Itch. Scratch. Worry. Repeat.

For a week, Elle's been complaining of being itchy. It started a few weeks ago, actually, with a bottle of cotton candy scented body wash. I thought that was the culprit originally. I was wrong. She would still complain of being itchy even when she hadn't used the body wash. And to quell the complaining, I drugged her with Benadryl to "either make you stop itching or make you fall asleep. Win-Win!"

Elle was awake until 10:30 last night (against my wishes as I'd been in a meeting from 6-9pm and specifically instructed my mother to have Elle in bed, under the covers, by 9pm. Yeah, right.) I got home around 9:30 and tried to make a sandwich for nearly 45 minutes (I hadn't had dinner yet).

"I'm all itchy!!!!!" Whiiiiine...Oh, god I hate whine.

(I sound like such a horrible parent, mocking my child who is obviously experiencing some discomfort, but seriously - I believe if you feed a child's ridiculous claims with honest-to-goodness attention that the ridiculous claims will never go away and the whine will never stop.)

But suddenly there were welts. What the hell?

"Stop scratching!"
"I can't!!!"

That's not imaginary. Now I wonder, where did they come from?

There is only one answer (and no, I haven't consulted a doctor yet but I will when we're both out of work/school for Christmas break - I'd like to find out if I'm right!)

Stress.

Yes...stress. My kid is stressed.

Mostly because her dumbass father explained the events of September 11th as follows:

"There is a war going on in another country because the American soldiers chose to fight over there instead of fighting over here. If the snipers get over here, they'll try to take you from your bedroom and make you one of them. They tried to get into America once before and they killed alot of people that day. They'll try it again."
~~~ obviously, not word for word but you get the idea.

Thank you, ASSHAT. Ahem...I mean, Mr. Dumas. So now instead of worrying about the standard Monster-In-My-Closet mystery, she is also on the lookout for Al-Qaeda terrorists roaming the Oceanway community in the city of Jacksonville, looking to snatch little girls and whisk them away to Iraq.

So, yeah - my kid worries about "snipers" coming to take her away and fluff off into another country with her to make her "one of them". I had to explain to her how safe our neighborhood is because of all the cops who live here. I swear, on my block alone there have got to be four or five. And let's not forget about the Angry Marine who lives around the corner. He is humongo and angry that his deployment is over. He looks forward to returning to the land of terrorism and kicking terrorists' bums. But, back to the cops. They're every-freakin'-where in this neighborhood.

"Even Papa was a cop once, Elle. He knows how to protect us."
"Yeah, but really he's just a security guard now."

Uh...okay, you got me there. But have him tell you about the time he tackled a foreign country's Prime Minister to the ground because Papa thought the PM was the bad guy. See, Papa would be willing to take down a world leader in the name of America's security. Imagine what he'd do to keep his grandchild safe.

But, anyway, this whole "worry" business is a family thing. We are reallllly good at it, too! I once worried so badly that I stopped breathing and passed out!! My mother used to worry so badly that she'd throw up!! Our new family symptom: HIVES.

I have passed the gene to my daughter. You, dear Elle, are one lucky, lucky girl. Welcome to a life of tummy aches, social awkwardness, lightheadedness, and an overall feeling of discomfort. 24/7!! And like I said, Nana and I are the Queens of Worry and we know all the tricks to making your brain stop worrying. Ask us, we'll share our tricks. Nothing is too "silly", as you say, to worry about. Because when you're a worrier, everything matters...nothing is silly because it's all too real.

Hives, huh? That's a humdinger. I think I'd rather pass out.

The Rejects

There's only so much fun to be had in the rain when a car accident on the Dames Point bridge halts traffic. After about 10 minutes of cursing at drivers who use the right lane to pass stopped traffic (and subsequently making fun of them when nobody lets them in), I was stumped by a Kid Question.

Elle wanted to know:
a)more about Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer and,
b)more specifically, if he had brothers or sisters and
c)if so, why Rudolph was deemed The Chosen One.

"Well, would you want some reindeer named Gluedolph in charge? I mean, he has to glue his nose on and sometimes it doesn't stick. He's completely unreliable."

So, in no particular order (except probably alphabetically, because I can't remember all of them), Elle and I would like to introduce to you Rudolph's brothers and sisters:

Bluedolph: He's, uh...well, he's blue.
Cluedolph: Now a detective with the North Pole Police Department.
Doodolph: I think the name says it all.
Goodolph: A total drip.
Whodolph: Who? Yeah, exactly.
Jewdolph: The convert.
Loodolph: Spend most of his time in the loo.
Boodolph: Obviously, he scares the children by peeping in windows, as shown in the picture below:

Moodolph: An adopted sibling who is not like the others. Moooo!
Newdolph: Oh, this one will throw you off because he's not the newest member. That title goes to...
Brand Newdolph: The brand newest member of the family.
Poodolph: Has a close relationship with Doodolph and Loodolph.
Suedolph: Works with Cluedolph.
Twodolph: The conjoined twins.
Woodolph: Enjoys going to concerts, bars, graduation parties, etc...and screaming Woo!!!
Zoodolph: He's locked up, thanks to Cluedolph and Suedolph.
Choodolph: A train conductor on the Polar Express.
Shoedolph: Running out of closet space.
Achoodolph: stays home from school alot with...
Fludolph: Ick. And...
Spewdolph: Ickier.

And my personal favorite:

Kung Fudolph: He's one bad ass reindeer.

(I totally high-fived Elle after that one. My kid, she's clever)

How I turned someone's home into an even BIGGER castle!

"Nothing will turn a man's home into a castle more quickly and effectively than a dachshund."-Queen Victoria

My neighbors across the street have three dachshunds, all black and tans. There's Milo, Trixie, and the new addition, Sookie. They bark alot and they get loose alot. It's not uncommon to see the three of them raising hell in the 'hood - traveling the paved circular street like a gang of mini-thugs.

I wasn't entirely surprised to hear little doggie nails scrapping up my driveway when I pulled in after work tonight. I thought it was my dachshund, Jack. I turned around to see not my own Piebald doxie, but a little male mini black and tan.

"Oh, Milo! You got out again? Where are you sisters?"

He didn't answer me.

I had all of my stuff from work in my arms - a huge tote bag, my lunch bag, my jacket, my purse, my Vanilla Coke - and Elle had her arms full with her bookbag and jacket and a drawing she was working on. But instead of putting our things away, I decided we could just walk Milo home and have a good chuckle with Brenda (the neighbor) about her dogs and how I surprisingly was able to wrangle this one home without having to grab him in a chokehold. When the three of them are running the streets together, they're impossible to catch. Tonight was too easy. I was only responsible for the one.

Ding-Dong!

Elle and I stood on Brenda's porch with Milo and waited. And waited. And waited. Nobody answered the door.

"Elle, hit the doorbell again."

Ding-Dong!

"Milo, where's your mother? And are the other two running around, too? Goodness, where is everyone?"

Milo, at this point, got very cuddly with me. Like a cat, he started rubbing on my leg, begging for physical contact and dying for some cuddles. I knelt down, put my bags on the porch, and rubbed his back. Poor little guy - who knows how long he had been loose! He enjoyed the cuddles and he even propped his little front paws on my leg.

Elle cooed. I just melted.

It was obvious nobody was home. Jack would never allow me to bring in Milo, even just to babysit until Brenda made it home from work. But I decided to try to get into the backyard - I wasn't about to break down the fence, but this dog is a mini and could probably fit through the slats. Elle and I moved around to the side of the house, jiggled the gate, and I was able to walk Milo into his yard where I happened upon two other dachshunds. I was relieved to find the other two safely at home and not running amok. They seemed to be happy to see Milo, too. One of them even went straight for Milo, very happy-like, and the two dogs ended up in a friendly wrestling match.

There. Problem solved.

I finally walked into my own house and started putting my things away, all the while I relayed to my family how I had come across this lone dachshund and had to put Milo back in his yard for the umpteenth time. What a cuddly puppy, so well-behaved! Then it hit me...

Oh, shit.

Milo is NOT a mini dachshund.

RING-RING (damn, voicemail):

"Hi, Brenda. It's Dena from across the street. Um, I found a dachshund in my front yard when I got home from work tonight. It was about 5:45. Anyway, I tried your doorbell and nobody answered, but I was able to open your back gate and put the dachshund in the yard. I really hope it's yours. The other dogs seemed to be okay with him. So call me back if there's a problem. Oh, my goodness - I hope it's yours."

Maybe Sookie is a boy. I truly hope Sookie is a boy. And if Sookie is not a boy, well, then...so sorry, Brenda.

"We just thought you were okay."

Tonight my mother and I had a discussion about our family and our two families. Our two families that live under this one roof. We talked about how she never imagined having to consider what her life with be like with two adult children still living at home, one of whom has a child. Or of how difficult it would be to live in the same home with her granddaughter, never expecting that this is how it would be. Mom and I have butted heads many times, usually over her expectations of how I would raise my child. Proud of herself when she sees me use some of her parenting tools and offended at times, even hurt, when I argue that something she did to me as a child made me feel awful and I vowed to never do that with my own daughter. I think all of us, when faced with the real possibilty of parenthood, flash back to a moment or an emotion in our childhoods that had such a lasting impact on our self-esteem, self-acceptance, or any other measurement of our own self-worth, that we shudder at the thought of making our own child live that same awfulness or awkwardness or whatever you have flashed back to.

Our conversation tonight led to some openings of sorts, some insights into each other's worlds and why we choose to parent our children the way we do. There were no parenting books involved in our decisions that led us down two different parenting paths. It was pretty much simple observations and how what we lacked during our childhoods was what we wanted to provide the most of in our children's lives.

My mother, as a child, lacked stability. I can't get into any more detail than that. However, those exact details are what drove her to provide for her three children the way she did: we had clean clothes, clean beds, three meals a day, discipline, hugs, and the basic comforts of daily life. We never thought we were missing anything. She did everything she could for us. She still does.

But there is one thing she feels she didn't have with me and that's a close relationship similar to the one I have with my own daughter. I don't tend to beat around the bush often, but I had to tread these waters carefully because, in no way, shape, or form, did I want my mother to feel like any blame has been pushed onto her for our lack of communication during my teenage years. As a toddler and elementary school-aged kid, I was a pain in the ass. It took until the age of eight to actually detach myself from her leg and learn to function as my own person. From that point on, she was lost to me.

When I was a teenager, our family struggled for a few years with a number of issues, mostly because of us kids. Again, I refuse to go into further detail, but my youngest brother had overwhelmingly won the "Hey, ALL EYES ON ME!" contest around the same time my oldest brother up and joined the Air Force. I soon became stricken with Middle Child Syndrome and did what any other mopey teenager would have done - I pretended there was nothing wrong. It was too late for me, though. Depression had kicked in and was accompanied by its dirty little friend, Anxiety. Except I didn't know what was wrong, I just knew that I hated it. And I hated me.

On my own, I fought through it. My emotional outbursts were blamed on my teenage hormones and the ever popular 1992 version of angst. I spent alot of time in my room and I spent alot of nights awake. Insomnia got into my bloodstream and created even more frustration in me. I sought out a diagnosis and, eventually, a support group, on my own. I started having difficulty just leaving my house. I'd had a gun pulled on me in my own backyard and I was convinced that someone was out to kill me. The mail could wait to be picked up - I wasn't going out there in that big, scary world! I skipped so much school, but enough to pass, and I remember my mother saying, "I don't care what you do anymore. I just don't want them to call me about it." And I had nobody to tell. Or so I thought. My folks didn't seem to be worried about me. As a pissed off teenager, I took that to mean, "They don't care."

And this is what I use to drive my parenting choices.

My mother pointed out how close Elle and I actually are. And it's true, we are very close. Our relationship is all I have to hold on to right now, while she still trusts me and values my opinion. This kid is a true individual, so I don't have to be too concerned about her losing herself completely even though I do admit she's a worrier with some social anxiety. I try to encourage her to be different, to be herself, to be as goofy as she wants to be so she will never feel like she's not enough for me. Or for anyone else. The geeks run the world and everyone looks back fondly on the "weird" kid and wishes they'd had the balls to be their own person back then, too. I have to convince her that it's okay to stand up to her father when he insults her or makes her feel like she's a disappointment. It's my job as her mother to make her feel safe and secure in this world. To make sure she knows that I DO CARE.

Mom: "You never told us you had these problems. We just thought you were okay."
Me: "You never asked. And I wasn't okay."

I still believe my mother had too much on her plate when I was a teenager (my father was in the military and not home too often) and, to be honest, my antics were kept quiet for the most part and I got away with alot. Until just a few years ago, I was convinced that if they'd paid more attention to me, my parents would have been able to just know that I was not in a good place, mentally and emotionally. I shouldn't have to tell them. Believe me, I know better now.

Amazingly, there were no tears and no accusations - just realizations. This is why this...this is why that...and so on. It explains why I like to bake with and take road trips with my daughter - because spending time with her is what makes her continue to trust me, to know I'll always be there. It also explains why cleaning my room has never been a priority. That was my mother's concern, to keep things clean and orderly.

That is her definition of a safe and secure childhood, for us. Mine is just different.

Fortunately and Unfortunately

It's beginning to feel alot like winter here in Florida. Our version of winter, at least. The dullness tends to stick around all day and wraps the whole city in a blanket of gray. The air is chilled and moist, sunset happens before dinner, steam rises from the sun-warmed ponds and puddles, hot chocolate becomes a staple in the pantry, and my flip-flops are restricted to indoor use only. It's like North Florida goes into a hibernation of sorts. Life, in general, seems to slow down.

And I don't normally react to the change so agreeably.

For some reason, this year is different. I'm taking this punch of cold air with a bit more enthusiasm than usual. I am finding myself quite contented to huddle on the couch in my Winthrop University hoodie, laptop at the ready, with a big cup of hot tea and honey. At bedtime, I sleep with the window cracked to let in the cool air and I turn the heating pad to low before I slide it under my blankets. It only takes a few minutes to warm up the exact spot where I'll eventually fall sleep.

Most of the lights are off and have been replaced by the comforting glow of candles all around my house. At this moment, French Vanilla is in the living room, Almond Cookie is in the kitchen, Cinnamon Apple is in the main bath, and Apple & Warm Caramel is in my bedroom. I love the warm glimmering of candlelight. It just makes everything, well...warm. Needless to say, I have a newly discovered aversion to lights. I'll tolerate lamplight, but I prefer my Lemon Cake & Vanilla candle over the blinding glare of a stale 60-watt bulb. It smells better, too.

I'm simply shocked. Early in the fall season, I submissively accepted summer's end, although I had no idea what was happening to me at the time. My instincts to bake kicked in and since the beginning of September I've been fulfilling myself with cookies and cakes, much to the enjoyment of my We-can't-eat-that,-we're-on-a-diet family. Actually, it's more like my If-you-bake-it,-we'll-eat-it family. Nothing gets wasted in this house.

However, winter in North Florida doesn't last very long. I say However only because I can't decide between Fortunately and Unfortunately. I'm enjoying this weather but I'm not in love with it. Because, deep down inside, I truly believe there is no such thing as too much summer.

Oh, that's just laughable.