Glitch at the Grocery

The other day after work, I decided to run by the grocery store for some necessities for Kensie—milk, juice, fruit, cereal, you know the drill. Since my mom had kept her that day, it should have been a quick-and-easy stop for me—no dragging the kid out of the carseat; no walking through the parking lot at a snail’s pace while Kensie checks out everything she possibly can before we get in; no wobbly race-car buggy that is almost impossible to turn and get through the narrow isles. It should’ve been a simple enough endeavor—but then, it’s me.

I was trying to get home somewhat quickly because my mom had left Kensie with my dad for a couple of hours so she could meet some friends for dinner, and I really never know how the whole Kensie-and-Pa-left-at-home-alone situation is gonna go. Will the diaper get changed? Will Kensie get juice and a snack? Will Dad leave the front door unlocked and K walk on out into the yard and then the street before he even notices she’s gone? Who knows what could happen!?! But there were things we needed that we couldn’t live without until morning, so I had to stop. In the back of my head, I knew it needed to be a quick trip, so when I got in the shortest line I could find, I figured I was good to go. But, again, it’s me.

I had seen the woman who now stood just ahead of me in line shopping with her son, who looked to be about three. She was pregnant, but what I noticed most was that her son, a redhead, was wound up! He buzzed up and down the aisles, said hello to everyone he came across (myself included), grabbed items off the shelves and launched them across the store—the usual male redheaded child stuff. If you don't already know, redheads are known for being feisty creatures. But from my personal experience, redheaded boys are downright nutty! And this little guy was behaving true to form (though he was cute as a button). So as I stood patiently awaiting my turn to check out, the woman’s (saying woman makes me feel so old; I’d say she was about my age) bill was totaled up. She swiped her card and . . . nothing. The clerk told her the card had been denied. I remained patient and not too concerned, as sometimes these things are simply a glitch. So she tried it again. Again . . . denied. So the woman pulled out another card (as her little redhead took the front of the store by storm), and same thing. She was noticeably getting nervous (her hands were shaking, and she looked quite concerned). The woman explained to the clerk that she’d need to make a phone call, so he put her tab on hold while she stepped aside and got on her cell phone. (Just a side note: This woman and her little boy looked very normal, not needy at all. They were both dressed nicely, and, well, she had a cell phone. How poor could they be?)

Soon after the pregnant woman with the wild child began making phone calls, my items were being rung up. When I got my total tab, it was within pennies of what the pregnant woman’s was (around $80), and that’s when it struck me: What if she’s a single mom with one child and one on the way who was just laid off and receiving $250 a month unemployment just trying to buy her kids milk? What if she’s just lost her home and has no real home for her family and has just spent her last few dollars on doctor’s bill for her son? What if these groceries are the only items she has to feed herself and her son, and she’s about to be told she can’t have them? What if she has no one and nothing, and two children to support? All of the sudden, I had this overwhelming feeling that I wanted to help her. I don’t have much money; everything I make is allocated for the most part. But I wanted to help. I’d pay for this woman’s groceries to save her the humiliation she must be feeling trying to figure out what to do next. But how? Do I go up to her and offer to loan her the money, thus focusing even more attention on her unfortunate situation? Would that just make it worse? But what about her child? What about those necessities like milk and cereal and bread that I know she needs for herself and her child? Do I just tell the clerk I’d like to pay her bill while she’s on the phone and then leave? How can I help this woman!?!

In the end, I decided that it was not my place to interfere. I decided that it might be insulting to her for a stranger to come up and offer her “charity.” If not insulting, I knew it would be embarrassing. I figured I didn’t know her situation, and maybe she didn’t want me (or anyone else close-by us at the time who would inevitably hear the exchange) to. So I left the store conflicted and wondering if I’d made the right choice.

I thought about that woman all weekend. Was she able to pay her bill? Was she a victim of identity theft and robbed of all of her money? Did her loser ex run off with all the money and leave her with a kid and one on the way to support alone? Did she just get laid off and was hoping that she had enough to cover groceries but ultimately didn’t? Had it simply been a mistake and minutes after I left the store this issue was resolved? I had no way of knowing. All I know is that when I looked at that woman, I saw myself and thousands, maybe millions, of women just like us—doing whatever it takes to make sure our families are taken care of no matter what it costs us.

I thought a lot this past weekend about parents all across our country who are trying their very best to take care of their families in these hard times—many just squeaking by; many creating mounds of debt simply feeding and clothing themselves; many unable to stay afloat and being forced to split apart their families. I realized how lucky I am to have such a strong support system in my family and friends, and I hoped that the woman with the wild redheaded little boy (and possibly another wild one on the way) who touched my life so briefly yet so profoundly was as lucky as I to have people around her who would make sure that everything was OK.

Battles in the Night

In my world, sleep (or the lack thereof) has been a significant issue the past two years. I struggle with sleep on a daily (or rather, nightly) basis. I have always been the kind of person who really needed to get that eight hours a night. In college, when friends were pulling all-nighters studying, I was wrapping up by midnight because I knew I’d crash and burn if I didn’t get enough sleep. When I was working the late shift at various newspapers early in my career, I made sure to make up that lost sleep during the day, even if it took away from the few daylight hours I treasured. In the pre-baby partying phase of my 20s, I slept in on weekends, took afternoon naps, whatever it took to be functional again by Monday morning (no longer an option). But this “baby” thing has really thrown me for a loop! (Kudos to those of you with multiple kiddos.)

Allow me to explain (though for some of you, I’m guessing no explanation is necessary): When Makensie was born, I knew I was in for a little bit of lost sleep (though I really had no idea how my life was about to capsize). I wasn’t working at the time, so I was able to nap when she napped and generally make up for some (though not all) of the sleep I was losing during those first few months. As a stay-at-home mom, it was a bit easier, and I was much more relaxed. I started working again when Kensie was six months old and still waking two to three times a night. This is when the current “night” mare began.

Kensie has always been easy to put down. She never really fusses and generally falls asleep pretty quickly (as long as her “fishies” have batteries) both at naptime and at night. But what she doesn’t do is sleep fully and soundly all night long. So at six months old, she continued to wake wanting milk a couple of times a night. (I now know, many sleep and parenting books later, that I fostered this negative pattern by continuing to give her milk instead of weaning her off of the nighttime bottles thus perpetuating all of her sleep issues.)

At about one year old, Kensie began to “sleep through the night” (a phrase used quite loosely in the parenting world and code for “about 7 or 8 hours,” during which many of those hours the parent is still awake). Since she was going to bed at 7 p.m., I was looking at an initial wake-up time of about 2 a.m. The only time I had to myself was that window between 8 p.m. to 10 p.m. (after doing whatever I needed to get done for the next day, including preparing Kensie’s lunch and diaper bag for day care) when I really should have been in bed. At 2 a.m., I’d give K some milk, head back to bed and stare at the ceiling for an hour or so before being able to fall back asleep, and she’d go back down until between 5 and 6 a.m. Doesn’t look too bad on the surface, but for this single working mom, it was quite difficult (especially when she woke closer to 5 than 6 a.m.). I always tried (and still do) to be in bed no later than 10 p.m., and many times I’d be in bed by 9 p.m. But being woken up frequently for someone who has trouble turning off her brain at night in the first place, a cat sleeping on her head, and a baby monitor roaring in the background is rough. During this time, I struggled with weaning Kensie off the one nighttime bottle because it was just easier to give her what she wanted and let her fall back asleep so that I could get a bit more sleep (again, probably not the right thing to do, but sometimes you gotta do what you gotta do) before having to be up and get to work.

Between one and two years old, Kensie and I had our ups and downs when it came to sleep (mostly downs for me). She’s an early riser and ready to greet the day with a grin, a trait she comes by honestly from my mom’s side of the family. I, on the other hand, am not a happy camper at 5 a.m. (or 4 a.m., or 6 a.m., or really even 7 a.m.); I prefer to sleep late (per my dad’s side of the family), an option that was hijacked on July 3, 2007.

So at two years old, Makensie and I are still battling when it comes to sleep (only now that she speaks in full sentences, the battle has become verbal). I put K down about 8 every night (after our nighttime routine of milk, PJs, teeth-brushing, book-reading, and lights out), and inevitably she wakes around 4 a.m. ready to hit the day head-on. So each morning when the moon’s still bright overhead, my daughter and I are arguing about whether it’s time to get up. “Baby, it’s still night-night.” “No it not! I wan go ustairs!” “Honey, see how it’s still dark outside? It’s night-night. Lay back down and I’ll cover you up.” “Noooooooo! I want in Mommy’s bay-ud!” Some mornings, I win, and she lies down and goes back to sleep for another hour or so. Many mornings, however, she (and the prospect of a few more winks) wins and ends up in my bed thrashing around, making demands for milk or her paci or cartoons or to go upstairs. But, inevitably, I wake exhausted and praying for the day when Kensie sleeps until the ripe hour of 7 a.m. Until that day comes, be wary of the redhead with bags under her eyes wearing her shirt inside-out and incessantly muttering the words, “I think I can, I think I can, I think I can, I think I can . . . Make. It. Through. This. Day.”

Update: Last night, Kensie slept until 5 a.m. (woo hoo!), woke up and chit-chatted with herself for a few minutes, then went back to sleep until 6:15 (rock on, girl!).

Balancing My Babies

Before I became a “mom,” I had already considered myself a mom for years. I’ve had pets all my life, and I always considered them my children. When I got pregnant with Kensie, I swore to each one of my animals (at the time, four, two dogs and two cats) that they would not be neglected. I swore that they would stay just as much my children as Kensie would be. We’d still go on walks everyday (dogs). They’d still sleep in the bed with me (dogs and cats). They’d still have full run of the house. They’d get all the attention from me that they had always gotten. I promised them and myself that absolutely nothing would change, and I truly believed it. I mean, how hard could having a kid be?

During my pregnancy, my dogs were the happiest I think they’ve ever been. I only worked for a few months in the beginning of my pregnancy and then was at home (a story for another time), so my dogs went to the beach nearly everyday, rode in my Jeep (yep, that’s a thing of my past now) with me everywhere, had the run of the house and the yard (we were in San Diego at the time, so the weather lent itself to doors being opened all day long), slept on the bed whenever they wanted. The cats got the run of the house, too, but they also got to roam the neighborhood, which they loved. They were all in pet heaven! But when the “little stranger” arrived, our worlds were turned upside-down.

Makensie and I left San Diego when she was five weeks old, and I dragged my animals from this gorgeous land with perfect weather and a their beloved beach all the way across the country to a hot, sticky patch of earth with no water in sight and where the only time they got to run was when it was cool enough (around 5 a.m.) or when someone could make time. And usually, it wasn’t Mommy who was taking them. The everyday runs, usually coordinated by my dad, only lasted a couple of months, then they became few and far between. With this move, my boys (all of my animals are male) did gain a bigger backyard and a couple of buddies (my Mom’s and Dad's dogs), but their time spent exercising and with Mommy began to slip away.

My time back home was consumed with caring for my daughter and working to support us. It was all I could do to keep up (being a new mom and a single mom is a major transformation, one for which I was not quite prepared), and when I wasn’t working, I wanted to spend as much time with my daughter as I could. The animals were always around, of course, but my attention was focused primarily on Makensie. There was no more wrestling time, the dogs could no longer sleep in my bed (mainly because Shakespeare snores and Kota wants out when he wants out, and he’ll wake anyone in his path to get out), and I had very little time to take them to the park except on weekends. They no longer got to ride in the car with me, mostly because there simply wasn’t room, and it was such a hassle to get the dogs and a kid into the car and on the road. They had basically been banished from our area of the house so Kensie could nap during the day and I could sleep at night. What I had sworn to my boys and to myself wouldn’t happen had happened; my babies had become animals.

It’s easy to tell people that I’ve had trouble losing the “baby weight,” but in reality, I only gained about 25 pounds during my pregnancy, so the rest of the extra weight I have on me now slowly took residence over the past two years. But I’m not the only one who’s put on a few pounds. Both of my dogs have packed it on, as well, and for that I feel guilty everyday. I try to tell myself things like “You’ve been through a lot” or “You’re extremely busy, there’s only so much you can do” or “Your life is so hectic, you deserve that second glass of wine,” but the truth is, it’s totally my fault. I haven’t made the time for myself or for my pets. We’ve all packed on the pounds together, and I certainly can’t blame them for that. They can’t go out and walk themselves. They can’t drive themselves to the park. Sure, I get out every now and again and walk Kota (it’s too hot for Shakespeare right now, as he’s a Pug and can’t be out in heat over 70 degrees), but going from running free on the beach everyday to walking on a leash in the neighborhood a couple times a week, if that, is quite the shift in lifestyle. (Yesterday, I took Kota to be groomed, which is why he's so gorgeous in this picture, and the groomer was quite adamant in her “suggestion” that I try and get him in a little more often. So he had a few mats!)

Instead of beating myself up for the dogs gaining weight and being ungroomed, for me gaining weight, for banishing my dogs from my room because they disturb my sleep, for not exercising enough, for not eating as well as I should and giving the boys a few too many snacks, for not giving my pets enough kisses and hugs everyday because I’m “just too busy,” it’s time to make a change. For me, sometimes it’s hard to wrap my brain around change. I get into a comfort zone, and I’m the only one who can get me out of it. But once I make a decision, I’m pretty good about sticking with it. I’m in the brain-wrapping mode right now, but soon, there will be a sweaty redhead with a slightly chunky white dog running her ass off on the blacktop. Or I’ll be lifting weights at the gym, or high-stepping in a step aerobics class, or striking poses in my living room to my yoga DVD. Sure, it may take a little bit more time brain-wrapping to figure out when I’m gonna fit in all the changes that must go along with this transformation (including putting my fur babies back up toward the top of my priority list), but until I make time for myself and get to a place where I am happy with the person I am, how can I ever be a good role model for my daughter? She deserves a happy, healthy, fun, laid-back mommy, and that’s just what I plan to be.