be.
Sexy isn't in my vocabulary right now. And I make no apologies for that. As with my engagement, in five years a lot of things change. A Pisces always has one thing, we always retain hope. Maybe one day a glimmer of the old me will return, maybe she won't. For now, this lady is perfectly fine in her white stained tank top and plaid pajama pants with her corsets locked away in a closet.
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