I am not a fan of mess or mud. NOT. A. FAN. When I picked up Zoey this afternoon she was pushing around a wheelbarrow filled with mud. A wheelbarrow. FULL OF MUD.  Well, it also had a few wood chips thrown in. But mostly it was mud. Slimy, liquidly, oozy, dirty mud. As I tried to remember that free play is good, Zoey called me over.

“Look, Mommy! I’m making lots of hot chocolate!” She struggled to push the heavy wheelbarrow over to the tree stump. Then, as I stood there hopelessly watching, she stirred the hot chocolate with her mittens.  Vigorously. She stood there with her mittened (and dripping) hands on her hips and looked up at me with obvious pride.

“Mmmm,” I managed, “It looks delicious.”

“It’s for you, Mommy! All for yooooooouuuuu!” She shouted to my back as I walked towards the other mothers. A lot of other kids were playing with mud too. None of them had a wheelbarrow full or anything, but mud is mud. I scanned the other mother’s faces — they all looked calm and happy.  A few of them even looked blissful. I, on the other hand, was clutching my chest about to have a HEART ATTACK.

Finally I couldn’t take it anymore. I grabbed the arm of another mother and hissed, “I can’t even watch. Is Zoey dunping that wheelbarrow full of mud ALL OVER HERSELF? IS SHE?” It’s possible that I ended that sentence in a shriek.

The very nice other mother glanced at Zoey and whispered back, “Ok. She’s dumping all the mud from the wheelbarrow into a bowl.  She’s doing great. The mud’s going in the bowl. Mostly. . . Kind of . . .” And then the other mom politely excused herself.

It took 20 minutes to get through the parking lot. There was more mud and slush to be stomped in, sat on, and scooped up. When I got Zoey to the car, she had muddy mittens, muddy boots (no, she was not wearing Silver Wonder Boots), and a big smile.

I chose to focus on the smile. And that, dear readers, is what is known as progress.

1. Tulle. There can never be too much. It adds whimsy and cheer to any occasion.

Haute couture made especially for Zozo by Courtney. (Hi Courtney!)

2.  Let loose a little! You can wear up to four patterns at once without causing eye damage to fellow merry-maker.

Tiny flowers, large flowers, stars, and polka dots . . . Why not?

3. Hats and princess socks will jazz up any outfit! So will a halloween cat! Zoey advises, “Just call it a Christmas cat so it can be a Christmas dress!” What a great way to get more wear out of your seasonal clothing!

4.  Stripes go with stripes.  (Note the festive use of tulle.)

5. Layering can be hard work . . . .

But it’s soooo worth it.

t-shirt, dress, skirt, and pants oh my!

And then.

Zoey found a “wand” (read as: a broken branch with thorns on it).

“Zoey,” I said, “You may not climb on the the playground equipment while holding that stick.”

“Maaaahhhhm,” Zoey groaned, “It’s. A. Wand.”

“Sorry. Wand.” Zoey began to climb The Death Star. WHILE STILL HOLDING THE WAND. “Zoey: put it down or I will hold it for you.”

“Maaahhhhm, I’m fine . . . I’m not gonna-” And then Zoey fell. (Hubris, anyone?)

She was not far off the ground so that part was no big deal. But, as she was falling, the pointy WAND with thorns grazed across her cheek about this <> far from her eye.

“Ooops,” I said while Zoey sat stunned on her butt in the wood chips. “See? That’s why I am going to hold the wand for you.” I squatted to pick up the wand and also to rub Zoey on the back.

Zoey’s eyes narrowed. “No. NO. I DID NOT WANT YOU TO DO THAT. I DID NOT WANT YOU TO MAKE ME FALL.” She threw herself on the ground (which wasn’t all that dramatic as she was already on the ground) and began rolling, kicking, and screaming. As she rolled wood-chips stuck on her fleece, and in her hair.

The other kids started staring.

So did the parents.

“Zoey,” I threatened through gritted teeth. “I am counting to three. If you do not get it together we will go home.”

We all know what happened: On three the tantrum escalated. I went to sit on a nearby bench. Parents began to tell their children to look away. Another parent said to her two year old, “Now that is bad behavior. I’m so glad you don’t act like that.”  Ha! I thought. Ha! Give it time lady!  (I would also like to take this time to point out that if I had seen me at the playground I would have gone up and said something like, “Yup, totally been there. Stay strong!”  But no one did that. LOSERS!)

After about seven minutes I went back over to Zoey who now looked like a giant wood-chip monster. “Well,” I said, “It’s time to go home.” Zoey sniffled and crawled out from under The Death Star. She took my hand and we got as far as the bench.

“No,” Zoey said. “I don’t want to do what you saying to me. I want to play!” And the crying started.  But it was the pathetic oh-I’m-such-a-sad-and-mistreated-kid FAKE cry.

“Kids that throw tantrums do not get to stay at the playground. I am goinghome. Would you like to walk with me?” (Note to soon to be parents: here’s where you hope like hell that you have sufficiently instilled in your kid  a fear of being alone.)

“You go home,” Zoey whimpered. PARENTING FAIL.

So I began to walk across one baseball field.  I casually glanced back. Zoey was crying and looking pathetic but she wasn’t watching me. She’ll look eventually. I kept walking.  I noticed that the further away I got the closer the other parents seemed to circle in.

I was two baseball fields away now.  I turned and looked.  Zoey was still not looking at me.  But a few of the parents were.  And . . .  there was pointing.

After calling my best friend to confirm that these other parents were jerks for getting their jollies by judging me and probably all had exceedingly boring lives AND were so much UNcooler than we were, I knew what I had to do.

Yup, the walk of shame. WALK. OF. SHAME.  Across two baseball fields. To my tear-streaked child who was picking wood-chips out of her hair and whispering, “My mommy left me . . . My mommy left me . . .” I deftly avoided all eye contact with other parents and took Zoey’s hand.  We trudged back across the field, picking up yellow leaves as we went.

Post-baby depression sucks.  Actually, it’s worse than that: It is suffering.  It is shame.  It is soul breaking.

I remember feeling like a shadow of myself – thin and stretched and so tired.  I couldn’t summon the energy to talk to my husband or to coo at my daughter.  At night I would rock my perfect little baby and cry, or just stare out the window at the street lamp, unable to connect with the tiny person in my arms.  And then I couldn’t sleep.  I was so tired and I couldn’t sleep.  I was so afraid that if I let my guard down something terrible would happen.  If I slept I was certain I would lose my baby. I would lay in the guest room so as not to wake my husband and I would cradle a pillow to my chest trying to keep myself together, trying to keep my aching and empty heart in my chest.  I would think about what a terrible mother I was, what a failure.  I couldn’t tell anyone how much I was hurting – I didn’t have the words, I didn’t have the energy, and I was so ashamed.  How could I want a baby so badly – go through all that we did to get her – and then feel like this?   How could I be such an awful person?

This went on for months.  What people had told me would be some of the most joyous and wonderful months of my life were quite possibly the worst, most wretched months I had ever had.  I thought no one knew.  But people did.  I know now that my parents and my husband noticed.   But they were scared to talk to me about it.  Finally my acupuncturist talked to me about it.  He told me it was OK, it was normal, he told me I was not alone.   And he told me I would be OK.  I believed him.  His words were a spec of light in the dark pit of depression.  I did what he said – I made an appointment with my doctor, I talked to my husband and parents.  And the relief was immense.  It was huge.  It was like the first warm sun of the spring.

I made some decisions.  I went on medication.  I asked for help.  I talked about my feelings and fears a little more.   And slowly I found my way back to the light, to myself, and to my daughter.

So to my lovely and amazing friend: You might be feeling alone; you are not.  No one tells you that becoming a mom is incredibly isolating.  It is.  You may be feeling sad.  You may be feeling mad.  You may be feeling worse than you have ever felt before.  It’s OK.  There are others of us who have been there.  We can help you.  There are lots of us waiting to grab your hand and pull you up into the light.

(You can read another of my posts about depression here.)

Don't worry, my friend will get this.

Me: (after making some kick-ass brownies) I am a brownie making goddess!
Zoey: Yeah, you are. But mostly you’re MY MOM.

Zoey: (while peeling a banana) Heave! Ho!

While listening to “Ain’t No Sunshine”
Me: Do you like this song?
Zoey: Yeah. (pause) I’m pretty sure it’s about penguins.

Zoey: Mom? When I get bigger I wanna get my own real baby.
Me: Well, when you grow up you can be a mom if you want to.
Zoey: Yeah, I really want a baby so I can change it’s diaper!!! That’s THE BEST THING EVER!

Zoey: Mom? You’ll come to college with me, right?
Me: Well, no I don’t come to college with you. I’ve already done college. But I’ll visit you all the time. And you can home home whenever you want . . .
Zoey: (teary) No! You WILL come with me and then I’ll live here! Because it’s our house! And you’ll take me to the bathroom at night so I’m not scared! WAH!

Before that  she was on my lap screaming, crying, and wiping her snot on my neck.

Before that she screamed, cried, and flailed as I brought her in from the car.

Before that I wondered how much a liquid vacuum costs.

Before that Zoey screamed and occasionally dry heaved in the car all the way home.

Before that I sat on the curb in front of Zoey’s school and a busy bank parking lot. For 10 minutes.

Before that I got a scathing look from a bank customer.

Before that I got a commiserating 0h-I-have-so-been-there look from a parent at Zoey’s school.

Before that Zoey collapsed the top half of her body on the floor of the car and left her legs dangling out into the curb. Also, there was kicking an screaming.

Before that I opened the car door.

Before that I walked through the parking lot while Zoey held my hand. And screamed.

Before that I said, “Ouch! Stop pulling!”

Before that Zoey tried to wrench my arm out of it’s socket.

Before that I didn’t listen.

Before that Zoey said, “Look Mama! A pretty leaf!”

Last Friday, Zoey and I were at the park.  And, of course, all Zoey wanted to do was climb the Death Star. Zoey’s dearest ambition is to climb to the top of the Death Star. The top which is way way WAY above my head. But like the good parent I am, I repeatedly squash her ambition. I only let Zoey go about half way up the ropes because I am what is known as “safety conscious”. But Zoey was playing with a four year old boy who was allowed to climb to the tippy top of the Death Star. So the boy climbed way way up.

“Look at me!” He shouted. “I’m sooooo high!”

I could see the jealousy on Zoey’s face.  She looked at me sideways, hung her head and mumbled, “My mom won’t let me go up there yet. Maybe when I’m bigger . . .”

“But it’s so fun!” shrieked the boy. “Wheeeee!”

Seriously. He literally said Wheeee! Who says that? I mean, I say it. But I’m a nut-burger (Hi Niki!). What kind of kid says it?

Eventually the boy and Zoey climbed down and began to play tag. The boy’s Dad was sitting a few feet from me so I decided to strike up a very reasonable parent-to-parent conversation.

“So, I know this is a weird question*,” I began, “How did you know when your son was ready to climb to the top of the Death Star? Because, really, all I can picture is my daughter’s limp body ricocheting off the ropes until she hits the bottom and splits her head open. Or maybe severs an arm on the ropes on the way down. . .”

“Uh,” said the dad. “Do you mean that thing right there?” Did I mention that I made up the name, Death Star? Yeah, well.

“Yes,” I said nodding toward the evil structure. “That thing.”

“Well, we live near by so he practices a lot and he’s a physical kid to begin with . . . “

“So,” and for some reason I went on, “Then you don’t worry about his tiny four year old body falling, crashing around on the ropes, and then ending up paralyzed or dead? “

“Uh,” said the dad for the second time, “I gotta go. I think I see my daughter eating wood chips.”

And even though his one year old was, in fact, eating wood chips, I got the feeling that I had perhaps said too much. There was only one thing I could do to redeem myself.

“Zoey,” I called. “Do you still want to climb to the top of the star?”

So she climbed. Slowly, carefully. She stood on a thin red rope way above my head and shouted, “Ta-da! LOOK AT MEEEE!” I looked and her face was full of pride. “I did it, Mom! Look! Look!”

“I see! I see!” I yelled back, feeling some pride of my own. I waited about .7 seconds and said, “And now it’s time to come down.” Pride only lasts so long.

Once Zoey was safely on the ground I turned back to the Dad. “Did you see that?” I gushed. “Aren’t you proud of me?”

“Uh,” he said for the third time. “Your daughter did very well.”

Ok. Fine. So maybe it was supposed to be her moment. But it was my moment too. She is growing up and trying new things. And I am letting her.

* Clearly I have not yet learned the lesson about not starting conversations with complete strangers that begin with, “I know this is a weird question . . .”

I grin, “You need Pri-va-cee.”

There is a loud thump and a sigh.”No. I NEED PIRACY. PY-RA-CEEEE!” My poor, misunderstood child continues, “And I don’t need YOU, Mama.”

I roll my eyes at the door. I hear the thunk of the ducky potty seat being put into place followed by some rustling and squeaking. Then the sound of water on water. I sneak around the corner to the pantry and pour some chocolate chips in my mouth straight from the yellow bag.

I hear Zoey muttering behind the closed door, “I can do it. I can do it” Then grunting. Huh. Good to know the prunes are working. 

“Mommy?” Zoey’s voice is a little smaller, softer. “Mommy? I don’t need you but I need you to wipe my butt.”

There are so many things I want to say to this. For starters I want to launch into a detailed explanation (complete with pie charts and a laser pointer) of why butt wiping is a valuable skill. A valuable skill that is best learned soon than later. For instance, now, right now, would be a good time to learn it.

Butt wiping is much like stairs. Stairs which Gramme and Pop-Pop don’t think their one and only genius granddaughter should go up and down.  Like, ever. (It’s the whole falling-and-splitting-her-head-open thing that gets them.)

But I really don’t think there’s any way for Zoey to graduate from Harvard if she can’t do stairs. Imagine: the first day of school she heads to class in Harvard Hall and . . . OH MY DEAR GOD! What are those things?!?! She’ll never make it to class on the 3rd floor, what with not knowing how to climb a series of steps, otherwise known as STAIRS. Then she’ll flunk out and I’ll have to take the Harvard Mom sticker off my car. Zoey will move back home and I’ll have to un-convert my writing room back to her room. There is no way in hell I’m wiping my child’s butt after she flunks out of Harvard. And steals my writing room.

So, in all your amazingness could you do me one teensy tiny little favor?* Could you ever so kindly check out the “Writing Workshops” tab above? Go ahead.  I’ll wait. Doot doot doot la la la. I wonder if we have any chocolate chips left in the freezer . . .

You’re back! Awesome, right? If you or any of your friends are in the Boston area PLEASE COME TO THE FREE WORKSHOP. Ooosh. Sorry. Didn’t mean to yell. I’m just a little bit excited.

*apologies to friends and family who have already been inundated by this via email and Facebook. I LOVE YOU!

Look! A cute picture that has nothing to do with what I'm writing about! WHEE!

Behold:

Zoey wanted to name the cat Zoey. I thought that might be confusing as cats and 3 year-olds tend to get into similar types of trouble. “Zoey, get off the table!”, “Get out of the trash, Zoey!”, and of course, “Zoey, don’t drink out of the toilet!” It would just be to0 easy for Zoey to be all, “O000h. I thought you were talking to the cat, not meeeee.”

So naming the cat Zoey was nixed.  As was Pink Princess (Zoey’s second suggestion). I was voting for Happy or Daisy but was turned down on the grounds of being “too perky.” Which is not something I am often accused of.

Demetri finally came up with the name Tikka. The conversation went like this:

How about Tikka?

Yeah. That’s good — like Tikka Masala!

Yeah. I wonder what “Tikka” means . . .

It probably means “spicy”, but we should look it up before we name her.

Ok. Let’s do it when we get home. 

Except that we never remembered to look it up and just started calling the cat Tikka. The name has a nice ring to it and we all like the Indian dish. So there you go.

For three months we have been calling our cat Tikka. Last week I finally looked it up. It means “pieces of meat.” Yes, we named our cat Pieces of Meat. Which is what Demetri and my formerly good friend, Courtney, now call her. Courtney leaves the house and says, “Bye Pieces of Meat.” Demetri comes home and says, “Hello, good little Pieces of Meat.” And I open the refrigerator and see this:

It’s all rather distressing — until I remember we had Tikka Masala last week and froze the leftovers. (But I still look around and check on the, um, liveliness of our cat.)

Tikka generally seems rather displeased. Or maybe she’s just unimpressed with us.

I would be too, Tikka. I would be too.