Ahead

Tip #2

Do not purchase white canvas pants for your crawling 11 month old, no matter how cute they are.

Particuarly if you don't manage to mop the floors very often (ahem).







(Sadly, this picture doesn't even do justice to the dirt, grease and grime left as more evidence of bad parenting on her pants.)

Surprise

A few weeks ago I thought I was pregnant.

Let us count the ways this is crazy:

1. It took us over a year to conceive Isaac. Granted, it only took 2 months to conceive Vivian, but that was just some sort of cosmic joke, the universe's way of teaching me--"Be careful what you wish for".
2. I am on the pill. I have not missed a day. Or taken an antibiotic. Or done anything to interfere with its 99% effectiveness rate.
3. Lance and I have not been feeling very (ahem) amorous lately, so while you couldn't call it The Immaculate Conception, it would be close.

Still, there I was, feeling tired, and crampy, and irritable. Wanting a steak, of all things! Getting dizzy for no apparent reason! Ohmigod, my boobs are sore! It's Monday, and I haven't started my period yet! Jesus, this one will only be 22 months younger than Vivian! Holy shit, I won't be able to drink for another year! Fuck Fuck Fuck, I have to get all the crappy maternity clothes out of the garage! Lance is going to kill me! We'll never fit 3 kids in this house! How will we pay for preschool?* . .. .

And so on. Until Tuesday morning, which I suddenly remember, is the time I usually get my period once I start the week of placebo pills.

Did you ever read this? That last sentence has been bouncing around in my brain since I read it a few months ago. There doesn't exist a better description of the way I felt.

I'll just retype it here, in case you're too lazy to go to the page I so nicely linked for you:

"All the cells in your brain are cheering — throwing their pompoms in the air and turning cartwheels, their little white skirts flipping up while they yell, "Not, not pregnant! N-O-T! P-R-E!! G-N-A-N-T!!!"
But your heart — your greedy, irrational heart — is sitting on the curb with its head in its hands."**


*Susanna, if you're reading this, one of my first thoughts was also, "How the hell am I going to tell Susanna? This is so unfair!"

**I want to give proper credit, so if you don't go to the link, know this was written by Catherine Newman, who writes "Bringing up Ben and Birdy" for Parentcenter.

Isaac the Terrible

Isaac is two. And up until this weekend, I've been pretty okay with that. He has his meltdowns and his temper tantrums, but generally I can keep him under control. It's actually been much easier than those terrible times from 16 -22 months when he couldn't quite understand me. I would tell him to stay out of the street but he wouldn't understand why. Or I would threaten him with a time out if he didn't stop kicking his sister, but he wouldn't get it. Now that we can have actual conversations, it's much easier for me to control him.

For the last few months I've been halfway holding my breath, waiting for the terrible twos to kick in. And I've started thinking that I've really got this parenting thing down, because here Isaac is, in the midst of the terrible twos, and he's actually a pretty good, easy kid.

Now would be a great time to start laughing.

This weekend, my pretty good, easy kid disappeared. And left in his place an irrational, demanding, stubborn whirling dervish. On Sunday morning, he had been in time-out 5 times before 9 o'clock. He got into the spice drawer again, tore apart the dustbuster, got grease all over himself from playing with the lawn-mower, and refused to get dressed. Although he spent a good part of the morning in hysterics, truly I was the one in need of professional help. You might expect a two year old to be having a tantrum on a Sunday morning; you would not expect his 35 year old mother to be on the floor outside his room, weeping and pleading, "please, please Isaac, please can't you be a good boy?" (And Isaac yells from inside, "Be good boy! Isaac no like good boy!")

Sadly, for Lance and I, the appearance of Isaac the Terrible coincided with the morning after a barbecue we hosted for 10 of our friends. Good times, good fun, good beer, late night. Sunday morning started at 6 am with a chorus of "Mommy! Mommy! Isaac want to get up!" and "Shhoogagg dad dada bwah!" It went quickly downhill from there. In my defense (though when is a hangover a "good" excuse?) the weeping and pleading may have been in response to the pounding headache, the chalk mouth and the exhaustion as well as to the whirling dervish who ate my son.

Now, most of our day goes by like this, "No! Isaac don't like shirt! Isaac like Grover shirt! No Grover shirt! Isaac don't like Grover shirt! Isaac like elephant! Isaac want to ride elephant! Don't get dressed! No! Nooooo! Isaac like to get up! Isaac don't like quiche! Isaac don't like sandwich! No sandwich! Isaac like french fries! I like french fries, Mom! Mom, I don't like sandwich! Isaac like ice cream! I like to play toys! Nooo! I don't like night-night! I don't like that story! Isaac want to pick out story! No . . . .

Thursday, I got a hint of this monster to come. Isaac was in his room, refusing to nap. After about 40 minutes, I went in to check on him. He had pooped, so I leaned in to pick him up out of the crib. And got grease all over my shirt.

"Wha. .?" That's when I noticed that Isaac's hair seemed wet, and shiny. And the sheets were shiny. There was grease all over the crib. And also an empty jug of Aquaphor. (Aquaphor is heavy duty lotion, vaseline-like in texture.) He had shimmied his crib over to the changing table, opened the jar and spread the lotion all over the place. On his hair, on his clothes, on the walls, on the teddy bears.

So that is what I've been doing the last few days. Trying to survive life with my little tyrant.

Where is Vivian during all this, you ask? Hmm. Well, in a spectacular show of good parenting this morning, I allowed her to fall from the tray of her high chair (about 3 feet off the ground) to the hardwood floor.

The high chair sits in the breakfast nook, which is just off the kitchen. When I am in the kitchen, as I was this morning, I can't see the high chair around the corner. Not a problem, as once I put Vivian in the chair, she can't get out. Or so I thought. In fact, so sure was I of this fact that even when Isaac said this morning, "Vivi, sit down!" I never thought for a minute that she had managed to crawl out of the seat and onto the tray. I didn't even turn around. I just thought Isaac was being goofy. THUNK.

She is fine, fortunately. (Sitting at the doctor's office for 1.5 hours with a tired and possibly brain damaged 11 month old did nothing to improve my mood, as you might imagine.) I, on the other hand, have nominated myself for mother of the year, and hope that you will vote for me.

If you're not sure I deserve your vote, here's something else: The reason I can't strap Vivian into the highchair is that a few weeks ago I had to throw away the straps, since they were so covered in mold from old crusty food, they were growing penicillin.

Happy Monday.

Finding Yonder

You must, must must read this.

Extreme Makeover: Home Edition

Why have I not heard of this show? Do you watch it? Do you cry and cry and cry?

Last night, I happened on it since my husband was watching basketball on our television with tivo. They had a family on--a father and 3 boys, all under 5--who had recently lost their mother to leukemia. She was 28 when she died. And Extreme Makeover came and built them a new house, they held a fund-raiser in the community and people donated $150, 000!

I am a sap. I know this. But really, you would have cried too, if you saw it.

And I hate reality tv! But this was awesome.

Let me find a link.

Here you go, Lori!

Today I received an email from a very good friend. In part, she said:
"As I've said over and over I love reading your blog so that I feel like I have a glimpse into what your daily life is about -- same as mine, hectic. Anyway, my favorite part are the pictures. You haven't posted any recent ones lately -- do you have any new ones? "

And you all know I can't resist whoring my children out to all the internet freaks just so people will tell me how cute they are.

Not too mention it makes for really easy blogging.

Leave me and my questionable parenting skills alone!

Yesterday morning I went out to the car with Isaac on our way to preschool. I planned to put him in, then go back to the house for Vivian and my purse. Unfortunately, the car was locked and I didn't have my keys with me.

"Hold on a sec!" I called to him, and turned to go back in the house.

Our house is close to the street, but it is not a very busy street, and most people don't drive that fast. Granted, at that hour of the morning there are more cars, and cars driving faster than usual, but still, it's not a freeway. Isaac is well aware that he cannot go into the street without holding my hand. So I wasn't worried about leaving him out front for the 3 minutes it would take me to grab the keys.

But as I turned, a car slowed down in front of the house. There was a woman inside, and she was pointing to Isaac. I waved at her, and called out, "I see him!"

She didn't drive away. She stayed there, in front of my house, even though I was waving at her, until I finally turned around and started walking back towards Isaac.

Maybe she didn't hear me. Maybe she thought I didn't know he was out there (he was on the other side of my car, not in my line of vision). Maybe she thought he was about to run out into the street.

Or maybe she just thought I was a complete shit of a mother and she needed to wait to make sure I didn't endanger my son any further.

It truly pissed me off. But I realize that she was just trying to protect my son. I probably should be grateful that she even cared enough for a total stranger to take time out of her morning. Though it seems to me that once I waved at her to let her know I had the situation under control, she should have driven her self-righteous self away.

Blogging Lite

Here's a personality quiz, compliments of Mimilou. I don't usually post these, since more often than not I don't think they describe me very well. However, this one seems fairly accurate. Maybe I like it because it is flattering. (I took a test via Psycho Kitty the other day that found me violent and malicious, and I sure as hell didn't post that one.)

you are lightcyan #E0FFFF

Your dominant hues are green and blue. You're smart and you know it, and want to use your power to help people and relate to others. Even though you tend to battle with yourself, you solve other people's conflicts well. Your saturation level is very low - you have better things to do than jump headfirst into every little project. You make sure your actions are going to really accomplish something before you start because you hate wasting energy making everyone else think you're working. Your outlook on life is very bright. You are sunny and optimistic about life and others find it very encouraging, but remember to tone it down if you sense irritation.

the spacefem.com html color quiz

Dreaming

I am sitting in my bed, in pajamas, in the middle of the day. My sister is with me, and we are talking about the triplets (!) that I just gave birth to. Although I just gave birth to them, they are clearly about 1 year old, and all three of them look exactly like the (not very cute) little sister of one of Isaac's pre-school buddies.

Me: I just don't understand why he had to sign the birth certificates without me.
Ann: well, you were under anesthesia for so long, he had to.
Me: But why did he pick those names?
Ann: He had no choice. You were unconcious for days. I'm just glad you finally woke up. It's a good thing we could take you home while you were out, or we'd still be at the hospital.
Me: How can my children be named this? Carys?* Ophelia? Trevia?
Ann: Don't worry, just use nicknames. Carys can be Carrie, Ophelia is Leah, Trevia is Via.



*This name appearing in my dream was a clue: I read a blog the other day about a couple with triplets. I think they were European, and one of their triplets was named Carys--a name I have never heard before. I had forgotten about it until I woke up and remembered the dream, and the name.

Biological Clock

Over the weekend Lance and I gossiped a little. For whatever reason, many of our friends are still single, although we are all in our mid- to-late-thirties. We talked about why this might be so, and who might be getting close to settling down, and who was a lost cause, and so on. And it got me thinking about what our children will be doing when they are in their mid-to-late-thirties.

I proposed this hypothetical question to Lance:

"Which would be worse: that Vivian marries her high school sweetheart at 19, or that she is still unmarried at 38?"

We couldn't decide. Neither one of us want her to get married young, and miss out on all the life that happens in the years from 18 to 30. I would be worried that the person she loves at 19 may not be the right person for her at 35. But at the same time, I wouldn't want her to miss out on having children. I wouldn't want her to be lonely. So I wouldn't want her to be single at 38.

Once we agreed that there was no way to answer that hypothetical question, I posed another one to Lance:

"Okay, same question, but this time with Isaac. Which one do you pick?"

And of course, we both said: "Without question, better for him to be single at 38."

Mama said

My sister was born August 21st, 1967 in Chapel Hill, North Carolina. My father had just started his junior year in college; my mother was 20 years old. They had been married for 7 months. Two and a half years later I was born. My grandmother sent my mother a letter, advising her about birth control.

This August, my sister will turn 38. My parents are still married. This feat should be attributed to both of them, but since it's Mother's Day, I'll just talk about Mom.

My parents moved back to their home town when Dad finished law school. By then they had been married 4 years and had two kids. Everyone in town was just waiting for them to get divorced. My mom was 24 years old. They had very little money, but Dad had a job at a local law firm, and they were determined. Eventually, he started his own firm, and after struggling for several years, his hard work began to pay off. My brother was born in 1975, and by 1978 we had moved to a "nice" area of town, in a big house. In 1980, in 5th grade, I started private school. My brother went to private school his whole life.

The years from 1972 to 1980 were a struggle. My dad worked very long hours, and when he had weekends off, he unwound by going to the golf course. My memories of early childhood revolve completely around my mother, and sometimes my maternal grandparents. Dad doesn't figure much, except as the enforcer of punishments. My sister and I were mostly afraid of him.

But, back to Mom. She was young. She had two children, and little money. She had an entire community watching her, expecting her to fail. Her husband was largely absent from family life. But, I knew none of this. All I knew was that she loved me, that she thought I was special, that whatever I needed I could get from her.

I'm not going to tell you that she never raised her voice. Or that she was the sweet, cookie-baking, pant-sewing Donna Reed type mom. She did yell when we deserved it--and maybe sometimes when we didn't. Sometimes she'd make cookies, but more often it was Rice Krispy treats, and we were the ones making them, with her supervision. She also sewed, but only as a last resort when we couldn't afford new clothes.

She let us play for hours, unsupervised, in the woods behind our subdivision. (I know, a different time, but I wonder how different I might be today if all my play had been supervised, like it is these days.) She taught me to play in the dirt, to climb trees, to not be afraid of bugs.

She read all the Little House books to us, and Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, and The Mouse and the Motorcycle. She taught us to care about other people, never to judge by appearances, and to be friendly. When we were older, she practiced field hockey and lacrosse with us, she stroked my hair when the girls at junior high turned on me, she helped us pick out the right clothes to wear the first day of school.

After my brother was born, my mother went back to college, at night, and earned her degree. In 1981 she went to work for my father. I am a stay-at-home-mom, like my mother was until my adolescent years. It is the hardest thing I've ever done. I am 35 years old. My husband comes home from work every day and helps me--a lot. I cannot imagine being 24 years old, pregnant, and taking care of two children all day long with no help.

I know there are plenty of younger mothers out there even today. This astounds me, since my own early twenties was a very selfish time for me. I graduated from college, got a half-way decent job, and spent the rest of the time partying. It was all about me, and what fun I would be having the next evening, the next weekend, the next party. It was great. There is no way I could have been a mother in that time. Being a mother requires too much sacrifice for my 24 year old self.

Yet my mom did it, and didn't complain (that I heard, anyway). She never got to live on her own. She never got to come and go when she pleased without worrying about anyone else. She went from college, where she needed written permission from her father to leave campus, to being a mother, where she couldn't leave if she wanted to, because who would watch the baby? She never was able to leave work on a Friday afternoon and decide to head to the beach with some friends at the last minute. She never got to spend her whole paycheck on outrageously priced and impractical shoes. She never got to plan a wedding, or wear a wedding dress.

She will tell you that she doesn't miss these things. That she was able to do many of them in her late 40s and early 50s, when all her children were grown. That it wasn't as hard as I paint it. And maybe that is the best thing she taught me: be happy with what you have. Be grateful for what you have, because it could be a lot worse.

I have always felt completely at ease with Mom. Which is not to say I tell her everything: I don't, and there are plenty of things she wouldn't want to know. But we have a comfortable, easy relationship. When we get together we laugh a lot, we gossip, we rarely argue. Fortunately, when we start to get on each other's nerves, we simply hang up the phone. Not living in close proximity has perhaps made it easier to forgive each other our faults.

You see what is happening here? I keep thinking of more things I want to tell you about my mother. But I need to save some things for her birthday, and next year. So I'll just leave you with a visual:


Here she is, with Vivian last summer

Happy Mother's Day.

Keeping up with the Joanna's

Yesterday I met the neighbor's daughter and nanny. They just live a few houses up, and I've seen them on walks and such when I'm inside blogging. But I've never had the chance to meet them. The little girl's name is Joanna, and she is 8 months old.

She is twice the size of Vivian. And I don't mean fat, I just mean bigger, and sturdier. As in, she looks like she is 3 or 4 months older than Vivian, not the other way around.

Also, she is practically walking. The nanny can hold onto her hands and walk her up and down the street. Vivian is way too unsteady on her feet for that. Furthermore, she has no interest, and would much rather be carried. Joanna looks every bit like an almost-toddler, while Vivian is still a baby.

I know that babies develop on their own time-table. I know that she is in the "range" for normal, even if she's on the low end of that range. I know that plenty of babies are even "slower" than she is and still are considered "normal". Most of the time--say 98% of the time--I am completely okay with her development. In fact, I welcome it. I remember Isaac at this age, and he was into everything. All day long was a chorus of no, no no, and it wore me out. Vivian is more mellow, and that makes my life easier.

But seeing her with 8 month old Joanna made me feel icky, nonetheless. Why has she been late with every milestone? Why doesn't she have any interest in standing, or cruising? Why doesn't she have any teeth, for pete's sake?

I hate this part of being a mother!

The Name Game

Last night after putting Isaac to bed, Lance came and asked me, "Is there really a kid named Percy in Isaac's school?"
"Yeah, and there's a Darby, too."
"Oh, but Percy is way worse than Darby."
"Bad, yes. But not worse than Darby."

And then we continued to argue about which was the worse name, and what other terrible names we had heard.

Which is funny, since many people look at us with horror when we tell them we named our son Isaac.

When we told my grandfather Isaac's name, he said--"Oh. What are you going to call him?"
"Uh, Isaac."
"Oh. No nickname? Or anything else? Just Isaac?"
"Right. His name is Isaac. So we'll call him Isaac."
"Oh."

If Vivian had been a boy, she would have been Timothy, after a friend of ours. When I told my grandmother, she said, "Oh, that would have been great! I wish she had been a boy!"

Naming is so individual, and people have such strong opinions about names. I just hope my kids grow up liking their names well enough. They don't have to love them, but I don't want them to hate them. Time will only tell.

Oh, didn't I tell you?

Today I took the kids to meet Lance for lunch at a little Mexican place near his work. We were having a reasonably good time until this exchange:

Lance: Oh, yeah--we're having Mother's Day at our house.
Me: *crickets*
Me: What?
Lance: Yeah, Dad just told me. We're doing Mother's Day at our house.
Me: This Mother's Day? As in 4 days from now?
Lance: Yeah.
Me: What?
Lance: We're doing Mother's Day. At our house. This weekend. You know--Mom, Dad, the grandmothers, my brother, Marisa. . .
Me: Huh.
Lance: What's the problem?
Me: So for Mother's Day, my gift is to throw a party for my in-laws?
Lance: No, I'm throwing the party. You won't have to do a thing.
Me: Huh.
Me: Why do you think your dad doesn't want to do it at their house?
Lance: Because it's Mother's Day--he doesn't want Mom to have to do any work.
Me: Right.
Lance: No, no no. You're not having to do any work either. I'll do it all. You just take the kids and leave Sunday morning and I'll do all the cleaning, everything.
Me: So my Mother's Day gift is to babysit the kids all morning?
Lance: Fine, I'll take the kids. You don't have to do anything.
Me: Uh huh. Just remember, babe, Father's Day is coming up.
Lance: I know. What's the big deal? You're not going to have to do anything.
Me: Okay. Payback's a bitch. Remember that.
Me: You know I haven't seen my dad in awhile. Maybe for Father's Day I'll invite him out here for the weekend. And hey, I know! You could take him golfing!

Wondering

If you have been a lifetime smoker and in your late 50s/early 60s you are diagnosed with lung cancer, how do you react?

Do you accept it "graciously"? After all, you've been smoking for 30 some years. Or do you get angry and wonder, why me? Nevermind the fact that people have been warning you about this for years.

It has been years since I had a cigarette, and I was never a hardcore smoker. I smoked around a pack a week through my early twenties, and gave it up fairly easily. For me, the addiction was the ritual of smoking (the lighting of the match, the tapping of the ashes, etc), not the nicotine.

Last night Lance received an email from our realtor, who sold us this house four years ago. In it she relayed the fact that her surgeon had confirmed lung cancer. Obviously, she did not mean to cc Lance; we haven't spoken to her in years. I feel horrible for her--what a devastating diagnosis. But on the other hand, she was a hardcore smoker--also a heavy drinker--so shouldn't she have "seen it coming?"

One of the reasons this is giving me pause is that in many ways--especially about health--I am pretty blase. I tend to take the attitude: "Oh, that won't happen to me." I wear barefeet all summer. If I drop food on my floors, I am apt to eat it anyway, despite the fact that I am not a good housecleaner. I use sponges, even though people keep telling me I'm just wiping the germs around. I don't wash my hands before every meal. I don't always rinse all my vegetables. I don't worry about infections when I get a pedicure. When I smelled mold under the family room rug after all the rains this winter, I just figured it would dry out soon enough (it did).

So I'm thinking, when I get e. coli from the green onions that I didn't wash well enough, will that serve me right? Am I just tempting fate by being so lazy?

Because don't you think that's what smokers tell themselves? "Yeah, yeah I know you can get cancer, but I won't."

What do you think?

Yesterday next to the playground, a carnival had been set up. So we decided to go.

Look! Rides! What Fun!

Sadly, the rides are much better in theory than in practice.

Whee!

Here she is again. Just LOVING the standing up, I tell you.



In other news, she has finally outgrown size 2 diapers! And some of her 3-6 month clothes!

Houston, we have lift off

This morning, the children woke up around 6:15. They actually played together--giggling and bouncing around-- quite well for 1/2 hour or so. Eventually, though, they got bored and both started crying. When I went into their room, this is what I saw:



Vivian had finally pulled up to standing! Of course, then she couldn't get down (hence, the crying). But still, this was an exciting day. She has been pulling up to her knees for weeks, but this was the first time she got all the way up to her feet. Is she not the most amazing baby you've ever seen?

(I am aware that many babies pull up much sooner than this. I'm sure your baby was walking at 10 months. Keep that to yourself, bi-atch. I remain completely impressed by my own daughter, and you can't stop me!)

Huh.

Earlier today I had written a really magnificent post about the Muscular Dystrophy Association, and how happy I am that Isaac will be part of their Hop-A-thon this year, through his pre-school. I get to sponser him, per hop, and ask all my "neighbors, friends, and family" to do the same.

But then Blogger ate it. I thought--"Wait! That's okay! Blogger has a new 'recover post' button!" Unfortuately, this button is "not guaranteed to work all the time". So instead, you are left with this.

A stupid non-post.


P.S. Anyone want to sponser Isaac? He doesn't know how to hop, so no matter what you pledge, I don't see how you'll end up owing anything. I myself am pledging $10,000 per hop.

It's Alright to Cry*

A few months ago I got a speeding ticket. I was driving along a road right near my house, that I travel all the time. The posted speed limit there is 35 mph. It is a fairly busy street, and unless the traffic is bad, people generally drive 40-50 mph. That day was no different. I happened to be the last car in a line of cars, all driving around 45-50 mph. I had no idea I was speeding; I was simply driving with the flow of traffic.

That day had been a particularly bad day already. I was worried about Isaac, since his pediatrician had told us in no uncertain terms to get him to a specialist. I was worried about money, since Lance's car had just been diagnosed with a $3000 problem, not covered under the warranty. I was tired, since Vivian had not slept well the night before. I don't remember what else, but I remember feeling fragile as I carted the kids around for errands.

When the policeman turned on his light (he was driving a motorcycle, I didn't even see him behind me) and motioned for me to pull over, I panicked. I started crying. Not sobbing, but slight shaking with tears, no noise. All I could think was, how much would this cost? And how could I have been speeding, when everyone else was driving this fast??

Here's the kicker. Although I was crying as I pulled over, I immediately got control of myself so that by the time the officer came to the window, I was composed. I even smiled at him. I apologized, dutifully handed over my license and registration, and then as soon as he returned to his bike, started crying again.

This time in addition to already stated reasons, I was crying because I was such an idiot. Why couldn't I cry in front of the officer, like everyone else? For God's sake, if there was a time to use tears to my advantage, this was it. And they wouldn't even be fake tears! But, nooo. I was too afraid to look like a fool in front of a police officer who I would never see again.

I don't know why it's taken me so long to blog about this. I've been thinking about it since it happened. I guess it's more of the same: I am too embarrassed to blog about being too embarrassed to show my true emotions.

For as long as I can remember, I have been deathly afraid to look stupid or foolish in front of other people. I realize nobody wants to look like this, but for me, the fear is particularly strong. Ironically, it has caused me to look stupid on numerous occasions. For example, someone will say something that I either don't hear or don't understand. But instead of admitting this, I just nod and smile and hope that the rest of the conversation will enlighten me. Invariably, because of the smiling and the nodding, I end up agreeing to something I don't mean to agree to.

In school, my comments were always along the lines of "Amy has a lot to offer, but she is much too reticent in class." In fact, I learned the word reticent from my report cards. But--God Forbid!--raise my hand? Admit that I know the answer? What if I was wrong? What if everyone stared at me? OHMIGOD don't make me speak aloud in class.

When I was 17, my best friend, "S", got into a fender bender in front of the home of another friend of mine "C". S and C had only met once, since C went to a different school, and was one year behind us. Being (naive, dramatic, scared) 17, S freaked out. She didn't know what to do, so she walked to C's house and knocked on the door. Then, crying the whole time, she introduced herself to C's mom and asked for help. C's mom helped her call the police (there was extensive damage to both cars), exchange information with the other driver and get through the whole ordeal. When S told me this story later, I was completely stunned. If that had happened to me, I would NEVER have had the nerve to ring the doorbell of a person I had only met once, especially given the fact that said person might not even be there and I might have to instead deal with an adult! And certainly not if I was crying, or had just committed some kind of mistake. I probably would have just smiled and nodded when the other driver said something like, "Well I don't want to get my insurance involved so here I'll just give you a check for $100, okay?"

(Of course, I didn't admit to S that this action of hers was so unfathomable to me. I just acted like, oh, of course that's what you do when you're in that kind of situation. In fact, the only way S will ever know how much I admired her at that moment is if she reads this post. Hi, S!)

I really hate this about myself. Why am I so afraid to admit a mistake? What do I think will happen if the police officer sees me cry? In my rational brain, I tell myself--hey! Cry now! He will feel sorry for you and give you a break! But my emotional response to that is so strong--"No way! Get a grip on yourself! Don't let him see you're upset!--that rationality has no chance.

Well, I'm not sure where this is going. The fact is that if I got pulled over tomorrow, I'd react the same way. If I pronounce your name incorrectly I will never again be able to look you in the eye, and will avoid you at all costs. If you mumble or speak with a thick accent, give up communicating effectively with me. Further, if you misunderstand me, know that I will not correct you until I absolutely have to, resulting in embarrassment for both of us. The moral of this story? I'm an idiot. But you already knew that. Cheers!

*Can you guess what this title is from?

These pictures were not taken this weekend.

Because it was cold this weekend.

However, I wish it had been nice.

So I am pretending they were.

Unfair

Dreaming--of changing poopy diapers--during the only time in the whole night when 1. I actually fell asleep and 2. Neither child was crying.

Sadness

Well, we suspected it would happen. But still, to lose your 7 best players? That's 2 more than plays at any given moment, for you basketball infants. The national championship rings are still being resized, but already we are mourning.

Though I can't really blame them. They got us the trophy, how can I ask more than that? Good luck, Sean. Ray. Jawad. Jackie. Rashad. Melvin. Marvin. We will miss you!



Oh, by the way. My friend David burned me a mixed Bruce Springsteen cd, which I am listening to right now. I am in love with it. I have been in love with Bruce for as long as I can remember, and now that I live in California, where many people do not appreciate him, I love him even more.

This is what came off my hardwood floors this morning

It's only a vaccuum

But. Oh, you would not believe the dirt it gets off the floor. The dust mites! The cat hair! The little bits of deodarant Isaac mashed all over the carpet!




Best $600 (gulp!) I--oops, I mean my mother--ever spent. (You didn't really think I have $600 extra to spend, didja?)

Fairy Blog Mother

Brought to you by Three Kid Circus via Petroville: Thank Your Fairy Blog Mother Day.

My first Fairy is Psycho Kitty. Without her, I would still be (blissfully?) unaware that blogs even existed. She left her link on the Bringing Up Ben and Birdy sight, I followed it, and the rest is history. Well, okay, here's the history: I read her blog obsessively for ages, then followed her blogroll to read other blogs obsessively, then finally, tentatively, started my own. I kept reading her blog, never leaving a comment, until one day she somehow tracked me down and commented here. With her encouragement I became brave enough to leave comments on the blogs I visited and before I knew it, people were also coming here, and leaving me comments. And that is how I became a comment whore. Psycho Kitty's blog is deep and meaningful, global and silly, and most of all, beautifully written. A while back she wrote a post that included this phrase: "my dear, darling blog friends, you groovy angels of goodwill, scattered all about like hidden treasure." You see? Good stuff.

Next would be Amy B. She is the first person-- before Psycho Kitty, even-- to leave me a comment, and she continues to be supportive. I about had a stroke the first time I noticed her comment, since I had thought I was writing in a complete void. Fortunately for me she is kind, and generous, and didn't criticize. She is a young mother and I am truly amazed that someone her age can do all the things that I do, but with so much more patience and without the benefit of the wisdom (?) that comes with the grey hairs. She recently started her own blog, go check her out!

Finally, Trisha at Least of My Worries. If you haven't checked her out, do it now. Her blog is fresh and unique every day, and a complete inspiration to me. Her son Robbie is beyond adorable, and Trisha herself is nurturing and smart and sweet and kooky. Couldn't ask for a better combination. Once a commenter (Catherine) left this description of her blog, and it is so right on, I'm copying it here for you: "Your blog is like one of those perfect little shops you stumble on in a weird town, with a million lovely things, old and wonderful things, things like nothing else you've ever seen before. Treasures."

Thanks to all of you, I am here today. Blogging has been almost a godsend to me, and already I'm not sure what I did before this. It is an outlet, a challenge and a social venue for me--3 things a stay-at-home mom sorely needs.

NoYes

A most terriblewonderful thing has happened since Isaac started pre-school.

He has new expressions. That I have not taught him. That I have no idea from whence they came. For example:

Until pre-school, he would reply "Okay" for any yes answer.
"Isaac, do you want to go to the playground?""Okay."
"Did you like that song?" "Okay."
"Is your foot stuck?" "Okay."
"Is it time for Elmo?" "Okay."

But now, he has added "Yep." to his repertoire. And also, "Um, yeah."

I know it sounds like a little thing, but it feels enormous. Just a tiny change in his lingo, but a change that I had nothing to do with. I'm embarrassed to admit that this devastates me, just a little.

You see, up until this point, everything that Isaac has learned, I have been a part of. These new words do not come from me. They do not even come from another person that I know. They come from school, a place where I will never be with him.

On the one hand, it's really cute to hear his new words. He's doing so well at school, learning how to get along with other kids, learning to share, learning new phrases. I'm proud of the way he has taken to school, and it's nice that he can have such a great time without me. But still, it's without me. This is the very beginning of his venture to become a person in his own right, separate from me, and maybe I'm not quite ready for it.

Some other things he says now:
"More, please!" in a sing-songy way.
"No, thanks."
"Nope."
And my personal favorite, "NoYes."

I don't think he even knows what that one means, but he's been saying it pretty regularly. I have to ask him, "What does that mean? No or yes?" And he'll answer, "Okay." Or, "Yeah."

If you were to ask me: Am I proud of my little guy for acclimating so well to pre-school?, I'd have to answer:

"NoYes."

10 months

Dearest Vivian,

Today you are 10 months old. 10 months! That is just 2 months shy of 1 year! You are practically a toddler! Apologies for the exclamation points, but your mother is having difficulty grasping the concept.

This month you have been sick. Pretty much all month. First a cold with an ear infection, then a cold, then another cold, then the barfing flu. Fun times, all around. I'm not sure where you are picking up all the germs, since I don't have you in daycare, and of course that's where all the germs live. At least, that's what people will tell you if you mention you might put your baby in daycare and go back to work.

I could blame your brother, since he is in pre-school, but the truth is he has only been there a week or so, and that's the only week this month you haven't been sick. So you must be getting sick from the germs I have not cleaned sufficiently off the floor. Sorry, sweetheart, but your mama is not the best house-cleaner. Especially floors. How I hate to do floors! I can't wait until you're older, then that can be your chore. What should we have Isaac do? How 'bout the toilets? Sounds like a plan to me!

Throughout all your ailments, sweet daughter, you have continued to smile and bring joy, fussing only marginally, even when you are so congested it hurts me to hear you breathe. In fact, you don't really fuss much at all, sick or not. You are pretty much the most contented, mellow baby I've ever known.

Now we all know that your brother was the world's best infant. And I'm sorry, he's definitely got you beat there. As an infant, you were a little more demanding. But now that you are out of the newborn stage and approaching the toddler stage, you have really come into your own. You can spend hours examining the ficus leaves that fall incessantly to the ground in the family room. Or you'll crawl over to the book case and pull book after book to the floor, flipping through them like I flip through magazines at the doctor's office. It astounds me how easily you entertain yourself, at such a young age. Isaac has only recently been able to play by himself for periods of time. But you, my independent little munchkin, you enjoy the time to yourself.

Maybe it's because you are the second child, and already you've had to fend for yourself so much more than Isaac ever did. Or maybe it's because you take after me, and prefer the ruminations of your own brain than that of others. Maybe it's because you spend so much time with your hyper brother, and sometimes, you just like some peace. Whatever the reason, I think it's fabulous. And though you might think I'm ignoring you when I leave you to yourself and run off to the computer room to blog, you should know that I peek out at you often, and watch you as you explore your way around the room, picking up and discarding an old toy, ripping open a magazine with delight, or chewing on Elmo's fingers greedily.

Speaking of chewing, two things: First, you have no teeth. That is correct, at 10 months old you have yet to sprout a tooth, nor do you show any signs of doing so any time soon. This is fine with me, as I like nothing better than your toothless, gummy grin. Teeth change your face so much, turn you from sweet baby to infuriating toddler faster than learning to walk. The only drawback to this is that we haven't tried any finger foods with you yet. I'm too paranoid that you will choke. So no Cheerios for you, my love!

Second, you are not very oral. You love to explore your world, pick things up in your hands, but you don't put them in your mouth very often. So I don't worry so much when you pick up the ficus leaves, or whatever other dirt is on the floors, because it doesn't usually end up in your mouth. This weekend we went to the beach, and just like your brother, you loved picking up the smooth rocks the waves washed in. But unlike him, you just passed them from hand to hand, never dreaming to put them in your mouth. This is a good thing, because everyone knows the Santa Monica Bay is polluted, and in fact, when your brother was your age, he did just that, and ended up with diarrhea for 10 days. Yes, this is a good life motto for you: do not put anything foreign in your mouth unless Mommy okays it.

One thing that has started this month which is just like your brother: the diaper olympics. For some reason babies your age hate having their diapers changed. Or maybe it's just they hate being on their backs. Whatever it is, changing your diaper has become a real struggle. As soon as I lay you down, you grab the railing of the changing table with one hand and whip your whole body over onto its stomach. This makes for a really cute view of your teensy tiny bottom. Unless of course I haven't managed to wipe it clean yet. Then, not so cute.

Something else about diapers: you are still really small, so you wear size 2 diapers. These are diapers for babies that are 3-6 months old. We all know that you are 10 months old now. No problem, except for the fact that while you only fit into diapers for a 3-6 month old, you definitely pee enough for a 10 month old. So at nighttime, you often wet yourself. They don't make overnight diapers for babies' your size. Which means yours truly is changing your sheets ALL THE TIME. Please, little lady, either grow enough to fit in size three or stop peeing so much!

Vivan, this is the month that we stopped breastfeeding. This was a terrible time for your mom, because I felt like my body had failed you. But you took it completely in stride. You don't mind bottles one bit. You probably like them better, since it's easier for you to get what you need out of them. When I am feeding you, you fidget. You wave your hand in the air, or kick your legs. Sometimes you clap your little feet together as you drink. No joke.

Speaking of clapping, we have taught you how to do that. With your hands, I mean. You're getting really good at it, I'm proud to report. We've also showed you how to give a high five. Really, it's amazing the things you can do.

Oh, and guess what? Yesterday I think we officially heard your first word. "Hi" you said, and waved your little hand. I've heard you say it twice more, at semi-appropriate times, so I'm counting it. I have heard the same sound when you are babbling to yourself and obviously not saying hi--but then again, who am I to say what you are babbling about? Perhaps you are simply re-introducing yourself to yourself.

I need your help in one area, however. Your sleeping habits still leave a bit to be desired. You are 10 months old, dear wonderful child, and you still do not sleep through the night regularly. You much prefer waking up once for a bottle and then for the day at 5:30 am. This does not work for me. I need you to go to sleep happily at 7:30pm, sleep all night with no sound until 7am. Can't you please work on that?

Oh, and naps. Let's talk about naps for a minute. For the longest time, your morning nap has been 45 minutes long. But ever since your brother started going to pre-school, you have extended this nap by over an hour. This means that when you wake up it is almost 11. By the time I have you dressed and fed, it's time to pick up Isaac. So I don't have time to go to the grocery store. This was the whole point of pre-school, Vivian. Please revert back to your old morning nap habits. I would be happy to allow you to nap 2 or more hours in the afternoon, okay? This is my only request.

Really, my sweet little peanut, you do nothing but enrich my life, and I could not ask for a better or different child. Before you arrived, your father and brother and I all had each other. We loved each other very much. But somehow we were not quite a family. We were 3 entities, whereas now, with you in the bunch, we have become a unit.

I love you, cuddle-monkey.

First outing at the beach in swimwear, 2005

Where's Waldo?

Does this happen to you?

You are surfing though some blogs, and you get to a good one, and read a few posts, and the about section. Maybe you even comment. You think to yourself, I have to read more of this blog. But then your two year old starts screaming from his crib, or the doorbell rings, or the cat needs to be let out. So you leave the computer, get sidetracked, and by the time you return, someone has exited out of explorer, and you have no idea how to find that blog. You can't remember the name. You can't remember which blog led you to it. You can't even remember if it was today or yesterday or last week when you found it. You browse through your history, but since you spend so much time blogging, your history is enormous, and it would take you HOURS to find it.

Aggravating!

Daylight Savings Time

Quick--did you hear this? They are passing a bill to make Daylight Savings Time last until November. Can this possibly be true? Oh, sweet heavenly merciful father, mother, goddess, creative Power of the Universe, whoever you might be--PLEASE LET THIS BE TRUE.

Edit: I found this at Miami Herald.com: "In Washington, D.C., where the ballooning federal deficit seems like a petty concern when measured against an extra hour of daylight, a House committee passed a proposal this week to add two months of daylight saving time. We would move an hour ahead on the first Sunday of March (instead of April) and move back on the last Sunday in November (instead of October.)" Hooray!

Parenting

I've been reading about parenting this week. On blogs, mostly. (Though I did read my incredibly uninformative "Parenting" magazine, too. Complete waste of time, just like it is every month.)

Can I tell you a secret? I have a lot of anxiety about parenting. I think it is such a difficult balance--to raise respectful, honest, good people who also have confidence and spirit. My children are little still, so I haven't had to deal with this too much yet. But I think about it. I'm really afraid I'm going to mess up.

In many ways, my own parents were wonderful, and I feel lucky to have them as an example. However, my father was pretty controlling, and intolerant of misbehavior. So I learned to behave well, especially in public, but I also learned that acting outside of the norm was "bad". I learned that it was better to be quiet and good then to ask questions, or bring attention to myself. For most of my childhood, our house was a dictatorship, with dad the dictator, and mom the dictator's benevolent aide. We were all afraid of dad, and I remember dreading the time in the evening when he would come home from work.

Dad also always encouraged us to do our best, expected great things from us, and never ever sold my sister and I short just because we were girls. I have always known I am smart, and I believe this so strongly in part because my father always treated me like I was. He loves us all unconditionally, though I don't think I believed that as a child.

You see why I am conflicted? There are many things that my father did right, and things that I think he did wrong. But I am not sure which is which. My father expected so much of us, and I absolutely hated that. I felt like when I got A- on my report cards, this was not enough, that nothing would ever be good enough for him. He would always say things like, "Wow, great job, Amy. Next time I bet you can get an A+!" And I would leave, not feeling proud of my report card, but feeling like a failure.

As an adult, one of the hardest things for me to do is hold other people accountable. To say to them--"No, that is wrong. You should have done this." Because whenever people say something like that to me, I am an 8 year old girl again, holding my report card in my hand, blushing with shame as my father tries to encourage me to do better. And I never, ever want to make anyone else feel like that.

This was obviously not his intention. He was encouraging me! He was trying to get me to shoot for the stars, to be all that I could be. But I interpreted it as criticism, and internalized that feeling of failure.

Maybe I was an oversensitive kid. Maybe another type of child wouldn't have reacted the same way. I know that my older sister has similar internalizations. My brother does not--but I can't necessarily compare him with the two of us: when Ann and I were young, my parents were struggling financially and under a lot of stress. By the time he came along, they had "made it". His childhood was really very different than ours. However, it could just be that Chip is not so sensitive as Ann or I. He's a boy, so he's wired differently. Or maybe, he's a boy, so my parents treated him differently. I don't know.

That is what is scaring me. How in the hell am I supposed to guide this two perfect innocents into adulthood when I don't really know the way myself? How do I encourage them to do better without belittling their accomplishments? How do I know which one is more sensitive and how do I learn what technique works best?

Am I making too much of this? After all, I've just been writing about things that shaped my childhood negatively, and despite all that, I feel like I am a happy, well-adjusted person. And isn't that the ultimate goal? So maybe I should just give myself permission to fuck up a little bit and hope that the love and goodness that comes out when I'm not screwing up is enough.

This conversation can go on and on. I haven't begun to chip away at the iceberg that is this topic in my brain. But I'll stop now, before I drive myself and everybody else, crazy.

The two caged birds, they are a' singing (and laughing, and throwing things)

The other morning I accidently discovered my own personal "mother's little helper". I was getting the screaming banshees up for the day. After I changed Viv's diaper, I headed to Isaac's crib, Vivian on my hip. When I leaned over so she could give him a kiss, he asked "Vivi go in Isaac's bed?". We'd never done that before but there didn't seem to be any reason to deny the request. So I obliged:




This turned out to be more fun than ice cream for breakfast. Better than pushing the buttons on a working cell-phone. More exciting than eating the play-doh from your brother's toy box.

Oh, you should have heard the giggles. They threw all the blankets out of the crib. They threw the bears at each other. They bounced up and down. I'm not sure what else went on, because guess what I did?

That's right. Left them in there to play happily and had a nice breakfast all by myself.

It was almost 30 minutes before they got bored. Who knew the crib could be such a great toy?

I'm going to try it again after naps today. Wish me luck!

Independence

Isaac is now officially a preschooler. He goes 3 mornings a week from 8 to noon. We started last week, and it went surprisingly well. He loves it. The first morning I stayed with him the whole time. The second morning I left after about 45 minutes, then came back 1.5 hours later. He didn't even bat an eye when I left. The 3rd morning, I left after 45 minutes and didn't come back until noon. Right before I left, he said, "Isaac want to go home?", but the teacher picked him up and told him they would be dancing soon and with that, he was fine. Today, I stayed for about 10 minutes, and he actually started crying when I told him I had to go. Not hysterical, just sort of pathetic tears. Again, the teacher picked him up, this time telling him they would go look at the turtle, and he stopped immediately. My little independent boy!


First day of preschool*

I am really loving the free time. Look at me, I'm blogging! Without guilt! I've already paid the bills, started the laundry, and unloaded the dishwasher. Once Vivian wakes up from her nap, I may attack the grocery store. Which means after I go get Isaac, all I have to do is feed him and his sister lunch, put them down for naps, and I have two hours to myself. WITH NO CHORES. It's enough to make me giddy.

Okay, I will admit to a small sadness last week. It felt lonely to be home in the morning with no Isaac to narrate my every move. ("Mommy got to get dressed." Mommy do laundery." Mommy go outside?" Isaac go outside?" Isaac go outside?") But today, today there is none of that. Today I am just happy and enjoying myself.

A lot of that happiness comes from the knowledge that his preschool is a really great place. Just being there for so long last week and watching the teachers and kids in action really put my fears to rest. It is pretty small--about 8 kids to a class, with 3 classes--2&3 year olds, 3&4 year olds, 4&5 year olds. The kids all seem to have fun and the teachers of course have more patience than I can imagine. They get a hot "snack" at ten, which is a better breakfast than I sometimes manage. They color and paint, and learn about animals, and going to the doctor, and the seasons, and so on. Really it's a lot more stimulating than the errands Isaac is forced to go on when he's home. Not to mention that being around all those kids is good for him.

I have to admit something, though. There is a little girl in Isaac's class--I'll call her Nellie.** Nellie is a little 2 year old bitch. The first day, at snack time, when Isaac sat down, she said, "You can't sit there, only my friends can sit there." Then later in the day, they were all dancing with streamers, and she went right up to him and shook her streamers in his face. The next day, she poked him in the eye. At each infraction, the teachers interceded and told her it was inappropriate, etc. She gets in trouble a lot, and not just for picking on Isaac. She basically picks on anyone she can find. I loathe that little girl! A two year old! I can't believe how strongly I feel about her.

I have decided to be extra nice to her when I see her. I think I feel like if I treat her well in public, no one will notice all the hatred I harbor in my heart for her. Because, really, you can't hate a two year old. Poor little thing, she must be miserable to be acting out so much. I'm just glad I don't have to be around her too often.

I'm sure I will have more stories to report as preschool continues. For now, we are both relishing our independence from each other, and relishing even more, the moment when we reconnect!



*Actually not the first day. Just the first day I remembered to take a picture.

Also, you may note the backpack. This does not actually include books or anything like that. We live in California, so every child must have an "earthquake kit" which they bring to school on the first day*** and leave there until it is needed (hopefully never). This kit includes a change of warm clothes, extra diapers, a flashlight, a family photo, juice boxes, snacks, and a bicycle helmet. I didn't tell the teachers that there is no way in hell Isaac will ever put that helmet on. They can just figure it out when the school is collapsing on itself and they have 25 screaming kids running every which way.

**Yes, this is a Little House reference.

***No, I didn't bring it on the first day. But since there was no earthquake between his first day and day 4, when I finally managed to get it all together, all is good with the world.

6:45 am Saturday morning. Witness the power of Sesame Street.

A thousand times, thank you.

When I started this blog, I thought it would be a good outlet for me, to keep my brain cells from dissolving in the rice cereal I stir up for Vivian every morning. And I thought it would be a good way to track my children's lives, especially since I have been so very remiss in the baby-book department.

I did not expect that I would "meet" so many wonderful caring people. People who, without ever meeting me, have encouraged me, and supported me, and made me feel important. I had no idea that blogging would lead me to this wonderful place full of special people, who read about my life, and--shockingly--are interested in it, care about what happens to me. I thank all of you. Your support means more to me than I can adequately express.

I am feeling better. I took all of your advice (though unfortunately I cannot move to Chapel Hill, Heather), and you people know that of which you speak. My mother was in town this weekend, which allowed me to have some time off from the kids, and I went to the mall, singing loudly in the car on the way, bought a brand new outfit, which my saint of a mother paid for, got my nails done, and drank in the sunshine (outdoor mall). I bought an ice cream cone, and, wow, the power of ice cream! Especially on a sugar cone! Especially eaten in the sunshine, with no squirming children to demand your every attention!

This weekend was very healing: my mother was here, my team won a national championship, my friends in blog-land made me feel loved, and my hormones seem to have settled down. I remember that I felt the same sort of melancholy when I finished breastfeeding Isaac, and just knowing that much of this "depression" was caused by that, and therefore temporary, made it easier to accept.

I have always been a fairly content person, and feeling so icky really upset me, and made me appreciate my luck in the temperment department. I cannot imagine what real, clinical depression is like.

Oh, also: my post about "Cocktail Moms". I stand by everything that I said. However, I wrote that when I was feeling particularly low, a fact that colored my perception and caused me to miss the humor. I couldn't appreciate the "tongue in cheek" way that many of the posters were speaking, as Jen gently reminded me. I apologize for that, and promise to lighten up in the future.

I leave you with this:

These guys are awesome!

I am funky

Not in the hip & cool way. And not in the smelly way.

In the I-am-in-a-blue-funk-and-I-can't-get-out-way.

Suggestions? (Note to self: wine does not help. Come to think of it, whine doesn't, either.)

Cocktail Moms

There is much out and about in blog-land about "Cocktail Moms" lately. Check out this, and this. I think the concept is funny, and true, and in some ways, I hope that I am less Uber-Mom and more Cocktail Mom. But I just can't jump fully on the bandwagon of "Yeah, me too! I'm no Uber-mom! Those Uber-Moms suck! I don't cater to my kids! Go on out and play, you useless brats, be sure to be home before dark, and stop playing at the local sexual offenders house!" (Exaggeration for comedic effect.)

I hate how mothers can be so judgmental. Didn't we just have a whole blog come to Jesus consensus about "Mommy drive-bys"? And didn't we all agree that we shouldn't cast stones, but we should support each other, instead? Yet if you read the comments on these posts, people are practically running over each other to be the first one to bash the Uber-Mom.

Isn't it possible that Uber-mom is not really uber? That maybe she is just having a really good day, kid-wise, and enjoying spending time with him/her at show and tell for once? Or perhaps Uber-Mom had a true Cocktail Mom as a kid, one who was actually abusive with all the drinking and the neglecting, and so Uber-Mom is doing her very best to be sure her own kids don't experience the same sort of trauma? I tend to think that Uber-Mom is doing the best that she can, has her kids' best interests at heart, and would be really shocked to know that others thought she was doing a poor job.

I have been accused of having no opinion before--being so careful avoid judging people that I excuse blatantly bad behavior. So maybe that's what is happening here. More likely, I just hate it when I see anyone being judged, because in my brain, if Sally is judging that mom, then certainly Sally is judging me, too, and hey--I'm doing the best I can here!

I know that Uber-Mom is an exaggeration, as is Cocktail Mom. And I know that in that extreme, both of these Moms are less than exemplary. I agree that kids need a parent, not a friend, that they need time to play and use their imagination, that perhaps giving every child a blue ribbon, whether they win or lose, is not necessarily preparing them for the real world. I also think that drinking a martini while your kid runs wild in the street is not the ideal. I actually like the idea of bolstering my kids' self-esteem, so they won't be 'fraidy cats when they grow up, like their mother.

Like so many other things, the truth lies in the middle. None of us want to be true Uber-Mom, or true Cocktail Mom. We all strive for somewhere in-between, and because we have different tendencies and backgrounds and values, where exactly that in-between spot lies will be different for all of us. Why is that so hard to accept? Just because you lean more towards Cocktail and I lean more towards Uber, does that mean either one of us is wrong?

I get how we all need validation. And being a mom doesn't come with much of that, so maybe the only way we get it is by saying--"Hey, look at her! She's doing it wrong! I don't do that! Therefore, I am a better mom!" I do the same thing. But I want to stop.

I hope this is not coming across like--I am so better than you horrible judgmental people. I just wanted to play devil's advocate for a minute, because the comments seemed to me sort of gang mentality-ish. And I definitely don't think either original poster was being unduly judgmental. The tone of the comments just got to me. People were reacting to the stereotype, of course. My first instinct was the same. That's why I wanted to write about it, to explore why it's so easy to judge other mothers, and to force myself to be smarter than that.

(Of course, I'm not brave enough to say anything about that on the comments page, I just sneak over here and write what I want where there is less chance someone will hate on me.)

Hmmm.

You know how you are taking a shower and thinking about the things you read while blogging today, thinking "I should write about that, too", thinking and writing and editing in your head, and then you have a perfectly concise, well-written, descriptive post in your head, so you get out of the shower and into your robe, wrap up your wet hair and sit at the computer, and then what comes out is not at all like what you were thinking in the shower? That is this post.

If only you could be in my head, my pretties, perhaps I would make more sense.

I hate Blogger today!

Arggle. Finally I feel like blogging again and just getting into Blogger is trying my patience.

So I will just say this: I am here. I am depressed (probably due to all those nasty hormones since I just got my first post partum period). I am tired. Both kids have colds again. Vivian also has some stomach bug and is either vomiting or shitting all over the house at all times. Isaac was up at 4:45 this morning. For good. Vivian still has horrible horrible horrible excema all over her face. Did I say I was tired? I haven't showered in two (or more?) days and what little hair I have left is so greasy it is leaving stains on my shirt collars. Wahhhh!

The good news? My mother is coming to town to visit starting tomorrow night. Hooray! The sun is finally out and it's a beautiful day. (Though we can't go to the park to enjoy it since both kids are sick--oh,wait, this was supposed to be good news. Sorry.) The Tar Heels are in the Final Four.

I think I need a mantra, and I just found it: The Tar Heels are in the Final Four. The Tar Heels are in the Final Four. The Tar Heels are in the Final Four.

Hope this week is finding all of you in much better spirits!

And, thank you, Trisha, for asking about me.

Behold the Carnage

Yesterday at nap time my two lovelies were giggling and playing in their cribs and I decided to let them. They were both tired, and I figured they would get bored of the throwing-things-from-one crib-to-the-other game eventually. I turned off the moniter and lay down on the couch for TiVo. Every now and then I'd turn up the moniter to see what was happening--always giggles and laughter. It was kind of cute, actually. Made me smile.

But when it had been almost 2 hours I decided I had to put an end to it. So opened their door. And this is what I saw:




Yes, Isaac had ripped the border off the wall and strewn it all over the room. I'm afraid the picture doesn't even do it justice. Hence, the hysterical giggles. They were still giggling when I walked in, and quite proud of themselves.

Now we have to do something to make the room a little more unisex. Vivian is practically one, after all, and we were supposed to do that months ago.

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Stalling Technique

It is 2:18pm here in the West Coast, which means it is one hour and 18 minutes since I put the children down to nap. Isaac has been alternately crying, laughing, singing his ABCs and throwing his blankets into his sister's crib for that amount of time. By some miracle, despite the deafening noise and attack of flying blankets, after about 10 minutes, Vivian was able to fall asleep--until about 5 minutes ago, when I heard her awake.

When I went in to see what was up, Isaac greeted me with "Open the shade! Open the shade! Isaac want to git up!" I could smell poop, so I peeked in his diaper to see if he was the culprit--no. "Poop! Poop!" he said. "Isaac need fresh diper! Isaac git up! Need fresh diper!"

Instead I grabbed Vivi and set about changing her very stinky diaper. Suddenly Isaac growled with all his might. I look over and he is turning red in the face, obviously trying as hard as he can to push one out so that I will free him from his crib.

I couldn't help but laugh out loud.

But I didn't get him out. And he is still in there, talking loudly, Vivian now babbling along with him.

Things I do for my children that I don't do for myself

1. Keep their skin soft with lotion
2. Make and keep their physician appointments on time
3. Feed them a relatively healthy diet
4. Make sure they watch no more than 1 hour of tv per day
5. Iron their clothes
6. Change their sheets regularly
7. Bathe them (almost) daily
8. Purchase them new, fashionable clothes for each season and throw out clothes that have holes or stains
9. Try to stimulate them intellectually by reading Good Night Moon 6 gazillion times a day
10. Love them unconditionally

Failure

Remember that post about how cute and small Vivian is? Well, we just got back from our 9 month check up, and turns out, that yes, she's small. But not in the oh-what-a-cute-petite-little-thing-way, but rather in the, freakishly-small-off the charts-your boobs are not producing enough milk-not growing-way.

This is the exact same appointment I had with Isaac at 4 months. My supply had dwindled without my knowledge, and he didn't grow at all between his 3 month and 4 month appointment. As soon as I started supplementing with formula, he drank 24-28 oz a day no problem. Turns out he had been hungry all along, and I hadn't had enough milk for him. Thing is, he was sleeping great, he rarely cried, and he smiled all the time. I had NO IDEA. Want some Mommy guilt? Try starving your child and not noticing.

Cue 20 months later, and there I am, at the doctor's office, with a new baby this time. I've noticed that Vivian isn't very big, but I think she's just cute, and just like Mommy. But then, wait! No, it's not that at all! It's that you are not feeding her enough. She is hungry, and you are offering her empty, useless, wet-sock, saggy, piece-of-crap boobs.

Luckily for me, I've had to switch doctors in the meantime, so, not knowing my previous failings, they didn't call Child Protective Services on the spot.

God! What is wrong with me? How is it that I am unable to determine when my babies are hungry? I mean, there's really not that much to babies--they eat, they sleep, they poop. You just gotta figure out those 3 things. Is that so hard? And what the hell is going on with my traitor of a body that I can't produce enough milk to feed my own children? UGH. Just to underline the whole point, I got my period today. A nice bloody reminder of just how inept I am at this whole nursing your baby thing.

With Vivian, I have rather enjoyed nursing. I don't feel the same impatience I did with Isaac. My lifestyle has changed, and I'm used to it now, so nursing doesn't feel like such an imposition on my life and my body and my identity. I've even felt sort of proud to be still going strong at 9 months, like I can finally fit in with those AP moms who I always feel like such a loser around. And now it's gone. Great.

Not to mention--formula is expensive! And bottles are a pain in the ass!

Oh, and this: I had plans for an adult evening tonight with an old friend, complete with grown-up food, grown-up clothes, and grown-up libations, but . . it got cancelled. Hooray!

This bracket is toast

My Elite Eight picks:

North Carolina
Kansas
Syracuse
Oklahoma
Illinois
Oklahoma State
Georgia Tech
Wake Forest

The ones in bold are still in it.

My only hope is that Illinois loses in the Sweet Sixteen this weekend. That way, I could very well come in last place (out of 173) and at least get my money back. (Last place gets the pity vote, and the poolkeeper returns the entry fee.) Currently I am 172.

However, none of this really matters, since North Carolina is KICKING ASS all over the place.

Bless you, Tar Heels.

No surprises here

I so hate to interupt the pure joy that is March Madness with a post about that most boring of American games, baseball, but here it is:

Why is everyone acting so surprised that Mark McGuire probably used steroids?

OF COURSE HE DID. SO DID/DOES EVERYONE ELSE. THE END.

It's what's for breakfast

Scrapple.

I am so happy that my local grocery store finally started carrying scrapple again! Open your minds (and palates), oh ever-so-ego-centric Californians, and try something new.

Don't even try to talk me out of it. Yes, I've already given it to Isaac, and he loves it, too. His Mid-Atlantic State relatives should be proud.

9 Months

Dear Vivian:

Today you are 9 months old. If someone had said to me, when you were two weeks old, "Cherish this time. Before you know it, she'll be 9 months old," do you know what my response would have been? Try this: "Nine months? It will be a miracle if she lives that long because this sleep deprivation is killing me! Killing me, I tell you! But yeah, I'll cherish this. Whatever, lady."



Guess what? You are a miracle baby, because here you are, 9 months old! And I'm still living and breathing and occasionally smiling! And even though Blogger just ate my stunningly beautiful post about you, I'm still here! Saving at every sentence which makes posting really really tedious, but still here! Completely pissed off and un-imaginative since all my creative juice was spent on that last post, but still here!

Wait, this is supposed to be about you. So, 9 months old. Here's what's going on this month, Viv:

You have improved your crawling skills. While you have yet to manage the all-fours thing, you do get around much more quickly these days, inching your butt in the air and pushing your torso ahead of you like you're playing shuffleboard. Occasionally you do get up on your knees for a few seconds before the sheer weight of your body tumbles you back down. What you lack in beauty, though, you make up for in speed, as it takes no time at all for you to cross the entire room. I guess it is just a matter of time before you are crawling like a real baby.

You are still eating solid foods, and showing a remarkably sophisticated palate, enjoying almost everything Mama offers. (Except green beans, of course. Peas, you love. Green beans, not so much.) As much as you enjoy food, apparently your constitution is having some difficulty with it, as you are covered in excema. I'm sure this is very itchy and not at all comfortable for you, but more importantly, it shadows your cuteness. This is no good. You are the cutest baby around, but no one can tell, because your face is marked by patches of excema. Fortunately for you, Daddy took some good photos at the beginning of the month so I can post them here without fear.

Vocabulary-wise, we haven't seen too much going on. You just don't seem in a hurry to speak actual words. You do like singing, though. Recently you discovered a very dainty high pitched "ah" tone that you like to sing, interspersed with the occasional "bwha, mwah, enhhhh". Right now, I can hear your father singing back to you in the other room: "You smell, ah. A little pooh, pooey. Pooh pooey, ah ah bwah. Ah, ah poo." You have also learned how to screech. Ouch. Who knew such a loud and uncomfortable noise could come from such a small baby? Fortunately, you use this new "word" of yours sparingly, and so maybe we won't have to send you back after all. When you are not talking, you breathe heavily. Really. Like Darth Vader. That's right. When you are happy--you smile with your mouth wide open and pant like a Star Wars villain.

I must mention: you are flexible. Rubberman could not stretch the way you can. I put you down, sitting, on the floor, and in two seconds you are doing a complete split, then two seconds after that you have lowered the top half of your body to the floor in some sort of advanced yoga move. I'm sure it has a name, but since Downward Dog flumoxes your completely inflexible mother, I will never know. Daddy thinks you will be a gymnast one day, as you are forever tying yourself up in these amazing contortions. Mommy would be so proud if you were. But I am a bit taken aback: not only does Mommy have zero flexibility, I also missed the day they handed out grace and beauty. I think you need those things for gymnastics. You will get from me fairly decent coordination, scrappiness, and speed, but these are traits better suited to games like, say, lacrosse, or soccer. Fortunately, your father gave you flexibility, and I am searching through our family tree for grace and beauty. So far I'm not having much luck, but your great-grandmother's name is Grace, so maybe that counts. And another great-grandmother, while not what anyone would call sporty, definitely always looks put together, even at 90. So maybe the beauty will come from her.

Whenever I pick you up, you stick your legs out in a mid-air split, then wrap them around me with a vice grip as I lower you to my hip. I love this lower-body hug! If you are especially excited, you bounce up and down, then kick out your ankles while still gripping me with your thighs. And make your singing ah sound. I have to smile every time, and sneak a kiss against your cheek.

You are teensy. I am not surprised by this, as I am small. I keep thinking, though--is this the only trait I am going to pass on to you? Being small? So far you have eschewed all my genes but this one in favor of your father's. I'm just not sure that was the right pick. Surely there is something else useful I could have provided for you. Although you are 9 months old, you fit easily into 3-6 month size clothes. Your father calls you "pinner", but I relish your tiny little body.

You were born with handfuls of really dark, almost black hair. It started falling out around 4 months and some of what has grown back in is blonde. When you are nursing, I scrutinize your scalp, practically counting the blonde hairs, in hopes that maybe by some miracle you will become a tow-head, and people will recognize you as my daughter after all.

Oh, but this doesn't really matter. I don't care who you look like or who you take after. Your father is hot, and funny, and has these gorgeous blue eyes that sparkle when he smiles. You could do worse than take after him. But you are Vivian, after all, not Daddy, and not Mommy. You are everything we ever imagined and nothing we ever dreamed of. Vivian, you are the dawn to my midnight, the lime in my margarita, the purr in the kitty cat, the sun after a storm. Watching you change and grow is like opening so many gifts on Christmas morning. I love you.