Home Alone

Last week, at about the midway mark in my 2 week illness (stomach virus followed by the flu), the girl got sick.

She had been cranky for a few days, not sleeping at night and complaining about her eye. I thought it just had to do with the time change. Turns out, I’m just a shit-ass mother.

By the time I got her to a clinic, she had a low-grade fever and an ear infection. 2 days at home, 7 days on antibiotics. Taking the time off work wasn’t a problem. I was home already, busy being sick with the flu, but it did mean that I wasn’t going to get the rest I’d anticipated.

And to be honest, I was dreading having her home with me. Him I can deal with. He’s always been pretty self-sufficient, but her? Oh my g-d what a time and energy suck that girl can be. She’s so intense.

But in the end, she surprised me. I had a great time with her, and I’m glad I have the memory of those days.

The first day home was a write-off. We were at the clinic until noon, and by the time we ate lunch we were both exhausted and spent. Let’s just say the clinic wasn’t easy.

It got so rough that at one point I put my jacket on the floor and slid it under her head to prevent anything serious from happening during her full-out tantrum.

By naptime, I didn’t have the energy to listen to her cry and then fetch her 34 minutes later when her nap ended. So I brought her into bed with me. And did she ever sleep. Blissfully. For 3 hours.

The next day, after my husband and son left for school, the girl looked up at me. She was obviously feeling remarkably better, her fever vanished and the antibiotics working their magic.

“Daddy?” she asked.

“Daddy’s gone.”

“Gagi?”

That’s her word for her brother.

Don’t look at me, I have no idea.

“He’s gone, too. Daddy took him to school.”

“Me, too!“

“No, you’re staying home today. With me.”

Woo-boy! In case I thought the clinic’s temper tantrum was a doozie, she felt the need to show me she could outdo herself.

“ME, TOO! ME, TOO!”

It took her a good long while to calm down, but then she looked at me and said, “Cars?”

So I popped in Cars, her brother’s favourite movie. And I thought it was kind of cute, that she wanted to like what he liked. But then, about 15 minutes into the movie, she got up and went upstairs.

She walked into his room and went right for the off-limit toys – the ones along the safety-railing on his bed. My son is very particular about those toys, and won’t go to bed at night until everything is lined up “propally.”

But she realized he was gone, and recognized that this was her chance. I followed her around the house in wonder as she systematically touched, played with and re-arranged everything in his room that was usually considered untouchable.

Oh, it was just a Happy Meal Bakugan and Fun-Tak heaven.

Don’t get me wrong, my son is very good about sharing his stuff. Especially with his sister, who is far from generous with her own toys… or those of his that she manages to swipe.

When she was done, when she’d played with all the contraband to her satisfaction, she walked into the bathroom and pointed to his beloved doggie bathrobe.

“Me!” she commanded.

I smiled and passed her the robe. She tried to get it on, finally relented and let me help. She was hysterical. She pranced around in that thing, watched herself in the mirror and came to me to scratch her behind the ears, like she’d seen her brother do a thousand times before.

And when she was done with that, we crawled into my bed for another epic nap. And as she crawled all over me, settling into that sprawl that left her head tucked into my neck and her torso strapped across my chest, I couldn’t help but think -

This is one smart cookie.

The girl giveth, and the girl taketh away

I remember a time when 7 pm would roll around and my son, less than 20 months at the time, would instinctively head for the stairs. He’d go upstairs, go through his bedtime routine and go to sleep.

And when he reached an age that he no longer fell asleep right away, he’d lie patiently in bed, either singing, talking or just being still, until sleep came.

G-d, I miss those days. So much so that I actually cry when I think about them.

Now, bedtime is nightmare. This isn’t news. I’ve been writing about it on and off for almost a year now. Yet somehow, every night, it feels new. Like a wound that’s constantly being reopened.

The worst part is, from time to time, my daughter will show me mercy. She’ll go to sleep without her typical hour of wailing. We’ll find something that works and she’ll stick to it.

For about a week.

Just long enough to make me forget. Just long enough to give me hope. And then, the walls come crashing down once more.

It’s also no secret that we’ve had a… difficult relationship from Day 1. Between her being “spirited,” my post-partum and the obvious lack of sleep on both our parts, it was understandable.

But it’s been 22 months. 22 months.

I know I’m not the only one out there having this problem. I mean, just the comments on Her Bad Mother’s latest post prove that.

The most aggravating thing for me, though, is that I know it can be different. Sure, with a different child, but I know there’s another way.

And that’s killing me.

And I’m tired of writing about this, just as I’m sure you’re tired of reading about it. But this time, there’s a catch. I’ve seen the other side. I know what she’s capable of.

I’ve been home sick, on and off, for the past 2 weeks. First a stomach flu, followed quickly by a flu-flu. Perhaps even of the swine variety. But that’s a whole other story.

Point is, my daughter got sick during this time, too. Ear infection. And as a result, we spent 2 days home together.

The first day was rough, as half of it was waiting in a clinic for her to see a doctor, screaming, crying and throwing tantrums the entire time. But when we got home, I brought her into bed with me to sleep. I was sick, I was tired and I just couldn’t face the crying.

And you know what? She slept. For 3 hours. That, my friends, is huge. And that night? She went to sleep quietly, and slept through the ENTIRE night, from about 8:30 to 7 am. And that, my friends, is even huger.

And guess what happened next. When she woke up the next day, she was in the best mood she’d ever been in her entire life. She was happy, playful and a pure joy to be around.

She joked, laughed and cuddled with me. She learned new words, we did puzzles together and we once again settled down for a good, long nap. Well, she did, at least.

And I couldn’t believe the difference it made. Couldn’t believe that maybe all that was missing were a few more hours of sleep. Her personality was completely different.

And then it wasn’t. Because that very night, she reverted to her old ways. I was up with her from 2:30 to 4 am, and the next night? The night I’m writing this post? Pure hell.

But at least I’ve got that one day. That one day where I saw the potential, saw what awaited me once we find a way to cross this bridge.

I just pray it comes sooner rather than later. I’m crazy about that girl I met, and I want her back.

Me, too

My parents have taken to calling my daughter the “me, too” girl. She picked up the expression a few weeks back and it’s her absolute favourite.

And with good reason.

Her entire life, it’s probably been the predominant thought in her mind. That she can actually verbalize it must be a huge relief and an incredible thrill for her.

“Me, too!”

That girl always wants to do everything her brother is doing. Eat everything he eats and wear everything he wears. For the past week, she devoted at least 20 minutes a day trying to figure out how to pull on his underwear.

“Me, too!”

It doesn’t even end with the boy, though. She wants everything my husband and I have, too. She wants to go everywhere we go, talk to everyone we talk to. She’s insatiable.

“Me, too!”

And she doesn’t even wait to find out what the proposition is. As soon as anyone opens their mouth around here, she pipes up, “Me, too!”

It’s like her battle cry.

And it pops up everywhere. We hear the far-off voice from her crib, in between mouthfuls of pasta at the dinner table, from the backseat of the car where she’s strapped into her seat.

Insatiable.

I’ve been feeling guilty and conflicted the past few days. After a long absence (full throttle, half-assed – I warned you), I picked up Raising Your Spirited Child again.

I skipped ahead to the part on sleep and the author made some pretty valid arguments for why the traditional methods of sleep-training aren’t so effective for kids like my daughter.

Combine that with the recent eye-opening conversation I had with my son and you’ll find me feeling like maybe I should cut her a little slack, go off-script for a while.

So on Sunday morning, when she woke up at 4 am (after compensating for the clock change), instead of rolling over and ignoring her I thought, Well, she had a rough day yesterday and if it were me, I’d want my mommy to comfort me.

So I got up and went to fetch her from her crib. I brought her into bed with me and tried to comfort her as best I could. She was pretty miserable. I think she had a headache.

And despite the early wake up, I tried to keep my good humour and patience intact all day. And I think I pretty much succeeded. Until, oh, about now. 8:40 pm and she’s still up, calling forlornly to me from her crib.

And I can’t help but think, if only she’d go to sleep… if only she’d actually get the amount of sleep she needs for her age, maybe she’d have an easier time of it.

And you know what? She’s not the only one who needs sleep.

Me, too.

Isn’t it a scream?

Last week, the New York Times ran a piece called, For Some Parents, Shouting is the New Spanking. It was a big deal for a few days, and it generated a lot of interesting conversation.

Coincidentally, I read the article on my iPhone during a self-imposed time out one evening – after I’d yelled at my kids. Some of the points in the article rang true, while I had a really hard time with others. Yes, I feel the guilt and shame after I’ve yelled, and yes, in retrospect I always wonder how I was unable to find a better way to express myself and communicate with my children. And yes, I always vow that it won’t happen again.

But it does.

I don’t agree with the tacit implication the article makes (thanks, AS) that we yell because we no longer have the release of spanking. And I don’t believe we can compare our relationships with our children to those we have with our colleagues. Too many holes in those arguments for me to climb on board.

It does seem like such an easy behaviour to modify. It’s just a voice. But yet I often find myself yelling to be heard above the din, because I’m frustrated or to put an end to bad behavior. But what I’m starting to realize is that sometimes, I yell at them because I’m mad at someone else.

And that, my friends, is no damn good.

I don’t think that I’m a yeller to the degree that I’m harming my children. I’m not abusive about it, and I certainly don’t yell in a way that would damage their self-esteem. But after reading Julie Marsh’s piece, particularly the part about would I want to be my own kid?, I took a look at the big picture.

I’m tired a lot of the time. My patience is short. When the kids get home, I’m rushing to make dinner, do baths and get them into bed. When they play on the weekends, I’m a blur of activity – tidying up, doing laundry, cleaning the kitchen. Sure, I’ll pause for my make-believe cup of tea or my imaginary birthday cake, but mainly I’m working around them while they play.

My “special outings” with my son consist of taking him to the grocery store and teaching him how to shop. Outings with the girl usually lead to the shoe store (man, does that kid GROW!). I’m hard pressed to come up with more than half a dozen instances in the same amount of months that we had specially-planned, child-centric activities.

What kind of childhood is that?

So the other day, I asked my son, “Do you like having me for a mommy?”

“Yes.”

“There’s no one else you’d rather be your mom?”

“Uh uh.”

And that was it. Or so I thought.

Last night, I crawled into bed with him after his father had read his story. I just wanted to say goodnight.

“What story did you read tonight?”

“Llama, Llama, Mad at Mama.“

“Oh, that’s a good one. Did you like it?”

“Yeah.”

Pause.

“Do you ever get mad at Mommy?”

“I can’t say.”

“Of course you can, Sweetheart. I’m asking you. You can tell me anything. Do I ever do anything that makes you mad?”

“Yes.”

“Well, what is it?”

“When you yell. I don’t like it when you yell.”

Sigh.

“Well that’s understandable. I don’t like it when I yell, either. How about I try to stop yelling?”

And then, I’m ashamed to say, I tried to make a deal with him. That I would stop yelling, but that I wanted him to start trying to pay attention more. To do things when we asked… not when he wanted. About halfway through this proposition, I stopped myself. The yelling isn’t his problem. It’s mine.

Talk about blaming the victim.

I tried to erase this entire line of conversation by asking, “What else do I do that makes you mad.”

“Well, I’m bigger than Sistah. I should be able to yell at her, too. I don’t like when you tell me not to yell at her. That makes me mad.”

The other day, when I was sick in bed with the stomach flu, I overheard him yelling at his sister, “You do what I ask NOW or I put you time out. You hear me? Enough already!” I instantly called him over and told him to stop it. But all I could think was, Oh, dear lord. Look at the example I’m setting for my children.

So that led into a whole discussion about the roles of parents and children. How his job was to be friends with his sister, to love and protect her, but NOT to discipline her or decide when she’s being good or bad. I told him he’d get that chance when he grew up and became a parent himself.

“When I grow up and become a parent, then I can sleep in the bed with you and Daddy?”

I laughed.

“Absolutely, Sweetheart. But when you get to be that big, you won’t want to. You’ll have your own children.”

“Oh. So then can I yell at Sistah?”

“No. What else? What else do I do that makes you mad?”

“When you yell a little bit.”

“Yeah, I got that, Sport. What else?”

“When you yell a lot.”

“Yeah. When I yell. We covered that. What else?”

“When you scream…”

At about this point, I realized he was playing me. Bedtime had come and gone and we were deep in the trenches of conversation. I smiled, kissed him on the head and got out of bed.

“Goodnight, Sweetheart. And thank you. I learned a lot tonight.”

I headed for the door.

“I love you, Mommy.”

Well, thank g-d for that.

There’s gotta be a better way to get a vacation and lose a few pounds

I’m sick. Really sick. Stomach flu, can’t get further than 10 feet from my bathroom sick. And it blows. Literally.

So, if by any chance you’ve dropped by wondering, “why the hell hasn’t there been a new post lately?” it’s because I’m sick. Stomach flu sick.

But while my digestive system is failing me, my brain is working overtime. And the sudden upset in our household routine has led to some interesting  insights into gender differences. And I can’t wait to tell you about them.

But first, I need to rest.

Everyone should get their 15 minutes

My favourite time is Wednesday afternoons, between 12:45 and 1:00 pm. I work hard for those 15 minutes. It’s the relaxation period at the end of my weekly yoga class.

As soon as I cover myself with my granny shawl and close my eyes, I’m out. I never had that ability before. It usually takes me so long to fall asleep, but in that class, on my lunch break in the basement of the building where I work, I fall effortlessly into a deep slumber.

It’s quiet. It’s tranquil. My body is perfectly still after 45 minutes of constant, strenuous movement. It’s heaven.

As I’m typing this, I’m listening to my daughter crying from her room. It’s 8:45 pm and she’s been in bed roughly an hour. She just doesn’t get it.

For a few weeks after we moved her back into her own room, it was like a dream come true. Silence from both chambers. But now she’s back to her old tricks, and I feel like I’m running up against a brick wall.

I just don’t want to do it anymore.

I’m tired.

And because it’s every night, it’s a constant in my life. And that’s where those 15 minutes come in.

I’m well aware we’re not supposed to use that time for napping, but I know I’m not the only one. I hear other women breathing heavily, or even snoring.

And I’m not the only one who’s fed up, either. As self-absorbed as I may be, I’m not idiot enough to think I’m the only mother on the planet going through this.

As a matter of fact, the other night, after I’d yelled at the boy because I was frustrated with his sister, I locked myself in the bathroom for a quick time-out.

I pulled out my iPhone and opened Twitter. One blogger was pointing people towards an article about yelling at your children, while another one was looking for a vortex to escape into between the hours of 5 and 8 pm.

So what is it about bedtime? Why do they rail against it? What do they think they’re missing? Is it me? Am I missing my window with her every night? If so, it’s unavoidable. Our schedules are so tight it’s crazy.

And then I breathe in, and breathe out. I tense up each part of my body and let it relax. And then… I go to sleep. For 15 minutes.

Sometimes, that’s all I need.

Of progress and milestones

So I’m actually sticking to this whole Weight Watchers thing and after 4 weeks I’ve hit my first milestone: I lost 5% of my original weight. Which is really just 8.6 lbs, but it sounds much more impressive the other way.

At first I found it really hard because I was hungry all the time. But my stomach soon adjusted to the new regimen and things started going pretty smoothly. My mind hasn’t really adapted, and longs for the old, taken-for-granted treasures like real chocolate, ice cream and fast food.

Or just restaurant food, for that matter.

Though in all honesty, I’ve gone out at least once in each of the past 4 weeks and had a great, unrestricted dinner. I didn’t bother to tally up the points on those days – just enjoyed myself.

Just this past week, I met some friends at a wine bar downtown and nibbled at tapas that included mini bison sliders, foie gras cookies and gourmet grilled cheese. Which I swear was deep fried.

And as a matter of fact, in that same week, we ordered in pizza and I ate about half a medium-size green pepper and mushroom. I’m sure it was a kajillion points, but I still took off a pound and a half that week.

It’s really about portion sizes for me. I was shocked when I discovered what a healthy portion size looked like. But once I adjusted, I realized I could eat just about anything I make for the kids if I adjust my portion and make up the rest in salad.

And on the nights I can’t, I pop a Weight Watchers frozen dinner into the microwave and pow! Done. Sometimes, I’ll take efficiency over taste. And in the half-dozen varieties that I’ve tried so far, only one of them was a real loser.

But even with all this progress, I don’t really notice a difference when I look in the mirror, which makes me think maybe my initial goal of 15 lbs was a little optimistic.

My husband, however, looked and me the other day and said, “You know, the weight loss is really starting to show. Your ass is looking much tighter.”

And that felt pretty damn good. Not because of what he said, but that he said anything at all.

I know I’ve been driving him insane lately with my incessant point counting, possible menu brainstorming aloud and my annoying habit of entering my points online before I’ve even finished a meal.

The other day, he was playing in the park with my son and the boy was pretending to cook lunch. Before he’d eat anything, he’d punch a few numbers into a make-believe computer. My husband was appalled.

I’m points-obsessed. I admit it. This whole thing has me looking at the entire world in terms of points. What counts as exercise points? Running on the treadmill or running up and down the stairs 100 times to fetch dropped Pablo dolls and find lost balls of Fun-Tak?

And if I want to eat that slice of cheese for lunch, how many points will I have to sacrifice at dinner? Do I want to swap a glass of tonight for the bagel I’m holding in my hand at breakfast? And I constantly find myself wanting to tap people on the shoulder and ask, “Do you want me to tally that up for you?”

The other day, someone jokingly asked me, “How many points in semen?”

Sorry, honey. I’m dieting.

Even a tight ass comes at a price, right?

Can you handle the truth?

My son is at an age where he’s asking a lot of questions. And subtly, over the last few weeks it’s they’ve changed from being simply “why?” to more intricate questions like, “Why do I have to swallow the medicine for it to work? How does it work in my tummy?”

Sometimes, the questions aren’t so straightforward.

The other day, while he was home sick, we were watching Cars and when it got to the last race, he asked me “Why didn’t McQueen finish? Why does he have to push King?”

It didn’t help any that I always cry at that part of the film. Not because I find that particular scene so touching, but because I’m mentally preparing for Paul Newman to say, “Kid, you’ve got stuff.”

So I tried to explain to him that as things, and people, get older their parts don’t work as well. The King was old, he had been hit, and he couldn’t drive himself to the finish line.

“When you’re broken, you get older.”

“Not quite, Kiddo. When you get older, things start breaking.”

He looked at me.

“It’s like Grandpa,” I said. “As he gets older, some of his parts don’t work as well. Or like Bubby – her back doesn’t work as well.”

I stopped myself there and I wondered, not for the first time, how much am I supposed to tell him?

The kid’s not even 4, but he seems to me to be so intelligent that I often find myself having serious conversations with him. We talk about stuff going on at school, how to select ripe produce and the motivations of the characters in his favourite books.

And because we’re close, I find it hard to draw the line on how much information I’m supposed to divulge. At what age does certain content become appropriate? And where the hell is my bloody manual?

If this particular conversation went any further, it was going to lead to death and mortality. And I didn’t want to go there, but I didn’t want to stifle his curiosity, either. Our dogs are old. I figure we’re going to have to deal with this issue soon enough anyway.

The other day, he was with his father and the dog got on his nerves. He swiped at her.

“Hey!” my husband said. “You don’t hit the dog.”

“Why?”

“Because she’s old, she’s been around longer than you have and she deserves your respect. You don’t hit.”

“Mommy hit her the other day.” Pause. “But she knew it was wrong.”

He was right. A couple of weeks ago, we were heading down the stairs in the morning and the dog pushed ahead of the kids. That’s strictly forbidden, as I’m always worried about one of the dogs knocking the kids off balance on the stairs.

I gave her a tap on the bum. It caught her off guard (she’s deaf) and she started, and then fell down the rest of the stairs. I freaked out and ran down to check on her. She was fine. Totally unfazed.

But she’s old.

“I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry.” I repeated, over and over.

I explained to the boy that I had hit the dog, but that it was wrong. I shouldn’t have. She’s old and she forgets and she didn’t push him on purpose. And he understood what I told him, and repeated the story, verbatim, to his father.

And that gives me great confidence that he’s able to process the information I’ve given him, so when is he ready for more? How do I test that line?

My husband and I vowed we would never lie to him. And we want to live up to that promise.  One day, we’re going to have to talk to him about the big ticket items – sex, drugs, rock and roll religion, politics, marriage, you name it.

And we’re going to want him to trust us, and the advice and moral guidance we give him. I figure, we’ve got a few good years in which to earn that trust.

I hope we don’t blow it.

Sleep deprivation

I’m experiencing some mild insomnia. I fall asleep okay, but then I wake up around 3 am and can’t get back to sleep. It’s been about a week now and it’s starting to get to me.

After the boy was born, I developed a horrible case of insomnia. It lasted almost 9 months before I sought any kind of help. I was a destroyed. I finally saw a sleep shrink and she cured me within a month.

I’m a worrier. I spend a lot of my time worrying. It’s worrying. But after the boy came along, I was too busy to worry. I was starting to get really stressed that I had no time to get stressed about things. So as soon as I lay down at night, my brain would start racing 100 miles an hour.

When we got to the root of the problem, it was an easy fix. We just needed to turn my brain off. She taught me a few tricks, they worked and I slept just fine.

Then the girl came around and insomnia wasn’t really the issue. There was just never time to sleep. For the first few months, she was awake for roughly 20 hours a day. And later, she could never get to sleep without a ridiculous amount of fussing. And screaming.

So I think it’s fair to say that for the past 3 1/2 years, I’ve been sleep deprived. Things were really starting to look up for a while, I was getting in roughly 7 hours a night. But now, with this 3 am wake up every day, my spirits are plummeting.

As soon as I wake up, the most stressful, aggravating and terrifying thoughts flood my mind. I worry about our unpaid taxes, I seethe about unpaid parking tickets, I freak out over the remote possibility that this will be the night we’re the victims of a home invasion.

My husband doesn’t have this problem. Nothing comes between him and his sleep. He can fall asleep in the nanosecond it takes for the television to change channels. He can fall asleep under any circumstances. And stay asleep, too – through alarms, crying babies, ringing phones or doorbells. It’s unbelievable. And infuriating.

A few years back, I diagnosed him with stress-induced narcolepsy. I don’t even know if that’s a real disease, but it should be. The minute anything potentially stressful arises, he’s out like a light. He’s vanished in the middle of arguments only to be discovered later snoring away on the bed, fully clothed.

It drives me insane.

Our kids seem to be following in our footsteps. The boy could sleep through an earthquake, whereas I usually have to hold in my pee until 7 am in order to not risk waking the girl. And I’ve had 2 kids. It ain’t so easy to hold in a pee for hours on end. And sleep.

My son can get up in the morning, get dressed, have breakfast, watch 2 episodes of The Backyardigans before deciding it’s time to pee.

And I know, I know, “Sleep is for the weak.” But you know what? It’s really not. People need to sleep. There’s a name for people who don’t sleep: crazy.

And I’ve already got enough crazy going on, thank you very much.

Attachment theory

On Monday, we took the kids to go see The Backyardigans live. My mother-in-law thought it would be great to take my son, and my husband and I thought the girl might enjoy it, too so we bought 3 more tickets. But they weren’t together.

So the boy sat with his grandmother in the 3rd row, while my husband and I sat with the girl in the 8th row. She was having a grand old time, swinging her legs over the edge of the seat and munching away on a bag of Mini Oreos.

And then the curtains opened.

Holy shit, was she scared. She screamed, Oreos flying everywhere, and flew into my lap, facing my chest. She buried her head so deep into my shirt I have no idea how she was able to breathe.

She didn’t even open her eyes until about halfway through the first act. And then she’d tentatively turn her head to get the stage in her peripheral vision. She refused to look directly at the stage, even though she clutched her little Pablo doll to her chest.

And all the while, I was craning my head, too. But I was trying to get a glimpse of my son, 5 rows up. I was dying to know what he thought of the show, if he was scared or if he was enjoying it. I saw him sitting on his grandmother’s lap, but I didn’t know what led to that. Fear? Better positioning?

We met up with them at intermission, and the boy decided he wanted to sit with his father, so I sat up front with my MIL and the girl. She certainly didn’t need her own seat.

This time, I faced her forward and she didn’t resist me. She craned her head to get a better view around the two adult heads in front of us, while I craned my neck to try to get a better view of my son 5 rows behind me. Again, I missed out on living this experience with him.

And then it hit me. I’ve been so worried about not being attached to my daughter, that I never even realized I was over-attached to my son.

I treasure every moment we’re together.  I long for Saturday afternoons when we sneak out at naptime and go grocery shopping together. I relish nuzzling up to his neck and stealing kisses at every opportunity.

But lately, what I’ve also noticed is how jealous he gets when I’m paying attention to his sister. How every time she wants me to hold her, he insists on being picked up, “by mommy only.”

So I looked at her. Really looked at her. And there she was, smiling slightly as Uniqua, Tasha and company were holding on tight and even tapping her toe in mid-air.

She was having a wonderful time. And I was there, alone with her; without her brother tugging at my pant leg or arm. And I was spending a good chunk of my time wishing I could be with him.

Until I looked at her.

And I’m so grateful that I caught this in the moment. That this didn’t turn into one of those moments of regret, turned over and over again in my mind as I lay sleepless in bed at 1 am.

So I forgot about him and turned all my attention to her. I hadn’t been ignoring her completely, and I intentionally didn’t rush her into the watching the show. I knew she’d warm up and she did. She really enjoyed those last 20 minutes, and I got to enjoy them with her. And it felt great.

I don’t think this is a case of favoritism. I have very different relationships with my children, by I absolutely love them the same. They are each able to delight and infuriate me in equal measure, and there’s nothing I wouldn’t do for either of them.

I really think this is more of an attachment issue. That the more things got rough with her, the more comfort I took in him. And as a result, we’ve developed this really close relationship. And it took us all by surprise, because all along he’d been tight likethis with his father.

So for every inch that I withdrew from her, I crept towards him. And I can’t believe that a simple afternoon outing with a moose, a penguin, a dog, a hippo and whatever the hell Uniqua’s supposed to be turned into a life changing event for me and my children.

And they say mindless television rots the mind...