Zoe vs. the NYC Marathon

I loves me some marathons. The physical and mental challenge, the human body pushed to the edge of endurance, the runner's high and the sense of achievement.

It's why I enjoy watching them on TV.

What? Oh, you thought I was talking about running in one myself. What a silly blog reader!

She needs a bucket for
more than her list.

I actually used to run track and cross country in school, but I've never run a marathon, and it certainly did not make my bucket list. TV-show-watching marathons are more my style---Dexter, Breaking Bad. But I also like to watch actual marathons. Ironman Triathlons too.

The Husband, a sports fanatic who even wrote a sports blog for a few years (And a Player to Be Named Later) before Zoe broke him, doesn't get it. He finds running itself to be boring and says watching someone else run is akin to watching paint dry.

I participated in an Iron Man Triathlon.
All three movies in a row. Exhausting.

Anyway, this past Sunday was the NYC Marathon. When Zoe was born I had this idea that we'd make going to the marathon a family tradition, and since then I'd been waiting for her to be old enough to enjoy it. We live at the foot of the Verrazano Bridge in Brooklyn and as long as we've been here I've gone to watch the race and cheer the runners. It's a very festive atmosphere: There's a band and people from different countries all waving their flags. Plus, some of the runners are in costume.

At Zoe's first marathon she was just a few months old, so it was a bit lost on her. The second time she was still too young, but as I told her on Saturday night, her aunt had participated in that one and we'd brought her to watch though she probably didn't remember. Last year, the marathon was cancelled because of Hurricane Sandy. So I was pretty excited this year and tried to infect Zoe with my enthusiasm.

I started priming her a few days before. On Sunday morning, I turned on the TV for the start of the race and told her the runners were lining up to go over the bridge, the same bridge she'd pointed at the day before in the park. All those people would be running over it and when they got to the other side, we were going to see them.

She seemed to be catching some of my energy so, feeling hopeful, I strapped her into the stroller and away we went. Meanwhile The Husband stayed behind to watch the pre-pre-pre-game stuff on ESPN, to me, the equivalent of watching another person watch paint dry.

On the way neighbors asked Zoe if she was going to see the marathon and she said, "Yes." As we got closer we could see the runners and hear the band playing and people cheering. I glanced at her face to gauge her response but her expression remained impassive. At the corner, I rolled her right up to the tape separating the spectators from the runners, and before you could say Meb Keflezighi, Zoe said, "I wanna go home."

Me: "I thought you wanted to see the race." 

Mebrahtom "Meb" Keflezighi.
He ran a mile for each letter of his name;
the last 4 he ran for free.

Zoe: "Yes"

Me: "Well, this is the race."

Zoe: "No."

Me : . . .

Zoe: "I want to go to the other race."

Me (reasonable): "There is no other race."

Zoe: "Other race!"

And she pointed back the way we had come.

Okay, I figured it was cold and she hadn't eaten much breakfast, so we'd go get some tea for me and a doughnut for her (and maybe, just maybe, I'd have some of it too), and then we'd walk a bit and circle back to the race as if there were two citywide marathons occurring that day and this was that other one.

At the coffee shop we ran into one of her daycare friends who was with her parents. This little girl was not in a stroller and yet she remained at her parents' sides (!). I'd never seen such a thing.  I have a dim recollection of such behavior being called obedience. Clearly her parents trusted that she would not run out into the street and trip the runners. Astonishing!

Zoe told the girl and her parents that we were going to the other race. The little girl looked at me for confirmation. I signaled desperately with my eyes that she should go along with it.

Then we got my Zoe's doughnut, said goodbye, and headed down the block. I walked for a bit and then turned back toward the race. This time when we rolled up to the tape she didn't make a fuss, probably owing to the glazed doughnut that I had cunningly just presented to her. But also owing to the runner dressed as Elmo, the dog on our left who was jumping up and down, and the two little girls on our right who were stretching out their hands to high-five the runners as they passed.

The idea was that his energy wouldn't drag.

However, a doughnut only lasts so long, especially in Mommy's vicinity. Glazed goodness dispatched, Zoe looked at her sticky hands and then told me she wanted to get out. Because I have yet to learn, I unbuckled her, warning her to stay on this side of the tape, emphasizing on the curb, reminding her that she's not allowed in the street unless she's holding Mommy or Daddy's hand.

The testing began.

First, she fingered the tape. Then she pushed on it, glancing back to see my reaction. I shook my head. But I could see the mad desire growing in her eyes. She stared directly into my soul and inched a toe off the curb. And who knows what mayhem would have ensued for she was suddenly overcome with hiccups, probably due to the gulping down of the doughnut combined with all the air she needed to support her whining. Then she peed herself. After which she turned to me and said two things:

Trent could be such a martyr
sometimes about exercising.

1: "I'm wet."

2: "I want to go to the other race."

Sighing, I led her away, deciding to let Zoe walk her wet butt home.

Did I say walk?

I meant run.

Apparently this was the other race Zoe had been referring to all along, the one where she ran next to Mommy and the stroller, laughter interspersed with hiccups the whole way. 

Guess we'll try again next year, when it will most assuredly be "another race."

Zoe: 20; Universe: 0

Zoe vs. Picture Day

"I don't want to be pretty!" Zoe informed me at 6 a.m. on the Day of Days, or, less dramatically, Picture Day. For a week I'd been dangling the "pretty idea," sometimes casting it as "looking like a princess," as incentive so that when Picture Day came Zoe would be primed/brainwashed/whatever to put on her dress, submit to a hairstyle, and maybe even allow me to wipe her face. My inward feminist had cringed when I'd say these things, so I have to admit to being a little proud of Zoe for her response. She'd clearly learned that the Evil Queen from Snow White, obsessed with her looks, was no role model. (Not that Snow was much of a role model either with her "Someday My Prince Will Come" passivity.)

So I was proud of Zoe's verbal response. Her physical one, not so much, since soon after announcing her stance against pretty she removed her pull-up and peed on the floor. Of my bedroom. (Puddle, puddle on the floor, paper towels, please, some more.)

Scene from Picture Day: The Reckoning

Just a few months ago Zoe had been obsessed with pretty. When Mommy wore a skirt for work, she'd say, "Ooh, Mommy pretty." One night, when I got into my mismatched pajamas (perhaps I'm not much of a fashion example) she said, "Mommy, you not pretty." Ouch. Still my goal was comfortable, and comfortable and pretty are two states ever at odds with each other.

Pretty and all that it entails is such a loaded issue for we feminists. Zoe was watching TV the other day and there was a commercial for a talking Barbie. I assume the doll had several phrases in its arsenal but the one it spoke in the ad was: "I need new shoes." Barefoot in the kitchen making dinner, I winced. It's possible, but I rather doubt, that one of the other things the doll says is, "I need a doctorate in astrophysics." Also I suppose I have to admit that I myself have said, "I need new shoes," a lot more often than I've said the bit about the doctorate. In fact, I've only expressed the latter sentiment once, just now, and I'm pretty sure I didn't mean it.

Returning to the Day of Days, I should've seen it coming. Picture Days Past had been rocky. Plus Zoe had been getting more and more resistant to getting dressed in general. Some history . . .

The first Picture Day at her day care is one I look back on fondly where the only threats I had to worry about were surprise spit-up and explosive diarrhea. Zoe was six months old, a time when she wore whatever I put her in with no verbal or physical protest. And since she had no idea what was going on, she smiled for the people making silly faces while taking her picture. 

Irma realized her rookie mistake in letting a friend
give her a perm the night before Picture Day.

The next Picture Day came six months later, and you could see Zoe was starting to develop her trademark serious face. Think Clint Eastwood, only flintier. It went downhill from there. Every Picture Day she was either sick or she'd fallen the day before and sustained some obvious facial wound, such as a black eye or a chin gash or a scab below her nose so that her pictures looked like mug shots after a hard night of partying turned into a bar fight. The most unintentionally hilarious was when she was sick and gave the camera the Saddest Look in the World (patent pending), a sigh made flesh, one finger listlessly circling the carpet beneath her. She was not ready for her closeup.  

Then there was the time she would not put on her dress because she was going through this phase where she would not do whatever Mommy asked, at least I hope it's a phase, and I just brought the outfit with me to the day care and they were able to get it on her. Of course, it was a fight every morning after that to put her in anything besides that dress.

My mom "hearted" this look.

Then there's her hair. After wrestling her into her clothes every day, with a special fight on Picture Day for stockings and shoes that are Not Standard, ask me my mood to do her hair? I'm starting to understand why my mother gave my sister and me the Dorothy Hamill haircut. Once around the rink and it was perfect. If I'm able to sneak up behind Zoe and catch her by surprise, I must make a choice between combing her hair or forcing it into a clumpy ponytail because I've only got one shot at it.

On a normal morning, getting Zoe dressed is reminiscent of Debra Winger riding the mechanical bull in Urban Cowboy except the mechanical bull only bucks to throw you off, it doesn't also scream at you. Plus, it obligingly lives in a bar where a plentiful supply of alcohol awaits after you give up.

Mothers can nap anywhere, anytime.

I've tried the Offering a Choice idea. This is where you present two outfits and they get to pick one, the idea being that thus able to assert their independence in this minor way they'll be more willing to give you a break already. What Zoe likes to do is pick one, then halfway through getting it on insist on the other one. Repeatedly. While twisting around and screaming. So I give up and she goes to day care in pink and purple striped pants with a black and white polka dot shirt, like a regular clown aspiring to be a Harlequin clown. Meanwhile after all this pandemonium, the cat's by the door, valise at her feet, and a train schedule in her paws.

MarySue had worn the same outfit in her yearbook photo, where,
coincidentally, she had been named Most Likely to Commit a Felony.

Back to Picture Day. After I cleaned the pee from the floor Zoe agreed to put on her dress. Perhaps she just needed to show me who was boss, as if I didn't already know. However, she would not submit to putting on matching shoes or having her hair brushed. I'll take what I can get.

Zoe: 19; Universe: 0

Zoe vs. Dr. Phil

Last week's entry featured the acronym O.P.P. This week it's OCD.

All toddlers occasionally exhibit signs of obsessive compulsive disorder, but I had mounting evidence reason to believe Zoe might be suffering from the real thing.

And who better to consult about Zoe's possible OCD than Oprah-approved TV psychologist Dr. Phil?

Dr. Phil says that OCD can be controlled in 85 percent of cases. When I informed Zoe her response was, "What's 'puhcent'?" Also, because she herself can't count that high, she unilaterally rejected the idea that 85 was a real number. Everyone knows numbers only go as high as twenty-ten.

The only person who never had to
face the music was Helen Keller.
And that was cause she couldn't.

I told Dr. Phil what she said and he told me, "That dog won't hunt."

Wondering what he meant, I then presented Dr. Phil with ten examples of Zoe's behavior vis-a-vis OCD and its comorbidities (a word that needs to be used more since there are those of us who like to be morbid more than one way at a time), and his answers appear below. (Note: These may or may not be actual things he's said. Find out at the end.*)

1. Zoe likes to arrange all her toys in a straight line and facing the same direction. When one falls or refuses to stand, it triggers her Disruptive Mood Dysregulation Disorder (according to the DSM-5, the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders, a crazy-ass insane temper tantrum). What should I do? 

"You can put feathers on a dog, but that don't make it a chicken."

Is this the same dog that won't hunt? Can you clarify?

2. Zoe refuses to wash her hands, but I thought that people with OCD were supposed to be obsessed with hand-washing. I've also heard that you should expose the person with OCD to dirty things to get them sensitized to dirtiness. Does this mean I should expose her to her own hands?

"You don't need a pack of wild horses to learn how to make a sandwich."

I think I'm starting to understand you though I'm still confused about all the animal references. I think you're saying I'm making this more complicated than it has to be, right?

The above example shows how obsessive thoughts
can lead to compulsive hand-washing. Mainly because
blood tends to get all over the place when you
slaughter your whole family with an axe.

3. In the morning, Zoe MUST have her apple juice (mixed with water otherwise she'd be even nuttier) from a red sippy cup with a matching red top no matter that we own sippy cups in other colors and all the red ones are either sitting unwashed in the dishwasher or at the bottom of a pile of dishes in the sink and never mind that Mommy's so tired she can hardly see straight. Should I go back to bed?

"No dog ever peed on a moving car."

And we're back to the dogs.

4. Also I need to prepare her morning juice drink in the proper sequence, that is, water first then juice from the large juice container and then some from the small bottle that I use for short trips out, and it must be in this order or . . . Disruptive Mood Dysregulation. Should I cry?

"Everyone faces the challenge of finding meaning to their suffering."

Roger that, Dr. P! That's the first one that seems on target and didn't involve an animal.

5. Zoe has many other rigid rules that must be adhered to that don't have to do with juice. For instance: The path home from the day care must always be the same. When I read her one of her favorite books, I always have to do the voices the same way until I can't stand to hear the sound of my own voice. In order for her to brush her teeth we must brush ours at the same time and each of us has to hold a tube of toothpaste in our non-toothbrush hands. Any advice?

"You don't need a rope to pinch a stranger's butt."

What?

I told you I prefer the dove-gray sweater for arranging the cans in the pantry.

6. When Zoe was an infant she'd smack herself in the head when she drank from her bottle. Now when she drinks from her red sippy cup she pulls at her hair. Is this an offshoot of OCD called trichotillomania, aka the hair-pulling disorder? Will this lead to baldness?

"Don't make me put your head in my blender."

Baldness it is then.

7. I tell Zoe no a lot but this is because she's doing crazy stuff and I'm trying to teach her to survive and/or not be disgusting. She either ignores me or only listens for a little while before returning to the disgusting behavior. For example, the other day I asked her to stop smearing her Danimals smoothie on the TV and she complied for about three seconds before going back to smearing. However, when I promise her a cookie if she lets me finish food shopping without a meltdown she never forgets that. Does she have Selective Neurocognitive Disorder?

"No matter how flat you make a pancake it always has two sides."

Syrup's a problem too.

Sometimes hoarding is just hiding.

8. You had an episode on your show about hoarding where you paraded some poor woman and her family in front of your viewers like they were circus freaks. The DSM-5 defines hoarding as the "accumulation of a large number of possessions that often fill up or clutter an active living area to the extent that the intended use of the space is no longer possible." This sounds like my living room. It's not just the toys underfoot and the doll strollers and toy cars capsized with their stuffed animal occupants crushed beneath them as if there were a major traffic accident on Sesame Street, it's also the many sheets of paper strewn about featuring only one crayon mark due to her minimalist style. Her hoarding also affects her sleep because she insists on piling more and more toys on her bed, claiming she can't sleep without them. Besides the phalanx of stuffed animals, there are toys with sharp edges and that play music and so how could anyone sleep, especially you, Dr. Phil?

"The cat that ate the canary eventually also eats crow."

Ok, as long as there's a comeuppance on the horizon. 

9. On crazy sock day, Zoe insists on wearing crazy, i.e., mismatched, socks but once she has them on I CANNOT allude to the fact that she is wearing crazy socks or Disruptive Mood etc. I play along. Do I have Stockholm Syndrome?

"You can lead a horse to water but you can't make it think it's a donkey."

You're telling me.

10. Zoe's OCD is giving me PTSD, so could you BYOB ASAP?

"Don't pee on my leg and tell me it's raining."

Um, okay. 

Well, this has really helped and I think I'm well on my way to becoming a philistine, which is what I believe fans of Dr. Phil are called. How's that workin' for ya?

*Answers: 1 through 7 are all actual things Dr. Phil has said. 8 & 9 I made up. And 10 was a trick; that one's Judge Judy.

Zoe: 18; Universe: 0

Zoe vs. O.P.P.

Remember the song "O.P.P." by  Naughty by Nature? I was reminded of it the other day as I watched Zoe struggle with my friend's two-year-old over a toy. O.P.P., you'll recall, stands for Other People's Property (I know, but we're going with the G-rated version). It was still playing in the clubs the last time I was in one, so early nineties, I suppose, by which time if I wasn't clubbed out I'd met the soon-to-be husband, who only dances when it's socially compulsory, i.e., when all the other couples have to join the wedding couple on the dance floor. Therefore the frequency of his dancing falls somewhere between a solar eclipse and a biblical plague of locusts. Incidentally, for all three, experts recommend you shield your eyes.

Zoe LOVES Other People's Property. Only she doesn't call it that. Her name for Other People's Property is "Mine."  Naughty by Nature (three words that also describe Zoe!), the hip-hop trio from New Jersey consisting of Treach, Vin  Rock, and DJ  Kay Gee, lovingly crafted these words of wisdom, and in honor of them today's post comes to you in rhyme.

Note/Warning: I haven't rapped in years. Back then, Salt-N-Pepa feared my flowcabulary, and I went by the moniker PB&J. Because there ain't nuthin' whiter than that. Now I bring you . . .

O.P.P. (with revisions)

[Verse 1] -- Mommy

On the weekend we went over to somebody's house

They have a two-year-old so toys and stuff lay all around

Five versions of that red puppet that we know and love

Four adults see a fight unfolding from above

Besides the one that actually belongs to Z

There's one that sneezes, one that laughs, and one with kung-fu chi

But Z wants one in particular

the one that someone else has

a moment's inattention, there comes her chance

it's in her hands---O.P.P.!---it's hers at last.

Original playa-hatas

[Chorus] -- Mommy/Everyone

You down with O.P.P.? Yeah, you know Z.

Who's down with O.P.P.? Every last baby.

You down with O.P.P.? Yeah, you know Z.

Who's down with O.P.P.? All the babies.

[Verse 2] -- Mommy

Other child's back is turned

Z seized the opportunity

Toy's now hers with impunity, bust it

E to the L to the M to the O

Lo and behold the two-year-old

sees, a tug-of-war commences

no mending fences

put up defenses

Elmo's in distress, what a mess, 

Wrecks, decks, snaps necks, comes correct.

Where are we living in? Gots to be oblivion. 

We implore, we ignore. Dads, don't keep score, not anymore. 

Don't wanna be no bore.

Take the toy and kick it to the curb.

You take from us, 'rents, don't be absurd!

Gotta be a solution, a problem evolution

Treach ponders, Why won't shorties share?

Just other people's property

And you're down with a discount.

[Chorus]

You down with O.P.P.? Yeah, you know Z.

Who's down with O.P.P.? Every last baby.

You down with O.P.P.? Yeah, you know Z.

Who's down with O.P.P.? All the babies.

[Verse 3]  -- Zoe (aka, Scary Spice 4Realz)

I'm in the park and it's a sunny day

See a ball. Some other kid's but he's not gonna play

Walk on over, scoop it up, tell me the wrong in that?

Give it a throw, no one'll know

Wait, I smell a rat.

What they don't know won't hurt 'em, as long as that other kid don't alert 'em

Whiny tattletale little sister, when I punch I won't miss her.

Mommy drags me from the playground, claims I need a nap

In my defense, I say it was a trap

Stupid stroller lulling me to sleep

I'll dream of all the toys I'm gonna keep

Starting with that ball, just don't get in my way

It belonged to someone else but was gonna be mine anyway.

[Chorus]

You down with O.P.P.? Yeah, you know Z.

Who's down with O.P.P.? Every last baby.

You down with O.P.P.? Yeah, you know Z.

Who's down with O.P.P.? All the babies.

Collateral damage from another O.P.P. dispute.

[Verse 4] -- Zoe and Mommy

When I wake up from my nap you best not look at me

Messy hair, peanut butter crusting my lips, damn skippy!

It's hard to be a toddler, and you know that's a fact

Coaxing me awake takes mad skillz and a lot of tact.

Cause, y'all when you're small it ain't at all

Fun, no (Z, you tell it! Drop your load!)

I did. (Yeah, I smell it.)

Come over here and get changed. Why you actin so deranged?

Cause I drank too much - - -

M to the O to the T to the T to the S

No sugar added, already has enough, now you high on the stuff

Dancin', prancin', can't stay still

Bedtime battle's sure to be uphill. Why can't you just chill? Mommy needs a pill.

This rhyme's a disaster, just like my living room after

Z!

That rhymes with

3!

The age of

Z.

Yeah, you know me!

Word!*

Zoe: 17; Universe: 0

*That word is no.

Zoe vs. Mommy, the Physical Assault

Note: I'm specifying "physical assault" because the case can be made that all the previous posts catalog Zoe's mental assaults on me. I'd be the one to make that case.

Survivor of an attack by a
featureless orange toddler.

Last week's post detailed the ways in which Zoe likes to get up close and personal. But sometimes it's not just too close for comfort. Sometimes it's downright painful. So today I list the ways in which Zoe's love hurts. From head to toe.

Hair: she likes to pull it. Hard. She likes me to put a "bow" (translation: ponytail holder) in my hair so she can yank more efficiently. Ow factor: high.

Eyes: poke! If my glasses are off. Irony alert: if my glasses are on, my eyes are protected but my glasses are in danger. Ow factor/threat to expensive belonging: high.

Nose: you pick mine, I'll try to pick yours. Ow factor: low, really more annoying.

Cheeks: pinch! Ow factor: medium.

Mouth/lips: the making out gets violent. Ow factor: medium, depends on how bitey she gets.

Teeth: I'm separating this from "mouth" because we have a history. When I was pregnant with Zoe, I had pregnancy gingivitis, meaning my gums bled. A lot. Since her birth my teeth are just a mess and my dentist is sick of seeing me. While Zoe's first year was full of the usual milestones like smiling, supporting her own head, walking, for me the year was marked by one dental appointment after another to deal with toothaches that ended in root canals, crowns, and even one apicoectomy when I still had pain following one of the root canals. Ow factor: high, and expensive.

Chin and jaw: let me set the scene. Every morning I sit on the floor behind Zoe trying to get her dressed for day care as she flails around whining. After I finally manage to shove one leg into whatever pants she doesn't want to wear, she launches herself violently upward into my chin and I see stars. The head under chin contact from a blonde, three-year-old missile is unbelievably painful. This has happened more times than I can count. Sometimes I bite my tongue because I'd been in the midst of begging her to stay still. Ow factor: highest.

So let's see, how far have we gotten?  Still above the neck. We have a lot more ground to cover.

Speaking of . . .

Neck: pinching. Similar to cheek pinching, however, there's not as much to pinch so it's more like yanking on skin. Also, passionate strangling. You know how it is. Sometimes the excitement is just too much and then you have to strangle someone. Ow factor: high.

Torso: general jabbing with knees and elbows as she tries to get comfortable. A prerequisite is Mommy must be making that Ow sound. So soothing! Ow factor: medium to high, depends on target area.

Hands: Zoe, as you might imagine, objects to having her nails cut so right away let's add scratching, full body. Her only takeaway from my eventual trimming of her nails is that Mommy's nails are too long, and since she's not allowed to use the scissors (wonder why) she tries to use her fingers to pull my own nails off. As I read her stories as night she works from one nail to the other, digging and pulling until I yank my hand away. Ow factor: medium.

Groin: The Husband would have volumes to say here but he's sitting on the couch whimpering with a bag of frozen peas on his lap. So I'll just paint another scene: I've collapsed on the floor on my back because sometimes, wherever you are and whatever is happening, you've just got to lie down. Zoe comes over and lies down between my legs then squirms her head up into my groin. I think she's trying to get back into the womb and/or re-enacting a breach birth. I keep telling her she can't get back in but that doesn't stop her from delivering her intimate head-butting. Ow factor: eh. Awkward and weird factor: high.

Butt: she likes to bite it. To be fair, I've bitten her butt. It's just so cute. Guess she feels the same way. Can't really blame her. It's my best feature. Ow factor: silly.

Legs: in the mornings, when she's AWAKE and I'm NOT, she wants to sit on my lap on the couch watching TV, and constantly shift her weight. It's not just shots and jabs to the chest and stomach (see "torso" above), it's also the skin on my legs that gets mauled and pinched amid her shifting, or I get scratched by her toenails. Ow factor: medium.

Elf Toe Syndrome. Needs its own telethon.

Feet and toes: First I must explain. I have ingrown toenails. They grow down and in. Also, I have this weird issue where the bones of my big toes grow upward. There's probably an official name for this foot condition but I call it Elf Toe Syndrome. Except instead of delightful little bells at the ends of my big toes, it's bone. I recently had one of my toenails removed, as in permanently. But before that, when Zoe used to stamp down on my foot, I'd lose my ability to process language, entering the Realm Beyond Ow. Think of a room without windows where three of the walls are painted bloodred and the fourth is an accent wall covered in a repeating pattern of Edvard Munch's The Scream. Ow factor before surgery: Infinite. After surgery: I have another toe, so it ain't pretty.

He thought he had problems.

That complete's my head to toe survey. In terms of pain management, I feel like Dr. House. I went from someone who took one Tylenol at a time to swallowing two Aleve . . . dry.

Zoe: 16; Universe/Mommy: 0

Postscript: This post is a day late because Zoe gave me her stomach virus. Ow factor: dry heaves.