Dread overhead

Bubby and his mamaMegan called Tuesday night to ask a few questions about Bubby. And his rash. Another in a long line of ailments that have plagued the little guy since around Halloween. Ailments that can be, for the most part, chalked up to the germapalooza Bubby faces with Mom being a teacher and him being enrolled in daycare -- a double whammy of germ-catching probabilities.

First it was -- or so the pediatrician thought -- asthma, which turned out to be just a bad cold. Then Bubby ended up with H1N1. That cleared up a bit ... until the second coming of the flu threw him for a loop. Then the little pink dots of roseola made an appearance (although the doctors apparently call it something a little more fancy nowadays). Then, after months of the yuck, Bubby finally seemed himself again.

Until last night. When little pink dots appeared again all over Bubby's chest.

"I was just settling into thinking things were back to normal," Megan said. "Then I saw the rash and got this feeling in the pit of my stomach. I thought, 'You've got to be kidding me!' Is this what parenting's like, Mom?"

(Bubby's 19 months old and we're just now having this conversation ... ?)

"Uh, yeah, Megan," I told her. "Welcome to parenting. That dread never goes away."

"That's what that sick feeling is? That's dread?"

"Yep, and it never, ever, ever goes away. You'll be living with it for the rest of your life."

She laughed. And so did I ... just so she wouldn't feel stupid when she realized how serious I was. I proceeded to point out to her all the moments of dread I've had just in the past two weeks, all related to one thing or another I've faced as a parent. Dread, dread, dread. And my kids are grown, hurtling faster than I ever imagined they would toward the 30-years-old mark.

She, on the other hand, has a little one, with more surely to come. And as long as you have a child -- which, once you have one, will be the rest of your life, one hopes -- you have dread overhead. It begins with worries about delivering a healthy baby, getting him past the point of SIDS, feeding him correctly, keeping him safe in the world around him. Then he grows, his world expands and a plethora of dreadful possibilities keep Mom awake at night.

Some moms may think -- moms of youngsters, that is -- the age of 18 is some magical year that means Mom will no longer worry, no longer dread. It's not true. At what age might a mom say to herself, "Okay, my kid's old enough now that I don't have to care what happens to him"? Doesn't happen. In fact, I've found the dread increases as one's power and influence (Mom's power and influence) decreases.

So yes, Megan, that sick feeling in the pit of your stomach -- that dread -- will remain with you for the rest of your life.

That's not to say the dread is overwhelming, though. Parenting comes with a host of stronger, happier emotions, too, welcome feelings that also reside in the pit of your stomach, wrap around your heart, stretch from your toes to your hair follicles, and ooze from every pore.

But that dread is always lurking. Maybe it's a fail-safe measure to ensure Mom deeply appreciates and savors the warm fuzzies, knowing the cold pricklies may bear their burrs unannounced at any time.

As soon as I hung up the phone from scaring the bejeezus out of Megan, I realized that THAT -- dread -- is the difference between parenting and grandparenting. It's the lack of dread. Grandmas don't have to worry, to fear ... to dread ... what will become of her grandchildren. That's Mom's job. Grandma's job description demands loving, spoiling, hugging, rocking, adoring the little one. Nary a mention of dread.

Grandmahood, I've learned, is a dread-free zone -- a zone in which I'm oh-so happy to have arrived!

Today's question:

What are you currently dreading?

My answer: I'm dreading going to small claims court because Renewal By Andersen owes me money. But I'm going to; it's my current "feel the fear and do it anyway" moment. (ugh!)

True colors

Bubby was an absolute angel over the weekend while I babysat him. He played alone fantastically, and just as cheerfully brought toys and books to me so we could play and read together.

He jumped at the opportunity to take baths and brush his teeth, with nary a grumble.

He even happily trotted to his changing table when it was time to change his diaper and gladly nestled into my arms when I told him it was bedtime.

Like I said, he was an absolute angel.

  

Well, there were a few times when little Booger Bubby showed his face:

                    

But such times generally related to frustration with a puzzle piece not fitting in place or a toy working against him in one way or another. Frustration, not brattiness.

Then Mommy and Daddy got home.

And the brattiness arrived along with them.

As soon as Megan and Preston got home, Bubby alternated between the little angel I'd seen for three full days and the little monster Mommy had been afraid might scare Grandma. He whined, cried, gave dirty looks and refused to eat all of his meals.

I've been in the "Mommy" position, with friends, family, school teachers and others telling me how absolutely angelic my girls are, that they're model students and kind little team players who kiss the teacher's butt cheefully help without prompting.

Then we'd get home. And they'd be monsters -- whining, crying, giving dirty looks and refusing to eat their dinner.

And these were the teen years!

Okay, not really. (The teen years were far, far worse ... but those are stories for other days.)

When the girls were young, they were polite, well-behaved and did the right thing around others. It was only with me and Jim that they felt comfortable enough to voice their true opinions, true feelings, true frustrations and upsets. They knew our love was completely unconditional, that they could be as horrible as they wanted to be, and we would still love them. Completely, totally, unconditionally.

That's what Bubby was doing with Megan and Preston. With me, he was an angel; with them, he could be as upset as he wanted to be. (And very likely the upset stemmed from it being the first time they left him for more than a day. He felt the need to punish them just a smidgen for having the audacity to enjoy a little grownup time, I believe.)

I love that Bubby was so sweet and kind, wonderful and well-behaved during my time with him.

But I hope that one day, Bubby will be comfortable enough with me to show his true colors any time they want to bleed through. That he will know that no matter how boogerish he gets with me, I'll still love him -- completely, totally, unconditionally.

Today's question:

If you could call any living person to ask for advice, who would you call?

I would call the very smartest, most qualified doctor at Mayo Clinic -- to get some answers for my hubby.

Monkey tales

Monkey Bubby rides poor Roxie.*In exactly two weeks I get to see Bubby! Hooray, hooray! Preston has a big conference in San Diego at a fancy-schmancy resort and Megan gets to go along.

And I get to be flown to their home base to babysit Bubby for three days, all by myself!

We've had this planned for quite some time, but I'm starting to think Megan now has a few concerns about leaving me alone with Bubby for a few days. For my sake and sanity, not his.

A recent conversation:

Me: So, did you get the toy box put together? (Santa brought Bubby a new wooden toy box that also serves as bench seating.)

Megan: Yeah, we did. <hearty chuckle>

Me: And ... how does Bubby like it?

Megan: He loves it! We have it sitting by the couch and he first used it to jump from the toy box onto the couch. Then he decided to try jumping from the couch to the toy box. From there, he figured out how to jump directly off the toybox onto the floor.

Me: <stifling my "What the hell? He's still a baby! He's going to hurt himself!" instant reaction> Oh really ... hmmmmm ...

Megan: But we LET him do that. That's just the way we do things, Mom. We let him be ... a monkey.

Me: <silence as I try to decide if my Bubby is a bratty terror who gets to run wild throughout the house or if he's a tad too rambunctious and needs to be tamed before he hurts himself ... or both>

Megan: <in her "treading lightly" voice> I'm telling you that because I just want you to know that he's allowed to do that. He gets to be a monkey in our house, and I'm sure it's going to give you a heart attack.

Me: Oh-kay ... So, does Bubby help put his toys in the toy box? <stealthily changing the subject>

Sheesh. Seems my daughter thinks I can't handle a monkey of a boy. A wild, crazy, physically daring little boy who pulls stools down on his head, rides the dog as if Roxie were a bucking bronco, and regularly sports bruises, bangs and rug burns from his acrobatics.

She thinks I'm too paranoid about kids getting hurt. I get it. I can read between the lines.

Yes, I'm a paranoid mother who suffered hysterical panic attacks at a child's slightest veer from a stationary position feared for the safety of my little ones ... and had ridiculous unfounded phobias about them falling down -- or up! -- stairs (thank God Bubby has no stairs in his house) ... and gave regular thanks that I had daughters who couldn't go out for football where they'd surely suffer concussions or worse. (Although Andie didn't fare much better with soccer; and Brianna did break bones in track; and Megan had her fingers smashed flat -- honest to God -- in a bout on the playground.)

Okay, so derring do scares me a bit when it comes to my babies.

But hey, doesn't Megan remember that we got a massive trampoline when the girls were preteens? And it didn't even have one of those safety-net surrounds! And I didn't wrap them in bubble-wrap before they climbed aboard.

See ... I can do danger!

Although I must admit: There were so many rules and regulations surrounding the use of the death trap bouncing mat of joy that it was probably not much fun for anyone -- least of all the friends and neighborhood kids who weren't allowed to even remove their shoes and pretend to set foot on it without their parents' signatures on the three-page liability release for kids who become paralyzed or die permission slip I handed out to one and all.

See, Megan. I can handle monkeys. I can do danger. It just has to be safe danger!

*Luckily Roxie thinks Bubby's hugs make up for the wild ride.

Today's question from Zobmondo's 'Would You Rather...?' board game:

Would you rather live for 10 additional years at the top of your game -OR- for 30 additional years in which you have moments of brilliance amidst trials and tragedies?

I vote for the second. I'd like as many years as possible to see how fabulously life unfolds for my children, grandchildren, great-grandchildren. And since trials and tragedies are part and parcel of life as it is now, I don't really see any need to trade in 30 years of that for 10 years of being at the top of my game.

Update

on 2010-01-07 19:27 by Lisa Carpenter

Oh ho ho!! I just got a phone call from Megan. She read this post ... and proceeded to tell me that she'd been forgetting (yeah, right) to call and let me know that soon after the conversation above, Bubby proceeded to jump from the back of the couch onto the floor and LANDED FACE FIRST, BIT THROUGH HIS LIP AND MEGAN THOUGHT SHE WAS GOING TO HAVE TO TAKE HIM IN FOR STITCHES!

So Mama/Grandma's not so damn paranoid after all, my little Meggie Beggie!

Even Preston said to Megan that evening, "Uh, maybe we shouldn't be letting Bubby do that anymore."

(Brianna voiced that maybe Megan kept "forgetting" to tell me about the incident because she didn't want to admit I was RIGHT!)

Luckily Bubby didn't need stitches nor did he break his new little teeth ... this time!

The fun begins

Frankly, I'm not sure I believe Megan's claims. How can my Bubby be anything but absolutely precious all the time!?There are so many challenges that come with parenting, beginning from the moment the baby arrives. Most of those early challenges are related to the fact the baby can't talk, can't say what's going on. Is he hungry or hurt? Sick or sleepy?

Moms (and dads) muddle through the best they can, anxiously awaiting the day their little one can talk.

Little do they know that it's once their sweet snookums can talk that the real work fun begins.

Seems Megan is just now learning that.

Bubby is nearly 19 months old. And he's learned how to communicate -- sometimes in real words, sometimes in real whines, and sometimes in all-out, throw-myself-on-the-floor, I-want-what-I-want-and-I-want-it-now-dammit tantrums.

In other words, he's hitting the terrible twos.

"What happened to my sweet boy?" Megan asked me yesterday.

"Sounds like he's definitely his mama's son," I told her.

"Yeah, that's all I can think about," she replied.

She remembers the screaming, crying, whining, door-slamming, "I hate yous!" and running to her room. Wait ... those were the teen years.

No, it's the pictures she's thinking about, she says. All the pictures we have of her as a toddler and little girl, crying because life was so absolutely horrible when she didn't get her way. Or get all the attention -- from the dog, her mom, her dad, her little sister, her big sister, anyone daring enough to visit the house.

Full disclosure: In all honesty, Megan didn't cry and throw fits because she was a brat; she cried all the damn time because she was truly heartbroken, my hypersensitive little Meggie. She regularly handed over her heart to anyone within arm's length, then suffered utter devastation when they didn't accept -- or understand -- the gift they were being given.

And now, with Bubby using all his emotions and communication skills to his full advantage, all Megan can think about are the pictures.

All I can think about is that it's payback time.

(And that she's pretty darn lucky her first child is a boy because the hell fun will really begin when she has a hormone-raging, mama-testing little girl!)

Today's question from "If ... (Questions for the Game of Life)":

If you had to choose the worst song ever composed, which one would you pick?

I'm sure there are others but as of right now, just because it's still fresh in my mind with the recent holidays, it's that absolutely stupid, sickening, ear worm of a Christmas tune (if you can call it that) by Paul McCartney that goes ... "Sim-ply hav-ing a WONderful Christmas time." AACK! I hate that song and turned off the radio or changed the channel every time it came on.