I am so hungry

No food for me this morning

Now they take my blood

***

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The Poo had a rough day yesterday. First we went to what I called (on the sneaky recommendation of my sister) “food school,” and then we went to the mall for lunch.

Sounds not so bad, right?

Well, at “food school” the therapist made her lick a cube of cheese (the horror!) and smell a strawberry. Then at the mall, she finally conquered the biggest climbing structure at the soft playground … and then promptly fell four feet to the ground and bit her lip when I looked away for A NANOSECOND.

Following the fall, I had the temerity to make her go home. After all, it had been six hours since we left the house. I was, to put it mildly, persona non grata.

Then I put chicken on her plate along with her macaroni (I know, what was I thinking) and then she was told she couldn’t play any more computer games on Nick Jr. because it was bathtime.

It turns out that the “no computer” edict, supposedly issued by her father, was fiction. She, however, marched her little bum back down the stairs to tattle on her daddy.

When I backed him up - because we are a team, after all - she put her hands on her hips and huffed at me.

“Mommy, you are GROUNDED,” she said, and turned on her heels. I followed her to the staircase, and sternly told her that she was not allowed to sass mommy and daddy that way and that perhaps she should adjust her attitude.

Then I went back to the kitchen and laughed until I peed myself a little.

Where did she even hear that? I know we’ve never said it to her, and she doesn’t watch any live-action TV. Best I can figure is she heard it on one of the retro cartoons we watch occasionally on the Boomerang channel.

Still laughing, I called my mom to tell her the funny.

“Just wait until she’s 15,” my mom said.

Indeed.

***

Thanks to everyone, and I do mean everyone, who commented yesterday. I appreciated all the honest takes on my situation. There’s plenty of backstory I didn’t include for lots of reasons, but I took all of your advice to heart. So when I talked to my mom yesterday, I just told her that I would love the extra time with her because I really missed her.

She’s keeping her reservation and flying out on May 29. We’ll leave for the East on June 4, so we’ll have a nice, long visit.

Back in the good old days, before my dad died, my husband and I spent every Sunday with my parents.

For nearly 10 years straight, we arrived at their house in time to read the Times and have a late breakfast. We’d stay through dinner, cutting out just after the dishes were done.

We would often joke that of all three siblings, I ranked No. 1, with my husband coming in at No. 2. After all, we were the ones who were there, the ones who made trips to the nursery on hot spring afternoons and skulked in the corners snickering and repeating the names of plants in a lascivious tone of voice.

“Red hot poker,” we’d guffaw. “Your dad said poke ‘er.”

We were the ones who would call on Friday nights and ask what my folks were doing, inviting them to the movies with us. Sometimes, we even paid.

We were friends, the four of us.

These days it’s clear that I rank, well … dead last.

Recently I conducted an experiment where I just stopped calling my mom. I mean, for days. Days and days. Time was, I would never go more than 48 hours before I’d call her. Then I moved out here, and suddenly I was out of sight and out of mind.

So I let the phone calls slide, and almost 10 days passed before my mom called me. It was a surprise, because, frankly, I didn’t think she even knew my phone number.

I’m sure this sounds like the whining of a spoiled brat. But I can’t emphasize enough how close we were, and that the street ran both ways.

But since my dad died, it has been on me and me alone to maintain the relationship. And for a long time, I just did it.

Then there comes a point when you realize that you are making all these deposits in the account, and yet, you never get to take anything out.

Moving here to Chambana was hard on me, and part of that burden was having to tell my mom we were leaving town. I felt she relied on me, and that I would be letting her down by moving so far away. The guilt I felt was tremendous.

So, for the first 14 months, I’ve made every effort to maintain our close ties. I traveled home extensively - and by myself - last year. I called nearly every day. I sent emails and photos. I set up video-conferencing capabilities between our computers so my mom could see her granddaughter’s face.

I traveled 1,400 miles in six days so I could be with my family at Christmas.

Then I got pregnant and we endured endless months of pestilence and injury. My flying phobia reached a peak. I just couldn’t take going home to visit, sick and pregnant and alone with The Poo.

Several times since the holidays my mother has planned to come and visit me. In February she was too busy going to Disney, and then to the Bahamas. In March she had to deal with her builder and her accountant. In April she had to open her summer home.

She never came. And every single time I had to ask her if she was still planning to come. The answer was always no.

Finally, when I told her I was having a 3-D ultrasound in June, she said she was coming. On Mother’s Day, she asked me to book her flight for her, and so I did. One-way, so that she and I and The Poo could take my van back east, allowing me to go home for a visit without dealing with the airlines.

I sent her the info and waited to hear back.

Today I called her, and she tells me that she wants to come the day before my scan and leave the day after.

One day.

She will spend one single day in the place where I live.

I wanted her to go to The Poo’s gym class with us. Maybe meet some of my friends. Spend time where I live, get to know my life out here.

One day.

Because she has other plans.

Again.

The frustrating part is that I should know better. It shouldn’t bother me. I’m a big girl. I’m 36 years old, and my mom has done a lot for me over the years. I love her very much, and I do think she loves me.

Still, sometimes I just wish she would show me that, and not with money or gifts.

I wish she would give me some of her time.

Pillows to sleep with: 4

Daily ounces of water: 64

Nocturnal trips to bathroom: 6

Waking up on my back and turning on my left side: 20

Cups of coffee per day: 2

Size of new underwear: 8

Size of new maternity shorts: 12

Illnesses: too many

Days since conception: 186

Tears shed: countless

Siblings: 1

Days left to go: 94

Bethany is finally gone.

Her last day with The Poo was over two weeks ago, and I struggled with whether or not to tell my daughter that arguably her best friend was leaving … forever.

Instead of dropping the truth on her like a bomb, I took a less direct and more cowardly approach. I told her that Bethany was going away for a long trip.

The Poo looked up at us both with big eyes and a serious mouth.

“A long trip?” she asked. “Why? Where are you going, Bethany?”

Our beloved babysitter looked at me helplessly. I knelt down and took my daughter’s small hands.

“Well, Poodles, Bethany has some work she needs to do in another city,” I said, taking my wee girl in my arms. “Remember when she went away on vacation? Kind of like that, but for a longer time.”

The Poo looked at me, trusting me with all her heart, while I watched her think it through. She looked up at Bethany and nodded.

“OK,” she said. “A hug and a kiss!” She climbed Bethany like a tree and wrapped her arms and legs around her. She planted a big wet smooch on her cheek and took her hand to walk her to the door.

I embraced the 23-year-old with her future in front of her, and watched as she drove away.

This morning we welcomed Kim into our home. The Poo heard the doorbell before I did, and stood at the top of the stairs yelling for me.

“There’s a new girl at the door, Mommy!” she called, over the noise of my hairdryer.

A new girl, indeed.

Kim was nervous and sweet, I was disorganized and gave directions at lightening speed.

“The mac is in here, the bowls are here, this is how you operate the DVR …” I ran through all the details of The Poo’s day, forgetting, I’m sure, something important. After all, it has been almost a year since I’ve had to leave instructions for a care-giver.

I left my cell phone number and pulled out of the garage. I drove by the yard where The Poo and Kim played kickball and ran in the dewy grass.

They both waved.

I turned the corner to go back to work after a forced hiatus due to illness and a lack of childcare. I took one last look in my rearview mirror to see The Poo’s face lit up with a big smile.

It won’t be the last time my girl has to say goodbye to a beloved friend, but it was one milestone I wish I could have put off just a little bit longer.

****

Speaking of work, I’m looking for moms or dads who’ve rented baby gear when they travel. Anyone out there rented a crib or stroller or anything else when they went on vacay? Shoot me an email at mrschicken AT mychickencheese DOT COM.

K: Hello?

Me: Hey! Thanks for the flowers! You didn’t need to do that.

K: You’re welcome. You sent some to me, too, right?

Me: Ummmm … last year I did. Not this year …

K: Then who sent me flowers? There are some waiting for me at the neighbor’s.

Me: Mom?

K: No, she said she didn’t.

Me: Your husband?

K: Why would he do that?

****

Thrice yesterday my doorbell rang, and three times I was handed a vase of beautiful blooms. My mom, sister and husband all sent me flowers this year.

But the best gift? Waking up to the sweet face and sweeter kiss of my little girl and feeling my son kick and flutter in my belly.

Happy Mother’s Day to all of you!

Say what you like about me, I know how to throw one hell of a party.

I woke this morning to the scent of cocktail weenies and taco dip, secure in the knowledge that my baked artichoke dip garnered a spot in Huge Midwestern University lore. Even the deviled eggs went, and that can be a tricky dish.

We had 30 people here last night, and they all seemed to have a good time. They were, on the whole, excellent guests, with the exception of the master’s student who never once introduced himself to me and left without saying thank you - especially rude since it was the masters students who wanted to have the damn party in the first place.

The kitchen is an unmitigated disaster, but on the other hand, The Poo slept until 9:40 this morning, worn out from her solo and much applauded performance of the ABC song

As much as I enjoy the compliments, it’s safe to say this was the last party we’ll be throwing for quite some time. The next gathering will be for Shaggy’s Christening sometime in the fall.

Speaking of Shaggy, I have a PSA for all you slender young ladies out there.

I was checking the beanless bean dip when a well-dressed couple arrived. Young and thin, they were all black blazers and effortless confidence.

I introduced myself to the woman and thanked her for the hostess gift and veggie tray she brought with her. After several hours on my feet, my belly was sore. Supporting my aching uterus with one hand, the outline of my almost-popped navel poked through my jersey dress.

During the course of our small talk, I made some crack about being pregnant. The woman looked at me and said:

“Oh! I never would have know! How far along are you?”

HOW FAR ALONG AM I?

Lady, you are either blind, stupid or unfailingly polite. My belly is as obvious as neon sign flashing the word “fertile.”

This slender young blond thing then revealed that she, too, is expecting. Nine weeks along, she said.

I congratulated her and made my way through the crowd to The Poo, who was showing anyone who cared to look her new Strawberry Shortcake underpants.

I took her to the bathroom for a prophylactic potty trip and looked at myself sideways in the mirror.

How far along, indeed.

Note to all: telling a woman who is six-and-a-half months pregnant that you didn’t know she was knocked up does not make her feel better. It makes her feel like she could be mistaken for a big fat cow.

Not cool.

A couple of months ago I was researching a feature article about eating on the road, and I happened to talk with a nutrition professor.

Since I had her captive, I decided to ask her professional advice about how to get The Poo to eat more than four carb-based foods. Her answer surprised me.

“Occupational therapy,” she told me. Kids like The Poo - kids who get on an “eating jag” where they will only eat certain foods - need to be retrained in how to eat. Often, she said, they experience sensory issues where food is concerned.

She also asked if The Poo has allergies, which of course, she does, and she added that a severe post-nasal drip can affect the way many foods taste to small children.

It was interesting advice, to be sure. However, I balked a little at sending her to OT. After all, she’s a bright kid. Would she really qualify for a service like that?

Fast-forward a few months. About three weeks ago, The Poo started rejecting two of her staple foods: macaroni and cheese and chicken nuggets. That left us with frozen waffles, French fries, bananas and Dannon LeCreme yogurt (totally creamy, no fruit pieces), which is very difficult to get here in Chambana, for some reason.

Oh, and of course, her beloved Culver’s. But it was getting to the point where she was eating fast-food grilled cheese sandwiches three times a week, just because I was desperate to get her to eat something.

Now, go ahead and tell me to let her go hungry. Because I’ve tried that, and it doesn’t work. Also, have you ever spent more than four hours with a hungry three-year-old?

Yeah. It would test Gandhi’s patience.

Dinnertime has been a struggle for weeks. She asks for mac n’ cheese, I make it, she spits it out and tells us it’s yucky. We’ve tried every strategy - planned ignoring, making her sit there anyway, making her take a certain number of bites …

Nothing works.

It isn’t like she chows down on snacks, either. She rarely finishes a whole cookie (she doesn’t really like them) and even if she gets ice cream, she only eats a few bites.

Add that to the fact that the doc said she was concerned about her high BMI in December and you have a recipe for one stressed out mama.

We went to the doctor’s office two weeks ago to have her staph infection checked out, and I took the opportunity to ask about OT.

I explained the situation to the doctor and asked about sending The Poo for services. Much to my surprise, the doc agreed right away.

On May 14th we meet with Louanne, who asked me to bring small samples of foods that The Poo will eat, and some that she won’t. Part of me worries about the stigma of the term “sensory issues,” but the other part of me is relieved that at last, someone can help me.

One thing I know for sure is that Louanne is going to have one hell of a food fight on her hands.

I feel like all I do lately is moan and groan.

So you know what? I’m goin’ with it. What the hell, I’m a sucker for a trend.

The Poo is on the mend, but her sleep cycle is allllll fucked up, thanks to our nocturnal visit to the ER Monday night. Monday night she woke up at 11:30 p.m. and went back to sleep the next day at 4 a.m. She slept another six and a half hours, rising at the unheard of time of 10:30 a.m.

She also took a nap Tuesday, after weeping quite copiously because I gently refused to take her to the mall at 5:30 p.m.

That was, like, baaaad.

She went to sleep at 6, woke at 7:30, and finally went back to bed at 10 p.m. last night. Then she woke at 4 a.m. Wednesday, demanding to go to - you guessed it! - the mall.

Gah.

Today we did go to the mall, if only to pleasefortheloveofgod shut her up. She played, refused food and … fell asleep in the car.

Now, you mothers of napping children probably think I’m nuts for complaining. To be honest, I can’t believe I’m complaining. Last year I would have given my left arm for a nap. The Poo gave them up at 27 months and let me tell you, it was a very long February that year.

Now, however, a nap means I’m dealing with her until 10 p.m. Last night at 9:30, she popped up in her bed to earnestly explain to me how her grandmother told her she could “wake up now and watch TV.”

When I simply looked at her, she wailed and said, “it takes so LONG to be MORNINGTIME!”

I am, in a word, exhausted.

I did doze briefly during her two-hour nap after the mall, but then I had to get up and make dinner and do the dishes and blah blah housewife bullshit blah.

And how’s this for the capper: we’re hosting 28 graduate students Friday evening for the end-of-the-year departmental bash.

It sounded like a fine idea three weeks ago when we were all well. Now, it sounds like sticking flaming pokers in both my eyes would be MUCH EASIER and more amusing.

When we were young, we three kids watched my mom like a hawk. When she would leave the room we’d gather around like alarmed monkeys and ask repeatedly where she was going.

She’s look at us, wall-eyed, and cackle maniacally. “Crazy,” she’d say. “Wanna come?”

Mom, I totally get it now.

The Poo, just over her strep and staph infections, was her old bouncy self Monday. She refused all food, but that isn’t terribly unusual.

What is unusual is the fact that, at 3 p.m., she voluntarily laid on the couch and watched TV while quietly playing with her Little Einsteins toys. She repeatedly told me she was cold, despite the seasonably warm day. Still, I didn’t think much of it.

Around dinnertime I asked her again if she wanted to eat and she said no. Her flushed cheeks and glassy eyes indicated a fever; It can’t be, I thought. But I took her temperature anyway, and sure enough, she had a fever.

Tylenol, bathtime, snack. She cavorted in her usual way before bed. The temperature must be a fluke, I thought.

At least, until 11:30 that night when she woke up asking to go potty (!) and proceeded to cry inconsolably and throw off an alarming dry heat. She dug her fingers in both ears and begged me to make the pain stop.

At 2 a.m. I woke Mr. Chicken - still wretchedly ill himself and in the throes of finals - and we made our way to the ER.

I just couldn’t let it go on. Of course, The Poo was hysterical and scared and the doctor acted like we were idiots for wasting her time on a three-year-old with sore ears.

“Both ears are red,” she said, giving me the hairy eyeball. “You can give her Advil for that, you know.”

I’ll cut her some slack, because I saw the drunken, shaking college girl heaving in the next room. I know she probably sees her share of un-emergency emergencies.

But my girl, she was in pain. And I had to fix it.

We headed off into the early morning clutching a prescription for a super antibiotic while a relieved little girl excitedly described the unfamiliar midnight landscape. Mr. Chicken dropped us at home and headed to the 24-hour pharmacy.

Free from the tyranny of tongue depressors and thermometers, The Poo happily climbed into the guest bed beside me, demanded to exchange her pull-up for underpants and finished her snack while watching a half-hour of “Little Bear.”

Me? I held my heavy belly and rubbed my heavier eyes. My husband opened the door quietly, and stood by the side of the bed, watching his daughter. He placed his hand on her forehead, handed me a small bottle and a syringe, and sneezed.

“Good call, Mommy,” he said, with a weary nod. “You were right. You always know when we need to go.”

I was so tired and so sick myself, and so full of worry for my baby, that tears welled up in my eyes. I looked away and nodded.

Finally, we slept.

At 10:30 a.m. The Poo still slept, sprawled on the big bed, a hint of the woman she will be in her bony kneecaps. I crept downstairs for coffee and phone calls, canceling school and rescheduling prenatal appointments.

As I sat in front of the TV like a zombie, I contemplated motherhood and natural selection. Seemingly endless months of illnesses leave me wondering if we’re being targeted by Darwin’s theory.

That’s it, I thought, hand wrapped around my favorite green mug. I’m building a bubble.