K is for Kiss

Lily gives the best kisses.

I know, I know. Everyone thinks their kid gives the best kisses.

But for me, hers are the best.

They can brighten my day and make me feel loved and calm me when I'm anxious and make a sweet moment even sweeter.

Since they are so precious to me, and since I am Mommy after all, I sometimes feel entitled to these kisses.

But sometimes, she does not want to give me a kiss. Nor does she want me to give her a kiss.

And then I have to decide.

Do I kiss her anyway, because really it's no big deal, I'm Mommy, and her cheeks are just so squishy?

Or do I tell her- out loud- that she is in charge of her kisses.

The answer is always the latter. Always.

It makes me sad that this is a lesson I have to teach.

And yet.

J is for Jump

Lily is a busy kid.

I don't mean she's over-scheduled. I've worked hard to avoid that.

I mean she's busy.

She never. Stops. Moving.

Until she's asleep. Then she's OUT.

In fact, Lily is still sleeping right now. I need to take her to school at some point. But she's not exactly a morning girl. That's OK. Neither is Mommy.

We're both busy girls. She keeps me on my toes. She runs and twirls and kicks. And jumps.

Lily will likely be an athlete. At not-quite-four she can swim the length of the pool. She swims in a class of 5 and 6 year olds. She's working on her technique. Maybe she'll be a swimmer. Maybe it will be something else. But she will likely be an athlete.

A few days ago she told me she wanted to be a cheerleader for Go Ohio (Ohio U. Not Ohio State. Just so we're clear) and the Angry Birds. (She thinks the Cardinal for the local high school looks like the famous video game. She's kind of right.) As a former cheerleader myself, I would love that.

But I mostly want to be a cheerleader for her. I'll be the Mom with the printed sweatshirts and crazy bows in my hair. No shame. That's my kid. And she jumps.

I is for Infertility

I know. Just the title makes you uncomfortable. I get it. It makes me kinda uncomfortable too.

And I don't even have a really clear vision for this blog entry. But I know it's important to discuss it.

Actually, that's the vision, I think. The fact that we need to discuss it.

I have a friend who refers to infertility as The Forgotten Pain. People struggle with infertility. And then they get pregnant. (More often than not.) And then they kinda sorta forget what it felt like to live with the pain.

Or they adopt. And they forget.

I would prefer to forget. I really REALLY would like to forget. But there are a few reasons why it lingers with me.

First, I wrote a book about it. (Wanna read it? Think happy thoughts for me. I'll start trying to find an agent soon.) So it's tough to close the door on that chapter of my life. Well, ten chapters really. I continue to revisit and revise our first year of trying to get pregnant. And with each new draft it gets a little easier. And I know it will help a lot of women. But it makes it impossible to forget.

Second, I was "diagnosed" with unexplained infertility. Awesome. Helpful.

In layman's terms (because I know that was some serious medical jargon) the doctors (several doctors) told me "you've never gotten pregnant, and we have no idea why," So technically.... it could still happen. We're not actively "trying" any more (temping, charts, tests, etc.) But it's possible. Although that becomes less likely with each birthday.

Third, our daughter is at an age where she is asking about siblings. Tonight at dinner she actually asked for a sister. She would be a fantastic big sister. But we don't have the money to adopt another child. (We're still working on the money for the first one.) And it's bigger than that, too. Because please. If you are thinking of adopting, there are ways to come up with the money. But frankly, we don't feel called to adopt another child right now. We just don't. At least not yet.

I wish I had something helpful to say to anyone who may be visiting this blog for the first time. I wish I could tell you that you will get pregnant, or that you will be a Mom someday, or that it will all be OK. I wish I could tell you it eventually hurts less.

But I can tell you this. You do learn to cope.

There are a lot of us out there. And if we keep talking to each other, at least we don't have to feel alone.

H is for Hair

I have really good hair. It grows freakishly fast and it's straight when I straighten it and it's curly when I curl it. I can wear it down or pull it into short pigtails. (They're short because I donated a bunch recently) I get expensive haircuts and I haven't dyed it in 8 years. I'm really picky about my hair. It's one of my best features.

Lily's race is a mix of Black, Latina, and White. (In descending order by percentage.) I knew when we decided to adopt outside of our race that hair would likely be an issue. I knew I'd have some learning to do, and I was ready to accept the challenge.

What didn't occur to me was how my hair and my feelings towards it would affect Lily. Nor how my feelings towards her hair would affect me.

When we got Lily she was twelve days old. Her hair was slick and curly. Throughout her first year the curls got tighter, starting in the back and working their way towards the front. By her first birthday she had the cutest afro you've ever seen. So we let it grow out that way. Or... we tried to.

For the next two years we managed her afro the best that we could. I would trim it at home, and a few times we took her to a kids' salon where she could sit in a car and watch a movie. It looked cute most days. But we knew it was tangled- badly tangled- at the roots. And on days when it didn't look so great, we felt judged. Sometimes strangers would even stop us. Did we need help with her hair?

Now, my feelings towards these strangers and whether this is appropriate is a whole other blog. Or series of blogs. (I don't stop strangers who put their kids in dorky outfits and ask if they need help with fashion. And I don't stop strangers whose kids don't sing on key and ask if they need music lessons. I understand it's not a perfect comparison as there are major culture ties with Black women and hair. But still. Keep your opinions to yourself, total strangers.) But the point is that something needed to be done, and we knew it.

Her tangles weren't for lack of trying or caring. But Lily is tender-headed. How could we possibly work through those tangles to pull it back into any other style? We couldn't imagine getting her to sit without writhing and screaming.

Enter our good friends from church, who explained that we wouldn't do it without writhing and screaming.

They came over one Sunday afternoon, armed with cupcakes and more hair products than I have ever seen. And the four of us got to work. We worked for four or five hours. We worked until we were all exhausted. We worked until Lily started screaming for help. "Grandma! Grandpa! JESUS!"

And we made it to about the front of her ears.

That was nearly a year ago. Since that day, Ryan and I have looked at the whole... hair thing... in a new light. We learned that we have to hold her down. We learned that she will scream. We also learned that eventually we won't have to hold her down, and she'll stop screaming. (Last Sunday she sat for four hours. We would have bought her a pony had she asked.)

And four days ago we finally got all the tangles out.

There have been some crazy hair styles along the way. Pony tails in just the front with tangles in the back. Twists on just one side of her head. Hair sticking out in all directions. And it's not that we thought these styles were OK. Or that we didn't care. We were trying.And she lost a good hunk in the back that just couldn't be saved. Not that she has bald spots or anything. It's just much shorter there. Fortunately we can cover the spots with pony tails, and we can keep it detangled as it grows back.

So we're learning about her hair and how to take care of it. We're getting much, much better. And she's learning that it's a lot of work to keep her hair pretty. And she's learning to be patient. And she's learning to sit still. And she's learning that she'll probably get a lot of treats if she just stays calm.

But what we haven't learned yet is how to deal with the emotional issues that come with having different hair. Both hers, and mine.

For her, it has come up twice. About a year ago she was playing with my hair. And then she looked sad. And she said "princesses don't have Lily hair. Princesses have Mommy hair." Fortunately I was able to find "The Princess and the Frog" in a hurry and pop it into the DVD player. I showed her how Tianna (as a little girl, anyway) has hair just like hers. And she was immediately placated.

And then yesterday, I was wearing pigtails. Not because it's age-appropriate, but because I was running around and needed it out of my face. She asked if we were going to put her hair in pigtails, too. We told her we would. And we did. And she cried.

"NOOOOOOOOO! I want them like YOURS!"

I didn't know how to explain that her pigtails couldn't be hanging from the back of her head in two sleek curls like mine. All I could tell her was that we had different hair, that I loved her hair, that she was beautiful. I reminded her that everywhere we go people comment on her awesome hair. (Which is unique in our uber-white town.) She eventually settled down. But it broke my heart.

And then there are my own issues with her hair. I don't want to feel judged everywhere I go. I don't want to have to worry if we can run to the mall because we didn't get very far in the detangling process the night before and her hair looks crazy today. I don't want to wish I could explain myself to strangers who look at me with judgement. I don't want to try to convince Lily to wear a hat, because I don't ever want her to pick up my discomfort and make it her own.

There are tons of blogs out there about taking care of Black hair. There are even blogs written specifically by White women who adopted Black children who are learning to take care of their hair. And they're really helpful

But what we don't talk about much is how we deal with the learning curve. I may need to discuss it more here, in fact. Because I'm learning. But I make a lot of mistakes. And I need support in that.

G is for Greenwich

Ten years ago we moved from a small town in Ohio to NYC to become artists. We lived in Bushwick (bad idea) and on Wall Street (expensive idea) and Forest Hills (comfortable but not very convenient idea). I loved living in New York. It was part of my identity.

Then just a few months after we got Lily, Ryan got a new job in Greenwich, CT. He spent the next year doing what is commonly known as a "reverse commute." It's a nice way of people saying "Why would you live there and work there?" I was home alone with a baby in Queens with no car. He felt so far away. It would take him hours to drive home. We finally decided to move to Greenwich.

The night before we moved I could not stop crying.

We arrived in Greenwich, and I stopped crying after about an hour.

Here's the thing about Greenwich. It's really easy to bash. Yes, it's the preppy capital of the world. Yes, there is so much money that if viewed through a certain lens it can make you sick to your stomach. Yes, a lot of the people here are a little out of touch with reality. Yes, there can be a lot of pressure.

And I see all of those things.

And I ignore them.

And I kinda love it in Greenwich.

It's important to note here that we do NOT have a lot of money. Like, really not. Our situation has slowly improved over the past three years. (Probably because we live in an area that can afford our services- piano lessons and interior design.) But we will never be able to keep up with the Jones'. In fact, the Jones' have no idea who we are. We're much more likely to hang out with the Jones' nanny.

I just don't let it bother me. As simple as that. (Well, as simple as that after ten years of therapy.)

I let people compliment me on my clothes. And then I tell them proudly that I got them at Second Time Around. I am ecstatic to send my daughter to public school in (gasp!) about 18 months. She's zoned for a language magnet school for goodness sake. We're active at the YMCA, and she goes to an amazing preschool that also happens to be the most cost efficient. I am confident she'll learn her ABC's. In fact, she already has, and now she's working on the sign language for each letter. (Something the children of my friends know nothing about, despite going to the most expensive schools available.)

Greenwich has resources I've never seen in any other town. The beach is ridiculous. The library is ridiculous. The parks are ridiculous. The hospital is ridiculous. The schools are ridiculous. And all of those things are available to us as citizens of Greenwich. So thanks, people with money.

And when it comes to the Greenwich attitudes surrounding money, I know there are people who are concerned with how it will effect their children. And I get that. But you know what? I decide what my daughter's outlook on money will be. Not my neighbors.

We're going to the Bronx Zoo today. Because New York City is right down the road. So come visit us soon. Bring a bathing suit and a strong sense of self.

F is for Flylady

...who would want me to stop worrying about these blog posts being perfect.

I have trouble keeping our apartment clean.

No. Really.

It's bad. Especially with a preschooler. Holy cow can she tear up a room in a hurry.

But it's always been a problem for me. Even before I was a Mom. So several years ago I was looking for help on the internet. (The number one modern way to solve any problem.) And I found flylady.

Warning. This post is little more than a place for me to sing her praises. And if you need the kind of help that I do, it might change your life.

Finding the flylady website helped me realize that my housekeeping troubles were a symptom of my depression. So if it was ever going to get better, I would need to treat it just like any other habit that needed to change. I realized that I wasn't any idiot. I wasn't lazy. I wasn't a slob.

And I also realized that depression wasn't an excuse for a messy home.

Most of all, I realized I could do it. I could approach things with baby steps, I could develop small habits, and I could make a change.

For the past seven or eight years, I've been tinkering with a flylady plan that works for me. And sometimes it needs to change. And sometimes it works better than others. But the plan is always there. And just knowing that helps me get through the day sometimes.

If you think flylady might help you, check out the link to her page.  A few notes:

1. I'm not selling you anything right now. This is a free service. I promise you. I'm just passing on something I found to be useful.

2. Some of my friends have found the home page to be intimidating. It's just a lot of information. So I'm linking you directly to the "getting started" page. It's a step-by-step way to change your life. Baby steps, my friends!

3. Wanna talk about it? Comment below :)

E is for Emissions Test

Readers who know me in real life probably assume I mean the emissions test for my own real car. (A Volvo station wagon. Because I like to take the suburban Mom thing as far as I can.) A few weeks ago I was pulled over for an expired registration. Lily was confused. Why was the policeman helping us? That's what policemen do, right? Help people? We didn't need help....

I told Lily that Mommy had the wrong sticker on her car. They aren't stickers any more. But that's not important to a three-year-old. I told her Mommy had to take her car to get "fixed"and get the right sticker. And then I didn't drive my car for a week. And then I made several trips to the DMV. And now, it's taken care of.

So people who know me in person may assume that's the emissions test I mean. But hey. I live-tweeted that situation already. (Think I'm kidding? Look me up. @ThrlyMdrnMindy) So I'm not gonna tell that story.

Instead, I'm going to tell the story of the emissions test for Lily's Barbie Jeep.

Friday was gorgeous. After months indoors, we were able to play outside for hour. So Lily asked if she could drive her Barbie Jeep (a fancy Power Wheels that Santa found on Craigslist).

And she does like to drive it. She's better at the pedal than she is the steering. So there's a lot of crashing. But she likes to drive it.

More importantly, though, she uses it as the coolest prop ever in her game of Let's Pretend We're Grown-Ups.

On Friday afternoon, Lily picked me up in her Jeep. (fortunately I'm a teeny tiny Mommy and I can kinda sorta fit if I sit on top of the seat back.) She drove until she crashed, then announced that we would get out to play the piano. We wandered around until she announced that we were finished, drove until we crashed, and stopped again. She needed to get gas. The gas process was detailed and accurate- from taking off the gas cap to waving at me from the back to paying with a card at the invisible pump.

A moment later we crashed again. I was instructed to stay in the car. (Notice: at no point in Lily's 4 years has she been left in the car alone. Just for the record.) She told me she was meeting some friends. She met them last night. At a grown-up party. Where they drank beer and ate spicy things. They're really nice.

Unfortunately her friends didn't show. Probably off someone drinking beer and eating spicy things, I suppose. So we drove away. And we stopped. We didn't crash. We just stopped.

She got out of her car, put her hands on her hips, and opened the hood. She shook her head. "It's not working." She said. She then instructed me to be "that guy who fixes the cars." She needed it fixed so she could get the right sticker.

Fortunately for Lily I have an imaginary certificate in imaginary car repair and emissions testing. So I gave her the imaginary sticker and we drove away.

And the whole game was both delightful and terrifying.

Playing with Lily is fun. The other day I was sitting in a lecture with a group of Moms. We were learning about ways to connect and play with our children. This has never been an issue for me. (Cleaning, on the other hand. Well... see tomorrow's post.) It's great for parents to have some things to initiate. But for the most part I've found that if I follow her lead, she can come up with more fun than I ever could. And I get to work on my improv acting chops.

But it was also terrifying. Lily drove herself through a day in the life of Mommy with more accuracy than my husband could. She's learning about life and how it works by watching and copying Mommy and Daddy.

No pressure.