Major milestone week

Well, Cavan had three major milestones this week. I'll start with the most dramatic. On Sunday evening, we are outside and she is watching me spray the stinky deer repellent on my flowers. Like a good girl, she is patiently waiting—sitting on the rock wall. All of a sudden I hear the high-pitched, I'm-in-pain-emergency panic shriek. A split second later she is in my arms and I am swatting a wasp off her forehead!

I rush inside and apply Bactine on the two apparent stings, which takes the pain away rapidly. Then I give her a dose of Benadryl, apply an icepack to her eye, and call the on-call pediatrician for more information and danger signs to look out for. Cavan calms down almost immediately. Seriously, if I was stung by a wasp, I would have probably whined for longer than she did (I have never been stung by anything, so I can only imagine what she was going through).

After she stopped crying, I assessed the situation. Four stings—one between her eyebrows, one on her right eyelid, one by her right tear duct, and one directly under her right eye. Bastard wasp.

Hubby took immediate action and found a small nest under the rock Cavan was sitting on. He not only sprayed it and the flying wasps with insecticide but also stomped the nest to dust.

Since this is the first time Cavan was ever stung, she didn't have an allergic reaction other than massive swelling around her eye. BUT, we need to be extra cautious from now on because severe bee sting allergies run in Hubby's family. I have to take her to the doctor and ask about a prescription for an emergency Epi-pen just in case.

But just like Cavan always does, she took the wasp attack in stride. She has bragged about her bravery all week, telling everyone about the "nasty wasp!" Since we have a garden and there are always honey bees and bumble bees flying about, I don't want her to be scared of all potential stingers, so we have dubbed bumble bees as "nice" and wasps as "not nice." The rule is now: "bee on a flower, okay, but bee in the wall, run away."

After that tale, the other milestones are not nearly as impressive, but here goes: Cavan had her first visit to the dentist on Saturday. She let him count her teeth and she even allowed the dental hygienist to polish her teeth. What a good girl!

Third, Cavan spent her first night in her new big-girl twin bed. We didn't get a safety rail yet, so I pushed a big cozy chair against the side of the bed. She didn't fall out, but I found her twice balanced on the crack between the bed and the chair. She looks so small in the twin bed, compared to how she looks in the crib. I'm glad—now she doesn't look like she's growing up too fast!

Goodbye

I sit here at my computer at work for the last time. The last few minutes of my "official" job before transitioning to full time stay-at-home mommy the minute I turn my car key in the ignition and watch the school fade from my rear view mirror.

It took several hours, but cleaning out my desk and packing up all my books, papers, lesson plans, and miscellaneous that have had a happy home here at school is now complete. The only things I have left to bring to my car are the pictures of Cavan that I just untaped from my wall.

My colleagues threw me a party today. And all shared kind words and well wishes through cards and hugs and personal goodbyes. I've had many jobs in my life, in many different lines of work. This is the first that I will truly miss (though I am looking forward to the one benefit of being a "retired" English teacher--no more papers to grade!)

I am looking forward to the next (sleepless) phase of life. There is no job as rewarding as parenting and soon bambino numero dos will be arriving. Let the adventure begin! I'm sure, come September, I will in no means be sad about not going back to work. But today is still bittersweet nonetheless.

Red Writing Hood: Love, Family, Isabella, Everything

This entry is based on the Red Writing Hood fiction prompt: Write a flash fiction piece (300 words or less) using the word LIFE as inspiration. (PS: Feel free to critique as well as comment! I'm always looking for good writing advice.)

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I spent the first 22 years of my life looking for love, though by the time I was 15 I convinced myself I didn’t deserve it. It was my fault Mamma left. That’s what Daddy said. And after that Daddy never hugged me anymore. When I was little I remember climbing onto his chest and he would squeeze me till I couldn’t breathe. I would kick and wiggle and he would laugh. Not after Mamma left.

When I was 20 I met Jared. We smoked, we partied, we fucked. We were perfect for each other. He loved me.

When I was 21 I told him I was pregnant. It was my fault he left. I should have been more careful, he said.  

Isabella was born two weeks after my 22^nd birthday.

And I finally knew love. I finally had a family.

She is my everything. We are perfect for each other.

RemebeRED: The first time I peed my pants after pregnancy

This post was written for RemembeRED. The prompt: Fill in the blank. The first time I __________ after __________. (PS: This post contains TMI! Read at your own risk!) 

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The first time I peed my pants after pregnancy, a flood of disturbing thoughts drowned my brain as the gush soaked my shorts. 1. It's finally happened—I've turned into my mom. 2. Incontinence at 30—definitely not sexy (thank god I'm married). 3. Am I really going to have to resort to wearing panty liners or maxi-pads? Gross. 4. So this is why doctors and advice columnists recommend Kegels. 5. Now I'm gonna have to carry two changes of clothes in the diaper bag: one for the baby and one for me. 6. Thank god I was at home and not teaching a class! 7. Regardless, I'm mortified and will never tell anyone about this.

But pregnancy and child rearing changes you in more ways than you can prepare for—some for the good and many for the gory. If bodily functions freak you out, don't get pregnant (or don't knock up your wife), because sexy secretions will inevitably be replace by rapid-fire TMI incidents—that don't subside after the mess (miracle) that is vaginal childbirth. If you and your husband want to maintain that immaculately pure relationship based on intelligence and sex-appeal—a.k.a. you have not farted in front of each other or discussed the size or consistency of your own poop—I warn you now, say goodbye to that lifestyle the minute your Clear Blue Easy comes back positive. I guarantee you will become less self-conscious about all secretions. After the marching band that is the delivery-room staff parade around your wide-open, bleeding groin, you will care less about the nuisance of everyday bodily mishaps. But acceptance doesn't have to mean resignation.

I whole-heartedly believe in the miracle of life and the wonder that is pro-creation. But after two pregnancies, I am not one that finds swollen ankles and varicose veins attractive, let alone anything that can be describe by the words mucous or discharge (and hearing the two together is never a sign of a fun time). Despite the supreme joy of bring a child into this world, the side effects are less-than-pleasant. Though I have yet to experience the boobs that have stretched into saggy sacks like salt-water taffy on a hot day, my second baby has yet to be delivered and I'm sure I can't avoid the inevitable after another year of breast feeding. But isn't that always the case? The higher the jump the harder the fall. The harder the work, the higher the accomplishment. I would never trade my children for rock-hard boobies, but should I just give up and submit to losing my facilities every time my Allegra wears off? I think not. I will never resign to plastic-coated panties, thank you very much. So while I can accept the fact that my body has gone from model to mom (just go with the alliteration and don't infer any unintended conceit), I do not have to go gently into that good night.

Birthdays

Wednesday was Hubby's birthday so I wanted to surprise him with a treat I thought he'd really enjoy (obviously, right!) His favorite food is Indian cuisine, but I'm not such a fan. So whenever we go out to eat (which is a rare occurrence nowadays anyway), it is never for Indian. He usually only gets it once a year when we go up to Boston to visit our best friends for our annual New Year's get together.

So I picked up all of his favorite dishes from an Indian restaurant near his school—lamb vindaloo, lamb rogan josh, chicken tikka masala (for me), vegetable samosas, several orders of nan bread, and poori, with all the chutneys to go with it. And a six-pack of Harpoon in a cooler. I picked him up right after he taught his last class and we drove to the beach for a mid-afternoon picnic. So relaxing. Though we ended up walking to the nearby park to find relief in the shade, it was amazing to enjoy each other's company and conversation in a beautiful setting without having to entertain our daughter. Just us. Perfect treat. At least I thought so.

But there is always the question of the birthday present. I find it a strange thing to buy birthday presents for your spouse. Not that it is strange to surprise your Hubby with a gift that he would really like, but it weird when you are on a budget and all the money of the household goes into the same pot. Gift buying doesn't really work into that plan. Especially when the only thing Hubby really wants is an iPad. 

Hubby did not get an iPad. And I think part of him was a bit disappointed, even though we are on the same page with the finances. So we are saving up for one. But I was in a conundrum this year—do I buy a couple of smaller things so there are simply items to open, or do I put that money toward the gift he really wants, even if we don't end up getting it for months? I opted for saving. And that's how I ended up with the picnic idea, because I find it more special as an adult to DO something that shows you care, rather than BUY something. I hope he did too.

So needless to say, I have already announced that I do not want a gift for my upcoming birthday. We just bought ourselves a new bed, so that is already a big expensive treat for me. Maybe one of these days we'll be in a place where we can splurge on luxury items on whims, but until then, I think birthdays are going to be "its the thought the counts" day.

 

Red Writing Hood: Entrance Interview

The prompt: Physical beauty. It can open doors, or it can shut them. Write a scene where a character is impacted by this trait.

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Our daughter looks supremely out of place as she waits on her over-sized leather chair, oiled to a high gloss. She is white, ironically the minority in this waiting room. Her curly, white-blonde hair cascades down her back. Her bright blue eyes scan the book that she brought with her as mine scan the room, the competition. At least I am the only one feeling the eyes of the other applicants sizing up her ivory skin, protected by years of diligently applied SPF 50. To her left, a cute Asian girl with glasses. To her right, an Italian named Pino. Sophia, quietly confident, is content, though I’m sure she doesn’t understand how admission to the Academy will change her life for the better.

The room reflected the melting pot that is NYC, but I was nervous. Admissions committees boast their school’s diversity and Sophia was anything but, on paper. Daughter of a middle-class family. Both my husband and I have graduate degrees and work as teachers. If we were dirt poor or if neither of us had graduated high school, Sophia would be a shoe-in. But no. Responsible, hard-working, average parents are not worthy of sending children to prestigious schools. Even if she gets in, we have nearly eliminated our ability to pay for posh education by not choosing to major in finance and become a hedge-fund millionaires, and by virtue of working at all, we have barred Sophia from receiving any “need-based” scholarships. Religion, race (optional). Maybe I should fill in Hindu. As if Catholic Caucasians are carbon copy kids with nothing to offer via personality, experience, or talent.

“Sophia?”

Interview time. As she slides off her chair and walks toward the secretary, I can’t help but reflect on the years passed by. How did she get to be so big, so fast? Off to school already. My little lady. Wait! Slow down! I want to go back to the days of snuggling those chubby cheeks. 

I wish I could be in the room with her, coach her on her answers, and remind her to think about her response before speaking. No, she’ll be fine. We’ve practiced and Sophia doesn’t usually get nervous speaking with people of authority. 

I wait. 11:12. 11:16. 11:22. 11:29. Out she comes—less than 20 minutes, I hope that’s a good sign—waving goodbye as she skips back to me. I could not see their reactions. I hope they do not think that too childish.

“Jasmine?” the secretary announces. I see a fair-skinned African American head into the room to seal her fate, and probably Sophia’s. Her mother, I notice, is white. So either Jasmine is adopted or Daddy is black. Either way, she has an ace up her sleeve. 

When we’re back out on the street, I hail a cab. I’m a ball of nerves and can’t bear the congestion of the subway.

“So what did they ask you, Soph?”

“They asked my favorite book and why do you like it?”

“And?”

“I said Corduroy because it shows that you can start off sleeping next to a scary clown, but if you look hard enough for your button, you can find a really nice girl who will take you home.”

“What did they say?”

“They laughed.”

“What else did they ask?”

“They asked me if I wore contacts, like you and your broken eyes?”

“Why did they ask that?”

“Dunno. I said no. The lady said good because those are the bluest eyes they’ve ever seen.”

“Interesting.”

“Do you like my eyes, Mommy?”

“They’re the prettiest eyes I’ve ever seen too.”

We get out at Grand Central and head straight downstairs to grab two smoothies before heading back to Westchester. Sophia orders mango and banana. 

“Sophia, did you like the people that you talked to today?”

“Yeah.”

“Would you like to go there next year for preschool?”

“Will we get smoothies every day on the train?”

“Well…”

“I’ll think about it,” Sophia said as she slurped up her whip cream.

“I will too,” I said, licking the dollop of white fluff off her nose.

Deer or Cavan??

My garden has another predator in addition to the deer—Cavan!

Today I went to the nursery to buy violas to fill in the border with my recently-eaten lilies (see the almost-green thumb). While I was planting them, Cavan was playing in the yard in my peripheral vision, but I wasn't monitoring her every move. As I was finishing up, Cavan comes up to me and says, "Here Mommy, I picked these pretty flowers for you," and she hands me a bouquet of the stems and flower buds of my Cupid's Dart plants, which were due to bloom next week.

AHHHHH!

Needless to say, the absolutely cute innocence of her actions prevented me from getting (too) angry, but I did have to explain to her, sternly, that she can't pick flowers unless she asks mommy first.

But I will always treasure those Cupid Dart plants, remembering how the first year they were supposed to bloom, I didn't see flowers, but rather an extra-special bouquet of buds!

Through the eyes of a child

This post is written for The Red Dress Club's "Red Writing Hood" fiction challenge.

(My first piece of fiction, though this one was inspired by real life.)

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“Do you have your shoes on,” she asks her daughter as she fills her snack bag with two peaches and a juice box?

“I can’t tie them.”

Sophia sits by the sliding glass door, sneakers on, but on the wrong feet.

“Switch them.”

And such is the morning ritual. As she waits for the Nike’s to find their homes on the appropriate left and right, she puts the dog in his crate and finds her cell phone on the counter amongst the pile of dirty dishes left over from last night’s dinner. She sighs and heads back to her daughter.

“I like them tied tight,” Sophia says.

“I know you do. Tight enough?”

A satisfied nod.

She opens the blinds covering the sliding door to glance at the thermometer. Seventy-six degrees. Finally a beautiful day, she thinks, happy to have some relief from the unseasonably scorching May weather.

“Let’s go out this way,” Sophia says.

“Nope. Front door,” she replies.

“Nope. This door,” the toddler sings back.

She avoided using that door all week. The journey to the car via the deck and sidewalk was too depressing.

“I want to see the flowers.”

“Sweetie, what happened to the flowers?”

“The not-nice deer?”

“Come on, let’s go.”

Sophia peeked out the blinds, staring out into the garden.

“Okay, fine, this door.”

She had to get over it eventually. After all, what kind of person grieves over flowers, she thought?

Out they go, into the cool spring breeze. Sophia skips ahead along the sidewalk.

She stops to survey the damage as they head to the car. Bare stalks stand stark and rigid in the border along the walkway.

“Mommy look!” Sophia exclaims.

“Did you find an ant?”

“No Mommy. Look!” Sophia says again, pointing toward a used-to-be lily.

As she approaches her daughter, she sees a single pink petal beginning to emerge from its bud.

“How did I miss that?”

“The deer was nice, Mommy. It left you a flower.”

And Sarah smiled.

Cavan's first birthday party!

Cavan enjoyed her first birthday party today. No, it is not her first birthday, nor was it her party. Today she went to a birthday party at a local bowling alley for her neighbor friend—the first kids' party she has been to outside of family engagements.

Cavan was a bit in shock upon arrival. About 10 kids (all about 4 or 5 years old) running around the bowling alley, with dance music and laser lights blaring. Cavan has never bowled before, and for the first four frames, Mommy and Daddy rolled the ball for her. Whether it was the atmosphere or the kids she didn't know, she clung to Mommy in shy mode. But she slowly warmed up and started bouncing to the tunes, and after watching the big kids throw the balls down the lane, she decided it was her turn. It was too cute watching her scoop up the neon-green, six-pound ball, waddle to the front of the lane and drop the ball on the floor. Who knew that a bowling ball with almost no momentum, landing with a thud one foot in front of the foul line can actually travel the length of the lane (bumpers up, of course). Needless to say, we had to wait a while to find out how many pins she actually knocked down, but the grin on her face was absolutely priceless.

Then it was time for cake. I don't know which was more precious, Cavan's bowling ball maneuvers or her genuine happiness singing Happy Birthday to her friend, sitting at a table with all the other kids, looking back at Mommy occassionally to share her joy. The whole afternoon she was eyes-wide-open, smiling. It is so fulfilling as a mom, watching your daughter reveling in a new experience and becoming an independent little person, with interests and friends of her own. Every day just gets better and better.

Just when I think I'm getting the hang of this Mommy thing...

I remember when Cavan was born and during those first couple (sleepless, scary) weeks, I kept telling myself: It has to get easier or kids wouldn't be such a frequent bi-product of marriage! Those first couple months, I was lucky if I could accomplish one thing outside of the care of my newborn. Did I take a shower today? If yes, major accomplishment. I managed to wash all the dishes (and not just the bottles required for feeding my hungry monkey.) That's a good day.

And sure enough, life eventually got easier. I could balance the care of my baby with not only basic personal hygiene, but trying to look good as well. And I even learned how to go back to work full-time. And sure enough, Cavan started sleeping through the night, which gloriously improved my demeanor and productivity. But even during that first year, not so good at maintaining a house. How could anyone find time to clean when the kid is either attached to your boob or is crying to be held? It's one thing to try to fix lunch one-handed, but vacuuming. Nope.

Now that Cavan is two and a half (and I'm only working part-time), I finally feel like I've gotten the hang of this Mommy thing—all that it encompasses. I can shower daily, read and feed, go to work, come back home, play with Cavan all afternoon, fix dinner (at least for Cavan...sometimes myself and Hubby), clean up the house, bathe the kid, play hide-and-seek, say prayers, go to bed, snuggle on the couch with Hubby, enjoy a bowl of ice cream, write a blog, and hit the sack. I can even squeeze in gardening during nap time or when Cavan is playing outside. I don't feel frazzled anymore. Even being pregnant.

Being pregnant. I have less than two month before this pregnancy casts me right back to square one. Just when I finally figured out how to balance it all. But now I won't even be able to follow through with the "sleep when your baby sleeps" mantra. I have Cavan to entertain in addition to the basic functioning which allows zzzs-deprived moms to care for a newborn. Will it really take two more years before I can reclaim my sanity again?

Cavan, Corduroy, and clowns

Cavan loves the book Corduroy, by Don Freeman. As with most books, she will go through a period of a week or two, when she requests that one specific book be read over and over again. The last couple weeks have been a repeat of the story of the cute, little bear who lives in the toy department of a big store. And that is the setting of the first page, Corduroy sitting on a shelf with several other toys, including a stuffed bunny, a dolly, and a clown.

Every time we open to the first page, Cavan says the same thing, "Mommy, I don't like that clown," as she covers the clown with her hand. It cracks me up every time. But today there was a new twist on her clown phobia.

After her regularly scheduled comment, I continued reading the book. A few pages in Cavan looks at me, very seriously, and says, "Mommy, I never want a clown in my house."

Since this is a lovable kids book, I don't really consider this particular clown to have an evil persona. But I guess clowns are naturally creepy to a lot of people. Needless to say, we don't need to show Cavan the clown in Stephen King's IT!

It's been a week without posting + incoherent rambling

It's been a week without posting and I swear I have good reason. First, it is the end of the school year, and for an English teacher, that means grading a hell of a lot of essays. Arg. We all know I'd rather be writing than grading, but I can no longer procrastinate my career duties.

Second, I'm 31 weeks pregnant and just getting up from a chair makes me exhausted, let alone actually completing all of my daily tasks. Yes, I have even been too tired to sit at the computer and type. But I'm not too tired to sit on the couch and eat ice cream.

Third, it has been beautiful weather this week, albeit a bit hot, and with it being light out until 8:30, Cavan and I are enjoying playtime outside until dusk. Well, Cavan is playing and Mommy is waddling around in flip-flops with swollen feet. But all this fresh air means that the little lady isn't going to bed until 9:30 or 10, which is when I flip-flop it into bed as well, see point number two. Except when I have to stay up and grade papers, see point number one!

So, what have been the major happenings this week? Here are the highlights, though it hasn't been much of anything out of the ordinary, except the last point. You'll have to wait for it. It's that good.

**Ordered Cavan's new twin bed and mattress (along with a matching set for baby #2 when he or she grows into it.)

**Cavan strutted her stuff in her brand new swimsuit as we broke out the kiddie pool during our 90-degree weekend.

**More landscaping of our property, removing trees and preparing to plant grass on a newly cleared and flattened lawn area.

**I've actually cooked three dinners in a row! Holy crap, this is major news. Hubby is the chef of the family. Every night. If Hubby isn't cooking, it's order a pizza or open a can. But Hubby's been doing double duty with work lately, so I wanted to give him a break and a meal that he didn't have to prepare himself. Fried eggplant with fresh tomato and basil on Monday. Tacos yesterday. And tacos today. (They were so good yesterday that it was a unanimous decision to repeat the meal. Well, that and we had leftovers. But I still want credit for THREE days of cooking!)

But I warned him that just because I'll be a SAHM in a matter of a month, he shouldn't count on coming home to dinner on the table. Call me a bad wife if you want, but I'd actually rather clean than cook. Hubby would probably rather me clean than cook. When I cook, I cook well, but I don't think I can manage doubling the C duties. Not with my Cavan duty as well.  (Another C). And a newborn. (Couldn't think of a C-word.) Can you tell that it's after midnight and I'm exhausted and pointlessly trying to coax clever consenant concoctions?

On that note, I'm going to bed.

I will get back to my regularly scheduled blog posts soon. Stay tuned. They should be more COHERENT...