not that you asked...

Indecent Proposal: Won't You Join Me in Humiliating Myself for Charity?

Long-time readers will no doubt remember a fateful day back in 2007 (wait, was it really 2007? the 2007 that was almost FIVE YEARS AGO?) when I asked for a certain number of comments on this post, and promised something ridiculous and embarrassing in return, and then the comments started ROLLING IN and... well, frankly, I never made good on that promise. I KNOW, OKAY? I'm sorry, I really am. I had EVERY GOOD INTENTION of following through, and then... you know, things happen, like LIFE, and now I can't even DO IT, AT ALL, because one of my important props has... uh, kind of... passed on. (SIGH. Poor Hambone.)

So now it has come to this, a place in my life where I am more than willing to make up for that failure to deliver (you don't have to believe me, but it continues to nag at my conscience) but this time I'm going to make you participate with me, for a good cause. I am officially starting an online, month-long diaper drive as part of my partnership with Huggies Every Little Bottom.

I have signed up to run a 5k race on October 29, exactly thirty days from today. Signed up, paid, even registered Asher to run the kids' fun run afterwards. Three miles, no big deal. HOWEVER. If I can raise $5,000 in the next month – all of which will go towards purchasing diapers for a local food pantry that meets the needs of women, children and families in the Northern Virginia area – then I will run that 5k race (HERE GOES, DEEEEP BREATH) in an adult-sized diaper. (Obviously there will be a ridiculous amount of photographic evidence as proof; I even have a friend signed up to run with me.) (She is not planning on wearing a diaper for any reason.)

What does that mean for you? Well if you want to SEE THIS, if you want this to ACTUALLY HAPPEN, if you want to see a receipt from Target for DEPENDS, then please consider donating the cost of a pack of (baby!) diapers to the cause.

ALL PROCEEDS, every last cent, will go towards diapers. ALL OF IT, you guys. All the money raised will be donated, even if the total amount doesn't reach $5,000 – but without that big $5,000 goal, I won't be putting on that diaper. I mean, IT'S A DIAPER, PEOPLE. Is there a lower level of humiliation than wearing a DIAPER IN PUBLIC? Besides RUNNING IN ONE? And possibly CHAFING IN IT AS WELL? But I am willing and happy to do this, if it means that I can help meet some of the needs of women and children in my community.

All I ask is that you donate whatever you feel is appropriate for this amount of entertainment-slash-charity. A good guideline here is that a small pack of diapers is generally in the neighborhood of $7, a box of diapers is about $18, and a GIANT, MEGAPACK JUMBOTRON box (or whatever it is they call it) is somewhere in the neighborhood of $35. Remember that all the money you donate is actually going to PURCHASE diapers – I'll likely just order the whole shebang from Amazon and have it delivered right to the food pantry when this is over. I know, $5,000 seems like a LOT of money, and it IS, but we are also talking about really needy people and a really embarrassing getup. This is important work and really humiliating attire.

Will you consider making a donation? And spreading the word so that we can reach this goal? All donations can be sent to my Paypal account: emilycassee@yahoo.com. I will be happy to keep you updated on progress.

You guys are awesome. Truly, you are, and your support for me and for this website has been such a joy the last six (almost seven!) years. YEARS. (OMG, YEARS!) And how do I thank you? I wear a diaper in public. What a weird weird relationship we all seem to have. (AND I LOVE IT.)

Disclosure: I have partnered with the Huggies® brand to help promote the Huggies® Every Little Bottom program. I have been compensated for my time commitment to the program, which includes writing about it here. However, my opinions are entirely my own.

Thriving at preschool AND at being adorable

Well, here we are, with two full weeks of preschool under our belts and Asher seems to be thriving once again. When I arrived at school a few days ago to pick him up I actually caught a glimpse of him in the classroom, RAISING HIS HAND so that he could be called on to contribute to a discussion. I am not at all impressed by his ability to follow directions and raise his hand and wait quietly to be asked to speak; rather, I am astounded that he is choosing to participate.

Last year, it took five months before Asher would speak to another child in his class. They would say hello and goodbye to him in my presence and goodness knows what while he was in there for three hours without me and Asher would just stare at them and remain silent, almost as if they were speaking another language to him. When adults would address him, he would simply look up at me with the expectation that either I would answer the question, or I would repeat it to him so that his answer could be directed at me and not the questioning adult. That's an awkward place to be, really – a nice, well-meaning adult is asking my child something VERY simple, like “How old are you, Asher?” and if I just stand there and stay out of it (like parents of socially outgoing children do), we'd get absolutely nowhere, and that feels rude. On the other hand, I was always very aware that I was his social crutch; in an effort not to be rude to someone or to FORCE my kid to say something in return (AS IF THAT CAN BE DONE), I often stepped in and took on the role of a translator.

I was always careful in those situations to try not to say, “Oh, Asher's my shy one!” or something equally descriptive that can be taken as having a negative connotation; I don't want him to hear me say things like that and assign those characteristics to himself. “Shy” is a good description of what he appears to be, but I'm not even sure he's actually SHY – I think he might just be catching up in the social skills arena. But even in the last few weeks I've seen him grow and change, and the other day when I picked him up another parent asked if he'd enjoyed the snack she'd brought for the class that day, and Asher looked right at her – looked her RIGHT IN THE EYE - and said, “No.”

OKAY, so ADMITTEDLY, we have some things to work on here, like POLITENESS and also GENERAL KINDNESS, but the fact is, HE ANSWERED HER. He did not look at me and wait for me to re-ask the question so he could answer it to me, he did not mumble under his breath and look at the floor. He said no, he said it to her face, he was honest (the snack WAS kind of odd, I'll admit). This is a HUGE deal for him; a huge thing for me to witness. I've seen him start to respond more to trusted adults (this is his second year with the same preschool AND Sunday school teachers, so that helps) but for him to respond to someone he's seen a handful of times? To answer a QUESTION? Without really even THINKING about it too hard? Amazing.

I've said before how hard this is for me, sometimes, watching this kid grow up with a personality so opposite of my own. I struggle with finding the balance between letting him be himself and wanting him to be more enthusiastic or more excitable or less anxious or more aware. I worry that I am slowing him down socially by not enrolling him in soccer or t-ball; by letting him take the lead when it comes to making friends or initiating connections with other kids. It is hard to know if I am doing the right thing by letting him remain so firmly entrenched in his comfort zone, here in the house with his sister and all of their familiar toys and familiar rules and familiar foods, but then I see him making strides at school and I think, he's already out of the house for 12 hours a week. He's interacting with other kids for 12 hours a week. For 12 hours a week he is with other adults who now know his quirks almost as well as we do and not one of them has come to me with concerns or worries or frustrations. (It's a school-wide joke that if even Asher will eat the snack, then it must be a REALLY AWESOME SNACK.)

I go back and forth all the time. We're doing enough; we're not doing enough. We're cutting him too much slack; he's just FOUR, we're not cutting him enough. He's going to be fine; he's going to struggle. Of all the things that potentially could shatter my heart into a million aching pieces it would be that he might struggle somehow, with schoolwork or with friendships or just learning how to fit in. I'm trying to let him learn at his own pace, I'm trying to be patient (it is so so hard to be patient). And so it is beyond refreshing to see even the smallest improvements, because those little improvements, those little moves towards being seen as a regular kid and not a shy kid or a socially awkward kid or a quirky kid, make me so hopeful for his future.

Ha ha ha, like I own a slip

I was addressed as “Mommy” by a grown man in the grocery store today. Not “miss” or “ma'am” or “HEY LADY.” MOMMY, you guys. Mommy.

I mean yes, I was wearing tired jeans, $2 flip flops and a particularly mom-ish looking long-sleeved t-shirt that screamed BIRTHER, and I was most certainly pushing two young children through the grocery store in one of those embarrassingly large and impossible to maneuver car carts, so I get it; I look like a mom. Not only am I DRESSED like a mom, but I have accessorized myself with ACTUAL LIVING CHILDREN.

I wasn't even sure the guy was addressing me at first – I was pulling a giant box of frozen blueberry waffles out of the freezer case when I heard a gruff voice calling out behind me - “Hey! Mommy!” I did not turn around for this gruff voice, UNDERSTANDABLY, as this is not the sound of either of the two people I am pushing around in the car cart and that I have HOUSED IN MY WOMB. But he called out again, and so I did that thing where you half turn around for a quick glance just in case the person is not actually looking for you except - !!! - this person WAS, and it was a fully grown man, a fully grown BIKER DUDE, wearing his sunglasses inside Safeway at 4:30 on a Monday afternoon, addressing me as MOMMY. He continues with, “Do you know where to find the chocolate syrup? You look like the kind of person who could tell me where the chocolate syrup is” [gestures vaguely towards the cart containing the children].

THE CHOCOLATE SYRUP. I have been reduced to nothing but a MOMMY STEREOTYPE, and not even the kind who cares about high fructose corn syrup!

So that was weird enough, you know? I mean, I directed him towards the syrup (which was right at the end of the very aisle we were standing in) and he found it and waved to me and I continued on my way. But then a few minutes later, after he'd PURCHASED the chocolate syrup, he came through the store and down the cereal aisle to THANK ME. “Mommy!” he called down the aisle to me, “Thanks for your help!” And because I am polite to a fault, I waved and called out, “No problem!” because I do not know how to create boundaries to encourage respect. I mean, honestly, you guys. MOMMY. He is yelling MOMMY, and he is yelling it DOWN THE CEREAL AISLE AND IT IS MEANT FOR ME.

I got home and told Dave about it and he's all, “I don't know why all the weird people talk to you.” I don't know either but I suspect it is the eye contact. I do not shy away from eye contact. I am going to start, though.

I can't be very specific about the details, but Dave and I are going on a little weekend trip to Florida in a few weeks. It's business-related, in a vague-ish kind of way, and while I am looking forward to it for many reasons (seafood, five-star hotel, husband mostly all to myself, NO HANDPRINTS ON MY DRESSY WHITE PANTS), I am also keenly aware of the fact that we will likely be the youngest people BY FAR who are there for this, uh, vaguely business-related meeting of sorts. And we are staying at a resort that has hints about requiring Resort Wear plastered ALL over the website and HECK IF I KNOW what Resort Wear is. I have no doubt that the other women who will be there (who are older and much, much wealthier, hence the decision to host this thingamajig at a FIVE-STAR RESORT) have entire sections of their walk-in closets dedicated to Resort Wear, and then there will be me, who will be trying to decide whether wearing a slip with an Old Navy skirt possibly takes it up a notch? And maybe wearing a shawl or something, since I don't have the right bra for this tank top? We don't have any Hawaiian shirts or straw fedoras, ARE WE GOING TO GET KICKED OUT?

You know what though, if we are going to get kicked out, they are going to have to drag me kicking and screaming from the infinity pool. I WILL NOT GO WITHOUT A FIGHT. I mentioned this on Facebook and Twitter already and I have LOADS of recommendations, but if you have anything to add, re: Must-Dos in West Palm Beach, I welcome them. Particularly restaurant recommendations for brunch or for an anniversary dinner.

I know you didn't forget the wetsuit (you'll never forget the wetsuit), but I am going to TOP THE WETSUIT.

When Huggies originally contacted me about working with their Every Little Bottom campaign, I was pretty excited, for numerous reasons. Working with a big, well-known brand? Very exciting. Doing something that felt good and helpful? Very fulfilling. But as much as I loved the idea of the program and all the great things that would happen as a result of it, I wasn't particularly affected by it personally. Is it hard to hear that there are moms out there who have to reuse soiled diapers on their babies? Yes. Is it awful to know that there are women out there who have to go hungry in order to send their babies to daycare with a stack of fresh diapers? Yes. Is it something I saw happen among my friends or in my community? Never.

So was it something I expected I would stick with after I'd done my contractually obligated writing and... you know, stuff? I doubted it.

I took this project on because I thought it was important to use the talents and, I don't know, website traffic I've been given for something good. It turns out that this project is no longer just a project to me. This is no longer a job or something I'm doing simply because I think it's a great idea or because I'm being compensated. I am IN this thing. I would have never expected this to happen or for my worlds to have collided this way but they are and it is awesome and I am INVESTED in this. This MEANS something to me now. It means a lot, actually.

It is too much for it to all be called a coincidence – I believe that God orchestrates things, and I believe that in my situation, there are too many so-called “coincidences” to be chalked up to fate or whatever it is people tend to call it. What happened is that my church, the church I've attended since I was nine, the church I met my husband in and grew in my faith in and dedicated my children in – moved to a new building in a different location. It doesn't sound like a big deal, something like moving six miles away, but everything is different in this new area of town.

It's in a part of town that is heavily populated with low-income families. Lots of immigrant families living 12, 15, sometimes 25 people to a very small two- or three-bedroom house. Lots of kids forced to eat cold beans or Chef Boyardee from pop-top cans because they don't have access to a can opener, much less a microwave to heat it up in. Kids falling asleep in elementary school because they share a tiny, restless bedroom with six other family members and don't get any food until they're served free hot lunch at noon. Parents earning wages far below the poverty level, and unable to afford something as simple as soap for their kids on a regular basis. Some of these families don't have access to a kitchen or a bathtub.

This is my COMMUNITY, and I didn't even know it existed before now. Me and my new kitchen and my expensive stroller and my name-brand shoes. I feel ashamed that I was so blind to what is going on STEPS from my doorway. Steps, you guys. And yet suddenly, I'm handed the tools to make a difference in this community, even if it happens in this very small way of helping out some moms who can't always afford diapers.

I met with the director of community programs at my church a few weeks back and she told me that a few months ago there was a clothing exchange held at the church. People from the surrounding community were invited to come to the church and take home clothing for their families for free, and she told me that she saw a woman come into the lobby with her toddler and the toddler was wearing only a t-shirt and one of those old-school plastic diaper covers. That's it. There was no diaper UNDER the diaper cover, and she said that you could clearly see through the plastic and see that it was filled with urine, just sloshing around inside. What kills me about this is that it must feel so SHAMEFUL to go out like that. Here's a woman trying to provide for her family, a family that cannot afford clothes and therefore HAS to find a way to procure donations, and she has to go out in public with a child without even a clean diaper. It makes me think she didn't have a clean diaper to her NAME, or she would have used it to go out in public. It seems humiliating and sad and awful and I realized that this is my community. This is someone I might see in my grocery store, suffering.

I'm determined to do something about it. No longer because Huggies has asked me to, or because I think diaper need is a just another good, noble cause. Simply because it must be done, because these are real people, and suddenly, I have in my hands the tools and the information and the power I need to get it done. End of story. Coincidence or divine intervention? You can't convince me God's not involved here in a big way.

This is a good time to tell you that in my next post, I'll be detailing exactly what I'm going to do, and how YOU can be a part of it. It is going to be... well, I'm hoping the end result will be amazing and helpful and will really serve a community, but before that, there will be an extremely humiliating experience and I will be the only one suffering through that. For your entertainment. SUFFERING FOR A CAUSE, though. More details next week!

Disclosure: I have partnered with the Huggies® brand to help promote the Huggies® Every Little Bottom program. I have been compensated for my time commitment to the program, which includes writing about it here. However, my opinions are entirely my own.

The ponytail minimizes the horns

Lucy, my sweet, lovable, charming baby girl, has turned into some kind of nearly-three-year-old tyrant, seemingly overnight. I knew this was coming – I KNOW HOW MUCH THREE SUCKS – but it happened so suddenly that I wasn't quite sure what we were dealing with, at first.

In the last week alone, she has increased her daily Time Out time by something like 8000 percent, and sometimes what starts out as crying for nothing more than attention manages to get her so worked up that it takes AN HOUR to get her to calm the freak down. Did you hear that? She is FAKE CRYING, and then, perhaps because she can hear nothing but her own tortured thoughts over that ridiculous amount of racket, works herself up into ACTUAL CRYING, the sniffling-sobbing-can't-catch-your-breath kind of crying. It is all kinds of annoying, and that is in addition to the other demonic practices she has picked up, such as denying that she can put her own shoes on (in sharp contrast to the two-year-old practice of demanding to put her own shoes on WHEN SHE CANNOT), continuing to demand a certain snack after I have assured her we do not HAVE that particular snack in the house (I WISH I HAD NEVER MET YOU, FROSTED FLAKES), and responding to my requests to come brush her teeth/finish her dinner/pick up this toy she just threw at my head with a very defiant, “I. WON'T.”

There are patches of adorableness still around, but the attitude taints everything, so it's harder lately to see the adorableness as plain old adorableness and not as a ploy to prevent us from throwing her out with the recycling on Friday morning. The other afternoon as we were returning home from lunch after church, a motorcycle pulled into our parking lot – the driver (rider?) was wearing a helmet with a very dark tinted visor and on top of the helmet was a bright orange faux mohawk. Lucy was walking up to our house on the sidewalk when she saw him, and she stood, horrified, and watched as he parked and climbed off the bike. Finally, he removed the helmet, and she breathed a sigh of genuine relief when she saw it was a REGULAR PERSON - “Oh!” she said to me. “I thought that was going to be a mean guy.”

Those pockets of cuteness are few and far between lately – so few and far between that finally, on Saturday afternoon, I decided I needed to make her an appointment at the after-hours pediatrician, where I was certain he would fine some sort of horrible ear/throat/brain infection that would explain her behavior, or possibly just the discovery of the early growth of some devil horns. They'd have topical cream for that, I hoped. (Also: FREE HALLOWEEN COSTUME!) I made the appointment while Dave had run out to Home Depot for some stuff, and when he came back we had... well, let's just say a fight is an understatement. We do not often get into loud arguments during daylight hours, but in this instance we did, and the kids were not frightened or worried – they were ANNOYED, and were covering their ears and saying things like, “I CAN'T HEAR WHAT LUCY IS SAYING TO ME,” and by the time we had to leave to go the appointment I was STEAMING MAD at Dave, which was not made better by the fact that he wanted to do some work on the house and expected me to take BOTH kids to the doctor.

Listen, I take both kids to the doctor all the time, ON A WEEKDAY. But a Saturday? When he is just... HOME? And the dangerous saw he is working with is ON THE BACK DECK, and therefore not able to cut anyone's arm off if they are sequestered indoors with a big plastic tub of diecast cars to entertain themselves with? Yeah. That. (We aren't angry at each other anymore, so I can say that now.)

We ended up leaving late for the appointment, knowing that the office had moved to a new location, and even though I pulled into the shopping center with two minutes to spare, I was completely unable to find the practice. I drove around for THIRTY MINUTES, you guys, up and down one lone stretch of shopping center, unable to locate a pediatrician's office. I even PARKED and dragged the kids out of the car, thinking that maybe I just couldn't see the office from the car. NO LUCK. Here's where you're wondering why I didn't just CALL someone! HA HA HA I forgot my phone when I stormed out (downside of storming) (also did not really want to talk to the guy I would have to call, who was HOME ALONE WITH HIS SAW) and the office, being brand-spanking new, was not listed on any of the shopping center locator maps. We got back into the car, defeated, and I started to cry. I don't like being late for appointments; I REALLY don't like the idea of missing one altogether – I really REALLY don't like missing one if I'm sure the doctor is mere moments away from solving my demonic daughter's serious brain infection that explains why she's acting demonic in the first place. Also: fighting with your husband really blows.

So I cried. Sobbed. Could barely see through my sunglasses, had to park in a giant Wegman's parking lot and let people stare at me because I was unable to drive home unless I calmed down first.

And the kids are in the backseat laughing at me. They are LAUGHING. I mean, I get it, I don't cry much, I guess they thought I was kidding? BUT OMG, LAUGHING AT ME. From the backseat. At one point I must have stopped sobbing and they're giggling and Asher actually piped up with, “Do that again, Mom!”

Low point, right? It was until I got home and fed Lucy and she turned back into a regular human being without any kind of horns at all and I realized how close she actually is to turning three (just three months out) and that this is just the explosive, inconsistent, insane behavior of an almost-three-year-old girl. A NORMAL ONE. So yeah. That was the true low point. But being laughed at while I sobbed violently? CLOSE SECOND.

DO NOT LET YOURSELVES BE FOOLED.

Revelation

We are back from vacation and I can say, for the very first time since becoming a parent, that it was actually a vacation. It was enjoyable and stress-free and FUN, SO FUN, and it gives me great hope that our Disney trip in December will not be the equivalent of throwing $2,000 into a sewer.

We drove straight through the outskirts of Hurricane Irene just an hour or so after it made landfall in North Carolina. It was windy and rainy and a tree branch blew onto the roof of our car once, which HOLY FREAKING SCARY, but otherwise it was smooth sailing. The kids watched movies and Lucy took a nap and before we knew it we were pulling into the driveway of our rented house and marveling over the ease of travel. I always worry when it's easy to get somewhere; for virtually every trip we've taken with the kids, the travel part is a cinch, and then the anticipation of the trip wears off and we're actually THERE and the resulting adrenaline crash leaves them acting like neanderthals.

BUT NOT THIS TIME. They were charming and lovable and they slept ALL NIGHT LONG, even in a bedroom shared by three kids age four and under. They played happily on the beach all morning and into the afternoon, they were bathed and dressed for dinner each night with very little resistance, and they stayed up a few nights until nearly 10pm with nary a whiny complaint. Of course, they were at an AMUSEMENT PARK FOR CHILDREN for two of those nights, and playing mini-golf for the other, so I'm not sure why they WOULD complain, but those of you who read this blog are probably familiar with the concept of “children,” these bizarre, ridiculous beings who can whine about things like ice cream being too cold.

I wasn't sure what Asher would be like this year – last year he was absolutely TERRIFIED of the ocean and only on our last day did he work up enough courage to venture into surf up to his ankles. He spent the majority of last year's vacation whining about how HOT he was and refusing to let us help him cool off in the water. Much to our amazement, this year, without much fanfare or any discussion, he simply waded in to his waist and spent the whole week jumping waves, riding waves on a boogie board (!!!) and attempting to “surf” in the shallows. After watching him struggle with a fear of getting his face wet during his swimming lessons this summer, we were beyond surprised, and naturally, beaming with pride. Lucy loved the water too – she was a touch more hesitant, but this wasn't due to anything but the fact that she was knocked underwater and rolled by a few rough waves, which I SUPPOSE is possibly our fault, as her parents, for not standing close enough to her to be able to do something about it. She just does everything so EASILY and without issue that it is easy to forget she's only TWO. I'm her MOTHER and I forget.

The hurricane didn't hit the area we were in, but the water was churned up from the storm which meant that we saw more wildlife this week than I have seen at the beach in my 33 years COMBINED. On the first day we found two living starfish, the next day a huge sea snail, and a couple of days later I unearthed what felt like a five-pound scallop in the shallows. Have you ever seen a live scallop? It looks like a big horse tongue in a shell, and is pretty much the most disgusting thing ever. On our last day there were so many fish in the water that when a wave rolled, you could see hundreds of them swimming through the crest, and you could see five or six of them jumping clear out of the water at any given time. It was PURE WILDLIFE INSANITY.

One night we took the kids to a little kiddie amusement park and let them wear themselves out riding planes and ferris wheels and cars and after we'd finished – and I will never forget this moment, I don't think, or the feeling that accompanied it – I remember Lucy and I were walking hand-in-hand in the twilight over to a bench where Dave and Asher were waiting for us, and I simply thought, this is it. This, right here. This is what it feels like to be fulfilled and happy; this is what it feels like to be complete. This, right here, in this moment, is our family. The four of us. I think I can safely say that I feel like this is it. There will be no more babies. I'm not sure why it happened in that moment, but in the following days I kept thinking about how I felt in that little sliver of time, and I realized that it wasn't just a fleeting, happy feeling. If it had been just an emotional reaction to having a wonderful night and a wonderful vacation, I imagine I would have felt in that moment like I should have FIFTY children. But that's not what it was.

It felt – and it still feels - like certainty. I am not sad or wistful; I am not disappointed. I just... I just know. That's not to say that adoption is off the table, but I am ready to be done with the uncertainty of whether or not there will be another biological baby in this family. The answer is no. And with that answer comes the thrilling feeling of contentment, a feeling that replaced the gnawing undercurrent of uncertainty.