Weaning Yousef

It was the night before weaning and everyone was asleep; everyone that is except me. I sat there watching Yousef sleep. How many nights had I done that? How many days did I wear him while he napped, held and cuddled and sat? How many hours did I spend nursing him to sleep, and then nursing him again back to sleep? Nursing him for nutrition and nursing him for comfort? Twenty one months and seven days.

Everything comes to an end, and things always change.

I don’t do well with change; never have and I am not sure I ever will. I try as best I can to prepare myself but ultimately I need my mourning period. I need time to let things that had grown on me go. And this is no different.

I spent many sleepless nights trying to get Yousef to nurse. We helped him and tricked him. We nudged him and taught him. We used my boob, tried a tube and used a bottle. We supplemented with formula. I medicated my infection, hired a breastfeeding consultant and nursed through pain. I held on steadfast to my I wanted to nurse my last baby just I like nursed my first. I tried to convince myself otherwise but I couldn't bring myself to give up on nursing. It would certainly have been easier, less painful, more convenient but it wasn't what I wanted to do. I could’ve listened to my friends and family who had my best interest in mind and given up on the ordeal altogether, after all formula these days is a remarkable source of nutrition, but I didn’t. It was more than just a matter of ease and convenience, and it certainly wasn’t all about the food. It was about me. And him. About the bond, the connection, the attachment, the experience. It was about being together with Yousef like I had been with Jannah-Rae. And I was not about to give that up, or away. And I didn’t. Until I had to.

And I had to too soon; again. It’s always too soon. It always comes too fast. I am never ready. Twenty one months and seven days isn't long enough. I don’t think it would have ever been long enough. But it is time, or at least that’s what I am told.

So I nursed him one last time, one last go-back-to-sleep nurse, one last comfort. I had been nursing him “one last time” for the past week. One last Friday. One last Saturday. One last mid-morning nurse. One last nurse in public. One last nurse instead of food. I had “one last” for everything I could think of. Until it was really the last one.

At 3:21am he woke up. "Nan-nan," he called. And, with nan-nan I responded. He fell back to sleep on my chest. I tried to move him but he crawled right back on. I think he felt I was up to something. I am sure he has understood the many conversations we have had about leaving him and JR with Grandma and Granpa while Jeff and I went to New York. I am certain he knew that the "end" was near; he had heard us talking about it over and over again. I believe he knew exactly what was coming, and when, and wanted to draw it out as much as he could. Just the day before he would not let me put him down for a minute; he asked me to hold him all day long. 

At 3:45am I had to lay him beside me, I needed to get up and get ready, our train left at 5:20am. He didn't want to let me go. He squealed. I patted his back and gave him a kiss. I made sure he was slumbering. I got up and got dressed. I packed my bag and slung my pump to my shoulder; I hadn't used that pump in over a year and a half. I didn't even say goodbye. 

At 4:45am I was told he woke up again looking for me. I wasn't there. Elmo on the iPhone took my place. He seemed content. I didn't push the matter. The last time had come and gone, unceremoniously ~ again. The journey was difficult, then easy, then hard. Begrudgingly, and with support, is the only route; there is no way I would have been able to wean him voluntarily, just as I would never have been able to wean his sister before him. 

In two days I will come back. I am not sure what to, but I am hoping to a still-loving son. 

Letting go

Waking up to watching, in a dream, my only son go flying down from three stories up holding onto his favorite toy car, arms wide open, laughing out loud, is not how I wanted to start my Thankgiving morning. I could see it very clearly: blue faded second-hand jeans, new navy blue sweater from H&M that I had bought in the summer on sale, white GAP socks that used to be his sister's, red car in hand. He was about his current age. We were at my late grandmother's house in Hazmieh, and I was on the phone. The other adults, my mother and another woman were somewhere in the house supposedly minding the kids. I was on the balcony talking on the phone. It must have been winter as he had a sweater on, so why I was on the balcony I am not sure. I must have needed some quiet. He came after me to play. I was focusing on the conversation, maybe with a friend but it might also have been with a business. All of a sudden he was climbing the railings.

I know these railings well; I spent many an afternoon in these enclosures.

I visited with Teta Hajjeh and Jeddo Ramez, had meals with aunts and uncles and played with cousins. We had lemonade and coffee and tea, ate popcorn and deep-fried starch chips. With the TV hooked inside and the screen turned out, we watched a soap opera or followed the news. We listened to the radio, played catch and cards. We called for the maid in the kitchen, for others down below, for each other from inside. When by herself there, Teta would not hear us when we rang the bell, or the phone when we called, so we got her a long-corded phone then a wireless one. I remember the question, and its response very clearly: "wein 2a3deen? (where are you sitting)?" "3al balcon (on the balcony)."

She bought vegetables from the peddlers pushing their carts, and pulled the groceries up with a basket attached to a rope. She yelled at us for picking the flowers in the garden and at her son for using too much water to water the trees. She hollered to neighbors and caught up with their news. She monitored traffic and the car wash business.

During the days of the war it was our "outing" from the shelter. On days without power, we sat by candle light, and on some days with power, we sat by candle light, too; long, white tapered candles would burn the hours away. As long as we had enough vape to burn we were good to watch the stars.In the spring we would bring out the chairs and tables and invest a lazy afternoon watching the cars go by. The folding chairs would be moved from the east balcony to the west balcony with the sun and brought in with the moon. In the summer, grandma would make apricot jam with the apricots from her tree in the garden below.

Those railings are well engraved in my mind. The white, pink and grey tile floor leads up to a ledge that holds the sturdy metal rods in place. Narrow rectangular bottom and support rails run across north to south and hold the rectangular balusters together. At regular intervals there are support posts dividing the railing into sections. The railing extend out to hold white laundry lines. The design is concluded with a top rail, wide enough to rest a coffee or tea cup on; or a little foot.

The doors leading out to the balcony are not really child-proofed. Once tall enough to reach the handle, they easily turn open and you are out on the balcony. Sometimes Teta or the maid or whoever was there last would forget to close them and we would run out. Curiosity used to make us want to lean out as far as we could. Take a step on the first landing, put a foot on the bottom rail and you are taller than you were a few seconds ago. Reach up the top rail and lean out and your body is half-way into the sky. I do not remember what it was that we had wanted to see so bad. Some days it was my uncle down below, others it was a car that had just pulled in, and others still we were just monkeying around. We would be cautioned and called out to to "get down." Some days we headed quickly, others we had to be prodded on or even physically removed. Some days we tried to squeeze between the balusters and got an arm or a leg stuck.

On this day, though, the door was already open and I was out. Yousef must have snuck up behind me to be close. I saw him there with his car in his hand. Being the climber he is, his first thought must have been to try out this new experience. I watched him put one foot up, then the other. I called on to my mom to come take him down, "Yousef is climbing," I said, and I went on with my conversation. For some reason I did not bother taking him down myself. "Is someone watching the boy?" I asked again, still on the phone. This time he had both feet up and was proceeding upwards. Car still in hand, he reached the top railing and went flying. I was standing there, phone in hand. I saw it all. I could have dropped the phone. I could have yelled at him, stopped him, distracted him. I could held him back. I could have jumped after him. But I did not. I just let him be. I let him off the ground and into the air. I saw him soaring, then falling. I heard him laugh. I saw him smile. My last thought was "at least he went down happy." With that in my mind, I woke up. He was laying on my chest snoring away.

I am not sure what prompted this dream. Maybe it was a book I had read, or the joke Jeff and I keep, or the upcoming trip Jeff and I are taking without the kids. It might be my anxiety, or my attachment, or the Facebook status update I read before bed. Whatever it was caused me to see my only son, the one I labored and struggled and beat many odds to bring into this world, take flight. I didn't rush after him. I didn't lend him a hand. I didn't stop him. Maybe I wasn't meant to. Maybe I couldn't have. It was probably time to let him go. So I let him go. I should probably let him go.

Words of Advice

Six Words of Advice – by Tibetan teacher, Tilopa

Let go of what has passed.
Let go of what may come.
Let go of what is happening now.
Don't try to figure anything out.
Don't try to make things happen.
Relax, right now, and rest. 

                                 ~translation by Ken McLeod

Quoted in Tara Brach's guided meditation: Emptiness Dancing

Gratitude

"Gratitude unlocks the fullness of life. It turns what we have into enough, and more. It turns denial into acceptance, chaos to order, confusion to clarity. It can turn a meal into a feast, a house into a home, a stranger into a friend. Gratitude makes sense of our past, brings peace for today and creates a vision for tomorrow."

~ Melody Beattie

Today I am grateful for being able to enjoy a sit down breakfast with my family ~
on a weekday!
manakeesh bi zaatar, olives, tomatoes and tea. 

Winter outside, Summer inside

"In the depth of winter I finally learned that there was in me an invincible summer." 

Albert Camus

Thoughts and Things

I sit here and ponder. The sun has not risen yet, the rest of the family is still in bed. It is nearly 7 in the morning and the only sound I hear is that of the refrigerator starting and stopping, my fingers tapping on the keyboard. In the distance a dog barks. It is quiet all around.

Ifrane is a sleepy town. Nothing starts early. No one starts early. The weekend days are long and lazy. The week days start just a tad sooner, the hustle is in the first morning hours when the sun comes around and then it dies. Before 8 and after 9 nothing exists but God. Between those two hours students rush to school, parents rush to work and maids and nannies rush to houses. People come and people go and then it is all silent again; silent and slow.

I have always been a morning person; always having the most energy right after I wake up. I crave the morning intensity, the stores that open early, the terrains that are safe to explore with the sun. In Portland we had our porch, both front and back, for these hours. In Arlington we had our neighborhood. Here, I have the kitchen/living room; and the kids. I like to get up and go in the morning, but here I get up and stay. I stay with my family, with my loved one, with myself.

Today I sit and type and look around me. There are boxes everywhere. Our belongings have finally arrived and we are reunited again. For the past six weeks I had been “recycling” clothes, wearing the same pants over and over again and stretching their cleanliness as much as I could. I had a couple of shirts and I rotated them around, hand washing them each morning for the next day. JR and Yousef had close to no toys and we got creative with what we had. Empty plastic boxes became bath toys, powder food coloring became paint, cotton buds became brushes. A blanket doubled up as a rug, and our laps served as a high chair, our arms as a standing support. We borrowed books from the school, toys from the neighbors and company from strangers. We filled up our time with walks, with trips to the market, with time in the sand. We lived with very little, and many times it was enough.

Now we have “real” toys, many books, actual entertainment. I have my toiletries, my spices, my calcium supplements. I open box after box and find the treasures I had buried there in a split second amidst the packing: oatmeal from the bulk section at Whole Foods, chia seeds from a bag we had bought there last Fall, herbal tea from my close friend in New Hampshire, the maple syrup she had shipped to us as a gift. I find gifts for the kids, treats that Teta and Jeddo had bought for JR, shoes purchased on sale from Nordstrom, a photo of JR and me that used to sit on Jeff’s desk in DC. I see outfits that JR used to wear as a baby brought over for Yousef to don. Toys she used to play with, now resurrected for both her and her brother’s pleasure. I reunite with the homeschooling books, the dry erase crayons, the calculator. Our picnic blanket, the cooler bag, the shoe organizer.  We are back to having the bumbo seat, the excersaucer, the portable potty. Things that would have served us much better weeks ago are now here in time for the kids and I to leave them again.

These boxes and their contents take me back; they take me to where we had been, where we came from. They remind me of a time now long gone. A time where things were in abundance, in relative order, in relative harmony. Everything had its place, although we did not have much space. Was it better there? It was different. It was familiar. It was home. Most of it is here now. I over-packed. Lots of clothes, more clothes than occasions to wear them. Too many coats, too many towels.  More socks than a need for them, more variety than necessary. We have even less space. I look around and wonder where I am going to put all of this “stuff”? Where I am going to use it? It makes me wish I had not packed it all, not bought so much.

It is too late now, though. What is here is here and what is left behind is left behind. I had imagined a life where I would wear this and that, where the kids would need this and that. It was a different vision than our reality. We had been promised more space, more rooms, more area. We had packed accordingly. We did not get what we were told. Now I see us living with our stuff again, looking around for places to store them. I repack many things; some clothes leave one box, only to find their fate in another. Many towels go back into the bottom of these boxes, some toys do not even make it out. The boxes get relabeled, put away again. Stashed in a corner, covered with a sheet, waiting to be rediscovered once again.

All this makes me wonder: The bags, boxes, packing paper. The clothes piled on the couch, those dangling from the chairs. The toys strewn all around, those that are being played with. It all takes me back and brings me here, past and present, like the waves on a beach. Quick, moving, fleeting. What’s the use in wondering? What’s the point in transcending? This is here now. We are here now. We make the most of it.

The sun is coming up. The sunrise is beautiful in Ifrane. The pink and orange and yellow against a pale blue and stark white. The birds are chirping. The kids are waking up. In the next room Yousef is rolling over, crying out for Mama. JR is calling for milk. Jeff is getting up. I am snatched from  my reverie, from my writing, from my time. Life is calling. Time to go.

 

A new start

Today marks the beginning of our last month in the US. This time, plus two days, in September we will be in another country on another continent. And while our family will lead separate lives for a couple of weeks, we will reunite on September 3rd to resume our common life. Leaving North America for North Africa is at once a daunting thought and an exciting adventure.

When I left Lebanon close to ten years ago, it did not occur to me that I would leave the US for another "hometown." Jeff and I talked about it, and dreamed about it, but until the offer came unexpectedly and the letter was signed, it was all a pie in the sky. Now the order of business is to pack, pack, pack and head out.

I have mixed feelings about all of this. For years I had been perfecting my skills in America. Navigating customer service agents, dodging extra fees, understanding the fine print, asking all the right questions, reading between the lines, advocating for myself and my family, and looking out for traps set out by consumerism. I understood the insurance system, learned about the banking system, and made it through immigration and naturalization. I finally feel "at home" in this once strange place. I feel confident in my abilities now to conduct everyday business in an educated manner. I know the rules, and I know what it takes to break them. But now, after having honed my mind and rounded my knowledge, I am leaving it all behind, and filing it away.

It is difficult to leave what you know. For me, it is even more difficult to leave what I worked so hard to get to know. I do not do "change" very easily. Actually, I tend to resist change. And yet it is the only constant. It has been a rough couple of weeks leading up to this post. I slept little and thought a lot. Jeff and I rehashed the same conversation nightly; his believing in the going, my doubting it. Over and over again I would question whether this is the right decision, the right time, the right place. Many times I went over the offer, the location, the opportunity. I wondered and pondered. Finally, I prayed, and found peace.

The change will be drastic. The adjustment will be shocking. But the experience will be worthwhile. We will all miss something as we leave our current state behind and start anew. JR will miss her friends, her grandparents, her usual surroundings, her toys, her bed. I will miss the routine, the predictability, the "known."

This time next year we may be back, or we may stay. This time next year things may be better, or worse. This time next year we may have had enough or we may want more. Not much is sure, but one thing is for certain: until next year comes, I will try to make the most of what will soon be a new reality. Who knows, I may even like it!

In "her" shoes

Everyone says they grow up so fast.

 They say you will miss those days.

Enjoy it while it lasts.

I try to hold on.

To make it last.

To stretch it out longer.

But in the end, the day is the day.

It is here, then it passes.

It becomes yesterday.

You can try to capture the moment.

Keep it in a frame.

 Commit it to memory.

Try as you might.

Others have tried, too.

The reality remains;

This passes, too.

They grow up.

Fast or slow.

They grow up.

And one day (today),

JR will too.

Lessons from Bed: the Wheelchair

Each year brings its own blessings and challenges.

Last year I was able to escort Jannah-Rae to most of the activities she was invited to, or that I arranged for her. Towards the end of this year, however, I had to relinquish my status as her primary companion and depend on the generous assistance and wonderful company of our loving friends and family. It was not easy giving up the upper hand nor was it fun to miss out on the activities that still went on around me. I was never one to sit beside the driver and yet I found myself being forced to sit back, relax, and watch as the world unraveled in front of my eyes and JR continued to discover the world around her without her Mama at her side.

God has chosen me for this role, I continue to learn valuable lessons as I recline on one couch, then the other, and move from there to the bed, and at times the wheelchair.

I learned that some people are inherently gracious and went out of their way to treat help us as they saw me being wheeled about, while others were just oblivious of the world around them and actually chose to get in through the other set of doors so as not to hold them open for Jeff and I.

I learned that asking for a four-top at a restaurant was okay if it meant I had somewhere to put my feet up and stretch them out.

I learned that accepting someone's offer to carry the extra tray was not a sign of weakness. And that help with shopping bags was a treat.

I learned that being physically "unable" did not make me "less" of a person. And that I did not have to apologise for my state of being.

I learned that not all customer service assistants were indifferent and that the lady behind the desk really meant it when she said, "I know you will get better soon."

I learned that while I so desperately wanted to go on each outing, each play date, each breakfast, and each carousel ride with JR, that it was alright for me to tell her I could not. Alright, but not easy. Alright, but still heart-breaking. Heart-breaking made worse when she says: "I wish you could come with me Mama," and my knowing that this is one wish I cannot grant her. Despite that, though, I learned that I can still be a good Mama, a great Mama even, even when I am stuck in bed. And that there are still numerous ways JR and I can learn, play, grow, connect, even in the confines of four walls.

A "physical" reminder

What you see is bed rest at its best. While I was admitted to the hospital on 12/4, the wrist band is yet to come off*. You might call it laziness. I call it intentional.

Although I have had multiple occasions to have it cut off, I chose to keep wearing it a little longer. I feel like it is the materialisation of my inner voice telling me insistently to get back in bed, and stay there. It serves to hold me accountable to what I am signed up for, both willingly and unwillingly. It accompanies me when I am alone with my thoughts and whims.

It speaks of a time when time stood still and life came to a screeching halt. On December 3rd, I thought I hit the end. I saw my life flash before my eyes and prayed that this was not "it." I was not ready for this pregnancy to be over, and yet all the signs were pointing in that direction. On that sunny Monday in Arlington, my contractions grew stronger and closer together and I imagined myself being wheeled in to conclude this phase of my life. My senses heightened and panic struck in. It surely isn't time. It couldn't be time. I didn't want it to be time. All I could do is pray.

An email, a phone call and a trip to the pharmacy later, modern medicine kicked in and saved the incident. My contractions slowed down, but my mind continued to race and my body continued to change. I found myself paging the specialist early Tuesday morning: something was not quite right and I needed solid proof otherwise. Proof that could only be furnished through monitoring, prodding and probing. The 2 hours Jeff and I spent in L&D that morning were nerve-wrecking and eye opening: life changes so fast, anything can happen, and hardly anything is under your control. Then, the machines stopped and we got sent home.

Since then, I have been taking it even more easy on myself. When I thought that I could not slow down any further, I found more ways to shed off "must do's," "should do's," and "to do's." Again some people might label it laziness, but here again I call it intentional. We expect so much out of ourselves and the people around us, it is amazing we ever sit down and look around. Even on bed rest I was thinking up ways to make sure life around me continues the way I had "organized" it. But what I realised is that letting go, loosening the grip, and allowing others to do things differently is okay. In fact, it is more than okay; it is enriching. And while I had been working for a long time on "changing" myself, my perspective, my behavior, I had made little progress. Now, though, with my forced bed rest, the physical reminder I wore, and the growing belly I am carrying, that change has come to me. It has sought me out and I cannot resist it anymore. I have to give in, and I have given in. Slowly I have become a different person, and this new person is someone I am proud of and hoping will stay even long after my physical reminder is shredded.

*My OB ended up cutting it for me at my last visit on 12/10.

Lessons from Bed: The crooked frame

Yesterday marked six weeks since I have been on bed rest. I wish I can say the journey to having held my unborn baby past the first medical milestone, 24 weeks, was easy and pleasant. I wish I could say I naturally took to being confined to the 943 square feet that is our apartment, or the 76 × 80 inches that is our bed. That I have been enjoying staring out the same windows to the same views watching random people passing by, and some times none at all, day in and day out. That it is pleasant looking at the walls and the frames and the mirrors and the floors for hours at end. That going through things that need to be done, dishes that need to be cleaned, potties that need to be emptied, laundry that needs to be folded knowing very well that I cannot do any of these things is not driving me crazy. That boredom is not so set in me that the mere thought of picking up a book to read or turning on the TV seems to require more effort, concentration and will than just lying down and slowly counting the hours until another day dawns.

One might think that I now have so much time to be productive: finish that baby book, work on that scrapbook, organise these photos, read, catch up with friends, when in reality having all this time is like not having any time at all. I am a person who thrives among others, who lives to be busy, who wants to have so much to do and so little time to do it. I crave deadlines, need chores, want to cook. I also like to have time to go to yoga, read a book, blog, get a facial, take a walk, talk on the phone. But not like this. I like that time to be carved out of the time during which I am already busy. I like that break in the middle of the day when JR is napping, or at the end of the day when Jeff comes home. I like that lunch date with friends on the weekend after I spend all week complaining about not having had time to get anything done. I want the time to relax to be part of my time, not all of my time. Bed rest is not my idea of having time to flourish and shine, to catch up and move ahead.

And so, I drag along. The days have turned into weeks, and the weeks will soon become months. What do I have to show for all this time? I proudly say nothing. The baby book is still unfinished, the scrapbook is still untouched and those photos are in no better shape than they were last year. I cannot say I have read any more books, watched any more movies, or talked any more to my friends than I did when I was not on bed rest.

But, I did do something I would not have otherwise been able to do; I started letting go. I let go of my ego, my to-do list, my timetable. I let go of my impulsiveness, my always wanting to make things better, to do things differently. I learned to sit still and observe, to ask for help, to silence my thoughts. I learned that not everything needs to be done right now, and that some things are fine just left undone. So, the frame still hangs crooked, uneven, lopsided; a reminder of what I can, but do not need to, do.

The things we miss....

Mama and I have so far been one of these mother-daughter teams who rush from one place to the next trying to get things done. Hurry to the playdate, hurry back from the playdate. Eat, eat, eat. Nap time. Oh no! We are going to be late. Come on JR. Run!

While I know mama loves a well-laid plan and stresses over the smallest details, lately she has been trying to do things by "the seat of her pants, and letting them go." Change has always been her worst nightmare and biggest fear. But then I grew up and became a toddler. Suddenly, she woke up one day and realised that the key to happiness did not lie much beyond her and me. She started simplifying our dinners, and leaving mail unattended. Laundry and dishes took a backseat, and cleaning the apartment became least of her concern. She started seeing the world through my eyes. Since then, she and I have been bending the rules, stretching the limits and going through our days with open hearts and eyes.

Her new approach went on a test-drive when one day she and I set out for a walk. We took the usual road, the one we have been taking for the last two and a half years, the one that only led in one direction; the direction of the familiar.  Then, we saw a bus stop. "Mama, can I ride the bus?" It was an innocent question, and, when met with her approval it, meant a new door to the yet undiscovered. That day I taught Mama a few things;

I  taught her that I had enough patience to wait for the bus, that I really like to pay the driver, and that I could sing anywhere, anytime. The bus ride was the highlight of our day, so far, and when it was time to get off, I was a little sad. Sad, until I saw the next best thing; a fountain!

"Mama, can I?" I asked again with eyes full of plea. How far can I stretch my luck, I wondered?! We did not have a towel, a swimming suit or a change of clothes; I knew that, but I asked anyway. "Of course you can," mama surprised me with her answer. I bet she was thinking, "what did I have to lose by letting JR strip down to her undies and run naked through the water? Nothing. Nothing to lose and a lot to gain; the happiness of my child." And, I was a happy child!

Once the joy of splashing in water started wearing out, we went for a walk. We walked in a neighborhood we had only driven through. And, what difference it makes to be able to walk the streets and notice the surroundings. All this time we had been missing simple things that could have added value to our journey.

The stairs that are wide enough for me to hop down;

the neighborhood pharmacy that has a train table in the waiting area; 

another waterfall fountain that I could walk around and dip my feet into; 

and the squirrel who found a nut and was rushing to hide it.

We saw more new things in that morning alone that we had seen all week. Not only because we took a walk, but because we let ourselves be directed by our walk and not the other way around.

I have always loved my Mama, but now I love her even more for allowing me more opportunities to open my eyes and see the world around me. 

Customer Service

Customer service could go either way, good or bad. When you think about it, it takes the same amount of time to be nice as it is to be rude. And yesterday two sales people chose to be the latter.

We had just entered the clothing store when JR asked to go to the bathroom. What is a mom to do? Of course ask if she could use the store's bathroom. Knowing very well I could do that since the last time we were there I was allowed to use it not once, but twice, I innocently approached the checkout registers and asked. "We don't have one," was the first response, "but you could use the one at the bookstore next door." I was in shock! Really! I confronted her by recounting what happened the last time I was there only to be tunred down again by the other person standing there stating, "we are not allowed to do that." At this point I was mad beyond belief at the rudeness; it was a simple request for a little girl. What was the big deal?

I stormed out of the store, took care of JR and then went home to type out a customer service feedback online about my experience. I am now waiting for the response; should I ever get one.

I do not know why this has stayed with me for this long. I usually try to let go of things in a timely manner. But there was something about being turned down, and they way that it happened, that made me feel like it was a personal insult, an injury to motherhood. Maybe they do not have kids of their own so they do not know about potty training. Or maybe they do have kids of their own and just want to make things difficult for me like perhaps they are for them. I cannot really tell why people act they way they do. I can certainly control the way I react to their actions, but this time they got the best of me for a little longer than they should have.