Growing Up

I was four years old hiding in my mom's closet, covering my ears from the relentless yelling and pounding. My older sister holding me tight singing "Jesus Loves Me" into my ear so I wouldn't hear the horrific sounds coming from our living room. The sounds of our father beating our mother as she pleaded for her life. Despite my sister's best efforts I heard it all, I remember it all, and when I close my eyes now I can place my 30-something year old self back into that little four-year-old body. My childhood was stolen from me due to witnessing domestic violence on a regular basis. My father was an alcoholic. And when he drank he abused my mother. They married young then had my sister...

Ahhh, the four-year-old, an interesting creature of nature caught between the toddler years and becoming a big kid. The year of being four is, fun yet frustrating. Four-year-olds have the interesting ability to make your life blissfully happy as they no longer rely on you EVERY SINGLE MINUTE, and they can frustrate the heck out of you with their 7000 daily questions. Being four can be downright tough; you're no longer doted on as you were as a baby and you still have to answer "No" when everyone asks "Are you in kindergarten yet?" Four-year-olds are FUN! The independence of a four-year-old makes life easy breezy for us parents. You can pick up and go almost anywhere with confidence now that...

Y'all, I have dreaded potty training ever since I realized that potty training boot camp was a thing. I kept looking at weekends on the calendar that I could take an extra day off work or there was a built in Monday holiday HOPING for a long weekend that might coincide with a weekend that my toddler might be ready to potty train. A good weekend never became evident. Then my son's play school teacher mentioned that they have been sitting on the potty but that my son wasn't doing anything. A few weeks later, Miss Becca (names have been changed to protect the innocent) said that my squirt had pooped on the potty twice. She said to bring underwear...

“Mommy can I help?” These are the words I hear from my three-year-old almost daily. As preschoolers, they always want to help. But “help” is a loose interpretation isn’t it? When a little person tries to pour her own drink or help fold the clothes, help is the last thing it feels like. At best, it will take an eternity. At worst, it will make more mess and more work. I admit that I have often been that mom who replies, “Not this time; let Mommy do it.” Especially when we are trying to get ourselves out the door. Waiting for a three-year-old to put on her own shoes at that moment is its own kind of torture. I know...

My son has absolutely no loyalty when it comes to his loveys. As a Louisiana transplant, I was unfamiliar as to what a lovey even was. I suppose the proper definition of the word is a toy or item that a child or person hauls around/snuggles with for security or comfort reasons. As I stated previously, in my son's six years he does not a have a favorite. However, when he does choose a particular item, he decides to sneak it under the covers during bedtime.  His loveys have ranged from lunch boxes to Pokémon cards to random articles of clothing to the classic stuffed animal. I really only draw the line at things he can roll over on while sleeping and...