Punky had an overdue milestone moment this weekend: her first sleepover.
Alone. Well, not alone alone. Just without me.
And she liked it.
My sister really enticed her. She set up a cool tent in the living room for an indoor camp out, complete with a bouncy air mattress and two crazy cousins begging her to stay. I wasn't sure she'd go for it, and she hesitated right up till the last second, but finally decided to give it a shot. She ultimately ended up in her aunt's bed early the next morning, but she made it through the night with no tears, no fears, and no phone calls begging me to come get her at three a.m.
I'm not going to lie: leaving her for the night was tough.
Yes, I know she's four. Yes, I know she was with my sister, not some stranger off the street. Yes, I know my nephew and niece have spent the night at my house many times. But I've never spent the night without her. She still sleeps with me often, and when she doesn't I still wake to check on her at least once a night, if not twice. Sometimes even three times.
Her dad's rotating work schedule means Punky and I are alone together more often than not. She's really attached to me, and I to her. I love that we have such a close relationship and I hope it always stays that way. Maybe it will keep her from locking herself in her room and totally ignoring me when those dreaded teen years hit. Okay, probably not, but I can hope.
I figured I wouldn't sleep a wink without her under the same roof, but my sister loaded me up on port wine before I left. Two glasses later I was warm, fuzzy, and having trouble keeping my eyes open. I was asleep in no time flat. I didn't even wake up once during the night to worry about my little peanut. Come morning, I felt a bit guilty for sleeping so soundly.
I'm so proud of her for making it through the night, but I must admit I was happy to hear she asked for me first thing in the morning. Baby steps, people, baby steps.
Sunday, February 24, 2013
Thursday, February 21, 2013
Workin' for a Livin'
Ah, work. The topic I shy away from more than any other in this blog.
Lately it's been causing me some fairly high stress levels and quite frankly it's starting to piss me off. It was even the main cause of my few-and-far-between posts towards the end of the year. While it's true I struggled with writing most of last year as I waded through what I considered a mid-life crisis at its finest, work sealed the deal in the final months. I was writing at home almost every night for weeks, but obviously not on this blog.
On November 1st, a drastic price hike on a raw material sent my boss and those above him just reeling. Before I could say boo, I was leading a team of plant managers, supervisors, and production planners on a project with one specific goal: to reduce our costs come hell or high water. Time was of the essence and I had to turn in the final report before Christmas. My initial response to his request was shear panic, but I rose to the challenge, met the deadline, and actually really enjoyed the ride.
My current position doesn't allow for much of the work I truly enjoy doing. I love analysis, I love problem solving, I love burying myself in data and sorting my way to the answer one long, complicated spreadsheet at a time. In fact, that's exactly what I was originally hired to do. When the loss of business resulted in some restructuring almost three years ago, I was moved into a different position that can mostly be described in one word: dull. It's littered with repetitive daily tasks that require very little brain power, if any. There is a whole world of issues and problems that can be tackled in relation to my position, however I don't have the power to do any of it. I'd say 90% of my current job can adequately be performed by a high school dropout whose only previous work experience involves some sort of fast-food uniform.
Once I settled into this position a few months in, it was actually a breath of fresh air for a while. Punky was only eighteen months old at the time. I was still struggling to find the right balance between my role as a parent and the demands of working outside the home. Once my job suddenly required less focus, less attention to detail, and less stress and aggravation, it became easier to achieve that balance. Work simply became work. Just a job and nothing more. I did what I needed to do from eight to five and easily left it all behind me when the day was done. I had more energy, clarity, and patience to tackle the really important things in life, and I was okay with that. For a while.
It's funny because my former boss warned me that a year into this position I would be bored to tears. It actually took about a year and a half - six months to learn all I needed to, and then a full year bask in its mundanity. Given that it's now just two months shy of three years in this job, I can safely say I'm over it and the point really hit home on the heels of this recent project. For two months straight I was up to my eyeballs in analysis, research, organization, meetings, and writing the report. I was busy. I had to think. I had to focus. I was reminded how I always do my best work under pressure, and just how long it had been since I've felt any on the work front. The whole experience was so refreshing, so invigorating, and so satisfying.
Come January, it was back to business as usual. And it brought with it feelings of dread and discontent. Since business still hasn't improved much, I fear I'll be stuck in this seat forever.
Some people experience a seven-year itch in relationships; I tend to suffer a five-year itch when it comes to employment. December marked my five year anniversary with this company, and recent events have ignited the itch. It's conflicting, really. Half of my brain is calling me an idiot. Why do I want more stress? Why do I want work to consume so much of my life again? I'm getting a decent salary without having to over-exert myself. Why do I need to think so much anyway?
The other half of my brain is yearning to do more. It's simply not satisfied with the boring, daily routine. It wants to make a difference. It wants to think outside the box again. It wants to be used, and challenged, and exhausted at the end of the work day.
One half needs to shut up. I'm not sure which yet. I wish business would pick up and settle the argument for me. If I continue to wallow in this state of mind, a career change is eminent. And as much as I'd love a new opportunity, starting over sucks. Period.
Lately it's been causing me some fairly high stress levels and quite frankly it's starting to piss me off. It was even the main cause of my few-and-far-between posts towards the end of the year. While it's true I struggled with writing most of last year as I waded through what I considered a mid-life crisis at its finest, work sealed the deal in the final months. I was writing at home almost every night for weeks, but obviously not on this blog.
On November 1st, a drastic price hike on a raw material sent my boss and those above him just reeling. Before I could say boo, I was leading a team of plant managers, supervisors, and production planners on a project with one specific goal: to reduce our costs come hell or high water. Time was of the essence and I had to turn in the final report before Christmas. My initial response to his request was shear panic, but I rose to the challenge, met the deadline, and actually really enjoyed the ride.
My current position doesn't allow for much of the work I truly enjoy doing. I love analysis, I love problem solving, I love burying myself in data and sorting my way to the answer one long, complicated spreadsheet at a time. In fact, that's exactly what I was originally hired to do. When the loss of business resulted in some restructuring almost three years ago, I was moved into a different position that can mostly be described in one word: dull. It's littered with repetitive daily tasks that require very little brain power, if any. There is a whole world of issues and problems that can be tackled in relation to my position, however I don't have the power to do any of it. I'd say 90% of my current job can adequately be performed by a high school dropout whose only previous work experience involves some sort of fast-food uniform.
Once I settled into this position a few months in, it was actually a breath of fresh air for a while. Punky was only eighteen months old at the time. I was still struggling to find the right balance between my role as a parent and the demands of working outside the home. Once my job suddenly required less focus, less attention to detail, and less stress and aggravation, it became easier to achieve that balance. Work simply became work. Just a job and nothing more. I did what I needed to do from eight to five and easily left it all behind me when the day was done. I had more energy, clarity, and patience to tackle the really important things in life, and I was okay with that. For a while.
It's funny because my former boss warned me that a year into this position I would be bored to tears. It actually took about a year and a half - six months to learn all I needed to, and then a full year bask in its mundanity. Given that it's now just two months shy of three years in this job, I can safely say I'm over it and the point really hit home on the heels of this recent project. For two months straight I was up to my eyeballs in analysis, research, organization, meetings, and writing the report. I was busy. I had to think. I had to focus. I was reminded how I always do my best work under pressure, and just how long it had been since I've felt any on the work front. The whole experience was so refreshing, so invigorating, and so satisfying.
Come January, it was back to business as usual. And it brought with it feelings of dread and discontent. Since business still hasn't improved much, I fear I'll be stuck in this seat forever.
Some people experience a seven-year itch in relationships; I tend to suffer a five-year itch when it comes to employment. December marked my five year anniversary with this company, and recent events have ignited the itch. It's conflicting, really. Half of my brain is calling me an idiot. Why do I want more stress? Why do I want work to consume so much of my life again? I'm getting a decent salary without having to over-exert myself. Why do I need to think so much anyway?
The other half of my brain is yearning to do more. It's simply not satisfied with the boring, daily routine. It wants to make a difference. It wants to think outside the box again. It wants to be used, and challenged, and exhausted at the end of the work day.
One half needs to shut up. I'm not sure which yet. I wish business would pick up and settle the argument for me. If I continue to wallow in this state of mind, a career change is eminent. And as much as I'd love a new opportunity, starting over sucks. Period.
Thursday, February 14, 2013
The Valentine Tattoo of Death
Sometimes I simply don't understand my child. Once in a while I allow myself to smugly think I have her all figured out, and then she does something so unexpected that for a brief second I have absolutely no clue who she even is.
On the heels of her big Valentine's party at school, I could tell she was on a bit of a sugar high when I finally picked her up after work. As we sat and ate dinner together, we read all the Valentines she got and separated the candy and trinkets into containers. Mixed in with the pile of cards, lollipops, tootsie rolls, pencils, candy hearts, and rubber bracelets, we found several temporary tattoos. She thought they were stickers at first and I tried to explain the difference.
After dinner I innocently asked if she'd like me to put one of the tattoos on her leg. From her reaction, you'd think I asked if I could chop her leg off with a butter knife.
Anyone reading along knows that 'fearless' is a term I've used often to describe Punky. She is not afraid of, well, anything. As a baby she wasn't too keen on her bare feet touching the grass and that's about the biggest fear I've seen her exhibit in the last four years. She's not intimidated by people, she's never been scared of the doctor, she has no fear of water or jumping into swimming pools ten feet deep, she hugged and kissed the totally scary and disgusting zombie dummy her dad made for a Halloween decoration this year, she happily rode every single amusement park ride she's been tall enough to ride thus far, she has no fear of heights, no fear of speed, no fear of monsters, no fear of the dark, and normally no fear whatsoever to try something new. She's never even had a nightmare that's scared her enough to wake me up in the middle of the night.
Yet, for whatever reason, she carried on like I was trying to kill her when I suggested the tattoo thing, and I spent the next hour trying to calm her down and reason the fear out of her little head. At one point, she actually ran in her room and hid under her covers. She was genuinely terrified, and crying, and begging me not to do it. And I was fairly clueless on how to handle the whole situation. I'd never seen her so scared, and let's be honest, fearing a temporary tattoo is simply absurd.
I finally decided to take the 'lead by example' approach and put one of the tattoos on my right calf. She watched in total horror, like I would drop dead at any second, and ran out of the room the minute I pulled the paper off to reveal the little car on my leg. She refused to look at it, all the blood drained from her face when I had the nerve to suggest she touch it, and she sternly instructed me to keep it away from her.
I had no choice but to accept complete failure on this parenting challenge and admit defeat. All the reasoning in the world wasn't landing in her head and putting one on myself made the situation worse, not better. I even attempted bribery: unlimited candy consumption for the rest of the night. She wouldn't even bite when I offered to fork over the rest of the money to buy the American Girl doll she's been saving for so diligently. I threw in the towel.
I gave her a big hug and solemnly swore I would never bring up the tattoo topic again. I assured her it was her body and she has every right to dictate what others are allowed to do to it (that message can't be reinforced enough in my opinion), and also reminded her that she can trust her mommy wholeheartedly, and that I would never, ever, ever do anything to hurt her, and that I would never lie to her. And I couldn't resist telling her that I hope she remembers this tattoo discussion when she's a teenager and decides she wants a real one. Hey, something good has to come from this, right?
She stopped crying and we got on with what was left of our evening. I sat down to pay some bills and she lost herself in the world of Barbie dolls currently taking over our entire living room floor. About twenty minutes later, she was at my side.
"Mommy?" she asked in her sweet 'I want something' tone. "Can you put a tattoo on me now?"
This is one of those moments in parenting where you struggle to resist the urge to stab yourself in the eye with a fork while verbally expressing utter pride and encouragement for your child's sudden burst of bravery.
The tattoo application went off without a hitch. It didn't hurt, sting, burn, or result in the loss of a limb as Punky previously envisioned. In fact, she requested another. And another. I drew the line at three and she happily danced around in the living room, flailing her inked arms this way and that way, and she instructed me to choose a short-sleeve shirt for school tomorrow so she could show off her pretty arms.
I have no clue what caused her abrupt change of mind, but I'm glad she found the courage to face and conquer her fear. It's a valuable lesson that will serve her well in the future, even if it means begging and pleading with her not to get a real tattoo when she's a teenager.
On the heels of her big Valentine's party at school, I could tell she was on a bit of a sugar high when I finally picked her up after work. As we sat and ate dinner together, we read all the Valentines she got and separated the candy and trinkets into containers. Mixed in with the pile of cards, lollipops, tootsie rolls, pencils, candy hearts, and rubber bracelets, we found several temporary tattoos. She thought they were stickers at first and I tried to explain the difference.
After dinner I innocently asked if she'd like me to put one of the tattoos on her leg. From her reaction, you'd think I asked if I could chop her leg off with a butter knife.
Anyone reading along knows that 'fearless' is a term I've used often to describe Punky. She is not afraid of, well, anything. As a baby she wasn't too keen on her bare feet touching the grass and that's about the biggest fear I've seen her exhibit in the last four years. She's not intimidated by people, she's never been scared of the doctor, she has no fear of water or jumping into swimming pools ten feet deep, she hugged and kissed the totally scary and disgusting zombie dummy her dad made for a Halloween decoration this year, she happily rode every single amusement park ride she's been tall enough to ride thus far, she has no fear of heights, no fear of speed, no fear of monsters, no fear of the dark, and normally no fear whatsoever to try something new. She's never even had a nightmare that's scared her enough to wake me up in the middle of the night.
Yet, for whatever reason, she carried on like I was trying to kill her when I suggested the tattoo thing, and I spent the next hour trying to calm her down and reason the fear out of her little head. At one point, she actually ran in her room and hid under her covers. She was genuinely terrified, and crying, and begging me not to do it. And I was fairly clueless on how to handle the whole situation. I'd never seen her so scared, and let's be honest, fearing a temporary tattoo is simply absurd.
I finally decided to take the 'lead by example' approach and put one of the tattoos on my right calf. She watched in total horror, like I would drop dead at any second, and ran out of the room the minute I pulled the paper off to reveal the little car on my leg. She refused to look at it, all the blood drained from her face when I had the nerve to suggest she touch it, and she sternly instructed me to keep it away from her.
I had no choice but to accept complete failure on this parenting challenge and admit defeat. All the reasoning in the world wasn't landing in her head and putting one on myself made the situation worse, not better. I even attempted bribery: unlimited candy consumption for the rest of the night. She wouldn't even bite when I offered to fork over the rest of the money to buy the American Girl doll she's been saving for so diligently. I threw in the towel.
I gave her a big hug and solemnly swore I would never bring up the tattoo topic again. I assured her it was her body and she has every right to dictate what others are allowed to do to it (that message can't be reinforced enough in my opinion), and also reminded her that she can trust her mommy wholeheartedly, and that I would never, ever, ever do anything to hurt her, and that I would never lie to her. And I couldn't resist telling her that I hope she remembers this tattoo discussion when she's a teenager and decides she wants a real one. Hey, something good has to come from this, right?
She stopped crying and we got on with what was left of our evening. I sat down to pay some bills and she lost herself in the world of Barbie dolls currently taking over our entire living room floor. About twenty minutes later, she was at my side.
"Mommy?" she asked in her sweet 'I want something' tone. "Can you put a tattoo on me now?"
This is one of those moments in parenting where you struggle to resist the urge to stab yourself in the eye with a fork while verbally expressing utter pride and encouragement for your child's sudden burst of bravery.
The tattoo application went off without a hitch. It didn't hurt, sting, burn, or result in the loss of a limb as Punky previously envisioned. In fact, she requested another. And another. I drew the line at three and she happily danced around in the living room, flailing her inked arms this way and that way, and she instructed me to choose a short-sleeve shirt for school tomorrow so she could show off her pretty arms.
I have no clue what caused her abrupt change of mind, but I'm glad she found the courage to face and conquer her fear. It's a valuable lesson that will serve her well in the future, even if it means begging and pleading with her not to get a real tattoo when she's a teenager.
Monday, February 11, 2013
Reflections on Thirty-Nine
I'm back.
And I'm forty.
Well, technically I have about twelve hours left to enjoy thirty-nine and I plan to milk every last second before admitting defeat and facing the big four-o. But, to my surprise, I'm not as upset as I anticipated. Yet, anyway.
Looking back, it's easy to see I've already weathered my mid-life crisis. It began before I even turned thirty-nine, hence the total body transformation this past year, and continued chugging along through the end of 2012. I think I'm securely at the tail end of it now and the worst is over.
Thirty-nine was a great year for me. I was determined make changes. I had a vision of who I wanted to be at forty and for the most part I accomplished those goals. While there's always room for more improvement, life is surely different than it was a year ago. I learned a great deal about myself this year and, though it stings a bit to admit it, I think I finally grew up in a sense.
Somewhere over the course of this transformation, I've finally gained the wisdom to accept what I cannot change and focus my energy on the things I can. This tidbit of knowledge has greatly reduced the stress of daily life and given me a new freedom of sorts. I can't change people, I can't change situations, I sure as hell can't change the world, but I have the power to choose how I react to life's blows and I've learned the only way to remain standing is to focus on my own two feet. I'm not sure why this lesson took nearly forty years to learn, but now that it finally sunk in I feel a thousand times stronger, both physically and mentally.
While I spent much of this year reorganizing, prioritizing, and cleaning up some messes from years past, I realize now that life is a work in process. There's still more to do, more to face, more to tackle, but I'm up for the challenge. I spent most of my life plagued with self-doubt, but somehow I managed to kick it's ass this year. I'm confident, I'm tough, I have faith in myself and my abilities. I know my strengths, I know my weaknesses, I know what makes me tick. I'm happy being me, even if that means turning forty today.
And yes, my writing hiatus is over and I fully plan on picking up the pace a bit. I have lots to catch up on, but it's time to get ready for work and psych myself up to face forty with grace. I hope I make it through the day without bursting into tears at my desk. I think I can, I think I can...
And I'm forty.
Well, technically I have about twelve hours left to enjoy thirty-nine and I plan to milk every last second before admitting defeat and facing the big four-o. But, to my surprise, I'm not as upset as I anticipated. Yet, anyway.
Looking back, it's easy to see I've already weathered my mid-life crisis. It began before I even turned thirty-nine, hence the total body transformation this past year, and continued chugging along through the end of 2012. I think I'm securely at the tail end of it now and the worst is over.
Thirty-nine was a great year for me. I was determined make changes. I had a vision of who I wanted to be at forty and for the most part I accomplished those goals. While there's always room for more improvement, life is surely different than it was a year ago. I learned a great deal about myself this year and, though it stings a bit to admit it, I think I finally grew up in a sense.
Somewhere over the course of this transformation, I've finally gained the wisdom to accept what I cannot change and focus my energy on the things I can. This tidbit of knowledge has greatly reduced the stress of daily life and given me a new freedom of sorts. I can't change people, I can't change situations, I sure as hell can't change the world, but I have the power to choose how I react to life's blows and I've learned the only way to remain standing is to focus on my own two feet. I'm not sure why this lesson took nearly forty years to learn, but now that it finally sunk in I feel a thousand times stronger, both physically and mentally.
While I spent much of this year reorganizing, prioritizing, and cleaning up some messes from years past, I realize now that life is a work in process. There's still more to do, more to face, more to tackle, but I'm up for the challenge. I spent most of my life plagued with self-doubt, but somehow I managed to kick it's ass this year. I'm confident, I'm tough, I have faith in myself and my abilities. I know my strengths, I know my weaknesses, I know what makes me tick. I'm happy being me, even if that means turning forty today.
And yes, my writing hiatus is over and I fully plan on picking up the pace a bit. I have lots to catch up on, but it's time to get ready for work and psych myself up to face forty with grace. I hope I make it through the day without bursting into tears at my desk. I think I can, I think I can...
Friday, December 28, 2012
Today You Are Four
Dear Punky,
I can hardly believe that title. Four. It's amazing how quickly time passes.
As I sit here in complete silence, my mind can't help but drift back to your birth and the nineteen long hours of labor leading up to it. I suppose it's normal to remember those excruciating moments every year on your birthday. I guess it's what most moms do, no?
Even though I saved my very last vacation day of the year to have today off for your birthday, you went to school. You wanted to go. You wanted to bring cupcakes in for the class, and hear them sing to you, and pick a special surprise out of the birthday chest like the other kids all got to do on their birthdays. That's okay though, I understand. Plus, your Dad and I had big plans for the day anyway.
After we left you at school, we headed to the toy store to get you the perfect birthday present. But things began to fall apart before we even arrived, thanks to the ultra-convenient cell phone world we live in now, and quickly spiraled downhill from there.
Your godfather was at the emergency room last night - he has bronchitis. Your Pappy is at the hospital right now - he's very sick, too. Your godmother is sick. Your cousins are sick. There's a big winter storm set to hit tonight. And the toy store didn't have the present we wanted in stock.
We had to cancel your birthday party for tomorrow.
I'm so sorry, Punky. I have to break the news to you after school and I'm dreading it. You will be so disappointed and heartbroken. Believe me, I am, too.
But I promise, as soon as the weather breaks and everyone is feeling better, you will have the best birthday party we can manage. And your Dad is en route right now to another toy store an hour and a half away to get you the present we planned on buying this morning. By the time you get home from school, he'll be back.
While I have a rare window of quiet time alone, it's the perfect opportunity to write this birthday post. Three was certainly a challenging age, for both of us, and I'm excited to see what four has in store for this year.
I know I tell you this all the time, but I really am so proud of who you are. You amaze me each and every day. We are so very different, yet exactly alike in many ways. I love watching you grow, and change, and laugh, and learn. Through my eyes, this is who you are at four:
Adventurous, spontaneous, and downright daring at times. You make my heart stop with your tendency to leap before looking, but there's never a dull moment around here. You'll try anything once without hesitation, and twice if the first attempt is even remotely successful. Even at this early age it's clear you'll never be a wallflower. I admire your bravery, your spunk, and your persistence.
Intelligent, witty, and curious beyond belief. You have yet to meet a fact you didn't memorize. A far stretch from the typical kid your age, at your request we end each night with a series of questions before bed. Addition, subtraction, spelling, and science are your favorite categories these days. You told me you want to know everything, and that you will when you're one hundred years old. There's no doubt in my mind you'll get there. I hope you always approach learning with the same hunger you have now. You might just change the world some day.
Silly, funny, and a total giggle machine. You love to laugh, and you love to make others laugh even more. Our house is filled with the sweet sound of little girl giggles and the hiccups that follow shortly afterward. I love how one tiny chuckle can totally change my mood and brighten my day instantly. I love your silly, playful side. I love that you can never brush your teeth without racing us to the bathroom. I love that your socks never match your outfit when I let you choose the pair you want. I love your silly faces, wacky dances, and funny stories. Keep on laughing and inspiring others to laugh with you. It sparks friendships, deepens bonds, and creates memories that last a lifetime.
Stubborn, independent, and impatient. All typical for your age, but frustrating for your parents nonetheless. Nothing makes you more angry than something you can't master in the first three seconds of trying. Your independent streak runs deep, and your insistence on doing everything yourself makes us all crazy at times. You want what you want when you want it, and have no patience when things don't go exactly how you envisioned it. Unfortunately these traits likely stem from my half of your DNA profile, but hopefully you'll grow out of it. At least some of it. Maybe.
Your favorite things haven't changed much over the years. You still love your blankie and sleep with it faithfully. You still love macaroni and cheese, apples, pickles, and watermelon, but have recently discovered your love of chocolate (yes, my DNA as well). Hershey kisses top your list of sweet treats these days, followed closely by candy canes and sweet tarts. You have finally taken an interest in baby dolls and play with them more than your musical instruments lately. I'm not sure what to make of this new trend, but the house is a hell of a lot quieter, that's for sure.
And, of course, at four you are still my favorite little girl on the planet. Being your mom is the toughest job I've ever had, yet the most satisfying bar none. There's no doubt we'll hit some potholes as we continue our journey down this road together, but I look forward to the bumps just as much as the moments of smooth sailing. We will continue to learn and grow together. Just take it easy on us - your parents aren't exactly spring chickens, you know.
I love you, Julia Allyn.
Happy fourth birthday!
I can hardly believe that title. Four. It's amazing how quickly time passes.
As I sit here in complete silence, my mind can't help but drift back to your birth and the nineteen long hours of labor leading up to it. I suppose it's normal to remember those excruciating moments every year on your birthday. I guess it's what most moms do, no?
Even though I saved my very last vacation day of the year to have today off for your birthday, you went to school. You wanted to go. You wanted to bring cupcakes in for the class, and hear them sing to you, and pick a special surprise out of the birthday chest like the other kids all got to do on their birthdays. That's okay though, I understand. Plus, your Dad and I had big plans for the day anyway.
After we left you at school, we headed to the toy store to get you the perfect birthday present. But things began to fall apart before we even arrived, thanks to the ultra-convenient cell phone world we live in now, and quickly spiraled downhill from there.
Your godfather was at the emergency room last night - he has bronchitis. Your Pappy is at the hospital right now - he's very sick, too. Your godmother is sick. Your cousins are sick. There's a big winter storm set to hit tonight. And the toy store didn't have the present we wanted in stock.
We had to cancel your birthday party for tomorrow.
I'm so sorry, Punky. I have to break the news to you after school and I'm dreading it. You will be so disappointed and heartbroken. Believe me, I am, too.
But I promise, as soon as the weather breaks and everyone is feeling better, you will have the best birthday party we can manage. And your Dad is en route right now to another toy store an hour and a half away to get you the present we planned on buying this morning. By the time you get home from school, he'll be back.
While I have a rare window of quiet time alone, it's the perfect opportunity to write this birthday post. Three was certainly a challenging age, for both of us, and I'm excited to see what four has in store for this year.
I know I tell you this all the time, but I really am so proud of who you are. You amaze me each and every day. We are so very different, yet exactly alike in many ways. I love watching you grow, and change, and laugh, and learn. Through my eyes, this is who you are at four:
Adventurous, spontaneous, and downright daring at times. You make my heart stop with your tendency to leap before looking, but there's never a dull moment around here. You'll try anything once without hesitation, and twice if the first attempt is even remotely successful. Even at this early age it's clear you'll never be a wallflower. I admire your bravery, your spunk, and your persistence.
Intelligent, witty, and curious beyond belief. You have yet to meet a fact you didn't memorize. A far stretch from the typical kid your age, at your request we end each night with a series of questions before bed. Addition, subtraction, spelling, and science are your favorite categories these days. You told me you want to know everything, and that you will when you're one hundred years old. There's no doubt in my mind you'll get there. I hope you always approach learning with the same hunger you have now. You might just change the world some day.
Silly, funny, and a total giggle machine. You love to laugh, and you love to make others laugh even more. Our house is filled with the sweet sound of little girl giggles and the hiccups that follow shortly afterward. I love how one tiny chuckle can totally change my mood and brighten my day instantly. I love your silly, playful side. I love that you can never brush your teeth without racing us to the bathroom. I love that your socks never match your outfit when I let you choose the pair you want. I love your silly faces, wacky dances, and funny stories. Keep on laughing and inspiring others to laugh with you. It sparks friendships, deepens bonds, and creates memories that last a lifetime.
Stubborn, independent, and impatient. All typical for your age, but frustrating for your parents nonetheless. Nothing makes you more angry than something you can't master in the first three seconds of trying. Your independent streak runs deep, and your insistence on doing everything yourself makes us all crazy at times. You want what you want when you want it, and have no patience when things don't go exactly how you envisioned it. Unfortunately these traits likely stem from my half of your DNA profile, but hopefully you'll grow out of it. At least some of it. Maybe.
Your favorite things haven't changed much over the years. You still love your blankie and sleep with it faithfully. You still love macaroni and cheese, apples, pickles, and watermelon, but have recently discovered your love of chocolate (yes, my DNA as well). Hershey kisses top your list of sweet treats these days, followed closely by candy canes and sweet tarts. You have finally taken an interest in baby dolls and play with them more than your musical instruments lately. I'm not sure what to make of this new trend, but the house is a hell of a lot quieter, that's for sure.
And, of course, at four you are still my favorite little girl on the planet. Being your mom is the toughest job I've ever had, yet the most satisfying bar none. There's no doubt we'll hit some potholes as we continue our journey down this road together, but I look forward to the bumps just as much as the moments of smooth sailing. We will continue to learn and grow together. Just take it easy on us - your parents aren't exactly spring chickens, you know.
I love you, Julia Allyn.
Happy fourth birthday!
Friday, December 7, 2012
Wants, Needs, and Spoiled Brats
Punky is a good kid. Mostly. I mean, she's three and often very good at it. She has the occasional tantrum, some typical acts of defiance, the expected exertion of her independence here and there. But on the whole, she is a sweet, loving, polite, respectful little girl.
Until recently.
Lately she been falling more in the demanding, ungrateful, unappreciative, spoiled brat category. Just in time for Christmas and her birthday. And I don't know how to fix it without doing something drastic.
I've always tried to explain to Punky that she is a very lucky girl. Granted we really don't have much and basically live paycheck to paycheck, but it's still a hell of a lot more than many people have these days. She has food in her belly, clothes on her back, a cozy home, more than enough toys for one child, and we go places and do things regularly. Even though she's very young, I've tried to explain the concept of money and how sometimes it's necessary to make decisions about how you spend it based on what's needed and what we can do without. She made her first purchase with her very own money a few weeks ago, a new baby doll, and so far she treats the doll like gold.
We talk often about kids less fortunate than her. We talk about how great it was that she participated in a trike-athon at school and raised over a hundred dollars for the sick kids at St. Jude's. We talk about the importance of sharing with those in need, and she never passes up the opportunity to toss some spare change into a charity collection bucket, whenever I have some in my pocket that is.
When she asks for something at the store, the answer is often no. But sometimes it's yes, like when she's been exceptionally good, when I have the extra cash, when she asks for something educational like a book. Up until recently, the answer didn't matter. Either way, she was okay with it. No arguing, no tantrums, no snotty attitude. Lately we haven't been so lucky.
When someone gave her something, be it a toy, or clothes, or a book from a yard sale, she would be thrilled and appreciative and always said thank-you without having to be told. She didn't expect people to give her things, so her surprise always added to the excitement. The last time she saw her godfather, she asked him right out if he had anything for her, like he always does, before he even had a chance to take off his coat. And I almost went through the roof.
She just started watching TV with commercials in the last few months, and now she wants everything she sees. The ads opened a whole new world of want for her, and I don't like it one bit. I mean, I know she's three and all, and it's not really the fact that she wants things, it's more the attitude that accompanies that want. It's like she feels the world somehow owes her these things, and denying her them, no matter the reason, sets off a pissing, moaning, whining, groaning, stomping, yelling tantrum.
I'm really at a loss here. I don't know how to handle it. I'm always as honest as I can be without burdening her with issues beyond her years. I don't want her to act like a spoiled rotten little brat, but I don't know what else I can possibly say at this point. If she were older, I'd drag her to a soup kitchen to help out for a day but three's a bit too young for that. I'm at my wits end, seriously.
I suppose there's a chance she's acting totally normal for her age, and it's just a phase like the hundreds of others she's endured thus far, and it's simply something she needs to go through and grow out of over time, but I can't help my impatience. I guess all I can do is keep reinforcing the lessons I've been trying to teach her since birth.
She knows Christmas and her birthday are right around the corner. And I know, as I have every year, about the wall of stuff about to hit our house and a part of me is dreading it. I obviously want her to be happy, and I love seeing her little face light up when she gets something she's really wanted, but this time of the year is overkill on presents. I'm not exactly sure how I'll respond if she reacts poorly to any gift she's given, or if she carries on because she didn't get something she wants, or if she doesn't like something and has the audacity to say so. Mommy's likely to lose her shit.
This parenting stuff is hard sometimes. It's a never-ending chain of crises and dilemmas, but I wouldn't trade it for the world. Seems like every time I think I have it all figured out, a new problem comes out of nowhere and punches me in the gut. This one in particular really has my panties in a bunch, and even more so now since we found out today that her dad is laid off from work, effective immediately. He thought he would be safe until after the holidays but we weren't that lucky, as usual. Things are going to get ugly quick come January, so I suppose I should just let Punky enjoy all the spoiling she gets in the next few weeks. We have some extremely rough months ahead of us.
Until recently.
Lately she been falling more in the demanding, ungrateful, unappreciative, spoiled brat category. Just in time for Christmas and her birthday. And I don't know how to fix it without doing something drastic.
I've always tried to explain to Punky that she is a very lucky girl. Granted we really don't have much and basically live paycheck to paycheck, but it's still a hell of a lot more than many people have these days. She has food in her belly, clothes on her back, a cozy home, more than enough toys for one child, and we go places and do things regularly. Even though she's very young, I've tried to explain the concept of money and how sometimes it's necessary to make decisions about how you spend it based on what's needed and what we can do without. She made her first purchase with her very own money a few weeks ago, a new baby doll, and so far she treats the doll like gold.
We talk often about kids less fortunate than her. We talk about how great it was that she participated in a trike-athon at school and raised over a hundred dollars for the sick kids at St. Jude's. We talk about the importance of sharing with those in need, and she never passes up the opportunity to toss some spare change into a charity collection bucket, whenever I have some in my pocket that is.
When she asks for something at the store, the answer is often no. But sometimes it's yes, like when she's been exceptionally good, when I have the extra cash, when she asks for something educational like a book. Up until recently, the answer didn't matter. Either way, she was okay with it. No arguing, no tantrums, no snotty attitude. Lately we haven't been so lucky.
When someone gave her something, be it a toy, or clothes, or a book from a yard sale, she would be thrilled and appreciative and always said thank-you without having to be told. She didn't expect people to give her things, so her surprise always added to the excitement. The last time she saw her godfather, she asked him right out if he had anything for her, like he always does, before he even had a chance to take off his coat. And I almost went through the roof.
She just started watching TV with commercials in the last few months, and now she wants everything she sees. The ads opened a whole new world of want for her, and I don't like it one bit. I mean, I know she's three and all, and it's not really the fact that she wants things, it's more the attitude that accompanies that want. It's like she feels the world somehow owes her these things, and denying her them, no matter the reason, sets off a pissing, moaning, whining, groaning, stomping, yelling tantrum.
I'm really at a loss here. I don't know how to handle it. I'm always as honest as I can be without burdening her with issues beyond her years. I don't want her to act like a spoiled rotten little brat, but I don't know what else I can possibly say at this point. If she were older, I'd drag her to a soup kitchen to help out for a day but three's a bit too young for that. I'm at my wits end, seriously.
I suppose there's a chance she's acting totally normal for her age, and it's just a phase like the hundreds of others she's endured thus far, and it's simply something she needs to go through and grow out of over time, but I can't help my impatience. I guess all I can do is keep reinforcing the lessons I've been trying to teach her since birth.
She knows Christmas and her birthday are right around the corner. And I know, as I have every year, about the wall of stuff about to hit our house and a part of me is dreading it. I obviously want her to be happy, and I love seeing her little face light up when she gets something she's really wanted, but this time of the year is overkill on presents. I'm not exactly sure how I'll respond if she reacts poorly to any gift she's given, or if she carries on because she didn't get something she wants, or if she doesn't like something and has the audacity to say so. Mommy's likely to lose her shit.
This parenting stuff is hard sometimes. It's a never-ending chain of crises and dilemmas, but I wouldn't trade it for the world. Seems like every time I think I have it all figured out, a new problem comes out of nowhere and punches me in the gut. This one in particular really has my panties in a bunch, and even more so now since we found out today that her dad is laid off from work, effective immediately. He thought he would be safe until after the holidays but we weren't that lucky, as usual. Things are going to get ugly quick come January, so I suppose I should just let Punky enjoy all the spoiling she gets in the next few weeks. We have some extremely rough months ahead of us.
Friday, November 30, 2012
November in a Nutshell
You know I suck, so I don't even have to draw attention to the fact, but I did anyway.
Here's the rest of November in a nutshell. Well, maybe not exactly a nutshell as that implies something small and simple, and this post is destined to be my usual rambling drivel, covering seventy-five different things in a single paragraph, and qualifying me for a worst-blogger nomination. Oh well, it is what it is.
So, when we left off weeks ago, I was curled up on the living room floor in anticipation of another round of Punky's projectile vomiting. I'm happy to say it never happened, and we made the drive down state the next afternoon with no sudden eruptions from either end in the car. My nephew's birthday party was a blast, and this experience on roller skates was much better than our first attempt a year and a half ago. Punky was able to get around okay using the kiddie skates, and I was able to actually skate without my body feeling like I was in a car wreck the next morning. I found out there is a tiny roller rink not far from us and we plan to spend some time there this winter when there's nothing to do but watch the snow fall.
The following weekend, Punky and I spent hours sorting through all her toys as we've done every November thus far. There just isn't enough room to keep everything, and saving things she hardly plays with is a complete waste of space. We managed to weed out most of the remaining baby toys quite easily, and then we turned our attention to the massive collection of stuffed animals taking over our house.
Punky calls them her "guys" and, quite honestly, she does play with each and every one of them. But some much more than others, and those others needed to go. I started by offering her two at a time and asking her to pick which one she would like to keep. I tried to make it easy on her by pairing one of her favorites with one that resides at the bottom of her toy box most of the time. Using this method we successfully lowered her stuffed animal count by almost half, and that made for a very happy mommy. Mostly. I lost it a bit when Punky insisted that we both kiss each one goodbye as we stuffed them in a bag to donate. As she told every dust magnet how much she loves him, and how much she'll miss him, and how much she hopes he finds a new home, my eyes filled with tears again and again. And I couldn't be more proud of my little girl.
After the toy sort, we focused on cleaning the house from top to bottom. For one, it really needed it, but the fact that we decided to host Thanksgiving dinner here really motivated us into action. My family made the drive up Thursday morning, and Punky's brothers also came with their girlfriends. In all we had twelve people for dinner which was ready only a half hour later than planned. Not bad for our first attempt at preparing the feast. In typical holiday fashion, I ate way too much and gained over three pounds that weekend. We're still not sure if we will see my family for Christmas this year, so it was nice to spend Thanksgiving together since we haven't done so in years. Everyone left before six that evening, and the three of us were in bed and asleep by nine-thirty. Aside from being exhausted from the whole holiday experience, we needed to get up at the crack of dawn on Friday.
No, not for shopping. Only crazy people brave the stores on Black Friday. We needed to be up and out early so Punky could make her parade debut. My company asked if she and I would be interested in riding on their float in the annual holiday parade in the city, and I knew Punky would be super-excited about it. We wore matching fleeces, scarves, and Santa hats, and spent the morning waving to the crowds as our float made its way through the streets. It was really cold and Punky's attention span lapsed about half way through the route, but it was still a fun way to spend the morning and kick off the holiday season.
Once we managed to bring our core temperatures back up to normal at home, it was time to tackle the decorating. We spent the remainder of the afternoon and evening trimming the tree and decking the halls. Punky's godfather came up that night and helped us with the window lights and setting up my huge snowman collection, and on Saturday we hit the stores to tackle more Christmas shopping.
That night I finished all the wrapping. Santa isn't taking any chances with a sneaky three-year-old in the house. I wanted it all wrapped so that if by chance she manages to get into the spare closet and catch glimpse, I could say they are the presents we bought for her cousins and hopefully the explanation will suffice. Punky's smart. Really, really smart. And I can say without a doubt the whole Santa thing isn't going to last much longer. I think will get through this year by dodging some questions and/or lying through our teeth, but I bet the jig will be up next year when she's about to turn five. I was over Santa by that age, too. It simply wasn't logical to me. There were too many conflicting stories. And no one was going to tell me any man was squeezing through our tiny Franklin fireplace with a bag full of presents. Screw magic, I wasn't buying it. And then, of course, I filled my little sister in on it.
So now, we wait. December is looking like an extremely busy month so time will go quickly. I'd say I'm ninety-five percent done shopping. We will be making a trip home mid-month for my family's annual Pollyanna Christmas party, and I'm excited to go since I miss it most years because it's held where people have dogs and cats in the house. This is only the second time in five years that we will be attending. Oh, and the night before I am going to my sister's company Christmas party. She asked me to go and I'm looking forward to a night out. I never get those. Ever. It sounds like it will be a blast, and I already anticipate a bit of a hangover the next morning. I haven't had one of those in years either, and with all the stress life's tossed my way as of late, I think the headache will be totally worth it.
Here's the rest of November in a nutshell. Well, maybe not exactly a nutshell as that implies something small and simple, and this post is destined to be my usual rambling drivel, covering seventy-five different things in a single paragraph, and qualifying me for a worst-blogger nomination. Oh well, it is what it is.
 |
| Attitude on wheels... |
The following weekend, Punky and I spent hours sorting through all her toys as we've done every November thus far. There just isn't enough room to keep everything, and saving things she hardly plays with is a complete waste of space. We managed to weed out most of the remaining baby toys quite easily, and then we turned our attention to the massive collection of stuffed animals taking over our house.
Punky calls them her "guys" and, quite honestly, she does play with each and every one of them. But some much more than others, and those others needed to go. I started by offering her two at a time and asking her to pick which one she would like to keep. I tried to make it easy on her by pairing one of her favorites with one that resides at the bottom of her toy box most of the time. Using this method we successfully lowered her stuffed animal count by almost half, and that made for a very happy mommy. Mostly. I lost it a bit when Punky insisted that we both kiss each one goodbye as we stuffed them in a bag to donate. As she told every dust magnet how much she loves him, and how much she'll miss him, and how much she hopes he finds a new home, my eyes filled with tears again and again. And I couldn't be more proud of my little girl.
After the toy sort, we focused on cleaning the house from top to bottom. For one, it really needed it, but the fact that we decided to host Thanksgiving dinner here really motivated us into action. My family made the drive up Thursday morning, and Punky's brothers also came with their girlfriends. In all we had twelve people for dinner which was ready only a half hour later than planned. Not bad for our first attempt at preparing the feast. In typical holiday fashion, I ate way too much and gained over three pounds that weekend. We're still not sure if we will see my family for Christmas this year, so it was nice to spend Thanksgiving together since we haven't done so in years. Everyone left before six that evening, and the three of us were in bed and asleep by nine-thirty. Aside from being exhausted from the whole holiday experience, we needed to get up at the crack of dawn on Friday.
 |
| Merry Christmas! |
Once we managed to bring our core temperatures back up to normal at home, it was time to tackle the decorating. We spent the remainder of the afternoon and evening trimming the tree and decking the halls. Punky's godfather came up that night and helped us with the window lights and setting up my huge snowman collection, and on Saturday we hit the stores to tackle more Christmas shopping.
 |
| Our tree |
So now, we wait. December is looking like an extremely busy month so time will go quickly. I'd say I'm ninety-five percent done shopping. We will be making a trip home mid-month for my family's annual Pollyanna Christmas party, and I'm excited to go since I miss it most years because it's held where people have dogs and cats in the house. This is only the second time in five years that we will be attending. Oh, and the night before I am going to my sister's company Christmas party. She asked me to go and I'm looking forward to a night out. I never get those. Ever. It sounds like it will be a blast, and I already anticipate a bit of a hangover the next morning. I haven't had one of those in years either, and with all the stress life's tossed my way as of late, I think the headache will be totally worth it.
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