Category: Ruthie

She’s Crafty…

Lately I’ve been using the morning hours during Thomas’ nap to do crafty things with Ruthie, and it’s been a lot of fun for both of us. Today we made this small poster (8×10) to illustrate Ruthie’s new bedtime routine. I wrote out the letters and cut out the pictures, but Ruthie used her new glue stick for the first time to paste the pictures onto the page. She’s getting to be such a big girl (teary sigh) and seems ready for new responsibilities, like following through on a routine.

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Yesterday Ruthie painted with her new tempera paint. This stuff is fantastic! It washes out of everything with soap and water!

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No Longer Depressed; Still a Rage-er.

Yesterday afternoon I unleashed the Fiery Fury on Ruthie.

As I relayed the story to Bryan when he got home from work, we found ourselves laughing at the absurdity of the events – something I was not able to do in the heat of the moment. Not that my rage is funny, but that we have a cantankerous daughter who keeps us on our toes.

It started when I went upstairs to get Ruthie after her nap. I walked into her room and found her on top of her four-drawer dresser, unscrewing the light bulb to her lamp and unplugging the humidifier. Horrified, I scolded her for playing with things she knew were off limits (and that I thought she couldn’t reach), then took her downstairs.

At that point I was under control.

Once downstairs, I took her straight into the bathroom to go pee – a new tradition we started on this, the first week of potty training. As usual, she told me to ‘go away’ because she wanted to do it herself. Usually not a problem, so I went into the kitchen to thaw some hamburger. When I came back to check on her, she had unraveled almost an entire roll of toilet paper into the toilet. Frustrated, I scolded her for playing with the toilet paper and marched her into the living room for a Time Out in the chair.

At that point I was still under control, but a little on the edge.

When her two-minute Time Out was over, I came in from the kitchen to find her unscrewing the entire top part of my floor lamp from its base.

At that point, I boiled a little over the edge.

I grabbed her by the arm and dragged her into the kitchen where I was making dinner, yelling at her the whole time about God knows what, but I know it involved a few swear words. I dropped her not so gently into her booster seat, strapped her in, and faced her toward the wall, yelling at her that she needed a new Time Out and she obviously couldn’t be trusted to sit in the living room.

I turned around to the sink to catch my breath and calm down, knowing I had lost my temper (but Sweet Moses, wouldn’t YOU?), and I swear to Elmo that when I turned back around she was peeling paint off my kitchen walls.

And this is where I unleashed the Fiery Fury.

I never touched her this time, but I yelled and screamed about Why Can’t You Just Sit There For Once and spewed some more swear words for good measure. Her shoulders slumped and she sat still.

I, of course, felt terrible, but the tension of rage was still boiling in my chest. After a few minutes to calm down, I took Ruthie into the living room to snuggle. I told her it was wrong for Mommy to lose her temper, and that I was sorry for yelling at her and being mean to her. She gave me a kiss. I then told her that even though Mommy was wrong to be mean, Ruthie still disobeyed by getting up from the chair during her Time Out. She said, “I sorry,” and we kissed again.

We sat there for a few minutes, Ruthie sucking her thumb and playing with my ear, and I evaluated everything that had just happened.

Despite yesterday’s events, I still feel the same way I did when I wrote this post: energized, clear-headed, and determined. I don’t feel as if I built up a false sense of security, only to have it toppled by my failures – I never said my rage was gone, only that I was no longer feeling the depression.

On the contrary, I actually feel I am better able to work through the rage and not get muddled down by my hormones and irrational emotions, and I found myself analyzing my trigger points and looking for patterns in my behavior that are unhealthy.

I acknowledged to myself that I was doing too much multi-tasking, leaving Ruthie alone too much for her to NOT get into trouble. I acknowledged that, due to illnesses and 26 straight days of rain, we have all been stuck in the house for three weeks, sending my active and curious two-year-old up the walls. Literally.

The second thing I really can’t do anything about. It’s out of my control, and up until yesterday afternoon I had kept everyone busy with crafty things.

But the first thing, the fact that I take on too much and multitask through my day, I have complete control over. I wake up every morning with an agenda, and it usually involves housework, or projects, or personal time. Rarely do I schedule in time for Ruthie, but expect her to just tag along with my day and keep herself occupied. Then around lunchtime when she begins to get clingy for my attention, I become impatient with her neediness.

Poor thing. She just wants some of my time, and I often don’t think of that until it’s too late.

Recently I’ve taught her the phrase, “Mommy, I need you,” when she feels lonely for me, and this has worked really well. As she catches on to this, she does less whining and clinging and “Up! Up! Up!” and will just come to me and say, “I need you.” I try my best to acknowledge her need by giving her a hug, or picking her up for a minute, or if time allows, we snuggle. Just as I am learning how divert my rage and manage my day between tasks and relationships, I am trying to teach Ruthie how to communicate her needs effectively and age-appropriately.

At any rate, this is exactly why I had decided to join a recovery group for my anger management. I knew that one day my post partum depression would end, but that my anger would still remain. I am thankful for the program, for its reminder that God can and does heal and deliver us from ourselves, and for the friendships and accountability it has brought to my life.

It has, and continues to change me.

Separation Anxiety

Just now when Ruthie went pee on the potty she waved goodbye to her toilet paper as it flushed away, and she said to me, “Her going to see her mommy?”

I chuckled and said, “Hm, maybe so!”

She’s always very concerned that everyone who leaves her presence is going to see her mommy.

Except for our housemate, James, who goes to see The Man every morning.

So much for fresh starts, but the week is not a total loss.

This was the week I was to start back up at the gym. I even worked it into my calendar so I wouldn’t be tempted to brush it off. But alas, my children both came down with congested, croup-y coughs last night making me unable to leave them in the gym’s childcare room.

But despite that disappointment we are having a fantastic day. I have alternated between busy-work and playing with Ruthie, a routine I cooked up last week that has been a winner for both of us. Now I can set her in a chair with a pile of books while I clean the kitchen, because she knows that when I am done we will play dress-up. After playing for a bit I sit her at the table to color while I sweep and mop, then we have a snack together. And so on.

I feel amazing these days. The old, fun, Jennifer seems to have returned. I am full of energy, emotional clarity, motivation, and determination. We watch a lot less t.v. There are aspects of my temper I will never overcome simply because I am not perfect, but these days when I find myself on the edge of an explosion I can somehow communicate to Ruthie in the moment that she needs to shush and just give mommy a minute, at which point I walk away and take a few breaths.

But even these explosions are coming fewer and farther between as I seem to be irritated by less. It used to be when Ruthie asked for a Band-Aid for her imaginary scrapes I scolded her for even asking. I don’t know why it bugged me so much, but I became ENRAGED at the mere INQUIRY of a Band-Aid. But just yesterday Ruthie and I were silly and put band-aids on all our fingers.

I can’t explain this change. Maybe it’s a God-thing, maybe the hormones shifted after weaning Thomas, maybe time has just settled and I am officially no longer Post Partum. Likely, it is all of the above. All I know is that I am now on a quest to get off this godforsaken medication that leaves me feeling like a ten year old girl – totally in love with Bryan, completely in favor of snuggling and hanging out at the movies, but oh so uninterested in the Marital Dance.

Yesterday I started talking half pills of the Zoloft, which Bryan is in full support of. He’d definitely like to ditch the ten year old and get his wife back.

Vacations Aren’t Really Vacations When You Have Children

This vacation sure started off with a bang.

On Sunday morning Ruthie showed symptoms of pink eye. I called our clinic in Seattle to see if her pediatrician would order a prescription from a pharmacy here in California, but of course nothing could be that easy. She needed to be seen by a doctor so we were told to take her into the emergency room.

We spent two hours waiting for the five minutes it took Dr. Steven Stephens (!!!) to shine a light in her eye and tell me she had Conjunctivitis.

I tried to act surprised.

I was overwhelmed Monday morning at the daunting task of trying to keep a two year old from rubbing her pussy eye or touching everything within her reach. At the time we were staying with my brother-in-law’s family who has a very adorable six month old. Ruthie is very tender and sweet with babies — liberal with kisses and hugs, bringing toys, patting them on the head, all those lovely traits that relatives are overjoyed by when your daughter doesn’t have a pussy eye of goo.

Thankfully, my sister-in-law was very understanding and accommodating.

So, other than the pink-eye and the two times Ruthie threw up all over everything, we’ve had a great vacation.

The Post About Poop

Sadly, when you raise a child from the time he or she is a baby, the subject matter of your conversations often revolve around poop.

I wish I could say I was NOT one of those parents, but that I was a cool and hip mom with manicured nails and a regular bridge game where we talked about politics. But alas, I have fallen into the UNcool mom category where I discuss my children’s poop regularly with others.

It starts at the hospital, really. We wait on pins and needles for the icky black tar-like substance to turn creamy and yellowish green. Then when solid foods come we laugh at the whole, undigested raisins that come out and we run into the other room to show the dad how funny the poop looks.

Moms compare notes on pooping schedules. As in, Mine poops every afternoon following her nap, or Mine poops every morning after breakfast. Ruthie usually poops after her coffee kicks in.

Then there’s the toddler phase. Last week Ruthie swallowed a penny, and when it came out the other end we all celebrated and Ruthie told everyone she met that she found a penny in her poop.

Now that I have a boy coming through the ranks of poopdome, I find myself quite tired of poop. Thomas wakes up almost every morning with poop oozing from his diaper and down his leg and up his back. His poop is nasty. I recognize that poop, by definition, is nasty, but Thomas’ poop is DOUBLE DUTCH nasty.

I just want a vacation from poop. That’s all.

Once Upon a Time There Was a Little Girl Who Wanted PEENK Socks.

“I want PEENK socks, mama!”

“You want pink socks? Here’s some pink socks.”

“NO! I want PEENK socks!”

“These ARE pink socks, Ruthie.”

“NOOO! I want do self!”

“OHHH! You want to PICK socks.”

“YEAH!”

“Okay, here’s the basket.”

[Looks in basket] “Oh no! I want PEENK socks!”

“Go ahead, you can pick whatever socks you want.”

“Where’s PEENK socks, mama?”

“The pink socks are right here…”

“NOOO! I WANT PEENK SOCKS!”

“Ruthie, these ARE pink socks, and you can PICK them yourself!”

[Dumps basket of socks on the floor] “OH LOOK, mama! PEENK socks!”

[Laughing & peeing in my pants] “OH! You want the PIG socks!”

“YEAH!”

Reason #42 Why We Should Not Let Our Children Watch TV

Last night I snuggled in bed with the kids while I nursed Thomas, and by habit I turned on the television. I was giddy to discover the nostalgic Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer was just beginning, and revved Ruthie up to share in this moment of bonding with her dear old mom.

First let me say that, having not seen the show since I was a kid, I was astounded by the 1960’s era political incorrectness and was very surprised to see it still airing. Seems like some sort of feminist group, or Sons Against Overbearing and Berating Dads group, or Workers Unite Against Unfair Work Practices group would ban the airing of such a show.

I mean, really: Donner telling his reindeer wife she can’t help look for her son because it’s Man’s Work? Obviously this portrayal of women came long before the Jodie Fosters of the world kicked ass rescuing their children from safe rooms and airplane cargo holds.

Poor Rudolph. I’m sure that, were a sequel created, it would have followed Rudolph through his young adult years as he struggled with alcohol, sexual identity, obesity, and perfectionism.

But I digress.

This morning Ruthie woke up at 6am crying that she was scared. I went into her room and she said the Snowman (‘snow-tan’) was in her bed.

I KNEW that would get her, which is why I turned off the show half way through at the scary part. But I guess I was too late. The big scary snowman with the crazy eyes and jagged teeth haunted my daughter in her dreams.

Chalk another one up to the stupid things moms do.

Foiled

I used to get up every morning at 6am to have coffee with Bryan before he went to work, then I would have time to write or pay bills before the kids woke up. I haven’t done that for awhile for various reasons, including the baby I had who woke for night feedings.

Sunday night after a long, difficult, fruitful conversation, I decided I was ready again for a dose of Bryan in the morning. So I set my alarm for 6am.

Damn if I didn’t predict in the back of my mind that Ruthie would do what she did that night. Was it a self-fulfilling prophecy or a freaky coincidence?

Not only did Ruthie stand at her gate at 3am demanding a snuggle, but after snuggling and putting her back to bed again SHE WOKE UP A SECOND TIME at 4:45 demanding ANOTHER SNUGGLE.

Because of the night I had to shut my alarm off, and I managed to get an extra hour of sleep, but I missed my coffee time with Bryan.

When I told him what happened he said, “You POISONED it!”

I think he may have a point.

[Did you hear that, Bryan? I conceded to the possibility that you may be rrr… rriii… correct.]

Procrastination?

As I mentioned earlier, today I did nothing.

But after reading Julie Leung’s post from today, I realize that I accomplished more than I thought I did. I just made choices.

It is difficult to let go of goals. Each day I am teaching myself to pry my fingers off of my expectations and to hold onto the moment, elusive and ephemeral, the way one would hold a butterfly in the hand. Perhaps one could say I am procrastinating, postponing what I should be doing.

I may not have cleaned the bathroom, swept and mopped, or figured out what I’m making for dinner tomorrow – which were all things on my Outlook task list – but I cranked up the music and danced with Ruthie. And I sat with her and colored for over an hour. And we built a Duplo-tower.

So now my tasks will all appear in RED letters tomorrow because they are not done, but considering that my obsession for Getting Things Done is often the source of my frustration with Ruthie I think the trade off was worth it.

Praise Jesus for grocery carts shaped like cars wherein the child sits facing forward far away from you.

Today at the grocery store Ruthie was fixating on poultry.

“I WANT CHICKEN!” she would say emphatically in the produce section.

Up the cereal isle, “I WANT CHICKEN!”

Down the diaper isle, “I WANT CHICKEN!”

In the frozen section, “I WANT CHICKEN!”

You should have heard her when we actually hit the meat department. There was bouncing and pointing and oh my lord the “I WANT CHICKEN! IT’S OVER THERE!”

In leaving the meat department for the dairy isle there was crying and “I WANT CHICKEN!” through her sobs.

I’m not exactly sure what her deal was — it’s not like I’ve been holding out on her. We live in a very poultry-friendly home.

She paused briefly in the checkout line to exclaim, “I WANT TREAT!” as we passed by the Snickers display, but then resumed the chicken chant all the way home.

This Is What Lazy Parenting Gets Me

You know it’s going to be a bad day when you enter your child’s room first thing in the morning and are greeted by the stench of the Overnight Poop. You know what I’m talking about: the poop that is thinned by the acidic pee that accumulated over a twelve hour night which then seeps into the blankets, the sheets, and onto the pillow your child is sitting upon when she greets you with a cheery, “Morning mom, I POOPED!”

I didn’t help the situation when I allowed Ruthie to drink two full sippy cups of water around ten o’clock last night when she woke up and came into my bed for a snuggle. I pretty much flushed out her system and we had our very own septic flood because of it.

At the time it was happening, when I was listening to her guzzle the water down as if she’d sealed her mouth over the nozzle of an open fire hydrant, I thought How ingenious of her to adapt to her environment by storing up water like a desert camel because her mother fails to hydrate her all day long.

I also thought she smelled like poop, but as I dozed in and out of sleep I decided I was too tired for her to be poopy since her diapers were all the way downstairs and she was OBVIOUSLY comfortable keeping her daddy’s side of the bed warm until he got home so she must not really be poopy or she would have said something.

And then we both fell asleep.

So after paragraph #1 happened my morning derailed and I juggled breakfast and laundry and nursing and laundry and showering and laundry all before 10:00 because we had to be out the door for Ruthie’s first dentist appointment.

As I was grabbing children and shoes and heading to the stroller for our walk to the dentist I realized I was about to pass out from not eating my own breakfast so I channeled my inner Napoleon Dynamite and stuffed a handful of Wheat Thins into the side pocket of my cargo pants.

This was how my day started.