Bad Mommy Strikes Again

Every New Years, and about four other times throughout the year, I vow to be more organized. I’ll make a dent in the piles of papers on my desk and file documents in what was once intended to be color coded folders. This lasts about a week.

I’m also a bit of a commitment-phobe. I don’t even have a steady schedule with my babysitters. My husband swears it will make my life easier, but I struggle to bring myself to do it. I had a therapist once force me to commit to a time slot with the understanding that I could change it with 24 hours notice. Surprisingly, I kept most of our sessions. Had he been a better therapist than a) I might still be seeing him and 2) he would have addressed my issues with creating and adhering to a schedule.

Now that my daughter is at pre-school, I’m forced to drop her off and pick her up promptly. The second week I was confused about the pick up time, so, oops, one late day. The following two weeks I anticipated my son waking up in time for us to rush 13 minutes to the school. This plan backfired at least twice leading to one phone call and one scolding by the head of school.

She’s Three

My little girl turned three on Friday. We celebrated with cupcakes at school and a party on Saturday. My daughter has been planning her Go Diego Go party for easily four months so it was with great pleasure that we welcomed the big day.

Throughout the summer my Pookie would ask, is today my birthday? Is my party today?
We went through everybody who had birthdays before her, “and then it’s my birthday?” she would ask. So naturally during the party she asks to take a nap.

Of course I oblige; as any parent can attest, when a toddler asks for a nap, you let her nap.

Unlike previous parties, this was mostly three year olds and their parents with a decent grandparent contingency. I’m not sure why this party was particularly emotional but it was.

Perhaps because it’s the first one my daughter could actually comprehend and anticipate. It was clearly the most child-geared party and our first one held in our outdoor patio/garden. It was also one of the easier parties to coordinate: Pizza, cake from the gourmet supermarket not gourmet bakers who would charge triple, and some Diego supplies from an online store.

Was it too seamless? Could I be getting nostalgic because after all of the excitement and planning with my daughter (i:e discussing the guest list and decorations) it zipped by? Or could it be that my little girl who three years ago was in the NICU with a swollen eye and receiving CT Scans because of the forceps is a healthy spirited toddler?

Dad Drama

My father and I have vacillated between having a great relationship and not speaking. We’ve often butted heads because of our similarities and my inability to kowtow to him like my siblings. He’s done silly things to try and control me when I was younger: threatening his financial support when I was dating someone who he did not approve, bartering with me – I’ll help you buy a new couch if you stop fostering rescue dogs and so on.

The caveat: I know I should be lucky that I have a dad who does love me unconditionally even if he cannot always control his verbal diarrhea. He has and will continue to be there for me when I need him. Dad, just please stop sucking me into your drama.

He calls me recently to discuss how he wants to talk to me about something. Considering his health issues and recent health CT Scan I get concerned. He tells me not to worry and it’s just about some stress in his life. I know he’s been depressed about an upcoming eviction of a long time tenant and despite inviting me to join him in meetings, never follows through. It’s not that, he assures. But I also know how he lied to my sister about his cancer and mislead her into thinking he would be visiting so I do not trust him.

The two times I call, I’m distracted enough that he does not want to “go into it”. Finally I get through and he begins his speech.

Stain Stain Go Away

I first noticed it when I was pregnant. The darkening of my skin above my upper lip, a stain mustache that demanded my attention every time I looked in the mirror. At first I scrubbed hoping the dead skins cells would fall off and reveal a color consistent with the rest of my face.

It didn’t. My sister noticed. My dad said something. Nobody else did. But still when I found myself staring at my reflection I could see little else than the darkened skin above my lip. I wore sunscreen and waited for my son to be born then learned that birth control pills can make the skin susceptible to staining.

A friend of my sister had similar face staining and passed along her dermatologist’s recommendation: a Retinol concentrate and bleaching cream with hydroquinone which I later learned was popular with gay men eager to bleach their anuses. I met the friend and discretely searched her face for stains apparently common during pregnancies. Either the cream’s worked or she had blended her foundation well.

So I applied the anus whitening and anti-wrinkle cream to my face along with sunscreen to prevent any further damage. And every morning I’d examine my stain mustache noticing that the edges were blurring. My skin tone faded making me a more ghastly olive tone so I used the creme less.