Life of Pie

I didn't want her to be born on April 19. It was the same day of the Waco, TX tragedy and the bombing of the Murrah Building in Oklahoma City.  I didn't want such a celebratory event to be shadowed by such atrocities. This week has been one of terrible tragedy, as well, but ended with a cautious sigh of relief.

It was six years ago today that I lay in a hospital bed waiting to give birth to a little girl I wasn't sure I was ready for. When my water broke at straight up noon, I asked, apropos of nothing, “What color is it?” I think it was the drugs…

My baby turns six today and will soon be “graduating” from kindergarten and moving on to the real nuts and bolts of elementary school. She is succeeding in the Accelerated Reader program and is poised on the brink of being a precocious little girl, not just a precocious preschooler. Her vocabulary is HUGE, her wit is quick and her heart is pure.

As she lay in her crib at the age of 8 days, I could not imagine her any older than she was right then. Every day I look at her, I can’t see past the moment I am in, gazing into her dark blue eyes, framed by her spun gold hair; can’t fathom her being a 6^th grader, entering high school or her leaving for college.  

Every year, I plan an outrageous celebration in honor of her birthday. Let’s face it, the girl is here against incredible odds. She was destined to grace this earth, so what not celebrate in style? This year, we chose a medieval princess and knight theme. Planning has been in full swing since January and I am ready to throw a royal bash the likes of which no one (in the neighborhood, at least) has seen! I have built a castle out of toilet paper and paper towel rolls, baked cupcakes and cookies, arranged a feast fit for royalty, purchased games and favors and costumes. Pictures of this grand event will come later, so check back in a few days. 

Today, we celebrate the life of The Pie. 

Bathroom Business

Tonight, I experienced a potential tragedy; one that most likely would have broken the hearts of my friends and family and then would be exploited in the local media for a week or two. It’s been over three hours since it happened and I am still shaking. This forum is the best way for me to process it.

For a while, The Pie has taken baths by herself, only needing my help when it comes to shampooing. She likes to loll around in the warm water, wash herself, then call me in. This evening I thought she had been in the tub long enough – a few minutes past her bedtime, actually – so I went to check her progress. I said her name three times and she did not respond.

I gently shook her and she turned to me, startled. She had fallen asleep in the tub. Her angelic face mere inches from the water line that could, at any time, have slipped beneath the surface and stolen her breath. In the seconds it took me to get her awake and out of the tub, my mind flashed myriad scenarios of an undesired outcome. My heart banged in my chest so loudly I thought even my mostly deaf father could hear it. I heard blood rushing in my ears, beginning to prepare my brain for what I might find.  

Of course, The Pie is fine. Today was her tumbling class and it always wears her out. She had also taken an early dose of her nighttime Melatonin dissolvable pill, and the warm water must have relaxed her to the point of succumbing to her fatigue.

As I dried her off with her favorite monkey towel, I looked into her sapphire eyes and thought about how close I had come to losing her.  A sob choked in my throat and my heart dropped. I cannot imagine not having that child in my life. 

Six years ago this week, I was moving into a new place, enormously pregnant, and wondering how I could possibly have a kid. My life wasn’t set up to accommodate a baby or anything that even smelled remotely of maternal instincts.  How was I going to make room in my life for this little needy person?

What happened was that little needy person not only found room in my life, she became my life. Suffice it to say that if I lost her, I would lose my life…figuratively and literally. Her sweet hugs and kisses feed my soul, her delighted giggles pump through my heart, her curious questions exercise my brain to keep it in shape. She keeps me alive.

So, for her to continue in her current valuable position, I believe showers will now be in order. And we do have a hose in the back yard…

Every Mother's Nightmare

There are bound to be hundreds of things that parents dread as they raise children. Your son decides that the only acceptable undergarment he will wear (at the age of 17) is festooned with  images of Spider Man.   Your daughter’s prom date is a guy named “Snake” who looks like he fell down face first in the bolt section of Home Depot. Those things are mere blips on the radar of parental nightmares. Last weekend, I reached the pinnacle: The Pie had lice.

I don’t mean one or a few little buggies…I mean a head full of the wee parasites. I found myself shocked, embarrassed and horrified all at once. I never imagined I would experience the humiliation of pulling insects from my daughter’s hair, much less writing about it, but it happened. And I’m okay with it. Sort of.  Here’s what happened:

We had traveled to my cousin’s home in Kansas for spring break and discovered that the weather was much colder and unpleasant than I planned for. We had been there only a couple of hours before I decided to go in search of warmer clothes. During my solo shopping trip, my cousin called and stated simply, The Pie “has lice.” In the middle of the store, I shouted, “WHAT?” which drew the attention of all the other shoppers. I was instructed to get mayonnaise and come on back for treatment.  I looked around, wondering if everyone could see the neon light of shame blinking over my head: “MY KID HAS LICE!”  I skulked around Wal Mart with my head down, paid for my two giant jars of mayonnaise and drove back to my cousin’s house in tears. I scrolled through my mental Rolodex, trying to determine how this could have happened. I wanted to blame someone and I wanted to be mad. I knew that I must advise all of the children The Pie played with, as well as the mother of the children I babysit. It was most humbling to send texts to four mothers, explaining that my child may have infested theirs.

When I returned to the house, my daughter sat in the bathroom with a head full of mayonnaise and my cousin slowly drew a flea comb through her hair. I was grateful that I wasn't forced to struggle with The Pie for that activity…she will do anything for my cousin, so that eased the situation a little. After we all dumped a tub of Hellman’s on our heads, we sat for two hours, playing Monopoly, while the little parasites slowly suffocated within our follicles. We washed EVERYTHING we brought with us and tossed stuffed animals in the dryer to fluff them on the high heat setting for an hour. Very late into the night, we finally washed the salad dressing from our hair and went to bed.

 It is every mother’s nightmare to have their adorable little cherub scratching her head like a stray pup with fleas. I may be misremembering, but I don’t recall having to deal with a head lice infestation of my own in childhood, but I am familiar with the social stigma attached to it. I spent hours trolling the Internet, looking for some measure of clarity regarding head lice.  What calmed me most was the website of the Centers for Disease Control (yes, I went there!). It explained that head lice are not an indication of poor hygiene or filthy conditions; in fact, they prefer clean, healthy scalps for their encampment.

We did a follow-up treatment and I have placed cotton balls soaked with tea tree oil all around our beds. I still check The Pie’s head every time she scratches, and I am gladdened every time I find nothing. I would like to think that this crisis is over, but I am fairly certain I will see it again. Kids, especially younger ones like The Pie, play in such close proximity of each other – like a litter of puppies – that there is bound to be a sequel to this horror show.  I’ll just make sure to stock up on the mayo!    

That's What I Said...

I am one of those annoying “tell-it-like-it-is” kind of people.  I typically try to be as diplomatic as possible if it’s a sensitive situation, but occasionally, I just blurt out what comes to my mind. It’s served me well for many years. In some instances, it has caused some bad blood or hurt feelings. I dealt with those consequences as they came, but recently I noticed that when other people tell ME like it is, I don’t much care for it. Yeah, I see the irony, there.

Facebook is not a place to be if you are feeling the least bit vulnerable. The disconnect of an interpersonal relationship allows people to say (in this case, type) whatever they feel, regardless of how it might affect another person…or how they might take the comment. In recent weeks, I've been called a “bitch” for one of my comments, had my parenting called into question, and insulted a friend of 30 years with what I thought would be a funny comment about a picture she posted.  When the whole issue of Internet bullying first surfaced, I thought that it was just another way to limit free speech, but when I find myself on the other side of the line, I realize it can be hurtful when people say things about you that might be either untrue or quite personal. 

I offended my friend when I posted the comment: “Gotta love Photoshop!” to a picture she posted of she and her stepdaughters, husband and grandson. The shot had obviously been altered and those who know her best should have been immediately shocked by the difference in her appearance, as well as that of one of her stepdaughters.  I’m not talking about lines or wrinkles…I’m talking about pounds…the addition of some and the removal of some. For making the aforementioned comment, I was called a “bitch” by a total stranger who felt the need to take up for my “friend” because she thought my comment was uncalled for.  Ugly words ensued via Facebook and text messaging and finally ended with my friend instructing me to “not contact (her) again.” 

I have had family members chastise my sense of humor to me in the Facebook forum. After posting a joke about my dad, the backlash began to fly. Part of the problem I see with the site is that people you barely know (or don’t necessarily want in your business) are free to comment on your life and how you live it.

People question my decisions regarding The Pie and the things I teach her. So which is it? Do I spoil her or am I too strict? Is she stunted in her development because I let her watch Spongebob Squarepants?  Or is she advanced because she uses words typically found on a third grade reading level?

Why are we such a judgmental society?

Why is it only “my way or the highway?”

Listen, I am just as guilty when I see someone that doesn't fit into my tunnel-vision idea of what is normal. When I encounter someone who has a different life experience than mine, it is sometimes jarring, sometimes enlightening, sometimes inspirational, and sometimes just plain scary. I have corrected The Pie for making assumptions about people she doesn't know, but I participate in the same type of behavior. Why? What is my motivation? I know that I model that behavior to her, but I can’t figure out how to change that process. (I will bring that up at the next counseling session.)

I consider myself tolerant, accepting and even supportive of alternative lifestyles, artists, and quirky folks. Some of my good friends fit into those categories! I think I’m an enigma when it comes to certain human rights, as well as responsibilities. I am liberal, but somewhat conservative, also. It depends on the situation.

What I really wonder is: why can’t we all just get a long?

The School Drama

My daughter is a sensitive, emotional and dramatic child who expresses her feelings easily and surprisingly succinctly. I attribute this to my encouraging her to share what she thinks and for teaching her to believe that she has a right to be heard. But I think I made a mistake somewhere along the way.

Every day last week, as we prepared to leave the house for school, The Pie began to claim an upset stomach and didn't want to go. The first day our little power struggle ended up in her coming back home and eating a bowl of cereal. Within an hour, she said she was ready to go to school.

The next day, as she put on her shoes, she told me that she wanted to stay home and her tummy was upset. When I advised her that she still had to go to school, the tears and accusations came in torrents.

“You never believe me, Mama!”

“Mama, I really don’t feel good!”

“Why don’t you trust me?”

As I loaded her and the other kids into the car, she still claimed she was sick. When we arrived in the drop off line, she dug in her heels and cried some more. Then she saw one of her friends, and she was magically cured. Off she skipped to school with her friend.

The following day, same thing happened. As we sat in the drop off line, cars backing up with every moment that passed, she cried, screamed and protested. She didn’t want to go to school. She was going to be sick. So, I knelt before her and cupped my hands.

“Okay,” I said. “This is how much I love you. Go ahead and throw up in my hands. Be sick.”

“MAMA!” she screamed at me. “How could you do this to me?”

The teacher on drop off duty wandered over to us and was able to intercede with The Pie. She convinced her that going to class was good and that if she did get sick, the office staff would call me and I would come pick her up. With a sad little, “okay” The Pie agreed to being led to her classroom. It was on this day, that I asked her teacher if there was a problem with anyone or anything in class. Mrs. X-Box said that everything was great and The Pie is an outstanding student. My confusion deepened.

Day number 4: As if she were starring in a well-rehearsed play, she delivered her lines at precisely the same time. This time, however, were accompanied by panicked screaming and I literally had to pull her from the car during drop off. The teacher had to call the school guidance counselor out to talk The Pie down from her little ledge and convinced my daughter to enter the school. I was embarrassed and concerned but when I asked the child why she didn’t want to go, she simply responded that she was sick. I would threaten to take her to the doctor, but she loves her doctor and doesn’t mind going to the office.

On Friday, I attempted to garner enthusiasm for school by chanting that it was the last day of the week and even made a special lunch for The Pie to take. Everything was fine until we got in the car and buckled up. She began to whine and cry, saying her tummy hurt and she needed to stay home from school. The behavior made me furious, but I remained calm and spoke to her gently, explaining that Mama would get in trouble if she missed school and her friends would miss her. Just then, one of her friends walked up and offered to walk The Pie to class. She would not budge. Shortly, another friend arrived and said she would walk, too. A third friend, our next door neighbor’s daughter, walked up to the scene taking place and said, “Let’s go to class.” And The Pie said…”OK!” with a smile. And off they skipped with barely a minute to spare before final bell.

I was dumbfounded! Gobsmacked! Stunned, shocked and awed. I cannot figure out what my daughter is up to. Is it a ploy for attention? Is it a need to spend time alone with me? Could she be having trouble with a classmate?

 Further investigation is clearly required…any insight from you mamas out there? 

Family Flu Follies

It’s been a rough couple of weeks in our house. Illness overtook the three of us and we don’t much care for it. I don’t like it at all, but can handle it easier if it comes to one person at a time. This time, it swooped down on all of us at the same time.

One Thursday evening, Dad mentioned he was having trouble breathing and suggested I take him to the emergency room. I wasn’t inclined to go to that extreme until I saw that he was coughing up blood. So, I got him dressed, put The Pie in her pajamas and loaded them both in the car. I dropped The Pie at a neighbor’s house and headed to the hospital. Medical staff ministered to Dad, took vitals and blood, asked questions and eventually administered a breathing treatment. After a couple of hours of waiting, I was advised that Dad had bronchitis and yet another urinary tract infection and I could take him home. They didn’t even give him a Tylenol to take down his fever until I asked for it. That was $19 well spent, I think. Mere moments after I got Dad home and settled – around 1:30 a.m., my phone rang.

My neighbor called to tell me that The Pie was vomiting all over her house, was running a fever and wanted to come home. So, I walked over and picked up The Pie, carrying her hot, sweaty, stinky body close to mine. I cleaned and dressed her, gave her some Motrin, and put her in her bed amid her numerous stuffed animals.  Then I fell into my own bed…at about 3:00 a.m.

Four hours later, I checked The Pie’s temperature and it was still up, so I called the school, checked on Dad and went back to bed. The weekend was pretty much a blur because I spent it cleaning up bodily messes of one kind or another. The Pie missed three more days of school with the flu and I began to feel more and more sluggish, my throat scratchy and my head aching.

I was slated to host a baby shower for my next-door neighbor and I wanted it to be perfect (it was). When I awoke that morning, I felt as though every fiber of my being was protesting. I could barely keep my eyes open and it was a major effort to move. But I had to push through it to keep my commitment, so I managed through the shower and when it was over, I crashed. Hard.

I sent The Pie back next door and slept through Saturday night and all day Sunday. My wonderful friend, Stephanie, who happens to hold a medical degree, called in some Tamiflu for me and I got some egg drop soup, of which I only ate about 4 bites. On the third day, I felt better, but I am still dealing with a scratchy throat and a cough. At least I don’t feel like I got run over by a train! Did I mention that during this whole time, I was still responsible for taking care of other kids and getting them back and forth to school? Yeah, that, too. I hope that this little brush with the flu is the only illness I have to deal with this winter.

But I worry that the way The Pie plays with her friends like a litter of puppies, it may just get passed back and forth until it mutates into a giant monster flu that takes over our house and eats all the jello cups and drinks all the orange juice and plays punk music too loud on the stereo. Uh oh, I think I have a fever…

What Lies Ahead?

My core was rocked this week when Brubber nearly spilled the beans about Santa Claus not being real. On our way to school, our conversation turned to what we wanted for Christmas. The Pie boldly stated that she was getting me an iPad and had a plan: she would ask Santa and when he brought it for her, she would simply hand it over to me. Then Brubber (who is 8, remember) fell loose from himself and said, “You know, Santa Claus is not…” I interrupted his bubble bursting agenda with a strained noise that sounded eerily like a moose stuck in a manhole. He knows, and I know, that Santa isn’t real; I’m just not quite ready to let The Pie know. Then, this brilliant little kid asked me a question to which I had no definitive answer: “Why are you lying to her? She’ll never believe you about anything again!”

Damn. He had a point. If I have stressed the importance of truthfulness while raising The Pie, then why am I lying to her about a fat man in a red suit that decides if she’s been good enough to get presents? Am I perpetuating this myth, while based in fact, which was created as a marketing ploy? Am I leading her to believe it’s okay to lie as long as the end justifies the means? I admit it…I introduced the idea of Santa Claus to her and every year I explain that Santa will choose 3 items from her list and will drop them at our house on Christmas Eve. I bake cookies and set out milk. I even let her put out carrots for the reindeer! I am all in on this thing, people!

But now I can’t help but wonder if I am doing her a disservice by keeping up the ruse. How will she feel when she finally finds out that Santa Claus is not a real person? Will she feel betrayed? Deceived? Duped? I think they are all valid responses. I don’t remember actually when I found out, so I can’t remember how I reacted. What I do know is that I didn’t feel betrayed by my parents until much later; their abusive relationship took care of that for me. But I digress...

The point I’m trying to make is that I enjoy the wonder and magical part of Christmas that includes flying reindeer, long-eared Christmas donkeys and misfit toys. I look forward every year to Frosty, the Heat Miser and even the Grinch. Especially the Grinch. For what better way for The Pie to learn about the spirit of Christmas than from a grumpy dude whose heart grows three sizes? I only want The Pie to feel as magical and wondrous as I did when I was a kid. Is that so wrong?

I looked into this issue and found that hundreds of studies have been conducted and thousands of articles written about this very issue. The majority of reports I read come down solidly in the “Don’t Lie About Santa” category. As I perused them, I started to feel like a bad parent! One essay by Alison Gropnik, professor of psychology at the University of California Berkeley, was published in a discussion in The New York Times and made me feel a little better:

"When children pretend, they are exercising the evolutionarily crucial human ability to envision alternative ways the world could be. In adults that ability is at the core of our very real capacities for invention and innovation."

Sure, Santa isn't a necessary part of Christmas, and it's certainly possible to teach children about the spirit of hope and generosity without him. But a belief in Santa Claus allows children to use their imaginations to envision a world where anything is possible (and the laws of physics need not even apply). Imagination is important, as is the ability to believe in things we can't always see.

Fantasy is a rich and important part of childhood. It is a time to believe and wonder, for one time in your life, that all things are possible. Adulthood and brutal truth can wait. And so can I.