Cheryl Katz

Necessity is the mother of invention… and in my case circumstances beyond my control compelled me to cut my daughter’s hair for the first substantial time.

Picture this:  a child at naptime.  Half hour later, loud thudding sounds issue from the room of the child, so the parent goes to check on her.  Child has painted her entire arms from fingertips to elbows and then some, her bed, sheets, pillows, frame, blankets, a book, the floor and any other miscellaneous objects she can find… with maximum viscosity DIAPER CREAM.

Believe it.  This was my reality this afternoon.  I don’t think I’ve ever “seen red” before, but I might have had a minor stroke taking in all that there was to behold in Sami’s room today.  LIVID.  Besides the obvious inconvenience of washing, oh, everything with some kind of abrasive cleansing agent, we had the additional bonus fun of throwing Sami herself in the bath to scrape the petroleum-laden goo off her limbs, body and face.

And I forgot to mention her hair.  Completely coating the bottom third of her hair.  I shampooed her whole head about 4 times, emptied the tub twice for fresh water, and had limited success (if you can call it that) getting any of the diaper cream to budge from her hair.  Combing helped minimally.

So I did what any enterprising, self-respecting mother of a totally infuriating going-on-3-year-old would do.  No, not throw her out with the bathwater.  I whipped out the hair trimming scissors and went to town.  

I’m sure it’s not professional looking, though her hair has just enough natural wave to get away with any minor inconsistencies.  I hacked at it somewhat unscientifically, and she was not a steady subject, but she wound up with a haircut shockingly similar to the pro job I wear.  (Pictures will follow when I get the rest of the residue off her head.)

Maybe I shall consider a career in children’s haircuts.  HA.

As if I don’t have more serious things to be posting about.

Tiny Art Director.  This website just about killed me with laughing.  Also, I truly believe it is a flash forward into the snarky comments Sami will be able to make for me and Ben in the future.  (See “About the Tiny Art Director” in which she says, “I want Daddy to go away on a trip.”)

So…. maybe not so far in the future.  Today Sami told me, “You BAD mama!”

I was like, “Um, what?  Bad mama?”

She revised, “No, you BAT mama!  I’m Batman… GIRL hahahaha.”  (It was pretty maniacal.)

Also, at bedtime, she says, “I don’t want HIM in here.”  Him = Daddy.  We seriously can’t please her.

Clearly she needs a job.  Hopefully a good one like the Tiny Art Director.

Ben’s car registration sticker came in the mail recently.  Last night, he told Sami that it was a sticker for his car, and that they’d make a project of putting the sticker on his car together.

This morning, Ben left for work, and Sami grabbed the DMV envelope off the table and ran after him crying, “I WANTED TO DO THE STICKER WITH DADDY ON HIS CAAAAAARRRRR!”  Oh, my heart broke for her, she was so, so sad.  He was down the block and around the corner by the time we got outside to see if we could wave him down.

I called Ben, and he said that they’d made a time-specific date (after work, after dinner!) which Sami apparently forgot.  I told him I’d relay this, and also pass along his disappointment that she’d forgotten to write it in her calendar.  (I did, and she said approximately, WTF?)  Anyway, they’re doing it this evening, and everyone is happier now.

Sami made sure I did not hang up before she explained what had happened: “I got mad at Daddy.  Then I cried.”

The Case Against Breast-Feeding – The Atlantic (April 2009).

I’m a little bit gobsmacked about this article.  It’s one thing to feel suckered into nursing children, especially if you expected miraculous results.  It’s entirely another to go on and declare nursing essentially a hoax, a clever ruse designed to keep women chained to their homes and their babies.

Perhaps what we really want is a world where nursing is an easier choice?  One where moms aren’t made uncomfortable for feeding their babies in public, where moms have time and space for pumping at work if necessary, and one where everyone is better educated about the place of breastfeeding in a family.

Then it could be a personal choice of how to feed one’s child, not a choice under duress from the healthcare conspiracy accusing people of being bad parents whether they choose breast or bottle.  Imagine that!

Sami’s school held a special Mother’s Day event yesterday, and of course I attended.  Here’s a picture of us during craft time (colored and scented bath salts in a jar pre-decorated by Sami!)

It was unexpectedly sweet; last year Sami had been in the 18-month class for two months, and we did a craft project together and the children gave the moms gifts that they’d made – a picture frame with a snapshot of each child. But the kids were so young, it was fun but not so poignant in the same way.

This year, the class had prepared a song, which they sang slightly proudly, slighty shyly, well directed by their teacher. Sami was so overwhelmed by the song that as it ended she ran across the room and hugged me. I don’t think I need to write it, but I will anyway tell you that I was choking back tears for the rest of the morning. Video below; blurry but so, so cute.

There will come a day when I am not the greatest joy in Sami’s heart, and she’ll probably tell me she hates me and that I don’t understand her. I hope that I can build an open and trusting relationship with her to avoid a lot of the drama and anger, but I know that we’re talking about normal adolescent rebellion and the establishment of her blossoming independent adult identity. What comes, I believe that with love and patience on both sides, we’ll take everything in stride.

But this weekend, Sami loves me with all the space she has in her mind and heart, except for the corners saved for chocolate and for her tricycle. And my awareness of her awareness of our relationship is completely humbling. In fact, beyond humbling and more like being steamrolled entirely flat by the love of my child.

I wish this exploding heart joy to every mom out there, whether you’re already someone’s mom, or will be one day.

Also: I am thinking I need to start a photo series called Asleep with Book. Sami loves to read, but dang does it wear her down!

Potty training, until complete, is largely a pain in the bazooty as far as I can tell. So far my experience goes like this: I ask her every half hour if she needs to go to the potty, she generally ignores me, occasionally goes on her own (YAY!), and more often than not will announce that she has to go poop, but that she doesn’t want to do it in the potty (not-so-YAY.) Needless to say, my days of nasty diapers are eventually coming to an end, but the end isn’t in sight just yet. Nevertheless, any time I have to use a restroom while we’re out and about, Sami cannot be expected to stay at the table with whomever is with me.

On Monday, Ben, Sami and I went for Shabu-Shabu to celebrate Ben’s return from a weekend business conference. I had to go to the restroom, and of course Sami came with me. This was a unique bathroom, being of the one-patron-unisex variety, because it had not only a toilet but a urinal. I don’t know for sure, but I can say with reasonable certainty as the person who generally accompanies Sami to restrooms, she has never seen a urinal before.

“I WANT TO SIT ON THE LITTLE POTTY!” I imagine her demand reverberated through the whole restaurant, but since I can’t see other patrons reacting, I don’t have to die of humiliation.

“It’s not a potty, Sami. It’s called a urinal. Big boys stand and pee there.”

“BUT I WANT TO SIT ON THAT POTTY!” There aren’t caps big enough to express how badly she wanted this. But, hello? Sitting on a urinal? Ew.

“Nope. That one is only for boys. You can use the regular potty, or else you have to wait until we go home.” She stomped and whined a little, but got the message. She actually even went on to successfully use the potty, complete with voluntary hand-washing.

Not to be spared public attention-calling, Sami sprinted back out to where Ben was waiting and announced, “I WENT PEEPEE ON THE POTTY! BY! MY! SELF!”  All by herself.  Yup.

Monday was Sami’s first day back at school after Pesach break, and due to an inconvenience hardly worth complaining about, I had to clear out of my house and kill a lot of time.  Not a productive day.

Yesterday my car was in for service, so again, a lot of time killed and not much productivity relevant to my life.

Today, I was psyched for a planned lunch date and otherwise a day of functional accomplishment.

But this was not to be.  My first errand was to fill out the camp signup paperwork for Sami’s summer program, and after finishing that, I was off to leave her school and get on with my day.  Before I’d even made it out of the front office, I was called back.  Her eye, in the hour she’d been at school, had gone from normal to swollen and red.  Since there recently was a pinkeye outbreak, this doesn’t bode well.

So I’m home, somehow managed to wheedle my kid into a nap, and can’t take her to the park, pool, playground, or set up a play date.  We’re going to have a super fun playdate with her doctor this afternoon, hooray!  And then we will come home and I’ll pretend I did something, anything, that grownups normally do.

Good thing I had all last week to practice being a real full time stay at home mom.  I’m getting the hang of this thing!

Sami was at an election returns watching party with me, and she kept saying “YAY BAMA!” and clapping or shaking keys after the projected Obama victory was announced.  And I just think of how much better a world this is going to be for her.  And I’ve been teary ten times in the last hour.  I can hardly believe it.

This has been the best birthday ever.  Thank you to everyone who helped chip in for the only thing I really wanted for my birthday.

I wonder what it will be like one day, when Sami learns that there was a time when women weren’t allowed to vote, when black people were possessions of white people.  (I wonder what she’ll think when she learns that there are many people who don’t believe that gay people should have the right to marry under the law (regardless of what any individual faith believes.  I hope that by the time Sami is old enough to understand these issues that it won’t be an issue any more.)

We just elected a black man to be president, not because he is black but because he is better.  He won by enough of a margin that it’s clear his appeal goes beyond just the black American vote.  I couldn’t be prouder of my country than I am right now, that more of the same is not an acceptable choice, that race didn’t become the deciding factor, that (heaven forbid!) we need a president so much better educated, polished and smarter than we are that we believe he can lead this country better.

I told Sami that this is easily the best thing that’s happened in her short lifetime, possibly the best thing that will happen to her for a long time.  I have hope that President Obama will help to heal the wounds America had brought about in this world, and will restore America’s status as a positive force in the world.  It won’t be perfect and it won’t be easy, but I truly believe that, like Lincoln, he will fully consider the opinions of adversaries and make deep and studied decisions.

The icing on my perfect birthday cake would be a sound defeat of Proposition 8.  It boggles the mind that people aren’t happy with the rights of their institutions of faith to decide individually to refuse to marry gay people, but need there to be laws prohibiting it.  No matter what my views on gay marriage, I believe that every citizen should have equal rights under the law.  Prop 8 is a vile infusion of religious values into the California state constitution, and not religious values shared by everyone in the state.  I sincerely hope it fails so resoundingly that it never returns.

I want to give Sami a better world, And no matter the outcome of Prop 8, I know that I cast my vote to benefit her.  As I was putting her down to sleep, I couldn’t help choking up over tears of joy listening to President-elect Obama’s victory speech.

Sami hugged me tight and said, “It’s ok, Momma.”

I told her, “Yes, it is.”

It was bound to happen, sometime during the bumpy road that is potty training.  We’re early on in the process here, and in fact no successful potty-deposits have yet been made by the diaper-wearing members of our household.  But today was the day; it happened.

My child crapped on the floor.

Here’s how it went: I got tired of waiting for her on the potty and went to the kitchen to refill my mug of coffee.  In as long as it took for me to go 15 ft to the kitchen, I heard her start to root in a toy bin in her room.  I thought nothing of this… she’s been trusted to run around diaperless for five minutes or less in the past, without incident.

By the time I made it into her room not another 20 seconds later, it was done.  I cleaned her up and diapered her, did a quick flush of the goods and sanitized the floor, and we were good to go.

Let this be a lesson to the pre-potty age moms out there – it happens faster than you think.  I’ve certainly learned my lesson.