Opinionated

The Dictator is opinionated. No....I take that back. The Dictator is OPINIONATED.
She knows what she wants. She knows when she wants it. She will tell you, loudly, if you are not listening.
When it's important, she won't put up with not getting her way.

This is not a new phase, or a part of becoming three. This is the Dictator. This is the way she has always been. And you know what? Opinions are good!

In the course of the last week, I have heard multiple parents talk about how their children 'can't pick what they like yet' or 'don't know what's going on anyways' or 'can't have an opinion on things because they are too young'. I try to avoid hearing these people talk, because I feel an overwhelming urge arise to beat them over the head and then ask them if they have an 'opinion' on what I just did. Is this really what parents think of their children? Tonight a friend told me that she knows someone who also believes that young children are not able to make their own choices on things or have an opinion. It was the last straw. I have been seething inside all night, and unable to control the crazy building up inside, I blog to you now.

Babies come out of the womb making choices, and having opinions. From how they like to be swaddled, feeding positions or what bottles they like, where they like to sleep or what lullaby comforts them, babies are born with preferences. To say that babies cannot have an opinion is so ludicrous, I wonder why these people are allowed to raise children. Children are just small people. They are not an alien race. They are people! People with OPINIONS! How would you feel if everyone you knew made all the choices in your life for you and never once asked how you felt about it because "you don't know what you want anyways"?

The difference between 'them' and 'us' (as adults) is that we can vocalize our opinions. Speech is a powerful tool, my friends. It's one the Dictator learned early on, and has become an expert at using. I thank the good Lord for that. Although she attempts daily (hourly. eh..minute-ly) to drive me to the brink of insanity with it.

Just because your child does say they mind wearing that purple and pink dress with the giant smiling panda on the front does not mean they are not silently swearing in their own language at you in their mind. When you blast 'your music' in the car, for all you know your child is judging you and thinking "Good God lady! Turn on the Raffi!"

We, as parents, are not raising giant baby dolls that will someday become young adults. We have people in front of us, right now, from the very first time you lay eyes on them.

Although I usually try to impart humor into my tales of the Dictator, tonight I just feel sad. Listen to your children. Ask them what they want and what they like. Even if they don't directly answer you with words, is this not an important part of being a parent, to communicate with your child? Make them feel important and like their wants are desires are being listened to. They are small. They depend on YOU to listen and care about their feelings. If you treat your child like an unintelligent blob, you will get an unintelligent blob. You get what you give. Give a lot. There's no magic age when your child is 'old enough' to make their own choices. The time is now. Your JOB as a parent is to guide them through those choices and wants and help them realize what is truly important. For them. Not for you.

Off my soap box now and into bed to watch "Nightmare before Christmas" for the 100,000 time, because that's what my daughter chose to watch and asked so nicely if we could. I'm happy to take the time to listen to her and her requests. Some day, too soon she'll be off on her own in the world making choices all by herself. Until then, I'm here for her and I promise to listen carefully to her requests, even on the odd occasion she does not use words.

The latest inSTALLation

The Dictator has recently become quite adamant about doing things on her own. From picking out and putting on her clothes, to cutting her own food, the Dictator is quick to let me know "Momma!!! I can do it all by myself!"

Recently, the Dictator has decided to start using the public bathroom on her own. Standing stoically outside the door 'making sure she has privacy!' I wait, and hope and pray to whatever deity that is listening that she is wiping her tushie and not touching too much in the stall.

Today at the community pool the Dictator was merrily swimming around when she announced (loudly! The Dictator wants to make SURE you all know where she's going!) that she needed to go potty.
We walked at a quick pace to the bathroom. The Dictator was fast to tell me "You. You Mother. You wait outside. I go in alone." Fine, fine....at least let me help you take your swimsuit off first! She begrudgingly let me remove her swimsuit and I sent her in the stall. Waiting outside my mind started to wander. Bills I need to pay, laundry I need to do, that song I liked that I need to look up, all that random Mom junk filled my mind. Suddenly I was snapped out of it by a little voice screaming "Momma! Oh.My.God! Help me!"

My logical brain knows that whatever has happened behind that door cannot be good. My logical brain tells me to call it a loss and just run away. We can always have another child, right?! We're young. Ish. Unfortunately, my Mom brain overrides all this sound logic and screams "Where's your baby?" Oi! Damn it Mom brain!!!

I open the stall. There is the Dictator. In the toilet. Folded up like a little slice of pizza. The perfect triangle. Arms, most of her head, and ALL of her tushie, IN the toilet. Shit! No, seriously! She must have pooped (please GOD let it have been hers!) right before 'the incident'. The Dictator is swimming in a tiny pool of her own shit. At this point, even the Mom brain wavers. Perhaps NOW is a good time to run. Unfortunately, we lock eyes and her little tear streaked face poking out from the toilet overwhelms me. I reach in and grab her. I want to die.

The Dictators extraction was not easy. She somehow wedged herself in that toilet. I pull from under her shoulders. Nope. That just splashes the evil cocktail of demise around on both of us. I have to go deeper. I grab her waist. Success!  The Dictator pops out and launches a piece of poop towards me. I should have dropped her. I didn't. Poop smacks me in the stomach. Cold and wet. At this point, nothing worse can happen. This is the end.

I take the Dictator to the sink. We're going to have a bath. Right now. I set my dripping wet daughter in the sink. I start the water. I reach for the soap. Fuck! There IS no soap! I have shit on my stomach. This is not happening. I pick up the Dictator and explain "We're going in the boys bathroom to get soap."
The Dictator wails "Nooooooo! I'm a girl! I cannot GO in the boys bathroom!" I love how although the child has just been in the toilet. The TOILET! She's more concerned about which bathroom we are using. I grab her and go. Now is NOT the time for gentle parenting. If I'm getting scarred for life from this experience, then she is too!

Luckily, the boys bathroom (which is surprisingly a million times cleaner than the girls') has soap. The Dictator gets a mini bath, I get a mini bath that nearly draws blood with the scrubbing action I performed. We scrub our hands. We head back to the pool.

The Dictator jumps in the water and merrily swims away, laughing like nothing happened. I sit on the step and cry inside. Nothing can prepare you for a 3 year old. Nothing.

So silly

I love my little Dictator. Love, love, love that kid. However, I do wish that she had come with a 'mute' option.

The Dictator LOVES to talk. I've never in my life met a person that likes the sound of their own voice more. Starting at 6 months old, the Dictator was babbling, cooing and 'singing' to anyone she saw. At 10 months she started saying quite a few words. By 15 months she spoke over 250 words and could string small sentences together. By two years she spoke in sentences full time and used large vocabulary words (like ironic and superficial) in every day speech. Everywhere we go people have always remarked on her excellent grasp of language and communication.

Stupidly (yes, stupidly. If you have a toddler or older child, you understand the horror of a talking tiny person), the Politician and I fostered her speech development. Working tireless hours with her, we would show flashcard after flashcard and eagerly repeat words after her to make sure she heard them correctly and to validate we were understanding her attempts. Our eager new parent giddiness overwhelmed us with the need to make sure our little wunderkind was the best and the brightest.

We brought this hell upon ourselves.

Starting at 2 years old, the Dictator discovered "Why?"
"Why? does the grass grow Momma? Why is the sky blue? Why do turtles live in shells? Why do I need to wear shoes? Why does my foot itch?"
On and on it went. An endless parade of "Why?"

Parenting instincts told me not to squash her curiosity.  I patiently answered every "Why?" question the best I could. It was sweet really that she was so curious, and that she thought I would have all the answers for everything she wanted to know.

Then came "How?"
"How?" was much more annoying than "Why?"
"How?" meant I would most likely need to look to Google for an answer.
Just as one "How?"question was answered, another would take it's place. "How DOES electricity work?" "How does the corn get harvested?" "How does the moon work?" Thank God for smart phones. My thumbs are numb from all the odd internet searches I have performed over the past year.

Just as we started moving away from "Why and How?" a new phrase entered our lives.......
More annoying than any other question or statement ever in the history of childhood-
"Is that silly?"

I'm pretty sure if I ever snap and commit a heinous crime, it will be found that the reason I did so was because someone said "Is that silly?"

"Is that silly?" sounds kinda cute. It sounds fun and simple. It sounds like a game. "Is that silly?" is NOT a game, and no, its not fun. "Is that silly?" makes you want to stab your eye out at 2am.

It started simply enough. The Dictator would say something like "I put my shoes on my hands! That's silly!" and I would respond "Oh yes, you are so silly!" I didn't realize that like Pavlov I was training my little Dictator. "Is that silly?" was the bell. Me responding was the very enticing little treat, and the Dictator was quite hungry.  The Dictator was conditioning me for hours of 'witty banter' that would end in peels of laughter for her, and tear stained cheeks for me.

At first "Is that silly" was used just for silly things. "I'm walking backwards with a bucket on my head! Is that silly?" "I'm using my finger like a fork! Is that silly?" Yes, yes...those things are silly. I responded. I engaged! I was preparing my own silly little noose that would eventually hang me.

Now "Is that silly?" is used for everything. EVERYTHING! "I'm putting my milk in the fridge! Is that silly?" "I'm getting dressed for school now! Is that silly?" "I'm hungry for lunch! Is that silly?" No! No, no, no, no, no!!!! It's NOT silly!!!!!!!! Please, for the love of God, stop talking! I try to not freak out. I try to gently guide her towards another topic of conversation. I try to not scream "You are not silly! It's not silly! Nothing, NOTHING is silly!" Most days, I succeed. Other days, I go in my closet, close the door and quietly weep about how silly my life has become.

A few weeks ago, the non-sleeping Dictator crept into my bedroom. A tiny little face at the side of my bed looked at me sleeping, poked me until I woke up and then in a small little voice asked me "I'm not sleeping and I need you to go help me poop. Is that silly?"

In the past few weeks, I've been more accepting of the annoying phrase and it's place in our lives. I know it's a phase. I know she'll get bored of it. It's just a matter of time. Thank the dear Lord that I live in a country with quality hair dye, coffee, booze and bad t.v.. I will survive this.

I was feeling pretty good about everything until this morning. While getting the Dictator ready for dance class, she asked me "Is my leotard silly?" I responded "Sure. It's kinda silly?" The Dictator had a little smirk start to spread across her face. She looked at me and said "Well, WHY is it silly?"

I die.

The God Complex

A few days ago I was cleaning the bathtub downstairs. The Dictator was merrily playing outside on her scooter, and every once in awhile would come running inside for a drink of water before running as fast as she could right back outside again. On one of her trips inside she came running as fast as she could into the bathroom, threw her arms around me and said-

"I LOVE LOVE LOVE you Momma! I was thinking outside. Where do we come from?"

Uh....wait a minute here, random child of mine. What do you mean "Where do we come from?"

Me: "What do you mean where do we come from?" Well, what other question could I have asked?! Oh dear Lord, please don't let this go where I think it's going!

The Dictator: "Before we get in the Momma belly, where are we?"

Shit! Nope, not where I thought it was going! Worse!! Much worse!!!!
This could go so many directions of wrong. Since I'm just not ready to talk to my daughter about ovaries and testicles (she goes to preschool. She tells her teacher everything. In an effort to thwart CPS showing up, we are now asexual in this household), there's only one way this talk can go. Being for the most part agnostic, and the Politician being Confucian, I have dreaded this day since before I was pregnant. The God talk.

The Dictator is three. THREE! These are not the type of questions my barely three year old is supposed to ask me! What kind of preschooler asks these questions anyways? An evil one! An evil, tricky one, bent on the destruction of my sanity!

Me: "Well, where do YOU think we come from?" Oh yes.....the evil tricky child does not fall far from the evil tricky family tree. I will stop this conversation dead in it's tracks until I am ready for it. Like, when the Dictator is 35. Maybe.

The Dictator: "Why do you not want to tell me? I think you know the answer yourself. I want to hear your answer first, then mine."

FUCK! I've been outplayed.

Me: "Well, we come from storks. Yes! Storks carry us to our Mommy's. We are tiny little seeds and then we go inside a Mommy belly to grow!" Okay....this sounds somewhat plausible, no? I mean...we've talked about storks before and she's seen a few commercials on this subject. Yes...this could work!

The Dictator: "Well....where do the seeds come from?"

What?! The storks were supposed to distract your intently focused little psycho brain away from the baby portion of this conversation! Seeds?! What the hell was I even talking about?

Me: "Well, I don't know. I'm sorry. Maybe we can google it later? Or ask Daddy! He'll know!"

The Dictator: "Momma, obviously the seeds come from the garden. You are not taking this seriously. Momma, I really sure do you love you,  but you really need to go back to school and learn more. I mean...what DO you know?"

Then she went back out on her scooter to play. I sat there next to the bathtub slack jawed and defeated!

Co-sleepa

Before I had the Dictator, I looked like this-
Life was simple. I went to bed whenever I felt
like it, and I got up at approximately 8am every
morning. My cozy bed was warm and soft and
clean. I could watch a scary movie in bed if I wanted to and nobody would scream "This is toooooo scary! I'm going to need therapy! Make it stooooop!" My biggest concern was that the Politician might hear me snore, or worse, see me drool in my sleep.


Then I got pregnant. And this happened-
Have you ever tried to sleep with a basketball inside your
shirt? No?! Go try it out and let me know how comfortable you
were. If that's too easy, insert a hamster inside the ball and put that in your shirt. Oh, and make sure to drink 12 glasses of water
before you go to sleep. Try holding your pee until morning. I dare you. If that's still too easy, try sticking water balloons in a bra and eat the spiciest food on the planet right before you lay down. Tell me how well you slept.








Eventually the Dictator decided to make her grand entrance into the world-
Silly me. At this point I'm thinking  "This is the most
tired I'll ever be! 14 hours of labor and a c-section!
I can't wait to get to my room and just sleeeeep"
Oh dear.....Look at my innocent face. I had NO idea what was coming. I really believed the worst was over!







After getting home from the hospital the Dictator happily slept here-

and if I rocked her until my legs were ready to fall off, here-

 and many times here-

 and on her Papa-

 and her favorite spot- in MY bed-

 But NEVER here! I had to just search through hundreds of photos to find a picture of the Dictator in her crib! The caption on this one was- "Laid the Dictator down after rocking her to sleep to get a picture of her in her crib. She woke up when the camera flashed." Sigh.....

Three years later, the Dictator still does not sleep in her own bed. In fact, The Dictator does not sleep at all. Last night we played Candy Land at 3am. I survive on coffee, diet cherry pepsi, chocolate and the hope that my daughter will be accepted into college any day now and choose to move away from home.

Remember how in that first picture of me the I looked so young, fresh and happy? This is how I look today-

Co-sleeping. Just say no.

Making memories

I really don't like when people feel the need to make excuses for their bad habits. If you have a vice, admit it. If you are lazy, just say so. I have much more respect for someone who tells the truth, versus someone who has to come up with a reason for their shortcomings.

There's this new little phrase in the mommy community that has taken off in popularity lately-

"Good moms have sticky floors, messy kitchens, laundry piles, dirty ovens and happy kids!"

Uh.....say what? Personally, if I visited someone's home and it was dirty and sticky (sticky!? *shudder*), my first thought would not be "Wow! What a good mom!" Maybe that's just me.....

And my personal favorite- "Please excuse the mess. The children are making memories!"

Memories of WHAT? That Mom is a slob and Dad is too busy being a misogynistic pig to help out? That their lives perch precariously on the edge of spilling over into a "Hoarders" episode? Memories of Mom half heartedly shaking out their wrinkled, dirty, school clothes and spraying them with febreeze because she was too busy to do some laundry?
Does anyone REALLY think that kind of thing is cute or funny? Am I really just that off base and out of touch with popular culture?

I think this really points out how bad the 'mom-petition' is out there! We now need to stop and validate ourselves that our slovenly ways are not only acceptable, but also for the well-being of our children? It's good to be messy, because that must mean you are spending all that time making homemade educational games with your child and building forts out of boxes. Right? No. I just cannot believe that all these women advocating this baloney are making their own play-dough and spending the day teaching their own preschool.

In reality, is it not the perfect excuse to be lazy?! "Oh...I WANTED to clean the floors today dear, but I was too busy entertaining the children all.day.long. and couldn't take a moment away from them!" This is said by the same mom who has 5000 pins on Pinterest, has been on Facebook for the better part of the day (that little green dot tells no lies!) and knows the last person kicked off of "Project Runway". Hmmm.....

There's a lot of excuses out there to be dirty. "I'm a single mom" "I have health problems" "I'm pregnant. Again. With my eleventy-billionth spawn."  "I work full time." Valid reasons. Perhaps. To a point. Actually...no. I take that back. I can count at least 3 wonderful mothers in my social circle who work full time, are single moms and one of them is pregnant again. Their houses do NOT look like a tornado just passed through. A dirty, sticky tornado full of chocolate sauce and cheetos that leaves the smell of failure in it's wake.

Yes, it's freaking hard to maintain a job, a child, a relationship with a husband, pets, family, dance class, sports, school, PTA meetings, HOA meetings, cooking and cleaning! It's exhausting  It's frickin' hard to be a 'do it all mom'. It's also called being a grown-up and a good role model for your child! Get your butt up off the couch and push the 'self clean' button on your oven. It's laughable, considering our grandmother's did all the things we complain about without the machine element. Have you tried washing your laundry on a washing board? How about washing all your dishes by hand? ALL your dishes. The vacuum has come a long way in the last 50 years people! Don't get me started on the microwave. All this convenience, but it's somehow equaled more whining.

If you really wanted to be a good mom, perhaps make a game out of cleaning up the house. I'm sure there's a pin on Pinterest for that! You've probably already pinned it. Organized, full Pinterest boards does not a good mother make!

There are moms on the other side of the argument who will say "I'm not home all day to clean. I'm home all day for the betterment of my child!" or "I'm not the maid. I have interests as well and my own life to lead, outside of cleaning my home." Okay, okay. If you want to smell like stale laundry and dust bunnies so large they are mistaken for kittens, be my guest! But own it. Do not hide behind a cute phrase and idealize your poor time management. If you suck at home maintenance, just admit it. If you'd rather watch t.v., play online and eat junk food once in awhile, vs. spend every waking moment with your child, I'm not going to judge you. Just tell the truth. Don't label it as something it's not. There are certainly days I'm a disgusting pig of a person. My kid has gone multiple days without a bath. We've had cookies for dinner. I currently have a stack of laundry on the dryer waiting to be put away. I'm not going to be posting what an amazing mom I am on Facebook any time soon! I'm definitely not putting up a plaque in my house to announce my pride in my graham cracker encrusted couch. I just don't get it......


Talking to a friend recently, she made me feel bad for saying that dirty houses=bad moms. After a long chat, I was really starting to take her points into consideration. Perhaps I'm being too critical. I should probably be more supportive of my fellow moms. I went home after our talk thinking I needed to keep a more open mind. I decided to browse Etsy a bit before bed. In search of the right vinyl "Play!" decal to put above the playroom door I found multiple listings for decals and signs with the horrible phrase "good moms have sticky floors...." Uh....if you have enough time to shop on Etsy for a sticker to validate your atrocious housekeeping, perhaps you might also have time to vacuum or make a bed or two? Just a thought......
I think I'm going to hold my judgmental ground on this one. Perhaps 'good moms' have messy kitchens. Perhaps we as mothers should aspire to be GREAT moms, and have a clean place for our kids to grow-up in as well.

Easter Runaway

Tonight while doing dishes I saw the Dictator randomly go to our entryway, open the front door, and then start to walk out. Curious about what she was doing, I asked her "Hey, where are you going?"
The Dictator: "Oh, nowhere. I'm just running away now. Yeah....I just need to run away. Bye."
Our neighborhood is pretty safe, and from the kitchen I can see our entire block, so I decided to let this play out a little longer and see what she'd do.
The Dictator went outside, wandered around our patio and then went down the block just to the next house over. She looked back at our house, and then wandered back home.
Coming in the door, she says to me "Momma. I need you to run away with me. It's too lonely to run away all alone. Can you come with me please? After you do dishes?"

And for your Easter funny.......

Laying on the couch tonight, the Dictator was avoiding going to bed as usual.
Me: "You know...you better get to sleep or the Easter Bunny won't be able to come and bring your basket."
The Dictator: "What? I have to be asleep? Like Santa? That stinks!"
Me: "Yup. You better to get to sleep before the sun comes up!"
The Dictator takes off running to her room
The Dictator: "Oh my God, the Easter bunny is coming! Fuck! I better get to sleep!"