The Mommies' Diaries…Parenting, One Blog at a Time.

This is DJ in action.  Doing what she does best. Loving on animals.  It doesn’t matter what kind of creature she comes across – fur, wings, eight legs or four, with or without a tail, a pincer, or antennae, she never discriminates.

In this photo, she is nursing a moth back to health.  DJ found the moth floating in her kiddie pool, saved it from drowning, and then insisted we create a safe haven for her while her wings dried off.  DJ fed her sugar water, and despite my explanation as to why we shouldn’t touch her, gently pet her wings as she whispered, “It’s gonna be alright.”

When this moth finally flew away, DJ was devastated.  “But, I loved her. She was my best friend,” she cried. And while that might sound dramatic to some, I truly believe that in DJ’s heart, she is connected to her animal friends in such a deep way, that she does love them. Each and every one of them.

So, you might imagine how this scene would affect her:

Yep, that’s a dead squirrel being eaten by a crow, and it certainly put a damper on our Sunday morning bike ride.  DJ already has a fear of crows. She understands them to be the “mean” birds of the species.  We’ve tried to quell her fears by explaining their very important job in our ecosystem.  We’ve often referred to them as the “garbage men” of birds.  Regardless of our explanation, she doesn’t like their size, their color, the way they sound…and now, what exactly it means to be a garbage man, a scavenger.

DJ stopped her bike, and hopped off.  “MOMMY!  DADDY! What is that crow doing?”  Uh, crap.  Um, he’s eating a dead squirrel.  Surely, we can’t say that!  Quick, quick, think of something fast!?!?  “He’s eating a dead squirrel.”  BLURT.  There it was, the disturbing truth.  Feasting on roadkill.  DJ was glued to the scene.  We kept trying to pry her away with promises of the park just a block away.  Nothing worked.  “Come on, DJ, that’s not nice to look at.”  Quite honestly, the sound of that crow scraping his beak on the squirrel carcass was making my teeth hurt.  (Seriously, just recalling it now puts the heebie jeebies in my belly….barf).

DJ made it back over to her bike, and was obviously conflicted about leaving the scene.  “Can I say a prayer for the squirrel?”  Well, now how could you deny such a sweet request.  I knew I’d have to block out the sound of tearing flesh long enough to allow DJ the closure she needed:

“Dear God, I wish this squirrel didn’t die.  Amen.”

Phew – that was easy enough!  SAH-WEET!  A quick and easy prayer, and we were on our way.  DJ hopped back on her bike, and we made it a few houses down….and then, “Mommy, where was that squirrel’s face?”

And now, we prepare for months upon months of nightmares.

Isn’t parenting fun?

I spend so much time teaching my children.  Reinforcing the basics of manners, guiding the development of imagination, recognition of letters and numbers….the list goes on, as we “Moo,” and count and sing and dance and paint our way through the day.

From they time they wake up, until they go to sleep at night, the world around them is their classroom.  For now, Bitzy’s lessons are simple.  They range from “Where’s your nose?” to “ICKY,” when pulling her hand from the bathroom garbage (praying she doesn’t lick the toilet handle like DJ once did – horrifying!).  I teach her how to stack blocks, how to drink from a straw, how to wave goodbye, and most recently – how to blow her nose.  DJ, on the other hand, is learning more complex things about the world around her.  Sure, we’re still working on cracking an egg without getting any shell into our bowl – but that’s easy stuff compared to the “heart stuff.”

DJ is probably the most compassionate person that I know.  At 3 1/2 years old, her tender spirit is already so mature.  She is usually always the first to notice a crying baby, a sad friend, or a lost animal.  She selflessly stops whatever she’s doing to ensure that peace and happiness are restored whenever there’s a conflict.

As a result of this, I find myself most often teaching her about feelings.  Why someone might feel sad, what can make someone angry, and when things might feel frustrating.  I teach her about standing firm, sticking up for herself, and openly talking about how she feels.  I want this precious bleeding heart to learn how to keep her most valuable asset protected.  I am already bracing myself for her first experience with brokenness – be it from a boy, the death of someone she loves, or the awareness of injustice.

DJ is also your typical Preschooler.  She’s super self centered in all the normal ways kids are.  The times when she’s expressing compassion are always outnumbered by the times she’s frustrated by things not going her way. She’s busy testing me, trying to find the loophole in every rule, and every routine. I’ve found myself being much more stern with her lately. My voice a bit louder, my words more resolved. It’s not a version of myself that I’m particularly fond of, or even comfortable with.

Last week I was talking with my Dad about one of DJ’s tantrums.  I shared with him that each time I raise my voice, or put her in a time-out, I worry that I’m chipping away at her beautiful spirit. I worry that I’m hardening the most tender corners of her soul. My dad asked me, “Does she ever see you cry in those moments of battle with her? What does she do when she sees your tears?” “Yes, sometimes I do break down and cry, and when I do, she immediately comes to my side. She usually hugs me and tries to dry my tears.” “Then her spirit hasn’t been broken.  She still has a tender heart. It’s seeded deep within her. It’s who she is.”

I hope.

And then, I woke up to this – and I knew:

Me: “DJ, what are you doing?”
DJ: “Just getting some money out of my piggy bank.”
Me: “What for?  Is there something you want?”
DJ: “Did you know there are some people who don’t even have any money?”
Me: “Yes, I do know that.  So, what are you doing?”
DJ: “Getting this for the people who don’t have any money.  I’m going to give this to them.”
Me: (all teary-eyed) “How will we find them?”
DJ: “We’ll just drive….”

And with that, she gathered up a ton of change, put it in a huge Ziploc bag with a pink note taped to it.  The scribbles are translated to read, “This money is for you.  Thinking of you.”  It’s in our car, just awaiting the perfect recipient. (I couldn’t help but include a note of my own about this being an unprompted gift from my 3 1/2 year old).

Thinking of you.  She scribbled “Thinking of you” onto a note. For a stranger.

This was not a result of any lesson I could’ve ever taught her.  This was a result of her infrangible tender heart moving her to take action.

We’re gonna be just fine.

There’s no worse feeling than questioning your judgment as a parent.  Nothing leaves a bigger, heavier, more heart wrenching burden upon a mother’s heart than wondering if her best, in the moment, was good enough.  When you’re intrinsically programmed to go to the ends of the earth, and back again, for the well-being of your child – hindsight can be a heavy-weight punch to the gut.

I shed some tears in the ER tonight.  I’m not gonna lie…it wasn’t pretty.  But honestly, it felt necessary and justified.  Bitzy woke up from her nap this afternoon with bright red cheeks and scary-hot skin.  She was lethargic.  Sleepy.  Her eyes blinked slowly as she nursed, her full weight buried against my chest.  She had been diagnosed with an ear infection last week.  Clearly, it had taken a turn for the worse, and I ached at the sight of her listlessness, helplessness.

I promptly dialed the advice nurse while holding Bitzy tightly in my arms.  I gently swayed back and forth while I explained Bitzy’s medical history to the 24-year-nursing-vet on the other line.  We talked over her current symptoms, list of medications (antibiotics from recent ear infection), and calculated her rate of breathing.  This advice nurse ensured me that 102 wasn’t a “high” fever, and that at least once a week she calms a panicked parent of a child with a temp of 104.  After discussing next steps, she concluded that Bitzy didn’t need to be seen, and in fact, encouraged me to let nature take it’s course….without even rushing to give her any fever reducing medication.  She said that fevers are beneficial, as they help the body burn off the bad virus.  She said that unless Bitzy started having trouble breathing, had trouble nursing, or couldn’t support the weight of her own body, then I might consider allowing her body to ride out the fever.

We hung up.

I felt really uneasy.  Wasn’t a red faced, glassy-eyed, wet-noodle of a child worthy of an exam?  Wait a minute….maybe I hadn’t been clear enough.  Maybe I hadn’t spoken out loudly enough, saying “THIS IS NOT MY KID!” This is not how my kid normally acts….she seems really sick.  But then, was I overreacting?  Was I freaking out – as I sometimes (ok, often) do?  Was I projecting my own irrational fears of illness onto my child?  The advice nurse with 24 years of experience under her belt said she didn’t think Bitzy needed Tylenol or a doctor’s visit.  And, she knew best, right?

No, no, she didn’t know best.  I did.

I called the hospital back and spoke to someone else.  That call ended with me heading into the ER with sweet Bitzy.  By the time I had arrived at the ER, her temperature had reached 103.5.  This, my friends, is the highest fever I have encountered in my life as a mother.  The triage nurse asked if I had given her Tylenol or Motrin at home, and when my reply of “No” sparked an expression of obvious disapproval, I knew I had been wrong.  I knew, in that moment, that I had made the wrong decision.  Bitzy had needed medicine – desperately.  DAMMIT.  I had followed the advice of a person who didn’t know my daughter, who wasn’t evaluating her in person.  I had allowed her “wisdom” and “expertise” to intimidate my instincts into a corner.

When the ER nurse, followed by the Physician on call both asked if I had given Bitzy any medicine at home, and then each got that same look of disapproval on their faces, I finally crumbled under the guilt. I have a 3 year old at home….I should know better.  I couldn’t stop the tears.  My sick baby lay limply in my arms….and to think I could’ve done something to help her, but didn’t, was unbearable.  The ER staff were quick to help dry my tears, and assure me that I hadn’t done anything wrong.  I later came to understand that their dismay was not over my inaction, but rather, over the nurse’s advice.  And listen, I’m totally not bagging on that nurse. I am 100% certain that she thought she was giving the right advice.

It ended up that Bitzy’s ear infection had worsened as the first round of antibiotics didn’t work.  I felt somewhat redeemed.  Bitzy was sick – really sick.  She did have more than a virus – more than her little 18 lb body could fight off on it’s own.  At the end of the day, following my intuition and paying $50 for the ER visit, was exactly what she needed.  It was the right thing to do.  A decision that I made on my own because I just couldn’t quiet the voice inside urging me to have her seen.

BUT – I didn’t listen to the voice that said “Give the poor kid some Tylenol!”  As a result, my poor bug suffered longer than she needed.  I also put her in a place of risk for dangerous side-affects from a high fever.  That, I can’t shake.  I can’t stop regretting the fact that I didn’t help Bitzy before I sought out the advice of someone else to tell me what she needed.  Someone who didn’t know my daughter.  Someone who couldn’t feel that gut-feeling that I could.  I’m Bitzy’s advocate.  That was my job.

This post serves to remind you that you know your child best.  This post is to remind you that the voice within is the voice to follow – always.  This post is about the village that it takes to raise our kids, the experts whom we entrust, and how fortunate we are to have access to them. However, this post is also about us knowing when to pull the expert-trumping-mom-card. And on that note, my little patient is crying….and I have big plans to hold her against my chest all night tonight – pressing my lips into her soft hair and doing whatever it takes to keep her comfy.

Santa came to visit DJ’s preschool class today.  It should have been magical, considering it’s her first in-school experience with him.  I should have been overjoyed to see her celebrating amongst her classmates.  I should have been beaming with pride as I handed Santa a carefully wrapped picture that DJ had painted for him this morning, while eating her yogurt.  I should have been singing “Jingle Bells” with a smile, and at the top of my lungs – to match the volume of the 3 and 4 year olds surrounding me.

But I couldn’t.  I didn’t.

All I could think of, as I sat on that rug of primary colors, with DJ on one knee, and Bitzy on the other – was that there were funerals for kindergarteners happening at that very moment.  My eyes welled up with stinging tears as I watched each of DJ’s classmates climb onto Santa’s lap.  Their only care in the world was making sure they didn’t forget their entire list of wants before accepting the candy cane intended to signal their turn was over.  So beautiful, right?  Those kids, in that moment – experiencing pure bliss as they snuggled in close to that white beard and jovial belly. But me, I wasn’t there.  I wasn’t in that place of Christmas spirit and cheer.  I couldn’t stop thinking of those kids in Connecticut – only a few years older than the ones surrounding me today.  Those kids who were brazenly killed.  There’d be no Santa Claus for them.  No Christmas for their families.  Just sorrow.

I had to physically hold back my tears.  I clenched my jaw tight, and gnawed the inside of my cheeks.  I knew that if I let even one tear drop, a waterfall would surely burst from my chest.  If I let myself feel even a fraction of what I’ve been feeling since Friday, then surely the floodgates would open – and no one likes a sobbing mama that interrupts Santa and Mrs. Claus performing awful karaoke.

Selfishly, I don’t want to be thinking about this anymore. I already wrote about it once.  I want to move on.  It’s too painful to see their faces.  It’s too painful to think of the mommies and daddies, brothers and sisters, grandmas and grandpas – who can’t turn away, who are living it.  This sorrow is who they are right now.  All consuming.  It’s so friggin unfair.  I want to trust this world. And I want to undo the injustice for those weeping.

On December 1, I challenged the followers on my Facebook page to commit to doing one Random Act of Kindness a day, for the entire month. When I started this, it was about getting in the holiday spirit, focusing on what Christmas is really about – hope, peace and everlasting love and goodness. It’s been a really beautiful, rewarding and contagious challenge.  Now, I see that Ann Curry has started her own acts of kindness movement…performing each gesture of love in honor of the Sandy Hook victims. I have asked those joining my own RAK challenge to focus their hearts going forward, on the lives senselessly lost.  Won’t you join us?  Won’t you help restore what we’re all so terrified to have lost….our faith in humanity?

Today, when it was DJ’s turn to hop up on Santa’s lap, she instead jumped into my arms and buried her face in my hair.  She said, “I don’t want to see him.” I replied what any mother would reply, “Don’t worry, I’ve got you.  You’re ok.” Another twinge of pain pierced through my heart a I thought about all the mommies and daddies in Newton who had made that same promise to their babies.  To no fault of their own, that promise was broken.  I pray, earnestly and passionately (and in recent moments, even begging) that I will never have to break that promise to my little girls.

Please, help me make this world a safer place by starting small, in your own communities, by loving one another.  Please, help foster relationships that ripple waves of restoration across the land so that we can actually have confidence when telling our innocent children that they will be ok.  They will be OK, won’t they?

Today was a rough day at school for DJ.  It’s become no secret that she struggles a bit more on the days that I work in her classroom. Because she’s so attached to me, when I’m there – she wants my attention.  She’s not interested in sharing me with her classmates, nor is she interested in playing with anyone besides me.  She’s a little (Ok, a lot) more needy and emotional when she has my leg to cling to. And, typically Tuesdays are my drop-off day, but I was subbing for another mom today.  Working alongside moms who, understandably and to no fault of their own, aren’t totally familiar with the me-and-DJ-dynamic.

DJ slept well last night, ate a good breakfast this morning, and even got dressed without a fight. It was actually a great morning.  There weren’t any warning signs that I should expect a difficult day ahead.  Nope, instead it just smacked me in the face – which is always awesome.

I just recently wrote about my emergence from the PPD cloud.  With that freedom from depression and anxiety has come a renewed appreciation for DJ’s personality, and otherwise (sometimes) challenging temperament.  I am totally falling in love (all over again) with the little girl she is becoming, and already is, – sensitive, demanding, artistic, compassionate and intuitive.  I’ve gotten to a place of accepting, and sincerely appreciating, my little girl for exactly who she is - even the more challenging parts.  With that acceptance comes the ability to find pride in all aspects of her character, and to break free from the temptation to apologize for the difficult, or seemingly dramatic, parts.  Why should I be sorry that her feelings are easily hurt? Why should I be sorry that she needs personal space? Why should I be sorry that she’s protective of her things?  I don’t need to be sorry when she cries.  I don’t need to be sorry when she needs me.  I don’t need to be sorry when she asks to retreat to a quiet place.  The things that DJ needs which may “disrupt the flow,” or the plans of others, are my priority. My job is to advocate for her – and advocating doesn’t always mean vocalizing.  Sometimes advocating simply means responding, silently, and being present to give your child what they need to feel safe and secure.  Even when others may think it’s silly.

Today, I could see DJ becoming increasingly agitated with others.  She was getting more and more possessive of “her” toys, her space.  I could see an eruption brewing.  The kind that always results in tears, followed by the need for a good book and quiet corner. I decided to suggest we get out the sidewalk chalk and focus on some art (one of DJ’s most favorite ways to channel her energy).  We began by drawing a full moon, like the one we saw in the sky last night.  It wasn’t long before we attracted the attention of some other kids, who, naturally, wanted to join in.  DJ was a bit apprehensive as children started to crowd in around her, but she was (barely) maintaining her cool.  And then – the unthinkable happened….a little boy drew on her moon.  Lines and numbers. All hell broke loose as she completely crumbled.  I mean, she was in pieces – totally unglued.

She cried and cried and cried and cried.  She got angry. She got frustrated. She got mean.  “I don’t like him! I don’t want to be friends with him anymore!” As I tried to reason with her that it wasn’t him she didn’t like, but what he did that bothered her – she got more upset.  This went on and on for so long that we ended up being the only ones left out on the yard.  We talked about now much it hurt her feelings that someone would “ruin” her picture.  We talked about how he didn’t do it maliciously.  We talked about how sometimes people collaborate on art, and how he didn’t know she was working on a solo gig.  We talked, she cried. We hugged, she cried. We sang, she cried.

Finally, after a quiet rendition of “Jesus Loves Me,” (DJ’s favorite song to sing), she gained her composure and realized she was hungry and would like to join snack time upstairs.  As luck would have it, the mom of the boy who DJ was so mad at, was the one who opened the classroom door for us.  DJ immediately told her what her son had done.

My first reaction was to apologize.  Apologize that DJ had tattled.  Apologize that she was so upset over something seemingly so small – silly, even.  Apologize she hadn’t yet gotten over it.  But, I didn’t.  I stopped myself short of offering an “I’m sorry,” and just let DJ tell her story.  I quickly reminded myself that my job is to support my daughter.  I explained what had happened, and that the moon picture was really important to DJ and that she was disappointed it had been colored over. I also explained that her son, in no way, intentionally “damaged” DJ’s masterpiece.

This mom was so sweet.  She immediately guided her son over to DJ, and in the most loving way, assured him that he wasn’t in trouble – but that his actions had really upset DJ.  She encouraged him to apologize, and DJ was immediately better.  DJ even spent the rest of the time playing with this boy.

After class, I thanked the mom for how gracefully she handled the situation.  Honestly, I learned a great deal from her in those few moments.  She never once apologized to me, nor did she apologize for him.  She acknowledged DJ’s feelings, and acknowledged her son’s part in DJ’s unraveling – while also acknowledging that she knew he was just completely unaware of what he’d done. No one was at fault.  There was no blame. Everyone’s feelings were considered.  She told me that it’s important to her that her son learns to stop and think about how his actions, as innocent as they may be, might affect others.  I thanked her for how she responded, and she said, “I’m so glad it made a difference.”

And it had.  It made a huge difference.  DJ felt heard.  She felt supported.  She gained closure and experienced justice.   She experienced the gift of being able to let go of her sadness.  She wasn’t forced to sit with her disappointment.  She wasn’t expected to “get over it” simply because he “didn’t mean it.” And perhaps the most significant factor to me, was that DJ’s emotional response wasn’t overlooked simply because she’s known for being sensitive.

This situation, as small as it may seem, was a huge “a-ha” moment for me.  Don’t we all just want to be heard?  How much more effectively could I be parenting by just acknowledging DJ’s feelings in those moments when she’s falling apart?  Instead of expecting her to get a grip, I should be bending to my knees – looking her in the eye, and saying “I get it.”  Sure, she’s only 3 – but that doesn’t make her struggle to be taken seriously any less legit than anyone else’s. She’s figuring out who she is, what her boundaries are, and how to build mutually respectful relationships. She’s learning the satisfaction that comes from defending herself – a lesson that she’s reminding me the value of.

I shall call this the “Chalk Moon” lesson, and will scribble it down on page 284 of the Parenting Manual – right there, at the end of the chapter on “Making No Apologies for Who Your Kids Are.”

So, when your day starts like this:

“Oh crap,” Moment #1 (DJ painted her face while I was boiling water for oatmeal…approximately 7:00am).

“Oh crap CRAP,” Moment #2 (DJ decided to paint another, darker, version of “a butterfly,” while I was stirring the oatmeal and changing Bitzy’s diaper…approximately 7:15am)

“Are you freakin kidding me?” Moment #3 (DJ denies tackling her sister, and bringing her to tears – yet the paint trail of evidence tells a different story….approximately 7:20am)

“Crappity crap crap crap – this is NOT happening right now!” Moment #4 (DJ decides to throw a tantrum on the post office floor….approximately 9:30am).

So yeah, when your day starts off like that, you find yourself resorting to all sorts of bribery.  Next up on our agenda was getting our bangs trimmed.  At the rate we were going, I was certain DJ would grab a pair of shears and go on a cutting rampage at the salon. Naturally, I did what any desperate mom would do….I made a deal with the devil.  I told her that she could pick anything she wanted for lunch if she’d just behave at the salon.

….And sometimes, the only place serving “basghetti with lots of cheese” is a restaurant with white linen table cloths and crystal water goblets. Oh, with giant mirrors lining the walls – for children to lick, obviously.

As I fumbled around trying not to look too out of place with two small children at a fancy schmancy restaurant, Bitzy knocked my water over and onto my lap, while DJ complained there were no crayons to draw with.  Things were looking up, wouldn’t you agree? Thank God for heat lamps so that I could keep the circus outside.

Once we placed our order, I noticed a man walking toward the restaurant.  He was toting a rather large and tattered suitcase behind him.  He looked to be in his 50′s, and although his clothes were clean and well kept, I could tell that he had fallen on some tough times. His face told the story.  He hadn’t shaven in weeks, and his eyes were bloodshot, heavy, sad.  As he approached the restaurant, he seemed hesitant.  Peering into the front window, searching over the outdoor seating where we were.  He rolled his suitcase past the restaurant, and then sheepishly crept back toward it again.

Our server took notice and asked, “May I help you, Sir?” The man was clearly caught off guard, and before he could think – before his pride could hush him, he quietly said, “Um, yes, um, see, I have no money. I’m homeless. I’m hungry and I don’t have any money. Would you, could you, um, consider giving me something to eat?”  In that split second, I knew that if the server sent the man away, that I’d absolutely buy him lunch.  But, as quickly as my heart had been broken for this man, it was restored again.  The server said, “Yes, Sir.  Would you like to sit inside or outside?”

I felt my eyes well up with tears.  Not only was this restaurant going to provide this man with a meal, but they were going to wait on him.  They were going to wait on him.  Even now, just typing that sentence makes my heart swell with hope and joy.  I watched the man wipe a look of utter shock from his face as he took a seat at a table next to ours…white linens and all. He peered at us through watery, grateful eyes, and said, “Wow. I can’t believe it.”

We spent the remainder of our lunch talking back and forth with this man.  We talked about Bratwurst sausages and German beer.  We talked about sauerkraut, pizza, and the time his mom attempted to make corn dogs.  And, we talked about his diabetes, his disability, his child support payments, and his preference for sleeping on park benches rather than the ground – because it’s too hard for his tired body to get down that low, and “forget about trying to get back up.” He carries a sleeping bag in his suitcase.

“You know, I can’t believe they’re feeding me.  Sometimes you just need to ask for help.  Some people know that people are just people.  I don’t like to ask, but the alternative is stealing from a grocery store and risking jail. No one wants that.”

He’s diabetic.  In fact, a Paramedic van drove by the restaurant, and the driver and this man waved like old buddies.  “I’ll be damned,” he said, “those are the same guys who responded to my low blood sugar earlier today.  Man, I was shaking like a leaf.”  It hit me. A man with diabetes whose life depends on frequent meals – usually can’t get one.  I felt the knot in my stomach twist a little tighter.

Throughout our lunch, my mind raced with ideas on how I could help this man.  Should I buy him a few meals to go? Should I offer to walk with him to the grocery store a few blocks down? Should I dig in my purse and try to scrounge up a few dollars? I just wasn’t sure. All the while, I was fighting feelings of embarrassment, humiliation, and shame as DJ barked out questions like, “What will I get once I finish all my lunch?  Will I get a treat?” I snapped, “You will get the satisfaction of a full belly.”  “Mommy, where will this bread go if we don’t finish it?” With my head swinging ever so lowly, with a quiet voice, I said, “Probably in the garbage.”  “Why?”

Great question, my sweet daughter.  Why? Why do we waste so much when there are people out there, people, who are only one bad decision, only one mean twist of fate, only one lost job, only one broken relationship, only one month short of rent – people uncomfortably similar to us, who are cold, hungry and lonely?  I was suddenly self conscious about everything – about the new leather boots I was wearing, about the layers of warm clothing we were haphazardly removing and draping over our chairs, about my children having a collection of toys in my purse, and mostly, about how I was answering DJ’s most innocent questions.

“How was everything, Sir?” the server asked.  “Man, it was great. My compliments to the chef.”  I couldn’t help but grin as I heard that. For a moment, that man sounded like any other appreciative and experienced diner. “Would you like some coffee and dessert, Sir?”  Completely dumbfounded, this ever appreciative man gladly accepted the offer.  As the server walked away, the man told me how good his pasta was, “it had chicken and sausage and vegetables.”

In that moment, I knew in my heart that the nicest thing that I could do for this man, would be to allow him to be a dignified patron at that fancy schmancy Italian restaurant.  Chicken and sausage and vegetables….God bless that server and the chef.  They could’ve easily felt proud about their good deed by serving spaghetti with tomato sauce.  But, they didn’t.  They didn’t allow their own pride to dictate their level of generosity – they allowed their beautiful sense of humanity to lead the way. So much goodness tossed into one bowl of hot pasta.

We wished the man well.  Thanked him for talking with us, and said our goodbyes as his coffee was served, complete with a porcelain creamer and silver tongs to pinch up cubes of raw sugar. I walked away knowing that this meal, perhaps his only all day – or for days to come, allowed him to feel special.  He was treated with dignity and respect.  It was one of the most beautiful things I’ve ever seen.  I watched a grown man transform from a downtrodden and defeated homeless person, to an ordinary man.  I watched his eyes gleam, and his shoulders relax.  I watched him ease out of his discomfort and slowly into another world – perhaps the world where he used to live before a stroke of bad luck.

All I can say is that I was surely blessed by this man, and by the server who didn’t hesitate to invite him to sit down.  I plan to print this post out and send it to the manager of that restaurant.  That manager should be proud to be represented by such a kind and generous staff.  They have certainly earned my business – for what I saw today was evidence that humanity has not been lost.  I have hope that people are good. That small acts of kindness can, and will, change the world – one bowl of goodness at a time.

And now, my shameless plug for the restaurant (that I have only just tried for the first time today) : Spalti Ristorante, 417 South California Avenue  Palo Alto, CA 94306

To learn more about me, you can visit www.SahmsTheWord.com

Dear Daylight Savings Time,

Five A.M. and I would like to thank you for reacquainting us.  Our relationship has been a roller-coaster of sorts, as we ebb and flow out of each other’s lives.  Our most recent rendezvous was several months ago, when Bitzy was born.  But, come to think of it, at that time – I was spending a lot of time with Two A.M., Three A.M., and Four A.M., too.  I don’t know, maybe I made Five A.M. feel insecure as I flounced around with those wee hours of the early morning.  Maybe Five A.M. was just plotting his return into my life, and you, Mr. Savings-Time, provided the perfect opportunity.

Mr. Savings-Time, you’re familiar with my three year old daughter, DJ, right?  Yes, I think that the two of you have developed a complicated love-hate relationship.  Well, maybe the hate is coming more from my side….but, that’s neither here nor there.  We realize that while you only strut into our lives twice a year, sashaying to the seemingly cute tune of  “Fall Back, Spring Forward,” your affects are felt year-round.  Thank you for that, really.

DJ is what we call a “Spirited Child.”  By definition, this simply means that she’s more.  More sensitive, more passionate, more intense – and certainly more reactive to change.  Our family has a seemingly dysfunctional relationship with your cousin, Night-Time.  We have spent a lot of time (and money) trying to break from our co-dependent relationship with her.  I regret to consider that you and your cousin are in cahoots with one another, trying to rob us of our sanity.  It seems as though whenever Night-Time surrenders to our control, you, Mr. Savings-Time, come around and strip us of our honor.  It’s like you two just can’t stand to see us win.  Why?  Why can’t you just let us win?

(Oh, and just a side note – it seems as though another relative of yours, Nap-Time, is also trying to ruin us.  Quite honestly, I don’t know what we’ve done to deserve your collective disruption of our lives).

So, Mr. Savings-Time, here is where I tell you that I do not appreciate the ways you come into our lives and turn things upside down.  I don’t know whether it’s malicious, or just a product of your being, but it’s got to stop.  My 3 year old and my 7 1/2 month old have been out of sorts for the past 3 days.  They’ve been unable to sleep, and as a result, I’ve been unable to parent productively.  We are tired.  No, wait, we are exhausted.  And, in the world of children and mothers – exhaustion equals moody, impatient, prone to tantrums, and too much T.V.  You’ve got to stop with this.

I beg you to consider taking a hiatus from forcing the clocks to change their hands on account of you.  I implore you to just leave us all alone come Spring…when we all begrudgingly “spring forward.”  I ask that you not coerce local businesses, schools, churches, and households, to adjust their schedules according to your annual ritual.  I mean, just look around – those in Arizona and Hawaii are just so much happier, right?  You do realize that the federal law that established you, Mr. Daylight Savings Time, doesn’t actually require any area to observe you?  And, that is why I have copied Ms. California, and Mr. United States on this letter as well. You’ve let the power go to your head.

I want to thank you for your… time. I trust that you will consider my requests, and ultimately, do the right thing.  Our children don’t deserve this, we don’t deserve this.  Please, stop the madness – right here, right now.

Sincerely,

A Mom Whose Had Enough

P.S. Your name is deceptive….”Savings,” what exactly are you saving?

I was hanging out with one of my closest girlfriends this morning, and I confided in her that I had semi-regretted a blog post that I had written the night before about yet another night of bedtime drama.  I admitted to her that I had started to feel like a broken record, and that I was beginning to fear that people might question my love for DJ.  I mean, it seems as though lately all I ever do is complain about the ways I wish I could change her…specifically, her relationship with sleep.  I had started to wonder if the people reading my blog ever sat back and thought, “I wonder if she’s stopping to appreciate all of the really wonderful moments.”

I was half-tempted late last night to remove my post.  Or, at least follow it up with an addendum listing all of the incredibly wonderful things about DJ’s personality. I had started to doubt my candor, and had begun feeling as though publicly sharing yet another raw and honest moment about my frustration and exhaustion was a poor choice.  Had I written enough loving, adoring, gushing posts?  Would those positive stories be enough to balance out the hard, hard challenges of late that I share ad nauseum so honestly?

In talking with my friend this morning, she said something that really struck a chord with me.  She said, “I’d like to believe that 99.9% of mothers love their children with their entire being.”  Yes. Yes, most mothers on this planet will lay down their lives for their children without hesitation.  Most mothers will go to the ends of the earth and back to provide for their children.  Most mothers  will sacrifice things that the rest of the world could never comprehend (like their very identities, or their dreams) for the well being of their children.  Most mothers would go without so that their children would never have to.  Most mothers do love their children with all of their being – so why then, do we doubt that love?  Why do we worry whether or not others can see the depths of our own love?

My friend and I decided that when it comes to motherhood, opinions must be replaced with experience.  We realized that it’s the opinions coming from our other mommy friends, from the mom strangers at Target, from our own mothers even, that cast that shuddering shadow of doubt upon us.

“I wouldn’t dream of sleep-training my baby until they’re at least 6 months old,” makes the mother who was forced to place her baby in a crib for medical reasons, feel as though she’s viewed to have loved her child less – that her baby’s best interest wasn’t at heart.

“I would never feed my baby formula,” makes the mom who just couldn’t produce the milk to nourish her baby feel like she’s failed – and I can guarantee you that she’s already beaten herself up plenty, cursing her body for letting her down.

“Your three year old should not still need you to help her fall asleep at night.  Guess she never learned to self-soothe,” makes the mother who has hired various specialists, and who has sat up crying night after night, feel as though she’s not equipped with the inherent skills needed to successfully parent.  She worries endlessly about what else she might not be able to get right.

“I could never put my child in daycare,” makes the already conflicted working mother feel ashamed that her family depends on her income, or feel selfish for rightfully, and otherwise unapologetically, recognizing that her career fulfills her (thus making her a happier, and better, mother for her children)

“Your daughter would do better in a Montessori preschool, because she really has a hard time at school on the days you volunteer,” makes the already exhausted mom worry that her very presence is interfering with her child’s development.  As a result, she questions her involvement in every capacity of her child’s life, and fears that she’s somehow hindering her child.

These statements are simple opinions, but they can sting another mother in profound ways.  We don’t always stop and think about how our words can impact someone else – especially with regard to parenting.  99.9% of us just want what’s best for our children – and 100% of us have our own unique experiences.  I think that if we spoke more from a place of sharing our experiences, and less from a place of trying to force our opinions – then the unspoken bond created through motherhood could increase its power ten-fold.

If I, we, could feel comfortable and safe sharing our darkest moments (even if they are a seemingly broken record), and could be met with encouragement and empathy – then we’d stop losing so much sleep replaying conversations (or blog posts) over and over in our minds and wishing we had only mentioned the good stuff. And while the good stuff is awesome, and necessary, and our most favorite stories to tell – we have to also find the courage to talk about the other stuff.

We have to be good listeners.  We have to stop offering our opinions.  We must meet our fellow mom-sisters in the depths of their heartache, their challenges, their fears, their insecurities – and we must share our own experiences.  Truthfully.  Without fear of judgement.  From our hearts – where that undefinable, infinite, and relentless love for our babies lives.

How many of you are sick of hearing about my bedtime struggles with DJ? Trust me, no one is more over it than me….well, I’d betcha my husband is tied for first with me.  It’s the story we’ve been living for six weeks now. A three year old who basically, flat out refuses to sleep without a fight each night.  To describe it as frustrating would be a gross understatement.

I have realized that while I may publicly post about this nightly challenge, I don’t often confide in my friends about just how awful it is.  Part of me doesn’t want to burden them with the broken record of it all, and part of me is just too tired to talk about it.  Because this has become such a huge part of our lives – you might imagine there would be some anxiety, hesitation, at the thought of a weekend getaway with other families, as that would allow them full exposure into this dark corner of our parenting world.

Saying “Yes,” and sending in the $280.00 check for our portion of the weekend rental, was anxiety-provoking.  Could we get DJ on the other side of this struggle before four other families had to bear witness to it? Not likely, but we swallowed our pride nonetheless and decided that being authentic doesn’t just mean openly sharing opinions with confidence, or facing the crowd before a shower, or even losing your cool with your kid or husband in front of others – it means allowing people to see what goes on behind closed doors.  It means letting it all hang out, and trusting that people will love you anyway (or trusting that you’ll be better off without them if they don’t).

Last weekend, we ventured up to Bodega Bay with four other families.  There were 8 adults, and 8 kids under the age of 4, all staying in a 5 bedroom house (1 room per family) – with paper thin walls.  We had an absolute blast. I mean, honestly, it couldn’t have been a better time, it couldn’t have felt easier, more natural, than it did.  But – oh man, a big, big but…DJ did what she does.

On Saturday night, as I was laying in our bedroom with DJ, trying (desperately) to get her to sleep – I began getting more and more angry.  I was resentful that I was locked in a room with a crazy kid and not enjoying my vacation.  I heard muffled voices through the wall and wondered what I was missing out on.  Each thought brought me closer to the edge.  Each whine that spilled out of DJ’s little body pushed me closer and closer – and finally, I just couldn’t stop the tears.  I just laid on the floor next to DJ and her princess sleeping bag, and I sobbed.

The good news was that this rattled DJ enough to make her stop her shennanigans, and finally fall asleep.  The bad news was that I needed to go out and face my friends.  Or did I? I considered just crawling into my bed and sleeping the night away.  But, would that be authentic?  The truth was, I wanted to be with my friends – with adults.  So, I quickly wiped my face with my pillowcase, and made the long walk of shame toward the living room before I could change my mind.  Before embarrassment could set in.

I caught a glimpse of my girlfriends huddled in the kitchen, and in that very moment, I realized just how much I needed them to see me in that state of defeat – and, I needed them to be there for me.  I needed to let them in.  I burst into tears again before even saying a word.  They gathered around me, offering hugs, words of encouragement, chocolate chip cookies and hot tea.  I was finally able to say, out loud and in the moment, “This is so hard.  This is so frustrating.  It’s so awful to end every single day like this.  I feel like a failure every day.” Exhale.  It felt like a weight was lifted – a heavy, heavy weight.

We talked for hours.  We laughed. We cried.  We ate. We drank.  But, most importantly, we met each other right where we were at – each of us sharing our struggles, our fears, and our triumphs.  It was so therapeutic, and such a gift to be able to walk out of my most difficult parenting experience and into the arms of compassionate friends.  What a rare blessing.

Being a mom (or a dad), is hard work.  It’s busy work.  It’s demanding work.  When you’re in the thick of it – like I am right now, you find less and less time for phone calls, for lunch dates, for hikes, or even for returning text messages or Facebook conversations.  At the end of each day, you realize how lonely you feel, how isolated you are, and how you crave nothing more than the support of good friends.  Like, real support.  The kind that exists without judgement.

This weekend made me realize that real friends are the friends who don’t care how often you call because they’ll just keep calling you. They don’t wait for you to reach out to them.  They hear your struggle, they feel your pain, and they push their way into your life. They push lovingly and gently – and relentlessly.  They know that you’ll blow-dry your hair again one day, and that you’ll meet them for dinner at a restaurant that doesn’t have paper tablecloths again someday….but that, until that day comes, they’ll accept whatever it is that you need to do to get by.  And, they’ll cheer you on every step of the way.

We cannot go down this parenting road alone.  We need friends whom we can trust.  We need friends who see us for who we are, in our darkest hours.  They pour us a cup of tea, and they tell us how brave we are.  I call them my “forever friends.”  They are the friends who took almost 35 years to earn – and while not all pictured above, there are less than 2 handfuls of these amazing women….and I couldn’t feel more abundantly blessed.