Stressed is just desserts spelled backwards...

     I've made no secret that our family has been going through a stressful time lately. And, when stressed, I usually deal in one of three ways: cook, clean, or write. Today I did all three, if that tells you anything.
     Just another day in my life where I found myself begging, cajoling, bribing, and yes, even threatening, my daughter in an effort to get her to school. She met each of my tactics with faking sick, crying, trying to make herself vomit, and passive resisistance. We did finally get her off to school, only to have the teachers call us later to come pick her up before the day was over because she couldn't fully calm down and was (big surprise) refusing to participate in anything.
     Anyhow, tomorrow is another day, and this post has a different point. While taking a Mommy Timeout in my room, I stumbled across an old blog I had written about my Irie Girl during the GODFORSAKEN toddler years. It was a great reminder for me that even at the lowest point, that point when you're sure you can't carry on, or that moment when you wonder if its too late to leave your child on the steps of the local fire station (just kidding, I'd never do that. We've had so many field trips to the Wailea Fire Station I'm pretty sure they'd recognize her and make me come back for her), all is not lost. It will get better, and you might even find some humor in it all some day.
     So, here's a brief look into a day in our life as Mommy and Toddler Irie Girl, circa 2009:

     

     I was going through my usual Saturday afternoon routine: feed the baby, change her diaper, plop her down in front of Backyardigans so I can shower for work. Usually Irie Girl yanks back the shower curtain and yells at me at least every 2 minutes but on this day she was suspiciously quiet.

     I shut off the water and began to towel off.

     "Irie," I called out. "What are you doing?"

     She made a noise that can only be described as a one-year-old's version of  "Nothing."  It was terrifying.

     "Come here, please," I persisted.

     No further prompting was needed. She sashayed into the bathroom....Butt Naked...covered in poop. Mouth (what I could see of it around the paci), hands, and feet (but, strangely enough, none on her tushy.)

     "Hi!" she said, smiling proudly.

     "Ugghh!" I responded. Or maybe I might've said a bad word. A very bad word.

     I picked her up, with the intention of throwing her into the tub to hose her down. She managed to wipe one poop-smeared hand across the bathroom mirror as she tried to cling on to anything in order to avoid a bath. It was like baptising a cat. I flung her into the tub, snatched the paci out of her mouth, and began vigorously rinsing her with the sprayer. She managed to grab her paci and cram it in back her mouth. She made a terrible face and gagged.

     "Of course it tastes like crap. Its crap!" I told her, taking it away again.

    Once I had her cleaned, diapered, and dressed it was time to find the rest of the mess. It didn't take long. Her diaper was in the corner of the living room,  partially hidden under the sofa. There was an impressive pile of poop in the center of the coffee table. I'm talking a weeks' worth of constipation followed by a jar full of prunes. It was shaped into a most unnatural shape, so clearly my little artiste had been sculpting with it. I threw her sculpture away. Avant garde has never been my favorite style of art.

     I proceeded to disinfect the entire house, being unsure of where she'd been or what she'd touched. I phoned in to work to let them know I'd be running a few minutes late. Just imagine, if you will, that phone call.

     Then I took another shower, making her stay in the bathroom with me the entire time.

     These are the things no one warned me about. I wonder what she will do next. And why doesn't she do these things to B.? And is it strange to be proud of her artistic ability? One thing for certain- I will be finding her a more appropriate medium to work with. And possibly duct taping her into her diaper in the meanwhile.


     Wow, I needed that laugh. Glad I stumbled across those old posts (I have more to share at a later time.) So, there you have it. A moment in our lives where I wanted to throw in the towel. A moment where I wondered "does this happen to anyone else, or is it just us?" Somehow we powered through, with a lot of love and humor.  It wasn't always easy. It won't always be easy. But Bryan, Irie Girl, and I will love each other no matter what. No matter how many poopy sculptures, no matter how many temper tantrums/meltdowns at the store or at the doctor's office, no matter how many times we get called to come pick her up at school, and no matter how many banana breads or cookie dough truffles I have to make (and eat) to relieve my stress.  Like Lilo said, "O'hana means family, and family means noone gets left behind."