Today, I did a lot of waiting.  Waiting alone with a good magazine, book or movie is one thing.  Waiting with a four-year-old for a service man to make their appearance is shear chaos.  No, we can’t run to the park to let off some steam for an hour.  No, we can’t run to the grocery store, so Babyface can ride on the back of the cart for an hour.

Sure, I’m lucky.  My four-year-old enjoys cheap or free thrills, but when we’re holed up in the house, all bets are off.  I’m like the comedian with the greatest heckler of all time.  Nothing I say or do is funny enough.  Nothing I say or do can make the day interesting enough.  Especially, when it’s nice out and there’s no school.

We waited five hours for the furniture repairman.  Mind you, they gave me a four-hour window.  “Mommy, when is the furniture guy going to get here?  Mommy, when can we go out?”

I usually try to ignore these questions because I don’t have the answer.  I’m like Lois in the Family Guy with Stewie taunting me.  “Lois! Lois! Lois! Lois! Lois! Mom! Mom! Mom! Mommy! Mommy! Mommy! Mama! Mama! Mama! Ma! Ma! Ma! Ma! Mum! Mum! Mum! Mum! Mummy! Mummy! Mumma! Mumma! Mumma!”

There is no correct answer for the madness.  Babyface has a long attention span, but eight hours (including the time before our furniture-fix window) is a long, long time.  A long enough time to provoke internal hysteria (crazy mom with a happy smile) and make me want to pop open a bottle of wine at 2 pm.  I refrained, but my willpower was on the edge of non-existent, just before the repairman finally arrived.  I even had the corkscrew in hand, when the doorbell rang.

I opened the door.  In walks a bald Chris Farley.  He was pleasant enough, but if the furniture company is going to make me wait all day, I think I deserve someone that looks a lot more like Tom Hardy.  My yelp reviews would be stellar regardless of the long, long wait.  Why can’t home service companies figure this out?  I mean, how many out-of-work actors and models need a side gig?  Okay, maybe we should move to LA.  Maybe the butt cracks would be more bearable there.  Think this will fly?  “Hubs, I think we need to move to LA, so I won’t be as pissed off at the service men that come by.”

I am PMSing right now, too, so the wait was about 10x more unbearable.  I was so angry at the furniture company for making me wait that I was about to take it out on the technician (an innocent bystander, of course), when Babyface said (really loud), “Mommy, his butt is showing.  He needs to buy smaller pants.”

And that was his ticket out of the wrath of me.  I burst out in laughter and told her that wasn’t very polite, while he pulled up his pants and continued working.  I felt bad for laughing and the rest of the visit was silent and uncomfortable, but Babyface made my day.  Thank goodness for kids and their honesty!

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Then, I had a kid and my cell phone became a necessity.  It became just as essential, as a sippy cup full of water on a day trip.  It became my own version of 911 for my daughter’s well being.

Today, after 3 ½ hours at the park, I was dislodging Babyface from her car seat and I accidentally dropped my iPhone onto the ground.  I can’t tell you the countless number of times I’ve dropped my cell phone from much higher places.  I’ve even flung it off the countertop, by accident, and never damaged it.

Previously, I always gave kudos to Apple for its durability.  Today, I find myself cursing Apple for not giving away OtterBox Defender caseswith a proof of purchase.  $$$ for a phone should buy me a simple, unbreakable, childproof case, right?  They have a Family Plan, but what about a SAHM plan?  The mommy fog makes us more vulnerable to simple accidents, right?

Well, my clumsiness has caught up with me.  This simple fall, from the base of the car entry to the ground, caused it to crack.  Shatter, is more like it.   Tiny shards of glass surrounded me.  Any communication with the outside world was cut-off in a matter of seconds.

Normally, I wouldn’t freak out about the tiny device that sucks away my free time, but then I thought of all of the times I would be out-and-about without Babyface. Her caretakers would be unable to reach me at a moments notice.  It would be like self-inflicted agoraphobia, until I could find a replacement.

What if she falls at school and I’m out getting groceries, I thought.  What if the school can’t reach me at a moments notice?  What if my mother hasn’t memorized my phone number, due to the ease of saving numbers in smartphones and a lack of necessity to remember numbers?

I, frantically, called AT&T to see if I was eligible for an upgrade.  $649 for a new iPhone seemed pretty steep.  Would I need to downgrade to a basic calling and texting phone, just to make sure I could be reached?

My husband works in the city.  What if he needs to reach me?  Every horrible, bad-case scenario flooded my mind.  I even invented some scenarios that will remain under mental lock and key.  They’re as embarrassing as some of my medical Google searches.

Luckily, I’m due for an upgrade and can get a phone that offers texting and emailing, but the fear that this simple shattered device had instilled in me is, well…ridiculous.  After I reasoned with myself.  After I talked myself down from the fear of being technically, wirelessly disconnected from the world, I realized that most caretakers would be smart enough to do what I would do in a time of Babyface crisis (at least I would hope).  I also realized that I needed to chill the f#^* out because the AT&T store would be open at 10 am tomorrow morning!

And, this is why my emergency kit has a cell phone charger…

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When I was packing a week and half ago, I felt the work just wouldn’t be worth it.  It had been 9 months since we had traveled for pleasure and I had forgotten how much the calm, stress-free relaxation could soothe my soul.  It has the power to erase the previous world around me, the minute the ocean is in sight.

Riding to the hotel from the airport, I caught glimpses of the pristine water between the buildings and boats.  Just one glimpse was greater than a glass of wine could achieve or any sedative a doctor could prescribe.  I was calm.  The packing and rough plane ride had disappeared.

I lived there for a summer almost two decades ago.  It was the greatest summer of my life.  I took a drafting class at the University of Hawaii.  After class, I would carry my drawing board to the beach.  It was a long walk, but I would never describe it as “lugging” my drawing board, because I was in paradise.  I was lucky to have the opportunity.

I live near the ocean now, but it’s usually overcast, misty and chilly.  It’s great for reflection, but it just doesn’t release the mental toxins, the way a tropical setting does.  Perfect temperature and sand that slips through my toes.  I can wade in the water without reaching hypothermia or needing two wetsuits to guard my body.  Not to mention, the Great White sharks aren’t there to take a nibble or a chunk.

I was an avid viewer of the show Lost, when it was on.  To be honest, I always wondered why the characters were so miserable on the island.  They were lost in beauty.  Maybe it was just that they never had the option to leave.  Not having a choice, even in paradise, can make a person feel like they’re in prison.

They were stuck, but they were stuck in paradise.  To me, their real smoke monsters were at home.  The paranormal one was much less frightening and worrisome.  Their homeland demons were like a school of starved piranhas.  Their souls were being eaten to the core based on circumstance and misfortune.  The island was a release into adventure.

When I lived on Oahu, I saw most of the major sites.  The ones where there’s a gift shop at the end.  With Babyface in tow, I felt the high admittance fees just wouldn’t be worth it.  We will return to the island, when she can remember them.  We will return, when she actually cares.  Then, we will immerse ourselves in the culture and history.  Hopefully, we’ll have many trips back, in-between.

Instead, we basked in relaxation.  We basked in the ocean and swimming pools.  We nearly drowned ourselves in fruity cocktails lightly splashed with alcohol.  I say lightly splashed because the drinks were weak.  We only found two bartenders that gave us a buzz off of one drink.  I would have stuck to my signature and simple drink, wine, but “when in Hawaii…”

Our hotel-room view was of the ocean and Diamond Head.  The kind of view you find on postcards.  Someone takes a picture of it because it’s share worthy.  It’s something to brag about with a few words.  It’s something to make others long for, so they’ll take a plunge.

Since Hubs and I are Lost fans, the only sites we did venture to see were the TV show sets.  We rented a car and drove to the Lost beach.  Again, I wondered why any of the characters complained.  We took a tour of Kualoa Ranch, where they filmed the hatch and golf scenes on the show.  Every now and then, I would close my eyes and picture myself hanging out with Hurley, Jack or Sawyer.  I was in a daydream that I wish I could’ve been “lost” in for even a few hours or maybe even a few weeks.

We drove around the island and I used my Zillow app to gage the prices of homes.  Someday, we will sell our house and no longer be tourists.  Someday, this paradise will be outside our backyard door.  Someday, I will try to convince Babyface that the University of Hawaii is a good choice (okay, that’s taking it a bit too far).  But, I can honestly say, if I had to choose a place to retire, it would be in the paradise where I left my heart and soul.  My vacation will, hopefully, become my life…someday.  A girl can dream, right?

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She never cries when she gets hurt, unless it’s really bad.  She often fakes a stomach ache to get what she wants, but isn’t a good enough actress to fake tears.  There’s some whining.  There’s some hugging.  But she gets to the real point fairly quickly.  Her patience is short, so I always know what she really wants in under a minute.  “I have a stomach ache.  Can I have some chocolate?”

My answer, now, is always, “well, I guess you’ll have to lay in bed and drink lots of water.”

This is always the instant, verbal remedy for her attempts at manipulation.  My dad would always say, “Mom, get out the Jivan Mixture.”

Jivan Mixture was this nasty medicine that my parents brought back with us after we visited India.  Think caster oil.  The stuff was so bad that it could induce vomiting just from the smell.  And, the stench was so strong that I could smell it from the next room.  It worked every time.  If I were trying to stay home from school, I’d have my clothes, shoes and backpack on, within minutes.

When Babyface fell on her foot, this particular time, her wail was real and near mortifying.  Luckily, we were able to ice it and relieve the pain after about ten minutes.  This time, I gave her a Popsicle without her even asking.  (I hope she doesn’t catch on anytime soon and improve her acting chops or she may head for Type 2 diabetes soon.)  All I wanted to do was make her feel better for even a few minutes; she was in so much of pain.

A couple of days passed and she needed to do a number two (or a deuce, as Hubs refers to it).  She did her business and Hubs wiped her.  There was blood.  I’m not talking a drop; there were many.  Hubs asked me to take a look and I could feel the bathroom spin a bit after I caught a glimpse.  It made me nervous.  It made me nauseous.  Hubs gave me the stink eye to remind me that I needed to keep my anxiety in check and act like nothing was wrong.

Whenever Babyface gets really hurt, I always feel like I’m refining my own acting chops.  Part of being a parent is pretending everything is ok, even when we’re not sure it is.  Do they have Oscars for parents?

I immediately thought of the way she had fallen, a couple of days prior, and wondered about her hymen.  After the dust had settled and Babyface was distracted with some dolls, I snuck into our bedroom and, frantically, searched Google for answers.  This is where I type in all of the wrong searches and end up with the C-word, every damn time.  I’m a master at searching for a simple diagnosis and always ending up with something terminal.  Hubs will soon ban Google from our house, I’m sure.  Is that even possible?

Well, it was a weekend, so all I could do was make an online appointment and wait until the next day.  If the blood increased, I would pass out, wake up and then take her to the ER.

The next day, we took her to the doctor and found out that she had a tear in her tiny butthole.  I’d think of a less TMI word, but there really isn’t one.  It was only a few millimeters, but enough to cause several drops every time we wiped.  So, for the past two days, Neosporin and antibacterial soap have been our hourly regimen.  I’ve washed my hands so many times that they’re starting to ache.

Moral of the story: don’t search Google and don’t assume your daughter’s foot can break her hymen.  Kids can be blocked from certain sites, but can parents be banned from medical, Google searches?  As much as it would annoy me, it would save me a lot of stress.

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The music was great, but the movement simply bored me.  That was until Babyface took a princess ballet class and instantly fell in love with it.  At first, I thought it was the gaudy tutu and end-of-class sticker that captured her heart.  Then, I signed her up for a real ballet class and realized, for her, it was so much more than that.  Our living room soon became a dance floor for her to show off her new moves.  We would watch them over and over again, offering the same praise and excitement each time, to the point where our eyelids grew heavy from the repetition.

I recently looked at the class schedule for her ballet school.  If she continues, by the age of nine, she’ll be required to attend ballet class three times a week.  From there, as her age rises, the number of days required increases.  Her life will be consumed by the sport.

I often receive emails about tryouts for various shows at her ballet school.  They’re for the older kids, but my stomach still gets queasy every time I see them.  Her love for ballet worries me.  Although she may get a good part, the word “tryout” has been known to offer up disappointment.  No matter how hard I may try to make her understand that no part is too small, she may feel her hard work just isn’t good enough, if she doesn’t end up in the right tutu.

Flipping through Amazon Prime stream, I noticed the documentary First Positionand decided to catch a glimpse of what my world could someday be, if she decides it is her dream to be a ballerina.  Although the documentary was well done, it was like watching a horror movie.  The lives of six, ballet hopefuls vying for a spot in a few well-renowned schools was chronicled.  If they did well in the Youth America Grand Prix, then they had a shot at a scholarship.

As a type A adult, I am well versed in the toxicity of stress.  I know how to make Everest out of a molehill.  The tension often explodes like a fury of hungry, fire ants.  An avalanche of emotion often pounds to the ground.

I watched these six kids and their parents put their hearts and all waking hours into the outcome of one competition.  For me, it was like watching my daughter put a heap of 100, raw eggs into a small, Easter basket and carry them around with her.  Would she be able to balance them long enough to reach them to safety?  An impossible venture with an impossible outcome.

In First Position,the kids were on a strict diet, going far beyond just organic.  Forget high fructose corn syrup, these kids probably can’t even remember the taste of a blueberry muffin or anything sweet for that matter.  The kids practiced through pain, the possible residue in the form of a lifelong ailment, just to get one shot at a scholarship.  All the while, Lose Yourself by Eminem was on repeat in my mind.

The interesting part is that the kids all wanted to win, just as much as their parents.  They were putting in the time and effort for themselves.  The thought frightened me even more.  Would Babyface love something like ballet so much that it would consume her?  And, if she loved it that much, would her ability match her passion?

Ballet is such a precise sport.  You need the body type (there are exceptions, but they are very few).  You need the right ankles and feet.  You need the thick skin, which would not be genetic for her (at least from my side of the gene pool).  Passion will only get you so far.  If you’re lucky, it will somehow prevail, but, however negative, there is the downside.

It’s always wonderful to watch documentaries where the subjects succeed and triumph via hard work and diligence.  But having a small child increases my worry that she may lose her innocence over an activity where all of the cards just don’t line up for her.

When she is twenty and needs to switch gears, gather her losses and learn from her experiences, then I’m all for it.  It will be a life lesson that she has the mental maturity to deal with.   But at nine or ten, I do not want her heart and dreams to be shattered.  I want her to have time to contemplate the standard tween things, like music, clothes and sleepovers.  I want her to stay innocent for as long as she can.  I won’t even mention boys because she won’t like them until she’s 25, right?

If she decides to venture down the path of the six subjects of First Positionin any sport or interest, by her own doing, I will support her.  The F-word of sport, Failure, will never exit my mouth.  But I will never push her to do something extracurricular, after she says, “I’m not happy anymore.”  Her life isn’t about what I will ever want for her, it’s about her.

Now, if she decides not to study due to unnecessary distractions, then I have another beast to conquer on my hands.  I will say, “Get an education and the rest of your life is your choice.”

The post Ballet: Innocence Lost In First Position appeared first on Mommy Unmuted.

Tom Cruise is a great example of this.  He’s cuckoo for Cocoa Puffs on a personal level, but also a great actor.  If he jumped on a sofa in a movie, he might even gain an Oscar nod for his performance.  But, jumping on Oprah’s couch was like watching my 4-year-old slip into a sugar high on Halloween, running around the kitchen island screaming, “Trick or treat.  Trick or treat,” over and over again in different pitches.  His energy is exhausting and dumbfounding.  It’s fake and just for show.

Sometimes my daughter has her surprisingly thoughtful, yet comical, moments.  The other day she said, “I’ll be able to get rid of the pink, potty seat, when my butt is as big as yours.”  Honesty at it’s best.

Today, when I was reading US Weekly online (quality journalism, yes), I came across a Tom Cruise quote from the German TV network, ProSieben.  He said, “Life is a tragicomedy.  You need to have a sense of humor.”

Wait a minute.  Did he say something real?  Wait a minute.  Did he just say something that made sense?

Sure, it’s not really profound, but I had never thought of the word “tragicomedy” before.  Going through some recent stuff myself, it was a nice reminder to laugh, when the sh!t hits the fan.  And, with a kid, the sh!t may literally hit the fan at any moment.  Maybe he should have played Raymond instead of Charlie in Rain Man.  It’s such a dumb, made-up word, but it gave me an “Aha!” moment.

Life with a kid is full of tragedy.  Okay, maybe tragedy is an extreme word.  It’s full of sh!t in all shapes, forms and foul-language slip-ups.  But, sh!tcomedy simply doesn’t sound as good.

Thanks for making me think today, Tom.  Now, excuse me, while I go wash my brain out with soap.  Excuse me, while I go think of a better made-up, morphed word to describe motherhood.  My daughter ate my brain cells, so this may take a while.

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That old, half-used bottle of straightening shampoo has a shelf life of forever, right?  Keeping my old laptop from six years ago will make sense someday, right?  What if we lose our back-up, hard drives and I need to re-download the pictures, right?  Those old, worn-out, platform sandals will come back in style someday, right?  Some wunderkind cobbler will fix them up, shiny and like new, right?

When we moved, I did the best I could to discard of most of my unnecessary goods for Hubs’ sake.  He hates the clutter effect that my pack rat mentality chooses to maintain.  It has a mind of it’s own.  Of course, we negotiated, so we still have a few boxes that have never been opened.  Mind you, we’ve lived here for three years.

Well, I believe I’m settling into the hoarder end of the spectrum with all of the baby stuff.  In my mind, the baby shop is closed.  In my heart, it’s just closed for renovations.  There’s still a chance that I might have another baby.  It’s a .0001 percent chance, but it still exists.

We can only park one car in our garage because I have kept all of Babyface’s stuff, toys, books, and clothes.  I’ve even kept my extensive, maternity wardrobe.  I was working when I was pregnant, so I bought nicer clothes back then.  My pregnancy couture was definitely classier, than my SAHM couture.  Some of those items still even have the price tags on them.

I’ve kept every damn thing.  My sister gave me a bunch of hand-me-down items that we never used, that I’ve even kept.  If I didn’t use them for the first baby, why do I think I’ll use them for the .0001 percent baby in my dreams?  Even I don’t make sense to me.  The baby-stuff hoarder in me has taken over.

There are so many children who could really use this stuff, but it’s all tied to my heart with a big, long band of messy twine (Rochester, eat your heart out.  This is about material love).  Cut it and my heart might stop from a lack of hope or possibility.  .0001 percent of hope and possibility, but it still exists, regardless.

Recently, I’ve come to terms with my baby-stuff, hoarder ways.  All of the boxes are about to topple over onto my car.  My car is my other baby.  I’m left with a decision that feels equivalent to Sophie’s Choice.

Do I face reality and let the baby stuff go?  When will I be ready to shift .0001 percent to zero percent?  Will menopause be the only end?  Wait, after that, what about all of the babies that will need to be adopted?  Will I see or meet one someday and wish I had stayed a baby-stuff hoarder?

Regardless, Hubs is growing Grinch green from the wait.  Hubs is growing Grinch green not being able to park his car in the garage.  I often search for the phone number for the Salvation Army.  I just can’t get myself to dial the numbers.  Pretty soon, we’ll have to rent out storage space and pay someone for me to be a baby-stuff hoarder.

The post Confession: I Hoard Baby Stuff appeared first on Mommy Unmuted.

[Spoiler Alert]

Many people have questioned how Carl shot one of the Governor’s army in cold blood, after he had already surrendered.  Truth is, the Gov’s guy never put his rifle down.  Carl may have acted too hastily, but he’s a kid.  He is a product of his environment.  He has grown up without a mother and a father.  No one ever took the time to teach him right or wrong.  His dad has killed humans in front of him.

Yes, they were both alive for several of the seasons, but they were too busy worrying about infidelity and how to kill zombies to care about his mental health.  He wasn’t given a fighting chance, just a shotgun and an old sheriff’s hat that probably reeks as bad as socks worn for ten days straight.

Will he turn to the dark side next season?  What the heck is the dark side at this point?  I’m sure he’ll be misguided like a blind rat in a maze full of trap doors and bomb traps.  He’s a kid.  He had to witness his mother’s death.  He’s a kid.  He had to witness a zombie Sophia exit the barn and get shot, all while Carroll, her mother, watched.  He’s a first child that had to witness the birth of his sister, just as he lost his mother.  There has to be a lot of sibling resentment there, too.

He dealt with the death of his father and then found out he was still alive.  He disliked his mother for her infidelity and didn’t know how to react, so he shunned her.  He decided not to communicate with her.  He needed time to process it; all while a bunch of bloody zombies were trying to take a bite out of him.  His mother died before he was able to forgive her and make amends.  That’s a bigger weight, than 10,000, dog-piled zombies placed on top of someone.

His mother is dead.  His father is seeing ghosts.  No one else even really acknowledges him.  I’d say he’s pretty well adjusted for being raised in a zombie apocalypse.  Note to self: if everyone turns into a zombie, don’t forget that you’re always a mother first.  They’re building Damien with their negligence.

Hey Rick, let the others fight the Gov and the zombies for a while and focus on your kids!  Hey Rick, play catch with your kid, even if it’s with a zombie’s head.  Hey Rick, teach your kid to ride a bike, even if it’s how to ride away from zombies.  Hey Rick, get your kid some books and let him learn to escape into other worlds.  Maybe normal, pre-zombie-apocalypse life will be like a fantasy world for him.  Hey Rick, you’re still a dad first!

The post The Walking Dead: Parenthood Still Exists In A Zombie Apocalypse appeared first on Mommy Unmuted.

Yesterday, when we picked out the flower, I was happy that Babyface had chosen her teacher, because I didn’t want her to make any of the other kids feel left out.  It was a great decision, I thought.  Unfortunately, in trying to avoid hurting other kids, Babyface ended up feeling left out.  By being thoughtful, she wasn’t thought of.

As she entered the car, I noticed that she was forcing a smile.  “Sweetie, how was school today?  Did you have fun?” I asked.

“Well, I gave my flower to the teacher, but everyone else gave their flowers to other kids and no one picked me.  That really hurt my feelings.  That really made me sad,” she replied.

This is where I was thankful that I was wearing sunglasses, so she couldn’t see the tears welling up in my eyes.  I cleared my throat, so she couldn’t hear the shake in my voice.  All the while, she remained composed and didn’t cry, but the sadness in her eyes was worse than a major meltdown.

She was simply mature about expressing her feelings and it made me realize that this time things were different.  This truly affected her.  Mind you, Babyface doesn’t really cry unless she’s tired or sick, but she doesn’t express herself this clearly, either.

I composed myself quickly and explained that I had six other flowers at home for her, feeling glad that I had bought a bouquet at the local grocery store.  I also informed her that we would go out for sandwiches and chocolate milk and she was always Mommy’s #1 girl.  This shifted her expression from sad to happy and she quickly told me about the rest of her day.

The event sat in my mind for most of the day.  Every now and then I would shed a few tears in the toilet room.   I felt angry with the school for making share day feel like a team picking sport, where she was the last one standing.  I felt angry that I didn’t send her with two flowers and let her donate one from Mommy to the table, in her honor.  I felt angry that I even let her go to school today.  I should have just kept her at home, I thought.

As I sat on the couch with my thoughts racing, I noticed that Babyface was playing happily with her Legos.  She turned to me and said, “I love you, Mommy.”  She’s four, so she’s still at the age where she says those three little words to me all of the time.

At that moment, I realized that she had handled the situation maturely.  She didn’t get into the car and ball her eyes out, after school.  She expressed that she was hurt, we discussed it and, when she realized Mommy and Daddy would always love her, she moved on.

There I was, sitting on the couch, trying to figure out how I would reprimand the teacher for making her feel sad, when I realized that she was handling the situation more maturely than me.  I realized that my daughter was teaching me a life lesson.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m still going to have a little chat with her teacher and be diplomatic, of course (no F-bombs), but I realized how well adjusted my child is.  I don’t want Babyface to ever feel like she’s not special.  In our family, she’s the first team pick and I will never let her forget it.

The post Share Day Backfired appeared first on Mommy Unmuted.

The other day at pick-up. Babyface was smiling ear-to-ear, carrying a big bag.  She gave me a running hug and I almost toppled over, the contents, a medium-sized, stuffed elephant and a binder, flew out and landed on the ground.  “Oh no, Mommy!  Get Skipper!  He might need a Band-aid!” Babyface screamed.

Was the expensive tuition, rivaling that of a state college, finally paying off?  Were they supplying me with toys too, after three years?  No such luck.  “Mommy, we all stood up and I was picked to take Skipper home!  The teacher picked me!” she yelled.

I don’t want to be one of those parents that does their child’s science projects for them.  I want Babyface to be involved.  So, my new idea of perfection is seeing her stay focused on the assignment.  My new idea of perfection is seeing her take pride in her work.  My new idea of perfection is seeing her finish what she starts.

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