New Girl

Friday was Alyssa's Halloween party at school. At the beginning of the year, I volunteered for every party they're having. I know, probably overkill, but I had vacation days to burn and figured it would help A with her adjustment if she knew I'd be there as often as I could.

The party went well. I made WAY too many treat bags. In my defense, I though we were combining the two second grade classes. Since we didn't, each kid in A's class got two (and some got four) treat bags. They certainly weren't complaining.

I'd never met either of the other moms who organized the party. But we're all adults, it worked out.

Today, we attended a party thrown by a classmate and her parents.

It was nice. The step-mom was a lovely woman and as the party wound down, she took me aside and told me that my daughter is delightful and she hoped we could get our two girls together again soon. She pointed out that Alyssa is more mature than some of the other kids in the class and she'd like to see her step-daughter spend more time with Alyssa.

It occurred to me as Alyssa and I drove away that A isn't the only new girl in town.

I'm new too.

I'm the new mom. The new volunteer. The new play-date parent.

And...

As I've gotten older, I don't seem to make friends as easily as I did when I was seven.

But I'm trying.

I've made a couple of friends at the girls' gymnastics class. Those other moms who wait at least an hour once or twice a week for their kids to finish class, the ones who watch out of the corners of their eyes for their child to wave at them so they can wave back. They're great. And I'm glad to have met them.

The moms at the school party and the mom at the home party on Saturday were nice too. Sure...they have history and I'm having to start from scratch.

But hey, a couple of months ago, I threw Alyssa into a new situation, one where she was meeting kids who had history with each other and I expected her to start from scratch too, to make new friends and build relationships.

If I can expect her do to that then I can to it too. Because like Alyssa, it won't be long before I'm no longer the new girl.

Routine

Alyssa asked me this morning how many days we've lived in our new house.

I had to stop and think. (Math is not my strong suit. It just isn't.)

I figured it out to be about 78 days.

She said with surprise, "I've had 78 days of school already?"

I said, "Well, I was counting the weekends, so, no, you haven't had that many days of second grade."

She was incredulous. "You counted weekends?"

I resisted rolling my eyes at her, she is only seven, after all. "We do actually live here on the weekends too."

She laughed at herself and went back to watching Arthur and eating her toast.

Our mornings are coming together. We're building a routine. The girls know the order of our mornings and things go fairly smoothly. This is not to say there is never any frustration on any of our parts, or that I manage to get through any morning without a raised voice or a sigh of annoyance.

But it's working out.

Our evenings are getting there too.

But when Tom comes home for a 'visit' things get shot to hell.

See, it's a novelty for the girls when he's there. Because he's not there all the time.

Which is frustrating all the way around.

He came home from the old house last night because I needed him here this morning to care for Olivia while my mom took my step-dad for an appointment.

It's all so convoluted and ridiculous. I have to schedule times when my husband can step in and parent.

I told him recently that I can't wait for him to be up here fulltime. He claimed the same desire.

My boss asked me recently if I'd be able to stay later in the day to get some jobs done each day.

I told him that when Tom is up here all the time, yes, I'll be able to do that. But right now? I can't ask my mom to watch my kids ten plus hours a day.

My boss laughed and said, "Your husband's life is going to change a lot when he's here fulltime, isn't it?"

I shrugged.

But yes, it is. He isn't going to know what hit him. He's been so used to doing what he wants, when he wants to do it. One could forget that the man has been a father for almost 25 years.

But enough bitching from me.

I'm glad our routine is settling. And I know that things will be shaken up when the house sells and Tom comes home. But I'm ready for that too. We'll all settle into a new, better routine when that happens. And I'm ready for new and better.

More than ready.

Grrrrrr....

Is it just my husband? Are all men like this or is mine especially self-centered?

This is a conversation we had this morning:

Me: Just a reminder, my half-day vacations end today. We'll need you to bring Olivia to me next Thursday for gymnastics.

Him: What? I thought she was taking time off gymnastics until I'm up there full time.

Me (confused): No. You wanted her to take the month of October off so you could finish the remodel/cleaning of the house so it could get listed for sell. I rearranged my vacation schedule so she wouldn't have to do that.

Him (voice raised just a little): That's not how it was supposed to be. It doesn't make sense for me to drive 130 miles just for her to have 40 minutes of gymnastics.

Me (remaining calm, much to my amazement and amusement): I don't remember it that way. But I've already paid for this session so...

Him (annoyed): So I guess I'll just have to do it. But it's a waste of my time to do this. I guess I'll just have to plan for Thursdays to be our family visit day.

Me: Hey, I'm sorry I didn't understand that you wanted me to cancel her gymnastics indefinitely until you're up here full time.

Him (backtracking): I'm not mad. I just...I know it sounds selfish (You think?) but even though we'll be using that time as my time to see my family, because I want to see you, and so I have to see you, I think having it be scheduled makes it harder.


Whatever.

He's being a jerk as far as I'm concerned. He doesn't want to have to schedule and plan his time to 'visit his family.' To be honest, the fact that he's staying down there in that house 'until it sells' reeks of selfishness to me.

Sure, it makes it easier for him to show the house, but it also gives him limitless alone time, time to list his items on ebay without the distraction of a wife and two children who will make demands on his time and attention.

Just yesterday, I thanked him, THANKED HIM, for coming to see us on Tuesday. I know. It's insane. And during my show of appreciation, I told him we miss him. But I was careful to tell him that I wasn't trying to make him feel guilty.

And he replied..."Oh, don't worry. I don't feel any guilt."

No guilt over being away from his children for days at a time. NO GUILT over the fact that I do 100% of the parenting these days because he's NOT HERE.

Is it just my husband? Or would most men/fathers not feel guilty over this?

I go away one weekend a year. ONE. WEEKEND. A. YEAR. And I feel guilty. But I'm going to work on that. Because it's bullshit. It's ridiculous.

I'm not even angry at this point. I'm incredulous over the insanity of that conversation. And yeah, I might just 'forget' and pay for the next session just because I'm that kind of wife. Evil.

Parked

The weather here has been so lovely (yesterday's wind/thunderstorms/torando warnings not withstanding) and the girls and I have been taking advantage of this beautiful fall by visiting the park on a regular basis.

This is the first year that Olivia has been able to actually enjoy the equipment offered by most parks with any independence.

Her first year, obviously was spent in the stroller as I followed an agile four year old Alyssa from slide to slide to swing back to the climbing wall.

That first year, I imagined how different the next summer would be. Olivia had finally stopped crying that summer, after spending her first six months either screaming or sleeping. I imagined the next summer would be even better. She's be walking and I'd have to follow her around while still keeping an eye on her sister.

Olivia's second summer wasn't quite what I'd expected. We still went to the park but I wasn't following my 18 month old around as she toddled after her sister. In fact, she'd just started crawling that spring at 17 months.

So she was still stuck in the stroller as we followed Alyssa around the park. Olivia did like the baby swings, so she enjoyed the outings almost as much as A did. It was that summer that I didn't look ahead and imagine what the next summer might bring. Sure, I still had my rose-colored glasses but I was realistic enough to know that Olivia was on her own schedule and when she walked (and I never once considered the fact that she might now) would happen when she was ready.

And her timetable did have her walking by the next summer. She was 29 months when she started taking six steps between me and my mom. She did that for a couple of days then decided to get brave and would go from me to the couch, or my mom to the coffee table. She was up to about 20 steps in a week.

But visits to the park that summer were still less than a gleeful sprint from slide to swing and back again for Olivia.

She still needed a lot of help when she wasn't on solid ground. And forget stairs, slides, climbing.

So I continued to shadow her, letting her do what she felt comfortable doing and helping her with the rest.

This past summer we didn't make it to the parks nearly as often as years past. I don't know if it was the process of buying a new house/moving that kept us from the parks or if it was just my less-than-stellar parenting but we're attempting to make up for it in the last seconds of nice weather this fall.

And...what do you know...Olivia has developed this sense of indepedence. She wants to climb the stairs to the slides (with alternate feet, yay!!) all by herself. Sure, she still wants me on the ground next to where she's playing but she goes down the slides by herself too.

I love this. I love that she's enjoying the physical freedom her sister has taken for granted since she was 10 months old.

I'm going to miss the parks this winter and count down the days until spring.

Teasing

My mom is worried about Olivia getting teased when she enters school in a couple of years.

She worries because O still pulls her hair out, which necessitates us keeping is short, short, short.

She worries because Olivia still has physical challenges and at this point, we're unsure of her mental challenges, if she has any. She seems so well-adjusted, so laid-back, so 'normal.'

Yet, I know that kids are mean. Kids will pick that one child in a room full of children who is even a little different and they'll let that one difference mean something.

I truly cannot comprehend someone wanting to be mean to either of my girls. I look at my sweet Olivia and wonder what kind of evil would have to be lurking inside someone for them to be hateful to her.

Last night I heard a news report about a group of teenagers (17 - 19 maybe?) who had been sentenced to serve prison time for beating up a girl who suffered from cerebral palsy.

Why?

Why do people do these kinds of things?

My first instinct was to hold Olivia close.

Would/will someone, someday want to hurt her, just because she's different?

And yet, she doesn't really look at that different, at least not at four years old. But might she change? Might her disorder start showing on her face? If so, will that make people be mean to her?

I know I can't protect her from life.

I don't want to. I want her to live, to learn, to love and laugh and even feel a little heartbreak once in awhile if only to cherish the joy of life that much more.

But...society is full of cruel people with mean intentions coursing through them.

I pray my children can avoid those kinds of people. I pray that our world changes for the better over time, that each of us can make a difference, make people see that different doesn't have to mean bad.

THREE. HUNDRED. THOUSAND.

I'm more than willing to admit that when I purchased my car ten years ago, the main reason I bought the grey 1999 Pontiac Grand Prix is because it was pretty.

My mom went with me and we just like the car.

BUT...there were other, more practical reasons I chose this particular vehicle. I wanted a mid-sized car, one that would provide even a little protection should I be in a crash.

I liked the wide wheel-base of the Grand Prix. I liked the lower center of gravity.

I wanted a four-door car.

Though I was still a year away from meeting Tom and three years away from having Alyssa, I knew that eventually, I'd find him and have her. And I wanted a car that would be family-friendly.

I couldn't imagine having to get a baby in to and out of a car that only had two doors.

Also, the car only had 39,000 miles on it. The dealership wanted $10,000.

I'm not one to bargain so I secured a loan and paid them for that car.

When I met Tom he thought I'd been taken on that deal.

He was sure the car had been in an accident and considered 'totaled.' He insisted it was a rebuild and that the dealership took advantage of me. Even though the carfax says otherwise, he's still sure of this.

This past weekend, that car drove it's 300,000th mile.

The car has been hit by a deer, side-swiped by my mom's van, driven out of a ditch after sliding into it one traitorous winter morning.

It has safely toted me and my daughters to and from our home 65 miles away from my work (85 miles from my mom's/our new home) for the past eight years.

Yes, it's probaby time to be looking for a newish vehicle.

But...it's still starts every single morning without a hiccup. It still idles without me having to constantly give it gas (I had a car that had to have the gas pedal pressed constantly in order to stay running.)

All in all, I think I made a pretty good choice ten years ago when I paid those $10,000 for that car. That's only a thousand dollars a year.

Sure, we've replaced the battery twice and Tom's replaced the brakes a few times. And the driver's side front window acts up. I call all those things typical maintance on a non-new car.

And, dudes, three hundred thousand miles! I might have to treat the poor old thing to the premium gasoline the next time I fill up.

Then again, maybe not. Wouldn't want to shock its system.

Chapped

Olivia loves chapstick. The nicer the smell, the better. She loves to smear it all over her lips, her cheeks, her chin, her hands, anywhere she can reach.

She's been fighting diarrhea this week. Not bad, just enough to make things messy and stinky and, as of last night, to irritate her butt quite a bit.

Last night, she begged me to let her use the chapstick on her butt.

She kept saying it was itchy and that it hurt.

And I'm sure it was and did. It was red and raw and looked very painful. Poor baby.

But I told her if she used the chapstick on her butt, I'd have to throw it away after because I wasn't going to take the chance on someone else (or Olivia) using that same chapstick on their lips later. Ewww!!!

She finally gave up the fight and I smeared her poor bottom with Desitin and vaseline. She fell asleep with her hand in her Pull-up, patting her own sore butt.

This bout of diarrhea takes me back to the days when we were first visiting Indianapolis to see if we could get her diagnosed.

At that time, Olivia was two years and two months old. She weighed 23 pounds and the developmental pediatrician who saw her was worried about her weight.

She put Olivia back on whole milk in an effort to fatten her up. We still use whole milk in our house and O's all the way up to 32 pounds these days.

At the time, I asked the doctor if the extra fat would affect O's bowel movements. They were already difficult for Olivia. She sometimes went several days without pooping and when she finally would manage to do so, it was hard and dry.

The doctor recommented Miralax. She said it was not habit-forming and it was gentle enough to use on someone Olivia's age.

I bought some and then read up on it. Every single parent who'd given it to their child said that the child became dependent on it.

I decided to keep it as a last resort. And I stocked up on apple juice and pruine juice.

And we haven't had to use the Miralax yet.

This week, though, I'm attempting to increase O's fat intake in an effort to bring back those harder, tougher poos. Poor kid's butt needs a break.