My Very Own Horror Story, “Blood” and All

January 21, 2011 by · 4 Comments
Filed under: Growing Pains, Mental Strain for Mama 

I've been taking care of Finny the cat this week while my parents are away on a trip. Tuesday was one of the days I had to go over there, and after the horrible weather we had in the morning, it had to wait until after Big I's orthodontist appointment in the afternoon.

While we were still contained within the walls of the orthodonist's office, she seemed fine. After sucking it up for over an hour while they put the braces on her teeth, she was even smiling a bit. But when we got in the car and started driving to my parents' house, the drama began.

"I want to kill myself," she said. "I look awful. I look like a teenager."

I told her how ridiculous it was to say something like that, and used it as a lesson to talk about the implications of committing suicide. When I was finished with my diatribe, I think she realized how silly it was that she said that. I thought the drama was over.

We arrived and I sighed. No kind neighbor had come over to snowblow their driveway. A good two-three inches of snow and ice were piled up on their steep and long driveway and on all of their sidewalks. Big I and I made our way down through the snow, not wanting to slip on the ice and I asked her if she could take care of Finny while I started shoveling.

As we were making our way to the front door, Big I pointed to a red spot on the snow. "Look Mommy. It looks like blood."

I looked at it from a distance and thought the same. I glanced down at my knuckle thinking maybe the cut I had opened back up again. It hadn't. I shrugged it off, went in the house and showed her what to do, before going back outside.

Back outside, the weather was brutal. Freezing rain was coming down slowly but surely and I nearly broke the plastic shovel because the snow and ice were so heavy. I found a metal one and started the long process of shoveling the windy sidewalks and the plunging driveway.

Then I started noticing something.

There were little red stains on the snow everywhere. They were in front of the house, across the sidewalk, across the driveway and even down near the stream. My imagination started going wild. I imagined some criminal, injured in some way and bleeding, hiding out in the woods surrounding the house. I realized that it was super quiet and that perhaps this criminal had taken shelter and snuck inside the garage while I had my back turned. My stomach tied itself into a knot as my rational side told me to calm down and my martial arts side told me that if my gut felt something was wrong, then I should trust it and figure out what to do.

And then I heard the screaming.

It stopped me in my tracks, but I couldn't quite figure out where it was coming from. It had definitely been there and loud and then it was gone. It didn't take long for it to start up again. I started to move towards it as quickly as the ice underneath me would allow as I made my way to the house. I took a mental inventory of what I could use to defend myself and fight off an attacker. I had my keys and I had a metal shovel.

I made it to the only locked door at the house and looked in the window. There were finger marks and what looked like fresh steam marks from breath on the window pane. And there was Big I. . .

She was face down, sprawled across the sofa, her feet still on the ground. It looked like someone had taken her and turned her at a 45 degree angle and thrown her across the sofa. She was screaming. I fumbled with my keys (it's a deadbolted door) and scanned the rest of the room. Where was the attacker? Who was doing this to her? I screamed her name and she sat bolt upright.

She ran to the door screaming and crying, "I couldn't get out. The door is locked" and then burst into drama-laden tears again.

Still convinced there was more to this story and scanning the house, I mean, there had to be right??? I screamed at her, "Are you ok?" I expected her to tell me the attacker was coming back. He was in another room. . .

"I just hate these braces," she yelled back at me, as she covered her face and assumed her 45 degree angle position again across the sofa, careful to leave her feet on the floor, lest my mother find out she was putting her feet on the new sofa.

Then it dawned on me that the front door and the garage door were both unlocked. She could have gone out either one of those doors, yet she chose to stand at this door and scream the scream of someone being ripped limb by limb, completely apart. I turned around for a minute to compose myself because I was seriously ready to kill her myself and that's when I noticed another red stain in the snow. . . this time with a half-eaten, bright red berry beside it.

I breathed a sigh of relief before turning around and telling her what I thought had been happening while she screamed ridiculously from inside the house. I then pointed out the two very unlocked doors, which had been only steps away from her.

"Oh," she said.

Oh.

Perhaps the orthodontists of days gone by were onto something when they chose to put braces on older children. Perhaps, certain 9-year-olds aren't exactly prepared for the brace-face that will greet them in the mirror. Maybe they haven't learned proper coping tools this young in life.

Maybe this 9-year-old just saves the best possible, ridiculous, scary, nightmarish drama for her mama.

Make sure you visit The BBM Review and enter for your chance to win a $100 Visa card on the Jimmy Dean review!

 

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Age Appropriate Clothing: Do I ALREADY Have to Worry About This?

December 14, 2010 by · 10 Comments
Filed under: Growing Pains 

On Saturday, I took Big I (who hates her blog name and wants to be renamed asap!) shopping for a dress for her Christmas concert that was on Monday night. I think I probably speak for every mother of a 9-year-old when I say that this is a tough age, fashion wise. She doesn't want to shop in any of the stores that have "baby clothes" and she just doesn't have enough (or anything really) "upstairs" to warrant a visit to the clothing stores teenagers like. The t-shirts and sweaters and jeans from those stores may be fine for a 9-year-old tall and long beyond her years, but this is one Mom not comfortable with making my child look any older than she has to look.

We first went to the Gap where every girl her age must have already shopped because they had next to nothing in her size. The only thing that fit her was a beautiful blue dress that had a stain on the front of it. I was willing to ask for a discount and take it home and introduce it to OxyClean but Big I felt that the neckline was way too high, to which I probably responded with something like, "suck it up sister." I'm not digging low necklines on 9-year-olds. It's bad enough that there are many girls her age walking around with words like "juicy" and "pink" on their butts. Um no.

We had some lunch and decided to hit the department stores to see what they had that might be holiday appropriate.

I don't know who is responsible for deciding that girls of this age need to have as much glitter, sequins, bling and other sparkly nonsense as possible on their dresses, but all of the ones that we saw were just plain gaudy. When Big I tried on this blue monstrosity that had glitter, puffy sleeves, dip-dyed color bands and a waist tie and fell in love with it, I was the voice of reason that said firmly, "No, absolutely not. You may hate me today, but one day you will thank me for saving you from yourself." My Mom, who was also with us, nodded at me in agreement. It was a horrendous dress. You know it was bad if it was blue and I still hated it.

We contemplated what we were going to do over lunch and then tried some of the more grown up stores. None of those dresses offered anything in the way of butt coverage and unless you're packing a "C" upstairs, no one can hold those dresses up.

We gave up for a bit and I decided I would get some Christmas shopping done for my niece and nephew. We walked into Gymboree and there was the most beautiful dress. It was a deep blue, sleeveless and trimmed with velvet. At the waistband, a beautiful and classy jeweled faux-buckle. The back dipped down into a flattering "V" on the back and the dress flared out at the bottom, several inches past the knee. It was the most beautiful thing we had seen all day.

I held it up to Big I and she literally stamped her foot and said, "If I get a dress from Gymboree, I will be the laughing stock of the whole school." I don't know what I hated more: her attitude and the way she was stamping her foot, or the fact that my 9-year-old daughter already has to worry about where her clothes comes from in order to survive a school day. I quietly told her that if this dress was hanging in any other store in the mall, she would have been all over it. We argued quietly, and then she finally acquiesced when I told her I would cut the tag out and joked that she could lie and say I bought it for her while on a shopping trip in NYC.

We brought it home and she tried it on and complained once again. She was terrified the other girls would know where we bought it. I told her we would "big girl" it up with "panty hose" instead of tights and pretty earrings from the grown-up jewelry area.

Last night, she got in her dress and looked amazing. She wore simple black flats, panty hose for the first time ever, and I even put some curls in her hair. She put her pearl necklace on and wore the sparkly earrings my Mom bought for her. Then, I placed a beautiful jeweled headband on her head, with gentle curls weaving around the band. She looked amazing. . . and like a 9-year old should look.

She arrived at school for her concert and it was easy to pick her out on stage. She was the one with the pretty, yet subtle, sparkles coming from her headband and earrings. She looked classy and age appropriate and I was super proud of how she looked and of how she played her violin.

On the way home from the concert, she told me about the reaction to her dress. One little girl had approached her as she entered the warm-up room and said, "Your dress is too puffy." And then, the strangest thing happened. Her arch nemesis, the girl who always picks on her and bothers her, walked over and said, "I think your dress is beautiful. I wish I had one just like it" as she stared at Big I's dress with a dreamy look on her face. Her favorite boy in her class and a great buddy of hers also smiled at her and told her how pretty she looked. Another girl approached her then too and said, "You look so pretty. Where did you get that dress?"

And without missing a beat, my daughter said, "Thank you. I'm not sure where my Mom got it. I just know she got it somewhere in New York City."

I don't condone my children lying. However, I also acknowledge that she is not quite at the level where she could say, "My Mom got it at Gymboree. Uh-huh, that's right. Jealous?" and own it quite the same way.

And I'm pretty sure there are Gymboree stores all over New York City, so technically, she's not really lying after all.

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On Grillz and Growing Up

December 8, 2010 by · 7 Comments
Filed under: Growing Pains 

Yesterday, I took Big I to an orthodontist consultation. After dealing with "shark teeth" issues for years and finally having our conservative dentist hand us the referral card, we knew it was time. This post will not discuss how I feel that my nursing boobs failed me and how I was told that if I nursed for a year her teeth would go into perfect military formation and the chances of her needing braces would drop tremendously. Nope, we're not going to discuss that. We're also not going to discuss how robbed I feel about having the life literally sucked out of them and still having an orthodontic bill. Nope, not that either. That is for another post that will involve discussion about Victoria's Secret and plastic surgeons. Today, for once, it's not all about me. Now, back to our regularly scheduled program. . .  

I don't know about you, but I went to the orthodontist when I was in the throes of junior high, which meant that my new braces were accompanied by bad perms, stirrup pants and neon colored clothes. It wasn't a pretty time in my life. It kind of felt like a Kid N Play video except I wasn't nearly that cool.

Today, they're starting orthodontic care earlier. Thanks to a slight cross-bite because some of her top teeth came in behind where they should (courtesy of those shark teeth that wouldn't let go), Big I has two options. Either we pull four baby teeth and then probably four permanent teeth (This is what happened to me when I was a kid) or we put braces on now for about a year, on both baby and permanent teeth to straighten things out and spread things out with the hopes that she'll be able to keep all her teeth, unlike me. (I had 13 teeth pulled when I was a kid!!!)

The braces option definitely seemed like the better choice. There's no guarantee but it's possible that putting them on now might prevent her from needing them when she's 12 or 13, AND even if she does need them then, she'll only have them on for about a year each time. That compares nicely to my brace face that lasted 2.5 years.

The braces of my day were simply metal and nothing else. At one point, they stuck some crazy piece of silver on my front two teeth that looked sort of like a McDonald's arch. That was all kinds of fun for my fragile junior high ego. Now, things are different. Big I will be able to choose from 32 different colors every 8-10 weeks to have placed on her front top four braces. She was absolutely miserable, listening to the plan, until she heard that part.

"Wow! How cool!" I told her. "You can do your swim team's colors for the winter and then switch for the summer."

Braces 

"I just want blue," she said. I have apparently made another little blue monster. I would have done the same. Just look at my house shutters, furniture, countertops, closet, car and jewelry. I'm sort of obsessed with blue and now she is too. It was inevitable.

On the drive back to school, Big I was questioning me. "Will the other kids make fun of me? What should I say if they do?"

I told her it's all in how you approach it. "If you walk in there today and say 'I'm getting braces people! Woot! Woot! I'm the first of all y'all to get them and it's going to be awesome. I get to pick colors and coordinate my outfits with my braces. AND, I'll be the first one of us to have straight teeth. Holla!' then no one is going to make fun of you."

…Yes, I acknowledge, that sometimes when I am doing my best parenting I turn into Tyra Banks, attitude head nod and all.

I caught her smiling in the rearview mirror.

When she came home from school, she told me she walked into class and she owned it. Now all the kids are excited to see what she'll look like when she gets them in just a few weeks. If only my forever-29-year-old self could have told my junior high self the same thing, things would have been easier for me. Unlike what Big I will do, I spent my 2.5 years with my lips closed, concealing the brace face underneath. I swear the inside of my mouth took years to heal after all the little metal cuts from forcing my lips over top of those atrocities. I swear I moved into the big hair phase, just to take the focus off my mouth.

I have a feeling though, that she'll need a reminder about "owning" her new smile when she leaves the orthodontist in mid-January. I might just have to put on my best rapper outfit and sing her the Grillz song. (Here's the link in case you can't see it embedded. It's totally worth a watch. Oh yeah.)

 

I will totally do that for her, because good moms rap for their kids. They just do.

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That Elf

November 21, 2010 by · 3 Comments
Filed under: Growing Pains 

My Mom was watching my girls this week and was discussing how it will soon be Thanksgiving. "Then, once it's Thanksgiving, before you know it, it will be Christmas!"

Sassy got that familiar look on her face that tells everyone she is skeptical or just plain irritated. Then she said, "Great, that's when that elf who tells on me comes."

This morning, we were talking about the return of Elliott and that he could arrive any day now. Sassy said, "I don't want him to come because then he's going to see us (Sassy & Big I) fight."

Mr. BBM said, "Well, don't fight then!"

Something tells me, that for Sassy, that's not an option.

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Let’s Talk About Sex Baby. . . Or Not

October 12, 2010 by · 14 Comments
Filed under: Growing Pains, Mental Strain for Mama 

For the past six weeks, Big I has been participating in a club swimming conditioning program to get her ready for the winter swimming program at her school. There are rampant rumors that the girls locker room is haunted. Each night, there are stories about toilets mysteriously flushing and screams echoing through the locker room when no one else is in there. There's also something written on the shower wall that creeps me out way more than the possible haunts.

"I love sex."

It's not the fact that someone loves sex, because clearly people do. What creeps me out is that it has brought up some questions from my daughter that are insanely difficult to answer. And I thought that the whole, "What are tampons for?" question was a tough one!

So it was in the car on the ride to swimming that Big I began talking about it. She told me about the screams and the phantom flushes. And then she told me about the writing on the wall.

"It says, "I love the 's' word," she said.

"What? Why would someone write I love s%!#?" I asked her. "How weird is that?"

"No, mommy, it's not that word. It's S E X," she said, spelling it out slowly and deliberately.

"Ohhhhh," I said, tempted to turn the radio up and maybe even stick my fingers in my ears, screaming hysterically, "I can't hear you. I can't hear you."

"What IS that mommy?"

I played dumb. "What is what?" I asked her back.

"You know, that S E X word?" she questioned softly, still spelling it, and with me so grateful that those combined three letters didn't leave her mouth in one parenting nightmare of a word.

I hesitated and thought for a minute. As a parent, there is no preparation for this conversation. You don't know when it's going to come up and you certainly don't know how to answer. I thought about telling her, "it's how grown-ups make babies" but then I knew that would only lead to more questions. This kid has got a scientific mind. That wasn't going to solve anything and answering that way was going to dig me my own little personal hole to hell.

I thought about my one student today, whose topic for her persuasive speech is that sex education should start as early as the 6th grade. My daughter is just TWO YEARS away from that age. As she explained her topic, she talked about girls, as young as age nine, getting pregnant. My daughter IS nine years old.

I thought about how her friend who happens to be a boy, innocently gave her a peck on the cheek this summer. I thought about the note a different boy put in her desk this week that says, "You are cute."

And the only possible answer I could come up with was, "I'll tell you when you're a little bit older." I instantly felt a pang of guilt for not having a better response.

Then she said, "Can you just tell me this. . . is that S E X word a thing or something people do?"

"Um, well, it's something people do," I said, incredibly grateful that we were only two blocks from the pool.

And then I heard her whisper to herself from the back seat, "Wow. . . it must be something REALLY bad."

I couldn't help myself. I cracked up laughing. The truth is that I wanted to say, "You're damn right it's something bad! It's horrible and don't you EVER DREAM of doing it!!!" Not wanting to scar the kid for her adult life, I just said, "It's not really bad. You're just a little too young to know all about it right now." I then went on to explain that when pregnant ladies go to get ultrasounds, the doctor can determine the "sex" of the baby by looking at its body parts. I gave her the clinical, "It's whether you're a male or a female" business. It made me think about looking for answers in my Mom's medical books when I was a kid, a much older kid than my daughter right now.

That seemed to satisfy her, and she spent the next hour swimming.

On the drive home, she asked me what age one has to be in order to have an alcoholic drink. She also asked me why some people like to drink so much, and she went on to name a family member. This conversation was much easier. I talked to her about waiting until you're older to drink alcohol and told her that alcohol and drugs can do a growing body a lot of harm. I also talked about how it's ok to have a drink here and there. We then talked about how some people get addicted to drugs and alcohol. I told her that some of her friends may experiment by sipping an alcoholic drink or even sneaking something they shouldn't and that she should avoid doing those types of things because it can only lead to trouble.

And then she said, "One of my friends experiments with things. . . "

My breath caught in the back of my throat. She sounded so serious. Which friend and what is this friend experimenting with? My God! Already??? Already, I have to deal with this???? Was she two seconds away from telling me she's started drinking vodka?

"What are you talking about?" I asked her, as calmly as I could.

"Yeah," she said, speaking as if she was delivering a colossal secret, "she experiments by mixing root beer with apple cider with milk. I'm not going to ever do that," she said.

And I breathed the biggest sigh of relief ever. EVER.

 

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