My Dad...A Remembrance

It’s 10:55 PM on Tuesday. And here I am sitting in the dining room of my parents’ house wondering what I am going to say on Thursday morning at 11:00 at Dr. Don’s Celebration of Life, particularly since I am the host and first speaker on the program. Of course, I’ve known for almost two months that I need to write this, but the words won’t come because part of me somehow can’t believe that he’s really gone.

About a week after Dr. Don’s death I was on Instagram just scrolling through trying to distract myself from myself. I see the familiar handle “Dad Jokes”- this is a guy who posts tons of stupidly clever jokes and puns  - and I eagerly read the silly joke…Here it is…

“I’m reading a horror story in Braille. Something bad is going to happen. I can feel it.”

I chuckle and immediately start to text the joke to Dr. Don like I’ve done a hundred times before because I know he’ll probably groan and then call me with a much better joke of his own, but I stop myself…no Dr. Don to text.

When I was in college back in the stone age before cell phones, my dad would call at odd hours to tell me jokes. Someone would pound on my dorm room door and shout, “You have a call!” I would run to the stuffy little phone room to plop myself on the uncomfortable orange plastic chair and say, ‘Hello?”

“Hey, it’s Dad. I have a good joke for you…” and then he would launch into whatever joke he was telling everyone that week. Complete with crazy voices, sound effects and his own laughter. He’d finish with a flourish. He’d say triumphantly, “That’s a great joke. Isn’t that a great joke?” but before I would have a chance to answer he’d say, “Alright, Pup, I’ve got to be getting back to work. I love you.” And then he’d hang up leaving me sometimes laughing and sometime staring at the phone in wonder that he took the time to share that dumb joke. Now, of course, I appreciate every one of those jokes that made me laugh. Or shake my head. Or groan.

Tonight there is no laughter. My parents’ house – also my childhood home - is silent except for the tapping of my fingers on the laptop and the low hum of the air conditioner. My daughter Esme is finally asleep after much stalling. Mom took herself off to bed half an hour ago. Diane and Matt’s flight doesn’t arrive until well after midnight.

Here I sit. Stumped. How on earth do I sum up my dad’s life in a few pages? It seems impossible.

Earlier today I lament my lack of progress to my mom.

“Are you going to be able to get it done?” she asks.

My brain shrieks, “Nope! Not going to happen!”, but I hear myself assuring her that I will get it done. Then we start swapping stories about Dr. Don. Eventually, she asks almost as an accusation, “Are you going to tell THE story? You’re going to tell it, aren’t you?”

“About how you stalked Dad?” I reply. “It’s a good story…My Mom, The Stalker.”

She laughs, “I was such a wallflower. I can’t even believe I did that!”

She tells me the story for the umpteenth time and I listen as eagerly as if it’s the first time I’ve heard it. She says, “I was working in the Registrar’s Office at Brooklyn College and in September this really cute guy walked in. He was wearing a light blue suit and he was tan. I saw him and that was it. He had no idea that his life was about to get a lot more complicated.”

“Did you tell anyone?” I ask.

“Sure,” she replies, “I told my mother I met the man I was going to marry. Then I found out who he was. He would take his coffee breaks in the cafeteria in the Liberal Arts building, so I made sure that I was there during those breaks. I would wave to him and smile. It took a few months, but he finally asked me to sit down. I did and then I asked him, ‘So, are you married, engaged, have a girlfriend…?’ He didn’t. And he was really polite so he felt he had to ask me out. He asked me if I would like to go to the Museum of Modern Art with him one Saturday afternoon. Our first date was on December 12th, 1959.”

As my mom retells her part of the story, I remember my Dad’s side of the story. He’d say, “There was this cute girl. I didn’t know who she was, but she was always hanging around, smiling and waving at me. Finally I asked her to sit down. You know the rest. Our first date was at the MOMA,” here he pauses then begins again in a voice still full of awe at the magnitude of his good luck, “All I knew was that this wasn’t like any other first date I had ever been on. Your mother was smart and funny. She knew all about art. I think we both knew right away this was something different. I was overwhelmed.”

They were engaged in March of 1960, but didn’t marry until August 1961 so Ellen could finish her senior year. Ellen moved to Kansas City with Don so he could complete med school. Then it was off to Grand Rapids for Don’s internship followed by residency in Columbus Ohio. That’s where I entered the picture. Diane arrived 3 years later in Fort Lee, New Jersey. Eventually our family settled in Hillsdale, New Jersey. However, that only lasted a few years. Grand Rapids came calling again. We moved here in 1975. Dr. Don purchased a totally unique mid-century modern house without my mom ever having seen it. He knew she would love it. And she did.

I take a break from writing this speech to get a drink of water, stretch and wander around said mid-century modern house.

It occurs to me as I look around my childhood home that it is a far cry from Dr. Don’s modest beginnings in a 2-bedroom apartment in Staten Island, New York. My grandparents owned a dry goods store. They worked long hours and did their best to provide for their two kids. Don and his sister Phyllis didn’t lack for the basics and even had a piano and piano lessons (quite a luxury in their neighborhood), but there weren’t many other extras.

Earlier this week I chat with my Aunt Phyllis. I ask her about when they were kids.

“Your father was such a good big brother to me,” she tells me. “Our parents worked a lot and he needed to take charge of me when they were at the store. He never made me feel like I was a burden to him. I always looked up to him. We knew all each other’s friends. We double dated when we were in high school. He even gave me little pointers on what to wear and how to behave. There was real mutual respect between us. He took good care of me.”

I ask her about my dad deciding to become a doctor.

She laughs, “He had no choice. We were indoctrinated by our parents from the time we were little. Donny would be a doctor and I would be a teacher.”

Is it surprising that my dad was a good and responsible big brother? That he took care of Phyllis with kindness?  Or that he became a doctor? No. That’s who he was. He took care of people. His parents might have pressed him to become a doctor, but I believe caring for people was as natural to him as breathing.

My dad’s skill and dedication to taking care of people meant that he worked long hours. We understood that there were sick people who needed him. However, this meant that Dr. Don focused on quality time with his family rather than quantity. He took Diane and I to see Marcel Marceau when we were kids. I was an aspiring cellist so Dr. Don arranged a Father – Daughter date to see Yo-Yo Ma. There were annual fall treks to Robinette’s Apple Orchard for fresh cider and cinnamon donuts.

And weekends when he wasn’t on call wouldn’t be complete without a trip to the American Bakery to purchase freshly baked rye bread and, of course, each of us girls got a raspberry Linzer Torte Cookie. Diane and my dad were enthusiastic runners and often ran together around our neighborhood and later in California where Diane lives. I am a dedicated couch potato who loves to read and watch movies so my dad happily sat with me to chat about books and old movies.

“What’s your favorite movie?” I ask him.

Dr. Don replies, “’Roman Holiday.’ I was 15 when I saw first saw it and when Audrey Hepburn came on the screen. Ohhhhh…I didn’t know what hit me.”

In the summer we lounged happily by the pool. My parents would get on the phone to their friends to announce “The flag is flying!”, which meant, “Come on over, the water is fine.”

And, of course, there were vacations. My parents were avid travelers and Diane and I were lucky that they instilled in us a love of travel as they planned amazing family trips to places like Washington DC to visit the Smithsonian and the White House, Colorado to ride horses, Boston to visit the USS Constitution and the Museum of Fine Arts, and New York to visit the Metropolitan Museum of Art and to attend the theater.

I should note here that I’m fairly certain Diane and I were the only children ages 8 and 11 attending the Broadway Production of “The Best Little Whorehouse in Texas.” Us kids had no idea what the show was about, but I remember loving all of the energetic singing and dancing. Needless to say, Dr. Don and Ellen got a lot of side eye that evening from all of the folks sitting near us.

My Dad also treated himself and my mom to annual child-free vacations usually someplace overseas. During the course of their almost 58 years together they visited most of Europe, Russia, China, Japan, Morocco, Egypt, Kenya, Ecuador and The Galapagos, just to name a few.

When I am about 9 years-old I get up the nerve to ask my dad about he and my mom’s upcoming trip abroad. He is sitting in his chair in the family room listening to classical music and reading the newspaper. I ask him, “Daddy, how come Diane and I don’t get to go on this trip with you?”

Without missing a beat he looks over the top of his paper, replies with a straight face, “Because they don’t allow children in Europe,” and returns to reading his paper.

I pause again to stretch, take a sip of water and then re-read what I’ve written.

There’s so much that’s missing. What have I forgotten?

That by example my dad taught Diane and I the value of dedication, hard work and a strong work ethic.

That my dad was incredibly generous with everyone. You’d go out to dinner with him and at the end of the meal as you’d try to split the check he’d wave his hand at you and say, “I’ve got this. It’s my pleasure.”

That his generosity extended to bigger things and included a commitment to giving back to the community. He and my mom are long-time philanthropists. My dad believed that those who have the means are responsible for supporting the arts and other worthy non-profit organizations. And not for any kind of recognition, but because it’s the right thing to do.

That he wanted his kids to have the things that he didn’t have when he was growing up and he worked hard to provide them for us.

That when my mom was in serious condition in the hospital a number of years ago, my dad said to me, “I think your mom could probably live without me, but I don’t think I can live without her.”

That he was intellectually curious and loved to learn.

That he was gregarious and had a seemingly endless capacity for talking with everyone and anyone. A number of years ago I send Chris with my Dad to Costco to keep him company. Upon their arrival home Chris pulls me aside and says, “Omigod, EVERYONE at Costco knows your dad. And he knows all of them. By name. It took forever to get through there because he talked with EVERYONE.”

That when he really got laughing he would laugh so hard that no sound came out.

That his favorite exclamation was “Holy crow!”

That he always wore a tie to work and his tie collection took up an entire wall in his walk-in closet.

That when they were young and poor, my dad would donate blood so he could take my mom out.

That he was a teeny bit Type A and demanded a certain level of excellence from the other doctors and the nurses with whom he worked.

That nurses were kind of terrified of him.

That he got a great charge out of goosing my mom’s bottom then turning to us with a leering grin to say, “That’s good stuff!”

That he was always a night owl and did the late feedings and diaper changes when Diane and I were babies.

That he LOVED great food.

That he was an awesome grandfather who’d give Esme horsey rides on his knees, have long conversations with her, and make her shriek with laughter by pretending to steal her belly button.  

That one of his greatest passions in life was classical music.

That his greatest passion was teaching.

Earlier this week I took some time to read the many sympathy cards and letters addressed to my mom and our family. All of you had so many wonderful things to say about Dr. Don that it seemed appropriate to end with your words.

 “Dr. Arlinsky was such a gem! We will miss our chats and stories in the front yard. He was so very proud of his family and the life he built here.”

 “Don was always ready with a smile and a joke. He was a generous soul who seemed to welcome everyone he met.”

 “I never saw anything but a smile or an infectious grin on his face, usually before symphony or a concert at Saint Cecilia.”

 “Don was one of a kind and had a tremendous impact on everybody he encountered.”

 “A rush of memories come to me – all filled with Don’s laughter and generous spirit. You were a wonderful team, a dynamic couple and obviously in love. Dr. Don’s spirit will endure through the many people he touched through a lifetime.”

 “We have thought of you and Don often in the last few weeks and especially at the Lincoln Center concert. It was wonderful. It was also a testament to you both as so many enjoy the results of your commitment to these programs. We will never hear another concert that meets that standard without thinking of you both – avid, knowledgeable listeners and spirited critics. We are fortunate that our circles have overlapped with yours.”

 “Don helped so many people over the years. His legacy, however, will live on in how he shaped and molded future generations of physicians. I feel honored and privileged to have been his colleague.”

 “Don was such a fixture of training for so many docs that his medical legacy will last for many many years. I first met Don in 1978. He was kind, sincere and thorough. His sharp wit and ability to penetrate to the heart of an issue always made for insightful conversation and medical learning. His hieroglyphics for handwriting were hilarious and even he couldn’t read them back at times. He was a generous person and in spending a lot of time with him during training, I benefitted from his professional and personal experiences. He repeated what he did for me with literally hundreds of docs in training. Unbelievable devotion! His medical ethics and dedication were legendary. I did not want Don to sit alone during your surgery at Metro. In sitting with him, I asked him to fill me in on the details of his upbringing, deciding to become a doc, meeting you, early practice years, and moving to GR. Such a rich life! His last teaching moment: how to work hard, incredibly hard, dedicate his life and work with medical excellence and balance as much as possible a loving life with you and your family. He was so clearly proud of and devoted to you and your children. He will be missed, but remembered.”

Taking Care of Myself

Silence.

Not something I hear a lot of these days.

But this morning I rise at 5:18 (after hitting the snooze once) and head downstairs to my new toy.

Treadmill.

Thank you Mom and Dad for my birthday/anniversary present. My parents are The Bomb.

For 50 glorious minutes I walk. By myself. No child grabbing my legs demanding attention/milk/snack/playtime. No guilt over not paying attention to my poor husband. No television. No iphone. No solitaire. No landline ringing. No computer. No noise except the clomp clomp clomp of my feet and the whir of the treadmill motor.

50 minutes of solitude and exercise.

In short...50 minutes of taking care of myself.

Something I haven't done much of during my four year stint as a mom. When Esme was an infant, it was easy to throw her in the stroller to take long walks on the bike path or drop her at the day care at the gym. Once she got much more mobile it became much less convenient to get her and me to the gym. And once she refused to sit in the stroller it was no longer possible for me to take long walks outside.

So I stopped.

I focused all of my energy on taking care of my daughter and put absolutely zero energy into taking care of myself. I fed her well. Kept her healthy. But didn't bother doing the same for me and relied on convenience foods because I was often just too darn tired to take the time to make healthy meals.

Consequently...I am fat.

Now, now I hear some of you saying, "No you're not. Don't talk about yourself like that. You're beautiful."

And I thank you for trying to make me feel better, but the truth is that I am fat. According to the scale and the standard Body Mass Index (BMI) numbers I am fat. Not just fat, but obese.

Ugh.

Now, mind you, I'm not the heaviest that I've ever been. Still have quite a ways to go to get to that number. Thank goodness. However, I also have a long way to go to get to what is considered a healthy BMI.

Hence...the new treadmill and getting up pre-dawn to walk.

You might be about to congratulate me for taking this great step forward toward better health, but don't just yet. You see, I've been putting it off this year even after I had a huge health scare in January.

Yep. I was hospitalized. Thought I was having a heart attack. So I had an overnight stay in a luxurious cardiac room at the Naples Community Hospital in FL (did I mention that I was on vacation?) complete with a stress test and nuclear scan of my heart. Thankfully, no heart attack. Instead turns out that I have pretty severe reflux (GERD) and some new medication is taking care of that nicely.

Whew! What a relief.

So, you'd think after that scare that I would have gone right out and bought that treadmill to get going on avoiding a real heart attack, right?

Nope.

Here's the thing...my life, aside from the fact that I'm fat, is pretty awesome most days. I get to hang out with an amazing kid. We play. We go out to lunch. A lot. And we go out to dinner. We get ice cream or frozen yogurt a few times a week. I'm not much of a one for cooking. At all. I really really really like chocolate. A lot.

Basically I kinda like my life the way it is.

So for the last seven months I had been resisting the changes I need to make. Going merrily along ignoring and denying what I know I needed to do.

But the reality is that I can't just hop on a treadmill and expect fantastic results if I don't do the other work of making myself and my family healthy food. And that takes work. Lots and lots of work.

So I didn't do any of it.

Until I had another health scare. Two actually - a pretty serious case of pneumonia and then a cancer scare. Thankfully, the pneumonia resolved and I don't have cancer.

But I do have a great appreciation for the fact that I want to be around for my kid's high school graduation, first big job, wedding, birth of her first kid, etc. I want to be there for her. And I can only do that by giving up my old unhealthy ways and adopting a new lifestyle.

So I have my new treadmill. That's the easy part.

The hard part will be learning a whole new way of eating and really taking care of myself.

But I'm making a start.

So, if you see me chowing down on pizza somewhere feel free to give me the stinkeye because you know that I'm not supposed to be eating that sh*t anymore.

Time to go shower and make myself a healthy breakfast.

Wish me luck.

Domestic Goddess? Yeah, Not So Much...

I am a crappy house keeper.

It's true.

There's no other way to say it.

When I first quit my job to become a stay-at-home-mom I had all these fantasies of finally having the time to really clean my house every week. My home would look like those homes you see in magazines. Clean. Organized. Beautiful.

I'd finally have the time to really learn how to cook. My husband would be so grateful and happy about eating wonderful home cooked meals. Meals I would cook Every. Single. Day. AND I'd pack his lunches. I'd plate everything so it looked like it was cooked in a restaurant. Elegant. Refined. I'd learn to bake homemade bread!

I would do it all!

I would be the next Martha Stewart...only a whole lot nicer. And with a sense of humor.

Yes. I would be a Domestic Goddess!! I would finally have the TIME to do it all.

What I didn't count on was having the time, but not the inclination.

Or the ability.

Here's what I've learned about myself as a stay-at-home-mom:  I don't do well when I have to do the same task over and over and over again.

It's boring. Monotonous. And it drives me crazy.

Quite frankly, if my job as a stay-at-home-mom was an actual JOB for which I received pay, my ass would have been fired long ago. Don't get me wrong, I'm good at the mom part of my SAHM job. My kid is engaged, happy and we have a blast together. I'm good at keeping her happy.

It's the at-home part of my SAHM job at which I suck.

The thing is, when I get on a cleaning tear I do pretty well and I sort of like it. It's nice to see chaos become order and dirty become clean. In a few hours I can have our home - the public areas anyway - looking ship-shape and ready for company.

But the cleaning never lasts. Ever. I just can't seem to MAINTAIN it.

Today I look at the living room with the dirty sippy cup and breakfast dish on the coffee table and four pairs of dirty kid socks strewn on the floor along with 463 toys, two pairs of pajamas, the junk mail that my daughter keeps taking out of the recycling bin, a random box or two, three flashlights (daughter is obsessed with them) and the empty blue bin that is supposed to contain the toys in the living room...It's then I think to myself, "For f*ck sake! Didn't I JUST clean this place like 6 days ago??? And now I have to do it AGAIN???"

It's the "again" part that always ruins it for me.

Again. Again. Always again.

Kind of like laundry.

OMG.

The laundry. How do three people generate so much EFFING laundry??? It just needs to get done again and again and again. It's NEVER EVER done. Ever. Didn't I JUST fold that pair of rainbow stripe kid leggings like yesterday and now they're dirty AGAIN???

And then there's dinner.

Does it have to happen every single night???

I only know how to cook like 4 things. And if I want to cook something new that means finding a new recipe, grocery shopping and then actually cooking something that requires me to focus on the recipe while my daughter hangs on my leg begging for snacks. I can BARELY cook the stuff I KNOW how to cook, but to do a new recipe AND manage my kid??? Not so much.

So instead I usually just make something easy for the kid, grab a bowl of cereal for myself and leave my poor husband to fend for himself

Yeah, my poor husband cooks his own dinner when he gets home from a day of meetings and work stress. Really. I am totally not kidding about this.

He should fire me.


I am NOT a Domestic Goddess.

Martha Stewart, I hate you.

Purple Jacket

Some kids have blankies.

Others have binkies.

Yet others have their thumbs.

And still others have a favorite stuffed animal. A lovey. A snugglie.

My daughter has Purple Jacket.

Not "a" purple jacket.

Not "the" purple jacket.

She has "Purple Jacket."

The amazing thing about Purple Jacket is that he so so much more than a jacket.

Oh yes. He.

Purple Jacket is a "he."

Purple Jacket is my daughter's friend, snugglie, partner in crime and primary source of comfort...absolutely necessary for bedtime for close to two years now and also for anytime that we are just hanging out.  We used let my daughter wear Purple Jacket other places, but now he stays at home because if he were to be lost....

Life. As. We Know. It. Would. Be. Over.

Despite having to stay at home, Purple Jacket apparently leads quite an active life.

A typical morning conversation with my daughter...

ME: How's Purple Jacket this morning?

ESME [shaking her head]: Not good.

ME: Not good? What's wrong with Purple Jacket?

ESME: He had bad dreams. Very bad dreams. He's tired.

ME: Ohhhh. Poor Purple Jacket.

ESME: Poor Purple Jacket. So tired.


And a typical afternoon conversation with my daughter...

ESME [upon walking in the house]: Where is Purple Jacket?

ME: I think he's in the bedroom where you left him.

ESME [flies to her bedroom to retrieve Purple Jacket]

ME [upon her return to the living room]: How is Purple Jacket?

ESME: Good!

ME: He had a good long nap while you were at school?

ESME: No! He had a party!!

ME: Purple Jacket had a party??

ESME: Yeah! On my bed! He had cake and ice cream and tato chips and cake and ice cream and lots of friends. He had a big party!

ME: Wow. That's amazing. Purple Jacket leads quite a life when we're not home.

ESME: Yeah! Amazing!


Recently we've had a bit of a Purple Jacket emergency. When Esme is taking him off, she breaks Purple Jacket's zipper. Now for most kids this wouldn't be a tragedy, but for my daughter...well, one of the main features of Purple Jacket is The Worry Spot....that part at the waist where the two jacket halves comes together and the zipper starts. Purple jacket always has to be zipped so with her fingers Esme can gently "worry" at the fabric and the start of the zipper. And when she is super tired or in need of extra comfort she gently rubs the Worry Spot under her nose. For some inexplicable reason this soothes her and calms her down.

So when the zipper is no longer functional...

And my daughter is distraught at having no Purple Jacket for bedtime and for self-soothing...

Yep.  You bet. I rush him the next day to our lovely seamstress (because I am useless with a sewing machine) and beg her to fix him. Gotta give the woman credit. She looks at this somewhat ratty old fleece jacket, takes in my request to have a new zipper put in, and doesn't bat an eyelash at what is obviously a ridiculous fix.  It takes a week and four times the original cost of the jacket (which I picked up for $4.99 at a re-sale shop), but Purple Jacket is good as new.

Life as we know it is not over.

I'm looking forward to getting home today to see what new adventures Purple Jacket has had while we've been out of the house.

Can I Really Call Myself A Writer?

"What do you do?"

It's what grownups ask each other by way of a greeting because we so often identify ourselves by what we do professionally.

"I'm a stay-at-home-mom," I reply.

And if I'm meeting someone who is not another SAHM, but instead a member of the "working world" that statement is often met with a blank look or a tepid, "Oh, well, that's nice."

So, then I add, "Oh, and I'm also a writer."

At this point the non-SAHM perks up with a, "Oh! Really? What do you write?"

Apparently learning about what I write is more interesting than hearing stories about making snacks, wiping butts, and hanging out with my 3.5 year-old daughter.

"I write a blog and I'm working on my first novel," and then I add with a laugh, "which is languishing in my laptop."

So there it is.

I'm a writer.

Of sorts.

Truth be told I have not worked on my novel in earnest since my daughter arrived in our lives three and a half years ago.

I always knew when I made the choice to stay at home with my daughter that my creative life would take a hit. Raising a kid is hard work. It takes time and energy. When we decided to adopt one of the conditions I laid out to my husband was that we would need to live on his salary. I knew full well that I would not be capable of raising of a small child  and holding down a job outside of the home. And so I left a career in which I had burned out and started my SAHM gig. And for the most part it has been awesome.

Except...

It didn't occur to me that I would not be capable of raising a small child and at the same time having a creative life. That I would stop writing.

But I did.

Only recently have a I resurrected this blog.

And my novel?

Still languishing in this laptop.

Am I really a writer?

I don't know.

Togetherness

"It's a LOT of togetherness," I often hear myself saying in conversation when I'm talking about my life as a stay-at-home-mom.

"A LOT of togetherness."

I wouldn't have it any other way.

But, man, is it ever a lot of togetherness. Oy.

Here's the thing that you aren't supposed to say about being a stay-at-home-mom:

Being a stay-at-home-mom is kind of driving me crazy.

Don't get me wrong...I LOVE my daughter. I love love love love love her. I love her like I've never loved anybody. It's an intense, crazy, deep love that makes me ache when I look at her. How did I get so lucky to be the mom of this amazing person??? When I see her wicked smile and her dimple. Omigod...the dimple. It's the cutest dimple EVER. And I hear her laugh. Pure joy. It fills me up. I know that I am the luckiest mom on the planet. Bar none.

Really.

But then she has one of her spectacular meltdowns. Omigod. The meltdowns. Brutal. For both of us.

Or we get done with swimming lessons at 10:00 a.m. on a Wednesday morning. We get ourselves dressed and I look at the clock to see that it is 10:52. Dear God...WHAT am I going to do with this child for another SEVEN HOURS AND EIGHT MINUTES until we have dinner???

Or the day where we have NOTHING on the schedule and she flat out refuses to go to gymnastics open play or Kidz Wurld indoor play center. 

And the fact that she stopped napping when she wasn't even two and a half years old. What kid stops napping that young???

"Oh, he naps for at least two hours everyday. Most days it's closer to three," a mom I meet at gymnastics open play tells me. Her kid is four and a half.

Four and a half years old and he naps for THREE HOURS???

In my dreams.

Moms hate naps at first because infants take so many of them which makes it hard to schedule your life. But then as life gets crazier when the kid starts becoming more mobile and active, moms come to appreciate and NEED The Nap. The Nap gives moms a break from the togetherness. You use it to clean the house, have a cup of coffee, sleep, or sometimes just sit and relish the quiet.

When my kiddo officially gives up her nap I feel like I might actually have a nervous breakdown.

No napping leads to a LOT of togetherness.

Twelve straight hours of togetherness most days.

Without a break.

Here's something that many people don't know about me: I'm an introvert.

You wouldn't know it about me because I am super chatty, I like to meet new people, and I do like to be out and about. I have decent social skills. I'm not a typical introverted introvert. I'm an extroverted introvert.

But I need alone time.

I need it. Crave it. Have to have it.

Serious quality alone time to recharge my batteries.

Alone time where I have an opportunity to be quiet and creative. When I can make art, write, read, and use my brain in a different way than when I'm in mom mode.

But with twelve hours of togetherness with my three and half year-old daughter...there ain't a lot of quality alone time to recharge. I'm pretty much totally exhausted at the end of every day. So my end of the day alone time isn't quality alone time AT ALL. I collapse in a heap on the couch where I watch television as my body twitches and vibrates because I am over-tired and over-stimulated. Watching television doesn't really help much, but in general I have little brain power for anything else at the end of my day.

Here's the other thing you aren't supposed to say about life as a stay-at-home-mom:

Being with a small child for twelve hours a day is a grind.

It is.

Wiping butts, cleaning up crayon on the walls chasing your kid through the library to get her to stop running and yelling, searching for the same lost toy every single day, watching the same episode of Curious George for the 47th time, keeping your kid entertained and clean and fed and engaged every single day, being the primary educator and disciplinarian every single day. It's. A. Grind.

Please, don't get me wrong...there are SO MANY parts of the day that are also TOTALLY AWESOME. I love watching my kid running and jumping and walking the balance beam at gymnastics open play time. And our couch tickle fights are spectacularly fun. Hearing her whoop with excitement when she hears the theme music for her favorite cooking show, The Pioneer Woman. Listening to her tell her hundreds of stories everyday is the stuff that makes life with her the best. Watching the wheels in her brain turn and seeing her learn something new. Completely awesome and amazing.

However, it's a lot.

A lot. A lot. A lot. A lot of work. A lot of togetherness with no break.

And I know...this is MY choice to stay at home with her. Please, no one needs to remind me. I chose this life. I choose this life everyday even when I think I might have a nervous breakdown because of it. I choose to be the person who raises my daughter.  I choose the grind. And I am SO LUCKY that I have that choice. That my husband earns enough to keep us in house and home so that I can spend twelve hours a day with our kid. That my husband is OK with me "opting out" of the work force to be a "SAHM." I KNOW that I am lucky.

Really. I do.

But, man, it's still a LOT of togetherness.

No Comfort

"I DON'T WANT YOU!" my three and a half year-old daughter roars, fists clenched at her sides, body rigid, tears and snot coating her face.

"I DON'T WANT YOU!" she roars again mid-meltdown then jumps up and down screaming at the top of her lungs.

I hardly recognize this enraged little person. 95% of the time my kid is joyful, happy, hilarious, and extremely kind.

But that other 5% of the time.

Meltdowns.

Spectacular, epic, blow-the-roof-off meltdowns.

Filled with rage.

In the midst of these spectacular epic meltdowns my normally super affectionate, loving, huggy girl directs all of her rage at me.

"What can I do for you?" I ask her in my calmest voice. "What can I do for you?"

"NOTHING! GET AWAY FROM ME!" she shrieks, body still rigid, fists still clenched and eyes now closed as if the very sight of me is just too much to bear.

She rejects my attempts to comfort her.

She rejects me with every fiber of her being.

Sometimes her meltdowns last for just a few minutes, but on occasion she can rage for close to an hour. It is so awful to witness her fury and her suffering as huge emotions overtake her.

If I'm honest with myself, it's also extremely painful to have all of that rage directed at me.

It's especially painful because I secretly worry that she rejects me in this way because I'm not her birth mother, K.

Is there some deep part of her that understands that I am not the woman who gave birth to her? Does she subconsciously want K and thus rejects me?

When she screams "I DON'T WANT YOU!" I secretly panic that she will always reject me because somehow I'm not her "real" mother.

I wonder and worry, if K were raising her would Esme just collapse in K's arms and allow herself to be hugged and comforted? Would she let K do that for her when she won't let me? Will she ever let me comfort her through a meltdown?

"I don't want you," Esme says again breathing hard, but she is running out of steam.

"What can I do for you?" I ask again.

"Nothing," she snuffles then walks to the couch where she seizes her beloved purple fleece jacket. She takes her "worry spot" (the bottom front where the zipper comes together) and gently rubs it under her nose. Her preferred method of self-soothing.

I take a step toward her and ask gently, "Can I give you a hug now?"

"Not yet," she says hiccuping, a few tears still rolling down her cheeks.

"OK, I'll come back and check on you in a few minutes."

I walk into the kitchen where I sag against the counter exhausted and hurt, trying and failing to not take it personally. Trying and failing to be confident in my role as Esme's "real" mom.

Wondering and worrying.

A few minutes later I return to the living room to sit down near her on the couch. "Can I give you a hug now?"

She shakes her head, but she moves closer to me and we sit together, not quite touching, in silence for a long time.