I’m still waiting for a call from CPS. I had my daughter’s ears pierced when she was 3 months old. According to a single man with no dating prospects that I met at a BBQ, this is the same as giving her a tattoo. This isn’t the first person that has given me this same shame-shame-shame speech. Sometimes, they use words and sometimes they stare at me like I just bludgeoned my kid with a baseball bat.
Even though I was born in the USA, my mother took me to India when I was 3 months old and had my ears pierced.
I’m skeptical of professionals who don’t have kids and diagnose my daughter. I’m not talking about medical doctors who run tests, consult with colleagues and reference medical journals, either. In my case, I’m referring to an incident I had with a Speech Therapist.
My daughter was still only babbling at eighteen months. She had the vocabulary of babies six months younger than her. I could make out a “hi” or a “bye” here and there, but that was about it. It set off a “special needs” warning in me that I felt determined to investigate.
I wasn’t aware of the government-sponsored programs yet, so I discussed the situation with my daughter’s pediatrician and she referred her to a Speech Pathologist.
My daughter took away my bladder control. Somehow, it’s transferred to her, Freaky Friday-style. She can go hours without going potty because she hates to go potty. She can drink a gallon of fluid and hold it in for hours, while jumping on a trampoline. I could pee right before going on the trampoline and after one jump I’d let out a little in my undies.
Most kids that don’t want to go to the bathroom end up urinating on the floor, on the slide at the park or maybe even in the car. Not my daughter. She just holds it.
Yes, you heard that right. I didn’t mean college. I didn’t mean retirement. I meant preschool for my 4-year-old. Where I live, the cost of preschool is edging up on the price of a state college or university.
1) I will drink less and buy cheaper wine. I’m pretty sure this serves more than one purpose. My daughter will be socially ready and my liver will be happy. Instead of ordering a nice glass of wine, I’ll sacrifice taste a bit and order the house kind, even if it comes from a box. I’ll order only one glass, instead of two or thwee.
Whenever a mommy who doesn’t live near their parents says, “it must be great to have free babysitters”, I let out a little chuckle in my head (at least I think it’s in my head). Unless June Cleaver’s doppelganger gave birth to you, you still have to pay for their time. I am not talking about monetary compensation, either. I’m talking about in mommy bashing minutes. And, unfortunately, this is the only time you don’t want unlimited minutes.
I had to meet with my daughter’s teacher for the preliminary getting-to-know-your-child conference, so I asked my parents if they could watch her.
The other day when I opened my daughter’s lunch box I found a very pretty picture of a pink house with purple borders. My daughter usually favors drawing me with a bunch of colorful spiders surrounding me, drawing spaceships or drawing eyeballs (she loves drawing eyeballs and saying the word always makes her giggle), so this was definitely something new and different.
So, I checked her birthmark to make sure she was my kid and asked her about it. Here’s how the conversation went down:
Me: What a lovely picture, Babyface. Did you draw this at school?
Her: Yeah, uh, I drew it, Mama.
I spent five days holding my breath last week. I never knew wanting a good teacher for my daughter would feel like waiting to find out the outcome of a job interview or waiting to get asked to the prom by high school’s biggest dreamboat (impossible). And, she’s only in preschool. I feel like one of those over-the-top parents in the documentary Nursery University.
There were five teachers in the mix. During the orientation, we had a chance to listen to each one tell us about a different area of the four-year-old preschool program. My odds appeared good. Only one teacher seemed uncomfortable, refused eye contact and had an unanimated look on her face.
I rewatched the movie Taken the other night and it scared the poop out of me. I’m sure some parents watch it and think, “Maybe that could happen to my kid.” I watch it and know it can happen to my daughter. I know it because I was that girl. I was that girl, but I got lucky. It all comes down to luck, when you’re that naïve, but think you know better.
When I was 24 I decided to quit the job I hated, buy a plane ticket and a Eurail pass to Paris, a Let’s Go Europe Book and just see where I would end up, by myself.
Why do people buy six-year-old gifts for my four-year-old? Especially, ones that involve heat and making stickers? She’s no longer little enough for us to open the presents, hide them and pretend they never existed. She counts her presents. She memorizes which friend handed which box or gift bag to her. She’s even started the routine of shaking them and guessing the contents.
My husband can build just about any toy, furniture or electronic equipment. Even if he were handed the instructions in Chinese by mistake, he’d figure out how to build whatever it is. There would be a symphony of curse words and puddles of sweat on the floor, but it would look just like the picture on the box in the end.
My daughter has two personalities. She puts Two Face to shame. In fact, I’m thinking about changing her middle name to Harvey Dent.
At home, she’s little miss bossy pants. “Mommy, get my socks”, “Mommy, I need milk”, “Mommy, play with me”. All day long a list of demands with no please or question mark included, unless I remind her. Sometimes I’ll get lucky and aliens will abduct her at night and she’ll be extra nice for a day and I’ll wonder if they sent back the right kid. Yep, birthmark is still there. Check. It’s my kid.
She acts all innocent like she forgets the “please” or the “thank you”, full on puppy dog eyes in place, but I know the real deal.