Now For My Next Anticlimactic Trick!

Well. Well. Well.

How VERY interesting. It appears that you have children from the ages of...

(DRUM ROLL PLEASE)

two weeks to eighteen years old!

How very...broad of you, Internet. Despite my efforts to be useful and applicable in my writing and all market research-y I have basically learned that your children are in fact, um, minors. So, yes. Very good then. Okay. Where were we?

*shuffles papers*

Let's skip ahead to our next topic! For those of you that can relate. The rest of you can browse the gift shop. You can never have enough Precious Moments figurines, no?

• How and at what age do you explain sex to your kids?

I'll be honest. I'll be zero help on this one, because this is the conversation I had with Savannah yesterday in the car.

Her: "Mommy, what were you saying to Daddy about that girl you once knew?"

Me: "What girl?"

Her: "That girl who had a baby."

Me: "Oh, uh, you mean the friend of mine when I was younger?"

Her: "Yeah, how old was she?"

Me: "Well, she was only thirteen. Isn't that awful?"

Her: "Why did she want to have a baby when she was thirteen?"

Me: "She didn't want to. It was an accident."

I'm starting to sweat.

She scrunches up her face with this disturbing knowledge.

Her: "An accident! What did she DO?"

Me: "Well, she was doing something with a boy that she shouldn't have been doing."

I'm rolling down my window and turning up the air.

Her: "What was she doing??"

I can't NOT answer at this point because if I say "you're too young to know" (which is what my parents would have said) then what might she deduce from my vague answer? That they were jay walking? Or sneaking candy into the movies? Parting their hair wrong?

Me: "Well, they were doing things that only married people do."

Her: "Oh, you mean like kissing?"

Now, I wouldn't want my poor six-year-old to walk around thinking that kissing can put a baby inside you now would I?

I would.

"Yes", I said, "Exactly. Want to play I Spy?"

Also, I Would Have Accepted Snakes*

So, did everyone have a chance to get their comments in? Hmm? Everyone?

(See, how I cleverly pretended I was waiting on you when in actuality you've been waiting on me? I know. How sneaky. Do you ever do that to your husband? Come downstairs where he's been passing the time waiting for you by watching TV, and sigh all annoyed and ask "Well, are we going to go or what?"? ...No? Yeah, me neither. That would be mean.)

Moving on. How to get the little people into their very own little beds.

When it came to deciding where Savannah would sleep, it appeared to be an easy decision.

All it took was ONE co-worker telling Chris that his 7-year-old still slept in their marital bed and a comment on the "ix-nay on the ex-say ever since" to send Chris into a panic. I seem to recall that he came racing in the door from work breathless and wild-eyed panting out the words "The...baby...has...to...sleep...in...its...own...room". Then he collapsed on the floor in a pool of his own tears wailing "I knew this wasn't a good idea!".

Or something very similar. I'm not kidding.

Chris is extremely easy-going and my pregnancy was no exception. But, co-sleeping was literally the one thing on which he had a very strong opinion.

If you think I'm overstating his conviction, this should bring you around.

Chris slept in a chair with Savannah propped on his chest for four months because it was the only way she would sleep for more than an hour at a time outside of our bed. As a matter of fact, they would probably still be sleeping like that were it not for the fact that Chris started to have trouble breathing after she hit 20 pounds.**

So, the traditional methods we did not use, I admit.

Once it came time for Savannah to transition from her daddy's chest to a big spacious crib in her own room all alone in the dark, you can imagine how that went. Which goes to show you, if we can do it, you can do it.

When it was apparent that it was time to transition her, I read all the books on all the methods. Then I selected aspects of each that seemed to fit our family (translation: that seemed least likely to make me cry).

Here's what we did in order. You will see that it was not a direct line.

1. First Week: I started putting Savannah in her crib to play during the afternoons. That way she could get familiar with it in the daylight.
2. Second Week: I started putting her down for naps in her crib. Up until this point, she was taking her naps in the living room with me, which was making Oprah tons of fun to watch muted. Not.
3. Third Week: We started to backslide. She became clingy and not too happy about her crib. I had to rock her to sleep.
4. Fourth Week: She started to scream if we walked past her room and clawed at my neck if I went near her crib. This is when I began rocking her in front of running water for up to an hour to get her to sleep. Even more fun than muted Oprah.
5. Fifth Week: I started putting her in her crib when she was tired, but FOR THE LOVE OF GOD NOT OVERTIRED, and I would sit in the chair next to her crib while she cried and reached out for me. I wouldn't look at her and would stare at the floor (I would not recommend this). I would lay her back down every time she stood up, which would make her angrier than a jar of bees (I don't recommend this either). This was an all around awesome time. I think this was the week I locked myself in my closet and screamed "SHUT THE F*CK UP!" into a pillow. I have tears in my eyes remembering this time. It seemed like a year.
6. Sixth Week: I would lay her in her crib and come in and out of the room, cooing to her and talking softly while staying busy and out of arm's reach. This sort of created the illusion that I was just...about...to...pick...her...up...any...minnnn...zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz. Off she would go for a three hour power nap. Victory!
7. Seventh Week: Evenings. Yeah. NOT. HAVING. IT. There was jumping and crying and chanting "MAMA MAMA MAMA MAMA". I tried the same trick that worked with daytime naps - going in and out of the room. Except this time, since it was dark, I would sometimes sit in the chair in her room. I would sit in it on and off, coming in and out of her room, acting busy. She would cry and reach out to me, but it was less intense every night. And every night -THIS IS THE KEY- I would MOVE the chair toward the door. By the end of the week, the chair was in the hallway and I was hardly sitting in it. She was crying less and was less expectant, but was ultimately still crying herself to sleep. Until...
8. Eighth Week: I bought one of these. The best twenty bucks I ever done spent. She would konk out despite herself, her will no match for The Whale Songs.

I admit defeat.

Now, five years later, I only wish I could get her to get up in the morning.

I don't know if this helps you, I know that every kid is different, but it is a testament to the fact that it can be done. I would also recommend skipping right to #8. And kicking off the night with a stiff drink.

I'll post the next topic Wednesday! (I swear on my Costco box of 100 Calorie Snack Packs that I will. Now you know I mean it.)

~~~~

*If you know where my title comes from, you are invited to be my best friend.

**What I'm leaving unsaid is that yes, I, a brand new mommy, was able to sleep BY MYSELF IN MY BED ALL NIGHT for the first four months with Chris only bringing her in for feedings. *ducks to avoid your swing*

Breaking News

I started to write about the fires here at Club Mom, but realized that is a subject better suited for my personal blog, so if you would like to know how I'm doing feel free to take a jaunt over yonder.

Obviously, I still have hands.

I know posting has been spotty and I'm not going to apologize because yet again I've been reading how "egotistical" and "presumptuous" it is to apologize for not posting. Honestly, I will never wrap my brain around why. It's not like I'm saying "Sorry I haven't been raining upon you the bounty of my golden thoughts, but alas I am back and the sun may shine upon your bored little face once again!".

I was just busy is all. And you probably are too. And since we have sort of an ongoing conversation, I thought you would like to know. Or not.

Also, I sort of started a business.

Actually, I really started a business. A real one with like clients and stuff. And I'd like to say I'm very cool and corporate about it. But, honestly? I literally pinched myself yesterday. Because I am having real adult conversations again about real adult things and getting paid real adult money.

*PINCH*

More about that later (probably on my other blog). But, today! I have a new idea! I was looking through my archives doing some housekeeping and I noticed that, well, we're kind of awesome you and I. What with all the advice and opinions and such. So, I'm thinking of channeling that in a more defined way.

Like so:

Every week I'll post a common, yet seriously baffling, parenting issue. For all ages. Then we'll all hop on  with what worked for us and pool our collective awesomeness in a totally useful way. What do you think?

So, here's this week's Issue.

Sleeping In Their Own Bed

How did you get your kids to sleep in their own bed? Did you do it from birth? If not, what age? What would you recommend? And what would you definitely recomNOTmend?

You tell me what worked for you (or didn't) and then I'll come back and share our fool-proof plan.

Probably More Dramatic Than I Should Be

So.

Hi.

I've been reading your comments as they come in on the last post and selfishly let it go another day because I so love all of your opinions. I find myself nodding going "Yep. Exactly" to almost all of them. You see the problem, don't you? I can see every side of this damn issue! Ugh. I hate it when I don't get to be righteously indignant.

In answer to your questions:

1. Yes, we were invited.

2. No, we did not attend. I likely would have declined her invite on moral grounds anyway (translation: hid from her behind trees in the school parking lot), but we were out of town this weekend. So, phew.

3. It was a girl's party and 15 boys and girls were invited, about half the class.

Many of you summed up perfectly what I see both right and wrong with the situation. One the one hand, like Alias Mother said:

"Personally, if I were not on the invite list and found out about the whole thing (which will happen because COME ON) I'd be more insulted that this mother thought I or my child was incapable of handling the crushing blow of not being invited to her party."

And I love Terese's preschool's policy:

"At my daughter's preschool, they just have a policy - NO distributing of invites at school UNLESS the whole class is invited. ...Invites should be MAILED! I think Miss Manners AND The Martha would agree with me on this. Spring for some stamps!"

That makes perfect sense, no?

And most of you echoed these sentiments: CONTROL FREAK!

But. Then I read Artemisia's articulate comment that shames me:

"She may be over the top in her efforts, but Christ on a cracker, her heart is obviously in the right place. ...if the OCD mom wants to go overboard making sure kids' feelings don't get hurt, more power to her."

It's true. And I know that's why I took the question to you, The Internet Brain Trust. Because this mom is only trying to save hurt feelings in her twisted OCD way.

Unfortunately, by her making a bigger deal out of it, she has brought glaring attention to the uninvited, hasn't she? Dani took the words right out of my keyboard when she said:

"By making it a big secret it makes everyone uncomfortable, and those not invited feel slighted. And wont the kids be talking about the amazing "A List Only" party on Monday after? It's the idea of the "secret" that is wrong.

I have to say that's where I stand.

This is probably the tenth party in the last five weeks and I know that this is just the beginning of the whole awkward invited/uninvited popular/unpopular thing. And I hate that. Because as I've mentioned before, I was far from popular. And despite what I may have thrown out there when Savannah first started school, she's having her issues as well. We haven't been invited to every single playdate and party. Savannah hears about them after the fact and that hurts. Period. And THAT is what bothers me about this situation. It wasn't my daughter that was hurt THIS TIME. But, whether this mom had the best intentions or not, to specifically articulate who is being excluded is to call out the unwanted.

It's like a little list of broken hearts.

I know that life isn't fair. But, the fact remains that we are the parents and it is our job to insulate our kids from as much rejection as possible. Because there will be plenty of it in their lives that we cannot control. It is our job to be fair.

So many of you have stories about your own kids (or yourself) left out socially in childhood. Especially Allie's story? Go read it. I'll wait.

The exact same thing happened to Savannah with our old neighbors. We could hear the little party girls squealing and laughing and playing next door in their yard. And do you know what my daughter did?

She pulled a chair over to my bedroom window, so that she could watch them.

UGH. Let's cite that as reason #45,629,469,374,979,364 why I'm glad we moved from there.

But, I know it can happen anywhere. Kids can be mean. But, the whole point of this discussion is to ask 'where does it start?'. Hello! With the moms.

I don't have all the answers, but I can tell you what I would have done in this situation.

Considering that there are 30 eager five-year-olds brand new to each other? Considering that these little guys are just starting to venture out from their moms and into the scary world of social interactions? Considering that their feelings this year may shape their view of school for years to come?

If I couldn't have invited everyone, I would have just invited all the girls. Every single one. I would have scaled the party way back or whatever was needed to ensure every little girl could happily chatter about  the party on Monday.

What's a few more party bags? A few more hats?

When the alternative is to leave someone watching from the window?

Only In the OC Would Party Invitations Come With a Non-Disclosure Agreement

Do you have your #2 pencil in hand?

Here is your word problem:

A mom you know is having a party for her 6 year old.

She is only inviting 15 kids.

So, she covertly hands out invites in the school parking lot. And in that invitation is an accompanying letter requesting that you 1) not speak of the party to your children until the day of and 2) not speak of the party to any of the parents not listed below. Then there is a list of who is being invited.

Right or wrong? You decide.

a) Wrong! Who does that?

b) Right! Uninvited moms should understand you can't invite everybody. (Because you know ...the uninvited will find out.)

c) Undecided. Am I invited?

Turn your papers in at the front of the class when you are finished and we will discuss on Monday. Don't forget to bring me an apple. I prefer them covered in caramel.

Shower Me With Your Love**

For those of you late to the party, I started to plan my pregnancy when I was about 12-ish years old. Does this terrify me since me own daughter is halfway to twelve? Um, YESITDOESTHANKYOUVERYMUCH.

(I even remember when a distant acquaintance of my family's found out that their thirteen-year-old daughter was pregnant. I remember because I spent the next year consumed with jealousy and maybe even < whispers > drew pictures of her with a big pregnant belly and other times holding a baby and also other times driving a convertible VW Rabbit with a baby smiling in the car seat behind her < /whispers >.)

(I know. You're scared. Please God don't let it be in the genes.)

ANYwho, I think at this point it goes without saying that I was a teensy bit ecstatic when I became pregnant at the ripe old age of 23. I still remember going straight to the book store, for they are my oldest friends, and buying every baby book they sold and then announcing to the line without being asked "I'm buying all of these because I'm pregnant. With a baby. A real one. It's inside me. So, I'm buying these books to learn. Yessirreee. Havin a baby." I'm pretty sure no one cared.

That excitement continued throughout much of the pregnancy. I didn't care that we lived in an apartment. I didn't care that we didn't have money. I didn't care that we had been married only six months and that Chris appeared a tad ashy when I happily exclaimed "I can't believe I got pregnant two weeks after I stopped taking The Pill! I didn't even know that was possible!".

To which he replied "And you said it was going to take a year" followed by a shrill little laugh. Or maybe it was a cry.

Most of all, I didn't care that I had just left my religion behind a few years earlier and therefore, my entire social network.

I was having a baby and that is all I ever wanted and now I could die happy. The End.

That is, until I was at a BBQ a few months later.

The hosts were people we only knew in passing and therefore, the majority of the guests were perfect strangers. One of them, in particular, was a rich, tan, woman with the most grating voice and noxious perfume, and enormous cleavage in which three gold necklaces dangled.

She also happened to be pregnant.

After she chattered on and on about her brokerage and her Mercedes and her sex life - each story ending in a wild cackle, she turned to me and asked "How many showers have you had?".

How many?

Everyone was staring at me.

"Um..."

I only had a handful of friends and most of them were my co-workers. I was going to be ecstatic if my shower attendance outnumbered the passenger capacity of my car.

At that point, however, she was only asking me as a segue to her own story.

"I've already had three!" she squealed. "My girlfriends blahblahblah limo blahblahblah Napa blahblahblah massages blahblahblah. And I'm having two more! Work blahblahblah family blahblahblah clients blaaargh."

Since it was obvious this lady was a perpetual "I swear I'm twenty-nine!" type despite being a decade past it, I wish so much that I had responded "Well, you're a lot older than I am, so I'm sure you have a lot more friends". I would have smiled sweetly and everything.

But, I wasn't blogging yet, so I wasn't nearly that quick-witted.

When she finished, she looked at me expectantly again.

"Well, I haven't had any. Yet. But, I'm sure my mom and my aunt are planning one."

I swear to God it was the only time in my life where I actually witnessed someone stifle a laugh at me.

It should come as no surprise that I bawled the entire way home.

I mean, I was rife with pregnancy hormones. Which meant I was mildly obsessed with ensuring everything was P-E-R-F-E-C-T for the baby. It seemed like suddenly things that didn't matter before took on grave meaning. (Is there any way we can fix the ozone before the baby comes? Can we get our own ground well?)

This limited friends and family thing honestly gave me pause. Who's going to love the baby? I cried to Chris. WE'RE ALL GOING TO DIE AND LEAVE HER ALOOOOOONE!

I considered not even having a shower. I was so worried that no one would show up. I was so worried that something would taint this most precious experience. I was so worried that my teeny little shower would be proof that I shouldn't be having a baby yet. (I told you, I had The Pregnancy Crazy.)

All because of a big-mouthed braggy stranger*.

I purposely stayed out of the shower preparations. I purposely chose a restaurant to give the illusion that ...what? The other diners were my friends? I have no idea. I tried not to get my hopes up.

I'm happy to report that I had a lovely baby shower thanks to my pushy aunt, mother, and in-laws. Because they love me fiercely. And it was well-attended! Even My Arm and The Dumpster were there.

I'm so glad My Arm was able to make it.

What smells like corn and cheese?

Oh. Also My Nose attended. Despite her being specifically uninvited.

So, did you have a baby shower? How many did you have? (Don't worry! I'm no longer bitter.) How many people came? If you had to guess, how far away would you say was the nearest dumpster?

----

*I'm only sharing this with you because I happen to find it ironic, not because I wish her any ill will, but this person actually miscarried shortly after this and has gone on to battle with infertility for the last six years. I know. Sad.

Short List of Things I Do Not Recommend

1. Watching "The Bridges of Madison County" too close to your period.

2. The same month your only child starts Kindergarten.

3. While infertile.

4. And drinking a 2006 Trader Joe's Shiraz.

One quote stopped me dead in my Ruffle-dipping tracks.

Meryl Streep's character says, very haltingly:

"Having children in one way ends your life. ...A new life begins that is wonderful. But, YOU are over. Your life becomes about details. ...And YOU stand still. So that everyone else can move around you. And then they leave. ...And they take those details with them. ...And you're supposed to move on. But, you can't remember what moved you. ...Because it's been so long since anyone asked."

It's been so long since anyone asked.

From my keyboard to your heart, no? How often do you feel like if you could only get a MINUTE ALONE, THEN you could figure out what moves you. Then you would know what your plan is. Then you could have a conversation with you again. If you could just step out of the details of family life for a minute to reconnect with YOU.

Meryl Streep portrays a housewife in the 1960's, but the sentiment rings true today. Perhaps even more so. Because there are so many more opportunities available to moms today - so many new ways to feel like you're failing if you don't take them.

I thought about her words "It's been so long since anyone asked". I realized that that is what makes all the difference.

Someone asking.

Someone to remind you of who you are and where you're going. Someone to remind you to check in with that quiet place in your heart. Someone to nudge you to keep moving forward.

I'm so lucky that Chris has always been so supportive of whatever it is I want to do. He's the first one cheering me on.

When I wanted to become a mom ten minutes after we married, he said okay.

When I wanted to quit my job, he said do it.

When I wanted to start my own business, he announced it to the world.

When I wanted to go back to school, he was right there.

When I wanted to take on writing gigs, he said go for it.

And when I wanted to raise ferrets, there he was. (I'm kidding. I never raised ferrets, but I could have. See?)

Now, after seven years of marriage and six years of mommying and with the possibility of having another child dancing on the horizon, I'm in the beginning stages of starting up yet another business and without a doubt, I know my reliable husband will be right there by my side every step of the way. Asking all the right questions. Sharing my enthusiasm. Nudging me along.

It's his way of whispering in my ear "What moves you?".

Because without someone asking, we may never be forced to answer.

So, let me be that someone today. What was your passion before you became a mom, a wife?

Is it painting? Acting? Running? Singing? Dancing? Photography? Cooking? Writing? Reading? Your career? Pole dancing?

What moves you?

The Unthinkable (Now with more thinking!)

Yes, I put up this post the other day and then promptly took it down.

Not because I doubted my reaction in my story, but because in the interest of brevity, I didn't describe all of the details involved in the situation. And when it comes to a subject of this magnitude where many assumptions can be made I thought it was only right to pull the post and devote a little more time to fleshing out the story.

***********************************************************

This blog teases me.

Do you want to know why?

Because it is the PERFECT OPPORTUNITY TO TELL FUNNY STORIES THAT I AM TOO AFRAID TO TELL!

If you blog and have ever made the insane decision to tell a living soul in your real life about it, then you know what I'm referring to. There's no venting about your friends (not that I need to!), complaining about in-laws (whom I love!), or bitching about your husband (what would I possibly say when he's so WUNDERFUL and GUD?).

And there sure is no way that you can talk about The Drop Off Moms in detail. Because what if they found it? What if one of them, say, Googled "Lena Lotsey" on a whim because she's secretly in love with me and was hoping to happen upon nude photos vengefully posted on the internet by some old boyfriend? ...Or something like that?

Then what? In an hour she would know about our past financial problems, my chronic anxiety, my tendency to whine, that my daughter eats junk food, that I'm a second wife, my old eating disorder, my infertility, my hellish relationship with my dad, that I don't spank but I do drink, that I wore roller-skating giraffes and can't stop linking to it, my inability to change the sheets regularly and that I have an adorable cat and then she might want to steal him.

Worse, she may stumble upon a post where I wrote about how she is a whackjob and I wish she would stop stalking me. Or something like that.

So, for now I must say school is fine, yes, thank you for asking. And you?

Maybe one day I'll find a way to talk in code. ("So. We have these SQUIRRELS in our backyard. And one of these SQUIRRELS keeps calling me.") Until then, though, yeah no school stories.

~~~~~

In other news, our house is completely rehabbed from the flood!

Which is stellar news. Mostly because having those contractors in my house every day was really starting to creep me out.

May I present you with a bone-chilling example of their creepiness?

So, one day around mid-day I was upstairs working in my office with the door open. The door opens to the staircase which is completely open on both sides to downstairs. In other words, I may seem far away, but I can hear everything that is going on down below.

Savannah was going back and forth between playing in her bedroom right next to me or watching TV downstairs in the living room. The contractors were working in the dining room, which is in between the living room and stairs.

Like this:

At one point I hear Savannah talking. I immediately freeze and listen. I realize I am hearing her talk to the contractor.

I step out onto the landing and look over the rail. There is my daughter, in the living room, sitting on the couch. AND THE CONTRACTOR IS STANDING OVER HER ASKING HER QUESTIONS.

"Savannah" I snap, "Come up here."

The contractor looks up at me, I glare at him, and he goes back into the dining room where he was working.

To reiterate: THE CONTRACTOR WALKED TEN FEET AWAY FROM HIS WORK AREA TO TALK TO MY FIVE YEAR OLD DAUGHTER ALONE.

Upstairs I find out from Savannah that he asked her if she likes donuts for breakfast.

I don't know why, but that question sent chills up my spine. (And also, incidentally, every single mother  to whom I've told this story.)

Why are you asking a little girl in the middle of the day if she likes donuts for breakfast? WHY??? Why would you leave your work to go over and converse with a child when you think no one is watching?!

I sat at my desk for a few minutes rolling these questions over in my head. Being a woman, I tend to second guess myself - like hoping one-eyed men in trench coats in the middle of summer knocking on my door are perfectly normal - so, I sat alone with my anxiety for awhile. I tried to talk myself out of the bad feeling I was having in reaction to this contractor's interaction with Savannah.

I asked myself 'Was it really that odd that he walked over to her without me around?'

'Maybe he has a daughter himself. Would that still make it wrong?'

'Would I have felt the same if a nicely dressed good-looking blond white man had done the same thing?'.

And I can tell you unequivocally that my answer was yes to all of these.

So, I grabbed my purse and Savannah and we left the house. As we got into the car in the driveway, the contractor walked out to his truck. I was already sitting in the driver's seat and since it's an SUV with tinted windows, I could easily see the contractor while he could not see me.

I decided to watch him to see if he looked at Savannah as she climbed in the back.

I willed him to keep his head down.

I watched him watch her.

He watched.

I started the car as he began to walk across my yard to go back inside my house. As Savannah closed her door, his eyes swept from Savannah to my watchful face. Our eyes met. And I swear, something was missing from his eyes.

Something was off.

I called Chris from the car.

I've never been more composed as I firmly stated to Chris "Get. Those. Contractors. Out. Of. My. House.".

Chris had a better idea. He decided to play cop and get their ID's the next morning when they showed up for work. That way they would know that we were watching them.

I couldn't sleep that night. I was pulled in two different directions. One side of me - the compassionate human side - felt awful if I made this man, who may just be a nice clueless guy, feel badly because the paranoid lady thinks he was trying to talk to her daughter.

But, the other side of me - the mother's intuition - just knew. He wasn't clueless.

I just knew.

The next morning Chris waited for the contractors to arrive. I told myself that this was the perfect solution: best case, no one would be offended because it was perfectly reasonable to identify the people alone in your home and worst case, if this guy was up to no good, he would now know we "had his number".

Except, guess what? He didn't have "a number".Illegal immigrant. No papers. Of course.

To say I was terrified by that development would be an understatement. The one thing that was calming my gut reaction about this guy was the knowledge that he knew we were watching his behavior and that he would be accountable for it.

Now, I was being told that there was no accountability. NONE. He was like a ghost if he wanted to be.

When Chris told me, I was in the car and I absolutely lost it. I was inconsolable.

This supposedly reputable company sends an undocumented unaccountable illegal alien into MY home ALONE with MYSELF AND MY LITTLE GIRL. And we're within a few hours from the Mexico border.

Chris kicked the crew out of our house and called the owner, demanding this employee's name. The owner refused to give it up.

We pained over what to do next.

Should we tell the boss about the inappropriate interaction that started all of this? This guy was an untraceable illegal. Did we want to upset him? What if he was fired and wanted revenge? We didn't know who he was, but he sure knew who we were. What if we already scared him by outing him? What if the damage was done?

People die to come into this country. Would they be willing to kill to stay?

What if it was nothing? Did we overreact? And if we did, then why were we both sitting in our house in the middle of the day wringing our hands? Why were our guts telling us something was very wrong with that interaction?

We just wanted to do what would make us feel safest.

We decided to tell the owner to send a brand new crew, demanding all legal citizens. We then called the homeowner and asked that he be present while they worked because I would be leaving with my daughter every day.

THAT VERY NIGHT we had an entire alarm system installed.

(Which is so sensitive that it was triggered by the cat the first night and sent Chris and I racing downstairs - Chris with an aluminum baseball bat and me in my underwear chasing after him until I got nauseas and had to lay on the stairs.)

In the end, the new crew quickly finished the job. And the owner eventually called us with the illegal man's name. Like it helps.

Honestly, I'm still having trouble sleeping. I want to believe in the goodness of people. I want to. But, when does that trust in strangers end and your trust in your gut begin?

What would you have done? Would you have confronted the man in the moment he was talking to your child?

Would you have fired the entire company even though they were almost finished? Would you have risked making a larger deal out of it, keeping in mind that this man is untraceable?

Or would you have done nothing?

This Blog Should Give Her Plenty To Worry About

When Savannah was about two years old she developed this obsession with gum. And I don't mean that she ate it. She counted it. And I don't mean that she counted it in a package. She counted it after being chewed and stuck underneath restaurant tables.

Every dining experience would begin the same way: Savannah craning her head underneath the table, her diapered bottom in the air, then coming back up to announce "There's FIVE pieces of gum under there!".

After several unsuccessful attempts to keep her from getting under the table and counting gum, and the ensuing meltdown, I realized that this little compulsion provided her with comfort. She liked the structure. The predictability that there would always be gum under the table. (We dine in style obviously.)

This was the first of many odd little quirks she came to possess, her anxiety insisting upon it.

Did this realization worry me? Honestly, no. Because I know it is in reaction to me.

I am not a Scheduler. I am not a Planner. I am not Organized. I am the friend who comes racing into your house, hair dripping wet, dragging my crying child with me and breathlessly apologizing for being a half hour late. Some would call me undependable. I prefer "free-spirited".

My daughter? Scheduler. She organizes. She plans. She cleans. She loves the smell and feel and texture of CLEAN. She loves the predictability and order of A PLAN. Disorganization bothers her. Lack of structure bothers her. She thrives on information.

In other words, she loves RULES.

It took some time, but eventually I figured out that all of her quirks had one thing in common: they were indications of broken rules.

Following her gum counting obsession was a healthy eating obsession. I can say with almost complete certainty that I am the only mother of a toddler who said after vomiting from the flu at three years old, "I haven't been eating enough broccoli".

The health obsession gave way to a safety obsession, which carries through to today. (Have you ever had a child demand you put on your seatbelt before you backed out of the driveway? It's a handy accompaniment to the insistent dinging and flashing seatbelt light that your car already possesses.)

Every warning must be read, every sign must be explained. The dangers of the new toy having small parts on which a 3 year old could choke must be deciphered. Every No Smoking, No Dogs, No Dumping, No Right Turn warning must be discussed and analyzed. Every unknown danger must be put to rest.

When this happened and there was talk of my license possibly being suspended, I can honestly tell you that in the last nine months we have not gone a single week without my fielding the question "Are they going to take your license away? But, how do you KNOW FOR SURE FOR SURE?".

Lately, Savannah's obsession with safety has also picked up a co-obsession: fear of stealing. As in, my stealing. ("Why are you opening that water? We haven't paid yet!" "Where is my fruit snack bag? HOW WILL WE PAY FOR IT?" And to the cashier at Target: "Did you get the cat food? It's underneath the cart".)

She will even refuse to finish her donut in the grocery store, so that she is able to show them her final bite. What if they charged us for a GLAZED when it had SPRINKLES?!

(Note to Self: NEVER DIVULGE THAT YOU ONCE SHOPLIFTED A JACKET FROM CONTEMPO CASUALS. Or was it Wet Seal?)

Chris and I both tend to get annoyed at the minor inconvenience Savannah's anxieties create. We sometimes get irritated when we have to explain for the 4,000th time that no, we're not doing anything wrong when we smuggle 99 cent M&M's in my purse to the movies to avoid the pleasure of a $24 concession stand experience.

But, the truth is, I find it endearing. I don't want my daughter to be nervous. I don't want her to be fearful. But, I also know that she comes from these genes and there's just no getting around that.

What intrigues me is the fact that she and I deal with our anxiety in completely opposing ways: I like to deny, she likes to learn. I like chaos to distract me, she prefers order to calm her.

As much as it tends to annoy me - her need for structure and rules - I know that there is no greater blessing as a parent than to know what works for your kid.

And so I'll continue to make Savannah's world feel a little safer one "Do Not Put Directly In Your Eyes" label at a time.

Now, you tell me. Do you have an anxious child?

Because Your Brain Is Just Waiting To Explode

Do you want to know what the absolute best part of parenting is? I'll tell you. How you can go from lalala I'm sitting on the couch eating crackers watching Dr. Phil lalala to full-on panic mode convinced your child is about to perish.

One minute you're contemplating wiping those fingerprints off the television and the next your child says "My head hurts". And if you're like me, that OF COURSE means he/she has a brain tumor. What else could it mean?? Even though you may pretend that you're perfectly fine and you're just getting them a Motrin, the whole way to the medicine cabinet you're thinking:

It's just a headache, it's no big deal. Are kids supposed to get headaches? How long has she had a headache? Maybe it's meningitis. Does her neck hurt? Meningitis is better than a tumor. Or is it? Remember that one kid who died from meningitis? Omigod I would prefer a tumor. We would just find the best specialists in the world, it would be okay, children are resilient, they rebound from this stuff all the time. Don't they? I'm sure it's just a headache. What if I'm saying a year from now "And I foolishly thought it was just a headache!"? ...Which it is, of course. Just a headache.

And then you try to just casually ask about every 4.8 seconds "Is your headache gone honey?" and you stroke their hair and think about what a wretched mother you are and why did you yell at them this morning? Look at how sweet and vulnerable they are. You should get some cookies.

And an hour later you've eaten a box of Oreos and grown two new wrinkles and eight grey hairs.

Then they say "my head feels better now mama!". And you smugly think "Of course it does. See, I didn't even overreact." And you have a reprieve. A brief one.

Last year Savannah had a persistent cough. A dry cough. For a month. I know that it was exactly a year ago, because I had myself convinced after a full month of Google that she had heart failure. Why else would the child have "a dry persistent cough" unless "fluid is building up in her lungs"??? Why? My whole body would tense up with every cough. I would hug her and listen to her heart. She would awake in the night with her mother's head on her chest. Chris would sigh and request that I please stop being so creepy.

Then something miraculous happened: The cough disappeared. And I immediately forgot it ever was.

Until last week. When it started again. On the first day of Spring.

Ahhhhhh.

Allergies.

Right.

Okay.

My bad.

Will the anxiety ever end for us? Are we doomed to be whackjobs forever? Because at this rate I will technically be a liquid by the time she becomes a teenager.