June 29, 2009

Anxiety

I’ve been feeling anxiety lately.  In sixteen weeks or so, I’ll be promoted to the new status of Mom of Two.  And with the new addition to our family comes new challenges that I’ll need to face head-on.

I worry about things.  Crazy things.

Will I treat my boys fairly?  Will I favor one son over the other?  What if I love Dawson more than the baby?  What if I love the baby more than Dawson?  I can’t imagine I would do that, but what if I don’t know I’m doing it?  What if Dawson feels replaced by his new brother?

And then I think of all the mistakes I made while parenting Dawson.  For example, I spanked Dawson once.  It’s painful to write those words.  I had a mommy meltdown due to him misbehaving and swatted his behind.  I immediately felt awful for doing it.  The guilt of it still eats away at me.  I don’t ever want to do that again.  But what if Dawson always remembers that I spanked him and not his brother?  Will he think I was a mean mom?

I know this is insane, but I honestly worry about this crap, and it makes me cry.

What if I take too many photos of Dawson and not enough of the new baby?  Or what if I try to compensate for all the photos of Dawson and take too many of the new baby?

I could spend days worrying about this stuff and never be the wiser.  I try to block out all these thoughts and questions because it just makes me nuts.

I want to love my children equally, but what if I don’t?  Is that even possible?  I mean, really… I have no idea.  This is new territory for me.

I’m so all over the place about this stuff that I can’t even put all my thoughts into words.

I look at my Dawson and the love I have for him makes my heart swell.  He’s still my baby and always will be.  I just want him to know I love him very, very much, and that he will forever have a place in my heart.  I want the new baby to know that, too.

Please tell me I’m not the only one who worries about this.  I’m starting to feel crazy.

June 28, 2009

Open Letters

I’m ranting open letter style.  If I don’t get this stuff off my chest, I’ll go mad.  If you’re not in the mood for ranting, by all means skip this post.

———-

Dear Neighbors,

Yes, I realize the 4th of July is next Saturday, but does that really mean I have to endure several nights of home-grown explosives because you’ve decided to celebrate early?  And why do y’all insist on lighting these damn things after 10 p.m.?  Can we keep it down until this Friday?  If you shut the hell up until then, I won’t say a word when you light the damn neighborhood on fire on Friday, Saturday and Sunday.

Thanks,

The tired pregnant woman down the street.

———-

Dear Dawson,

Your mother is tired.  She is.  I know you’d love to have every freakin’ toy that Nickelodeon advertises during commercials, but I’m not made of money.  Bills must be paid.

I know you want to go on the “inner net” and check out PlayhouseDisney.com, Legos.com, LuckyCharms.com and Trix.com, but you have no idea what to do on some of these sites, and you hollar for me to come help you.  I have work to do, so can you please ask your Dad to help?

Yes, I know you want to go vote for the Most Addicting Video Game because Spencer (no, I don’t know his real name) from iCarly says you should.  But, seriously…I’m tired and crabby and I’m trying very hard not to scream and yell at you for constantly asking me to do things and get things for you.  I love you very, very much, but PLEASE go bother your Daddy with your insane requests.

Love,

Mumma

———-

Dear Huz,

I know you work really hard at your job so that our mortgage is paid and food is on our table, but I work just as hard.  I have a job, too, remember?  It’s just as important as yours.  Just because I work from home, that does not mean that all household responsibilities should fall on my shoulders, as they seem to do lately.

I’m tired of cleaning incessantly.  I’m tired of picking up after you and Dawson.  I’m tired of running errands all the time, because someone waits until the last minute to tell me that we’re out of toilet paper, paper towel, zest bar soap and dog food.  You work in a place that sells every single one of these items (no, not Walmart) and I’m not buying that old excuse: “I work 8 hours and deal with crabby customers every day… The last thing I want to do is shop where I work.”

You know what?  I work 6 hours from my living room while making sure our child is fed, entertained and not trying to ride the dog like a pony.  The last thing I want to do is clean the house and then go get toilet paper so y’all can finally poop.  Plus, I’m pregnant.  And you’re damn right I’m playing that card.

Love,

The woman who makes sure shit runs around here.

———-

Dear Ditzy Gas Station Girl,

When my son begs for a corndog from your hot food warmer thing, and when said corndog falls through the bottom of your shitty wrapper and onto the floor, and when I tell you about it, I don’t want to hear you say, “So, does that mean you don’t want it anymore?”  Duh!

And when I jokingly ask, “Well, how dirty is the floor?”  I don’t want you to tell me, “Well, not that dirty!” in a very serious tone of voice.

Seriously, if the floor of a freakin’ gas station is really as clean as you think, YOU EAT THE CORNDOG.  Right there, in front of me.

OF COURSE WE WANT A NEW ONE!

Sincerely,

Mom to a Corndog Lover

———-

Dear Person That Shall Not Be Named,

Yeah, I know we’re both pregnant and due on the same day.  Yes, I enjoy commiserating about pregnancy and labor and delivery.

However, I’m tired of listening to you piss and moan about your ailments. I’d like to vent, too, but I never get a word in edgewise.

And, I’m tired of you trying to “one-up” me at every turn. I concede.  You win.  Your pregnancy is way more fascinating and exciting and problematic than any other pregnant woman’s on the planet.  Now shut the hell up.

Best,

The woman who is sick of listening to you.

———-

Dear YOU KNOW WHO YOU ARE,

I know you want to voice your opinion on what we’ll be naming the baby, but for the 800th freakin’ time, we already have a name chosen and you are just wasting your breath.  SHUT UP.  I would tell you to your face, but instead I smile and nod, because something tells me you don’t listen anyway.

Love,

Dana

———-

Man, I feel better.  Who would you write an open letter to?

June 27, 2009

This is Only a Test. Right?

I’ve tried to write this post five times, deleting and starting over each time.  I don’t want to sound like a whiny mom, but my sweet little boy is turning into a kid.  A big kid with an attitude and somedays I want to run far away and never come back.

Dawson will be 5 years old in September.  Five.  Years old. It’s exciting and heartbreaking all at the same time.

Exciting because he’s so grown up and he says the most grown up things.  He wants to do big kid things like pick out his own clothes, pour his own milk and walk the dog.  By himself.

I’m not keen on the dog walking thing because Murphy has great strength and I know that he’d be dragging Dawson down the sidewalk if given the opportunity.

But, turning five is heartbreaking because my Doodlebug is growing up right before my eyes.  And with maturity his personality has developed, as well as an attitude.

Last week I was madly cleaning the house and asked Dawson to pick up his socks that were in the middle of the living room floor.

“No.” he said.

I repeated my request and he replied, “I don’t want to.”

I could feel the blood boiling in my veins.

“Dawson, pick up your socks, please.”

“Why can’t you do it?”

I was starting to lose my temper so I bit my lip and gave him a timeout in his room.  When the 5 minutes was over I told him to pick up the socks again and this time he did so, but said “whatever” as he walked to his room.

WHATEVER?  Did he just say what I think he said?

A few days ago I went into his room and found toys all over the floor.  I told Dawson he needed to pick them up.  He ignored me. I repeated myself and he said, “I’ll do it later.”

What the hell?  Where did he learn this behavior?  For as long as I can remember Dawson would oblige when I told him to do things.  Now he’s rebelling.  It’s frustrating.

My neighbor says he’s just trying to assert some control over his life, but my goodness!  I’m not asking him to mow the lawn, I just want him to pick up after himself.  Why is he fighting with me?

Today I took him to Burger King for lunch.  I had a craving for a Whopper, Jr. and Dawson said he wanted a hamburger kids’ meal.  When we got home he ate the fries and had two bites of the burger.  I told him to finish and he said he was full.  I told him to wrap up the hamburger and he could eat it later.  He did so, but then came back from the kitchen with a cookie in his hand.

“Dawson, put the cookie back.  You told me you were full.”

“No.  I just don’t want this burger.”

“You are not eating a cookie until the burger is gone.”

“Whatever…” he said.  He put the cookie back, grabbed the burger and sulked.

I know I’m doing the right thing by standing my ground.  I just don’t know why this child is testing me.  Is it only a phase?  Will it ever end?

Help!

June 25, 2009

Michael Jackson, We’ll Miss You

Earlier this evening Doug and I were watching the news and heard that Michael Jackson was rushed to a hospital and that paramedics were performing CPR on the way to UCLA medical center.

“Drama, drama, drama…” I said. “I do hope he’s alright.”

And then for a split second I thought about the tragedy, should Michael Jackson die.

Not more than a minute ago I saw the news while checking e-mail, and I was in absolute shock. I had to turn on CNN just make sure the news was true.

I’ve always loved Michael.  I’ve been a fan since I was a kid.  I first loved the Jackson 5 (my mom had a few albums) and when my brother and sister and I were younger we’d do our own version of their music and called ourselves the J3 (Jurgella 3).

Little bro Nathan and I used to beg mom to put the Thriller album on in the 80s.  We loved all the songs.

I’ve never understood some of Michael’s crazy antics in his later years.  I’ve attributed it to depression or an inability to handle his mega stardom that began when he was young.  Still, it’s tragic that he has passed away.  He was only 50 years old.

I keep thinking of Elvis.  Mr. Presley died at 42.  I’m a huge Elvis fan, too.  In many ways, the two musical greats were similar in many ways.  Both took (and abused) prescription drugs, both suffered heart attacks (according to Larry King, Michael Jackson suffered cardiac arrest.)

I can’t even believe it.  Such a horrible tragedy.

Rest in peace, Michael.