Author: katarinabohn@gmail.com

Motherhood is damn hard. As soon as your little nugget is born, your life becomes an endless list of “things I wasn’t prepared for.” We all expect to lose sleep, lose our minds, and learn to love this little person more than we ever thought possible. Some aspects of motherhood, however, hit us upside the head like a shot of tequila on an empty stomach. I’m writing this as a warning to mothers all across America. You will NOT be prepared to watch so many shitty children’s shows.
Go ahead, lie to yourself. “My precious will NEVER watch anything that isn’t educational!” Whatever you say. “My precious will ONLY watch children’s shows that I can enjoy as well!” Hope you enjoy furry creatures who can barely speak English, because that shit is headed in your direction. If you’re wondering which shows to avoid, you are in luck. These are the five kids shows that every mom hates:
1. Caillou . We need to fucking talk about Caillou. You may be asking yourself what a Caillou is. Caillou is not a thing. Rather, Caillou is a fictional character that the Canadians have invented to torture the world. The Canadians also brought us Ryan Reynolds and Ryan Gosling, so I can almost forgive them for Caillou. Almost. Caillou is a four-year-old boy and the whiniest, most annoying fictional character you will ever meet. Caillou’s voice is nails-on-chalkboard, fork-scraping-against-teeth annoying. This is before he starts whining. And he will whine about something in every. Single. Episode. Caillou always feels he’s been wronged in some way. Newsflash, kid: You’re four. Life hasn’t even begun to fuck you over yet. He lives with his parents who regularly ship him over to Grandma and Grandpa’s house, presumably because Mom and Dad have to drink themselves into a coma to forget all the whining. I’m assuming, anyway. The drinking is done off camera. He also has a younger sister named Rosie who he is extremely jealous of. I’m waiting to see the “very special” episode of Caillou where the entire family stuffs him in a box and sells him on eBay. Do yourself a favor. Don’t let your kids watch this shit. Ever.
2. Dora the Explorer. Here’s the premise: A little girl named Dora goes off on an adventure in every episode with a talking backpack and a monkey named Boots. She’s always getting lost and asking for assistance from the viewing audience (which is your child unless you turn this horrible show off.) Her parents are pretty much M.I.A most likely because they’re drinking with Caillou’s parents. My son watched this show several times when he was about three-years-old. I will never forget the moment Dora was looking for a particular tree, asking the viewers at home for help. My son screamed at the t.v “It’s right in front of you!!!!” Then he shut the television off and brought me a book to read instead. My kid was so annoyed that he chose a BOOK over t.v time. So, ok, maybe Dora is good for something.
3. Teletubbies. What are the Teletubbies? No fucking clue. There are four of them named Tinky-Winky, Dipsy, Laa Laa and Po. They have televisions in their stomachs and a magical event takes place during every episode. They don’t talk, they just babble incoherently. The entire show is like a bad LSD trip, if people were still tripping on LSD. If you see this shit on your tv screen, turn it off and say no to drugs.
4. The Wiggles. A musical (I use that term loosely) band from Australia. If your child ever happens to catch an episode of this show, do yourself a favor and just throw your tv out of the house. Do it. After hearing four grown ass men annoy the hell out of you with their song and dance routine, you’ll never be the same again. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.
5. Elmo. One word. I know Sesame Street is a wonderful, educational show that’s been around for years. I also know that Sesame Street is not technically Elmo’s show as it features many other characters. Elmo, however, needs to be handed his walking papers. It’s time. The worst mistake I ever made as a parent was buying a Tickle-Me Elmo doll for my son. Elmo dolls should be used as a torture device by the CIA when interrogating criminals. Anyone left alone with that crazy doll in a cold, dark room will give up all kinds of government secrets. The end.
These shows should be avoided at all cost. Do not say you weren’t warned about this. Wrestle that remote out of your kid’s hand and turn that tv off. Read. Go for a walk. Your sanity is at stake.

This blog post is dedicated to my new BFF, Miss Shirley (not her real name). Miss Shirley happens to be one of the residents of the rehabilitation facility my mother is staying at while she recovers and receives therapy for the shoulder she dislocated after suffering a seizure. Miss Shirley also happens to be all kinds of amazing for so many different reasons.
First, I have to explain to you how difficult it is for me to entrust my mom’s safety to others. I’ve been taking care of her the last two years. I understand her when she speaks Serbian. I also understand that sometimes hearing her say the words,”I need a spoon” really means that she has to use the bathroom. It’s bizarre and difficult to explain to others, but I get it because I’ve lived with it for so long. 98% of the nurses and aides at this facility look at my mom as if she’s a train derailing. While that may be an accurate description on certain days, she’s still a person. She may be feisty and difficult to understand, but she still deserves to be cared for properly, just like anyone else. My mother was never good at sitting still, even when she was healthy. She always needed to be up and moving about. Unfortunately, her constant need to be on the move isn’t safe at the moment. She’s unsteady on her feet and needs to be monitored at all times. Less than 24 hours into her stay at this facility, she fell as she was trying to stand up. This happened in the dining room at dinner time. I explained to the staff (rather loudly) that she needs to be supervised at meals. Period. It’s not up for discussion as she WILL try to stand up. There was lots of hemming and hawing about finding a staff member to sit with her, but finally they at least moved her to a table closer to the front of the room where she’d be more visible. As my mother was getting situated at her new table, I was getting to know her new table mate:Miss Shirley.

Miss Shirley is a large, imposing African-American woman. Throughout our first meal spent with her, I noticed she was very very comfortable bossing the staff around. I noticed her watching me and I decided instantly that Miss Shirley would be my baba-sitter. The woman has had a couple of strokes but let’s keep it real: I wanted her to boss my mom around the way she was bossing the staff. Even though I was slightly intimidated by the way she glared at everyone, I decided to try talking to her. When I asked her if she was enjoying her meal, she glared at me and said, “No. It tastes like shit.” Ok sooo winning her over would be harder than I thought. My mom is on a purée diet at the facility which Miss Shirley noticed and asked, “What the hell is that shit they feeding your mama?” I told her that my son noticed on his last visit and asked why Baba was eating cat food. Miss Shirley’s face lit up and she told me I was raising a smart kid. Then she demanded that a staff member bring her a Big Mac. Of course, the answer was a resounding no. I silently vowed to bring her all the Big Macs in all the land if she could just baba-sit my mom during meals.

I decided to ask Miss Shirley to be my baba-sitter during our second meal with her. I wasn’t sure what she’d say, I just knew that I was desperate. I couldn’t be there for every meal with my mom because of work and my son. The staff already let her fall once so my only hope was this 80 something year old stroke victim. When a staff member wheeled Miss Shirley to our table, I didn’t even hesitate. I looked at her and said,”Hi Miss Shirley I’m so sorry to bother you but you seem like you’ve got it together and I was wondering if you could keep an eye on my mom at meals you know just tell her to sit down if she stands she’ll listen to you I promise she won’t try to argue she’ll sit down please can you do that for me please?” When I finally stopped to take a breath, Miss Shirley smiled and said, “Of course I’ll watch your mama when you’re not here and I’ll give you a full report when I see you.” JACKPOT! I didn’t even ASK for a report, but let’s do this!! We shook hands to seal the deal and I have never felt better. Miss Shirley has saved the day. Yeah, I guess the staff has gotten better too. They’ve finally realized my mom needs to be monitored thoroughly. But who are we kidding? It’s all about Miss Shirley. I’m currently calculating how many Big Macs I’ll owe her by the time this is all over.

• So, friends, this is why we all need a Miss Shirley. But you can get your own damn Miss Shirley, because you can’t have mine.

 

 

I am the mother of a tiny six-year-old boy. I am also “mother” to a 71 year old woman who happens to be my mom. It’s been over a week since my mom was admitted to the hospital after having a seizure. For the past ten days, I have been attempting to walk a very thin tightrope between being at the hospital with my mother and being at home with my son. I also have a wonderful husband who has to be put aside for a bit while I try to figure this out. Oh, yeah, there’s a full time job too. So. This sucks. I’m not writing this because I want you to feel sorry for me. I’m not writing this because I feel like whining ( well, maybe a little.) I’m writing this because: It. Sucks. Yes, I realize my choice of words aren’t the most eloquent. If you’re looking for Shakespeare, you’ve got the wrong blog. If you’re looking for honesty, here it is. Five reasons the past ten days have SUCKED:

1) My son saw my mom’s seizure. People, there’s a reason we play Tooth Fairy/Santa Claus/Easter Bunny with our kids. We want them to remain kids as long as possible. Of course we know they will eventually have to grow up and be faced with horrific choices (Trump or Clinton? How about vodka? Vodka,2016. That’s a vote we can all agree on.) Bad experiences are a part of life. But why did my kid have to see this seizure at the age of six? I wish he could have gone another few years without a care in the world. It is what it is. But it sucks.

2) That hospital smell. You know it and I know it. My kid won’t even hug me anymore because I smell like Grey’s Anatomy (not, unfortunately, like Patrick Dempsey.) That smell is on my clothes, in my hair, even in my car. It’s become a part of me. And it sucks.

3) 98 percent of my mom’s nurses look like they’re nine years old. I see these children and I have to physically hold my mouth closed so I don’t ask the following questions: Do you know how to tie your shoes? Can you count to ten? Are you sure you know how to hook up an IV? Maybe you should call your mommy and have her do it. One of the young nurses commented on how tired I’ve been looking. She told me she knows the feeling because she feels the same way after going out drinking with her friends. She compared partying with her friends to my day spent feeding my mom, worrying about my mom, and worrying about my son. If these are the medical professionals we’ve got lined up, just hand me a scalpel if I ever need surgery. I’ll fix my own heart. For every young drunken nurse, however, there have been 10 wonderful, caring, compassionate nurses. I am so grateful to them.

4)I’m so tired I can’t see straight. I’m only writing this because laying down to sleep means being alone with my racing thoughts. That sucks.

5)Here’s what sucks most of all: When I’m with my mom at the hospital, I feel like a shitty mom to my son. When I’m with my son, I feel like a shitty daughter. I KNOW I’ve been a shitty wife. All I know is that I’m trying my best to please everyone. I suck at it.

Thanks for reading this garbage. I will read this blog entry in a few days and realize how awful it is. I’m not even thinking clearly right now. I am being honest, though. So that’s something.

 

 

• I research news stories and current events for a living. I spent the better part of today researching anxiety in children. As part of my research, I spoke to several pediatricians and children’s psychologists about the rising number of kids who experience severe anxiety. I also spoke to several people with the job title of “parenting expert.” I’ve heard this title used in the past and I find it quite interesting. I will be putting quotation marks around the term “parenting expert” for the duration of this post because I call bullshit. What the actual fuck is a “parenting expert?”
  I spoke to a woman with two kids ages 19 and 16. I asked her how she earned the title of “parenting expert” and she was extremely vague with her answer. Several years of school, kids blah blah yadda yadda. All I heard was that she has one kid in college and one who just received his driver’s license. Honey, you can’t call yourself an expert. You’re just getting started! You have to make sure your college kid stays away from beer bongs and your brand new driver kid stays off of sidewalks! Call me when they’ve both graduated, found jobs, and stayed out of prison. Then I will take your “parenting expert” title seriously.
  I am ending this post with a question because I really want to hear what other people think. Is “parenting expert” a real title?

Summer is winding down and the school year is about to begin. While spending the summer with my precious six-year-old son, I’ve thought long and hard about a certain group of people who play a major role in our children’s lives: teachers. Imagine spending HOURS in a room with not only your child, but over 20 or 30 other children as well. Imagine trying to corral these children into listening to you speak. Now imagine trying to teach them important skills and life lessons, wondering if one day all 25 of them will stage a coup and lose their shit simultaneously. There’s only one of you and 25 of them. Odds aren’t exactly in your favor, are they? Having trouble breathing? Yeah, me too. Which is why I have compiled this list of 5 things teachers need RIGHT NOW:
1) Respect. Not only from your child, but from you as well. You know that weekly classroom newsletter your kid brings home? Read it. The list of supplies your child’s teacher is requesting? Buy them. The homework your kid is bitching about? Make sure it’s done. Respect that this teacher is trying to ensure your child’s success in the classroom.
2) Trust. Trust the fact that your child’s teacher is an educated professional. I believe we are all guilty of “helicopter” parenting at some point in our lives. We hover because we all want what’s best for our child. If you feel strongly that your child is being wronged in some way, by all means speak up. However, if little Jessica or little Steven is being a pain in the ass and their teacher brings it to your attention (probably not as bluntly as I just did) trust that it’s true. Steven and Jessica both need a time out.
3) Money. This one is geared towards the powers that be who determine a teacher’s salary. I’ll make it really easy for you: Give. Them. All. The. Money. Twenty to thirty kids in a classroom, some with special needs, some with behavior problems, some who have never heard the word no in their lives, and some who love being in school because their home life is a horror show. Throw in some crazy as fuck parents and some government mandated guidelines about how children SHOULD be taught because God forbid a teacher get creative or even worse, FUN with their teaching material. I don’t care if you have to steal a pot of gold from a leprechaun at the bottom of a rainbow. Give them money. Here’s my paycheck to get you started. Just kidding, I need that back. Really, though, let’s pay teachers what they’re worth.
4) Understanding. Understand that teachers have more than just your child to worry about. I believe that all specific requests to teachers can and should be brought forward politely and patiently. Unless it’s a question of your child’s health or safety, wait your turn. Another child’s issue with bullies trumps little Jessica’s “issue” with disliking the fruit snacks handed out during snack time.
5) Appreciation. I’m talking more than just that week in May. If your child’s teacher goes above and beyond with anything regarding your child, a thank you goes a long way. Again, there are other children in that classroom. Like your mother taught you, mind your manners.
My son started school two years ago. In the past two years, I have been consistently amazed by what teachers do in a classroom full of children (under the age of six, no less!). I have been consistently amazed with the knowledge my son brings home from school every day. I have also been consistently amazed with the fact that his teachers can have a classroom full of children and still describe my son’s personality to a tee, proving that NO child is left behind. We all strive to work hard no matter what we do for a living. Teachers, however, are entrusted with our kids, our flesh and blood, a very precious commodity. People who are helping to mold and shape our future deserve these five things and much, much more.

Postpartum depression is a real thing. I can’t believe I even feel the need to start with that sentence but I do. I hear people throw around cutesy little phrases like “baby blues” and I shudder. I remember looking down at my son for the first time and only having one thought continuously running through my brain: “How in the world am I going to keep this child alive?” As a child, every pet I ever had ran away from me in search of a better life. My bird flew the coop, the kitten I had made a break for it, and I killed every fish I ever owned because I forgot to feed it. Plants and flowers don’t stand a chance with me. Now I had this tiny, perfect little boy to take care of and I felt no joy whatsoever. All I felt was anxiety. Then I wondered what was wrong with me. On t.v., mothers instantly bond with their children. I read Facebook posts daily from my mom friends discussing their perfect lives with their perfect children in their perfect homes. Meanwhile, I was exhausted. The whole “don’t worry, just nap while your baby is napping” thing never worked for me. While my baby was napping, I had to stand over his crib obsessively and make sure he was breathing. I was told that breast feeding is the way to go if you want your child to be a smart, successful, PhD Rhodes Scholar. I wasn’t producing enough milk, though, and had to supplement with formula. I automatically felt like a complete failure for not being able to feed my baby the “proper” way. A nurse at the hospital glared at me and said, “You do realize you’re raising a bottle baby, right?” I didn’t really see the problem since it was a bottle of formula and not a bottle of Jack Daniel’s, but what did I know? This woman is a nurse so she knows more than me. I know nothing. I’m a failure.
My first “outing” after having my son was a brief run to Pick and Save. I don’t think I’ve ever told anyone this story, not even my husband. I sat in my car and cried for 15 minutes, sobbing, one of those ugly cries that Oprah always talked about. I considered driving somewhere far, far away because who did I think I was raising a baby? I had no experience with kids. I couldn’t get my baby to stop crying. I couldn’t even produce milk to feed him. I was a total loser. I finally got out of the car and I must have looked like hell because a random guy with long hair and a Metallica T shirt asked if I needed a hug. As horrible as I felt, as worthless as I felt, as ashamed as I felt I did know this: I most definitely did NOT need a hug from a Metallica reject. So at least I wasn’t completely crazy.
I knew I needed help. At my next check-up, I told my doctor how I was feeling. She gave me a questionnaire to fill out and left me alone with my sadness. She came back, checked my score and told me I failed miserably. People, I was a straight A student in school. This is the first test I ever failed. I was referred to a different Doctor and officially given the post-partum depression diagnoses.
Yes, I was on medication. No, I am not on medication currently. No, I’m
not ashamed to admit that I was taking meds to feel better and here’s why: Depression is an illness. My feelings were not imaginary. My feelings could not be “fixed” with exercise and vitamins (sorry, Tom Cruise, depression expert.) Post partum has NOTHING to do with loving your child less than any other mother. In fact, in my warped mind, I felt that if I wasn’t around my son would be better off. I truly believed it with all my heart because I wanted what was best for him, and at the time, I didn’t think that was me.
Flash forward six years: My “bottle baby” is a healthy, active, naughty, sweet, smart, funny, serious, crazy little boy. He is completely AWESOME and I like to think that I had at least a little bit to do with that. If you’re depressed, get help. Ask for it. It sucks and it’s hard and it’s horrible but do it. Otherwise, you’ll be the bottle baby with a Jack Daniel’s in your hand and a Metallica dude trying to give you a hug. That, my friends, is rock bottom.

As parents, we are all bound together with common hopes, dreams, and experiences we have had with our children. There is one experience we have all shared that is life altering beyond words. It produces feelings of anxiety, helplessness, hopelessness, and inadequacy for even the most seasoned parents. I am of course referring to children’s birthday parties. The planning and execution of a kid’s birthday party is right up there with the Presidential Inaugural Ball. Where will we have this party, who should we invite, what should I wear, wait, they’re asking for how much to rent that place for an hour?! These are all questions party planning parents ask themselves daily. I’m here to help you with a very specific party detail: the party favor bag. We all know what it is. We’ve either filled one ourselves with toys and trinkets to show our appreciation to those children attending our child’s party, or our own child has received one from a party he/she has attended. I am breaking it down for you in no uncertain terms. These are the five things you must NEVER put in a party favor bag:
1) A whistle. If you find yourself at the store contemplating whether to include a whistle as a parting gift for the birthday party attendees, here’s what you do: Put the whistle down, back away slowly, and pretend you never saw it. Why? Every parent who attended your kid’s party will hate you at 6 a.m. the next morning when their child decides to blow into that shit as loudly as possible, waking up babies and cats. Unless you want retaliation in the form of a bullhorn and cowbell at the next party YOU attend, I suggest you leave that whistle on the store shelf where it belongs.
2)A yo-yo. Here’s why: “Hey, Mom, watch this! Watch this trick I can do! Mom, watch! Are you watching? MOM! WATCH!” I’ve been watching for the last 15 minutes and the only trick I’ve seen is my kid getting his foot caught in the string. I will never get that time back thanks to that effing yo-yo you stuck in that bag. Thanks.
3) Those tiny ass rubber bouncy balls. I will spend the rest of the week moving furniture around trying to get the damn thing out from whatever nook or cranny it has rolled into. I will also curse your name each time I have to pick the ball up. Do you want me to swear at you? Of course not, so no tiny ass ball.
4) Sugar Pixie Stix, otherwise known as crack for kids. My kid will try to open it in the car and get it all over his clothes and the backseat while lapsing into a sugar coma. Do I want my kid looking like colorful crack? No, so leave the sugar at the store.
And last but not least,
5)Any living or breathing creature. I have never had this happen to me, but a friend of mine told me about a party she went to where her child received a homemade small plastic ant farm as a parting gift. If you send my kid home with an ant farm, I’m coming to your house and “accidentally” dropping it on your floor. Better hide your Pixie Stix.
I will be completely honest and say that I may have sent a child home with one of the above mentioned items at least once. Definitely not the ant farm or whistle though, so cut me some slack. So let’s make a deal: I will never send your child home with any of these items ever again if you agree to do the same. Agree?
If not, I got your cowbell and ant farm right here

This whole blogging thing is still fairly new to me so the four of you who are reading this will have to bear with me while I figure things out. I originally started this blog in order to write about my mother’s dementia and try to make sense of my life as her caretaker. I don’t know how much to post or share on this blog. I don’t want to scare people away, yet I want to be honest. I try to write all posts with a sense of humor, but sometimes things just aren’t funny. Again, bear with me and read at your own risk. I may lose a friend or two from all of my oversharing, but that’s life.
A little over two years ago, my mother started becoming more paranoid and almost manic. She started telling me that people were following her and telling her to move out of our house. She started talking to herself constantly. I spent June 18, 2014 (my birthday) listening to my mom talk to two people no one else could see. She told me it was a man and a woman, her two best friends. That day my mom talked to herself from 6 a.m until 11 p.m when she finally fell asleep. She also spent part of that day setting out plates for herself and her two friends. She poured them each a cup of coffee and offered them cookies. She completely ignored me, a real person, even telling me to leave so she could spend some time alone with the voices in her head. There were many days I would come home from work and my mom would be making dinner for her fake friends. “Dinner” was a cup of flour mixed with cold water because she kept forgetting what she wanted to make. Eventually, my husband and I took the dials off the stove for fear she would burn the house down.
During this time, I called every respectable psychiatrist in the city of Milwaukee. They either weren’t accepting new patients or weren’t accepting Medicare patients. My husband and I finally took my mom to the hospital ER. After a couple more months of tests and pure living hell, she was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s. Quite honestly, I believe my mom has dementia stemming from schizophrenia but since I don’t have a medical degree it’s been impossible to find a doctor willing to listen to me. I have learned more about mental illness and the medical field in the last two years than I ever thought possible. I have had to fight (not literally, of course) a couple different doctors to get my mom on the right medication. In the early stages of her illness, my mom was very abusive towards me: hitting me, swearing at me, telling me that the voices in her head told her I was a drug addict. There were days I wished I was a drug addict. Drugs would at least be an escape from the nightmare I was living in.
I pride myself on having a decent sense of humor. I try to find the lighter side of most situations because without humor there’s no hope. Sometimes I use humor as a defense mechanism. During this time, I became a mental patient as well. I was a basket case, trying to be a daughter, a mother, and a wife, failing miserably at all three. I wanted to help my mom because she deserved it. She put me before herself every day of her life before this illness took over. How could I possibly abandon her? This put a strain on my marriage like you wouldn’t believe, but somehow we made it through. Probably because my husband is amazing.
My mother has talked to bushes, walked into oncoming traffic, and tried to escape our house during her “wandering” phase. Luckily, this is mostly controlled now due to the medication she is on. The hardest part now is remembering the woman she used to be and seeing the woman she is. At least I can still enjoy her personality on the days it shines through. For that, I am grateful.

Its right around the corner: back to school time. For some parents, this is a joyous occasion. Although we loved spending time with the little tykes over the summer, we look forward to being able to pee without an audience. For others, well, we’re still looking forward to peeing alone, but this time of year is fraught with tears, kicks, and screams. This will be my third school year as a member of the second group of parents and I know that I’m not alone.
The year my son started 4 year old kindergarten will go down in history as the most exhausting year of my life. Some moms are snickering and saying, “Whatever, lady, just wait until he’s a teenager,” but let me explain. My husband and I were the lucky parents who didn’t need daycare because I was able to work from home. On the days I had to go into work, my mother-in-law watched my son and it was perfect. We were saving money and I was able to spend time with my child. In the back of my mind, I considered the fact that the start of school would be challenging on many levels. I knew my child might find it difficult to socialize with other kids and I knew there might be some separation anxiety as he navigated a totally different environment. I was not, however, prepared to go into an epic battle that would make Game of Thrones look like Sesame Street.
My husband and I picked out a school, registered our son, and prepared to drop him off for his first day of school ever. On the morning of his first day, my little one woke up with a bright smile. The smile stayed in place all the way to school and drop off was a success. I of course spent the entire day in a puddle of tears and nerves, jumping every time my phone rang because I was sure the school was calling to tell me my kid was hysterical and his teacher decided to quit her job because she just couldn’t take it anymore. I eventually picked my son up, he told me his day was great and I almost fainted with relief. This is sooooo easy!! He’s fine, he had a great day! Parenting is SOOO simple.
Day 2: I glided into my son’s bedroom, gently shook him awake and informed him that it was time for school in a way that would make Mary Poppins jealous. He opened his eyes, slowly sat up, and said, “What, you mean I have to go back?! NOOOOO! WAHH!” OMG, kid, WTF?! Of course you have to go back. You can’t stay here! I have to work and pee by myself!! This was all so magical yesterday! What happened? I then realized that dragging someone to a car “kicking and screaming” is not an expression. This became a way of life for me. Not once did anyone, ANYONE, tell me I might need a helmet for protection while attempting to get my kid in the car! I thought about buying his teacher a crowbar because that’s what the poor woman needed to pry him off of me! It was awful. So I asked for advice from teachers, friends, and colleagues,and here’s what I did:
1) Dragging the boy to the car every morning was not working for obvious reasons. I started putting little trinkets in his car seat as a surprise. A sticker, a penny, a small plastic toy. Anything to get his butt in that car. He did look forward to his car seat surprise every morning and that’s what I was banking on.
2) I used end of the week rewards. “If you can make it through this week, buddy, mommy will take you on a trip to Bali.” Bali to him is the Walmart toy section, but you get what I mean. An end of the week trip to a park or the pool at our gym was always a welcome treat if he could make it through the week without fussing.
3) I begged. My God, the begging I did. It was disgusting.
And last but not least,
4) I talked. So much talking. I talked to my son constantly about what it means to be a big boy going to school. I told him it’s ok if he missed me as I missed him too and I couldn’t wait to hear about his day when I picked him up. All true. Being away from your kid is tough and I shed plenty of my own tears during this time.
So. Did the tears stop flowing? Not completely, but things definitely improved over time. I’m forever grateful to everyone who gave me advice. There were tears at the start of five year old kindergarten but they didn’t last as long. This year the boy is starting first grade. I don’t know if he’ll cry, but I’m prepared to give him lots of love and support to help us BOTH get through the start of the school year.
I also plan on buying a helmet, just in case.

You are about to learn more about my life than you ever wanted to know. Please be forewarned. This is me trying to stop you from reading this. Don’t say I didn’t warn you or I’m not thinking about you. Ok? Still reading? Here we go…
Part of the reason I started this blog was to write about the experiences I have raising two kids. Yes, I have two. One just happens to be my 71 year old mother. My mother was officially diagnosed with dementia about 2 years ago. In lieu of placing her in a care facility, I have decided to do my best to care for her at home until it is no longer possible. I haven’t wanted to write about this because it is so damn difficult for me. My mother used to enjoy cooking, gardening, and cleaning the house to within an inch of its life. Cooking has now become dumping three cups of flour into the sink because she’s not sure what else to do. Gardening is dumping the soil out of a potted plant in the kitchen. Cleaning is moving dirty dishes around without using soap and water. My husband and I have taken every precaution to keep our home safe enough for her to wander around. We keep the knobs off the stove, anything dangerous high on a shelf so she’s not able to reach it, etc. My home consists of myself, my husband, my mother, my six year old son, and a dog. When I say that every day is special, I’m not kidding.
A typical day for me goes something like this: Anywhere between 2:30-4 a.m I’m up with my mom helping her use the bathroom. I’m usually in there just to make sure she washes her hands and keeps everything hygienic. I help her back to bed so she can sleep a bit more. Unfortunately, I usually am unable to. Every now and then I’ll lay back down, but I usually stay up because she’ll be using the bathroom again in an hour. If it’s a school day I’ll wake my son up at around 6 a.m. Then it happens like clockwork. Everyone in my house has to pee at 6 a.m. Why the hell does everyone have to pee at the same time when we only have one bathroom? I don’t know but here’s what happens: the boy and the Baba start fighting over who gets to pee first, then the dog starts barking because she has to pee also. Most days I’m so busy making sure everyone pees that I forget to go myself. If you ever see me in the morning and I look irritated, chances are that I have to use the bathroom and I’ve just forgotten. Please remind me if you want. Otherwise, just pray that I don’t wet myself during a work meeting or presentation. I’m extremely blessed my work schedule is flexible as it allows me to make sure my mom eats lunch. After lunch, I work some more, pick little one up from school, help him do his homework, make or warm dinner, help the boy and Baba shower, then kick a soccer ball until 6:30 when my husband gets home. Then I breathe a sigh of relief because there’s an adult present who seems like he knows what he’s doing. Lord knows I sure don’t.
Now comes the part where I answer all your questions: Am I crazy? Yes. Why haven’t I put my mom in a home yet? She is safe, she still knows her way around her home, and she still gets to see and play with her grandson. As soon as any of those things change, I know that I have a decision to make. Isn’t something suffering; your marriage, your son, your job? Possibly all three. My husband is a saint for what he puts up with. I’m sure there are days when my son would like to use the bathroom first. I expect to be fired every day. I constantly feel like I’m being pulled in 4 different directions. However, I don’t think that’s different from any other working mother. The situation may be different, but the feeling is the same. Do I ever think that I’m making a mistake? Every damn day.
There’s also this: My mom will not be here forever. The time I’m spending with her now is precious, even if I’m handing her toilet paper in the bathroom. My son has more empathy at the age of 6 than most adults I know. My heart melts every time he hands my mom her glasses and a magazine to look at. I don’t fully understand why my husband hasn’t run screaming out of our home, but I appreciate him and love him more every day. I wish I had more time to tell him this to his face. No matter how tired I am, there is always someone in a worse position than me. As crazy as things are, I am blessed with a wonderful family, especially a beautiful angel of a little boy. For this, I am beyond grateful.
Now if you’ll excuse me, there’s a line forming outside of the bathroom. I’m needed elsewhere.