Thursday, March 7, 2013

Who has two thumbs and is the worst mother in the world? Ok, Joan Crawford, but I’m giving her a run for her money. It’s just been that kind of week. Mac wouldn’t eat his dirty rice to go with his turkey meatloaf, which he only eats because it’s a nice condiment for his ketchup. Anyway, Mac announced that he doesn’t like black beans. They are too dark. I didn’t know that bean racism was real. What an ugly reality to face at the dinner table.

As my ode to pregnancy showed, I’m just a bit on edge. There has been more than average stress in recent weeks. And it gets me even more edgy. Despite everything I tell myself, I know that my children pick up on stressed parents. Baby is particularly sensitive. She’s a particularly affectionate and demonstrative child. It’s beautiful. Except when she’s caring for me. Sometimes. Depending on my mood.

A wiser women than me mentioned that children, especially sweet ones like Baby, handle stress in the same way they seek reassurance when they are sad. And I think this is very true. If Baby gets in trouble, she still seeks out my lap or a hug or some sort of reassurance that she’s not kicked out of the family. Of course, she’s still the child who boxed herself up and announced that she was ready to be donated to the gypsies. It takes everything in me to not ask myself why that seemed like desirable choice. Especially when the other option was life with me.

So back to Baby. Her love language is touch. Well, hold, hug, grasp and hang. Lots of touch. This morning, with nothing to inspire her, as far as I know, snuggled up to me on the couch. A little mom and daughter bonding is lovely. But that’s not what Baby was looking for. Before I knew it, she was burrowing into me, much like a blood sucking insect. That sounds horrible, but she wasn’t satisfied with mom’s arm around her, her head resting on her mom’s shoulder. No, her head needed to rest between my ribs and internal organs. Baby’s not so much interested in walking in my shoes. Unless my feet are in them as well. I swear the child wants to share my clothes. And not only that, if I need my arm to say, turn a page, well she reacts as if I personally have killed Santa, the Easter Bunny and the tooth fairy.
Seeing as I already have one child actually living under my skin, I don’t need another one doing so. But how does a mother tell her sweet little girl “Quit touching me!” Baby is easily crushed, and I can just see the psychological damage happening as we speak. So, as we’re standing in line at Costco, she hangs off my arm, while I try to load the conveyor belt. How do you shake off the little girl who just saw a bunch of red roses and announced “I want to buy those for you so that I can put them on your coffin when you die.”

Mac’s has a similar approach. Although he did actually stop at the clothing level. He is satiated by sticking his head up my shirt or walking around with his hands on my bare back. He’s also perfectly amenable to wrapping his arms around my neck. This most certainly is his mode of expressing affection. He had taken to rejecting my kisses so I asked him how I could show him I loved him. His reply was simple “Just give me piggy back rides.” Boys are so much more straightforward.

I’m wrapping this up as I listen to the father figure tell Baby “this is the third hug you’ve given me tonight, go to bed.” She doesn’t seem too soul crushed, just busted. 

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