The Loudest Known Clock

In fifth grade, my friends began to get their bedrooms updated to "teen appropriate." For most of them, it was trading out pastels for bold, older colors. They went from pink to bold teal, light purple to bright blue, pastel yellow to in your face purple. Growing up, I had teal painted walls with a balloon wallpaper border along the top. I also had very dark furniture and got no direct light in my room.

It was dark.

I wanted to lighten up while all my friends were telling me it was time to live in a cave.

While I enjoy jewel tones, I was with my mother when she said we'd go lighter and brighter. We went to the local wallpaper store and got a ton of books filled with wallpaper. So much wallpaper. We laid them out on my bed and discussed what should go in the room. I was attracted to plaids and stripes. My mother feared the day I was let out on my own to decorate. (I've never put wallpaper on walls ever, so do not fear for my house.) In the end, she narrowed it down to a flowery print and said she'd let me have one wall of striped, as one of the coordinating papers was a stripe pattern. I distinctly remember telling her I wanted the blue color, as I hated pink. I've hated pink since it was declared that pink is the color little girls liked. My favorite color is purple, but I hated light shades of it for a very long time, so I chucked the light purple flowery one out.

Somehow, I wound up with a pink room.

So much pink.

My mother informed me she went with pink because I already had pink bedspreads and curtains and I didn't need new ones. So, I got stuck with a very pink room. And green carpet.

It took my mother a very long time to wallpaper the entire room. It is a large room and there was a pattern to match. After she was done she declared she was never taking that paper down or putting any more up. (She wallpapered her bathroom and our bathroom, but to this day my room is still pink flowers and stripes.)

I remember being horrified upon entering the room at the sight of all the pink. It didn't even match the bedspreads and curtains. It did match the carpet.

I'm not sure how long I had been living in the pink flowery room before The Clock showed up. It took me forever to tell time and I still can't tell time very well, so having an analog clock wasn't exactly high on my list of things I wanted. Somehow, I wound up with a clock. It was a dusty rose plastic thing with a white face, black numbers, and hands. It was a cheap plasticky nightmare that we should have just chucked out after that first night of hell.

How does a stupid clock cause hell on Earth? Oh, by being the loudest clock in the world. Honest. You can hear the freaking thing in the basement. Everyone in the house hated the clock, yet it remained on the wall till the day I moved out at 23. Everyone knew where I was if I answered the phone in my room. It was the creepiest thing to be in the house alone because you could hear the stupid thing in every single room. My mom put cotton on the outside to dampen the sound, but it did nothing.

After my daughter was born, I found the clock in the closet when I was going through some old papers my mom had kept. She wanted to know what I wished to keep and what she could throw out. I stared at the clock with a little nostalgia. Even though I'd spent the majority of my childhood hating the loudest clock known to man, upon leaving home I found I often was unable to sleep without loud ticking. I slept on top of my watch when I got really desperate. In Scotland, I went to Tesco and bought a wind-up alarm clock because it was the only analog clock they had for sale.

It was super loud. (Side story: I would always confuse people who'd stop by my room because it was never the right time. I strictly used it for the noise, so I didn't bother to keep the time right if I happen to miss a winding cycle.)

My mom gave me the loudest ticking clock known to man to put in my daughter's room.

"You know, to use instead of that sound machine."

The sound machine broke, but while I hung the clock on the wall, I didn't put a battery in it. My husband hated The Clock and everyone known to man has taken the batteries out of the clocks I put in bedrooms, so I didn't bother to find a battery for The Clock. I set it to 10.10 and never thought about it again until one day my daughter demanded her daddy fix the clock.

So, he put the batteries in. And he stared at me like it was my fault she wanted to have The Clock working. I feared the noise would keep her up, but she zonked out and stayed that way that night. Pilot Boy also was out for the count, but I lay awake for a long time listening to TICK TOCK TICK TOCK TICK TOCK.

It had been almost ten years since I needed that noise to sleep and having it back was strange. But, since I spent so long with that noise, within days I forgot about it. Now, only on nights when I'm tossing and turning do I realize it's there and I can listen to it to calm down my over active mind.

Heed Not the Crazy Singing Lady

I have always loved music. Since I was a baby if I believe my parents. So, logically, once I found about musicals, I was a goner.

The first musical I remember being eaten alive by was Annie. My parents took me to see a live performance that a fellow from our church was in. And by the end, I was in love. My mother took me to the library and rented the CD from the movie. I annoyed the whole family for two weeks solid belting out "Tomorrow" out of tune. (This was the first time I realized I had no musical talent as I couldn't hit that one note no matter how much I played with my voice.)

There were other musicals to follow, various Disney movies and The Music Man. In high school, I was utterly obsessed for MONTHS with Titanic. I'd bought the CD on a trip to the mall when I was in 8th grade, but during either freshman, I began to listen to the CD before going to Youth Choir (yeah, I still couldn't sing, didn't stop me from trying). I felt it warmed up my voice better than doing warm-ups with the actual choir. For months, I'd listen to the whole thing before leaving the house for the evening.

Then it came to Chicago and I about burst a blood vessel. Least to say, when I requested to be taken, neither parent objected to their 15-year-old kid wanting to go to the theater to see a musical about a sinking boat.

I discovered old movie musicals the summer between junior and senior year in high school. I spent weeks singing "There's No Business Like Show Business."

In college, I was obsessed with Chicago. (I actually wanted to listen to the soundtrack to that musical while getting ready for my wedding, but didn't happen due to the fact I was having too much fun and didn't bother to put any music on.)

I love Singing in the Rain, but I hate West Side Story. (Which was reaffirmed last night when I watched it on TMC.) 

Basically, if it's a musical movie, I've seen it.

BUT

I'm currently obsessed with Hamilton. I got on that boat late, but I've been listening to it enough lately my child has started singing it without prompting. EMO began singing last night as she was getting ready for bed, "FOR SHAME! FOR SHAME! I WANT GREEN TOOTHPASTE! FOR SHAME!"

Pilot Boy looked at me like I had done something horrible, but I shrugged as at first, I didn't know what the hell she was singing. She usually needs prompting to sing Hamilton tunes. I spout out the chorus for "My Shot" and she can finish it. She sings along at the end of all King George's songs. She randomly shouts words during the raps, but she's never just begun spouting off things. 

I had a feeling it was from Hamilton, but I had to look it up to figure it out which song.

"Farmer Refuted."

I couldn't stop laughing. While I do enjoy that song, it's not one that we tend to perform together when we do listen to the soundtrack (I am that crazy woman in her car waving her arms and pointing while at a red light with a child in the back doing the same thing). 

EMO shouted her version of "Farmer Refuted" till she fell asleep. 

We're Full of Beans

Two years ago today, around this time, I told my husband it was time to go. He was on the phone with his grandmother (it was her birthday), so he said, "Well, looks like we're having a baby, so I'll talk to you later."

After dropping the dog off at the neighbor's house, we drove the the hospital, where for four hours I labored without drugs because I was only a centimeter when I arrived and they won't admit you till you're three.

I almost punched the nurse who told me I was only a centimeter. I'd been in labor since three am.

The being who was causing me so much pain two years ago just said "Bye" to the TV show she's watching, standing roughly a foot in front of the TV. The being who was making me double over in pain two years ago is currently 35 inches tall, 27 pounds, and has a mouth full of teeth. The being I'd yet to meet two years ago will turn two tomorrow while she watches Sesame Street. Though, I might make her watch Kelly and Michael as that was what was on the TV when she was born. I remember it quite clearly because I kind of wanted to laugh when they later wondered what time she was born. Like her mother, no one was looking at the clock. But, unlike her mother, I was half paying attention to the TV, so I knew roughly when she was born due to where Kelly and Michael were in their opening.

I still haven't lost my baby weight. My boobs are still huge. My hair is finally recovering from the horrors of being pregnant (I was not one of those who had shiny, thick pregnancy hair. I had flat, dull, thin hair-- likely because EMO was stealing all my hair for herself.)

My house usually looks like it was hit by a tornado, the kitchen is always dirty, and there is always laundry that doesn't get done. The dog seems to shed more suddenly, my hair is more curly, and I always want to go to bed at nine pm, but make myself stay up till ten.

I dance around more, I sign stupid songs I make up and someone actually laughs now, there's someone else in the house making up words or mispronouncing them other than me, and I am never truly alone.

EMO knows lots of words: poo poo, pee, puty (computer), okay, oh no, fone (phone), clock, choo choo (train), neigh, sursily (seriously), Melmo (Elmo), Goofy, doggy, daddy, mama, ug (hug), Anna (who is actually Elsa), Scott!, MeMe (who is named MeMe), Toodles, car, toot, Me, Bye, Hi, Gumpy (Grandpa), cammy (camera), shower!, movie (means TV), ouch, shoes!, and likely others I can't think of at the moment.

She's my long limbed baby with lots of hair. She's determined, stubborn, and a dare devil.

Two years ago, I didn't know her. Now, I couldn't imagine not.

Let It Go

When I was in high school, I had a Sunday School teacher who was awesome. He was great for a wide array of reasons, but mostly because --and I don't remember why he said what he did-- he told us if we had any problem, any worry, anything we needed help with to just send it up to God. And he shrugged his shoulders, turned his hands over and lifted them up as if he was handing God whatever the problem was.

He claimed it worked.

I was doubtful.

I was doubtful about a lot of faith based things. I always was. No one (important) ever told me what to believe or that I was wrong for believing whatever I happened to think. When I questioned if everything was true in the Bible when I was twelve, my mom told me she viewed the book as a set of morals. To twelve year old me, that made total sense. Or more sense than what I'd read. Years later when I took a history class on the Middle Ages and found out how the Bible we currently use was put together, I was kind of glad I didn't think it was word for word true. Because it was put together by a bunch of power hungry men who got together to tell people what to believe to basically control what they believed. When I decided when I was seventeen there was no hell, my friend didn't tell me I was stupid or wrong, she listened to my theory and looked as if maybe I wasn't completely mental.

I was always encouraged to form my own believes and find my own way to faith and all that jazz.

So, I was seventeen, stressed, scared, in over my head, and becoming someone I hated.

I was in the bathroom when I tried it the first time. I closed my eyes, shrugged my shoulders, and threw my issues at the ceiling.

I let go.

I sent it up to God to deal with.

And the strangest thing, I felt lighter.

Nothing had changed, I was still in the mess I'd been in a moment before, but it suddenly didn't look so horrible and end of the worldish.

Over the years, I've done this several times: just let it go, sent it up.

And I always feel lighter.

It still utterly amazes me each time it happens and suddenly, whatever is the issue doesn't seem as horrid as I was thinking.

It's been YEARS since I've actually done this. To be honest, I kinda forgot about it. When I was having all my anxiety related issues, it never crossed my mind to do just...let it go.

Why?

Because when you're in the thrall of anxiety and panic, you cannot just let it go. That is the whole problem.

So, when my therapist suggested I just not worry about the things keeping me awake at night, I stared at him as if he'd gone around the bend. I'm pretty sure I'd have laughed at him if I hadn't been so sleep deprived and kind of on edge.

I came home, still in a panic about the thing I was worrying about, tried to research it and just solve the problem, but I got no where. So, I texted my dad and he came to the rescue and eased my mind, but I was still worried. It was still nagging at my brain, gnawing away.

And then I remembered the advice of that awesome Sunday School teacher.

I shrugged my shoulders, lifted my hands, and threw my problem at God.

And I felt lighter. My chest loosened and my stomach settled.

I let go.

Does the issue still exist?

Yeah.

Does it still kind of bother me?

Yes.

But, I do know it'll get solved. And it's not worth loosing sleep over, letting it keep me awake and tied in knots.

Faith is a marvelous, wondrous, personal thing. But, I figured I'd share this and maybe help someone else out.

Baby Fever

They say (not sure who 'they' are) that when you hold a newborn, you want one.

They are wrong.

I held a newborn for the first time since EMO was one and I did not want one. In fact, I could not hand back the tiny baby fast enough. Not because it was a terrible thing, holding this wobbly baby, but due to the fact I felt horribly awkward. The mom asked if I wanted to hold the baby, I said yes, she handed him to me, and then I was transported back to the days before I was a mom and I felt horribly weird holding babies.

Now, don't get me wrong, I like babies. I always liked babies. As a kid I always wanted to hold babies, watch them, play with them. I don't remember being awkward around newborns until I was older and was faced with one and was like, "You want me to hold that thing?"

I never babysat as a teenager, like so many believed I would when I was a kid. I babysat alone twice. Once with an actual toddler and once with a seven-year-old. Any other time I was left alone with children was with a seasoned babysitter, also known as my friend J who was throughout her teen years teenager going on forty.

Diapers freaked me out.

Not knowing what the kid wanted freaked me out.

Giving birth scared the living daylights out of me.

Then, I found out what being pregnant entailed and was like, "WHY!?"

There was a time I contemplated never having kids, but it never felt right to just say, "I do not want children."

I wanted one.

Badly.

I just didn't want to give birth or be pregnant.

I said one. I said I'd have one kid.

Then I had one kid.

No sooner did I have this one kid, everyone began to tell me I'd have another one now that I knew how great it was.

It was not great. I admitted to my therapist I felt like I was being a bad mother because I'd just lay my kid on the floor and watch TV. But, honestly, what the hell do you do with a newborn who doesn't want to be held? Who wants to lie on the ground and watch her toys rather than cuddle with you?

This is what they don't tell you about newborns: they are boring.

Honest.

They are boring. They do not move, they are supposed to sleep 17 hours and when they are awake, they are usually eating. Parents are exhausted due to the fact their newborns eat every two hours and half the time refuse to sleep when they should be sleeping (like during the night) and when they are sleeping they have to do other things, like eat themselves, clean their houses, or you know, go to work. Or take a shower.

I envy the parents who have newborns who actually sleep. Like at all.

My newborn fought sleep like it was going out of style and she would not be caught dead doing it.

She still tends to fight sleep, but at least now she will sit in her crib and do it without screaming bloody murder.

I couldn't wait for her to move. Everyone told me she was going to be an early crawler because she was so damn determined to move. She didn't really crawl as much as flop around till she figured out walking.

Then she was never still.

And so much happier.

It occurred to me early on my kid was bored. She wanted to discover the world, wanted to do things, but her body wasn't ready. And it frustrated her to no end. Once she was mobile, man, the world was at her finger tips and she was raring to go.

It is a pleasure to watch her now. I still spend an abnormal amount of time on the couch watching TV, but I don't feel guilty as I can see her or hear her and she's doing her own thing. And she's happy. She plays with her toys, she clomps around in Mommy's shoes, she unloads bins, and sings "Let It Go." She sometimes wants my attention, dances with me, plays with me, and sings with me. She laughs and talks.

She is happy and I love it.

I love her at this age.

I loved her as a newborn, but I do not want her to be a newborn ever again. If I could freeze her in a stage, it'd be now. Or some point in the future. I am so excited for her to grow up, to discover the world, to make her first friend, to experience all that life has in store for her.

So, yesterday as I awkwardly held a newborn, I did not want another one. I had no desire to do it again. I went through it once and I do not want to go through it again.

I handed the baby back and hightailed it out of there. Mostly because I was starving, but also because I really wanted to hug my kid who has never felt awkward in my arms. Even when she was a floppy newborn, she wasn't awkward in my arms. She just fit.

Milestone Upon Milestone

When you've got a child, you hit miles stones constantly. When they first lift their heads up whilst on their tummies, when they manage to sit up unaided, when they stand up unaided, then they start walking around and never stop. They get teeth, they begin to eat food, stop drinking breast milk and/or formula. They grow out of newborn clothing, then three months clothing, six month clothing, nine month, twelve months, and just when you think they have slowed they no longer fit into 18 months. Just when you think you've got this whole having a child thing under control, they begin talking.

Miles stones. So many mile stones.

EMO (who still munches time, but I think I'm gonna call her EMO from now on here, as she can be kinda emo sometimes) just hit another milestone: preschool registration. Granted, I didn't fill out the mountains of paper work, got copies of her shot records, or whatever else is needed to really "register," but I did fork over money to reserve her spot at a preschool at a local Methodist Church.

I know nothing of preschool. Especially when the kids are only two. I began preschool when I was turning three. And other than screaming when my mother left me, wearing my shoes on the wrong feet, and being hit in the head with a metal truck, I don't remember much.

I was not a social child. I was perfectly content at home, alone, and entertaining myself by pretending my clothes were people. By the time I was three, we'd moved to a neighborhood where there were children who were my age, several in fact. They became my childhood friends and several of them attended the Frog School as I have always called it. (I've no idea what it's actually called some 30 years later.) I cannot tell you if I had a good experience there. I don't remember a lot of those year other than I wasn't allowed to be Rainbow Bright and had to be a bear, I cried a lot at the start of each day when my mother left me, and a little boy threw a truck at my head for reasons I could never figure out.

Preschool is important. I know that much. I also know EMO is a social being and unlike myself really likes other people and going out. Since she was born, I've been dragging myself out mostly for her benefit (mine is just a side benefit). We go shopping. We go to art class. In the summer months I take her to the gym and let her socialize with those whose parents would also like to work out and not have a child climbing all over them when they are trying to do Russian twists or downward dog. It was last summer I realize I needed to do something with EMO to expose her to more kids, as she LOVED it when other kids showed up, no matter their age. Shortly after I began to panic on what do to with the poor kid (didn't need day care, couldn't see paying for it if I didn't need it), one of the girls who I had been friends with as a small child and gone to the Frog School with (and put our shoes on the wrong feet together) posted on Facebook her two-year-old daughter had started Frog School.

I was like, "Wait? Two-year-olds can go to preschool?!"

And I instantly began to see if there were places other than the fancy place in town to send EMO. (Well, it might not be fancy, but they won't even post their tuition prices online. You must call.) After an afternoon of searching, I found a preschool taking place in a Methodist church. Due to this, I decided this was it. This was where EMO was going.

I grew up going to a Methodist Church and some of my best memories are in that musty, dusty smelling building. I am not overly religious. I was allowed to form my own believes and will allow my daughter to do the same. But, I am partial to Methodist Churches. I knew the moment I entered, I'd picked the right joint. It felt like home, familiar, and even smelled the same as the church I'd gone to as a kid. Since I had no idea where I was supposed to meet the woman who was going to give us a tour, I wandered a little till I heard the sound of children and headed down the stairs.

It was like walking back in time. While not everything was the same (no half finished Noah Ark murals on the walls and not totally made out of cinder blocks, there was something comforting about the building. The church was huge, so it took us a while to find the offices. We then sat and waited a little while, EMO pointing out all the fruits that were taped to the walls and failing to find the banana when asked.

As the tour took place, I was struck more and more how the building, thousands of miles away from the church of my childhood, was startling like my own. We walked through their "fellowship hall" and man, I was taken back. While the church itself is a lot more beautiful than the one I attended for years, it still felt right.

So, I filled out the form to reserve her spot, forked over $48 for the art fee, EMO waved goodbye to the tour lady (who had put her shoes back on and her coat, my girl is not shy in the least), while the other girl who was on the tour who was about a year older screamed.

While I wouldn't say the girl was horrible, she was really testing boundaries. The mother was mildly embarrassed, but handled it well. I tried not to feel smug while EMO held my hand, put away toys when asked, and was all around the perfect toddler that make others think, "Hey, this wouldn't be so bad if my kid was as well behaved as EMO." A friend of mine who gave birth this passed weekend said the same thing after sitting with EMO when I got my haircut last week.

While EMO does throw fits, they almost always happen at home, and if they are in public she fails to get the reaction she wants, usually doesn't get what she wants, and gets Angry Mom face. This seems to work. She might pout, but soon someone will say something to her and she'll smile again.

EMO still refuses to eat anything green (except pickles), won't eat meat (except hot dogs), and won't eat anything healthy other than fruit. She has a skin allergy to peanut butter, but sometimes to get protein into her (she recently decided she was above eggs), I feed it to her in limited qualities (mostly if I barely put any on the bread, she doesn't get it all over her face). She is still the most horrible napper known to man, but she will take them. Sometimes. She always goes to bed at eight, usually is asleep by nine and doesn't wake till seven the next morning. She won't eat breakfast if I make it, but if it's in smoothie form she will eat it.

My little girl is growing up. She is testing her boundaries to see what she can get away with. She will start school next fall.

Do I miss the newborn stages? The cuddles, the baby smell, nursing, the quiet, the being immobile?

No.

About the only thing I miss is...nothing. I was anxious for her to get to this stage, where she was discovering things, playing, and talking (or trying). I wake up each morning exhausted (because I have that cold that won't go away and cannot stop coughing), but I smile as it's another fun filled day with EMO. That kid has been independent and stubborn since she came out. Being a newborn frustrated her to no end. She wanted to sit up. She wanted to roll away. When she was finally able to do these things...she was so proud. And once she started walking, god, I've never seen a happier child.

Today, as we toured the school, she held her hand out to me, she dragged me to the bins of toys, then abandoned me instantly when there were other children were around.

I smiled, didn't feel sad. I felt elated.

EMO is going to love preschool, just as she's loved every, single milestone she's reached so far on her way to being an independent person.