marlo being marlo, 4.5

Marlo, being Marlo, proving a point.

No matter where we are, no matter what her wardrobe consists of, Marlo is perpetually cold when eating. She spends most of her meal complaining, violently shivering to assist getting her point across which, as you can imagine, makes her the worlds most pleasurable dinner companion. She could be cloaked in a fur jacket and snow boots and she would still find it too cold for her, somehow managing to sit positioned under the one air vent in the entire restaurant. 

"Why can boys not wear shirts at the beach but I have to? I don't have boobs to feed a baby yet because I'm a kid, not a grown-up, so I'm not going to wear one either. Okay, mama?" Okay, Mo, you little feminist-in-the-making, you. PS. You make me so proud. 

More than anyone in the world, Marlo is skilled at forcing me to examine just how full of shit I am. Case in point: I've always believed that she should be in charge of making decisions involving her person. From letting her decide when she was ready to get a hair cut and how she wanted it to look to being able to decide when she would get her ears pierced, if it's on her body, I've always said that I would let her be in charge of making the decision (within age-appropriate reason of course). I made the cardinal mistake of assuming that I'd have years before being forced to practice what I preach. I forgot that she's Mo and, if anything, the walking and talking reminder that I have zero control over who she is quickly becoming. She wants pink hair. She wants to get her ears pierced for Christmas. She wants to wear lipstick anytime we leave the house. RED LIPSTICK. She wants to wear a shirt that shows her belly because she "thinks her belly button is the cutest belly button ever." I'm so out of my league here and counting down the days until I play the because I said so card. 

She recently asked me when colder weather was coming. I told her not for another couple of months and she looked relieved. "Mo, do you not want cooler weather to come?" "Of course not, mama." Okay. "Why not, Mo?"  "Mom, I am dreading colder weather because then I'll have to wear pants and I do not believe in wearing pants. Girls wear skirts and I am a girl. And pants itch." I just shook my head and decided to save this battle for another time. 

"Why is your boov* thing so big, mom? Will my boov thing be big one day, too?" I'm not sure if that's meant to be a compliment or a hint that I need to get myself to the gym. You'll thank me for that boov thing one day, Mo. *Boov is what she calls butts. She picked it up from the movie Home and I find it much more endearing than any alternative.  

I've been reassured that most toddlers are like this but I fear that Marlo is a hypochondriac. She so much as sneezes, she's convinced that she has the bubonic plague. She wakes up at least once a week and before she's even half way down the stairs, she tells us that she was "the worst headache ever" and needs to spend the day resting and therefore can't go to school or camp or errands unless the errand is Target in which case she is magically better and even has enough energy to throw a tantrum because I won't buy her some obnoxious toy that she doesn't need. We buy band-aids in bulk to cover invisible boo-boos that she demands to go to the hospital for. She will inform us that she has somehow broken her wrist which is almost always conveniently timed with when I ask her to pick up her toys or make her bed or brush her teeth before bed. Now that I think of it, she may not be a hypochondriac as much as she's a neurotic mastermind determined to get out of any task or chore she doesn't feel like doing. 

"Whatevs, Mom." I'm sorry, what?! You're four. STOP.

She still misses Brooklyn and her best friend there. Almost weekly, she asks me why we had to move to North Carolina but assures me that she's starting to really like it even though she likes DUMBO better. I have to hold back tears every time and keep myself from feeling guilty. It hasn't been the easiest transition for her but it's definitely getting better. 

Over the July 4th holiday, we watched our next door neighbor's dog while they were on vacation. I made sure to include Mo when tending to him because I want her to understand that having a pet is a big responsibility. Mo has always been extremely task oriented so it should've been no surprise that she took the job VERY seriously. She came home a few nights ago from playing with their daughter a few dollars richer and this is the conversation that ensued: "Mom!!!! Mom!!! Mr. Tom gave me so many moneys!!!" He did!? What for? "Mom, don't you remember? I took care of Smith for them and I did a great job so I got the moneys." That's awesome babe. Do you know what you're going to do with the moneys? "Yes! I'm taking you out for ice cream because you helped unlock their door for me to feed Smith because I'm too short and you threw the ball for him when I didn't want to touch it because it was slobbery and dirty and you picked up his poop. You want to get ice cream with me? You gonna get chocolate, vanilla, or coffee?" She may pick and choose when to be generous and genuinely kind-hearted but it never fails to take my breath away when she is. 

Since she was around three and a half, most of her curiosity revolves around gender roles. Raising egalitarian and open-minded kids is a responsibility I take very seriously, especially given the current social and political climates they are growing up in. We were in the car on the way to camp a few mornings back and this was our lesson of the day: "Mom. So what you're saying is that boys and girls can do whatever they want, right?" That's right, Mo. "So boys can wear make-up or be princesses or paint their nails or wear jewelry or buy pretty skirts and that's okay?" If it makes them happy, then yes, absolutely, it's okay. "I think I would be best friends with a boy if he did all dat stuff mama. He'd be so happy and I'd be so happy and we could play dress-up together but not my Elsa dress. That one is special to me so I won't share that with anyone, even a happy boy. We'd could make friendship bracelets though. Wouldn't that be so nice?" Kids have a way of taking intimidating topics and proving that it's not as complicated as many of us make it out to be.

Marlo often reminds me that very rarely do kids give a single fuck about anything other than being happy and being a part of what makes other people happy. If only the rest of the world could catch on...

thoughts on becoming a real parent

I don't think I felt like a real parent until yesterday.

I was only 25 when I had Marlo which, looking back, isn't all that young in the grand scheme of things. But I was young enough that I often got asked if I was the nanny or, even better, the baby sitter. Fortunately, I was too medicated to be offended by the implication that I am either A) too young to be responsible for creating and taking care of a life or B) that my child looks absolutely nothing like me.

When I was a mama to only one, I was also in the throes of first-time parenthood which is a period of time resembling a psych experiment gone rouge more than a blissed-out bubble of maternal bliss. I was a mom, sure, but I remained under the assumption that parents-- REAL parents-- had it all figured out. By way of deductive reasoning, I could not possibly be a parent because the things I had figured out numbered near nada. 

I entered second-time parenthood more optimistic. However, I soon realized that I still didn't have anything figured out. I knew what to expect with a newborn which I've determined is a large part of the battle those first few brutal sleepless months (or in my case, these last fifteen). The second time around, I quickly discovered that my most challenging obstacle was that I had absolutely no idea how to raise two kids. 

Siblings was an entirely foreign concept to me as I grew up an only child. Mo was incredibly excited about Edie's impending arrival and she loved her already... all the way up until the minute she arrived. After only a matter of a few days, Marlo realized that a newborn was rather boring and being hushed, rushed, and told to wait (over and over and over again) wasn't worth all of the hype. We had lied to her. When Edie was six days old, Mo scratched her on her nose, drawing blood. It was then that I realized that this sibling thing was likely going to take some work.

From that first drop of blood moving forward, my only goal was to help Mo not hate Edie. I also reasoned that if Edie could survive her first year as Mo's little sister with very little blood shed, I would declare it a job well done for all of us. 

Yesterday, a little over fifteen months later, I sat on our porch and watched two sisters delight in each other's company. I drank a glass of rosé, silently soaking in the fruits of my labor. They laughed, they bickered (well, Mo whined; Edie just grunted), they hugged, and they played. They behaved like sisters who love each other as much as they are utterly annoyed by the other's presence which is a delicate balance I consider a win.

They take their respective roles seriously: Mo looks after Edie probably more intently than I do. She anticipates a fall or a stumble and is usually the first one reaching for her chubby little hand. There is no one more proud of Edie than Mo. Edie, on the other hand, is becoming an expert at annoying the shit out of Marlo. No one can do it more efficiently and she devilishly delights in messing with her any chance she can get. She also finds no one funnier than Mo which, in Mo's eyes, often makes makes up for standing in front of the tv when she's watching Bubble Guppies on repeat.

As I watched my two girls be sisters, I felt like one of those real parents. I now know that the things I get wrong don't and won't matter as much as the things that I get right.

Maybe what makes you a real parent isn't having it all figured out; rather, just figuring out your kids and doing right by them as often as you can*. That's my theory, anyway, and I'm sticking to it.  

*The fact that Marlo now looks like my twin and I no longer get mistaken for the nanny doesn't hurt matters either. 

021/365

"How to talk to your daughter about her body, step one: don’t talk to your daughter about her body, except to teach her how it works.

Don’t say anything if she’s lost weight. Don’t say anything if she’s gained weight.

If you think your daughter’s body looks amazing, don’t say that. Here are some things you can say instead:

“You look so healthy!” is a great one.

Or how about, “You’re looking so strong.”

“I can see how happy you are – you’re glowing.”

Better yet, compliment her on something that has nothing to do with her body.

Don’t comment on other women’s bodies either. Nope. Not a single comment, not a nice one or a mean one.

Teach her about kindness towards others, but also kindness towards yourself.

Don’t you dare talk about how much you hate your body in front of your daughter, or talk about your new diet. In fact, don’t go on a diet in front of your daughter. Buy healthy food. Cook healthy meals. But don’t say “I’m not eating carbs right now.” Your daughter should never think that carbs are evil, because shame over what you eat only leads to shame about yourself.

Encourage your daughter to run because it makes her feel less stressed. Encourage your daughter to climb mountains because there is nowhere better to explore your spirituality than the peak of the universe. Encourage your daughter to surf, or rock climb, or mountain bike because it scares her and that’s a good thing sometimes.

Help your daughter love soccer or rowing or hockey because sports make her a better leader and a more confident woman. Explain that no matter how old you get, you’ll never stop needing good teamwork. Never make her play a sport she isn’t absolutely in love with.

Prove to your daughter that women don’t need men to move their furniture.

Teach your daughter how to cook kale.

Teach your daughter how to bake chocolate cake made with six sticks of butter.

Pass on your own mom’s recipe for Christmas morning coffee cake. Pass on your love of being outside.

Maybe you and your daughter both have thick thighs or wide ribcages. It’s easy to hate these non-size zero body parts. Don’t. Tell your daughter that with her legs she can run a marathon if she wants to, and her ribcage is nothing but a carrying case for strong lungs. She can scream and she can sing and she can lift up the world, if she wants.

Remind your daughter that the best thing she can do with her body is to use it to mobilize her beautiful soul."

-Sarah Koppelkam

020/365

I'm not what one would describe as a touchy-feely kind of person.  

I am not cold or distant by any means and I am definitely more of a hugger than a hand-shaker. You better believe that I come in for the real thing if I've known you for longer than a minute and you don't have unbearable B.O. However, I blame this more on my southern charm rather than my personal preferences. 

When Joe and I first started having, ahem, adult sleep overs, it was very quickly established that there would be no touching during sleeping hours. Before and after, it is likely that we can... you know... "cuddle" but if I'm unconscious, ere on the side of caution and, please, not touch me. Luckily, I married someone who is the same way which is likely why we work. Occasionally, I've been known to give a mean elbow to the ribs while remaining completely comatose when his feet manage to forget the agreed-upon boundaries. (Sorry, Joe.) 

Naturally, I worried that this lack of needing physical connection would hinder me as a mom. I needn't worry because Mo, in true fashion, wasn't a cuddler. I actually worried something was wrong with her as a baby because she was all, "Bitch, give me three feet" instead of wanting to be as close to me as possible. She hated co-sleeping and slept like a star fish. We were the perfect mother-child duo in terms of not wanting to constantly be touched. 

Which brings me to Edie.

That child lives for an opportunity to get her some snugs. Randomly throughout the day, she'll crab-crawl her way over to me only to plop her head in my lap for a few moments, like she just wants to check in and make sure that my lap is still there and operational. The nook between my chin and shoulder is likely permanently molded to her sweet head of raven curls. She still prefers to drink a bottle laying down in my lap on the floor so she can stare up at me. She is so sweet that she even still makes sure to wake up around three a.m. EVERY. SINGLE. NIGHT. to guarantee the fulfillment of her daily cuddle quota. 

And I...... love it?! Nothing is more soothing to me than the weight of her head on my shoulder after a warm bath. The fact that she almost always ruins the moment by peeing on me right afterwards doesn't even phase me. 

But that's just Edie being everything I never knew I needed or wanted, by forcing me to slow down, by reminding me that babies don't keep and everything else can wait, by loving me so obviously and with so much affection.

This gig, man.... I often wonder who I'd be without it. I'd surely be a lot less loved.

*Joe's feet will never be welcomed on my side of the bed, though. Just sayin'...

019/365

Five things I learned from our bout of the stomach bug...

1. Nothing tests your maternal reflexes like attempting to catch projectile-style vomit so that it doesn't splatter all over your entire house Linda Blair-style. You've never seen a woman run as fast as you will when a mama hears that first dreaded gag. 

2. Nothing is more pitiful than hearing your babe, in-between dry heaves, ask you what's happening to her and why won't it stop. You find that you actually begin missing her normal 3:30 pm tantrums, her Energizer Bunny tendencies, and her inability to be silent, ever. 

3. Note to self: A green smoothie is the absolute LAST thing you should ever give someone who is suffering from any kind of stomach issue. Also worth noting: green vomit does, in fact, stain walls and everything else it touches. 

4. Keeping a curious and toddling one year old out of her big sister's throw-up long enough to clean it up and sanitize any germy (technical term) remnants is my newest party trick. It involves real skill and maniacal scheming and I can now add this to my very short list of talents. You need to plant a garden? Can't help you due to black thumbs. Preventing a babe from finger painting in neon puke? I AM YOUR GIRL!

5. I'd say that we live a 90% organic lifestyle. I don't believe in anti-bacterial lotion and I have been known to let my kids eat off of the ground hoping that it will strengthen their immune systems. With that said, I really, really like Clorox. Nothing makes me feel safer than the smell of bleach when germs have invaded the home front. 

BONUS: What should one get in return for catching their offsprings' vomit with their bare hands? What are you rewarded with for holding your daughter's hair while she heaves into a plastic mixing bowl at two in the morning, for being at her beck and call, and staying awake all night just in case she throws up in her sleep? A vacation? A bottle of wine to the face? A pretty new blouse made in a dry-clean only fabric? Nope. The fucking stomach bug is what you get, Mom. Except you get it far more violently and you should get it when you have company in town because nothing screams "WELCOME!" like shoving your baby into their arms, running Kenyan-style up the stairs to empty your insides, and then quarantining yourself into your room while they fend for themselves. 

And, because you solidified your campaign for Mom of the Year and must be properly compensated, vomit isn't the only bodily function you have to worry about making it to the bathroom in time for. 

Stay healthy, friends!!!