Like Cussing Mother, Like Cussing Daughter

According to my sister Bridget, the first time I cussed was when I was four.  Eight siblings had just crawled out of the backseat of our dad’s station wagon.  I was about to follow suit when Bridget closed the door in my face, forgetting that I was still in the car.  Realizing her mistake, she turned around to open it.  Before she could, she read my little lips as I yelled, “oh shit.”  I was angry and surprised and I had no other choice but to curse my way through the situation.  I don’t think I’ve stopped swearing since.

Darla is an even earlier bloomer than I was.  It was a proud moment in my life when I realized that my 18-month-old daughter was a swearer.  This special occasion happened for me when I gave Darla a juice box filled with coconut water.  She took a long, satisfied pull from it, slammed it down on the table and said, “Oh S” (but it’s not just “s”) with a big grin on her face.  Greg and I looked at each other and put our heads on the table.  The most troubling part about this wasn’t the fact that she said it, but that she had reached a level of sophisticated cussing that she completely bypassed the frustrated or angry profanity and went straight for the joyful use. 

This is a wake up call for me.  Although I’ve been very conscious not to let vulgarity rein, I’ve let a few (or maybe a little more than a few…) muttered profanities pass my lips in her presence.  Sometimes, it came as a result of running late for an appointment and seeing that Darla had decided to take my bag and dump it all over the floor.  Other times, it was when I’d been so excited by something cool Darla has done (like dancing like a “Maniac”) that I exclaim, “that’s f’ing amazing.”  I’m 100% to blame for this and I apologize in advance to all of the parent’s Darla and I come in contact with.  Darla has been known to teach other kids such wonderful things as “no, no, no, no, no” or screaming at the top of her lungs.   Here’s just one more thing to add to your list of “things my child learned from Darla that I now have to unteach it.”

I’m at a loss of how to deprogram Darla, but I have been trying my hand at redirecting her language.  Here are some examples:  When Darla says the s-word I pretend she has said “cheese.”  With her garbled tones, it’s an easy mistake to make.  I’m hoping after enough rounds of this, she will get confused and think she’s actually saying cheese.  Also, I believe I’ve heard Darla say the b-word, but I just translate that to “peach.”  When the day comes when Darla says the f-word, I imagine I will have to think she’s saying “fork” and pass her the utensil. 

I’m hoping this plan works.  I try not to let my mind linger on the fact that she may just end up saying the s-word every time she wants a slice of cheese.  

A Bad Case of Motherhood

Infants and toddlers with their new, little immune systems get sick every other week.  Everyone knows that.  A mom, an adult with a supposedly seasoned and robust immune system, is supposed to be the rock on which her sick children lean.  I, unfortunately, am not of such sturdy stock as I imagine all others to be.

Sometime around Darla's first birthday in March, I lost it because every time she was sick, I was sick.  By May, it had been two months of a non-stop viral party.  I couldn't believe that I just had a weak immune system.  I decided there was something terribly wrong with my health.  I looked over the past few months.  Consistent sinus infections, hand, foot and mouth disease, extreme exhaustion and fevers.  The only thing I could glean from this information was that I was anemic, again.  I tried taking vitamins, drinking more water and eating better.  I still felt like my head was stuft with cotton and that my eyes were hung-over droopy.

After putting it off for months, I went to the doctor.  I was ashamed to admit I felt malaise, achy and at my wits end.  I thought that there was no way she would under stand the pain I was enduring.

She walked into the office, asked if I had any concerns and I dove right in.

"I have a 14 month, whose actually in the waiting room with her dad.  I've been sick non-stop, I'm going brain-dead because I'm so tired and I wake up every morning dreading my to do list.  I count the minutes until I can go back to sleep from the second I wake up."

I thought she was going to criticize me for being an unenthusiastic, apathetic parent who can't properly raise a child.  I hoped she would diagnose my anemia before she got to that part.

Instead, after she heard my monologue listing my ailments, she gave a look as if to say, "there's more, right?"

I added, "I used to have anemia, so I think its come back."

She shook her head, "I think that you're experiencing what it's like to be a mother.  This all sounds very normal."

I wanted to argue with her.  Tell her that she didn't know what she was talking about and that being a mom can't be this hard.  To have argued that point would have meant ignoring the big elephant in the room (aka her 8 month old pot belly of her second pregnancy).

To placate me, she agreed to run some tests, which I didn't end up taking until two months later.

When I finally went in for the blood tests, I anxiously awaited the day that the results would come in.  I was excited to find out that I had a minor problem, which could be cured by a few pills.  The phone call I received regarding the results was beyond disappointing.  My levels were all normal.  There would be no miracle pills for me.

Despite this lack of a diagnosis, I trudge on.  The exhaustion has slightly diminished. I went a whole month without getting sick.  I only count down the minutes until lunch and then, from there, I count down the minutes until bed.  Things are improving!