The Crazy Files, Vol VII: I Probably Ruined Bubba’s Life By Not Breastfeeding

As I imagine is the case with most new mothers, the first months of Bubba’s life were all about survival. It only took a few sleepless nights for me to abandon virtually all of my preconceived notions about parenting and to start making decisions based on only two factors: will my kid survive, and, presuming so, is it the easiest possible option available. Sure, I had assumed that I’d breastfeed with ease and that baby would sleep in his crib and wear cute outfits and I’d probably shower from time to time or something, but within weeks I had that kid sleeping with me, drinking bottles, and both his outfits and mine were perpetually covered in layers of spitup I simply could not be bothered to remedy.

The sleep deprivation hit me hard, and everything about taking care of a newborn was so much more difficult than I had ever imagined — especially breastfeeding. Prior to having Bubba, I barely gave a passing thought to what nursing would be like, so convinced was I that it would be effortless. But when he arrived and I discovered that breastfeeding required endless patience along with every last ounce of my extremely limited energy supply, and that it could be totally uncomfortable, and that the use of what amounts to a torture device just to pump milk for him while I worked would get old real fast, I quickly determined that it was more than I had bargained for. When Daddy offered to give the baby some formula at three weeks so I could get a little sleep, I agreed without a second thought, and by the time Bubba was seven weeks old the ease of formula feeding had won me over and I gave up on the boobs entirely.

Months later, once the haze of the sleepless newborn days had finally worn off and I had some time to reflect on Bubba’s infancy, I felt a twinge of regret about my decision. Was I an awful person for choosing comfort and sleep over nourishing my child? Could I have done more and tried harder? But Bubba was perfectly fine! He was happy and healthy and smart and clearly no worse for the wear, so I let that assuage my guilt and moved on.

Then I had Baby G, and with him came the opportunity to learn from the mistakes I made with Bubba and do things differently. I decided to give breastfeeding another try, and as it turns out, everything is easier the second time around! My body is already used to reduced sleep, and just knowing what to expect makes a world of difference. To my great surprise, the breastfeeding experience this time around has been a breeze — Baby G is a champion eater, my milk supply is stellar, and other than a couple of clogged ducts (TMI? Gross) things really couldn’t be going any smoother.

And I feel so, so terrible about it. 

Not for Baby G, of course. No, I feel horribly guilty that I couldn’t do it for dear Bubba! I was okay with my decision for three years, but now that I’ve had success with Baby G, I am plagued with guilt and regret and am kicking myself daily for not having had just a little bit more patience with my firstborn. How could I have been so selfish?

And of course my brain doesn’t stop with just a little regret. No, I go further off the rails: what if Bubba only seems fine to me because I had nothing to compare him to? What if this kid grows up to be way smarter or more athletic and it’s totally because of the breastfeeding?! And poor Bubba is left watching his little brother thrive while he withers away due to some as of yet unknown deficiency and he never achieves his dreams and then he finds out it’s all because I let him drink FORMULA and then he HATES ME FOREVER and I can’t even blame him for hating me because it’s ALL MY FAULT?!

On the other hand, I’m surely ruining this baby’s life by never being able to offer him my undivided attention because his big brother is always around and by taking selfies while he nurses, so perhaps I can take comfort in the fact that both of my children will grow to hate me in due time.

MOM I’M EATING THIS IS PRIVATE STOP WITH THE CAMERA

Silver linings!

The Time a Sponge Was Stuck in my Nose for THREE MONTHS

Ever the jokester, Bubba attempted to amuse me the other day with an age-old toddler trick: pretending to stick a jelly bean in his ear. To a normal mother, this type of silliness likely would have been met with a swift but gentle reminder that sticking foreign bodies into any of our orifices is a no-no, and then quickly forgotten.

Not me.

When I saw that jelly bean heading towards the dear lad’s ear, flashbacks came screaming into my mind like a shellshocked soldier, adrenaline rushed through my blood and I jumped into action, intercepting the candy mid-flight with cat-like reflexes. I may or may not have shouted “NOOOOOOOO DON’T DO THAT!” and had to resist the urge to chuck the jelly bean out the window like a grenade, nearly forgetting that the confection itself was not actually to blame for the near tragedy.

I realize that probably sounds like an over-reaction, but when you consider the fact that I once lived with a piece of a rotting sponge stuck in my nasal cavity for a quarter of a year, I think it’s perfectly reasonable.

The horror began innocently: picture a three-year-old me, happily enjoying a bath with my big sister on a totally ordinary evening. In lieu of bath toys that fateful night, my sister and I were enjoying a pack of those little sponges that start off in capsule form and then expand in the water — like these, except this particular assortment featured letters of the alphabet. Well, I don’t know if it was something in the sponges themselves, the bubble bath, our shampoo, or what, but those letters smelled divine. I couldn’t stop sniffing them…which would have probably been OK, had I not also been experimenting with tearing the sponges into smaller pieces.

It was only a matter of time before one of the pieces went right up my little nose mid-sniff. A piece of an N, to be specific. And I can assure you that it was an N and not an A or L or K or any other letter, because I spent the next three months telling anyone and everyone, “THERE’S AN ‘N’ IN MY NOSE!!!” over and over again in hopes that someone would free me from my spongy torment, to no avail.

Now, to be fair to my family — because you’re probably wondering what kind of horrid neglect I was enduring that resulted in me walking around with a goddamn sponge up my nose for any longer than three minutes, much less months on end — my mom did pry out the sponge immediately after the ruinous sniff. The problem was that she only pulled out part of it, not realizing that another piece remained lodged deep within my nasal cavity. I, of course, was well aware of the stranded fragment, being that I couldn’t breathe out of my nose, but she was unaware that her extraction had been incomplete. This little problem surely could have been quickly remedied, if not for the simple fact that I was three years old and lacked the verbal dexterity to properly articulate my plight. Perhaps if I’d said something like, “Mother darling, despite your best efforts, a small portion of the sponge you attempted to withdraw was inadvertently left within my nostril and further nasal examination is necessary,” I would have seen some results…but alas, I was three and the best I could come up with was “THERE’S AN ‘N’ IN MY NOSE!!!” and thus the sponge remained.

I suppose my family just thought I was insane.

It wasn’t until three months later when I sneezed (in church, no less!) and my mom nearly gagged from the foul odor that accompanied my mucus that the figurative lightbulb went off and she finally realized that the “N” I’d been babbling about was probably related to that sponge she thought she’d removed a whole freakin’ season prior. She marched me on over to the doctor the very next day, where, at long last, with the assistance of some very large tweezers and a blindingly bright light, the now-moldy sponge was freed from its sinus prison. I don’t remember much about the aftermath of this incident — my memories of The Great N-Sponge Tragedy of ’86 all focus on the frustration of trying to get someone to believe there was an N up there in the first place — but my mom reports that I sneezed incessantly for days, my nose probably ecstatic to have such freedom after so many months. It must have felt fantastic, and it’s really too bad I don’t remember that sweet relief.

(My mom, for the record, felt terrible. AS SHE SHOULD, SINCE HER CHILD HAD A ROTTING SPONGE UP HER NOSE FOR THREE MONTHS. Ahem. I love you, Mom.)

The good news is that this experience made a lasting impression on me: never again did I allow a small object to come within sniffing distance of my nose; I’m hesitant to even get a tissue too close, if we’re being honest. I’ve used the story as a cautionary tale for babysitting charges and young relatives many times over the years, and I was happy to share the tale with Bubba after he flirted with disaster with the jelly bean. He had a lot of questions about why I felt the need to sniff the sponge and why I had chosen an N instead of another letter, so I’m not entirely sure the point of the story really sunk in…but I can assure you of this: if he’s ever spouting nonsense about something being stuck anywhere in his body, whether it’s a letter N or a number 8 or an Elmo or a tree, I’m taking him to the damn doctor.

If nothing else, they can just confirm that he’s insane and at least I’ll know his sinuses are clear.

My mom did not have the foresight to take a photo of me on the doctor’s table mid-extraction (if Facebook had existed in the mid-eighties, surely she would have), so here’s a photo of me from the same era, playing with paper dolls and wearing some kind of bonnet.

Where the Hell Have I Been?! A Six Month Recap

My lengthy blogging hiatus was unintentional. I didn’t wake up one day and decide I was done blogging or anything so dramatic; it was just one of those things that kept getting put off for a myriad of reasons until it became bigger in my mind than it really needed to be and then I couldn’t decide how to jump back into it, like when you forget to email a friend back for a couple of days and it spirals out of control until one day you realize you haven’t talked in a year and it’s totally your fault and now you CAN’T contact them because it’s just SO AWKWARD.

(Please tell me I am not the only horrible person that does that.)

The initial reason for my absence was a simple lack of creativity: my damn kid was behaving too well and failing to provide me with easy material, and I was having trouble crafting any of my own tales of insanity (and there are many!) into anything remotely amusing. Since those are really the only two things I write about, I was tapped out. Now, under normal circumstances I probably would have gotten my shit together and written something lame just to avoid the above-described “now it’s been TOO long to blog again!” shame-spiral, but then my life underwent some serious upheaval and all I could think about all day every day was how overwhelmingly stressed out I was, and it just seemed disingenuous to write blog posts about my son dancing with glow sticks (sooo cute, you guys) when I was sending my friend daily texts that said “MY LIFE IS FALLING APART HELLLLLLLLP!!!”

(Too dramatic?)

And then I got pregnant, and in one fell swoop both of those problems were solved! I’m finding that now I have about a million things to say, and everything that I was stressing about no longer seems quite as important because there’s a HUMAN BEING GROWING INSIDE ME and I’m hungry and stuff.

(Of course, in reality the pregnancy actually makes the sources of my stress all the MORE relevant as well as bringing stresses of its own, but it gives me a positive focus and some serious motivation to at least pretend to be an adult who is marginally capable of handling life.)

So here I am! I’m back and committed to regaling you with tales of Bubba’s cuteness, embarrassing memories and photos that will make you pity and/or mock me, and, of course, news from the pregnancy front (today’s headline: I’m too fat for my pants). First, though, allow me to bring you up to speed on what’s been going on these last six months:

Bubba has maintained his interest in all things superhero:And I made him an AMAZING (if I do say so myself) decoupaged table with Marvel cards:

(And yes, his nails are painted in the above photo. We were bored. They’re Spider-Man colors! His toes were painted “green like a lizard,” if you were curious.)

Potty training was a success!!!

Which necessitated a journey to Toys R Us to pick out a new toy (or two), because I believe in positive reinforcement (AKA bribery):

My sister and I took Bubba and her three kids to Legoland:

Bubba’s been practicing his Big Brother skills with his baby cousin:We spent the summer in our luxurious resort-style pool:And cooling off with overpriced (but oh-so-delish) milkshakes:

And most importantly, I can assure you that my bond with my dear sweet Bubba has not changed one bit during that six month hiatus:

Whew! All caught up? Ready for more? Stay tuned…I promise not to disappear again.

Throwback Thursday: 8th Grade Mo Was the Mayor of Munchkin City (and a non-complainer)

In elementary school, I had four hobbies: reading¹, drinking Dr Pepper¹, playing softball, and participating in school plays. My interest in the latter began with my starring turn as the eponymous rabbit in my second grade class’s production of Bunny Sue (a performance that required a great deal of hopping and not much else) and did not wane until high school when I realized that being in possession of a booming speaking voice and having the ability to easily memorize lines did not necessarily make one a great actress². Over the years I performed in a number of theatrical masterpieces ranging from Old King Cole (I was the King himself and got to wear a crown!) to The Twelve Dancing Princesses (another crown!!) to some weird fantasy nonsense called The Evil Eye of Gondor that involved a bunch of townspeople standing up to some giant eyeball³ (I got to wear…a really boring tan tunic), and while I certainly preferred to be the star of the show, I always had a great time no matter what my role.

(As a sidenote, considering all the confidence and self-esteem issues I had as a child, my enjoyment of these plays and particularly my desire for leading roles is surprising to me in retrospect! It seems incongruous with everything I know about my former fragile emotional state. I’ll make a note of it for future analysis.)

By the time eighth grade rolled around, I was a seasoned veteran. When the local children’s community theater program announced that they’d be staging a production of The Wizard of Oz, I was beside myself with excitement: the chance to be in a play that was actually a real famous story and not just some inane drivel someone wrote specifically for schoolchildren to perform⁴! And surely it would provide the opportunity to wear some fantastic costumes! I could not wait for rehearsals to begin.

Now, while I mentioned earlier that my usual goal was to have the biggest part possible, I knew that in this case I’d have to be satisfied with some background work. Unlike all the other plays I’d been in, The Wizard of Oz is, of course, a musical. And musicals, obviously, require singing, and preferably by someone who can carry a tune. I am not that person. I know this. I have always known this. I had no delusions about my lack of talent and certainly had no aspirations of playing Dorothy or Glenda or any of those exciting roles, so when casting was announced and I saw that I’d been tasked with playing the Mayor of Munchkin City, I was perfectly happy. I had some fun lines to say and got to be in a number of major scenes — how could I complain?

And I was right about the costumes. My then-toddler cousin summed up my Mayor ensemble thusly: “Mo funny hat!”

above: greeting my family after one of the performances. My older sisters look like they thoroughly enjoyed the show, but the twins — especially Jamie there on the left — were clearly unimpressed; I can only assume they were jealous of my costume. Unfortunately for all of us, I was not permitted to keep the hat.

The best part about my experience in The Wizard of Oz wasn’t actually the lines or the hat or the performances themselves, although those were all quite exciting (especially that GIANT SILVER HAT⁵). About a week or so into rehearsals, the director pulled me aside during a break and asked me if I was happy with my part. Confused, I replied that of course I was pleased to play the Mayor (again, THAT HAT!) and was having a great time. He went on to inform me that I was virtually the only castmember who hadn’t come to him to complain about their role after casting — apparently, everyone was angling for better parts or more lines while I was just relieved that my complete lack of singing talent didn’t preclude me from participating altogether. He told me he appreciated my maturity and graciousness (direct quote!) and that I was doing a great job as the Mayor, then sent me on my way. The whole interaction lasted less than ninety seconds, but even 17 years later I remember it more vividly than I remember the play itself. There was something so validating about being complimented for simply being me (it had honestly never crossed my mind to complain or to be anything less than happy with what I was offered) — it’s a rare thing to have your disposition or temperament acknowledged, and I still count it as one of the best compliments I’ve received.

Seriously, though: who would complain about getting to wear that hat?

…………………………………

Footnotes:

¹My love of literature and sugary carbonated beverages persists to this day. Put them together and you’ve got my ideal Saturday afternoon! PARTY TIME!

²That said, I would kill to participate in a high school play right now. I’m pretty young-looking, right? I could totally pass.

³I am not exaggerating when I say that I literally have NO IDEA what that play was about. And I was in it! And played a principle role! No clue.

⁴I’m looking at you, Evil Eye of Gondor.

⁵It was really heavy.

The Time I Cried Because My 2-Year-Old Son is a Jerkface

I have always been a highly sensitive individual: I’m easily embarrassed, feel emotions very deeply, and am prone to crying in times of sadness, frustration, and stress. In my thirty years as a Certified Sensitive Sally, I’ve been moved to tears by everything from a loose thread on my precious baby blanket (and no, I wasn’t an actual baby at the time) to a less than perfect employee evaluation, and virtually everything in between. I’ve cried tears of shame over forgotten homework assignments, sobbed while reading Chicken Soup for the Soul, and teared up at the very thought of the Holocaust. I’ve cried after inadvertently hurting someone’s feelings, then cried again years later at the memory of my past transgression. In second grade, I had a meltdown when a classmate described me as a “crybaby” (how smug she must have felt when I immediately proved her right!), and a few years ago I choked up when my new boyfriend tried to convince me to eat a Vietnamese delicacy that struck me as incontrovertibly unpalatable.

Over the years, I’ve learned that while I can’t do much to stop myself from crying at these myriad provocations (it’s truly a curse), I at least have a good grasp on the triggers. I can generally anticipate the types of situations that have the potential to set me off — I knew there was a non-refundable one-way ticket to Cry Town with my name on it within minutes of arriving at that godforsaken Vietnamese restaurant — and I’m rarely surprised by my tears at this point. Every once in a while, though, my tender heart will be blindsided by some fresh variety of emotional terrorism and I find myself in tears over something so ridiculous I never would have thought to file it in my mental Rolodex of potential aggressors. Something, like, say, some sassy backtalk from a cranky toddler.

Yes, I admit it: my two-year-old child brought me to tears last night, and I’m not talking about the “I’m so happy and fulfilled by this wonderful creature that sprung from my loins!” type of crying. Nor am I referring to any other reasonable classification of mommy-tears, like the tears of exhaustion you might find yourself experiencing after spending all night awake with a sick child, or worry-tears you might shed while thinking about their future or something — no, this is far stupider. I literally cried because my son was mean to me and it hurt my feelings.

It was a new low for me, knocking the Vietnamese restaurant debacle out of the top spot for the first time in over nine years.

In my defense (if being moved to tears by a toddler’s bad attitude is at all defensible), I was on day four of what had been a really rough week. I don’t know if Bubba is coming down with something, or if the weather is getting him down (it’s a blistering 62 degrees over here), or if he’s not sleeping well, or if he just woke up on Monday and decided to try something new and act like a little shit, but something has been different this week. He’s cranky, sour, and I can’t seem to do anything right. He whines. He kicks me. He tells me to STOOOOPPPPP when I try to sing. Anything I suggest, be it a snack or a TV show or an activity, is bound to be wrong.

And it hurts.

It feels like a rejection, and it’s leaps and bounds more painful than one of the romantic sort since the chances of me tempering my love for him and not caring what he thinks are precisely zero. I love him with all of my ridiculously delicate heart, and to feel that go unreciprocated after more than two years of mommy-and-me bliss is devastating.

I know logically that this is almost certainly just a phase, one that will probably be in the rear view by the next time I sit down to blog (let us pray), and crying because a toddler didn’t want to play racecars with you is patently absurd. But in the meantime, I am tearfully longing for this:

I can only hope there’s a good tearjerker on Lifetime tonight to redirect my sobs. Cross your fingers.

MY HANDS ARE STICKY!!!

I am not a particularly clean-obsessed individual. I certainly don’t live in filth (as evidence, please note that I just mopped my floors yesterday¹) and I shower regularly, but I’m not adverse to letting my hair go shampoo-free for a few days or re-wearing jeans a million times before finally giving in and washing them². Germs just don’t bother me much — I rarely give them a second thought.

That said, I did go through a strange period when I was about three years old during which I was very fixated on my hands being “sticky.” It was more a matter of texture than an issue of cleanliness, but my god, did I abhor the feeling of sticky hands. I washed my hands dozens of times per day, rushing to the sink at the first inkling of contamination, and if hand-washing was not an option due to logistics or sink proximity, I was prone to throwing fits of epic proportions. I distinctly remember sobbing, “my haaaaa-aands are stiiiiiiiiiicky!” repeatedly while stuck in a traffic jam on the freeway for what seemed like a solid hour on one memorable occasion³; how none of my sisters smacked my in the face remains a mystery.

DON’T PUT THAT DISGUSTING SWEATY HAND NEAR YOUR MOUTH, TODDLER MO!

Like most childhood phases, I eventually stopped caring about the stickiness of my hands⁴ and largely forgot all about my one-time obsession (save for when one of my delightful family members would cruelly remind me by hollering “MY HANDS ARE STICKY!” whenever I offhandedly mentioned needing to wash my hands). These days, sticky hands don’t bother me any more than I presume they bother an average individual, and I can assure you that I haven’t shed any tears over hand-washing in at least 25 years.

My point is, I’m totally normal with regards to cleanliness. I’m not obsessed, and I am positive that I have not passed along any neurotic tendencies to my dear child. POSITIVE. I haven’t uttered the words “my hands are sticky” in DECADES!

So you can see why I am at a total loss to understand why Bubba freaked out the other day and told me that HIS HANDS WERE STICKY.

Seriously.

How could this happen? Is this normal? Do all toddlers go through a sticky-hands phase and I was wrong to think I had been the weirdo all those years ago? Or did my neuroses somehow get translated to my poor child via osmosis or ESP or telepathy or something? Is god punishing me for being an annoying toddler by making me deal with the exact same ridiculous behavior from my own child?!

And lest you think Bubba is just a finicky child in general, remember that this is the same kid who has no problem smearing ketchup all over his face and hair and who prefers digging in (and throwing) dirt to any other available activity at the park:

And he definitely doesn’t let a fear of dirt get in the way of dangerous explorations:

So what gives? WHY DOES HE SUDDENLY CARE ABOUT THE STICKINESS OF HIS HANDS?!

I can only hope that he will follow in my footsteps and just snap out of it at some point, hopefully without replacing it with some other weirdo nonsense⁵. Until then…bring on the wet wipes and hand sanitizer.

…………………………………

Footnotes:

¹Just don’t ask me to divulge when they were previously cleaned. Because I honestly can’t remember.

²Is there anything more annoying than washing jeans that fit perfectly? You know they ain’t gonna fit the same when you get them out of the drier.

³I hate to call out my wonderful mother so publicly, but now that I am a mother myself I must inquire: why did you not have baby wipes with you on a long car ride with young children in tow?! Or perhaps a bottle of water that could have been poured upon my pathetic, slimy paws?

⁴I did, however, later develop an extreme distaste for the feeling of towels, something that persists to this day. I’ll address that in a future post.

⁵The towel thing is no joke, you guys.

Christmas Confession: I Hate Santa (#sorrynotsorry)

Growing up, my family didn’t really “do” Santa. Perhaps my mom wasn’t a big fan of his, or maybe with six kids she was just too busy trying to keep us all fed, clothed, and out of trouble to concern herself with perpetuating tall tales about a pack of flying woodland creatures chauffeuring a hirsute, morbidly obese creeper around for the express purpose of breaking and entering into peoples’ homes. This is not to say that my family was without Christmas spirit, of course! Each December, the house was decked out in Christmas finery, my mom baked fifty dozen cookies, and there were always presents galore — there just wasn’t any nonsense about said presents originating from the North Pole.

Lest you think my childhood was lacking due to the lack of Santa, allow me to assure you that I most certainly never felt like I was missing out by not believing. In fact, to be quite honest, I found the whole idea baffling and didn’t understand how anyone could believe. Perhaps I was just an unimaginative child, but Santa and his entire M.O. seemed so far out of the realm of real-world possibility that I actually found the charade a wee bit annoying. Really, this dude’s gotta be the highlight of a parade? And if he shows up at a holiday party, I have to pretend I’m not totally grossed out and sit on his lap?! Please.

As a parent, I’m even more put off by the concept. Why, pray tell, should Santa get credit for all the presents I’m buying and wrapping for my child?! That’s just plain unfair. And you can forget about waiting in line for a photo opp at the mall — I take a hardline stance against any child of mine cuddling up to strangers and whispering in their ears, and the presence of a Santa suit does not sweeten the deal. My biggest gripe, though, is Santa’s cruelty. Assuming he’s real for a moment, can we discuss why the hell he only gives good stuff to rich people while the less-wealthy folks get shit? As my little sister famously asked my mom when she was about four, if Santa’s out there delivering toys and whatnot, why doesn’t he just bring poor people some money and solve their problems? ANSWER THAT, SANTA!

It’s too much. I can’t do it!

Bubba’s not missing out on Christmas fun, though, I promise. As evidence, please enjoy this photo of him eating a snack with his two new best friends, some snowman ornaments he stole from the Christmas tree and has been hoarding ever since:

Merry Christmas!

PS: I love the Tooth Fairy and can’t wait for her to visit Bubba in a few years. #hypocrite

Some Practical Life Advice In Case I Die

Being a parent is daunting. You’re in charge of an impressionable little critter that knows absolutely nothing and it’s YOUR job to teach them good manners and how to treat people and what to eat and to avoid running out into the street to get a better look at a passing motorcycle. It’s a tall order, and while I think I’m doing pretty well so far (I always make him say “sorry” when he hits me and he ate 2 bites of a carrot yesterday!), I know it’s going to get more and more complex as he gets older. I’m fairly confident that I’ll be able to handle anything that comes my way, but what if I die tomorrow and poor Bubba is left with a father who means well but thinks the WWE is fine entertainment for a toddler and a hypothetical stepmother who simply pales in comparison to my supreme awesomeness?! Who will guide him?

Luckily, I think ahead.

Bubba, below are a few important tips to keep in mind as you grow up:

• Don’t be “too cool” for safety. Helmets aren’t lame, nor are seatbelts or speed limits or “no trespassing” signs. You know what’s lame? BEING DEAD, LIKE ME RIGHT NOW. Wear the freakin’ helmet and tell your idiot friends to STFU.
• If someone is being mean to you, remember that they probably have bigger problems, like terrible parents, or someone else bullying them (it’s a chain reaction). Or maybe they’re just having a bad day! The point is, it’s probably not really about you. Try not to let it get you down, and tell Dad or a teacher so they can deal with it (don’t worry: I promise you can alert an adult and still avoid being known as a tattle-tale; Dad will figure something out to cover for you. I’ll make a separate list of advice for him, and “protecting your child’s reputation” will be at the top!).
• Don’t forget that the internet is FOREVER…don’t let people tag you in embarrassing Facebook photos, and for the love of god, don’t create an angsty blog chronicling your pre-teen woes.
• Whether you’re at school or the park or boy scouts or baseball practice, there’s always gonna be some poor kid that everyone else makes fun of. DON’T JOIN IN, no matter how weird that kid is and how many awesome puns you can think of that rhyme with his unfortunate name. You will never regret being nice, but you WILL regret being a jerkface someday. Plus, if you’re a jerk, I will haunt you (I’m dead in this scenario, remember?).
• Listen to punk rock music from the ’80s and ’90s. Go to concerts and get destroyed in the mosh pit (but secure your wallet first and make sure to pick other people up when they fall; you can be a punk and still be a responsible human being).
• At some point you will have a “bad” friend who drinks or cheats or lies. You can still like them and even hang out with them (assuming they’re not an actual gang member and do have some redeeming qualities of some sort), but remember that YOU don’t have to be an idiot just because your friend is. You can be that guy about whom everyone asks, “why is that nice kid friends with that idiot?”
• If someone tries to make you feel bad for something you like, pay no mind — what kind of fun-sucking killjoy does that?! Do your thang and be proud! Unless the thing you like is something stupid like Insane Clown Posse, in which case they’re right and you need to reevaluate your life post haste.
• You will undoubtedly wear something stupid or adopt a lame hairstyle at some point. Unfortunately for you, photos will likely be taken and you’ll have to look back on your poor style choices forever. Learn from your mistakes so you can avoid them in the future.
• That said, go ahead and dye your hair blue in high school! It’s your only chance to look like a fool with no consequences.
• Don’t choose a college based on where your girlfriend is going, and definitely don’t choose a college based on your ex-girlfriend’s plans. Just…trust me.

I feel much better now, knowing that these little nuggets of motherly wisdom are preserved for Bubba, just in case I choke on a Snickers bar tonight. If I forgot anything, he can just write a mental letter to Dear Abby and think about what she would say!

Throwback Thursday: Sixth Grade Mo Had Deep Thoughts (and ADD)

On the first day of sixth grade, my language arts teacher handed out blank composition books and announced an exciting year-long project: we would use the notebooks to respond to writing prompts she’d provide periodically in class, then turn them in quarterly for her to read. How fun! I got to work doodling all over my fresh book immediately (by the time the year was through, I had filled up two entire books):

Man, I really missed my calling as an artist or graphic designer.

Being a huge nerd, I really was quite excited about the project. I liked writing, and the idea of a year-long assignment seemed so grown-up. I took it very seriously and looked forward to the days when our teacher would tell us to take out our notebooks and reply to a prompt she had written on the blackboard. For example, here’s my response to a prompt on best friends:

My friend, Brittany, is my best friend for many reasons. She is very loyal. I’ve known her since 2nd grade and she’s never left me. She’s funny when I’m sad or mad, and she’s also cheerful. She isn’t usually sad. It’s very fun to be with a cheerful person.

See? Please admire my accurate spelling, ambitious (if not 100% correct) use of commas, and the appropriately introspective tone to match the spirit of the assignment. (On a sidenote, I also urge you to take a moment to acknowledge my comically low standards for friendship. Brittany really was a great friend, but apparently just not ditching me in favor of cooler people and not being a total Debbie Downer was pretty much all I required.)

All quarter long, I dutifully answered each prompt and eagerly anticipated the day I’d get to turn my journal in for its review. I imagined my teacher reading through my thoughtful replies, sagely nodding at my intelligence and maturity and thinking to herself, “ah, that Maureen! What a gem of a student! If only all my students could be like her!”

And then about two days before it was time to turn them in, I overheard a conversation between some classmates and realized I had missed a crucial component of the assignment: we were supposed to be writing in these stupid things EVERY SINGLE SCHOOLDAY, not just when the teacher provided a prompt on the blackboard! Evidently, on the days when no prompt was provided, we were just supposed to get creative and write about something that happened that day or whatever was on our mind.

Whoops.

You see, I have a serious case of ADD, which unfortunately went undiagnosed until I was 25 years old. My school career was riddled with situations like this, where I zoned out and completely missed the instructions for an assignment or sat through an entire lecture and then later realized I had taken precisely zero notes (or that my notes made no sense) and thus had retained absolutely no information whatsoever. The good news is that by sixth grade, even though I didn’t know that my focus issues were caused by an actual diagnosable and treatable condition, I was familiar with the pattern and wasn’t all that shocked to discover that I had missed the instructions. As soon as I realized my mistake, I sprung into action and spent the next two nights making up journal entries for the previous two months.

Obviously, I couldn’t remember what I had been doing on each of those days, so I simply racked my brain for topics I thought might belong in a journal. I actually consider it a blessing in disguise that I initially missed the instructions, because the entries I came up with during that two-day crunch time are far more entertaining that anything I wrote during the rest of the year when I was actually doing the assignment daily as intended. Here’s a sampling:

I wonder what it’s going to be like in the future. I mean, it seems fine right now, but they still keep coming up with “breakthrough” technology. If we already have computers that cheack [sic] your spelling, VCRs that turn themselves on and off, radios that have remote controlls [sic], how much better could you possibly get?

I really could have used one of those spell-cheaking computers. Also, who the hell has a remote-control radio?! I don’t even think that’s a thing. And why on earth would I think that a remote-controlled radio (if they even existed; I’m dubious) was the best that technology had to offer?

I love to read. It’s like, my hobby. I read while I eat, drink Dr. Pepper, I even read while I watch TV. It’s really fun and exciting. I could read all day!

Dudes, I wasn’t lying. Please note the book, the snack, and the cup of Dr. Pepper:

See how FUN and EXCITING reading is? (PS: I still do this now; you could swing by my house on a Saturday evening and recreate this exact same photo, save, perhaps, for the sweet purple scrunchie.)

I wonder why the CTBS test makes you use a No. 2 pencil? Why not a 2.5 pencil? Who invented CTBS tests anyway? They seem dumb to me. They’re so easy, and they don’t challenge you. And they make you fill out so much info about yourself! It’s really quite boring, and it takes up HOURS of your time. What a waste!!

I was ahead of my time with that political stance against standardized testing. I also like my humble-brag about the tests being too easy for my brilliant mind. The test must have lacked a spelling section.

If I had to choose between being blind or deaf, I’d choose to be deaf because when you’re blind, you can’t do any of the things that you would normally do: reading, walking on your own, watching TV, etc etc. But if you’re deaf you can still drive, walk, read, etc. You just can’t hear the doorbell or the telephone, but you can buy phones that light up.

See, deaf people should never complain. All they have to do is buy a light-up telephone and their problems are solved! If you go blind, on the other hand…good luck, because your life is totally going to suck. You can’t even watch TV!

 

If you’re curious, my teacher gave my journal a 100% score that quarter, even though she had to have realized that I fucked up and did it wrong since all the prompted entries came first and were followed by a barrage of hastily-scribbled un-dated ramblings. I guess she was just that impressed by my deep thoughts!

Can you blame her? Just look at that seriously studious student!

My Car Got Impounded While I Was On My Honeymoon And It Changed My Life

Shifts in attitude usually come gradually, like slowly maturing out of a bratty teenage phase or finding yourself becoming more tolerant of things you used to loathe as you get older (for example, I no longer want to strangle anyone who tries to get me to eat sushi, I just want to smack them lightly). Every once in a while, though, something happens that makes you completely rethink how you operate and prompts you to make an immediate change. Something like, for example, coming home from your honeymoon (after being stuck at the airport for 12 hours) at 5am and finding that your car has disappeared.

Oh, that’s never happened to you?

Just me? How strange. Seems like something that would happen all the time.

Allow me to backtrack for a moment before regaling you with the details of my own personal rendition of Dude, Where’s My Car? Before my car’s disappearing act, I did not handle stressful situations well. Even seemingly small stressors could send me into a tailspin, and I’d been that way my entire life. As a child, something as simple as forgetting a book at school could reduce me to tears. Just thinking about how much homework or studying I had to do would nearly paralyze me with panic*, and an argument with a friend or even the most gentle reprimand from a teacher could easily lead me to spiral into a month-long depression. Even when I knew logically that I was reacting inappropriately and that I should really calm down and reevaluate the situation, my brain simply would not cooperate. I think someone missed an opportunity when I was a toddler to inform me that sobbing and/or shutting down are simply not the optimum ways to deal with problems.

As embarrassing as it is to admit, this cringe-worthy behavior continued well into adulthood. Now, I’m not saying I would stomp around like a madman every time I had a stressful day at work, but I was definitely still prone to crying when I felt overwhelmed and even occasionally ventured towards breakdown territory over completely ridiculous things like shopping for clothes (I hate spending money on myself and really hate trying things on in those disgusting claustrophobic changing rooms; I am sadly not exaggerating when I say that I have left the mall in tears — without buying anything! — more than once). Even after making so many other positive changes in my life when I was about 25, I sort of just accepted that my inability to handle stress was an inherent personality flaw that I (and, sadly for them, everyone around me!) would just have to live with. I hated it, but I considered it as much a permanent part of me as my frizzy hair or freakishly thick toenails: it didn’t seem to be something that was within my power to change.

With that knowledge of my shameful inability to handle stress in mind, let’s return to the missing car debacle:

At the time of this tale, TFW and I were living in a condo complex in San Diego. Our condo included a single car garage, which we always used for his car since it actually had value, and an uncovered parking spot nearby in which we parked my far-crappier vehicle. When we departed for our honeymoon, we took his car, leaving my car in its usual spot. Before you say anything, just shut up — I already know what you’re thinking: why didn’t we think to move my car into the empty garage? Because we’re dumb, OK? Is that what you wanted to hear? Sheesh.

Anyway, our honeymoon went swimmingly, save for the return trip when our original flight got canceled and we weren’t able to get on another one until 12 hours later (causing me to miss an extra day of work for which I did not have any remaining vacation time to accommodate, meaning I spent the following week working 10 hour days to make up for it, but I digress). We finally landed back in Los Angeles at about 2am on Friday morning, and by the time we got our bags, picked up TFW’s car, and drove the two hours back home to San Diego, it was nearly 5am and we were exhausted. As we pulled into the garage, I took a look around our surroundings in that way you do when you return home after being away for a while (“oh yeah, this is what my house looks like!”), and noticed that something seemed…off. A closer examination revealed that something was indeed amiss: the parking spot where I’d left my car was empty.

“Um, where’s my car?” I asked TFW, tragically missing an opportunity to quote Ashton Kutcher by not prefacing the question with “dude.”

We sat there in the garage for a few minutes trying to remember if we had moved it before we left or somehow forgotten that we had loaned it to someone, but no: my car was definitely it its spot when we left, and it definitely was not there now.

Discovering that your car has gone missing is certainly cause for concern, and I wouldn’t blame anyone for stressing out over such a situation…but it was 5am and I had to work in three hours (remember, no more vacation days — I had to work), and I just did not have it in me to care. I think my tiredness blocked out the part of my brain that would normally react with tears and panic, and instead I just sat there and calmly assessed the situation. The car was either stolen or had been towed for some reason, and there was nothing I could do about it in that moment. Crying wasn’t going to solve anything and would have taken far more energy than I had at my disposal, so I just went to bed and decided I’d figure it out in the morning.

My initial reaction was atypical for me, but as I mentioned, it could have been caused by my tiredness. The true test came later that day when I called the police to figure out what happened and found out that the car had been impounded five days prior due to the home owners association reporting it as an “abandoned vehicle”. The cost to get it out of impound: FIVE HUNDRED DOLLARS.

Let that sink in for a moment: my car, which was parked in a spot assigned to me and was violating no rules whatsoever, was impounded and I was going to have to pay five hundred dollars to get it back.

AND I STILL DIDN’T FREAK OUT.

It was like one of those corny epiphany moments you’d see in a multi-camera sitcom, where the character literally hears angelic harp music as they make a profound discovery about themselves (usually that they are totally in love with their best friend, a “twist” we all saw coming four seasons ago). It was as if something flipped in my brain: for the first time in my life, I felt like I had a choice in how I would react to the situation. I could see things so clearly! Did the situation suck? Sure, but why should I make things worse by being miserable about it? I had just married the love of my life and spent 10 glorious days in the best place on earth (Hawaii) — why taint such a lovely time in my life with a week-long panic attack about a stupid car?

So I paid the stupid money and got my stupid car back, and then I fought with the stupid HOA board until those stupid idiots reimbursed me for their stupid decision to impound my stupid car.

(Sidenote: the reason they thought it was “abandoned” was because it was so dirty. Woops.)

This was almost four years ago, and I still think about it all the time. It truly was a turning point in my life, the point in which I realized that I do have control over my emotions and can decide how I react to stressful situations. It was one of the most liberating feelings I’ve ever experienced.

I do still get stressed out and overwhelmed sometimes, like any normal person. And yes, sometimes life gets the best of me and I cry over something like being too sick to make six million cupcakes for my grandma’s birthday party. But most of the time, I think about that stupid car and remind myself that even if I can’t control the situation, I can choose to continue to be happy while dealing with the problem.

And who wouldn’t want to choose happiness?

I give most of the credit towards my reaction to the car situation to the great state of Hawaii; had we been returning from a less relaxing and beautiful vacation, perhaps my reaction would have been different.

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*my solution: I rarely did homework.