Screaming Child on Aisle 7

My child was the terror of Target today.

It started in the toy section. We were walking through when she spotted a "Memory" game featuring her latest infatuation: "Angelina Ballerina." She was very excited about the game, and I was very excited she had picked a toy that was not only educational, but also only cost seven dollars. I told her when we got home I would teach her how to play.

That's when all hell broke loose.

"YOU WILL NOT TEACH ME," she bellowed from the depths of her soul. "I WILL TEACH MYSELF."

I stepped back, wondering if she was about to vomit pea soup. I swear the entire store went silent, afraid of incurring her wrath. I stepped up to the parenthood plate. "Meg, that is not how we talk to anyone," I said, "you need to be polite." Usually that works. Meg is pretty reasonable for a two year old. Today though, no dice. Instead of returning to normal, Meg ramped up the crazy, responding with an ear curdling scream that reverberated off every hard surface within a mile.

I tried to pry the game out of hands, attempting to make sure the last thing I did was reward this behavior; but she held onto it like it was welded to her hands. "Meg, if you don't behave, we can't get the game," I said. "I DON'T WANT TO BEHAVE," she screamed, and tightened her hold on it.

I decided the best thing I could do was just get out of the store as fast as possible.

We dashed through the aisles, picking up the things we needed, Meg's screaming like a siren warning other shoppers to pull to the right and let us pass. We finally screeched to a halt at the check out line, behind a woman with a baby that was also crying, although nowhere near as impressively as Meg. He was crying just enough though, to make Meg go silent.

"Mom," Meg said, "that baby is crying." I nodded. The baby's mother turned around and gave us a wry smile. Meg looked even closer at the kid.

"Mom, do you think that baby has a penis?"

I burst out laughing. So did the Mom in front of me. Oh, and the lady behind me. And the checker.

Hey, she may be a terror, but at least she has timing.

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Not Fair

My husband, Ryan, has never gotten a speeding ticket. 36 years old, never had a speeding ticket.

This weekend? He got pulled over for doing 84 in a 70 mile an hour zone.

He knew he was busted the second he saw the trooper at the bottom of the hill. He said it before the lights even came on. He actually got over in the right lane to prepare to stop while the trooper was pulling out in to traffic. "Oh, this isn't good," he said.

Nope, it wasn't, but I was loving it.

Now, first of all, let me just say I know that makes me a horrible person. I should be supporting my husband at all times, and never taking delight in his foibles. But THE MAN HAS NEVER HAD A TICKET! Me? I've had lots of tickets. Driving is not what you would call my "forte." I've been to traffic school so many times I could have a Masters degree. When our insurance goes up I am the reason. And every time I get a ticket? Or get in a little "fender bender"? I am reminded that Ryan has a perfect driving record.

All that was going to change though.

I very helpfully got out the insurance card and the registration for the Trooper as he walked up to the car. "Going a little fast, sir," he said. Ryan admitted it, saying he realized that hill had gotten the better of him. The trooper took our information and said he would be right back.

I wondered if it would be mean to have the ticket framed for Ryan as an anniversary gift. I thought about the advice I would give him about driving school. I wondered how long I should wait before I blogged about the ticket. I texted Tara immediately.

Me: Ryan is getting a speeding ticket.
Tara: Tell him NOT to thank the cop. 

The trooper came back.

"I'm going to let you off with a warning this time," he said, "because you are the only person who admitted to speeding today."

My jaw dropped. I grabbed my phone.

Me: He got off with A WARNING!
Tara: Of course he did! Who would give Ryan a ticket?
Me: He said Ryan was the only person all day who admitted to speeding, so he gave him a warning.
Tara: That is EXACTLY how I would have written that scene. 

I think she was more disappointed than I was. That's why I like her so much.

I know, for a fact, that if I had been driving I would have gotten a ticket. Maybe even two. I probably would have gotten one for texting Tara while waiting for my other tickets. Then Ryan would have told me once again about his perfect driving record.

You know, the one that is still intact...

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To Boob or Not to Boob...

Every Saturday morning we go to music class with Meg. During that class, I know three things will happen: we will sing some ridiculously catchy and annoying song that will be caught in my head all week, the children will bang loudly and with little rhythm on various instruments, and a 4-year old classmate of Meg's will unceremoniously lift her mother's shirt and breast feed. Oh, and then a fourth thing happens: I start arguing with myself about whether or not that is appropriate.

Conservative Libby: PUT YOUR DAMN BOOB AWAY!

Liberal Libby: It's a beautiful, natural thing. Breast is best.

CL: Trust me, that is not that kid's main source of food.

LL: Well, it's comforting to the child. It's bonding.

CL: Great, give her a little cuddle. Meg's binky is comforting to her, but we don't let her have that in class.

LL: You really should start to wean her off of that.

CL: Don't you start with me. We are talking about the boobs. How does that Mom not wear a bra? She's a very full figured woman.

LL: I think that's called Rubenesque. If it makes you so uncomfortable, just don't look at her. Think of Rick Santorum's sweater vests.

CL: Not cool. And like that's sooo easy. Oh my God, now she's dancing AND nursing?

LL: You have to admit that's impressive multi-tasking.

CL: Do you have any idea how many times I've almost sung "roll that little boob round the room"? Or how about "dance to your boobie?"

LL: Stop it. You don't mind it when the other Moms in the class do it.

CL: They have infants. Their children don't come up and undress them.

LL: If you start discriminating against one breast feeding Mom, where do you stop? Who is going to draw the line?

CL: Me. And I'm drawing it right over there.

LL: We should blog about this.

CL: Are you kidding? Why don't we just find an active mine field and go for a stroll?

We're switching classes next term. It was either that, or all of us wearing those boob hats to class to make a point.

Those are the options things both of me can agree upon... And they don't make adult sizes in the hats.

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The "Secret"

People often ask me "Libby, what is the secret to a good marriage?"

I guess they figure that I have been married successfully for seven years, coupled successfully for more than a decade and am, after all, the Libby in Libby Logic. That's why they are probably shocked when I tell them I have no fucking idea what the secret to a good marriage is and they probably shouldn't be thinking about getting married if they think there is actually a "secret" to it. Then I ridicule them about probably still believing in fairies and ask them to talk to me when they stop drawing their initials in hearts on their Justin Bieber notebooks.

Sometimes, as they are they are walking away, crying, I do start to feel kinda bad. I do actually know the secret to a good marriage, and it's "marry Ryan." I don't want to share though.

There are so many reason I love Ryan. I love that he proudly wears a t-shirt that says "this is what a feminist looks like." I love that he helps me see the humor in the fact he loves the t-shirt with this picture too:

Normally, even considering buying that shirt would get a person killed.

I love that he comes in to "tag out" wrestler style when he hears frustration climbing into my voice when dealing with Meg. I love that when he is away from home on business he misses us so much it makes him think crazy thoughts like maybe he should become a beekeeper so he can be home more. I love that when I am going crazy about the whole infertility thing and how he probably wouldn't have married me if he had know about it upfront he says things like "I fell in love with you, not your uterus." I love the fact that at the height of the reproductive crazies, when I threw salt and pepper shakers at him, Ryan didn't run screaming, but instead put me to bed, and then went out into the yard with a flashlight to retrieve them.

Oh, and then there are the things I love about Ryan I can't write here, because my Mom reads this. Hi Mom!

Well, maybe the secret isn't to marry Ryan. Maybe the secret is to marry someone who will love you enough to do all those things for you. Someone who not only wants to give you their best, but brings out your best, and protects you from your worst. Someone who doesn't make writing their initials on your Justin Bieber notebook seem crazy -- just loving.

Yeah, no, that's never going to happen. I would even have to mock myself.

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She Hates Me?

Meg told me she hated me.

She wanted some candy, and she wanted me to give it to her. She knew I had it, a half roll of Mentos right there in my purse, because I had already handed her several pieces while we were driving. However, because she had already had several pieces, and because we were driving home to make dinner, I had said no, she couldn't have any more. She tried to get more by adding a "please" but I said it wasn't an issue of saying please. She tried screaming, and I told her that definitely wasn't the way to get more candy. And then the words came out of her mouth: "I hate you, Mommy."

I have been insulted quite a bit in my life. I have had my feelings hurt a whole lot. However, I don't think I have ever felt the way I did when Meg said that. I felt cold. I was not only hurt, but also felt like a failure, and like I had been issued a challenge. My first thought was to pull over, yank Meg out of the car, and give her a time out. No, wait, that wasn't my first thought. My first real though was to burst into tears and admit I am a bad mother. Then I had the thought about the time out. Then I wondered if she actually does hate me, and how I could fix that. Then I thought about giving her some more candy. Then I went back to wanting to burst into tears. I looked in the rear view mirror and saw Meg sitting smugly in her car seat. Her eyes met mine. She was grinning with my silence. I pulled the car over and turned around.

"Meg, you hurt my feelings," I said. I didn't really know where I was going, but that felt like the right tactic. Her face fell.

"Why," she asked.

"You said you hate me. I love you, so that hurts my feelings." I could see the wheels spinning.

"I love you, Mommy. I'm sorry I hurt your feelings."

"I love you too, Meggo. It's okay."

I would love to tell you that was the last time she has used that word. That since then she hasn't said it at all, realizing the power of words. That's not the case though. She is still experimenting with it, trying to see if the reaction gets bigger or smaller. She has also expanded her range. While I have been typing this I heard Meg tell her Dad she hates him because he turned off "Angelina Ballerina." He's now explaining to her what it means, and why it hurts. He's telling her we will always love her, even if she says she hates us.

I guess this is good practice for when she is 16. Of course, then she'll mean it...

I can only imagine how that will hurt.

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Emergency-ish

Monday was Meg's first trip to the emergency room.

No one is really quite sure exactly what happened, except she was chasing after Luke and his friend, tripped on a stair and somehow hit her head. She never lost consciousness, she wasn't bleeding or vomiting, and the paramedics my Mom called said all her of vitals looked fine. So, why did we go? Because she also didn't cry when she fell and hurt herself, was dazed and kept nodding off, and because her response times were really slow to stimulus and questions. She just wasn't herself. We called the pediatrician to get her take, and she said a head injury is nothing to mess with -- get Meg to the ER.

The emergency room is maybe a 10 minute drive from my Mom's house. On Monday it seemed to take FOREVER. Oh, and not just because we were on our way to find out if Meg had a serious head injury, but also because she was requiring we play a "Yo Gabba Gabba" album at full blast because it "made her feel better." Yet, even with the obnoxious music blaring, she could hardly keep her eyes open.

Once we got to the ER though, everything changed. It started when we sat down in the waiting room. Meg was curled on my lap, kind of dozing, when she put her head up and said "I want to go look at the fish." At first I thought she had really lost it. Fish? I saw no fish. Was this like her version of seeing stars? I wondered if I should call the nurse. Before I could Meg was down off my lap and walking away. Then I saw it: the fish tank in the far opposite corner of the room, probably 30 feet away at the least. That's when I knew Meg was going to be just fine.

Over the next two hours of waiting, being seen, waiting more, and being seen again, Meg improved rapidly. She started asking questions, singing songs, and playing shy when anyone who looked doctorish spoke to her. The doctor decided she probably had a mild concussion, and asked us to wait and let Meg have something to drink to just make sure Meg didn't need a CT scan. They brought Meg a lemonade slushie, which I am pretty sure she now thinks of as one of the greatest things to ever happen to her. I think of it as the most expensive frozen treat she'll ever have. When she didn't throw it up, or go back into drowsy mode, they let us go home.

It was only as we were walking out that I realized how truly lucky we were. The doors of the other rooms were closed, but all had windows on them, and I'm nosy, so I looked in. One kid bleeding from the mouth, at least three were being given oxygen, and most of them were crying. Outside one door that had it's window covered a group of probably ten crying adults were gathered. I quietly thanked God Meg just had a little bump on her head.

Meg is now recovering nicely. She says her head hurts at times, but it's nothing a little Motrin can't fix. She keeps asking if we can go get slushies again. I tell her yes, but this time let's just go to 7-11.

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New Stuff, Just Not Here

Don't you love these posts where I tell you I have written something fabulous, and then give you a hoop to jump through to read it? I know I do... Really, though, you should click the links, because it really is good stuff!

I am continuing my "infertility acceptance" journey over at Tired and Stuck today. So far it's been filled with bitterness and wine, but I think that could turn around soon...

Also, over at Sprocket Ink I am starting my new "beat" as the news hound with the first ever "story of the week." I think it will help answer the question "why does the media dwell on bad news?"

So, go check those out. I will be back here tomorrow to tell you the harrowing tale of Meg's first ER visit. Don't worry though, it ends with a slushie...

Now, CLICK!

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Questions and Surprising Answers

Being an adoptive parent you never know when you are going to get sideswiped by a question. They can come from anyone, at any time, and the person doing the asking usually has no idea that their words have quickened my pulse, and made me raise my protective mama hackles. In the past two and a half years I have gotten to the point where I can pretty much predict how certain lines of questioning will go, and have my answers down pat.

And then there are the times I am totally surprised.

The other day Meg and I were in the grocery store when her favorite bagger came up to give her some stickers. He is her favorite bagger because of said stickers, and if he doesn't come find us, Meg makes sure we find him. Meg was putting the stickers on her arms when this kid (he's maybe 17), looked at her, then at me, and asked "Is she adopted?"

Hackles up.

"Yes, she is" I answered, very calmly. Well, calmly on the outside. On the inside I was going through my mental rolodex, trying to determine what he would ask next, and how to keep the questions from escalating, especially since they would be asked in front of Meg, who still doesn't quite understand what "adopted" means. Would it be the "where" or the "when" question, or something else totally bizarre? I waited.

"Oh, I figured it was either that or your husband is black. One or the other. Do you want paper or plastic today?"

I almost started laughing with relief; or laughing with glee because this stocky teen had presented me with such a pleasant surprise. I almost reached over and hugged him.

Instead I just hugged Meg, and let her put a sticker on my hand.

Hackles down.

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