Two

Dear Vivian:

Well, it will come as no surprise that this birthday letter is a month late. I don't think I've ever been on time with one, and I'm making no plans to buck that trend. Don't take it personally, monkey, it's just that I don't have a lot of time when I can just sit quietly and think about you.

Part of the reason for that is you, of course. Remember when you were my quiet little easy baby? When you used to sit by the bookshelf and pull out book after book after book, reading them all quietly and never needing me to entertain you? Well, those days are long gone. Now, the minute I sit down at the computer you run over and grab my hand from the mouse: "No, Mommy!"; or climb up onto my lap, demanding to "look at letters"; or pester me relentlessly: "I want to go car, Mommy! Pick up Isaac? Mommy? Mommy!!". Makes it difficult to get my very important blogging done, sweetheart.

Oh, but I don't really care about that.



This is what I care about: the way you grab me about the knees, burrowing your head in, and say "I love ya, Mom," so casually. The sound of your disappointed "Oh---oh" when I've told you no, as if you are 10 years old, and not two. The way that you always, every. single. time. skip four when you are counting to twenty. The way you are, right at this minute, singing "E I E I O!!" at the top of your lungs instead of napping in your crib. The way you are giggling hysterically, when your brother (also not napping) repeats the same "song" back to you, even louder, from his perch in my bed.

Is it nice when you finally drift off?


Yes, of course. I mean, look how cute you are when you're asleep! Truth is, you are just as cute when you're awake. The last six months you have truly blossomed, Vivian. Suddenly, you are definite in your wants and you refuse to be distracted. From easy-going toddler you have morphed into incredibly independent pre-schooler. "I do it!" is your favorite sentence, and I hear it, with varying degrees of intensity, at least 300 times a day. Thing is, Vivian, those car seat buckles are made to be difficult for children under 5 to operate. You actually can't do it yourself, no matter how much you want to.

According to my mother, the independent streak comes from me, though I tend to think it is just you, rushing to keep up with your brother. So far, all of your friends are his, so they are all older than you are. You try as hard as you can to do everything they do, but sometimes it's hard. You will get there, Viv, trust me on that. Don't be in such a hurry to get somewhere else, try to enjoy what's going on right now.

In a few weeks you will be starting school with your brother, 3 mornings a week. Maybe you'll meet some girls there that will be doing things more your speed, and you won't feel like you have to keep measuring up to your brother. Or maybe you'll always feel that way; maybe that's what if feels like to be the second child. (God knows I never measured up to your aunt, but that's a whole different story.) I think school is going to be great for you, and I can't wait to see you make friends of your own.


When you were first born, Vivian, your brother was a very demanding 16 month old. I used to cry when I looked at you, because it felt so unfair to me: all of my time was spent trying to corral Isaac, and I didn't have much time for you at all. The first few months of your life I barely had time to sit down to nurse you. Even when you were awake, I left you alone, not having a second to play with you or read to you or do any of the things I did with Isaac when he was a newborn. However, now I think you've made out pretty well, because when you were 8 months old, Isaac started school. That means that for over a year now, you and I have shared 3 full mornings a week together. Granted, much of that time is spent running errands, but there have also been plenty of hours that you spent climbing all over me, tickling me and being tickled back*, playing "wubba wubba wubba"--the game you invented which involves you sitting on my knees and me "flying" you back and forth until you fall off. I have really, really enjoyed those hours with you, sweetheart, and I hope it makes up for the ones you missed as an infant.




I'm not sure how, exactly, but the fact is you are growing. You are in the 30th percentile for height and weight now, despite the fact that you refuse to eat anything that is not a carb. Or nitrates, you seem to really like those. Oh! And how could I forget the sugar?



I just keep cutting up vegetables for you and then throwing them away, hoping that one of these days you will actually get one into your digestive tract.

Oh, Viv. I just love you so. I love watching you grow up. I love watching you play with your brother. I love watching you learn how to do new things. But I admit to feeling a little bit nostalgic for your baby days, too. Don't grow up too fast, okay? You are, most likely, my last baby, and even though I complain about this mothering gig A LOT, the truth is I love it, and I don't want it to end.



Love,
Mom

*You may just be the most ticklish person on the planet, and NOTHING makes me happy than to hear your belly laugh whenever I so much as get near you with my tickling fingers.

I may act like Mimi Martyr

but I actually consider myself immeasurably blessed to have these two cretins in my life.

I can't handle the truth

So you know how I was bitching and moaning the other day because Lance gets to do whatever he wants and I'm just a slave taking care of every last thing? It's not really like that. Sometimes it may feel like that, but it's not actually like that.

Really, whenever Lance goes out with friends, or is gone for whatever reason in the normal "after work" hours, he makes it up to me by giving me a night off. This generally means that the next night he'll handle all the kid duties while I blog to my hearts' content in the other room. The time last week when he went out to see some stupid band for two nights in a row? He arranged for a babysitter one of those nights and called her to make sure I'd have something fun to do (we went out to dinner with Trent, which was fabulous).

As a matter of course, on the weekends and evenings after work, he takes the kids to playgrounds or to the beach or for walks, giving me needed down time. When we go out to dinner, etc, he knows what we need in the diaper bag, and he gets it together much of the time. (No, not most of the time, but still.) Usually, he makes dinner reservations for us and arranges for the babysitter. Every now and then, he comes home from work early and sends me out for a pedicure. He rarely works later than 5:30. He is always in charge of baths, is equal partners in the going to bed routine, cleans up the dishes every night, picks up toys, and so on. It is not as if he is playing video games or watching TV while I'm slaving away. (Except when he's surfing. And honestly? He hardly ever surfs anymore.)

So you see? There is really no reason for me to feel so resentful. He is doing all I can ask of him--he is doing more than many husbands I'm told, so I should feel grateful. Some days I do. But some days I still feel angry.

I emailed with Phantom a little bit after that last post, and in writing to her I think I may have stumbled onto a nugget of truth: my feelings of resentment don't feel valid, because Lance does help out so much. So instead of communicating to him that I need some more help or whatever it is, I just get bitter inside. I sigh passive-aggressively and slam things around and insist that nothing's wrong. I can't admit why I'm upset because part of me doesn't believe I have a right to be upset.

Then, I was e-mailing Mommygoth about the same thing, and I stumbled on this nugget: it is not that I feel alone in my resentment of my husband. I think that many women feel this same way (to a lesser degree, of course--most women do not, presumably, have to resort to marriage counseling, but then again, I could be wrong); I think that feeling this way is a symptom of motherhood. I honestly believe that being a mother is hard, hard work. Harder than any 9 to 5 job. I hear all the other mothers out there singing that song, and I join right in. I feel justified in my resentment. Who cares how much Lance helps, this shit is hard.

Right, the complete opposite of my previous truth. My feelings of resentment are not valid; my feelings of resentment are justified. Which is it?

Finally, I was talking to my good friend Susanna, and she reiterated to me that my feelings ARE valid. "Just look at all the comments you got on that post," she said. "Obviously you struck a chord with other moms out there," said she. She is right, of course. Just as all of you who left such inspiring, reflective comments on that post are right. It is no wonder we are all resentful. But then again, since Lance is such a stellar husband and father (isn't he?), maybe I should be able to harness that resentment a little better.

I'm not sure where all this leaves me. Except in the need of some counseling, immediatement.

Tell me something, though. How much does your partner help out? Is Lance doing more than his share? Is that even relevant to my feelings, and should it be? And if my feelings ARE justified even if Lance is doing all he can, what, exactly, am I supposed to do about them?

It's so easy, so easy

The next time I am whining about how terrible my life is and woe is me, I can't get my haircut when I want to, wah wah wah--do me a favor and tell me to shut the hell up, k?

Otherwise, I might find myself in a familiar surgeon's exam room, listening to him say things like "well, yes, I think it's better if we go in and try to fix this" and "no, it's not urgent, but I'd like to do it before too long, because it's so easy* to do at this age and by the time he's four or five he'll really be resisting it".

And then I might have to beat myself about the head with the proverbial baseball bat. Your life is so hard, bitch? Take this! And this! Better the baseball bat than another fucking surgery, you see.

Anyway, enough whining from me. A new post about truth in blogging coming up, where you will see quite clearly how much of that last post was pure fucking lameness on my part. Perhaps then the surgery gods will allow this next surgery (October or November, probably) to be the last one for awhile.

*Yes, he actually said "so easy".

Have you seen . . .

the pigtails??

(Very transparent excuse to move that previous post way way down--but it worked, didn't it?) 

Drama

First things first: the pacifier seems to be a thing of the past. It's taking Vivian a bit longer than usual to fall asleep, but that's it. I can handle an extra 20 minutes of playing around in the crib. And Isaac slept until 7 this morning and no doubt would have slept longer if his sister had not awoken at 6:45 demanding, "Up! I want to get up, Mommy! Mommy!!"

If that's your best shot, Mommy jinx, I'm all over it.

(I realize this is beyond stupid and I will pay the price later but I'm feeling especially reckless right now. )

Another thing I'm feeling right now? Confused. Confused about my relationship with Lance, confused about who I am and what I want and why I seem to be so fucking unhappy all the time, even though I'm also actually thrilled quite often too. See? Confusion.

People have been writing about motherhood, and how it can be lonely and frustrating at times. I feel it, too. And my husband bears the brunt of those feelings. I am bitter and resentful. After all, Lance gets to have his same old life except with two extra little morsels to munch on when he comes home from work. He goes to work, just like he always did, and eats lunch in nice restaurants that use cloth napkins, talks and jokes with his colleagues all day, runs around being useful and accomplishing things and getting strokes from his boss and a paycheck every two weeks. Just like before the kids, except that now he has the added bonus of Isaac and Vivian. Not to mention a slave, I mean wife, who runs all the errands and does a myriad of things that he used to do before.

Yeah, so when he comes home he has to give the kids a bath, or take them for a walk, but is that really so hard? I mean, is it? REALLY?? So hard that he needs to go skiing with his buddies for 10 days? So hard that he needs to go out with friends two nights in a row to see a band that really, really dates him?

Meanwhile, my life is completely, totally, irrevocably changed. I don't do ANYTHING without first considering the kids. And I don't mean in an Uber Mommy oh-let-me-do-that-for-you way; I mean in a two-and-three-year-olds-aren't-even-close-to-being-independent way. I don't ever go anywhere without planning. I can't get my fucking hair cut or go to the doctor without scheduling a time that Isaac is in school, and my mother in law is available to babysit, at a time when traffic won't be an issue, and a day when my doctor or the hair salon is available.

And I know these are old, tired complaints. Most of you are mothers, you know exactly what I'm talking about. You know why I sometimes feel bitter or pissy. Why I wish I had some really important, high paying job so I could do that instead of be home with the kids.

The thing is, some days, it's incredible. Some days I look at my kids and they are so fucking beautiful and sweet and charming and edible and I think "I am so lucky to have this time with them." I think, "My god, what would I do without them?" Then my heart explodes into a million tiny, warm bubbles of goodness that dissipate into my bloodstream and turn my whole body into a quivering lump of ecstasy, not unlike an especially luxurious orgasm. Some days, the weather is gorgeous, and we go to the beach and the sand isn't too hot and there are enough light green shovels ("I don't want the blue one, Mommy!!!") for everybody and I get to sit there, in the sun, on a beach chair and watch my children play. I am thrilled in those moments. In all those moments of the day, I am smiling, I am grateful, I am content.

So what, exactly, am I so bitter and resentful about? Why can't I focus on the good stuff and be grateful for these two wonderful beings that have made my life six thousand times better than I ever imagined? Why do I persist in feeling bitter, and resentful, and put upon and OHMYGOD IF I HAVE TO WIPE THE SNOT OFF ONE MORE NOSE TODAY I WILL ABSOLUTELY DIE.

Obviously, as often as I have my moments of bliss with the kids, I also have days where the spilled soy yogurt is followed by the broken lamp and followed by a head-butting 3 year old and a hitting two year old and 6,547 time-outs before nine o'clock in the morning. Days where the frustration level in the house is pushing way into the red zone and my parenting skills are maybe not something I would necessarily be proud of.

Then 5:30 rolls around and Lance waltzes in and says something innocent like "What did you do today?" or "It's hot, why isn't the fan on?" and suddenly I'm in bitch mode, stalking around picking up toys and laundry or slamming open the fridgerator door muttering things like "Oh, god knows I don't have anything to do except eat chocolate and watch Oprah" loud enough for him to hear. Just like that, I'm pissed off for the next whatever--sometimes 10 minutes, sometimes an hour-- depending on when something happens to diffuse my mood, and I can't even tell what that will be until it occurs. And even as this is happening, even as I'm storming around making dinner loudly while insisting to Lance that "nothing's wrong, FORGET IT" , I can see myself doing it--it's as if I'm standing outside of my body watching, and I'm saying to myself "Don't do this, don't be such a bitch. Just let it go, let's have a good evening"--but I can't stop. All the resentments of the day, all the frustrations and the loneliness --all of it bubbles up in me and I hit Lance over the head with it, over and over, trying to make myself feel better.

Of course I love him. Just like I have the great moments with the kids, I have great moments with him, too. I don't fear for our marriage. But lately things that I used to find charming are just annoying. Lately when he offers to watch the kids so I can go out with friends I don't feel grateful. Lately, all the things he does around the house (and I know it doesn't seem like it from this post, but the truth is, he helps out a ton at home) don't endear him to me. Lately even some surprisingly good sex doesn't fix everything, not like it used to.

So, we are going to see a marriage counselor. (Of course, since I can't do anything without planning for the children (see above) we have to wait until August, when Vivian is in school (!). And making the appointment is just one more fucking thing for me to do.) Still, should be interesting, folks, and you'll be the first to hear all about it.

The one where I test the Mommy jinx

Two things:

1. Ever since we returned from Delaware, almost a full month ago, Isaac has been sleeping until anywhere from 7:15 to 8:00 am. You read that right. The boy who for an entire year has been unable to sleep past 5:45am on a good day, is actually sleeping in to a reasonable hour. I'm not sure what has brought about this happy event, except that he has been swimming a lot, and swimming seems to wear him out. Yeehaw.
(I won't mention here that my good sleeper, Vivian, has now decided that 7am is the latest she will sleep. Ever.)

2. At this moment, 2pm on Tuesday July 11th, Vivian is asleep in her crib without the crutch of her pacifier. She cried and whined for a little bit (10 minutes max) then took a bit longer to fall asleep than her usual 5 minute pass out routine, but that was the extent of it. We'll see what happens tonight, but if it was going to be this easy, I would have taken that thing away months ago!


Also, unrelated to the above: I am going out with some old work friends tonight. REAL LIVE FRIENDS WITHOUT BABIES!!! And we went out last night with some friends too. Two nights in a row without baby-duty is unheard of, people. Unheard of.

Conversations about God

Scene: in the car.

Isaac: Are the puppets in the sky, Mom?

Me: What? Did you see something in the sky?

Isaac: See the puppeteers in the sky?

Me: What did you see, sweetie? Was it a kite?

Isaac: Is Papa T in the sky?

Me (getting it, finally): Oh! Yes, um, Papa T and Geedaddy* are both in heaven, honey. So, uh, yeah, they are in the sky looking down at us.

Vivian: They in the sky?

Me: Well, uh, yes, Vivian. They, um, died, but they are in heaven and they are looking down at us and loving us.

Isaac: They are looking at us from the sky? Are they far far away in the sky?

Me: Well, yes. Yes, they are far away. But you can always feel their presence. (Warming up to it) When someone loves you as much as Geedaddy and Papa T did, you can always feel them watching out for you, even after they die.

Vivian: You can feel der presents?

Me: Yes, you can feel how much they love you and know they will make sure you are taken care of.

Isaac: And you can open them up, too.

Me: Open them? Um . . .

Isaac: You can open up the presents in the sky. And see what they got you.


*Papa T is what Lance called his grandfather, who died a little over two years ago. Geedaddy is my grandfather, who also died two years ago.

Vacation, all I ever wanted

Bullets, because otherwise I will never get around to writing this post.

1. California is really an entirely different country from Delaware. At least, it should be. Everything is different, and I'm always struck by that whenever I go home. I've been going home now for 15 years, and I'm still struck by it. The smells are different: the flowers, the trees, even the factories produce aromas that you just don't find in L.A. The light is different: in Delaware there are trees--big, leafy trees--that filter much of the sunlight, while California has smaller, thinner trees, trees that don't take up so much space, that don't offer the same kind of shade. The clouds are different, too: Delaware has the big, puffy cumulus clouds, clouds that change over the course of a day or a week. Los Angeles doesn't have clouds to speak of, not really. The enormous uninterrupted expanse of blue sky that you see in L.A. almost every single day does not exist in Delaware. Of course the climate is different--it's humid in Delaware: thick, oppressive, sweaty heat. Wet heat that moisturizes your skin and plumps up dry limp hair like mine. Not the mild, dry heat you get out here. But most of all, the people are different. People look different in Delaware. I've been trying to figure out why for as long as I've been living on the other coast. Is it the haircuts? The clothes? The Phillies caps and the Tevas? The genealogy? Definitely less Mexican, more Puerto Rican. Less Hispanic in general and more African American. More Italian, I think--only maybe it's just that there are more Southern Italians in Delaware and more Northern Italians in L.A. I don't really know how to describe this, but there is a "look" to people that I recognize the minute I get off the plane in Philadelphia, a "look" that feels as familiar to me as my mother's potato salad. Maybe it has nothing to do with genealogy and everything to do with me, and my nostalgia for home; I'm just not sure. But it fascinates me, every time I go home.

2. I love my family, all of them: my five aunts and uncles on my mother's side and their spouses and children, my two living grandmothers, my parents, my siblings, my brother-in-law, my niece and nephew. Even the 3 aunts and uncles on my fathers' side, who we rarely see, I have no issues with them. We have our typical family squabbles, but there is no high drama. However. However, I am very very glad to live 3000 miles away, and not only because I am afforded prodigal daughter status whenever I go home. Also because I have this very strong feeling that if I lived less than a mile from my parents, the way my sister does, I would not love my family nearly the same way. And they would not love me, either. My parents can be prickly; let's just leave it at that.

3. Lance and I do not get along around my parents. After 8 years of marriage and countless visits to my folks, we have not yet figured out how to appreciate each other the same way we do when we are in L.A. I'm sure part of me reverts to adolescent behavior when I'm around family, but Lance is also guilty. He feels threatened by how much I miss home and ends up acting snide and irrational when at home he'd be making jokes. Knowing that he feels threatened somehow does not translate into me toning down my "oh, I wish we had lightning bugs in California" comments but instead ratchets them up a notch. ( I've been known to complain that California doesn't have mosquitos--there's something I need to see a therapist about.) My mother loves to play "pick one child and gang up on them" games (no doubt learned in a childhood shared with 5 siblings) and Lance is thrilled to play along, especially if Amy is the victim. Lastly--and this one deserves a post of its own, but god knows when I'll get to it, since it requires retrospection and thought, something in short supply at the POW household lately--I seem to have married my father. And two controlling guys, used to having their own way, do not always mesh seamlessly. Throw in Lance's passive-aggressive tendencies and my own shrill, defensive and critical behavior and all is not always fun.

4. I'd love to talk about FFB here, but since he occasionally reads this blog (thanks again, Lance!) I guess I can't relay how annoying it is that he refuses to share his every thought and emotion with the rest of the clan. How, duh!, we all just want the best for him and why can't he just tell us what he's thinking so we can all dissect it to bits until we've solved all of his problems for him, without asking his permission. I will say that it's always, always great to have him around, and even if he doesn't feel the same way about the rest of us, we still smile bigger whenever he's in town. (Is this how it always is with the youngest? The youngest, the most loved, the one who doesn't necessarily return the love, he is the one we all want to be with? Is that why he doesn't share things with us? Because our love, our need, our want is too strong? FFB, elaborate.)

5. Isaac learned to swim. He can't lift his head to take a breath on his own yet, but he can easily swim 5 feet or more all by himself. I can't tell you how pleased I am about this, not least of all because we didn't have to attend any classes for this to happen. Vivian, of course, is not about to put her head under water, though she will blow bubbles on demand, and likes to float along the top step of the bubble yelling "Watch me! Watch me, Mommy, I swimming!!"

6. My sister lives less than a mile from my parents. (Did I mention?) Yikes. She is a saint. An occasionally opinionated, rigid, anal saint, but a saint nonetheless*. Though, she makes my niece and nephew do schoolwork during the summer. Isn't there some law against that? Shouldn't there be?

7. We spent a week at the beach in the Outer Banks of North Carolina. My parents own a rental property there, and for the last 4 or 5 years, my dad has allowed us to spend time there during the season. This is huge, as for the 15 years he owned the property before that we were only allowed to stay there during the winter, when it's cold and windy and there's nothing to do. We had a great time, and Lance couldn't complain about there feeling "claustrophobic" because he's so far away from the ocean. (God.) My niece, who is 9, loved babysitting, and my kids worshipped their older cousins (my nephew is 10). This made for a sometimes relaxing vacation, which those of you with toddlers know is an oxymoron.

8. Why can't my best friend--you know, one of the ONLY close friends I have with children--live on the West Coast? Why must she persist in staying in Delaware, so that I can't run over to her house with Vivian whenever I need a distraction? Her daughter is Isaac's age, and her son is the cutest two month old you've ever seen, and now I will not see them again until Christmas. Bah.

*If my sister had a blog, I can only imagine the adjectives she might use to describe me. (Clueless? Self-absorbed? Not-very-smart?)

And now, pictures:

Vivian and her cousin Sawyer, in the matching Lilly dresses my mother snuck out and bought, careful to remove the price tag before she presented them. Wasn't I talking about grandmotherly excess just the other day?



My best friends'** kids and my kids--don't they look like they'd all be great friends? If only we lived closer . . .


Isaac, jumping off the diving board. (Hmm, maybe you didn't actually need a description here. Uh, that's my nephew, Kitchel, standing on the side. There.)



. . and swimming:



Three generations (me, my mom, her mom, my sister):



At the beach:


**Don't worry, Heidi, you are also my best friend!

In lieu of an actual post, with words and everything, I give you . . .

Blisscotti.

Extremely yummy treat. Though I must confess: not good for the diet. Not good at all.

Here's what Daily Candy had to say about them.



P.S. Did I mention? Isaac has no school this week. NO SCHOOL. I'm just a little bit annoyed by that, oh and completely unable to steal a few minutes at the computer. Thank god my in-laws are out of town so we can head over to their house where there is a pool--but no computer access--today. Perhaps I'll have more for you this weekend. I know you're just DYING to hear from me. (Yeah, that vacation post is maybe still coming. I'm starting to forget where we even went for vacation though, it's been so long.)

Dirty

When I was little, my grandparents lived on a farm about twenty miles from town. We spent hours there, as kids, playing in the barn, exploring the creek, chasing frogs and lightning bugs and squirrels, mucking out the stalls for the horses, and seeding, weeding and picking the numerous vegetables and fruits that grew there.

We got pretty dirty, doing that. We got scratched by thorns, and stung by bees, and bitten by ticks. We bruised our legs and got dirt under our fingernails. Splinters found their way into our arms and legs on a regular basis. Our faces were smeared with blueberry juice, dust and scabbed mosquito bites. But we loved it, every minute of it.

My siblings, my cousins and I would roam the twenty acres, building tree-forts, pretending to be Lewis and Clark, or Laura from Little House in the Prairie, creating elaborate games of hide and seek, fighting and making up and fighting some more. Then Grandma would call us in, to help Geedaddy cut the grass on one of the tractors, or to pick the berries for that night's dessert, or to snap beans by the pool.

I've been thinking about this lately, since it seems that wherever I go, people around me are afraid to get dirty. Afraid of bees, and mosquitos, and ticks. Afraid of germs and bugs and any kind of mess. Don't get me wrong, I'm older now, and it's not as if I'm out there digging in the dirt every day, but I don't have the same kind of visceral reaction to the . . .earth (because that's what it is, isn't it?) that other people seem to.

It started on vacation, when Lance discovered a tic. OH MY GOD, the freak-out that followed. It was as if an alien had latched onto his thigh, and was injecting him with some kind of high-potency cocaine. Turns out, he'd never had a tick bite before. I realize, of course, that ticks are slightly more nefarious these days, what with Lyme's disease and all, but I mean, really. It was a tick, not a skinhead wielding brass knuckles and a Swiss army knife.

Then, a mother complained at school, because when we leave, the kids love to run behind the little hedge and squeak by the Cyprus trees, which sometimes leaves old spider webs or dust on their shirts. "It's filthy back there!" she practically screamed, dragging her startled 3 year old away, while the other kids (including Vivian) giggled and pushed themselves through the "filthy" spot.

And our neighbors asked if we'd been to the carnival, and when I answered yes, seemed incredulous that we had stayed, despite the carneys' lack of teeth and the general dinginess of the rides.

That's not all. Everyday friends or acquaintances comment about dirt, relate stories of horror because they saw an ant near their food, or jump back in fright if nearby child sneezes in their general vicinity.

Childhood is meant to be dirty, that's the way I look at it. Hell, life is dirty; you can't sanitize everything.

Not to mention, who wants to live a sanitized life? You know how you get your heart broken, and you cry every day in the shower, and you don't know how you are going to keep getting up in the morning? How you call your old lover and hang up, just because you want to hear his voice? How you promise all sorts of things if he will just take you back? And then later, oh, you are so ashamed? What a mess you were! What a mess that was! That's my equivalent to the childhood practice of having your mother check your hair for ticks every summer night. It's dirty. It's messy. But it's life. And the dirty stuff--the mosquitos, the sand in your underwear, the drunk-dialing--only comes after some really good livin. (Yes, that's livin, L-I-V-I-N.)

I'm not sure if growing up the way I did has anything to do with my current tolerance for dirt, in many of its forms. It surprises me to think that other kids didn't do this kind of thing. I mean, even if you didn't have a farm to play on, any kind of child play--in a park, in the backyard, in the alley--gets you dirty, right? As kids, did we all just sit on the sidelines, afraid to get our Mary Janes scuffed?

What do you think? Are we, as a culture, just too damn obsessed with cleanliness? Or am I just an unapologetic slob?

Also, if the soles of your kids' feet are black from playing outside barefoot, is it okay to put them to bed without a bath? Just askin'.

Update: I should also add here that I am similarly blase about germs. I hate those anti-bacterial wipes. My kids get sick, and then they get well again. I don't want them growing up afraid of a cold. I don't want them afraid to touch the door knob at a public restroom (well, most public restrooms). I know I'm in the minority here, but so far, Vivian and Isaac have been sick no more or no less than your average germophobic kid. Yes, we wash hands, but that's about the extent of it.

In the spirit of full disclosure, my husband says I should admit that mice and other rodents freak me the fuck out. My tolerance level for the animal kingdom stops around spider size.

What's your thing?

About a month ago my mother-in-law emailed me to see if it was alright if she bought Vivian a doll for her birthday. I'm not sure why she felt like she had to ask me, except that she knows I'm not much of a girly-girl and maybe she thought I'd be annoyed by a doll or something. I learned long ago not to try and understand where MIL is coming from, though: she can be a wonderful and generous person but her motivations are often beyond comprehension, if not suspect.

Anyway. She sent the email, and I responded. "Of course!" I said, "Buy her whatever you want. Just do me a favor and don't go overboard. She's only two, after all, she doesn't need every possible outfit and accessory for the doll, too." I only added the last bit because my mother-in-law is a complete Ebay addict, a collector, AND she had three sons. Vivian is her first chance to buy dolls, and I knew that she might get a little crazy. (This woman has over 400 of those Carolers, the little singing Christmas dolls. I'm not kidding.) MIL agreed, and that was that.

(Ha. Ha. Ha. Oops, excuse me.)

Before we left for vacation, MIL handed me several new outfits she had purchased for Vivian's birthday. She wanted her to be able to wear them back East, so she presented them early. Great. I thanked her profusely and went on my way. The day before we left, MIL dropped by with a doll and diaper bag she had purchased for the doll. The diaper bag was full--6 outfits for the doll, new shoes, baby lotion, baby powder, a tiny teddy bear for the doll. "Here", she said, "this is so Vivian can play dollies with her cousin. I thought they'd have fun doing that." "Oh. Okay. Well, uh, thanks. Vivian, what do you say?"

So a bit more than I had asked for, but whatever--she's the grandma, I'm not going to rain on her parade. What's a couple of outfits for a doll anyway. Cue our return from the East Coast, when we walk into our house after a long long flight only to see a twin baby stroller, with two more dolls. Attached is a balloon that says "Happy Birthday Vivi!". Oh but we're not done yet. Last weekend, Vivian received 4 more outfits for each doll, 6 new baby blankets, and two doll sleeping bags. Unwrapped, but at my MIL's house, out for Vivian to play with, was a doll pack n' play, another stroller, and several more assorted cribs/blankets/doll teddy bears.

It was like being at the Bitty Baby store. Everywhere I looked was another present or another toy. I know all of this makes my MIL extremely happy. She finally has her girl to buy for! I really don't want to take any of that joy away from her, and especially now, when Vivian doesn't have a clue what's going on. But it makes me grit my teeth. It is so against my main tenet (my only tenet?) of parenting, which is: DO NOT SPOIL YOUR KIDS WITH A BUNCH OF UNNECESSARY CRAP.

You know how everybody has a "thing"? Something that is really important to you, or really gets under your skin, or something that you are acutely aware of? For me, it is elitism and entitlement, and I'm sure the reason I have such a bug up my ass about it is that I went to a prep school, with tons of extremely rich kids, and many of them were complete assholes. I really don't want my kids to be like that, or to be around that. I have an extremely difficult time with people who just expect to be given a free ride, who think that by virtue of their birth they are entitled to everything they want.

In my opinion, buying a lot of "things" for your kids is wrong for a couple reasons. In the first place, if you buy your child everything they could ever want, how are they going to learn to appreciate anything? If they get a Mercedes for their 16th birthday, what's going to top that? Do you really want the peak of your kids' happiness to be at 16? Nevermind that giving them everything they want denies them the opportunity to work hard for something, to earn it, and to feel proud of themselves. I want my kids to be self-sufficient, and if I buy everything for them, how are they going to learn to do anything for themselves? Secondly, I think buying things just for the sake of buying them is a waste. A waste of your money and a waste of the environment. Of course it's nice sometimes to buy nice things, even if you don't need them. But I like to impress on my kids that you can be just as happy with fewer things. Things don't make you happy.

I'm not articulating this very well. But here's another way of saying it: $300 worth of crap from the American Girl store does not equal love. At two, Vivian would have been just as thrilled with one doll and one outfit. At six, maybe she'll want more. But if she gets five bajillion things today, what in the hell are we going to have to get for her at six? Furthermore, isn't there some value in learning delayed gratification? Like, if when she's six she really really wants the double stroller for the twins, she can ask Santa for it, or save her allowance? And then if she gets it, think how thrilled she'll be! Oh wait, we've denied her that joy, because she already has the thing. Which she got for doing approximately nothing, when she was two years old. When she had never even heard of Bitty Baby.

Anyway, I'm probably making too much of this. I know that the whole spending-too-much-on-the kids-thing is my own personal cross to bear and I'm over-sensitive to it. Still, those Bitty babies are making me itch, and not in a good way. (Is there a good way to itch?)

Is there something in particular about parenting that gets to you? Something that react to more strongly than you maybe should? Or am I the only freak out here?

Random bullets to fill time until I get the vacation post done*

• Strange weather in L.A. lately. Last night it was humid. Humid, in L.A.! It was still 75 degrees at 8pm (usually the temperature drops to the 60s by then). You will think I'm lying, but I actually like humid weather. I'm praying it keeps up through the 4th.
• I have switched to non-fat milk in my lattes and--horror of horrors!--lite beer. I still fear that will not be enough to get me back into my pants. I may have to start (gulp) exercising. Someone kill me now.
• I had a long post done entitled "Pasadena, otherwise known as Bum Fuck Egypt" about a cocktail party we went to last weekend, about how it takes forever to get there, and the weather is crappy and the smog is horrific, and how the people are so snotty and the country club set is in full effect there--but then I decided I probably shouldn't trash the entire town based on one experience. Just because everyone I've ever met from Pasadena has been a judgmental snob to the nth degree doesn't mean there aren't some perfectly nice people who live there. Also, truth be told, although the people at the party were indeed country-clubby in their cliqueishness, and though there was a fair bit of snotty behavior going around, some of them were very friendly, and I shouldn't complain. The host, a friend of Lance's from high school, has never been anything but kind to me, and his wife seems nice enough. I am glad I don't live there, though. And very glad that whole social hierarchy thing means nothing to me, or my husband.
• Got the BBQ issue of Bon Appetit the other day. I really dislike hamburgers (I was a vegetarian for 10 years, and eating a burger is just way too "meaty" for me). However, I love summer so much, and barbecuing is such the symbol of summer to me, that the cover actually made me salivate. I know some people can't stand the heat, but to me, summer is all the good things at once: fresh, yummy produce. Barbecues with friends. Beer in the lingering afternoon sun. Staying light until after 8 o'clock. No school! Laying out in the sun with a good book and some girlfriends. Shorts and flip-flops. I wish it was summer every day of my life.

* It may be awhile.

My own personal Abbott & Costello*

Scene: in the car, we drive past a dad with his young daughter.

Isaac: That looks like my friend Nadia.

Vivian: Nania!

Isaac: Nania?

Vivian: Nania!

Isaac: Nadia?

Vivian: Nadia.

Isaac: Do you like Nadia?

Vivian: Yes!

Isaac: Why do you like Nadia?

Vivian: Cuz I like Nania, and . . .

Isaac: Nania?

Vivian: Nania!

Isaac: Nadia? or Nania?

Vivian: Nania! Nadia! Nadia! Nania!

Isaac: Do you like Nonnie**?

Vivian:Nonnie! Nania! Naaaaannnnieeeeaaa!


*Not quite ready for prime time

**They call my mother-in-law Nonnie.

Also, this was funnier in person. I swear!

Sadness, on three fronts

1. I never have time to blog anymore!

2. Carolina lost the Baseball College World Series last night. Even though I find nothing more boring than baseball, it was still fun to have my alma mater in the race, especially since we are definitely NOT a baseball powerhouse.

3. I can no longer fit into the pants I bought when I was 2 months post-partum. (And not because they are too big.)

Conversation, a few minutes ago.

Me: Hi Linda, it's Amy.
Mother-in-law: Oh hi there.
Me: What's going on?
MIL: Just the usual.
Me: Do you and Trent have plans tonight?
MIL: We'll be here. Do you need a babysitter?
Me: Actually, yes. Darren just invited us to his housewarming party--the post office sent our invitation back to him for some reason, so we didn't know about it until today.
MIL: That's fine, just bring them over on your way to Pasadena.
Me: Great, thank you so much! Don't wait up for us--we'll just sneak in quietly and get them later.
MIL: Why don't they spend the night?
Me: Are you sure? That would be great!
MIL: In fact, why don't we keep them until Sunday, since you were planning to come over then anyway?
Me: Really? Until Sunday?
MIL: We haven't seen them in so long, we'd love it!
Me:Wow. Okay. THANKS!

Lance and I now have the entire weekend free of children! Yeehaw! What a nice unexpected weekend bonus!

(The only issue is that once again we'll be leaving Isaac, this time for two days. I'm sure this will NOT help the separation anxiety. What does it say about me that when considering these two things: Isaac's fear and my freedom, freedom wins?

Mother of the year nominations, anyone?

UPDATE: Turns out the last minute party is tonight (Saturday), so we didn't get to fob off the kids after all. Not until tonight anyway. Better for Isaac, not as good for me.

Separation Anxiety: what not to do

For reasons I cannot fathom, neither of my children has ever really suffered from separation anxiety. They've always been happy to go to whoever wants to hold them, happy to be left with a babysitter, or my in-laws, or whoever. There's been the occasional tear, if Lance and I leave too close to naptime, but always the crying has ceased before we even make it to the car. Even when I left Isaac at pre-school for the first time, there was only a millisecond of concern before he was off exploring all the new toys.

I feel fortunate that my kids are like this, but I doubt it has anything to do with my parenting skills. I'm not sure what it says about my parenting skills that my kids are just as happy with anyone else as they are with me.

As I've mentioned, right before we left for the East Coast, we took a trip up to Carmel, to see some old friends. The kids have been there before, but I don't think either one of them remembered. Strange surroundings, strange people, but they both did fine. Immediately afterward, we went to Delaware where again the kids were dumped into a strange home, surrounded by strange people. The time change plus the long napless flight exhausted them, but still they seemed okay. Right after we got to Delaware, my brother-in-law, my dad, and my niece and nephew took the first car down to North Carolina. We sent Isaac and Vivian with them, since I had some training to do at my dad's company and my sister had tickets to see Brooke Shields give a speech* that night. At first, they were thrilled with the idea--riding in a car! With their cousins! And there was a dvd in the car! But once they were all strapped in and reality set in that I would not be joining them, Isaac started to lose it. "But Mommy! I'll miss you", he whined. "I'll be there before you know it", I reassured him. "I need ya, Mom! I miss ya! Don't leave me!"

I gave him a few more kisses through the window, and sent them off, assuming that once they got going he would forget all about missing me. According to my dad, he did fall asleep shortly thereafter, and all seemed well. About 1.5 hours later, he woke up, and immediately started crying. "I want my mommy!" Nothing my dad, brother-in-law, or anyone else did made a difference. He cried/whined for two straight hours. He finally got over it, and managed to have an okay time for the next 24 hours (again, in new surroundings) until I arrived, but the damage was done.

Ever since then (June 7th, 2006), whenever I leave for any amount of time, no matter who I am leaving him with, he has a complete fit. Screaming, crying, refusing to leg go of my legs. "I need ya, Mom! I miss ya! Don't leave me!!" When we left him with my parents so Lance and I could go out to dinner, he cried for 10 minutes. When we left him with a babysitter so all the adults could go out to dinner, he cried for 30 minutes. When we finally got back to L.A. and I took him to school, he screamed for 20 minutes (something he's never done there before). We left him last night with my in-laws, whom he has stayed with hundreds of times, and he cried bloody murder for five minutes. This morning, at school, even after insisting to me that he wouldn't cry, that he was excited to go to school, he screamed. (Though they did call me a few minutes after I left to say he'd stopped right away.)

Update: today I had to carry a screaming Vivian out of preschool ("No go, Mommy! Stay! I want to stay!") while the sweet pre-school teacher held a flailing Isaac ("Don't leave me! Mommy! No!"). Fun times.

I'm really hoping this new phase/ personality quirk is short-lived, as it's agony to leave him when he's that upset. I'm not used to it, and it makes me feel incredibly insecure about my mothering abilities. (Should I leave him? Should I ignore the behavior? Should I explain again how I'm coming back? How could I have done this to him? Is he ruined forever? etc etc)

Vivian, on the other hand, has been totally non-plussed by all the comings and goings. Apparently, for her, I'm still as interchangeable as ever.


*I'd give her a B-.

First things first: traveling with toddlers.

Because my family lives on the other side of the country, my kids are more seasoned travelers than your average 2 and 3 year olds. They have both survived at least 2 or 3 cross-country flights in each year of their lives. I have flown alone with each of them before--Isaac at 10 months, Vivian at 3 months--but I have never flown alone with both of them together. Until this trip.

I have learned a few things about flying with kids in all our travels: schedule the flight around nap/bedtime; bring a few extra diapers in case the flight is delayed; carseats are a pain in the ass to lug onto the plane, but once you get them on, they are a godsend; and it's never as bad as you anticipate, even if it's really bad. The easiest kids to take on a plane are infants or pre-mobile babies. Once they are mobile, things become progressively more difficult until they are old enough to really understand consequences, around 2.5. At least, that's been my experience. Easily the worst part about flying with children is the logistics of it all: getting all the gear and the babies through all the lines and onto the plane without a meltdown (from the babies, you, or airport personnel).

All that is a really long introduction to the story of our flight a few Mondays ago. In retrospect, I should never have planned a trip to Carmel, which involved a six hour drive up on Friday and a six hour drive back down on Sunday, immediately followed by a six hour flight Monday. Yeah, I think that was a bit much for me, not to mention for the kids.

Our flight left at 1:30pm, naptime. Perfect. The difficulty lay in maneuvering both kids, the diaper bag, and two un-wieldy carseats through the security lines. Fortunately, Lance was able to get a pass to help us to the gate. We ate a quick lunch while waiting (airport food, yum) and got in line (Southwest, which allows families with kids to pre-board), then Lance had to go back to work.

With some difficulty, I managed to get both kids on the plane, in their carseats, and after a 10 minute delay, we were off. The first hour or two of the flight went well enough--no screaming, no fighting, but also no napping. Isaac required 3 separate trips to the bathroom; have you ever tried to fit three people in one of those tiny airport rooms? Even if two of them are well under four feet, it's quite a challenge. Around hour two, the captain turned on the seatbelt sign, as we were experiencing some very minor turbulence. Unfortunately, that sign stayed on for 4 more hours, the remainder of the flight.

For reasons unknown, neither Isaac nor Vivian slept at all during the flight. By the end of hour three, they were both tired of sitting in their seats. By hour four, Vivian was crying "Unbuckle me! Mommy! Get down!" at decibels loud enough to be heard in the cockpit. Isaac joined in, too, hollering to pee, grabbing whatever toy Vivian had in her hand, repeatedly kicking the seat in front of him and generally behaving like a jackass. That continued until we landed in Philadelphia around 9pm east coast time.

Here's what I find odd: I didn't really care. Wait, that's not what I mean. I definitely cared that both kids were so upset. I cared that I had to try and calm down both of them for 3 straight hours. But I didn't care what any of the other passengers thought. I didn't care if Vivian's crying was annoying them. I didn't care if they were tired of Isaac asking for more milk. I had enough to deal with, trying to handle the crises that was both of my children, and that's all that mattered. Further more, the way I figure it, if it was annoying any of the other passengers, imagine what it was doing to me, their mother. Cry me a river, people.

This is not my usual attitude. Generally, I'm very aware of the way other people perceive me, my children, and my parenting abilities, and I do everything in my power to ensure that we leave a good impression. But I don't know, on that flight, I just felt like it was all I could do to deal with the kids and I couldn't waste any brain function worrying about anyone else.

In the end, we made it to Philadelphia unharmed and I suppose that's something.

The flight home was easier for two reasons: one, Lance was with me, and two, the flight was scheduled for 6pm, which meant both kids slept for the majority of the flight. There was the unfortunate problem of the flight being delayed for 3 hours, however. This made for some interesting time in the Philadelphia airport. I must admit that at one point Vivian was running around with another two year old--chasing after him, and being chased, giggling hysterically (by this time it was 8pm, way past her bedtime), often running into other very important adult, annoyed passengers--and I didn't stop her. We'd been sitting there for 3 hours, every flight in the area was delayed due to thunderstorms, and I just didn't feel justified making her sit still any longer. I'm sure the kid-less people in the gate area did not appreciate her behavior, or mine, but I still feel no shame about it.

Right before we boarded the plane, a very nice couple who had been talking a bit with both Isaac and Vivian during the wait told me that both children were "adorable, and very well-behaved". I smiled sweetly and thanked them, not mentioning the chasing game which they had very obviously not witnessed.

Oh, and I should mention here too: at one point, a very kind woman, around 60, I would guess, came over and offered to watch the kids for me while I used the restroom. Lance had gone off foraging snacks or magazines, and she thought I was traveling alone with them. Isn't that nice? I just love when people are good, instead of shitty.

That's it for our plane travels, though we also survived another 6 hour car ride, this one from Delaware to the Outer Banks of North Carolina and back. Here's a recap of our schedule:

Friday June 2nd: 6 hour drive to Carmel
Sunday June 4th: 6 hour drive back to L.A.
Monday June 5th: 6 hour flight to Philadelphia
Wednesday June 7th: 6 hour drive to Duck, NC
Friday June 17th: 6 hour drive back to Delaware
Monday June 19th: 6 hour flight back to L.A.




Yeah, I'm glad to be home.

Back.

We had a great time, but I'm thrilled to be home. The kids are exhausted after a long flight last night, I've got piles of laundry to do, there's no food in the house, and Vivian is two. (TWO!)

More to come . . .

Stop. Just stop.

Why does winter drag on and on, endless days of grey skies and uncomfortable sweaters, but the minute summer gets here, the weeks fly by?

I am still running around, not even close to being ready for our trip back east, much less the Carmel weekend we leave for in the morning. I'm jonesing to read all your perfect blogs but can't even find the time to open bloglines. We get home Sunday afternoon from Carmel and leave less than 24 hours later for Delaware. I probably won't get a chance to post at all while I'm home. This makes me even more anxious to get on the computer today--I can't imagine two whole weeks without you people.

We get back June 20th. Vivian will be TWO YEARS OLD by then. How is this happening? My children are not babies anymore. My children are almost done with being toddlers. I need to get off this train, and pronto. I feel like I am going to wake up tomorrow and be sending Isaac off to college.

I was thinking earlier (I know, I know, I shouldn't strain myself), and realized that I have only the smallest bit of time left when Isaac and Vivian will love me as much as I love them. In a few years, they will start seeing my flaws, being embarrassed by my clothes, feeling annoyed when I kiss them. Can you imagine? I can't tell you what a big part of my life it is to walk into Isaac's room at night, give him a kiss, and have him sleepily murmur "I love you, Mom". I don't want that to end!

Well I could write a novel about that topic but then I would be procrastinating all the laundry/cooking/packing I have to do before tomorrow morning, so I guess I'll just sign off.

See you in a few weeks!