More volatile than the stock market

There was a little girl,
Who had a little curl,
Right in the middle of her forehead.

When she was good,

She was very good indeed,

But when she was bad she was horrid.
--Longfellow

The range of Eowyn's mood swings has been taking its toll on me. It's been difficult to keep perspective on it. On days when she wakes up from her nap cheerful and easygoing, all is right with the world and I feel blissfully happy to be a mother. We laugh and sing while we pretend with her baby dolls, read books, and play on the swings. I cook dinner without incident while she pretends to cook, too.

But--it feels more often than not--other days she wakes up in a delicate temper. Tickling might make her scowl, or she'll throw her books in frustration. She cries to be in her swing, then cries to be out. She clings, screaming, to my leg as I attempt to provide our dinner. She clamors to be held, then protests to be put down again. Those days, I count the minutes until her bedtime, when I can have respite from the emotional energy it takes to handle her.

After she's in bed (and often through the long afternoon) the self-doubt and finger-pointing begin. What am I doing wrong as a mother, that she is like this? Why can't Christian be home before 8:00 to help me? Is it because he just doesn't care enough about us? The evening often plays out with fits of crying and venting of anger and frustration on an unsuspecting husband.

At this moment, I can see clearly the ridiculousness of the situation. Eowyn is like a prairie field, covered in bright sunlight one minute, the next minute tossed by a tempest which leaves as quickly as it came. But when I'm in the middle of the storm, it is just so difficult for me to remember that there is ever a beginning or an end to it.

I'm praying for perspective and grace.

One of the reasons I'm looking forward to Christmas

In these pictures, Eowyn is playing at the stove, complete with oven mitt. She has become very intent on pretend play, and can occupy herself with such play for long stretches of time. This is quite remarkable, from my perspective as a mom who had taken her daughter for a mini-shadow. I'm excited for Christmas, as I'm hoping to give her a play kitchen and perhaps a little grocery cart she can push (you may notice in the background a laundry basket--it has various objects inside--because she loves to push her toys around the house).

In the bottom picture you may also notice that Eowyn's face is in less than pristine condition. Over the course of a week, she fell into the corner of the coffee table, tripped and splat on the sidewalk twice, and antagonized Rizzo into snapping at her cheek. Her face is now the worse for wear.

A dog's life

Poor, poor Rizzo. Since the birth of Eowyn, she has moved far down the totem pole of my attention and affection. And as she ages, she has grown more...incontinent. Let's just say I'm looking forward to a time when I can have rugs in the house without them getting peed all over. When I can lay a clean bath mat on the floor, reach to grab a towel, and turn back without discovering fresh pee on it. When the smell of dog urine doesn't threaten to assail my nostrils at unexpected moments.

I used to be quite the dog person. I could identify many of the different breeds, and even what kind of breed it was--toy dog, working dog, etc. Rizzo herself was treated tantamount to my own offspring.

The night Eowyn came home, that all changed. Rizzo's spot by my side in the bed was forfeited without mercy, since Eowyn slept best those first few months by nursing in bed at night. So often ignored or pushed away, Rizzo ceased following me from room to room or curling up next to me on the couch.

I can see, intellectually, that this is sad, yet I'm not sad about it. My love for Eowyn and the priority of her needs are just so much greater to me. Rizzo is now a creature to be tolerated, cared for adequately, and shown moderate affection when I'm not too tired to do so.

Christian, or course, thinks this is monstrous. Rizzo will always be the original princess to him.

Her spot in the sun grows smaller

And they call it a "game"

Perhaps you've seen Penny Arcade's comic on the subject. Apparently, Mega Man 9 has an old-school draw that I simply can't relate to. I can understand the nostalgic pull of Mario, of course, and ancient RPG's make me feel warm and fuzzy inside. Heck, I even get the pull of Kirby and Sonic. But Mega Man was not a game I ever witnessed as I peeked around the doorjamb to watch my brother play (if he caught me watching him play video games, he'd beat me up, since he sought to extinguish any bit of my happiness that he could). It was not a game I played myself.

Christian recently downloaded it on the Wii, and is enjoying it immensely, or so he assures me. At first glance, it seems to me to be a cross between Metroid and Mario, but far more difficult and far less forgiving. I sit by him and watch as he dies over and over. Much sighing and cursing can be heard. Rows of spikes, which inflict death at a mere touch, loom everywhere. Gaping holes of death must be crossed via blocks that appear and reappear according to some infernal pattern. Checkpoints, and extra lives, are few and far between. When you die, you must start all the way back at the beginning.

In order to progress, you must memorize the layout of each level with agonizing precision, from the firing patterns of the enemies to the timing of the swinging platforms. If you manage to make it to a checkpoint, you likely have only one life left, meaning you will very soon be going back to the beginning again. Progression, as you may guess, is maddeningly slow, especially compared the quick pace of most current-gen fare.

Clearly, there's an appeal to this game that I'm missing. If I'm playing a game, it's for escapism and stress-relief. This game would have me pull out my hair in frustration. It's the kind of game I expect to be forced to play as punishment in a POW camp. "And you're sure you're having fun, Christian?" I ask repeatedly. "Definitely!" he replies immediately.

Parting is such sweet sorrow

The weekend before last, I attended the UPC women's retreat. This was my first time away from Eowyn overnight, and I was struck by a surprising sadness in the days leading up to the retreat. I was startled to realize just how much I would miss her, and how much I worried whether Christian would feed her well, change her diaper enough, pay her enough attention and get her to sleep without too much trouble. I cried a fair amount! When it came time to leave, I choked up again. Fortunately, gabbing with the other girls in the carpool helped distract me quickly.

I was under the misconception I would get more sleep while on the retreat. Instead, I struggled with a bout of insomnia and found myself listening for Eowyn's cry in my sleep even though she was nowhere near. Still, spending time away, completely free of responsibility for her, was quite nice. Chatting with other adult women without distractions was amazingly refreshing.

As it turns out, Eowyn survived just fine without me. I'm not as indispensable as I believed. She ate and slept peachy for Christian. She didn't mope or otherwise appear to notice much that I was gone. And that's...really...great...hmph.

A guest post

Since my mom writes about me so frequently, I thought I should take the time to share a little bit about myself, too. First off, there's my name, Eowyn. I'm cool with it. My mom and dad mostly use it when they want me to quit wandering off into the neighbor's yard. I usually take it as a signal to run faster. Otherwise, mom calls me 'baby', though she often uses 'sweetie' in a strange, strained manner, as in, 'oh, sweetie, please don't dump your milk on the floor!' Now, dad calls me 'sunshine' in the morning, even when I'm screaming and refusing to get my diaper changed. Dad's great!

washing my face with lots of soap

I would say that my greatest talent is creating incredible messes. My favorite media for these creations are cereal, copious amounts of water, soap, sometimes even my own pee. My common activities include yelling at the top of my lungs just because I can, refusing to eat food that I wolfed down eagerly the day before, and pooping when I really ought to be napping. I love to try and dress myself, though I must admit that I often get so angry at my pants I start screaming. Those things just won't cooperate!

attack of the pants

I love to read books with Mom and play in the sink. I like to pretend to cook things, and I like to use my crayons to write on things I shouldn't. My favorite words are 'uh oh' and 'oh no.' Dancing is another favorite activity. I like to change stations on the radio until I find music I like, and I insist that Mom dance along with me. Hey, it's good exercise, and just plain fun!

Fashionista

Having just stepped out of the bath, Eowyn models this fall's newest fashion trend (an EB original, of course). She calls it, 'Mother's shirt worn sideways. Sort of.' Get in on this style before it's soooo 5-minutes-ago!

Dressing is a new favorite realm of discovery, as you can see.