Swimming Lessons

Because my two year old LOVES the water, I decided to put him in swimming lessons.  We’re on day 4 and so far it hasn’t been going too well.  The very first day, for the first 15 minutes, he enjoyed himself.  The smiles wouldn’t leave his face…but then something changed.  I don’t know what changed, but whatever it was has been making him cry every day since.


First day of swimming lessons and oh, the excitement………..

I thought we made a breakthrough Wednesday when he calmed down, stopped crying, and actually floated on his back for a few seconds, but no.  No.  Yesterday he threw up in the pool.  Twice.

Today we will try the baby pool instead of the Olympic (maybe) sized public pool in our town.  He liked the baby pool…hopefully he still does…


I Not!!

It keeps echoing through my head.  He was standing there, by the TV, refusing to go sit down.  Refusing so hard that it lead to tears, high pitches, and raised inflection.  It was the most precious thing.  It was our first two way conversation.

“…ree, foh…”

And I stopped him there with my joyous shouts of encouragement. I was conditioning myself for future handstands and all-around body improvement by doing a few sets of push-ups when I heard him counting them out for me.

It’s a thing of wonderment, hearing him talk. It’s not often I can recognize his words, but when I do, I am amazed. He’s always jabbering on about something and I have no clue as to what he’s saying, but I do pay attention and try to figure it out. He sees my effort, my eye contact, and he knows I’m listening, which, in the end, is what I believe is most important.

“I’m here for you, my love.  Just talk to me.”

Just because we can’t understand him, it doesn’t mean he can’t understand us. Also, it doesn’t mean that he’s not learning. He understands and knows way more than what we give him credit for. I was so surprised to hear him count…so surprised.


People, pt. 1: Expectations

Motherhood.  It’s been exhausting.  I expected that.

What I didn’t expect was the amount of time I’ve spent defending myself, my choices, and doing it repeatedly.

When a woman’s egg starts developing within her body, that developing egg is hers.  And I guess the sperm has a matter in the say as well, but that’s not this story.  That little egg was mine.  All mine.  I housed it, it grew within me, I was its vessel of life, for life.  It’s mine, and as long as I’m not hurting it, I don’t expect people to intervene.  I wouldn’t intervene with someone else’s child unless I was asked or saw a reason to.  I get it.  I thought everyone else got it, too.  If a woman cannot have her child to herself, then there’s absolutely nothing she can have, and I didn’t expect everyone’s opinion to chip away at my ownership over my son.

If someone asks me to mop their floors with vinegar and water, I’m not gonna use bleach.  I respect other people’s belongings, even their fucking floors so, why can’t they respect me as a mother and not feed my kid a fucking cupcake?  It’s all very irrational.  (No one fed my kid a cupcake, nor did I mop anyone’s floor, but the point is there.)

Opinions are thrown at about me about his hair, his not talking, his bare feet, his being outside, his playing in the rain, his food, his sleeping habits, his schedule…Opinions, not advice.  Criticisms, not advice.  Crude comments, not advice.

I expected different.  I don’t know why.  I really should’ve known better.

Greyson June 15.jpg

18 month old Greyson, just being a boy, just being a kid.