Independence Daze

I always love Fourth of July weekend, especially now since my daughter’s birthday is the day before. Usually we’re in San Diego, as we have a family reunion once a year during this time at my aunt and uncle’s house. But this year, my cousin and his wife had a baby (another Cancer, which seems to run in our family in the newest generation), so the trip was put off indefinitely. This year, for the first time since I can remember, I spent Fourth of July in Birmingham.

Now, don’t get me wrong, I like a firework just as much as the next person. They’re pretty, loud, great at gathering people together, usually include a barbecue and adult beverages—what’s not to love! Let me explain.

Fourth of July celebrations in San Diego are not quite the same as they are here. First, it’s California, and any little spark, especially in the heat of July, can ignite a wildfire that could essentially wipe out all life in Southern California. So fireworks are regulated, and their use is strictly enforced. At my aunt and uncle’s house, we sit on the back patio with our meal and adult beverage, and enjoy the regulated yet wildly beautiful fireworks show blaze across the canyon.

Now, let me tell you about Fourth of July celebrations in Chelsea, Alabama. Growing up (in Birmingham, not Chelsea, which is still considered “a little bit country”), I remember always going to regulated fireworks shows and having the occasional sparkler or string of loud crackers to enjoy at home. But in Chelsea (as I learned this holiday), the extremely loud, easily-mistaken-for-a-shotgun-blast firecrackers begin a day or two before the Fourth (as I’m writing this right now the day after the Fourth, I hear loud booms at least every couple of minutes, no doubt our neighbors getting rid of what they didn’t have time to blow up last night). Not knowing whether a bullet could whiz across our yard or there was an overly enthusiastic Fourth of July celebrator getting a jump on the holiday, (we have some unincorporated land behind our property on which you can do pretty much anything and nothing legally can be done about it), I kept my kid indoors. Last night, the Fourth, there were some loud pops here and there before dark, but nothing major or worrisome. But when that sun went down (well after my kid did), the fireworks renegades came out of the woodwork, and all hell broke loose!

Initially, we went out and watched. I love my country and want to celebrate its birthday as much as the next person. At first, I wasn’t too concerned about it waking my daughter since she refused to nap that day and was dead tired. How long could it last anyway? How little I knew.

As hour upon hour went by without cessation, I started to get a little bent. I mean, it was ridiculously loud and directly above our house! There was much debate in the household about whether this was legal (being Chelsea, we guessed it probably was), and I was pretty sure it wasn’t safe, as I watched sparks waft down into our trees and had to cover my nose and mouth when outside to filter the thick layer of smoke that had surrounded the house. Did I mention the three terrified dogs that huddled together in a hairy lump on the bed?

Finally, after many hours, a few trips out into the ’hood to search for culprits (who must have seen us and known we were none too thrilled because it became deathly quiet when we neared certain dwellings), and a call to the sheriff’s office to find out if these full-blown pyrotechnics shows were legal and safe, the light-filled booms finally ceased. (Yes, it’s legal in good ol’ Chelsea to set off any number, any sized fireworks you’d like at anytime. I think you could set off a bomb and get away with it out here!)

Kensie never did wake up during the chaos, and I attribute that to the nap she refused to take during the day and to her hitting the sack at 7 o’clock. I was thankful for that at the time, but at 4 a.m. when she awoke and was wide awake and ready to face the day head-on, I cursed Fourth of July in Chelsea, Alabama, and this newfound, two-year-old stubbornness that has recently, no more than a couple of days after K’s actual birthday, reared its ugly head.

Next year, I’m headed to SoCal!

Is This Really My Life?

This morning, Fourth of July, I woke to the same familiar feeling I’ve woken with for some time now—a sort of emptiness in my stomach that feels kind of like butterflies, but not exactly. When you have butterflies, you’re usually excited about something to come. But lately, I haven’t been excited about much.

When I was younger, I was a total doer. I went out with friends all the time, I got outside and ran and roller-bladed and took care of my body, I got down on the floor and wrestled my dogs, I dated—I enjoyed life. But when you have a child, those extracurricular things inevitably diminish. Baby is your central focus. Baby needs you, and in a way, you need Baby. At least that’s the way it was with Kensie and me. We had each other, and only each other, and we depended on one another. I think it will be that way for our entire lives, and that’s the way it should be between a mother and child.

But now, even though Kensie still needs me very much and I her, I am beginning to feel the need for other things. It’s hard to explain, and even harder to explain to those around me, which is why I choose not to talk about it much. When I do, it inevitably comes out wrong and hurts someone I had no intention of hurting. I have a daughter I have to take care of and support, and that is now and should always be my primary focus. My needs are secondary, and as a single parent, that concept is especially vivid in my mind.

Kensie’s dad has never been dependable, and I knew it from the first time we started dating more than 10 years ago. He was exciting and fun. He loved animals and the outdoors as much as I did. He did what he wanted when he wanted to, and that was so different from me and refreshing. What he wasn’t was responsible, and now I know how important that is. So I know deep down that I will never be able to depend on his support. That’s why I chose to leave San Diego and move back home where I have family and friends here who are a huge support to Kensie and me. It’s exactly what we needed to move on.

Quite often, especially lately, I’ve been quietly thinking to myself, “How did I get here? Is this really my life?” And not just since the day I lost my job; it’s been going on for quite some time. I’ve always worked, always supported myself, always had a certain sense of freedom that I held onto for the whole of my adult life. But somehow, for some time now, that freedom seems to have become a distant memory. It’s not just because I have a child. It’s also because I feel so dependent on the people around me for support, both physical and emotional. Although I’ve always known my parents would forever be there to support me in every way, I never knew how hard it would be to accept. Inside, I feel this constant gnawing at my gut, and it’s telling me that I have got to figure my life out now!

So the conclusion I’ve come to is this: It’s time I stop overthinking and stressing and self-doubting and self-hating and feeling terrified all the time. It’s time to stop worrying about everything and everyone else around me and look inside to what I need to be a healthy, happy person. How can my beautiful daughter grow up to be a confident woman who loves herself and every creature on this earth, a woman who knows she is worthy of every gift this world has to offer if her mother isn’t emulating that to her? It’s time today, right now, to start finishing some of the things I’ve started: dieting; working out; getting my boys back in shape; Kensie’s first-year scrapbook; multiple books on spirituality and taking care of myself and our world; research on a future family endeavor; my children’s book. It’s time to make myself a priority. It’s time to start loving myself again. It won’t be easy, especially in the state my life is in right now. But for my own sanity, it’s time I take charge and start to live my life for me.

Party Planning 101

This weekend we had Makensie’s 2nd birthday party, and it was not exactly what I had expected. I read up a little bit on it. I mean, I’m a new mom, what do I know about throwing birthday parties for toddlers? I need to be prepared.

“Add two to the age of your child, and that’s how many kids you should invite to the party.” How can I only invite four kids? One of my closest friends has four kids himself!

“Have a family dinner with a couple of cousins, but don’t invite too many people. That will likely overwhelm a two-year-old.” We have family dinner every night around here. What fun will that be?

“Don’t overspend on party supplies and decorations for childrens’ birthday parties. They won’t remember it, and you’ll break your wallet.” Let’s see, I just got laid off last week, so I don’t see how I could overspend!

Online research. Check.

I called friends with kids and asked their opinions (mind you, this is the South, and no matter what it says on the Internet about keeping toddler parties slight, Southern women do not throw meager parties). I got website addresses for party themes, advice on parties they threw for their kids, advice on where to get the perfect cake (at $100 a pop) and decorations. (My girlfriends know what they’re talking about when it comes to their kids.)

Personal research. Check.

I made the decision after much toddler-birthday-looking-into that the best way to go was with a water party at the house. Kensie adores the water, so I knew she’d love her buddies coming to her house to romp around the yard in a baby pool and the sprinkler (we had both in the garage already), and I was sure she’d be fine with a few more kids than four. So I sent out 10 invitations. (One family had four kids; one had three; a couple had two kids; and a couple only had 1—what’s a few extra kids, right?).

Party theme and invites. Check.

Next, I headed out to get the cake. I didn’t go with the expensive bakers like some friends suggested. I had one made at a local grocery store. It looked lovely, I saved a bunch of money, and Kensie’s not allowed to eat sugary foods anyway, so I was sure the local grocery-store cake would be perfect for her.

Cake. Check.

Next we headed to buy gifts. I bought Kensie a bike (not too expensive, and I’ve got one more paycheck coming, so it’s all good), and my parents bought her a sandbox. Nothing lavish. No telling how many gifts she’d get from party-goers.

Presents. Check.

As my mother and I drove through town, I spotted a sign: “Party City.” Hmmmm? We’re throwing a party; I’m sure they’ll know what kinds of supplies we need. $200 later and with a full-on beach-themed party extravaganza, this 2-year-old’s party had taken on a life of its own. We now had two cars full of decorations, accessories (tablecloths, centerpieces, leis, hats, sunglasses), tables, chairs, pools, sprinklers, Slip ‘n Slides, gift bags, even a blow-up cooler for organic juice boxes, sodas, and water.

Party supplies. Check.

While we’re at it, why not make it a cook-out! I mean, Pa (my dad) loves to grill, and since the party doesn’t start until 3, it’ll be dinnertime before we know it. Burgers and dogs, buns, sodas, chips, baked beans, potato salad, macaroni salad, M&Ms (a must-have), beer and wine (just in case). $180 later, we had enough food to feed the neighborhood (even though no one in the neighborhood was invited).

Outdoor barbecue supplies. Check.

Saturday morning arrived, and it was a hot one. At 8 a.m., I couldn’t walk five feet without breaking a sweat. But I had a party to get ready for, there was a toddler following my every move who knew it was all about her, and she was ready (she was playing in the water by 10 a.m.). At this point, we hadn’t yet gotten a pump to blow up the baby pools and Slip ‘n Slide and cooler and water accessories, but no worries. We’d just make a quick run to Wal-Mart. I was sure a simple bike pump would do. Not! Once we realized it’d take us a week to pump everything up by hand, we had to send my dad to the automotive store down the road to get an electric pump. Long story made short, it took us from about 10 a.m. until literally the beginning of the party (again, 3 p.m.) to get all the blow-ups blown up and everything else ready.

I finally got in the shower at a quarter ‘til 3, and by the time I got back outside to greet guests, I was, again, sweating profusely. (Tip for those of you not from or living in the South: Showers during summer are either completely unnecessary, or you have to take three a day. Your choice.) When people started arriving, the real work began. Carrying chairs, filling pools, moving tables, running in and out for supplies that need replenished, getting drinks for adults, fielding questions from the kids, keeping towels on hand, showing people to the bathroom, preparing burgers and dogs, schlepping presents from the front to the back of the house then to the front again, carrying bags of sand for the sandbox: the glamorous life of “Mom of the Birthday Girl.” (I’m no Tori Spelling: I don’t have “guncles” to pick up the slack of an absent father!)

Needless to say, the kids had a blast, the adults enjoyed themselves, and Kensie was more than thrilled to have all of these people at her house celebrating her. Everything seemed to go off without a hitch (well, there may have been a few hitches, but no one really noticed), and party-goers hung out until the sun went down. Though still sore and ecstatic to be inside in the air-conditioning for awhile, I am glad I chose to throw more than a family dinner for my daughter’s 2nd birthday. It wasn’t easy, and I couldn’t have done it without the help of my family, but it was worth every bead of sweat, both burnt shoulders and nose, the dirt strip left in the front yard from the Slip ‘n Slide, all the sand that still needs to be cleaned up on the back patio, and the remnants of balloons and flip-flop cut-outs strewn all about the neighborhood that still need to be picked up.

Successful 2-year-old party. Check.

Now, where the hell are my keys!?!