Idea(l)s

Skink and I were at a local park recently, playing in the breeze and the sunshine. It was so sunshiny as a matter of fact, I had stripped him of his pants and he toddled around in the warm spring air wearing nothing but a onesie.

As we were about to leave I noticed two little girls playing by the park entrance. They were having a blast, laughing and completely carefree. As we approached them, one of the girls came running up to me:

I'm Kesha and I'm four and I give great hugs.

Me: I'll take a hug. ::she wraps her little arms around my legs:: You do give great hugs!

How come your baby don't have no draws (drawers) on?

I was amused and refreshed at the end of our all-too-brief encounter. With her honest introduction and polite yet assertive extroversion, I found her delightful.

I wonder how my own life might be enriched if I tried doing things Kesha's way for even a day. Honest, politely assertive extroversion. A challenge to remove myself from my own world and electronic devices long enough to get to know and try to understand those around me. I realize she has age on her side. She is free of the scars of fear and disappointment. I hope she stays that way.

I am continually amazed how much I take for granted the relationships in my life in which exists the comfort of understanding. You know, that silent empathy and deep knowledge of one another.

This one ingredient I so highly value seems to be my motive for taking liberties that I should not. Knowing someway somehow our friendship can will withstand almost anything. Making the kinship life-proof, it is that intimate connection with one another that endures lapses in time, events, and circumstances. That we-seem-to-pick-up-right-where-we-left-off feeling.

I value these people in my life immensely, and the very quality that sustains these relationships seems to be the paradoxical reason I do not relentlessly express my gratitude for them.

I find that oddly reassuring.

I hope that I am able to increase my understanding of others in my life rather than taking advantage of theirs'. I'll just add it to the ever-growing list of things I need to work on.

You understand, of course.

The Descent

So, I entered hell last week when we decided to put my Skinky in daycare.

I have now plummeted to the seventh realm of said hell.

Today was his fifth day.

Day one went off without a hitch. I left him smilin' and playin' and charmin' the pants off everyone there. I got a kiss and went on my way. What the hell have I been so worried about? This is sooo going to be a breeze!

Yeah, notsomuch. By day two he figured out Mommy wasn't staying with him. By day three he had to be peeled off of me. As soon as we walked in his classroom, those chubby lil' arms were tightly wrapped around my neck and his legs had a python-like grip around my waist. I left him screaming. That same day I picked up him and his new-found cold. Ugh.

Well, what else did I expect, right? Yes, I knew my precious would pick up cooties from other kids, I just didn't expect it to be so soon. Yesterday I walk in to his classroom and notice that every kid in there is snotty. Great.

102 fever, a doctor's visit, a contagious skin rash, and a case of diaper rash the likes of which I've never seen. Fungal diaper rash, to be exact. All since Friday.

I cringed as the pediatrician asked "Is this going to be a full-time permanent kind of thing?"

I sheepishly replied, "Yes", like I was admitting to a murder, or child abuse, or sending him to a concentration camp for six hours a day.

"Is this a small or large center?" What difference does that make, I'm still like the WORST MOTHER EVER!, I thought, but I answered her.

"Well, I guess we may as well get used to this, then, huh?", she smugly replied.

No.She.Di'int. I seriously could have slapped her. For realz. Chuck was with me, thank God, so I couldn't really show my ass like I wanted to at that very moment. I don't think me callin' my husband to come bail me out of jail 'cause I attacked the bitch would have helped.

To go through so much transition in such a short period of time, Riley has been such a trooper. I obviously feel extremely guilty.

Mama, Mama. Mama, Mama! I didn't ever think he'd start calling me that. Now it gets repeated over and over and over again. Like he's looking for me or is afraid I am going to leave him. He has to know my whereabouts at all times.

'Cept now he's all snotty and it sounds more like Baba, baba. He relentlessly expresses his misery in being sick. He looks at me with those big, beautiful, feverishly-weak eyes and says "Baba!" every time I walk in a room. It's as if he's saying, "Do you see? Do you see what you're doing to me? This is all your fault!" At least that's what my head tells me anyway. He's always pitiful when he's sick, but I never really blamed myself for it the way I am now.

I realized long ago that I have given my two teenagers excuses to seek therapy as adults. I just really didn't want it to start so soon with Skinky.

At this rate, imma be in therapy behind this whole daycare thing long before he will. I passed overwhelmed about 72 hours ago. I am OVA it. Done.

Bless my heart. And his. We will survive, I guess.

Mommy Hell

If there is such a place, I qualify. I have qualified long before now.

The latest reason? A word I have dreaded since my youngest was born: daycare.

I cannot continue this post without saying that stay-at-home moms rock. Shitty diapers, teaching, feeding, blessed naps, baths, temper tantrums at just the ideal times--the list is endless. Not to mention the isolation. All of that on top of managing and running a household: cleaning, cooking, shopping. Amazing.

I was ecstatic at the idea of staying home with Skinky, as I did not have the opportunity with Morgan or Chuck. I have long known that whatever fiber women possess to do all of that and be completely happy and fulfilled I do not have. It has been just recently that I have accepted it.

Truth is, it damn-near killed me. Literally.

So his father and I have been mulling over the decision to put him in daycare. My husband has been hounded and nagged. We must find some consistent childcare. It simply has to happen. I can't keep doing this! And it does have to happen. For many reasons. The most pressing being my effin' sanity.

Countless hours of research, talking to other moms, phone calls, more phone calls, appointments, and tours have led to Riley's full-time enrollment at a daycare. He starts Wednesday. Ugh.

With all of my bitchin', I should be excited. Relieved even, right? Wrong. Somehow all this means is that I have failed and I am just throwing my child away to be looked after by strangers. My goodness, I have been moping around acting as if I am sending him to juvie. I feel selfish and inadequate for "not havin' what it takes".

Riley could use some socialization and I know it will all work out. It will, right?

I sure hope so. I am having to draw off others' experience here. They all tell me it gets better.

Furthering my insanity is not an option, so I must take this leap of faith. 'Cause after all, if Mama ain't happy, ain't nobody happy; this I know to be true.

Y'all say a lil' prayer for me Wednesday mornin'. Oh my.

Long Day

Riley and I have had a rough couple days.  To spare you all of the boring Mommy details, he's teething and won't let me out of his sight.  This whole week has been harrowing at best.  He's such a sweetheart normally.  I can't seem to do anything to soothe or console him so I feel grossly inadequate.

My sack of sugar . . . although he weighs twice as much as a sack of sugar. 

I had to take a "time out" today.  My dear husband walked in from work, took one look at me and said, "There's a Starbucks gift card on my keychain.  Get it and get out".  I cried and prayed on the way to get my coffee and came home a little while later to a bathed but still-cranky baby. 

As my mother would say, "My nerves are SHOT!".  True dat.

When my nerves are to' up I work my anxieties out in one of two ways:  bake or clean.  We have a forty year old air conditioner and it's 100 degrees outside.  Seeing as how I was already sweating like a whore in church, cleaning was out.  Besides, I had to be in the kitchen anyway.  I had to make my mother a pie for a dinner party she's having tomorrow night.  Baking it shall be.  I was thumbing through some of my recipes and stumbled upon this gem . . . . . .

Banana Cake with Banana Frosting

It looks pretty gross, but it is oh-so-yummy.  There's nothing I love more than diving in to a new recipe for some much-needed diversion.  Thank goodness both of tonight's recipes called for something to be "mashed".  Boy, did they get mashed.

I hope tomorrow is better for both of us . . . . . my nerves nor my waistline can take much more of this.