This is motherhood.

The other night I was getting The Geel into her pajamas when she grabbed a comb and insisting on combing my hair.  I sat obediently on the floor and watched her concentrated expression as she tried to "tame my tresses," which are so short she basically just kept shoving the comb into my hair, twisting it around and yanking it straight up.  I just stared at her face and a million thoughts ran through my head:  how I hadn't really wanted her, how I had to teach myself to stop thinking about what should have been, how I tell her constantly "I love you" in what began as an effort to convince myself that I really felt it MORE THAN I felt like we made a huge mistake, how I can't imagine my life without her even though that was not the case for a long time, how she is SO sweet and loving and clever and embodies joy.  Every.  Day.  I found myself crying.

I cried that cry that comes over you when you feel the unbridled and overwhelming love of parenthood.  I cried that there were days that I denied myself that feeling for her and I cried that I can finally, honestly say that I no longer think about the life we would be living without her.  Somewhere along the line, I have discovered that there is no "we" or "us" without her.

Now, I don't mean to cheapen this moment, because it was (for me) somewhat profound.  I had spent a lot of days thinking about the things we would be doing if The Geel wasn't here; and to be still for a moment, watching her just be and realizing that I couldn't remember the last time I'd had those thoughts, was a pretty big moment for me.  But the reason the title of this post came to mind was what happened in the next moment.

I wiped my eyes, took the comb from her and pulled her to me to hug and squeeze this beautiful little creature that had just unwittingly overwhelmed me.  And then I was unwittingly overwhelmed by something entirely different:  the stench emanating from her rear.  While it was obvious what the issue was, it occurred to me that while I was basking in this motherly glow, crying simultaneously with small regret and great joy, that my gorgeous, wonderful, joyous baby girl was simultaneously combing my hair and dropping a deuce.  I found myself laughing.

For The Geel, it was just another moment in her day filled with snacks and sippy cups, whining and tears, toys and baby dolls, giggles and silliness, and many, many hugs and kisses.  Nothing profound or momentous  for her--just something to do, something to explore.  A comb.  Mommy's hair.  Another dirty diaper along the way.  Babyhood.

And so this is motherhood:  Overwhelmed by something profound, then the moment passes.  Overwhelmed by something so much more pedestrian but requiring no less attention--and as that moment passed I was simply thankful that I had stopped to let her comb my hair before I had changed her diaper and put on her pajamas.

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1-800-WAIT-THERE'S-MORE......

I feel the need to put out an update on this situation.  Although I am quite positive my post did nothing to ruin the reputation of such a fine retail establishment as SEARS (since my hordes of followers are not protesting at their local SEARS in solidarity with my laundry plight), I do want to be fair and make it known that they have tried to make good.  Kinda

If you haven't read 1-800-F-MY-LIFE, you're gonna want to catch up before reading any further....


So today The Sarge tells me he can smell the fun waiting for us when the SEARS repair man opens the washer on Wednesday.  He wanted to clear the mountain of laundry out of the laundry room so the guy has room to work, and he can already smell the moldy, mildewy stench emanating from the machine.  Nice.  I just hope that the machine is worth using once it's back in working condition.

I do have to report, though, that SEARS has made some minor effort (after an hour-plus-long phone call from The Sarge) to make things a little better.  They offered us a gift card to help make up for any of the clothes that may not survive their untimely incarceration in our defective machine.  They also offered us some compensation for laundromat costs.

Now we won't receive that until after the repairman has completed the repair.  Since they have an allowance per week, they want to make sure the problem is solved before they cut a check.  In other words, there's a chance he may not fix it and we will have to add another week's worth of compensation.  In which case they need to think about sending me a big enough gift card to buy a new washing machine.  

If there is a silver lining here, it's this:  the people I work for have an office in their home (where I go to work) and they have graciously let me use their washer and dryer to do a few loads throughout the week to hold us over.  As grateful as I am for that, I can say for the first time EVER in my life (and I don't say this lightly) that I CANNOT WAIT to be able to do all of my laundry.  Here.  At home.  In my own washer.

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1-800-F-MY-LIFE

I used to work at SEARS.  It wasn't a terrible job by any standards, except that to work a commission-only job (Appliance Sales) part-time in a floundering economy just wasn't worth it, so I moved on to greener pastures.  I do still patronize the joint, however and was more than happy to buy my high efficiency washer there almost three years ago.  I even bought "the beef."  Our "insider" term for the Master Protection Agreement that you can buy (that lasts 3 or 5 years) and covers nearly everything including some acts of God, but adds a cost that is prohibitive to a lot of folks.

Being one who abhors waste of any kind, I was sure to use my agreement to get the allotted annual preventative maintenance checks every year so far, and I have even used it a couple of times for actual necessary repairs that arose.  It has more than paid for itself.

Late last night, I got an error code on my washer.  Google tells me it's a clog or something to do with the pump.  Some fix-it website suggested pulling off the front panel and manually disabling the door lock--which I am unable to attempt lest I void my warranty by "opening up the unit."  I try (as also suggested) unplugging it, waiting (while it's supposedly resetting the computer panel or something) and plugging it back in with no change.  The door is locked and the wet laundry is locked inside.  This is when technology sucks.  I obviously would not have had this problem with the old top-loader.

Early this morning I dial 1-800-4-MY-HOME to set up a repair appointment.  The nice lady listens to my story, looks up the error code, orders a part that will ship right to my house to wait for the repair man.  Then we try a few troubleshooting things which consist of unplugging it, waiting and plugging it back in to find the same red light indicating that the door is locked.  So I am resigned to wait for the repair man--who will be coming in 10 days.  10 DAYS?!?  10 DAYS!?!?!

Now, I'm sure SEARS thinks I can just rent a U-Haul, head over to the laundromat with my mountains of dirty laundry and sit there eating bon-bons while reading my latest book club pick, watching the spin cycle and daydreaming about running away with Matt Damon--EXACTLY how I would do it at home on any given day.

What they fail to realize is that I hardly have time to get my laundry done while it's in my own home!  That between the 5,000 things I forget (daily), the 400 chores that never get checked off my list, my three kids, two jobs and a partridge in a f'ing pear tree ('tis the season) I don't have ONE second to even fantasize about Matt, let alone lug my unmentionables to that 'mat for a wash and whirl.

THEN at about noon, it dawns on me that in 10 days (10 FREAKIN' DAYS!?!?!?) when Mr. Repairman gets my washer open, I'll be dealing with what will quite likely be a moldy/mildewed and rank-smelling load of laundry.  Nice.  Can't wait for that one.

Well, since I can't do any laundry for 10 days, perhaps I'll use all this free time to accomplish all the little things I never seem to get done:  like eating bon-bons, reading my book club picks, and daydreaming about Matt.  And a different kind of wash and whirl.

See the rest of the story here.

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The 5 Stages Of Weaning.

Denial:   I don't need to wean her just yet.  This is so healthy for both of us. It's completely normal that my eighteen-month-old not only asks to nurse,  but tells me when to switch sides. And informs me when "I done."  And it's such a wonderful bonding experience, I totally love it.  Still.

Anger:  What am I,  a prize-winning sow? WTH is wrong with this kid!?  She still doesn't sleep through the night!  I can't do this sh*t anymore!  I'm gonna cut her off cold-turkey.  I. AM. DONE.

Bargaining:  How about a cookie; wouldn't you rather eat a cookie?  Do you want to watch TV?  Let's read a book first,  then do nur-nurs.  Don't cry!  How about mommy just holds you? How about I hold you and you hold the cookie?  Ok,  mommy will let you for just one minute.  I'm putting on the timer.  Ok, two minutes and mommy gets a cookie.

Depression:  OMG, this kid is never going to wean.  I will never again have a night of uninterrupted sleep.  Why can't she be easy like my other two?  This is so not fair.  I want my boobs back. 

Acceptance:  I guess I just can't force the issue--she'll eventually stop when she's ready.  It's not like she'll still be nursing when she's in kindergarten.  She'll get bored of it soon.   This too shall pass.

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Happy Thanksgiving, not-so-super people!

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What Slim does with his free time....

Slim saved his birthday money to buy a tablet.  I am pretty vigilant about making sure he's not puttering around the interwebs, stumbling upon something unsavory on YouTube (he likes to look for Lego Star Wars videos and such).

Guess I should have been a little more discerning about the kids drawing app I let him download.  And perhaps a lock on the fridge is in order....

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The Sugar (Part 1)

Moo has Type I Diabetes.  I'm not sure how this fact has eluded the Confessions thus far, but I guess I don't have a whole lot to say on the topic in general.  It is very much ingrained in our daily lives, of course, and yet life just rolls along without much incident as far as the disease goes.  I can't figure out how something that drives me nuts multiple times a day and has a good bit of "control" over some of the function of our days has become sort of ho-hum and so mundane.

Our "journey"  (that sounds so euphemistic, but "nightmare" might be a little extreme) began exactly three years ago today.  Moo had been symptomatic (unbeknownst to us) for probably about a year--hindsight is so enlightening.  The problem was (aside from the fact that I pretty much don't worry about anything--to a fault sometimes) Moo would complain of symptoms that were isolated, seemingly "normal" and I felt always had a reasonable explanation.  Sometimes she would come home from school with a  headache (I would think she had a long day, or just needed a snack), or she would be moody (7 going on 17, anyone?).  Occasionally she would complain about her vision, but she was literally sitting in the dining room 20 feet away from the counter telling me she couldn't read the microwave clock while she was chewing her dinner.  (I tried it--the 1/2-inch high numbers on the LED clock on the microwave are not too smooth at 20 paces while jawing a mouthful of mac 'n cheese.)

Anyway, the big tell was when she started getting up to use the bathroom EVERY night.  Sometimes twice.  Sometimes THREE times.  We refused water before bed and still she got up.  I was still pretty much clueless, but The Sarge's spidey senses were tingling.  His brother is a Type I diabetic diagnosed thirty years ago when he was four years old.

Now, just a brief education for you:  Type I diabetes is not considered to be hereditary, so we did not immediately jump to that conclusion.  And one might think that having someone in the family with it would have given us a leg-up on the recognition factor, but The Sugar is quite a bi-polar animal.  The Sarge remembers being drilled on what to look for if his little brother started acting funny or looked unwell.  He remembers him passing out quite a few times.  In general, low blood sugar is a pretty serious concern for a lot of Type I diabetics.  What we were unknowingly dealing with was the opposite end of the spectrum--and not uncommon for undiagnosed Type I's.  Moo's blood sugar was through the roof.  (Now about those spidey senses....)

October 27, 2009.  The Sarge was insistent that something was wrong.  I felt that whatever it was could be dealt with at Moo's annual well-check, scheduled a few weeks from then.  I actually said, "If you really think there is something wrong, then you call and get her an appointment sooner."  He actually did.  It was for the 29th.

I was less than thrilled because for starters, it was Trick or Treat night in our town.  Also, the appointment was for 2:00 pm so I had to take Moo out of school early for it.  We got to our family physician's office and went over the issues (symptoms), she asked a lot of questions, drew some blood and had Moo pee in a cup.  Then we waited.  And waited.  And waited.  for about 45 minutes.  I was not particularly thrilled about the wait and I was starting to get a little weirded out.  What the hell could be taking so long?

Never in a million years would I have guessed that the doctor would come back in the room and say "I suspect your daughter has Type I diabetes."  The Sugar.  Seriously, I thought we were going to get a pamphlet, go home, and maybe come back in a few days for a follow-up visit.  I had no idea.  I think it took some time for the shock to wear off.  Neither of us started crying until we were in the car on the way to the Emergency Room.  And I think we were both mostly crying because it was then--on our way to the hospital and some scary unknown new normal--solidly sure that she wouldn't be trick-or-treating that night.

~Part 2~

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