They’ve finally hit that stage when reading books is more interesting than eating books.
Sights like this (snapped quick! before anyone moves!) make my heart go pitter patter. They ask for books (E yells, “Booka-booka-booka!” while T and C timidly say “boo” minus the k. Well, not “boo,” but more like “buh.” But not. TODDLER PHONETICS ARE CONFUSING.), and they scramble to be in the laps of any book reader.
They’ve even conned non-readers like their daddy and even my dad into reading for them. Yeah, those sights also make my heart go pitter patter.
Their favorites now are touch-and-feel books and books that go well with pointing to things. Nothing too long, but nothing too short.
They’re already picky readers like their mama. I’m so in love.
“Bully,” is a documentary scheduled to premiere in American theaters March 30. Because it has language deemed naughty by the Motion Picture Association of America, it carries an R rating, essentially banning its target audience.
LANGUAGE. This is why bullying remains such a widespread issue. Our country places more importance on semantics like specific words rather than the message a film portrays. Violence? PG-13! Come play, kiddos! Say “fuck” enough times? NO KIDS ALLOWED.
The filmmakers want to bring “Bully” into schools for much-needed viewing, but with an R rating, that’s impossible.
Kids need to see this film. Truthfully, parents do, too. And maybe needing a parent/guardian to see the film in theaters is a blessing in disguise, but that’s only if the kids ask, oblige their parents’ request or are forced to see it.
Read more about “Bully” and the MPAA, check out the trailer on YouTube, and add your name to the petition if you think MPAA should change the film’s rating. Then tell people about the film. Even if it doesn’t get a ratings change, maybe it’ll become so popular that the idiotic rating won’t matter.
The Internet is a strange place. It’s full of inspiration, information, opinions, ideas and experiences – some are familiar, and some yank us from our comfort zones, introducing us to things we could have never imagined.
With blogging, it’s a simple matter of finding that perfect niche.
Simple. Riiiiiiight.
Sometimes, a voice within rushes out with a vengeance, attacking the keyboard through pounding fingertips.
It feels refreshing to hit Publish, to go back and read the words that hit you at your core and then learn that they find resonance with others.
Blogging magic.
Other times, you twiddle your thumbs to the time of the blinking cursor, feeling the urge to say something but totally unsure of what needs to be said.
Infertility and pregnancy and even NICU life were easy for me to write honestly about. I have no problem sharing my deepest and darkest with the world as long as I’m the only one who would face the potential wrath of The Dissenting Internet Reader.
Motherhood is different. My experiences are no longer my own, especially since I’m with my family 95 percent of the time. My feelings are more raw and relatable than ever, but I’d hate for them to read about some difficulty I’ve had as a parent and interpret it as a difficulty with them as people.
And so I stick to the happy, the gushing, the pride. While my writing is far from being short of emotion or excitement, it does fall short from lighting that spark that connects to readers.
Truthfully, that spark is fun. It’s cool to see strangers take away something from what I’ve said or done.
I just don’t know how to find that spark again, and I wonder if I ever will. I’ve gotten lost in my blogging journey, and I’m not sure how to find my voice again.
I haven’t been stupid brave enough to attempt … well, anything in public involving just me and three kiddos. The potential for disaster is just uncomfortable enough for me to take advantage of some willing set(s) of arms – 99 percent of the time, somebody’s available. What about that 1 percent? I say, “Screw it. _______ can wait till later,” and settle into home, our safety zone.
I know it’ll happen eventually, but with three totally dependent hooligans, it’s just too scary to even think about.
That’s why my mom usually comes with us to the pediatrician. It’s also why Rob took the day off work for their 1-year well-child checkup (aka vaccination plus Synagis hell day).
When there’s three of us (like the well-child checkup), it’s man-to-man defense. On days like today, a “regular” Synagis visit, it was me and my mom vs. three upset kiddos vs. one nurse vs. one doctor.
Four-corner cage match, anyone?
At nearly 15 months old, Toby, Eleanor and Callista recognize the doctor’s office and start wailing/screeching/fussing/clinging/generally freaking out as soon as we pass the lobby threshold.
Awesome.
The volume cranked even higher when the nurse entered the exam room. Higher yet when we laid the first victim patient on the table to be undressed. Higher yet when that first kiddo was taken away to face the evil, baby-eating monster scale.
And sympathy cries? Yeah, we have those. The volume kept rising because it wasn’t just the up-to-bat kiddo that was crying. It was also the one on deck. And the one in the hole. They watch each other, they sense each other, and they bounce emotions off each other.
Those exam rooms need to be bigger, better ventilated and come equipped with sound-absorbing walls and parent-accessible temperature controls.
At one point, I had to return the writhing, red-bodied (the red anger/frustration/fear flush had crept from their tear-streaked faces into their arms and trunks), trying-desperately-to-flee twosome from my lap back to the double stroller.
I feel completely helpless in doctor’s exam rooms most of the time. No amount of comfort I can possibly split in three (because even though I’m only holding one or two, I naturally am still tied to the third) is ever enough, and I start to come apart at the seams.
That’s when damage control kicks in, and that’s why I had to remove two from my lap – a place where they should get comfort – to their cold, not-loving stroller.
Babies love boundaries. Their stroller is familiar. It was safer for them to be there, where they couldn’t wriggle and fall from my lap onto the (dirty! germ-covered!) floor. Blah, blah, blah, comforting words, blah, blah, blah.
Honestly, it was probably a tad more comfortable because the stroller didn’t add to their body heat like mine and their lapmate’s did.
But it still felt like I was giving up, and it still stung. The damage control I need to resort to at times always does.
Sometimes, like today at the pediatrician’s, I just need a clear head to get us all through the current situation, to be able to listen, answer questions, observe and, to be perfectly honest, make sure no one’s making dumb mistakes.
My lack of nurturing words, cuddling and rocking in these heinous situations probably look so cold. I’m honestly not concerned about what the doctors and nurses think of my damage-control tactics because they probably can’t get past, “God, I’m glad I’m not her right now.”
But I do worry what my sweet babies think. They don’t understand that we’re just trying to power through the misery, eyes focused on the parking lot and getting the hell out of there without worry of needing to come back later because something went wrong. They don’t yet grasp that ever-important concept of efficiency.
I’d love to write off the tear-soaked, ear-throbbing visits as memories that quickly fade in their heads, but the way they cry when walking through the door tells me otherwise.
I’d love to write off their negative association as one that lies solely with the office, but the fact that I can offer no comfort there short of getting them safely away …
Damage control is a necessary evil. I’ve gone over past visits in my head until I’ve exhausted myself with the woulda-coulda-shouldas, and I’ve still be unable to improve the experience for us as a group. Taking one at a time could certainly improve the actual visit, but that would mean three two-hour trips out of the house in one day? One week? That’s a lot when you have a routine like ours that doesn’t allow for much wiggle room, especially during RSV season.
I don’t know if there is a solution. This may be one of those things that we need to settle for, to chalk up as one of the gives in the give-take chart.
Thank God we have only one more dose of the monthly Synagis series left. This, too, shall pass.
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