Three Out of Seven

Instinct: Better than a Handbook.

2010-04-18T10:32:00.004-04:00

I, like the rest of the Internet, have become a big fan of The Pioneer Woman. I like her self-effacing humour and the beautiful pictures she posts of her seemingly idyllic life on a ranch in Oklahoma. Her recipes are drool-worthy, though I haven't made any of them because, Hello cheese, butter, cream and bacon, meet my gargantuan thighs.

Recently Pioneer Woman posted a lovely set of photos of a cow watching nervously while a cowboy roped a calf to stop it from wandering away. She wrote about how the cow's maternal instinct gave her the ability to find her calf in a herd of a hundred cows and how the cow's concern for her little calf trumped her fear of the cowboy who was roping it.

I know that concern and fear. I've known it from the day Bug was born. I couldn't stand to be more than a few feet away from her. The night before we were supposed to leave the hospital, a nurse came to take Bug for one of the many look-sees they give newborns. I don't question nurses. I know better. They have needles and catheters and they know how to use them. If you're nice, they'll make sure you're comfortable and get the best meds.

The nurse was gone about a milli-second longer than I thought she should be and I started to sweat. I wondered if I'd carefully scrutinized the nurse's ID badge before she took my baby away from me. My heart pounded. Grinch saw anxiety pulling color out of my face and said, "Go get your baby."

I could hear all the way down the hall. Her cry wasn't the cartoon "wah, wah, wah!" It was "Lllllaah! Lllllaah! Lllllaah!" The nurses tried to assure me that, yes, she was safe, she'll be done in a second but I couldn't hear them. All I could hear was "Lllllaah! Lllllaah!" I paced back and forth at the nursery door like a lioness. A nurse finally gave me the go-ahead to come in. I pushed past her, and zeroed in on my sweet bug, wailing and lah-ing like her life depended on it and as far as I was concerned? At that moment, my life depended on it.

I carried my sweet, snuffling bug back to the hospital room, wheeling her bassinet behind me. I closed the door and collapsed in a chair, holding her tight to my chest, nursing and crying. "She's ok. She's ok." Grinch soothed me. I nodded through tears.

I may not feel like the best mother. I certainly don't know everything about being a mother and, you know what? No one does. Not even close. Everyone has their own way of doing things. We all know the difference between right or wrong but if you'd rather bottle feed than breastfeed, that's not right or wrong, that's just none of my business. We don't watch TV in my house, but if you let your kids watch Backyardigans and Dora, well, ok for you.

Everyone seems to want to be the "best" mother. I want to be the best mother I can be and whether or not I achieve that is really my kids' judgment, not mine. I'm not going to kill myself to live up to someone's standards. They can be the "best" mother to their own kids.

My instinct tells me to protect my children from danger, to breastfeed them, feed them healthy foods when they're ready, teach them to use good manners and not pick their noses in public. My instinct tells me it's ok to skip over the scary parts of books when we read, to enroll them in Sunday school and to avoid the creepy guy at the park.

That's all we're really working on here, isn't it? Instinct? Good, old-fashioned, motherly instinct. It works for cows and lions and for me and my girls. Right now, my instinct is to go give them big, fat, sloppy kisses.

Excuse me.

Speaking of Surprises

2010-04-04T09:13:00.001-04:00

Springtime is supposed to be a time of renewal, so I'll (try to) renew my blog. Wish me luck and thanks for checking in.

Bug's language skills got off to a slow start. She started saying "mama" and "dada" a few months after she turned one and we thought she was the most brilliant child on the planet. Except for the addition of "dis" and "dat", that's pretty much where her vocabulary stopped for six months.

Just about the time I was getting worried about her, (Googling "my 22-month-old only says four words" and nearly fainting at the tales of woe and nightmare diagnoses) she let loose with a torrent of words. "Bus! Ball! Hat! Blueberry! Car! Daddy's car! Daddy's car is silver! Mommy has a blue car!" She went from four words to 40 in a couple of days. Our assessment of Bug as the World's Most Brilliant Child was proven, in our eyes at least.

Dosey is now 27-months old and still says just a few words. Her chosen way to communicate most things is to point and scream. Loudly. She can say "cookie" and "no", the important stuff.

She has also picked up on the words "die" and "beer." I can explain: Dos loves to drink out of our glasses and when she goes for a sip of Corona, we tell her "That's beer, you can't have that." "BEER!" Dos says.

Also, Bug is a daredevil. We don't mind her stage-diving off the couch and scaling the climbing wall at the park, but when she tries to use the window screens as vertical trampolines, that's when we step in. Simply saying no doesn't stop her. It has to come along with dire warnings of "If you do that, the screen will give way, you'll fall out the window, crack your skull on the driveway, your brain will spill out on the pavement and you'll die." "DIE!", Dos cheerily cries.

Your kid's first words may be please and thank you, ours is "BEER! DIE!" We're quite proud.

At her two-year check up, the nurse practitioner commented on Dosey's language skills, or apparent lack thereof so far, and said, "I wouldn't worry about it, but if it's getting frustrating for you or her, then give us a call and we can talk about ways to get her talking more." GETTING frustrating? Lord, honey, it's been frustrating for a long time, now.

Little Dos wants so much, wants to tell us so much, and just can't get it across sometimes.
"Dubbadoo?" she asks, sincerely, pointing to a book.
"W?" I ask.
"No! DubbaDOO!"
"Dubbadoo?" I ask, hopefully.
"NO! DUBBABOO!" her eyebrows scrunch, her cheeks redden and her voice goes from childish purr to siren-like wail.

Frustrating? Hell yes.

Words are coming slowly for her. New favorites are puppy, hill, pie, night-night, up, needle, boo-boo and boobie. Yes, boobie. More on that later. Know this: I've tried to correct it to "breast", but it just cracks her up. Whatever. Let's just get her talking, we'll work on proper terminology later.

I turned 41 last month. Holy crap. That's just sinking in. 41. Jay-sus. ::deep breath, exhale:: I turned 41 last month and Grinch surprised me with cake and presents. Dosey surprised me by repeating, as best she could, "Happy. Birfday. Mommy. Love."

That's the best surprise ever.

I've Come For An Argument

2009-11-28T09:10:00.001-05:00

For a kid who can barely muster the nerve to say "good morning" to her own teachers, Bug is weirdly confident about other stuff. Like the fact that I am totally and completely wrong about everything.

"Sweetie, don't crawl under the bed. It's very dusty under there."
"No, it's not."
Really? So that 2-inch thick layer of gray fuzz on the floor? What is that, exactly?

"We can't go outside, it's raining really hard right now."
"No, it's not."
Then why did our neighbor's trash cans just go floating down the street?

"I can't read any more, I'm too tired. I'm about to fall asleep."
"No, you're not."
Kid, did you miss the part when I said, "...down the hill, tumble bumble, pellzzzzzzzzz...."?

"Darlin', you can't wear those stripey purple pants with the starry orange shirt and pink Hello Kitty socks. It just doesn't go together."
"Yes, it does."
If you're headed to try outs at clown college, maybe. But not for lunch at Oma's house.

I actually used to argue with her about these things, which is ridiculous. It was like a Monty Python sketch.
"It's time to go home, bunny."
"No, it's not."
"Yes, it is."
"No, 'tisn't!"
"Yes, 'tis!!"

Unlike Michael Palin and John Cleese, there is nothing side-splittingly funny about our arguments. The debates would get heated, I'd raise my voice and make ugly, angry faces, I'd realize that I'd let myself get into an argument with a four-year-old and get even madder. Now, I try to just keep going. Distract, redirect, dip into the bag of tricks and see what works this time.

"I made meatballs and pasta for dinner..."
"No, you didn't."
"...and delicious cookies for dessert."
"Oh, yay!"

"Yuck. The cat threw up on the floor."
"No, he didn't."
"I'll just clean this up and we can go to the park."
"Yay!"

Our pediatrician says the Bug doesn't really doubt everything I say, it's just her goofy four-year-old way of striking up the conversation. It gets to me, though. It does. I already doubt almost everything I do, particularly as a parent. So when she expresses doubt in me, too...well, it hurts.

I'm trying to look at this positively: she's not gullible. She doesn't take everything at face value. She's going to question everything until she gets to the bottom of things. That's all good, right?

Right?

Clarity

2009-10-18T08:19:00.002-04:00

Hello again from the land of outspoken toddlers and runny nosed babies. Sounds like a fun place to visit, doesn't it? Tickets are free. Donations of wine and mild tranquilizers are welcomed and appreciated. Step right up and enjoy the freak show.

Actually, the freak show has gotten somewhat less freakish. I took several days off last week and I don't know if it was the extra sleep or what but, damn I swear I saw rainbows and heard birds singing just about everywhere I went. That's even weirder than it sounds considering that it's been raining for what seems like the last month.

Some things have been wonderful, like seeing the Bug enjoy school more and more, hearing her excitement about new discoveries in the classroom and seeing her test her strength on the playground. I pick her up from school everyday. On my days off, I take Dos with me and the three of us spend some time playing in the classroom together after the other kids leave for carpool. I love seeing what Bug finds so fascinating about her classroom. "Mommy, look! These are called Lincoln Logs." she says, revealing her new discovery. "This is the reading corner! And we have puzzles!"

On the days I work, I leave the office and go straight to Bug's school. Waiting in the carpool line, I sometimes see her with her classmates on the playground. There's something weird about seeing your child moving through the world without you. It's different than taking them to the park and watching them run and play with their friends. They're still conscious that you're there. They're depending on you. You know they're your responsibility and you're on alert, so to speak.

Watching her on the playground, away from me, running and playing without a care in the world...it's a partial out of body experience. She's part of me, but completely independent of me and growing more so every day. It's wonderful and frightening at the same time. I'm still on alert. What if she falls? What if someone is mean to her? What if she needs me and I'm not there? It's hard not to rush to be by her side just in case but that's not what she needs now. What she needs is to learn to be her own person away from Mom, Dad and little sister. So I sit in my car, watching my little girl grow up right before my eyes.

When it's our turn in the pick up line, I'm reminded again that she's still a little girl. My little girl. She climbs into the car, wide-eyed and smiling at me. She has a new painting or project she can't wait to show me. Her teacher buckles her in and we're off. We stop for smoothies and she begs me to hold her hands while we twirl around the room. The room spins and my eyes are focused on her. Her eyes are shining and she's smiling. We stop and she stumbles into my legs, hugging me. "Mommy" she says, giggling, "you're my best friend."

Give Me a Home

2009-08-30T09:43:00.001-04:00

Our favorite babysitter went back to college and I have a niece and two nephews who are college freshmen as of last week so there has been a lot of talk about college and college life around our house lately.

Grinch and I have been talking about our own journeys to college, being away from home, going wild, feeling lost and free at the same time. We've talked about how my sister, a single mom, must feel, sending her daughter 444 miles away to go to university. How hard it's going to be not to have her daughter around, to not be able to protect her, guide her, have fun with her.

Grinch is already twitchy about the idea of sending the bug away to college. You should have seen how we hovered over her pre-school when first started there. She was only gone for a few hours, two days a week, but we sat in the parking lot and waited just in case she needed us. I got weepy just thinking about next year, when she'll be in school *all* day! Five days a week! How are we supposed to just drop her off, drive away and not see her for....ohmygod months?!

It's a good thing we have 14 years to think about all this. Which, given how quickly the last four years have gone, doesn't seem like that much time at all. Ohmygod.

I don't worry about Dos too much because she's still so baby-like that I have a hard time imagining her ever growing up. She'll just be my baby forever and we'll leave it there. K? I'm trying to avoid a full-on emotional meltdown here, y'all.

Bug has overheard all this college chit-chat and has started asking questions. "What's a college? What's a professor? What's tuition?" With everything, we're straight forward and honest which is pretty easy to do with a subject like this. (Drowning and dying came up recently. That's a whole 'nother post.)

We've talked about studying hard, choosing a school, joining clubs and making new friends. I thought I was doing pretty good until "...and we'll take you to your dorm and help you get everything you need and...."

"What's a dorm?"

"That's where you live when you're away at school."

Her eyes filled with tears and her mouth turns down. "But I don't want to live away from you and Daaaaaaddeeeee...."

I made my sweet girl cry. I feel like a jerk. Oh! But she loves our home so much, she loves Grinch and me so much she never wants to leave! We're awesome!

"Aw, bunny... You don't have to go away to college. You can stay at home. You can stay at home for as long as you want." She's smiling again. Giggling.

Wait...did I just tell her she can live at home forever? I did. Which is OK with me.

Still Here

2009-08-16T09:33:00.005-04:00

Well, there it is. Proof positive that I suck as a blogger AND a mommy. I haven't updated in weeks and I didn't wax poetic about my bug's 4th birthday to the internets. Since I've turned 40 I've learned that I suck at a lot of things. When I was 20, I thought I was awesome at EVERYTHING. 20 years makes a big difference.

So yes, the Bug turned four and I can hardly believe it. (I waxed poetic privately. Just because it didn't happen on line doesn't mean it didn't happen. ) We're probably giving the kid a massive complex because Grinch and I keep staring at her. We don't expect her to spontaneously burst into flames or give us the winning lottery numbers, though that would be cool. (The numbers, not the flames.) We just can't stop looking at her because....well...she's four.

"Are you sure?" Grinch asked me as the bug and dos giggled over one of her birthday presents.

"Sure of what?" I asked.

"That she's four."

"We must have miscounted."

"How'd she turn four?"

(counting on my fingers) "2006, 2007...yeah...that's four years."

"She's a little kid. She went from a baby to a little kid, like...." Bug's ears perked up at this.

"I'm not a little kid! I'm a big girl! I'm four! Four, four, four!" and off she hop, hop, hopped like a bunny, hugging her new dolly.

Our little girl. Our baby bug. She's four.

Different is Good

2009-07-12T09:52:00.003-04:00

"Is she a good baby?" a friend asked after the Bug was born.

"She is. She's a good baby." I told her. I wasn't sure what she meant by "good baby" but I meant that Bug was cute, nursed well, let other people hold her and didn't cry without reason. Don't get me wrong. She cried. Lordy, lord did she cry. I cried, too. Big, heaving sobs of "This sucks! I want my life back!" and then she started sleeping through the night and I no longer felt like gray matter was seeping out of my ears. Things got better. We figured each other out. I stopped trying so hard to be The Perfect Mom and concentrated on being a really good mom to my little girl.

I was dumb enough to think everything would be exactly the same the second time around. Everything was different from the start: Bug took her time getting everything in place before she would think about being born. Dos came five days ahead of schedule and nearly made her entrance in the hospital parking lot. Bug barely made a peep during the first few diaper changes. Dos screamed bloody murder, to the point that a nurse poked her head in during one diaper change to ask, eyebrows raised, "Is everything ok?" Bug looked around, wide-eyed with wonder on her first ride home. Dos clamped her eyes shut and screamed for 5.5 miles. In rush-hour traffic.

Bug slept through the night on her own at 8 weeks. Dos finally gave it a try at 8 months and didn't care for it too much. She was over a year old before she slept through the night on a regular basis. I don't think she's all that fond of sleeping, but she does it reluctantly because she knows a whole buncha fussin' isn't going to get her much more than a cursory pat on the back and another stuffed bunny tossed in her crib. There are only so many bunnies one kid can take.

Grinch and I fretted and lamented the differences between Bug and Dos. We questioned everything we had done, I, had done during my pregnancy. Wondered if genetic anomalies, chromosomal aberrations, even brain damage could explain her apparent unhappiness with seemingly everything. We fumed and cried, cursed and raged. What was wrong with this baby?

Then one day, it hit us: nothing is "wrong" with her. She's just different. She's a healthy little girl who has her own personality, her own likes and dislikes, her own quirks and curiosities. She's not Bug, she's Dos. All new. All ours. Ours to figure out, to learn from and enjoy.

She's different from her sister in another obvious way: I used to rock Bug to sleep, singing campfire/Beatles/Johnny Mercer medleys. When I tried to lay her in the crib, sometimes she'd wake up, clamp her arms around my neck and cry as I pried her off. Dos nurses happily until she's calm and sleepy but hates to be rocked almost as much as she hates my singing. I stand with her cribside, swaying to the music and patting her back. She pats my back, leans in for a kiss or three, then dives for the crib, clasping a bunny to her chest. I hear her cooing and giggling as she falls asleep.

She's different from her big sister, alright. What a great thing.

The Bare Facts (or "The Naked Truth)

2009-06-27T09:44:00.000-04:00

Ok, OK! I'll post something. You people are slave drivers! I swear.

I haven't posted anything lately because I've been in a bit of a funk and looking back on my blog, it seems like one long whine with a few giggles in between. I've been waiting for something funny or happy or silly to happen so I could write about it. But funks, especially those that seem to permeate the family unit, are not especially conducive to episodes worthy of funny, happy or silly blog posts.

I could tell you about my run-in with an idiot in the grocery store parking lot who insisted on calling police because she was sure I had scratched her car with my shopping cart. That doesn't seem so much funny as infuriating.

Hmmmmm.....

Ah, here's a good one:

Nudity. It's gotten quite popular in our family. At least among the under-four set. Bathtime is particularly joyful because of all the pre- and post-bath nudity required. Did you know that if you're naked, you're supposed to run around the house, screaming that you are, in fact, naked? Try it. From my observations it really adds to the experience.

Here's a chance for me to explain to my non-southern friends the difference between the common English word "naked" and the southern "nekkid." "Naked" is used to describe someone who is not wearing any clothes. "Nekkid" is used to describe someone who is not wearing clothes and is doing something they ought not to be doing. Variations on "nekkid" include: butt-nekkid, stark-nekkid, nekkid-as-the-day-you-was-born and nekkid-as-a-jaybird.

Giggling children who are running around the house without clothing would generally be referred to as naked. The bug prefers to pronounce it "NAY-ked!" Dos goes for the more modern "EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEheeheeheehee!" Both pronunciations must, MUST come at a precise volume of about 120 decibels, or roughly the same volume as a fire truck siren.

Grinch and I haven't followed the girls in their naked example. Their running around naked and yelling about it is cute. Our running around naked and yelling about it might be seen as psychotic.

There's only so much nakedness we can support around here until everyone gets reliable control over their bladders. So the naked party usually only lasts about 10 minutes or until someone pees on the floor. Then diapers and pajamas go on, paper towels are dispensed and wet hair is combed out. The volume decreases considerably and giggling goes down to tittering or snickering at least.

There is always the promise of future nakedness, much to the bug's excitement. "Mommy," she whispers as she snuggles my shoulder, "I can't wait to take a bath again so I can get NAY-ked!"

Mother's Day

2009-05-09T09:12:00.006-04:00

I never expected to be a mother. It's not something I was raised to do. As a little girl, I didn't play house and I didn't carry around baby dolls. I played "Love Boat" and pretended I was a famous businesswoman who Gopher fell in love with on a cruise to Acapulco. I had high aspirations, obviously.

I didn't take Home Ec in high school. My sisters took it and it sounded like fun: baking cookies and cake and learning to sew. I expected to take it, too. When I brought it up to my counselor, she looked over her glasses at me and said, "But you want to go to college, don't you? Don't waste your time with home ec. That's a class for...for girls who won't be going to college."

In fact, I was steadfastly against having children until about two years before I became pregnant. Working years in retail will turn anyone against children. I watched too many temper tantrums unfold in the toy aisle near my cash register, saw too many parents reduced to red-faced, sweaty messes as they juggled bags, checkbooks and screaming children.

My own mother didn't seem to like being a mother very much so there wasn't much to interest me in joining the ranks.

But here I am. I'm a mother. I'm not the first. I'm not the best. I'm not the worst. But here I am.

I'm trying. It's hard. I don't have great examples to follow and I wasn't trained to do this. There's no pay check, no big jackpot. The payoffs come when you least expect them: a midnight nuzzle on your neck as you carry a sleeping child to bed. A messy kiss after a shared surprise ice cream cone. Feeling your baby grow heavy on your shoulder as she shudders, sighs and gives in to sleep. The sunlight on your child's hair as she runs happily through the park, her giggles ringing in the air. The fistful of dandelions offered to you as though they were a bouquet of roses. Watching your children hug each other tightly, then open their arms to invite you in.

There are payoffs, sometimes so small, that if you blink, you might miss them.

Here I am. I'm a mother.

Thank goodness.

Tag Team 101

2009-04-26T08:27:00.000-04:00

When Grinch and I decided to do this goofy tag team parenting schedule, we were surprised by the number of people who told us it couldn't be done. People who had never worked an overnight schedule. People who weren't dependent on two incomes. People who didn't even have children. They all told us we were looking at certain failure. A co-worker said we'd be lucky to last six months. Others gave us less than a week.

Nearly four years later, we're more than glad to tell them they were wrong, wrong, wrong.

It CAN be done. It's not always fun and it's not always pretty. Get a look at me after a painfully short nap and you'll understand just how un-pretty it can be. But it CAN be done.

Here's what you need to make it work:

-Team work. You both have to commit to this plan and be in it for the right reasons. If one of you isn't sure why you're doing this or isn't enthusiastic about the tag team concept, you're not going to weather the ups and downs very well. And there will be a LOT of ups and downs: the normal ones associated with having a child and the new ones that are unique to the tag team.

-The Right Partner. You have to be able to trust each other implicitly. Grinch and I had been together nearly 20 years before we took on the tag team schedule. We knew each others strengths and weaknesses. We also knew we could depend on each other to do the right thing, be the adult, be dependable and put our child first. If you're with a man-child, princess, stoner or general knucklehead, this is not going to work out for you. You might also want to reconsider having a child with this person, but that's a whole 'nother subject.

-Supportive employers. They may surprised by your choice and doubt your ability to make it work, but if your employer is willing to work with you on your schedule, that's a big part of making the whole machine click. Give them plenty of advance notice that you want to do this. Don't spring this on them as you're walking out the door for maternity leave.

-Experience. If your tag-team schedule requires one of the partners to work odd hours and you've never worked odd hours before, it's going to be 500 times harder than you ever imagined. I've worked late night and overnight schedules on and off for nearly 20 years. I've managed it well, but I've seen other people who just can't do it. You don't want to find out that you're not suited to the overnight shift when you've structured your family's life around it.

-Help. Grinch and I were committed to doing the tag team 100% on our own, no help whatsoever. It worked great for us at first, but it was pretty exhausting. I recommend having some kind of help at least one day a week, just to ease your load a little. That help can be a sitter, a meal delivery service, yard service, or a friend or relative who comes over just to hold or play with the baby while you do laundry or chop vegetables. After Dos came along, our tag team hours changed and we had to hire a sitter three days a week. It's drastically increased the amount of time we're able to spend together as a family and gives us a little more wiggle room in the schedule. It was hard for me to accept help at first, but it really has improved things for us.

-Dedication. If you're going to do this - do it. Don't try it for a week and give up. Plan on doing it for six months at least. After six months, sit down with your partner and talk about how the tag team is working for you. Make some adjustments if you need to and try it for another three months. If it's still not working, think about what else you can do to fix things and come up with a Plan B. Try three more months. After baby's first birthday, take a good look at how things are going. If it's working, then have another slice of cake and toast your tag team. If it's not working, have another slice of cake, toast your hard work and dedication and move on to Plan B.

When someone hears about our schedule, they usually say, "Wow, how do you do it?" "It's hard," I say, "but it's worth it." And that's the truth. It is VERY hard. News flash: life is hard. But you keep going and you keep learning and doing the best you can for yourself and the people you love. Things get easier and new challenges come along. If you do it right, you have some great teammates beside you, cheering for you every step of the way.

Le Freak, Boutique

2009-04-05T09:23:00.003-04:00

Just before Dos was born, a co-worker gave me a gift certificate to a fancy-schmancy baby store near my office. Correction: not "store." Boutique. La-dee-dah.

On the day I planned to use the gift certificate, Bug got a stomach virus and when she wasn't spewing all over the place, she was sleeping deeply on my chest and very pregnant belly. Not exactly perfect conditions for shopping at a boutique. By the time she was better, I was in the hospital, birthin' Dos and didn't exactly have time for boutiques.

The gift certificate has been sitting in my purse for over a year now. I finally got a chance to go to the store last week and, oh my, yes it is a boutique indeed. White walls, white floors, white shelves, and expensive white towels, sheets and blankets. You can tell that people go there BEFORE they have a baby because no conscientious parent would haul a barfing, pooping baby or grabby, sticky-handed, crumb-faced toddler into a store like this. Sorry, boutique.

The boutique had such beautiful things. I think I touched every blanket they had and they were all as soft as a baby's skin. I shook the rattles and squeezed the stuffed animals. I may have even nuzzled an organic cotton bunny. All heavenly. I fell in love with a palm-sized, wooden rattle/music box that played "Alle Meine Entchen" so sweetly I almost cried. I tinkered with every toy car and train, thumbed the pages of nearly every book.

I jealously eyed the staged nurseries. Everything matched so carefully and precisely that it looked like page in a design magazine. Hearty cribs with delicate linens. Porcelain night lights and decorative plates, hand-painted with lambs and bunnies. I thought back to Dos and Bug's room, with the 20-year-old hand-me-down crib and Ikea bed covered in mismatched sheets, no door on the closet and books haphazardly stacked on the shelves. Am I a bad Mommy because I didn't paint the room pink when Bug was born? Are my girls suffering because I haven't spelled out their names in pastel wooden letters over their beds? Would Dos sleep better if she had a $75 scent diffuser by her crib? I had to pull myself away before I felt the need to tear up my Mommy card.

Then I rounded the corner to the strollers. Not just any strollers. The Lexuses and Mercedes of the stroller world. The strollers were sleek and gleaming. They had cup holders perfectly sizes for venti soy lattes and BPA-free bottles. These strollers were ergonomically designed and built the the same material used in car and airplane production. They had ports for ipods. One had speakers. I think I drooled a little as I reached for the price tag on one of the strollers.

Have I mentioned before, or has it made itself apparent that I am budget-minded....some might say "cheap"? Yes, well, I *do* gasp and go gog-eyed when I see a $1999 price tag on a stroller. Unless it pushes itself and teaches my child three languages there is no stroller on earth worth $1999.

I backed away from the strollers and started looking at the price tags on other things. A matching set of 600 count crib linens? $210. A cashmere romper? $98. That dear little music box? $54. I knew that I would never be back in this place again. I wanted to make the most of my gift certificate and go home to hand-me-down kids' clothes and second-hand stroller. Back to the homemade bedtime mix CD on our creaky old boombox. Back to my giggly girls who didn't seem to care if they weren't wearing designer clothes or any clothes at all for that matter. Better access to tickly ribs and armpits.

I left the store with a small bag of fun odds and ends, all of which are going in the girls' Easter Baskets. I think they'll like them as much as the very non-boutiquey candy I bought for them at Target.

The girls' room doesn't have a theme other than "comfortable." I didn't put a whole lot of thought or money into a design concept. I don't worry if their toys are organic or free-trade as long as they're smart and safely built. Their room doesn't smell like lavender and fresh-baked cookies. I'm not a boutique kinda mama, I guess. That's ok. I think my girls love me anyway.

Erin Go Blah

2009-03-14T09:01:00.003-04:00

My, my, my, but I do prattle on about myself don't I? "Me" this, "I" that, "Me, me, me!" Yes, welcome to the Heather show. You have one of the best seats in the house. Do be careful not to get pelted by a dirty diaper, won't you? Snacks and cold drinks are available at intermission.

A few months ago, in a fit of openness and insanity, I told a dear old friend that I had a blog and gave him the URL. He's been a regular reader ever since, even though he says the writing is "too Irish" which I think means that I moan a lot about how bad things are. Which, ah yes, 'tis true. I promise you, though: I am not blogging hunched over a pint of Guinness. I prefer Harp.

It is almost time to roll out the Irish ancestry for real. St. Patrick's Day and all that. I have some Irish flags and a green girly headband for the bug that I got on sale after St. Patrick's Day *last* year because it was on sale for half price. Full price was $1. Have I mentioned that I'm cheap? In a good way, of course.

My parents used to hold a St. Patrick's Day party every year. Dad, with his very Irish name, seemed to feel obligated to really Irish it up this time of year. He wore a horrendous green blazer, shamrock bow tie and leprechaun shoes. He took pride in his special "peat bog punch" which was basically bottles upon bottles of various clear liquours poured into a punchbowl, mixed with limeade and green food coloring. I drank a full glass of it when I was 10 and promptly passed out under the buffet.

My brothers and sisters and I used to look forward to the party, not just for the free booze, but because we got to eat cocktail food all night, stay up as late as we wanted and watch my parents friends get drunk and walk the wrong way out of the yard. Correct way: up the path to the sidewalk. Incorrect way: down the steps, next to the fence where the neighbors vicious dogs waited to snarl and snap like hellbeasts. Nothing funnier to a pack of heathens than to see tipsy middle-agers scared right out of their loafers.

Mom and Dad's party hosting days are long over and I don't think we'll host one either. The last party we tried to hold was a disaster of epic proportions. There was no booze, the food I made was ok but uninspired, Bug spent a lot of time crying and when I tried to comfort her, Dos would cry so until we A) get these girls in party mode or B) win the lottery and buy a bigger house so we can hide messes and crying children from our guests I'm swearing off party hosting. I'd LOVE to attend yours, though.

Snakes, Ducks and How I Roll

2009-03-08T08:37:00.006-04:00

"She has a strong maternal instinct."
Used to describe thoughtful, warm, caring women who are always going out of their way to tend to people, especially children. Women described this way always seem to be baking something, tidying up and smiling while tending to their offspring's every need, no matter how unpleasant. You see this phrase next to airbrushed photos of mama ducks with their ducklings and silk-skinned, topless mothers nursing their new babies.

.::.

"She has no maternal instincts."
Used to describe the woman who locked her child in the car while she went to gamble away the rent money in a smoke-filled casino. Or worse. This phrase is illustrated with photos of snakes and mug shots of women who have done regrettable, horrible things to their children.

.::.

Is there a middle ground for maternal instincts? Because while I literally would stand in front of a speeding freight train to protect my children, I don't exactly love tending to their every whim, especially when some of those whims come at 3am, accompanied by feces.

I do not smile through my toddler's tantrums. I have been known to tell her to "can it" on more than one occasion.

I do not relish the thought of changing the baby's diaper. While it is an opportunity to see her perfectly adorable bum, it is also occasion to see her face turn purple with rage because this baby HATES diaper changes.

I do not love it when strange children come up to me on the playground and try to engage me in a discussion about their newest plastic gee-gaw. It makes me uncomfortable and I often end up asking them, "Is your Mommy here? Why don't you go find her."

However.

I do love painting pictures with the Bug and giggling with her at nap time. I am happy to hold her when she is frightened, upset, sick or just needs a quiet cuddle. I know when she needs space and when she needs to hold my hand.

I chase Dos around the house on my hands and knees because, even though it shreds my kneecaps, it makes her laugh and that's priceless. And I change her diaper, even though she tries to claw my face off when I do.

I race to catch anonymous toddlers who wander away from inattentive parents and nannies at the park. They aren't my kids, but they are someone's and need to be kept safe from harm.

I'm not a snake. I'm not quite a mama duck, either. I'm just a mom, trying to figure all this out as I go along and finding that maternal instincts aren't always instinctive.

Smile

2009-03-04T09:00:00.000-05:00

I see one of my co-workers on a regular basis, but we don't often have time to chat. When we do, the conversation always centers around our kids. He has a little girl who is 4, going on 24. Her attitude is legendary and he always has a funny story about her.

We were chatting recently and he asked, "What about you, how're your girls?'

I paused for a second to take inventory. "They're great." I said.

"You always smile when you talk about them." he said.

"I do?"

"Yes. Is there always something to smile about?"

"I guess there is. I just can't believe how lucky we are. I still can't believe they're mine."

It's true. As hard as things have been, I am lucky. It's so easy to forget when I'm feeling lousy and stressed out. When both kids are crying and it's probably my fault that they are. When I haven't slept when my husband in weeks and I can't remember the last time I saw my friends. When all of that piles up, everything seems awful and I often roll my eyes and groan, "Kill me now."

But when someone asks, "How're things?" and I say, "Great!" It's true. I'm not covering up or glossing over things to paint a rosy picture. Things really are pretty damn good. Everyone is in good health, the girls are thriving and growing. We have good jobs, food in the cupboards and a home in a friendly neighborhood. Our families and friends are supportive and caring. Frankly, sometimes I think I have it better than I deserve.

Things ARE pretty damn good. It's easy to forget.

Connect: FAIL

2009-02-28T09:25:00.002-05:00

Saturday morning, 5:53am ET.

I'm at work and my phone rings so insanely loud that my co-workers and I jump. The number on the caller ID doesn't ring a bell. Not our area code so I know it's not Grinch, hospital or police department calling about him or the girls. Gravelly voiced and rushed, I answer, "Hello?"

A sweet, child-like, Canadian voice tones: "Can you talk or is Ted there?"

I figure it's someone's who hates her best friend's boyfriend/husband. My husband isn't named Ted. She must have the wrong number. "You have the wrong number." I rasp.

phone closed, back in purse.

Then the lightbulb goes off over my head. That wasn't a wrong number! That was Jen! Freaking Jen and Tonic called me! A blogging rock star called me and I hung up on her. Idiot.

This is what a cold and the graveyard shift does to you, y'all. Watch, learn and be afraid.

Making Valentines

2009-02-10T11:08:00.002-05:00

Blah.

2009-02-02T08:51:00.000-05:00

Forgive my bloggy absence of late. Everything that comes out of my mouth and keyboard these days seems to have a negative, "poor pitiful me" sound to it and I don't want that. Not anymore, anyway. Not where everyone can see it and roll their eyes at it.

I know I left my happy around here somewhere. I'm looking for it. I may make a new one if it doesn't turn up soon.

Care Package

2009-01-19T09:00:00.001-05:00

A few years back, a friend who was born and raised in the south moved far north to go to college. I admired her courage and shivered at the thought of long, cold winters and a world without the essentials of life, namely: sweet tea, flaky biscuits and Moon Pies.

After she'd been in Boston a few months, I sent her a care package of things you should be able to find in civilized society: pork rinds, grits, RC cola and Moon Pies. The package was 1/2 joke and 1/2 friendly hug from afar. With internet shopping, she could have probably bought all of those things with a few mouse clicks, but that wasn't the point. The point was, she was a newbie in a new world. I just wanted to make her smile and give her some familiar snacks from "home." (Though, since she's Jewish, I don't know how the pork rinds went over. That was the joke part, I guess.)

I once watched my grandmother pack for a trip to Chicago to see my dear Aunt Mary. She loaded her suitcase with clothing, shoes for herself and cornmeal, grits, Karo syrup, and Moon Pies for Aunt Mary. This was decades before the internet and dependable, timely shipping. When Grandmother and I got to Chicago, Aunt Mary accepted the care package with glee.

When my brother was stationed in England, my sisters and I would pack him elaborate care packages of candy, beef jerky, Bic pens and toiletries. No Moon Pies, that I remember. I don't know how he survived, frankly.

Care packages seem to be a dying art. Anyone can buy anything they want on the Internet, delivered right to their doorstep, any time they want. You can even buy ready made "care packages" on line and send them to a friend with a computer print out greeting card. What the hell is the point of that? That's not a care package! That's just a box of crap you paid someone to put together for you.

Today on Twitter, there was a discussion between friends (you are my friends, Tweeters. pinkie swears.) about food. Ex-pats were talking about food they remember/miss from home. I joked about making care packages for them, but now I mean it. In fact, I've already put one together.

So here's my proposal: tell me what you miss the most about home. E-mail me your mailing address and I will send you a care package. I can't promise anything elaborate or expensive (we're working on a tight budget at Casa Three of 7). If I can't find the item you really want, I'll let you know. I want to say thank you for reading this blog, thank you for listening to me whine and giggle. I want you to give you a hug, even if it comes in a box in the form of cheeze crackers and jujubes. I want to send you a care package.

The Good, The Bad and The Asshat

2009-01-16T09:00:00.000-05:00

There are moments in parenting that make you feel like the smartest, most entertaining, most resourceful, kindest parent in the world. Gluing a favorite toy back together, catching a child in mid-fall, saying the just the right thing to soothe a sobbing child, occupying a toddler on a rainy day using nothing but Popsicle sticks, glue and construction paper. Those kinds of moments.

There are also moments that make you feel like a complete asshat.

If you play your cards right and work really hard at it, the good moments are more frequent than the asshat moments. But the asshat moments hurt. Hopefully you haven't done anything so awful that it hurts your child physically or mentally, but it hurts you. At least, the asshat moments hurt *me*.

There are simple ones, like the time I got the Bug all hyped up to go to her favorite indoor play center. We got there and the place was closed for a private party. Bug already had her shoes off and was excited about jumping in a bouncy tent. I had to pull her back and tell her we weren't allowed. Talk about taking the wind out of some one's sails.

There are scary ones, like the time I was holding Dos, who was enraged that I'd just changed her diaper. She bucked backwards and right out of my arm. I can still hear the sound her body made when it hit the floor and it makes me sick to my stomach. After four hours in the ER, Dos had a perfectly clean bill of health and Bug was have a grand time in the hospital cafeteria and I was resolved to hold my baby tightly, with two hands, no matter what.

And then there was Saturday night. A new level in ass-hattery for me. I was a major-league asshole to my child. I was frustrated and weary. She was energetic and insistent. I threw away a toy she gave me and stomped off, leaving her alone, wailing in the kitchen. I didn't just take the wind out of her sails. I shredded the sails, pulled the plug on the boat and left her there to sink.

I apologized a short time later and she seemed fine with everything, but I can't forget the sound of her cry. Add that to the nasty look Grinch gave me later, along with the admonishment, "She was really hurt. REALLY. Hurt." and my torment is complete.

No parent is perfect. I know that. I pray a lot for patience, strength, energy and fortitude. I don't know if God hears those prayers. I don't know what he'd think if I prayed, "Dear God, don't let me be an asshat to my children today."

Easy/Hard

2009-01-13T09:00:00.000-05:00

The day to day business of parenting is pretty easy. Diaper changing, book reading, cup filling, baby totin', etc? Easy peasy. It's when you throw in an actual child that things get complicated.

You have to contend with squirming, crying, fussing and cussing. And you think pregnant women are moody? Honey, baby and toddler moods switch so quickly you could get whiplash. Grinch and I often remark to one another, over the angry wails of a certain tot, "Five minutes ago, everything was funny. Suddenly, NOTHING is funny."

And here's a surprise: 3-and-a-half year olds have very strong feelings about things. Very strong feelings that they don't tell you about until it's too late. "nononoNOOOOO! I wanted to peel the clementine! Aaaaaagh!" "Where are my pink monkey pajamas?" In the wash. "WHAT?! I wanted to wear those tonight. Aaaaaagh!" "I can buckle my own belt! Aaaaaagh!" You get the idea.

My best response to these outbursts is to say, "I didn't know that, darlin'. Next time you can (fill in the blank). Next time. Hey! Look! Charlie is chewing on your sister's sock! heehee!" and I go on about my business.

That works pretty well with the bug, but Dos doesn't know anything about "next time." All she knows is that you made her mad! right! NOW! Diaper change: Waaaaaaaaah! Car seat buckling: Waaaaaaaaah! Removal of small objects from her mouth: Waaaaaaaaah! And she, unlike her sister, is a fighter.

My 20-something brothers used to wrestle me to the ground when I was just a pre-teen. I was regularly knocked around by my childhood "playmate". But the pain of being bitten on the shoulder by pointy baby teeth is like no other. And who taught this little angel to slap? Seriously. She has never been hit, never seen anyone get hit, but she can land a slap better than Joan Collins.

I don't know if baby-on-mama violence really hurts, or it's just the indignity getting whalloped by an infant that riles me up so much. Plus, you can't hit back. I go hit the washer/dryer and scream into a pile of laundry instead. If our laundry pile could talk, it would probably repeat some very bad words.

The furniture and the laundry bear the physical manifestations of my frustration and anger. I get it out of my system and go back to the baby or the toddler, hold them close, kiss them, whisper loving words into their ears, sometimes all while they're still wailing about whatever injustice has befallen them. I throw myself back into the fray because parenting is hard, but loving them is easy.

Would you?

2009-01-10T08:08:00.002-05:00

Would you be worried if you child's babysitter:

joked about your baby (who, admittedly, cries loud and long), saying, "With her, I know why there's shaken baby syndrome."

told you about your baby's crying jag, trailing off, "oh, baby, you're such a little pill....sometimes."

tearfully told you how she was fired from her former job (not babysitting, but an entirely different field), and included the words, "...and a year and a half later, I'm doing THIS..." (pointing to your living room floor).

while babysitting your child, updated her Facebook account with the words "I went to college for this!?!"

This is a person who is always on time, accommodating to your schedule, gets glowing reviews from other employers and by all appearances is kind, gentle and loving with your children.

There's no reason to suspect any wrong doing of any kind. There's just a feeling that maybe this isn't the exactly the right person for you right now.

She Is

2009-01-08T10:10:00.003-05:00

She is strong-willed. When the nurses tried to hold her in, she forced her way out. She was ready, even if they weren't.

She is opinionated. Give her a toy she doesn't want and she dashes it to the floor, using her newly free hand to grab what she really wants.

She is tenacious. She learned to climb before she learned to walk. She did it so she could reach toys that had been placed out of reach.

She is full of wonder. Take her outside and she hushes, taking in the sunlight, the twittering birds, the buzz of the neighbor's lawnmower. She is wide-eyed and looking in every direction. "Show me more!" she seems to say.

She won't be ignored. If her sister is getting lap time, she muscles her way in. If that's not enough she climbs higher on my shoulder. If that doesn't do the trick, she gets into nursing position. The kid knows how to work the system.

She is tough. She rolls off beds, jumps out of arms, falls while learning to walk and barely misses a beat. She's given of a dozen heart attacks, but just keeps going.

She is funny. She'll roll up my shirt-sleeve to get bare skin upon which to blow a proper raspberry. If I'm laying down, she'll lift my shirt to blow on my belly. She chuckles at her own trick and does it again and again just to hear me laugh.

She laughs and cries lustily and with great purpose. There is something wrong. There is something funny. She can't talk, but she can communicate and she does it with unmatched fervor.

She is my Dos. My do-si-do. My monkey. My cookie. My bunny.

She is one year old today. I can barely believe it. The textbooks say she's not a baby any more. She'll always be my baby. My special baby girl.

Back to Reality

2008-12-09T14:08:00.002-05:00

If you've noticed the sudden increase in the number and frequency of postings here, that's because I took the last week off of work. It's amazing what a little extra sleep can do for one's mood and creativity.

Being a stay-at-home Mom, even for a week is damn hard. I don't necessarily envy anyone who gets to do this full-time. That doesn't mean I wouldn't want to actually do it myself. I think I'd need some outlets, though. The blog for creativity and a place to vent, a group of friends to go out with occasionally and play trivia or see a movie, have snacks and talk, whatever and maybe a class or something to give me deadlines and challenges that I'd have to meet on a regular basis.

For all the heavy sighing, temple rubbing, teeth clenching and "deargodgivemestrength" muttering I did this week, I'm going to miss being able to do all of that well-rested. Sleep and rest make a tough job like parenting a little bit easier. I think wine and chocolate probably help, too.

It's funny: I'll still be here all day with the girls, pretty much like I was over the past week. The difference will be that I won't be here in the mornings with Grinch or on the weekends. It's a big difference somehow. I miss my husband. I miss my best friend.

I get some more time off during Christmas week and I'm really looking forward to it. The knowledge that good times and a little extra sleep are coming my way will help make tomorrow's 1:30am wakeup call a little bit easier.

And you? Thanks for continuing to read this blog. It's not much. It's just my little corner of the internet to prattle on a bit. But I'm glad you stop by. Leave a comment and say "hi", won't you?

This is a Message from Mom Corleone!

2008-12-08T09:16:00.001-05:00

No more half eaten snacks! No more fussing and cussing about naps and baths and playing with your sister! No more going boneless when I try to hold your hand to cross the street! Do as Mommy says!

....or you sleep with the goldfishessssssssssss........

Parents Do the Darndest Things

2008-12-06T11:13:00.000-05:00

"Mommymommymommymommy! I found my snowshoe hare mask!"

"Great, darlin'! Want to put it on?"

"No, I want YOU to put it on. That would be so funny."

"Ok!" (tie tie tie)

"HAhahahahaha! Mommy, that is so silly! Let's hop like bunnies!"

"Ok! " (hop, hop, hop all around the house)

"Weeeehhhhhhh!"

"Come on, Do-si-do. You can hop with meeeeeeeWOOH! You need a fresh diaper. Come on, let's change that." (change, change, change the diaper)

"Mommy, I'm hungry."

"Ok, let's get a snack." (snack, snack, snack)

"Weeeeehhhhhhh!"

"Poor hungry baby." (nurse, nurse, nurse)

"Mommy! Play with ME!"

"Ok, ok!" (play, play, play, dance, dance, dance)

::DING, DONG!:::

"Oh, hi UPS man! Package for me? Great!"

"You must be really busy these days, huh? You look pretty happy about it. What's so funny?"

"Why yes, we have been playing rabbit. How'd you kno-...ohmygod. Excuse me."

So now, along with my dignity, UPS has a release to leave all packages on my doorstep without a signature.

You're welcome.

I Don't Do Math Without A Net

2008-12-03T09:22:00.001-05:00

I have a liberal arts degree. I have the actual diploma, beautifully framed and hiding in a closet somewhere. Come visit, bring me a piece of your favorite cake and I'll show it to you.

Liberal arts majors, if you didn't know, are notoriously bad at math. It's why shirts like this exist.

I am no exception to this stereotype. Lacking a mathmatical mind and patient teachers, I made it all the way through college counting on my fingers. God, that's embarrassing to admit.

Grinch, who is quite mathmatically inclined, got so frustrated with my finger counting one day, he swatted my hands down and said, "Stop it! You CAN do this in YOUR HEAD. Do it." So I did. I'm pretty slow and I can't do math in front of a crowd, but I no longer look like I'm doing sign language while I try to figure out the tip for a $34 dinner bill.

So this is a leap for me, but it's important. You need to know this. This is important to the future of all potential iphone owners everywhere. Quite possibly, the future of Apple Computers itself relies on this.

I'm working on the following formula:

X x Y = Z

X equals the number of times you drop your cell phone
And Y equals the number of times your partner SEES you drop your cell phone
Z equals the odds that your partner will buy you an iphone for Christmas and it is ALWAYS a negative number.

It is terribly simple and there are other variables I need to include, like the actual price of an iphone, the amount of time you will spend Twittering on your iphone instead of paying attention to your partner. So I've gotten you off to a good start, internet. Let's get to work on this. (I'm lookin atchoo Eli and Wolfgang.)

The Smell of Failure Can Be Purchased at Bath & Body Works

2008-11-29T08:51:00.002-05:00

You know what I've discovered? Mary Poppins doesn't exist. Really. I spent all this time searching for the perfect nanny/sitter for our little wonder girls and she doesn't exist. I'd go ahead and hire Julie Andrews because I think she's practically perfect in every way, but I think she charges a little more than $15 an hour. And she's booked. 'Til, like, 2020.

So we hired a sitter who said she was cool with our weird hours, agreed to no TV or video games, has lots of experience and doesn't smoke. Bug is OK with her and the sitter can tolerate Dos' loudest, most prolonged protestations. So far, so good.

But....

Two minor things:

First, she wears a TON of perfume or something equally stinky. For the record, I HATE scented lotions or perfumed body washes. Plus, heavy scents make me really Sneezy. The first couple of times Sitter came, I opened the windows to air the house out. It's too cold to do that now. Plus, she's holding Dos a lot and I can smell Sitter's perfume on the poor baby hours after she's gone. I have to change Dos' clothes and give her a bath when Sitter leaves. Blech. I can smell it now, just thinking about it.

It's more than just the strong aroma. It's the scent of failure to me. I smell that perfume and it says, "You CAN'T do it after all. Someone else has to take care of your baby. You left your baby with a stranger. A smelly stranger. YOU. FAILED." I know, right? I'm just being honest here.

Next, she's a real sitter. I mean, she just sits there. A lot. Bug needs to move. All kids do. Without some physical activity, they get crabby and whiny and become total pains in the ass. Dos is happy to crawl around a lot. Climbing on a parent, the sofa and pushing chairs around is a lot of physical exercise for her. But Bug needs to run! And JUMP! And RUN some more! She gets that a lot when Grinch and I are watching her, but Sitter just sits.

So.

Do I tell her she smells and sits around too much? I'd find a nicer way to say it of course. Maybe. Or should we just appreciate that she's not soused and locking the baby in the closet?

Have I mentioned that I hate confrontation? Mergh.

What would you do?

Seven

2008-11-19T14:45:00.000-05:00

I'm the last child my parents had. The "baby" as people like to say. I'm the seventh child.

My next-oldest sister enjoyed "baby of the family" status for five glorious years until I showed up. She likes to tell people that "We were The Brady Bunch until Heather came along and screwed everything up." Obviously, she's still not over losing her title. We hated each other growing up and now we're best friends. I still want to belt her when she makes the Brady Bunch comment, though.

So I came along and six became seven. Lucky number seven? Meh. Probably not. I think seven kids pretty much torched the last of my mom's sanity. In family pictures, she looks like she held it together right up until kid number five, then you see the screws coming loose. By the time I arrived, she was OVER. IT. Every picture of her after my birth, she's practically climbing out of the frame. I just have two kids and I can't say that I blame her.

Instead of The Brady Bunch, we became the Seven Dwarves. At least, that's what everyone hooted when they heard "seven kids." "Harharharhar! Seven kids! You're the seven dwarves! HARHARHAR!" Yeah. That never gets old. And it wasn't enough just to point out the Snow White connection. Idiots who point that kind of crap out always have to ask, "SO! Which dwarf are you?!"

May I use this opportunity to educate you? Thanks.

Snow White and the Seven Dwarves is a very old story. It goes back to the middle 1800's at least. In some versions, the dwarves are knights. Mostly, they're just short dudes who let Snow White crash with them in exchange for cooking and cleaning. The dwarves weren't named until that Disney came along. Suddenly, every dwarf needed a name. Every dwarf needed a label. Bashful, Doc, Dopey, Grumpy, Happy, Sleepy and Sneezy. Well, fine.

So when people asked us which dwarf we were, my brothers were all too happy to start throwing labels around. Guess who got to be Dopey each and every time? Harumph.

!Buenos Tag!

2008-11-17T08:41:00.003-05:00

In high school and college, I took a lot of Spanish classes. By the time I was done, I could carry on a half-decent conversation in Spanish without much effort. After graduation, though, I barely spoke Spanish at all so over the years I've forgotten most of my grammar. Now I worry too much about tense and pronouns and posessives to say much more than "Dos margaritas fresada sin sal, por favor." and then I do so rather self-consciously.

I got suckered into a couple of French classes here and there. It just wasn't my thing. The language itself sounds beautiful, but I felt pretentious just learning it. The best result of those classes was the laugh I got when a college French teacher implored a very tight jawed fellow to "open your mouth. Open. Your. Mouth!" He muttered to her though his clenched jaw, "That's as far as it goes."

I've tried half-heartedly to learn German to impress the in-laws. But, hello? Could it be any more difficult? Die, du, deine....I'm already starting to feel light-headed.

For many months after the bug was born, I faked my way through her German books, stuttering "Schneewitchen und der sieben Zwerge" and I thought I was doing a pretty good job. But a few months ago, as I blathered on about "...Julia's dreirad, und teddy ist immer dabei", Bug put her fingers to my lips and said, "You don't read German, Mommy. DADDY reads German." Kaput.

Still, old habits and old languages die hard. I give the bug instructions and finish with, "Entiende?" I pat mis bolsillos, muttering, "¿Dónde están mis llaves?" and ask the bug for "Eine moment, bitte." I take things from little hands and scold, "Das ist nicht für dich."

Sometimes the languages collide and I end up using Spanish and German in on sentence. "Necisito una Löffel." "Este juguete ist kaput, schatz." I don't know if I'm the best language model for young ears, but I'm trying.

I do know this: if my girls ever need to send back their meals at a German restaurant in Spain, they can fall back on their mother's example and implore the waiter to "Vaya rápidamente, mach schnell!"

Name that Critter

2008-11-10T10:17:00.008-05:00

For the bug's 3rd birthday, my sister and neice gave her a very nice world map made out of felt.

To go along with the map, there are about 25 little felt critters with velcro on their backs. The idea is to put the animals on their home continents. Most of the critters are easily identifiable, like these:

Top to bottom, left to right, we figure these guys are a panda, giraffe, zerba, lion, eagle, butterfly, kangaroo, hedgehog, flamingo, rabbit, hawk and camel. Easy peasy, right? There are some that are not so easily identifiable, like these guys:

After months of deliberation, we've decided that they are a roadrunner, moose (with really dinky antlers, poor fellow. OH! Maybe it's a reindeer?), crow (bor-RING!), and turkey. Believe it or not, that turkey took a LONG time to identify. Three college educated adults and a very smart teenager turned that sucker a million different ways before it finally made sense.

If you're counting, there are still nine critters outstanding. What the hell are these?

Now, we're not complete knuckleheads. We figure the grey dude with the tusks is a warthog. His neighbor is squirrel of some sort (artic, perhaps?), and the black thing with the horns and the white U-shape on his face is a bull. Maybe? But what is the brown thing with feet and a tail? A Darwinian pile of poo? On what continent does that live, exactly? Is his grey cousin on the bottom row just a cold weather version of him?

So, I'm turning to you, all-knowing internet, to help us identify these creatures and point us to their happy homes. Beacuse the bug has named the black-and-white critter at the top Boo-ba-dee and I don't know if that's its genus or phylum. Get to work. Name those critters.

You Got to have "Friends"

2008-10-23T10:03:00.000-04:00

I don't have a lot of friends. I don't mean that in the "woe is me" way it sounds. I just mean that the number of people that I consider friends who I see or contact on a regular basis is very small. My friends are important to me. I love them and care about them like they're family.

The on-line world is a weird place for friendships. I frequently e-mail and Twitter people whom I've never met but who I "know" through reading their blogs. I look at their pictures on Flickr. I've seen their homes, neighborhoods, workplaces, friends and families.

My on-line friends are good for a laugh, a virtual hug, a "hey look at this" or "me too." I find myself quoting them or sharing details of our "conversations" with people in real life. That sounds weird, like these people on-line are figments of my imagination. Given my state of mind lately that's a possibility, but I'm pretty sure that they exist as actual life forms.

So what do I call these people? "Friend" to me implies a physical closeness, day-to-day interaction, a person who you've spent time with, who you can read and who can read you. I'd like very much to call some of these people "friend." I think I'd like to spend time with them, to have beers, to go book shopping with them or have a picnic with them. You can tell a lot about a person based on what they bring to a picnic. That's a subject for another time.

Sometimes I think, "One day I'll go to Canada/Arkansas/Amsterdam/Vienna to visit Jen/Belinda/Ingrid/Wolfgang and we're going to laaaaaugh and laugh and laugh and have a good time...." and then I wonder if that's a good idea.

Maybe in real life, these people wouldn't like me. Maybe I wouldn't like them. Maybe the on-line world is the best place for these "friendships" because the conversations are short, sweet and don't require eye-to-eye contact.

Better to keep the illusion of friendship, right? And darn it, it still feels funny calling these people friends. Have they earned that title? Have I? Wasn't it easier when we were five-years-old and could just wander up to someone on the playground and ask, "Will you be my friend?"

What's The Big Idea?

2008-10-20T08:25:00.002-04:00

I'm fresh out of episodes of MadMen and Prime Suspect so I might as well post. It's funny: I get irritated with "professional" bloggers who go a couple of days without posting. "This is your JOB. Gah." I mutter at my screen, refreshing, refreshing, refreshing for a new post that isn't there. And here I am, going WEEKS without posting. I'll try to do better.

Fall is finally falling here. The air is getting a little crisper, the leaves are collecting on the driveway and we have pumpkins on our doorstep waiting to be carved or painted. There's even a real deal pie pumpkin on my kitchen counter top waiting to have done to it whatever you do to make a real deal pumpkin pie. Me and my big ideas.

I have a lot of big ideas. Not much comes of them, but they are big. I have an idea for curtains I want to sew for the girls' room. But I don't own a sewing machine. And I can't sew. So.....heh. You see the problem there.

I have an idea for a new landscape design for our yard. I drew it out on graph paper with colored pencils and measurements and everything. That was five years ago. The plan is sitting in a folder somewhere, relegated to the "one day when we have money and time" pile.

I had a big idea for a blog. I was going to write fascinating, funny, heart-string tugging, insightful, thoughtful posts about parenting and children, work and marriage. Turns out: with an infant, a toddler and a full-time job on the graveyard shift, I don't have a whole lotta time to post. Imagine that!

I'm also at a loss for what to write. I don't want to exploit my family for post-fodder. But some of the things we experience on a daily basis are funny or wonderful or challenging and maybe whatever happens make someone else laugh or boost their spirits or just let them know they're not alone. That's ok, right?

What do you want to know? Remember, I'm not talking about my sex life. There are a bajillion bloggers who talk about theirs. I'm sure they don't mind if you wander over for a look-see. I don't talk about politics because, frankly? Who the hell cares what I think and haven't we heard enough already? Religion? See previous.

I have big ideas. What are some of yours

Thursday

2008-10-02T17:00:00.000-04:00

Dear Thursday,

Why you gotta be like that? Acting all crazy and flat out nasty sometimes. What'd I do to you?

We used to have a good thing going, you and me. You were practically my favorite day of the week. After Friday, I mean. Settle down, settle down. You gotta know that Friday is everyone's favorite. It's just the way the calendar is set up. Friday starts the weekend. Friday is party night. Friday is date night. Friday is pay day. TGIF and all that.

But you, Thursday? You're the pat on the back, the sign that relief is close, the appetizer to the weekend's main course. Thursday means the weekend is so close. Hang in there, baby! It's Thursday! Hey, it's Thursday, wanna get a jump start on the weekend? Thursday, YOU are the beacon of light in a long week.

Except for me. Technically you're my Tuesday. Now, now...I know Tuesday is the weakling on the calendar. Nobody thinks twice about Tuesday. "Whatcha doin' Tuesday?" "Nothin'." And it's not my fault, really. I had nothing to do with screwing up the week like that. Believe me, I want things back to the way they used to be but it's not up to me. For now, to me anyway, you're Tuesday. I'm sorry, sugar, that's just the way it has to be. At least you're not Wednesday. Wednesday has become my Monday and NOBODY likes Monday. Think how Wednesday feels. See. You got it pretty good.

So why gotta act like that, Thursday? By the time I'm done with you I want to eat my weight in chocolate, break shit, lay on the floor and cry. Seriously. Can't we just have a normal day together? One that doesn't involve illness or sleepless babies or cantankerous toddlers? I know, I know...I'm not blaming it all on you. Some of this is my fault, but day-um. EVERY THURSDAY ends in tears for somebody at my house and it's usually me.

Shhhhh. It's ok, baby. I didn't mean to make you cry. Com'ere. It's gonna be ok. I still love you. Everybody else still loves you, too. You're beautiful, friendly, never-hurts-anyone Thursday. Ain't nothin' gonna change that. Let's make up, ok? Wanna go get a burrito? The place up the street has a Thursday speeccciaaaaalllllll......

Guest Post: Grinch

2008-09-29T15:12:00.002-04:00

Grinch e-mailed this to me a couple of weeks ago. I thought it was sweet and he said it was ok to blog it, so here's his first official guest post:

"This morning, on the way to school, bug asked to hear some music. Without much hope of finding anything decent, I scanned the radio stations. Much to my surprise and delight, we came upon the first bars of "Hey Jude." As I always do during that song, I got goosebumps, and cranked up the stereo as I told bug that this was one of daddy's favorite songs by the Beatles.

"A few minutes later, during the song's rousing coda, I looked back and saw bug tapping her hand on her knee in time to the music. I still can't get the smile off my face."

These two have become quite the pair lately. Dos and Bug share a room. Dos isn't sleeping through the night yet, there's still a lot of crying going on. Bug has been sleeping on the sofa bed with Grinch so at least one person in this house can get some rest. When I leave for work in the morning, I use the light from my cellphone LCD display to check on them. Bug is usually sprawled out, taking up nearly every square inch of sleepable space and Grinch is scrunched up in a corner. They're both breathing deeply and sleeping peacefully. Charlie even curls up with them. I'm happy they're getting sleep, but jealous that I can't join them. It's all I can do to keep myself from curling up beside Bug and going right back to sleep.

Kids go through this "favorite parent" stage off and on throughout childhood, apparently. I had my days in the sun a couple of weeks ago. Now, I'm regarded more as the Evil Queen than dear, delightful, sunshiney Mommy. It hurts, but I can get over it. I'm glad to see Grinch getting the love and attention he deserves....and a lot of snuggling and hugging from his little girl before she thinks it's gross.

Gotta Laugh to Keep from Cryin'

2008-09-21T13:21:00.001-04:00

Before we had kids, Grinch and I would take long walks, hikes in the woods or trips to the beach and enjoy the peace and quiet. More than once, the tranquility was broken by the sound of screeching kid or wailing infant. Grinch and I would shoot glances at the "offending" family and mutter that people should keep their screaming kids at home or teach them how to behave in public. Harumph. We knew so much about kids before we actually had some of our own.

A couple of weeks ago we took the kiddos to a nature preserve near our house. When we got to the path, the Bug took off running, so happy to be in the forest YAY! Five minutes into the walk: stumble, bumble, crash, blood, tears and an early trip home.

Saturday, we tried again. 65 acres of undisturbed forest, paved paths, twittering birds, peace and quiet. Ahhhhh....hahahah! Not so fast! We got to the forest entrance and the bug was already whining. "I'm hungry, Daddy. I'm hunnnnngry." We tried distracting her, encouraging her, promising a fantastic picnic lunch when the walk was done. No. "I'm hunnnnnnnnngry NOW." Fine. Back to the picnic tables where it seemed like a majillion snarky, cursing pre-teens were milling around, grumbling and flipping each other off. She happily ate her sandwich. Grinch and I ate ours in steely silence while Dos dribbled Cheerios all over the ground.

Ok. Lunch is done. NOW we can go walk in the forest, right? Walking, no running. No running, no falling, right? Right. At the start of the trail, the paths go in two directions. We wanted to go to the right, the bug wanted to go to the left. She wanted to go to the left so badly, that she started crying. (Why we didn't just go to the left, I do not know. Quite obviously, parenthood has eaten our brains. I think we were "standing our ground." Knuckleheads.) She cried THE ENTIRE WALK. The serenity of the forest was broken with a low-key moan of "I don't want to. I don't waaaaaaaant toooooooooo." You would have thought the 1/4 mile stroll through the woods was the Bataan Freaking Death March for Toddlers. I even tried bribing her with an offer to run. "Wanna run? You can run if you hold my hand! Come on, let's run!"
"Nooooooo! You can't RUN in the forest! You'll FAAAAAALL!"

Grinch and I just kept walking, making small talk about family gossip, and glancing behind us to make sure the bug was still there. We thought we had a chance at calming the storm near the end of the walk when we came across a huge spiderweb and its owner. "Look! What a pretty spiderweb! And such a big spider! Oooooh, it has pretty stripey legs, doesn't it?" She smiled and nodded, her eyes wide though red-rimmed from crying. She quieted for a minute....which was Dos' cue to start crying. I hiked up my shirt, walking and nursing and grinning at how ridiculous the whole thing was.

Dos finally quieted so Bug and her wails of complaint had center stage again. The end of the path was in sight and she was still crying, "I don't want tooooooooo." She finally stopped crying when we were completely out of the woods (ha!) and Grinch was able to distract her from her trauma with a look at some petrified wood. I wandered around, shaking off the tension and wondering if we'd scarred the bug for life. She'd never want to go for a walk in the woods ever again. I was sure of it.

The car ride home was blessedly short and quiet. In the driveway, Grinch and I were unbuckling the girls from their car seats, still shaking our heads at how badly everything had gone. That's when the bug smiled and said, "That was FUN!"

Playlist for the Week of Sept. 14, 2008

2008-09-14T11:28:00.002-04:00

As a college DJ, I hated taking requests. "Hi! Can you please play The Smiths "Plea..." "Yeah! Ok, got it. I'll see if I can get it on. BYE!" Translation: "Beat it, kid. You're bothering me. Go steal your mom's eyeliner and scribble a new shitty poem about love."

Now I'm taking music requests pretty much everyday. The playlist has greatly improved, though.

The Bug has never been one of those kids who insists on listening to one song over and over in the car. Mostly because we never gave her the option. It was always just, "Here's what we're listening to now. Enjoy." and she did. Then she discovered the Beatles Abbey Road and all bets were off. Now, when we get in the car, she says, "I want to hear 'Here Comes the Sun" then 'Octopus's Garden' please? Ok." Sometimes she switches the order, but that's pretty much it. Sometimes she requests "You Never Give Me Your Money" just for fun.

At home, she asks to hear The Proclaimers "Sean". She calls it the "hi-ya" song and we always hold her and bounce while we sing it together. I draw the limit at once every now and then. That song gets kind of annoying after one or 10 plays.

"Boogie Woogie Bugle Boy" and "Jump, Jive and Wail" also figure high on the Bug's list of favorite songs. Cool with me. Those get me off the couch to dance and that'll blow out a bad mood any day.

I used to sing to the Bug a lot when she was a baby. A lot of big band, some hymns, Monkees, show tunes....basically whatever slow songs I could remember the words to. When I couldn't remember the words I lah-dee-dah-deed until the tune was done.

For some reason, I don't feel like singing to Dos at night like I did with the Bug. I think I'm so worried that it'll keep her awake or re-energize her and we'll never get to sleep that I'd rather just keep my mouth shut. Still, I think she needs some musical introduction and it would be a good way to establish her bedtime routine. Right now the only routine is: nurse, cry, sleep. That kinda sucks.

So here, for your enjoyment and inspiration, is Dos' bedtime music mix: (Playlist created by Mommy.)

Sleepers Awake from Cantata 140, J.S. Bach
Afro-Cuban Lullaby, Trad. arr. Marshall
Gymnopedie No.1, E. Satie
May Safely Graze from Cantata 208, J.S. Bach
No.1 from Well-Tempered Clavier, J.S. Bach
Jesu, Joy of Man's Desiring from Cantata 147, J.S. Bach
Praise Ye the Lord, K.339
Fairest Lord Jesus 2:02
Traditional (What a Gift to Be Simple)
Torija
Chopin: Prelude in A

Almost all the selections are from the Christopher Parkening "The Great Recordings" CD. He's a favorite artist in this house. He should be a favorite artist in EVERY house in my humble opinion. Torija is from John Huston's "Three Centuries of Music" CD. Chopin's Prelude in A is from Andres Segovia's "The Segovia Collection."

Burn, enjoy and pleasant dreams.

Hearts Were Made to be Broken

2008-09-07T11:13:00.002-04:00

People say that having kids makes you young again. That's pretty much true. You giggle madly with them at the most ridiculous stuff. You lay down on the sidewalk to get a good view of ants soldiering back and forth with their bits of food. You sing "This Old Man" and ABCs with gusto. You eat hot dogs and mac 'n cheese for dinner. You have tea parties and bake Lego bread in shoebox ovens and count it up as rollicking good fun. When your kid is having fun you have fun, too.

The flip side is when your 3-year-old gets her heart broken, yours breaks twice as hard: once for her and once for the 3-year-old you who has had her heart broken multiple times in the very same way over the past 36 years.

Bug loves her friends. I don't know if all kids latch on to their playmates like she does. My theory is that she's so shy with everyone that once she feels comfortable with someone, especially a kid, she just can't hide her glee at being around them. She wraps them with hugs, guffaws long and loud at their jokes and glows like a sunbeam when they enter a room.

As shy and reserved as Bug is, her friend Ria is outgoing. She chats up people in the park, pets strange dogs on the playground and blows kisses to everyone in the restaurant. Bug LOVES her and together they have the energy of a dozen toddler-sized hurricanes. They play wonderfully together. They share and take turns and make each other laugh. All the stuff that good 3-year-old pals are supposed to do.

Last weekend, we met up with Ria and her family for a festival. The two girls hit it off as usual and had a grand time, marching in a parade together and sharing milkshakes from Starbucks. By the end of lunch, everyone was tired and ready for naps. Ria was pouty and ignoring everyone, including Bug who wanted to share a few more laughs. We chalked it up to the heat and general toddler temperament.

After naps, we went to Ria's house for a party. Bug was so excited to be at Ria's house! For a party! With cake! And Ria! She barreled in and started peppering Ria with questions and news and proposals about games to play. Ria flatly ignored her and went to work on a craft project. Bug figured that's just what they were doing now and got to work, too. She kept up with it long after Ria abandoned her project to join other kids in the playroom. Bug couldn't bring herself to go in there, choosing to stick close to Grinch, Dos and me. While the party crew hooted it up in front of the TV in the other room, we ate alone in a quiet corner of the living room.

Bug pushed aside her fears and walked into the crowd to have cake with her friend. Ria walked away after a few minutes, leaving her cake and Bug behind. Everything Bug did to engage her friend was ignored or refused. By the time we left, Ria was in the middle of a crowd of kids, tearing into a pile of her brother's birthday presents. Bug was in Ria's bedroom with Grinch, quietly giving a gentle checkup to a pink hobby horse. I don't even know if it really registered with Bug that her friend had ditched her. Grinch and I saw the whole thing though, and it hurt as much as if we had been ditched. It hurt worse, I think.

I know Ria wasn't being mean. She was just tired and overwhelmed with all that was going on. The protective mother in me wanted to pull her aside and say, "Be nice to her! She's your friend! She's just a little girl!" But Ria is a little girl, too and the next time we see her, she and Bug likely will be back to their old tricks, giggling and hugging the way they always do.

I want so much to give my girls a full life, to let them see the world and experience all it has to offer. I want to protect them too, to keep them safe from harm and heartache. I know they'll fall and scrape knees, maybe even break a bone one day. That's what comes with adventure. Their hearts will get bruised and broken, too. I just wish it didn't hurt worse than a broken arm.

Crybaby

2008-08-27T14:16:00.004-04:00

I think the first movie that made me cry was "E.T.". I was, what, 12-years-old so I was a pretty easy mark. After that it was "Out of Africa." I can't plead immaturity there. I think I was 18 when I saw Karen Blixen get her heart stomped all over Kenya. I was never quite the same after that. Any Hollywood tear-jerking formula got right to me. "Four Weddings and a Funeral", "Steel Magnolias", "It's a Wonderful Life", whatever. Give me a giant box of tissues with my popcorn, please.

It drove the Grinch crazy to hear me sniffling beside him. The man has no heart. He could watch poor M'lynn rant and rave next to Shelby's grave a thousand times and never even feel a tickle in his tear duct. I'd be sobbing into a pillow....then rewinding to watch it all over again. I don't know why movies got to me so easily. I think too much about how the characters feel. It becomes how I feel and then, choke, sob, murblurblubrbbbbb...

A funny thing happened on the way to the cineplex a couple of years ago. I saw an interview with CNN's Walter Rodgers. A reporter asked him how he could cover wars and famines and express genuine concern for the people involved, but not shed a tear. He said, "You have to remember that you have a job to do, you have to remember to tell the story."

I stopped thinking about the characters and started thinking about the scriptwriters and the director and the jobs they do. I started looking for all their tear-jerking cues and resisting them. "It's just a story. They're trying to make me cry and I won't do it. It's just a story." And it worked! No more tears. I tearlessly watched Jack's frosty blue face slip underwater in "Titanic" and never looked back.

Then I became a mother and all bets were off, especially where movie kids are involved. I see children in danger, or mommas fretting over their sick/imperiled child and my stomach knots up, my head swims and I start choking back tears all over again. I want to jump through the screen and protect everyone. Sometimes during the quiet, lonely weekend overnights at work, I'll have a movie up, sound down, on the TV monitor at my desk. Today it was "Deep Impact." Every scene had some kid running from danger or seeing their mommy or daddy for the last time and I nearly lost it. When Leelee Sobieski's mom hands her the newborn and tells her to run for it? Dude. I had to leave the room or I would have started sobbing at work OVER A STUPID MOVIE. Not. Cool.

So here's the thing, Hollywood: I'm still not crying over shipwrecked loves or prostitutes with hearts of gold. Every drunk in Las Vegas can die alone in their motel rooms and I won't even blink. But you put a kid in danger or have a momma worrying about their bebes and we have a problem.

I KNOW WHAT YOU'RE TRYING TO DO TO ME scriptwriters. You WANT me to cry. Are you challenging me? Fine. Bring it on. Go ahead and tie Dakota Fanning to the nose of a rocket-powered, monkey-piloted spaceship that will save Earth from certain doom. I. WILL. NOT. CRY. Much.

Time Out from Time Out

2008-08-23T12:10:00.002-04:00

When we started the Tag Team, things sucked. Flat. Out. SUCKED. It took us a while to find our groove and when we did, we were a well-oiled machine. There were blips and bumps here and there but, to everyone's surprise, it worked. The best times were Fridays, knowing that we'd made it through another week and that we had the weekend to finally be together to have some family fun. Also, Grinch and I could enjoy some time together. Friday night, we'd order Chinese food and watch TV or just sit and talk. Saturday night we'd watch a movie or snuggle on the couch. Whatever. It was our time together.

Now that I'm working weekends, our time together? Zip. Nada. Zilch. Nichts. Niente. Aaaaaaand we're back to the suckage.

No time together also means that there's very little time for one person to get two hands free to do much of anything. Laundry gets done, but rarely is folded or put away. Meals are some sort of take out, leftovers or something that I can throw together as quick as possible without Dos screaming her head off or diving into the cat's water bowl. If you drop in on us, please don't ask to use the bathroom because it's frightening. The suckage, it is mighty.

We hired a lawn service to mow and blow because there's no time for us to do it. We *could* hire a maid service, but we'd have to clean up before they could come and, hello? did I mention we have no time to clean? Besides, how many outside services do we hire before we're using all of our 2nd income to pay for someone to do the stuff we can't do because we're earning that 2nd income?

Bitch, moan, whine, complain. I didn't want this to be that sort of blog.

We're looking for a sitter to come in a couple of days a week to even the schedule out a little bit. The really good sitters are already taken or want a full-time gig, which we can't offer. A family member may be in a position soon to help us out so we're optimistic about that.

My latest tip for families considering the Tag Team option: Make sure you have *some* time together, preferably weekends. You have to reconnect as a family and especially as a couple. Hire outside help where you can. The Tag Team is hard, make no mistake about it. Everything that's worth doing is hard, right? Right? Bueller?

Stupid Schedule Illustrated

2008-08-20T12:12:00.001-04:00

You know how people get a spring in their step on Friday? They smile and bound into the office bearing doughnuts, bellowing, "TGIF!" Yeah. I hate those people.

The normal person's Friday is my Wednesday, the second shittiest day of the week, Monday being the first. So when most people are ready to kick back and enjoy some downtime, I'm staring at two more days of 1:30a wake up calls and 3 hours of sleep. Forgive me if I seem really irritable on Wednesdays, won't you?

Friday 3:00am: Co-workers smile and say "Yay for Friday! What are you doing this weekend?" I respond, "Fuck you. I work weekends." Ok, I don't say Fuck you. Not every time. But I do remind them that I work weekends. "Aw, man. That sucks!" YEAH. Don't I know it, dickhead. At home: sit down to nurse the baby and fall asleep. Awaken because toddler is asking for lunch. Repeat.

Saturday 1:30am : Alarm goes off and I cry a little. Resign myself to the inevitable. At work, contemplate a breakfast of doughnuts and Coke to soothe the pain. Go with cheerios and water so I don't develop Type 2 diabetes. Go home and eat every piece of chocolate in sight.

Sunday 1:30am: Alarm goes off again. And again. And again. Dos cries. No snooze button on her. Nurse, dress, text message co-workers that I'll be there, I swear. 10:00am Quitting time: Woo-hoo! The weekend for me! Yahoooey! I don't have to got to work tomorrow! Or the next day! Suck it Monday through Friday people! Boo-ya!

Monday 7:00 am: Damn hell. Dos woke me up every hour and a half at least. I have to entertain two kids all day BY MYSELF and no TV. Grumble growl. Snap at Bug at least once. Apologize. Read books, paint, make muffins, draw, play games, build Lego towers, keep checking the clock, is it naptime yet? 9:15! Dammit. Keep Dos from turning the cat's water bowl into a Bellagio fountain. Repeat. Drag kids to the library/park/pool/aquarium/whatever. Naptime! Yay! Post-naptime: Make big plans for dinner. 20 mins to dinner: realize dinner is not going to be made by me because I don't have two free hands to actually cook anything. Order over-priced Chinese food.

Tuesday 7:00am: Awesome. I was up every hour and a half again, but I still got more sleep than nights I have to go to work. Look over to the bassinet. Dos is grinning at me. I feel so much better today. Entertain the kids with games, cooking, outings and feel great doing it. I love being at home with them. It's lunchtime and I feel like SuperMom. Post-naptime: Woooo...who woke up cranky? Daaaang, man. Ok, I can handle this. Post-dinner time: I don't want to go back to work. This feels like the end of vacation. I want to stay at home with my sweet, sweet girls.

Wednesday 1:30am: Alarm goes off. Damn. This again? Ok. At work: Eat breakfast at my desk uninterrupted and unencumbered. Take pleasure in going to the bathroom by myself with the door closed, knowing that I won't be interrupted by crying. Yes. This is good. Working and being away from home for a while. It's practically time off. At home: lunch, naptime, lonely afternoon because I'm solo, exhausted parent and the kids are bored with being at home.

Thursday 1:30am: I can do this. Sort of. Do I have to? Ok. Meh. After work: Hey kids. Mmmhmmm. Mommy's tired, that's all. Can we take a nap now? No? Ok. Whatcha wanna do? Hammer nails in the antique desk? Can you do that while I sit here on the couch and nap? Ok. Here's a hammer...zzzzzzz....

Every Vote Counts

2008-08-18T08:23:00.002-04:00

Quickie: Go over here and vote for my new hairstyle. I'm not thrilled by the choices. (It's pretty obvious which one I'll pick.) But I've been waiting nearly a year for this so let's make it count. That picture was taken a few days before Dos was born which should explain the super shiny hair and double chin. My hair is much longer now, a couple of centimeters away from my coccyx at least. I'll definitely donate the hair to Locks of Love when I get it cut, so go vote and you'll be doing something good. Yay, feelgoodism!

My Life as a Movie Poster

2008-08-16T11:56:00.004-04:00

Ingrid tagged me for a meme! It's my first! This was a good one, too, because she asked people to cast a movie about their lives. I used to love going to the movies (pre-rude audiences, crappy movies, crappy schedule and children). I was once a movie critic, too! Oh, what you people don't know about me. We'll catch up soon enough.

Anyway, go read my guest post/meme response here and get the story behind this:

Sure Could Use Some Fixin'

2008-07-30T12:00:00.000-04:00

A little over a year ago, Grinch and I were just getting around to enjoying life again after being in BabyJail for two years. We were able to go on a family vacation to the beach, eat food, have cocktails and beer and we had a fun little kid tagging along for the ride. Then we decided, this is too much fun, we need to have another kid! Let's make ourselves miserable all over again! For, whaddayasay hon, two years? YAY!

Miserable may be too strong a word. I mean, Dos is cute and healthy. And cute. And she cries if you set her down for .0003 milliseconds. And after six months, she's still waking up every two hours or less to nurse. And she cries in the car. Not just cries, screams bloody freaking murder. And Grinch won't sleep with me because of all the crying. Where were we? Right. Miserable.

Seriously. I can't remember being this unhappy with a situation in a long time. And the suckiest part is? I think I brought it all on myself and I don't know how to fix it.

When we brought Dos home, I didn't want to upset the happy situation we had going. I wanted everyone to get as much sleep as possible (including me) and continue on with our regularly scheduled programming. So to keep Dos from crying too much, I took her to bed with me and pretty much nursed all night. Naptime, same deal. So guess who can't sleep without nursing now? Guess who can't stand the idea of letting her "cry it out"? Guess who also has no patience, stamina or mental capacity for letting her "cry it out" or rocking her screaming babyness to sleep. It feels like there's no end in sight. I'm going to have to go to college with her and wait in her dorm room every night to nurse her to sleep. I'm going to be nursing her on her honeymoon. I'm going to be nursing HER babies.

Really, the worst part is: when I go to work in the middle of the night, Grinch is left to deal with the situation. There's no telling if the baby will wake up, if she'll take a bottle and go back to sleep or if she's up to party-hearty, bring on the teething rings and busy boxes, dude! Grinch and I are ready to kill ourselves or each other, whichever is easiest. Poor Bug is doing so great despite all this. She's so sweet and so much fun lately. But she's stuck all day with cranky Mommy who doesn't want to go anywhere because Dos might fall asleep or start screaming and that would suck for everyone.

I feel so lucky that Dos is here, healthy and apparently normal on all counts. How did I screw this up so badly, though? What can I do to make it up to her? How can I fix this and make it up to my family?

Doin' Our Time

2008-07-19T12:08:00.002-04:00

I've seen people take newborn infants to the beach, to the movies, to amusement parks and restaurants. We're talking practically fresh outta the oven babyloaf, still all wrinkly and smonchy being carted to Wally World. Why? I don't know. Don't tell me mama wouldn't rather be anywhere else but there. I guess some people are ok with taking the little pooper everywhere from Day 1.

I'm not one of those people.

When the bug was born, we didn't go anywhere for three weeks and then it was to the dreaded New Moms Group Where No One Liked Me. I got bolder, taking her Target and Whole Foods, but scurrying out as fast as possible if I even thought I heard someone sneeze. When the bug was about 5 1/2 weeks old, I took her to Sam's Club. I was so proud of myself! I drove home thinking, "I took my baby out when she was just 5 1/2 weeks old. 5 1/2 weeks! She hasn't even had her shots yet.....Ohmygaaaaaaahhhhhh....." and I nearly drove off the road. I was quite sure I'd contaminated her with some of the worst germs on earth or at least the ones that reside in Sam's Club.. I spent the next hour holding the bug and a phone, ready to dial 911 if she so much as sneezed.

If germs weren't the enemy, a screaming baby was. I didn't want to be one of those parents who totes a wailing infant everywhere, drawing death stares from everyone. I tried everything to limit our outings to only absolutely necessary excursions, and then carefully timed them around naps and feedings.

Grinch and I referred to those first few months of captivity as BabyJail. "We're having a party. Can you come?" Can't. BabyJail. "What are you doing for the holidays?" BabyJail. "Weekend?" Babyjail.

As the bug started eating solid foods and her naps became more regular, we got a peek at life on the outside. Furlough. Then she was 100% weaned and as nap-regular as your ancient Uncle George and we were out all the time! YAY! Festivals! Parades! Shopping! Trips! Yahooooo! We still never went out without her because she refused to look another human in the eye, much less be held by them, but ohmygod it was so nice. Sooooooo nice.

Now we're back in BabyJail. Boring, ugly, toys on the floor, nothing decent to eat in the fridge, gonna tear my hair out if I have to play another game of Cariboo BabyJail. Warden Dos is pretty cute and she allows us conjugal visits, so we can't complain. The bug shouldn't be held captive, so we let her out for brief visits to the grocery store, Target, library and bouncy tent place. Humanitarian visits come from Aunts and friends bearing contraband like candy, markers and stickers.

We expect a parole board hearing within a couple of months when Dos gets really handy with the solid foods. We may be in for a reprieve around the holidays so we won't have to toast the new year with a bag of pruno. I'm bucking for time off for good behavior by doing lots of laundry and sucking up to the warden. I just hope I don't get shanked out in the yard.

You lead, I'll follow

2008-07-10T17:00:00.002-04:00

She's laying beside me on the bed. Not quite asleep, but not quite awake. We're nursing our way through naptime because it's the only way I can get more than 45 minutes of shut-eye. She's in that dreamy, happy, in-between stage. Eyes closed, nursing and waving her free arm in the air. I put my finger near her hand and she grabs it like it's a life preserver, pulling my hand close to her and clutching it to her chest.

Her cheeks are rosy and full, quickly rising and falling as she nurses, her tiny chin pumping away. I watch her eyelids flutter. Her eyelashes are growing longer and darker every day. Her forehead is smooth, skin flawless. I can lean in just slightly and give it a gentle kiss, stealing a sniff of her honey-scented hair.

She releases her grip just slightly on my finger, gently pushing my hand away an inch or two. She quickly pulls it back. Pushes my hand away. Pulls it back. Her movement finds a rhythm. Pushes me away. Pulls me back. Pushes me away. Pulls me back. I watch her and let my hand go back and forth with hers. I wonder, is this the way it's going to be our whole lives together: pushing me away and pulling me back? "Leave me alone!" "Can you fix my hair for me?" "I'm not a child!" "Can I have money to go the movies?" "Don't kiss me in front of my friends." "Do you love me?"

Yes, baby girl. I love you. I'll always love you with every cell in my body and more. I don't always understand you, especially when you're ready to party at 3am and I just want to crawl under the sheets and cry. I'll always love you, though.

You find your rhythm. Show me who you are and who you need me to be for you. I can adjust. I can follow. I'd follow you anywhere.

Six Things I Don't Understand

2008-06-28T12:08:00.005-04:00

(Bottom right: Jennifer Lopez. I understand HER. I just don't understand the apparent universal appeal of her butt.)

Created using http://bighugelabs.com/flickr/ mosaic tool

Life 3.9

2008-06-24T17:05:00.001-04:00

I think about a lot of stuff all day. Important stuff like: why am I eating another cookie if I'm not even hungry? Who's the idiot that thought we should get a white rug? or Why does Jennifer Aniston always look so sad? See. I'm a deep thinker.

There's another question I ask myself with increasing frequency. For some reason it almost always hits when I'm refilling the Bug's glass. There's usually been some sort of protracted negotiation over what to drink, how much and whether or not finishing the drink will result in some sort of reward. "No juice. Milk or water. Which do you want? Lemonade counts as juice. Milk or water, those are the choices. No, you can't have a new glass. Do you want something to drink or not? That sort of thing.

It's in this humdrum-mom-in-charge-taking-care-business routine that the Big Question hits: "When did this become my life?"

Technically, it happened almost exactly three years ago when the Bug was born. I became a mother and I accepted a heap of new responsibilities, including but certainly not limited to refilling bottles and sippy cups and water glasses.

This is the same life that mothers all over the world take on every day. After a while, the diaper changing, the cup refilling, the dressing and undressing, the laundry? It's routine. It's just what you do because you're a mom.

The bigger question is: When did this become MY life? Because this what never what I had in mind when I pictured myself at 39.

I wasn't raised to be a mother. I didn't take Home Ec, I wasn't a Girl Scout and I never, ever remember my mom saying to me, "When you have children of your own one day......" My parents didn't do much to make parenting look like fun. In fact, my own mom seemed downright miserable most of the time so why in the hell would I willingly throw myself into THAT snake pit? My parents encouraged me to find a good man, travel, go to college, succeed in my career, but never to have children.

It's not that I don't like being a mother. Actually, I DO like it and I love my girls with all my heart. I just wish I were better at being a mother. I wish I had more "training" if there is such a thing. I wish it felt natural to me. I wish I had learned some good tricks or tips from my own parents, but locking the kids in the basement while I drink a 20-ounce Jack and Coke just isn't my parenting style. Yet.

Sometimes, Grinch and I ask each other, "Would you do it all over again?" The answer is usually "yes" which I guess is a pretty good sign. We're trying. We may not have been trained for this job, but we're learning as we go along. I'm learning a lot about being a parent. I'm learning a lot about myself.

Meanwhile, back in the real world

2008-06-15T11:26:00.003-04:00

This week nearly kicked my ass. I have a nagging, death rattle of a cough that only fires up when I need to sleep. How convenient for the lady who has such a limited number of opportunities to sleep, right? On top of that, I had to hastily plan Dos' baptism with the added stress of in-laws being involved. People? Planning a baptism should NOT be a stressful thing. Seriously. I've seen some big time baptisms with crowds of 50 people or so and, ok, THAT can be stressful. But getting 10 people in a room on a Saturday afternoon should not cause nightmares.

Much to our surprise, things went well. The baby is no longer doomed to spend eternity roaming the halls of purgatory and Saturday night she actually slept through the night for the first time ever so maybe there's something to this after all. More than just getting our parents off our backs, I mean.

And, oh, the colonoscopy? All clear and not a big deal at all. Actually, I'm such a big fan of the drugs they gave me during the process I might just go back for another. Seriously. That was a damn fine sleep. You know the way you remember a great meal, or a good wine or sex so good you can't walk right for a couple of hours? That's the way I remember the nap I took during and after the colonoscopy. The best sleep I've had in nearly three years. To hell with Rum and Coke. Versed and Demerol is my new favorite cocktail. Straight up.

When the doctor told me I'd have to have a colonoscopy, I was pretty bummed. I automatically started thinking of excuses not to have it. Then I started thinking about who I knew who had had one and what advice they could give me. Then I remembered Belinda's story. Good. Great. What did she say again? Butthole. That's all I could remember. Belinda, in all her fancy word glory, used the word butthole. Giggle. I was still in the doctor's office, mind you, and I couldn't stop smirking. Butthole. The more I thought about it, the more I wanted to giggle. In front of someone who looks at a lot of these things all day long and probably sees absolutely NOTHING funny about it. Which made me want to laugh even harder. I looked down at her desk in an effort to keep my composure and what did she have on her desk? A plastic model. Of a butthole. I finally left the office and got into an empty elevator where I proceded to laugh like an idiot over the word butthole.

My name is Heather and I have the mentality of a 10-year-old boy. It's Belinda's fault.

Making Family Ties

2008-06-08T09:00:00.002-04:00

Seems like everywhere I go with Bug and Dos, someone asks Bug, "Is that your baby?"

Bug is a very literal kid. When someone asks her this stupid question, I can see the look in her eyes. "Nooooo. It's obviously NOT my baby. It's my mom's. Duh." But she's too shy to say anything so she just gives them the silent treatment.

The questions keep coming. "Are you a good sister? Do you love your baby? Are you sweet to the baby? Do you help your mommy with the baby?" Bug never answers any of these questions so I do the talking for her. The answer is, yes, she is a wonderful big sister and a wonderful helper.

Bug met her little sister for the first time on the day we checked out of the hospital. The moment they laid eyes on each other, Bug went silent and stayed that way for about four hours. She stared at Dos, watched me with her, held her in her lap, touched her hands and stroked her head. When she finally decided it was safe to speak again, she said, "I love my little baby sister." Did your heart just go ::squish:: or was that just me?

As Dos comes out of the CrySuckSleep Blob phase and more into the Real Live Little Person phase, she takes more and more notice of her big sister. When Bug cries, Dos looks concerned and muh-muh-muhs a pout. When Bug laughs, Dos is wide-eyed and chuckles cautiously. "Is this funny? 'Cause she thinks it's funny. I think it's funny, right? Huh. huhuhuhuhuhhhh...." Dos is just happy to be in Bug's orbit right now. It's lovely and I wish it could stay that way forver. But being a baby sister myself, I know that it won't.

One day, they'll be fighting over toys, the next it'll be clothes. Please, God, let them never fight over a boy because that just isn't worth it and how do you moderate an argument like that? I can't use the "share" command with that one.

Sometimes I feel sorry for the Bug because having Dos in the picture has rocked her world like nothing else. She went from being star of "The Bug Show" with no co-stars and two adoring fans to being a bit player in "The Family Von Nutters." I feel sorry for Dos, too because she'll never get the crazy amount of attention that the Bug got the first two years of her life.

Grinch was always sure he wanted two kids. His two older brothers had each other as playmates and seemed happy as clams to him. He got left out a lot and figures if he'd had a sibling, he would have had a lifelong playmate, too. I took a lot more convincing. I had six older siblings and they regarded me familial bacteria until I was well into my 20s. I didn't think having siblings guaranteed anything other than two decades of misery.

So here we are with two kids and the optimist in me says, "Look! They love each other! Yay!" the pessimist that still feels the sting of a million brotherly wedgies says, "Give it time. They'll be killing each other before you know it."

I've Seen You Somewhere

2008-06-04T09:00:00.003-04:00

Can we lighten up the mood around here a little? I mean really. It's been about five months worth of "blah blah blah I'm so sad, life sucks, weh." Get over myself, please.

Schmutzie has taken up a challenge to write about a different person every day for a year. It's usually just a couple of lines and the person can be someone who made a huge impact in her life or just crossed her path for a moment. I don't think I have enough of those kinds of stories (or time) to fill up a whole year, so here's my abbreviated version.

Thomas W. You kept my ego in check when it was in danger of growing out of control. We had some hilarious adventures together. I actually remember some of them, despite the drugs. I remember climbing up flight after flight of stairs with you, stepping out onto the library roof and feeling like I'd fall right over the edge if I moved a muscle. Somehow, you got me to lean over the ledge to feel the hot, city wind rush past our faces. Another day we snuck into the basement to gawk at the aged power station, groaning and shooting sparks at our feet. I miss the doodles you drew for me and our long, rambling conversations about EVERYTHING.

Donna L. One of the meanest, most ruthless people I have ever known. You were my childhood playmate by default. We lived next door to each other and were close in age. I was desperate for companionship and you were desperate for someone to dominate. You gave me some of the worst beatings I have ever endured and yet defended me from other bullies. You promised to be my best friend, then told me not to speak to you at school because your "cool" friends didn't like me. I'm pretty sure I have some trust issues because of you.

Buddy Everytime I saw you, you opened your little plastic change purse for me and told me to "grab some silver" and go buy some candy. I thought you were being nice. Now I wonder if you were just trying to get rid of me. Still, whenever a see a big display of candy, I think of you.

Marylynn You were heavyset and had a penchant for floral blouses and too much perfume. You were one of my sister's friends. I loved it when you came around because you were nice to me, unlike her. You took me to my first concert and let me hang out with you at the pool. Was it because you liked having someone look up to you?

This was kinda fun. Maybe I'll do this every so often. What do you think?

Checking In

2008-06-01T17:06:00.003-04:00

Oh, hi! Remember me? Yes, the wayward blogger. Big on promises to share stories from my life, not so big on delivery. I'm new at this and I do have two full time jobs in real life. We're cool, right? Good.

One reason I've been blogquiet lately is that things have been very busy at home and work. I've also been feeling pretty gross and NO one wants to hear about that. Trust me. You do? Really? Can we just leave it at "scheduled colonoscopy"? Thanks.

It's also occurred to me that one reason for starting this blog was that I wanted to share details of our adventures/experiences as tag team parents and I haven't really done that. I hesitate to write about it now because I don't have a lot of good things to say. I don't want to scare anyone away from tag team parenting, but I guess I should be honest about it so that if you're thinking about doing it then you can go in with good information. Bottom line: tag team parenting sucks. Hard.

After the bug was born, we jumped into the ring feet first, fists pumping, determined to show all the nay sayers that it COULD be done and that we weren't crazy to take it on. We did that. The first few months were awful but after a while we hit our stride and everything worked nearly seamlessly. There were misunderstandings and miscommunications, I was tired all the time and seemed to catch every cold that went around but generally we did ok.

Then the schedule changed and everything went to hell.

If you're thinking about tag team parenting, let me urge you this: make sure you and your spouse have at least one day off together. It makes a huge difference. When I started working weekends (Not by choice. No fucking way.) it put an end to any adult time for the Grinch and I. No conversations, no movies, no cuddling. Is it any surprise that I got pregnant BEFORE the schedule change?

Working weekends also put an end to any "me" time. No workouts, no pedicures, no gardening, nada. I'm either at work, parenting or asleep. It's exhausting. Never mind the stupid hours.

When I went back to work after maternity leave for Bug, I cried on the way to work every day for a week because I was leaving this beautiful little baby who I loved so much and how could I leave herohmygoodness. This time around, I started crying two weeks before my return to work and pretty much haven't stopped crying since. Not only because of the beautiful baby factor, but "good lord I hate working overnights and never seeing my husband and it's been so nice seeing him and being a real family and I wish I could stay at home waaaaaahhhhhh. sniff."

I find myself aching to see Grinch, to get the chance to fall asleep in his lap again or nuzzle his neck. I want to spend quiet time reading to the Bug or putting her to bed instead of rushing off to bed myself. I want to feel rested more than one day a week. I want to feel like I have my act together instead of feeling like I'm a frazzled, barely washed, bumbling idiot. Harupmh. Want, want, want.

There are good reasons we do the tag team parenting thing. But I wonder if there are better reasons NOT to.

Making Happy

2008-05-05T11:00:00.001-04:00

Do you know Bossy? Bossy has a most excellent blog. Bossy is hilarious, has fabulous hair and a really cute teenaged son (who is way too young for me or my friends, but still. Cute. And smart!).

Bossy recently asked her readers to sum up in 10 words what's been going on in their lives. Here is my comment:

"Ate chocolate. Nursed baby. Chased toddler. Cried. Didn't sleep. Worked."

And that, my friends, pretty much sums up my life for the past two and a half years. Except the crying part. I haven't cried EVERY day. MOST but not EVERY. I probably laugh more than I cry, thanks to friends like Laura and the Moms and the general silliness that comes from the Bug but this has been a rough week.

I listen to friends and acquaintances complain about the slow delivery of their new laptops or super-sized TVs. They fume about how TIVO messed up and didn't record LOST. They sigh plaintively about how hard life is what with dropping the kids off at daycare and having to go get manicures and shop. I listen to this, purse my lips and nod blankly. What I really want to do is climb on top of them, dig my knees into their chests, jab at their noses and scream, "YOU DON'T KNOW HARD!"

I think of my four hours of sleep a night. My frazzled nerves. My anxieties about work. The stack of books that looks like I'll never read. The laundry that needs to be done. The groceries that haven't been bought. The relationships that are suffering because I'm always tired and cranky and have no time to spare for lunches or parties or simple conversations. The fear that keeps me from quitting my job and committing to my family the way I really want.

I think of all this and remind myself: I have a job. My eyes work and I can read. I have a home and money to buy groceries. My husband and friends are wonderfully patient people. I made a choice about work and home and I can change it. Frankly, I really don't know hard either.

Hard is losing your home or your marriage. Losing your child. Hard is struggling with illness. Hard is not having anyone to turn to. We all think we have it hard until we meet someone who has it harder.

"Count your blessings" is what my parents used to tell me. It's not easy. It's not easy when all you want to do is sleep and cry and punch pillows. It's not easy when you believe that you can acutally feel the weight of your decisions bearing down on your shoulders. It's not easy when it seems like everyone around you gets exactly what they need and want and never suffer. But we all suffer. Everyone does to varying degrees and we all show it differently.

I don't want to feel better because someone feels worse than me. I want to feel better because I choose to. I can feel better and even if I don't right now, I will. I will feel better because I will make things better.

Whatcha Say, Sonny?

2008-04-25T11:21:00.003-04:00

I was feeling pretty good about getting through my whole first week back at work. I did it without caffeine. I did it on four hours of sleep a night. I did it without crying...much. Everyone is still alive at home. We've eaten a lot of leftovers and some frozen pizzas, but we're still alive the kids are happy as far as we can tell.

So I was checking up on some insurance coverage details and came across some of the details of my recent claims, like Dos' birth. That's when I saw the words "Elderly Multigravida" next to my name. Dear Google, what is this interesting term and WHY is it being applied to me? "Elderly multigravida. Second or more pregnancy in a woman who will be 35 years of age or older at expected date of delivery." Well, yeah. That WOULD be me, wouldn't it?

Elderly. I'm elderly. I'm 39 years old and ELDERLY.

I feel a sudden need to wear pink polyester pants with an elastic waist, a flowery shirt, squishy shoes and go to Shoney's for the early bird special.

Didja hear me, sonny? I'm elllllllllllderlllllllllllllllllyyyyyyyyyyyy.

So far, So not so good

2008-04-20T11:16:00.002-04:00

So what kind of blogger am I to tell you I'm about to embark upon a major life change, then disappear for a couple of weeks, no updates, no nothing? A sucky one. I know. Dude, I'm new at this ok? Slack, please. Looooooootsa slack.

Going back to the tag team schedule has been hard on everyone. Hard on Grinch because Dos isn't sleeping through the night and he has to figure out how to get her back to sleep without the benefit of lactating boobs.

Hard on the Bug because she'd love to go see her friends, but there's no time in the schedule to get her to play dates and because I have about 10 micrograms of patience left by the time I get home and those get sucked dry the first time she says no to the simplest request.

Hard on Dos because she's not a big fan of the bottle but, until Grinch lactates, the bottle is as good as its gonna get.

Hard on me because I get no sleep, the whole time I'm at work I worry about what's going on at home and when I come home all I want to do is sleep but there are diapers to change, lunches to fix, groceries to buy, dinners to fix, kitchens to clean and laundry to do. (Did you notice there is no time in there to blog? See. I'm doin' stuff.)

Also, the no sleep thing? It makes me kinda crabby. Which is to say that it actually makes me very crabby but this is my blog and I'm not gonna just lay it out there that I'm an insufferable bitch. Which I kinda just did.

Grinch has tried to put it in the nicest terms what sleep deprivation does to me. "I don't like the effect it has on you." he says. (Translation: "You're an insufferable bitch. More so than usual.") He also says it's not worth it to him, the toll it takes on me, on him, on the family.

Sitting here with a splitting headache, dark circles under my eyes, unwashed hair and unpumped boobs, I'm starting to agree. I just have a hard time admitting it to myself. I have a hard time letting go. I'm having a hard time giving up.

Hi-Ho, Hi-Ho...

2008-03-31T15:51:00.005-04:00

...it's off to work I go tomorrow morning, bright and early. I've been crying and muttering under my breath for a week now. Ok, two, but who's counting?

I love what I do, I love my co-workers and I'm proud of the company that employs me. I just wish things were different for us. I wish I didn't HAVE to go back to work. I wish we could have everything we need AND want on one income. Hell, I wish we could do it without working at all. But like they say on the farm: "Shit in one hand, wish in the other. See which one fills up first." Yeah. See which one they accept as tuition payment at your kid's private school, too.

So, if you see a 39-year-old woman, drivin' and cryin' downtown VERY early tomorrow morning, be nice. That's me.

***Edited to add: this is how much I'm dreading going back to work. I actually go back to work Wednesday. Yet another full day to moan, gripe and weep. Yay!

Well, hell.

2008-03-20T14:37:00.003-04:00

This happens to me a lot: I panic at the thought of something, or get mad, irritated, upset, irate, etc...then change my way of thinking, get excited or happy about it and then find out it's not going to happen after all.

I spent a lot of sleepless nights, staring at the ceiling or the baby, thinking, "Good, god. Could I really be a stay at home mom? Me? What about my career?" I talked to friends and family. I googled. I prayed. I worried, worried, worried and LORD did I cry. Then one day, the sun shone and I thought, "Yeah. I could do this. I'd actually LIKE to do this. This is what I want to do. I'll DO IT!" And I walked around with the glow of someone who has made a life-changing decision.

For about a week.

Then, Grinch ran the numbers. He ran them about a dozen different ways and they all come up the same: we can't afford it. We can't afford for me to stay at home, raise two of the most delightful little girls on the planet AND put them into the schools of our choice. We're going to be a tag team again. A sleepless, never-see-each-other, do-most-of-our-communicating-via-email tag team.

Cue the tears. Again. And throw in a pint or two of bitterness and frustration.

I don't get it, really. We're not stupid. We have good jobs. We earn good money. So how do so many people around us do it? How do they do it on one income, send the kids to private schools, drive super nice cars to elegant homes where they watch gigantic flat screen TVs and play Wii? HOW? We have none of those things by choice (TV free family. Hi, there.) and by force (I'd like the elegant home, thank you.)

I'm trying not to be angry. Anger doesn't help anything. I'm sad and scared. We've always said that if the tag team schedule doesn't work, if it threatens our marriage, then we do something else. Hire a sitter, go part time, whatever. It just...sucks. But I guess we're back to where we started: hating the idea before I ever even get a chance to try it on. Time to get excited and put my head back in the right place. Work is waiting for me. My family needs me, too.

Growing up sucks.

The Freedom of Being 2

2008-03-11T15:57:00.004-04:00

I worry a lot about what people think of me. It's the reason it takes me so long to get dressed in the morning. It's why I fret over decisions so much. Sometimes, I throw up my hands and say, "Who really cares if I'm wearing white socks and a fleece jacket. Really?! " But most of the time I try too hard not to be the object of any one's negative attention. Which, when you think about it, is pretty fucking ridiculous.

Apparently, we don't have these problems as children. I certainly don't remember worrying so much as a kid. And I was the loudmouth in the red polka dot hat, riding my bike up and down the street on the 4th of July, throwing confetti, screaming, "HAPPY BIRTHDAY, AMERICA!" Does it help my case to say that it was the Bicentennial? No? I didn't think so.

It makes me so happy to see the Bug getting on with her life without worrying about what people think of her. She picks out heart-print pants, purple shirts and turquoise socks to wear to school. She laughs like a maniac when she sees her friends. She sings out loud, not stopping to think that someone might hear or she might be off key. And when she runs, she runs with abandon. I pick her up from school and she runs down the hall, giggling and talking loudly the whole way. "I had a great day at school! I am RUNNING! I'm going to drink from the fountain! YAYYYYYY!" Her enthusiasm for life brightens my sleep-deprived eyes, it makes me forget all the things we have to worry about lately.

If you could see her run, you'd smile too. If the Ministry of Silly Walks needs a special Ambassador of Silly Runs, Bug is the person to call. It looks a little something like this:

Cake Fixes Things

2008-03-06T09:59:00.002-05:00

Text message from Grinch: "On my way home. Stopping by bank, grocery store. Need anything? You ok?"

Text message from me: "Laura's here. She brought cake."

Text from Grinch: "We love Laura."

Later that night, Grinch is in the kitchen.

Grinch: "There are two cake boxes here and only one piece of cake left."

Me: "How about that."

Grinch: "Yeah. And this piece is almost gone."

Me: "Yeah." (wiping cake crumbs off my shirt)

Grinch: "Hmmmm."

Me: "Mmmmmm."

Decisions, Decisions

2008-03-01T12:02:00.002-05:00

I'm really, really bad at making decisions. REALLY bad. For the most part, my decisions usually turn out to be good ones, but its taken me forever and a day to reach my conclusion and act on it. Also, the really bad decisions haunt you. Mine sound like my mother, "Well, remember what happened the last time you...."

I'm really struggling with the decision to become a stay-at-home mom or go back to work. Actually, the decision has pretty much been made, it's acting on it that's freaking me out. I've made some moves, placed some calls, but nothing is formal. No, I'm not telling you. Not yet, anyway. Dude, I didn't tell anyone I was pregnant 'till I was six-months along. You think I'm gonna bust out a major life change on the internet just like that. Come oooooonnnnn. You gotta know me better than that.

I will say that my decision making process always involves a lot of talking to and with friends, polling them about similar decisions they've made, asking for advice and guidance. I have to say: this time around, I've received some of the best advice, and been lent the most sympathetic, compassionate ears ever known. If you're one of those people who's listened to me whine, vent and cry over this, Thank You. If I haven't done it already, I hope to be as good a friend to you one day.

In other news, Dos is snugglier than ever. She's sleeping in her bassinet more and more, which means Grinch may actually be able to sleep in our bed again one day. Bug is finally over the creeping crud, or toddler Ebola or whatever it was she had. Grinch is over it, too, though you wouldn't know it from his coughing, moaning, and vitamin C popping. (Love you, honey! Smooches!)

Also, I told two close friends that I have a blog, but they didn't ask for the URL and I didn't offer so I still have exactly two readers and why does that surprise me? Duh. This explains why I am not in sales. I'll bet I couldn't sell Girl Scout Cookies.
Wealthy Aunt or Uncle: "I wonder where I can buy some Thin Mints."
Me: "I'm a Girl Scout."
Wealthy Aunt or Uncle: "Oh, really?"
Me: "Yes."
Wealthy Aunt or Uncle: "Mmm, hmm."

Finally, I went to the doctor and she says I'm okie dokie. I even broke down crying in front of her over this decision stress. She patted my leg, passed me some tissues and was very sympathetic, but the Post Partum Depression issue never came up. Did I ask about it? Hell, no. Why? Because after working in a pharmacy for a dozen years, I grew wary of people who came in with scrips for ailments they didn't seem to really have. Happy pills was all they wanted. Plus, of all the people I know who take anti-depressants (and strangely, I know a LOT), none of them seem particularly happy to me. So Prozac, Lexapro, Paxil and all the others can claim to make people feel better, but their walking, talking advertisements convince me otherwise. I'm sure it works for some people, but I haven't seen it yet.

Ruminating

2008-02-21T14:01:00.005-05:00

We're still talking about our tag team status and nothing has been decided. Remember what I said about us being master procrastinators in this house? Yeah, it's for real.

More and more I'm thinking that I could and should become a stay at home mom. I don't have the passion for my work that I once did. The hours can be a killer. Maternity leave has given me a chance to get reacquainted with the best husband in the world. I'm learning to love the time I spend at home with the Bug and Dos is finally starting to emerge from the squirmy-sleep-all-the-time-not-much-fun infant stage.

BUT....I've been earning my own money since I was 14. I've been working on my career since I was 17. I've been in my current job for 10 years. I've been in the industry for 20. I have a fantastic retirement plan and good benefits. I really, really, really like my team at work. That kind of stuff makes it hard to just pick up and walk away. Makes it hard for me, anyway.

The only person to comment on my last question opined that I might be suffering from post-partum depression. Don't think it hasn't occurred to me, too. I see my doctor on Monday. I'll try to work up the courage to say something then. I'm a chicken though, and I don't want to whine. I also don't want to look for a pill to solve all my problems. Ok, this subject is a whole 'nother post.

Dos is stirring in the swing. Bug is sniffling from a bad cold but reading quietly to herself in her bed. Grinch has gone to his parent's house to convalesce (they're out of town, so he can moan and groan in peace) He's caught a nasty case of the bug's creeping crud. This is a tough day, but I'm ok. Everyone has survived through nap time and that's all I can ask. We'll get through the afternoon, evening and do it all over again tomorrow. One day at a time.

The Million Dollar Question....or something like that

2008-02-15T13:39:00.003-05:00

My understanding of my company's maternity leave rules was a little off. Off by two weeks, apparently. I got the news this morning in a terse and somewhat confusing e-mail. It made me panic. "What? When? How am I supposed to...? I don't want to...." And lots of other unfinished statements like that. A lot of four letter words, too. In several languages. Yeah, I'm a little keyed up these days.

I have to call HR to sort it all out, but it looks like they win and I lose two weeks. I've been sitting here for hours (ok, shuffling around in my pajamas, nursing Dos, playing with the Bug and serving up lunch. still. figuratively "sitting.") trying to figure out: do I really want to go back?

After the tears cleared from my eyes, I spun around in my chair to see the Bug reading a book to her stuffed animals. All sweetness, rainbows and love, love, love. "Isn't this worth it?" I asked myself, falling in love with my daughter all over again. "Isn't this better than working overnights and being tired all the time and all the frustration that goes along with work?"

About 45 minutes later, I was ready to put my head in the oven over Dos' non-stop grunting combined with the Bug's repeated insistance that her baby sister does NOT have thumbs and was NOT trying to suck them, wwaaaaaahhhh! "Yes," I thought. "I definitely DO want to go back to work. Tomorrow."

I've been a little crazy since Dos was born. Ok, a LOT crazy. Some dark and scary thoughts have been creeping in here and there. But one thought that is not so dark, and is sometimes comforting is: "I could do this for a couple of years. I could be a stay-at-home-mom and be completely comfortable with it. I'd make dinner and cookies and sew and take my girls places and it would be a lot of work but....I could do it."

Then someone refuses to eat an apple or spits up on my new jeans and I want cry all over again because being a grown up is hard and being a Mommy is even harder and why didn't I marry for money instead of love? Boo hoo hooo.

Could you do it? No matter what you do. If you work, could you stay at home for a couple of years to take care of your kids if your budget allowed? If you stay at home, could you go to work on a crappy schedule at a job you're not sure you love anymore to help your family afford private school and some much needed extras?

I don't get many comments, but I sure could use some now.

Trying....Really, Really Trying

2008-02-11T15:03:00.000-05:00

I now know why my mom was always so crabby and tired looking. She had SEVEN kids to look after. I have two and daily I have to stop myself from driving to the airport, going to the Delta counter and saying, "I don't care where it goes. I don't care how much it costs. The next flight out? Put me on it."

I don't know why it's so hard. The girls are healthy and relatively happy. I say relatively because I don't really know how happy the bug is after a day of being snapped at by me. Sometimes she deserves it. Usually she doesn't. I try so hard not to snap, but it happens anyway. "NO! Do NOT do that! Er! Argh! Bah!"

Trying to keep the bug entertained one cold, rainy morning last week, I got out the paints and paintbrushes. She was in heaven and occupied for 20 whole minutes! Awesome! She moved on to fingerpainting! Fantastic! Until....she found out how cool it sounds when paint covered hands are squished together. Cool to a two-year-old. To Mommy's sleep deprived, over stressed, likely depressed, anxious ears it sounded REALLY FUCKING ANNOYING.

I tried to ride it out. "She's exploring her world. She's exploring her world." I told myself over and over again. Gritted my teeth. Clamped my eyes shut. Hummed "Shoot that Poison Arrow" over and over again. I couldn't take it. "BUG! STOPIT! Argh!" She was surprised, but nodded with a knowing look. ("Yes....mommy is dangerously close to an act of violence. I shall reluctantly, but wisely, end this task post-haste.")

I feel like a horrible person because I can't seem to get the hang of this. A baby needs my attention. So does a toddler. I help one and the other cries or accidentally destroys something. It seems so easy for other moms. And I feel like I'm doing it all so wrong that I shouldn't be doing it at all.

What's Ahead for the Tag Team

2008-02-03T15:11:00.000-05:00

When the Grinch and I set out to be tag team parents, we did it knowing that we might fail. We might be stretched too thin, miserable, sleepless, hating life, each other and not taking proper care of the Bug. We did it knowing that we might have to go with Plan B. Problem was, there was no Plan B.

We jumped into the tag team parent game without a backup plan. No backup daycare or nanny to call on. No idea of whether we could live on one income. We figured we'd come up with a Plan B if and when we needed it. Luckily, the tag team worked out pretty well.

Until now.

My work schedule has changed by an hour. Just one measly hour, but it's enough to throw our finely tuned schedule into chaos. If I work an hour later, it's an hour later that Grinch will get into work, an hour later that HE has to stay. 1.) the later hours DON'T work for his business and 2.) Grinch's office is in a high crime neighborhood. The later he stays, the more likely it is that something bad could happen to him.

So, the Tag Team parents need to take on another team member. We're looking into hiring a nanny or sitter for three mornings a week. It sounds easy enough, but we're having no luck. We don't even feel that good about it. "Are you comfortable with leaving a three-month-old with a sitter?" asks Grinch. "No, are you?" I say. "No." Then why are we doing it?

Because we want to add on to our house and can't afford to do it on one income. Because we want to buy a second car. Because we want to be able to afford to send both kids to private school, even though we live in a very good public school district. Because we want to be able to take our kids on vacations once or twice a year.

In other words, we're looking to continue this stupid schedule and incur the added expense of a sitter because we're a couple of idiots.

My maternity leave ends in April. That's our deadline. We have to find a sitter by then or...I'm not even sure what happens then. One of us quits our jobs? (We've both said, with varying degrees of conviction, that we're willing to be stay-at-home parents while the other continues working.)

April seems like a long time away. But it's not and we have some serious work to do.

Please Welcome to the Cast....

2008-01-17T10:15:00.000-05:00

Dos is snuggling happily on my lap right now. Blissed out on warm mama's milk and the comfort of a purloined hospital blanket. She arrived last Tuesday night, apparently in a rush to greet the world.

After I wrote my last post about taking care of the bug, I started having contractions. Nothing big, just some gut pains that I wrote off as gas. 'Cause the pregnant womens, we do have the gas. Oh, yes.

I let the Grinch know, woke up the bug from her nap and went about the afternoon thinking the pains would probably go away. When I squatted to get the Bug's milk out of the fridge, something told me it would probably be best if I didn't get into that position again unless I wanted to actually have a baby. Like, now.

I called work. "Looks like I'm not coming back from vacation! Suckers! Boo-yah!" Or something like that. Actually, it was more like, "I think I'm in labor. And no one's here and...and...(sniffle)....ok, well, bye."

Grinch called to suggest that my sister take me to the hospital while he stayed with the still-recovering-Bug. I resisted the urge to reach through the phone to strangle him. Sis got all excited about that possibility, and suggested I take a shower to slow down the contractions. I took a shower. The contractions got more intense. Definitely NOT gas pains. Cue the moaning and nausea.

Grinch, Sis and Neice-o-rama arrived. Grinch decided to drive me to the hospital after all. We left the house at 8:40. In the car, in between groaning and deep breathing, I was fretting over leaving the Bug, text messaging and telling the Grinch how much I was looking forward to that epidural. Yes, SIR. I was getting an epidural, no matter what. Mmm-hmm. Epidural City, here I come.

9:00pm. At the hospital: There are forms to sign and questions to answer, IVs to start before an epidural can be done. I don't care about forms and IVs. Please, I'd like an epidural now.

9:10 Doc checks me and says she'll be right back. Can I have that epidural, please?

9:15 I WANT an EPIDURAL NOW. Grinch, they're not listening to me. "They'll take care of you. You'll be fine. You'd doing great." I don't feel great. Contractions are kicking my butt big time.

9:17 To every person who walks in the room, I ask, "Are YOU the anesthesiologist?" No one is. I'm begging now. PLEASE. The epidural. I open my eyes to see a nurse with her hands between my legs and looking concerned. "What are you doing?" I ask. "I'm, uh....I'm holding the baby in." WHAT? I look at Grinch. He's nodding, looking surprised, but strong and confident. He's holding my hand, encouraging me, reassuring me. He's saving me from panicking. I'm so glad he's there and not my sister who would have been great, but not like this. I start to tingle all over. That's my body's signal that I'm in overload. I'm going to do this, I tell myself. I'm going to do this with Grinch and these nurses and no epidural and....

9:25 Groooooaaaaaaaannnnnnnn. Contraction from hell. I feel a thump between my legs. "Do you feel like you need to push?"
"I don't knoooooooooowwwwww. That hurt. That really, really hurt." I whine to Grinch.
"I know." He says. "I know. You're doing great."
"I'm gonna die." I say, using the Southern "dah", which means nearly as bad as death, but not actual demise.
"You are not. You ski black runs in Jackson Hole. You run 10Ks. How many have you run?"
"I don't knooooooowwww." "That's right! You've run so many, you lost count!"
He's encouraging more, but his voice fades a little in my ears. I barely hear him. I feel his hand in mine. Another contraction is coming. I don't care what happens, or who's here to catch, I'm going for it.

9:34 Push. Thump, thump. I open my eyes in time to see the doctor juggling a wet, squirmy baby, screaming at the top of her lungs. I hear the cheers, "It's a girl! With reddish, light brown hair! Oh, and she's cute!" Grinch is wide-eyed and smiling, "You did it!" My ears finally pick up the sound of her cry. She's crying. That's good. That's good. Ok. Whew.

There is meconium in the amniotic fluid, so it takes a little while to get her checked out and cleaned up. All the while, I keep asking Grinch, "Is she ok? Is she ok?" "Yes." He assures me, still holding my hand. Still wide-eyed. "You didn't need me!" the doctor says. "Great! Then we won't get a bill from you!" I reply. Always trying to get a bargain. The nurse says, "We can finally get you admitted now! Do you have a birth plan?" Everyone laughs. "Yes. My plan is to have an epidural."

They finally bring her to me and she IS cute. Round head. Big blue eyes. Perfect skin. A sneeze like an animated lady bug. Cute, I'm telling you.

Now we're home and all of that seems like so long ago. I can't wait to tell Dos the story when she's old enough.

Bug loves her little sister. Gives her copious hugs and is fascinated by the belly button situation. Thinks it's hilarious when she toots, which is often so there is a lot of giggling around here.

Now a new adventure begins. We're a family of four. Grinch says, "Now our family feels complete." It does. My heart feels complete, too.

Doing What Needs to be Done

2008-01-08T14:15:00.000-05:00

Today was supposed to be the Bug's first day back at preschool and my last day of vacation. I had a long list of things I wanted to do and needed to do.

I wanted to:

get my hair cut for the first time since March. Donate 10" to Locks of Love and find a new style before the baby came and I won't be able to get haircut for a whole 'nother year. It would be nice to look pretty for the post-delivery picture this time. I look like a ship-wreck victim in my first picture with the bug.

get a pedicure. Due to the increasing bulbous nature of my belly, I haven't been able to see, much less reach my toes for months now. Frankly, I just wanted someone to rub my feet. Pretty toes would be nice, too.

see a movie. I haven't seen one in 2 1/2 years. I did rent "Garden State" so I guess that counts. I'm only, what....three years behind.

I needed to:

go shopping for all the new baby stuff we'll need and have forgotten up until now: diapers, wipes, car seat pads. I managed to get this done today. Target should have no problems meeting their quarterly goal, thanks to me.

I was looking forward to today, really. Because I've been on vacation for the past week, every minute of it spent with the Bug or family or rushing to this event or that. I wanted this morning for myself.

But Sunday night, the Bug came down with a stomach virus. It left her coughing and heaving and clinging to the Grinch and I all night. Monday, she slept on me for most of the day. Today, she was a trooper and went to Target with me, though I could tell she wanted to be home, reading books or just snuggling again. She's so out of it. She's so tired. There's no way she could go to school. No way I could leave her with even the most patient, loving friend or family member.

This may not have been what I wanted or needed to do these past two days. But it's what she needs from me. I'm doing what's important for her. That feels just right.

The Germans Ate My Brain

2008-01-03T16:37:00.000-05:00

We don't spend much time with my family because I have six brothers and sisters who have kids of their own and it's hard to make time for all of us to get together. When we do get together, it's usually for a group birthday lunch on a Sunday afternoon. My parents come down from their mountain, grumble about traffic, mix stiff drinks, ask you how you're doing and hustle back home. It's not a thrilling love fest. It usually annoys me a great deal, in fact. But I try to go because it's family and that's what you're supposed to do, right? I mean, a couple of hours once every three or four months: I can do that.

Grinch doesn't go to my family gatherings because...well, my family is a group of loud, TV watching, back-slapping, mostly insane people and Grinch's family is a very proper German mom and dad sitting in silk chairs, asking about your life plan, offering you Very Expensive Scotch and making sure you know that it's Very Expensive Scotch.

I'm almost glad that Grinch doesn't go to my family parties because I just end up worrying that someone will upset him or ignore him or say something embarrassing or stupid. He frets over the noise and how it might affect the bug and whether or not she's going to catch a cold or toddler Ebola from one of her cousins. It's stressful and I end up worrying so much about Grinch that I don't get to talk to my sisters, which is the best part of going to these stupid parties anyway.

So Grinch just doesn't come. I tell the truth: he's cleaning the house, he's working, he's studying, he's whatever. That's cool. Everyone in my family is used to not seeing Grinch at a party. It would be surprising if he actually came to one. "Grinch! What are you doing here?!"

But there's no skipping a Grinch family party for me. No way. The crowd is too small. Your absence is noted and many questions are asked. There is great concern, conferences are held and phone calls are made. Attendance, you see, is mandatory.

Grinch's family doesn't get together much, only because his siblings are living in different states or countries. So when everyone is in town at the same time, well, Gott im Himmel, everyone is there and every gesegnet moment must be spent together. YES! Es ist ein Auftrag!

So now you know how I spent my New Year's week. It's a good thing I had the week off work because if I hadn't I would be either cata-fucking-tonic right now, in labor, in the psychiatric ward, or on a one-way flight to Maui. Actually, the last one doesn't sound so bad. Where's my credit card?

I came up with a fun game this week: when a German asks you about your plans for the week, tell them, "I don't know. It's the holidays. I'm just going to relax and see what happens." They can't process it. The information just hangs in front of their eyes, like hard-core pornography. They're usually stunned into silence, except for the occasional, "But....but..."

Really though, I like my brothers-in-law and their families an awful lot. One of their little girls is nine-months-older than the Bug and it was great to see them have so much fun together. They're all very kind and considerate and it was nice to see them again. We may not see some of them again for a couple of years and that makes me sad.

Now everyone has gone home and it's just us and the tribal elders, silk chairs and overpriced scotch again. I'm going to miss the holidays for some reasons...and be glad they're gone for other reasons.

Merry Christmas to all...

2007-12-25T14:26:00.000-05:00

Translating Bug

2007-12-18T16:07:00.000-05:00

My parents have happily been spending my inheritance by visiting every corner of the world since their retirement. I'm cool with it, really, except for the fact that they insist on bringing me t-shirts from all these places. I have Hard Rock cafe t-shirts from Helsinki, Cairo and Costa Rica. Have I ever set foot in these places? Not even close. Do I even LIKE Hard Rock Cafe? Not really, no. But my pleas of "No more t-shirts!" fall on deaf ears each and every time.

In between their world jaunts, they have taken to hosting international visitors. They started doing this when I still lived at home and, because my parents absolutely SUCK at hosting guests, I often spent a lot of time carting people around town, taking them to do touristy things and helping them find the right geegaws to take back home to their family and friends in Whereverslavia.

Sometimes, we were lucky and the guests were fairly good English speakers. One Russian guy spoke no English at all. Somehow, we managed to surmise that he liked basketball and I was able to arrange for him to go to an NBA game and meet a Russian player. The player translated stuff the poor guy had been holding in for days: "My room is hot as hell and the sheets smell. I hate cold tea, please don't make me drink it. I want Coca-cola. I want to buy camera and Nike sneakers, size 12. I have two kids and they want Mickey Mouse dolls." What was never explained was why this guy disappeared for hours on end every night. He SAID he was just taking walks. We suspected he was hustling men in bars. It made for a good story, anyway. "This is Alexi. He doesn't speak English. In Russia, he works construction. In America, he is prostitute."

Even the best English speakers still had little problems here and there. Asking questions and putting the words in the right order were the hardest. It's something that, strangely enough, I hear the Bug do a lot. In her best Russian syntax, she'll ask, "What this is called, please?" or when talking about herself, saying, "You would like cookie, yes."

Despite my best translation skills, her oddly translated statements and questions still confuse me sometimes. For instance, pulling her chair out for her, I hear, "You will not pull out the chair."
Right, Mommy will pull it out for you.
"Noooo. You will not pull out the chair!"
Right, gotcha. Mommy did it.
Tears welling in her eyes, "NOOOOO! You will NOT..."
Oh! Yes, I understand! Mommy, don't pull out the chair. I see now! Don't cry!

You ok?
"Yes. She is YOUR chair. NOT Mommy's."
Whuh...nevermind. Eat your dinner.
(Pointing to couscous that is shifting on her plate) "This is doing what, please?"
What?
"This is doing what?"
What.
"Yes."
Huh?
"This?"
Yes.
"It is doing what?"
I....uh....darlin', you got me. I don't know what you're saying.
"THIS!"
YES!
"IS DOING WHAT?"
MOVING!
"YES!"
YES!

And that's when, I'm quite sure the Bug and I are thinking the same thing: "God! Where are the Russians when you need them?"

Truth is Not Stranger Than Fiction

2007-12-11T14:40:00.000-05:00

The Grinch and I met when I was 16 and he was 18. If I tell you the whole story, it would embarrass the pants off of him, but suffice to say that I saw him and had an immediate crush on him. It was two years before we dated and we've been together more or less ever since.

I used to love to tell the story, but over the summer when someone asked us on our 11th wedding anniversary, "So how'd you meet?" Grinch interrupted me, "NO! It's so boring! Make up something else. ANYTHING." So here are some scenarios that we're going to throw out from now on that are way more interesting than the truth and get way better responses than just, "Awwwww!"

1. He was a bush pilot in Africa and I was working on a wildlife reserve. One day, I stormed into his camp to complain about him flying too low over the giraffe mating grounds and it was love at first sight.

2. I was a flight deck officer on the aircraft carrier U.S.S. WhatevernameIcanthinkof and he was a hotshot pilot. I regularly criticized his landings, even though they were perfect. We argued a lot, but he eventually melted my cold, hard heart and swept me off my feet with a Bach guitar serenade.

3. We met one summer while backpacking through Europe. We first saw each other on the tube in London, then in line at the Louvre, again at the Brandenburg Gate before we finally got up the nerve to introduce ourselves on the Spanish Steps.

4. He was a front-runner for the Nobel Prize for Physics, I was a reporter for the New York Times. I was supposed to do a quick interview with him for a brief profile, but our interview turned into lunch, turned into dinner, turned into a glass of wine.... The profile had to be written by someone else because I ended up compromising my objectivity. Eh-hem.

5. He was my parole officer.

See? All of those are WAY more interesting than, "We worked at the same drugstore in high school."

Giving and Receiving

2007-11-27T14:24:00.000-05:00

I'm the youngest of seven kids. Dad was in the newspaper business, a notoriously low-paying pursuit. Money was always tight. We never considered ourselves poor because we always had a roof over our heads, clothes on our backs and shoes on our feet. Our clothes were often shabby and worn and the shoes....oh, the shoes.

I wore shoes that I had long outgrown. I wore them until it hurt to put them on. I wore them until my toes poked out or until the soles split. I wore my sisters' hand-me-down shoes that were two sizes too big. I stuffed paper towels in the shoes and pretended that I didn't notice that they were five or six years out of style. Kids can be mean though and I heard hateful, vicious taunts about my clothes and shoes.

I can afford to buy my own shoes now and have plenty. I still wear them out and wear them long past their fashion-due date because even when I look at my paint-splattered penny loafers I can hear my mom saying, "But they have plenty of wear left in them!"

Ever year, our office adopts a needy family and asks what they want for Christmas. In the past, the lists have included XBoxes, CD Players, Playstations, DVDs, CDs and other flashy gear. Last month, we got an e-mail about our holiday family. It's a single mom with four boys. She's going to a technical college and makes sure the boys go to school every day. On the wish list? No toys or games or movies. The family asked for clothes and shoes. Shoes. When my shift was over, I went straight to the store to buy what I could afford.

When I told my co-workers what I was doing, they stuffed money into my hands. Wads of dollar bills, fives, tens and 20s. Before I knew what was happening, I had collected $150. Today, I spent the last of it.

All four boys will get a brand new pair of shoes and lots of socks. Mom will get a pair of boots and, because all moms deserve a little something extra, she gets a new purse to match. Everyone gets some candy in their stocking, too.

It's not the fanciest stuff in the world and I wish I could have bought them more. I may be kind of stingy with my charitable giving sometimes, but if all you want for Christmas is a pair of shoes? Yeah, I can help you with that. Me and my team, we're more than happy to.

With Friends Like These

2007-11-26T08:45:00.000-05:00

When I was pregnant, my sister-in-law told me about a great parent's group that she went to when she had her first baby nine years earlier. "Oh, it was wonderful!" she said. She made it sound like a big fat mama/baby love fest. The way she told it, mamas sat on fluffy white clouds and their little diddums were rolled up in rainbows. She made wonderful friends from that group, friends she still had nine years later.

Three weeks after the Bug was born, I was ready to give it a try. I walked into the group and got The Look. The look that says, "Good heavens. Why is she here? She doesn't even have a stroller. She's still wearing her maternity clothes? Her child is wearing *gasp* Brand X and not super-cool-indie Brand A? Oh, no. No, no, no. She does not belong. Do not look at her. Do not engage her. She'll just want to come back."

But I did go back. I went back again and again because I was determined to either find someone to hang out with or make one of those bitches be nice to me and the Bug. I called the Grinch on more than one occasion, crying, "No one likes me! No one wants to be frieeeeeeeends!"

I kept going. For a year and a half, long after the Bug had aged out of the group, I kept going. Just when I had given up hope, a mom showed up and we shared a few chuckles. She came back and we laughed even more. The next time, she brought a couple of friends and they invited me to lunch with them. I called the Grinch, breathless, "I'm going to lunch! With PEOPLE! I think.....I think they're nice and they might like us, too!" It was worse than first date jitters. Going a long time without friends will do that to you.

It's hard to believe that was a year ago. The four of us have done a lot together and become good friends. We're watching our kids grow and change and we're having new babies. We roll our eyes at the challenges brought on by toddlerhood. We laugh a LOT, usually at each other or something our kids have done.

Now it looks like my friends, (my only mom friends within "let's meet for lunch and some park time" distance) are moving on. One will be moving to China soon. Another wants to move closer to family in another state. The third wants to move to another part of town, too far for quick meet-us-at-the-park-in-10-minutes playdates. It makes me very, very sad.

I'm sad because they're moving on and I'm not and it seems like it'll be easy for them to make new friends wherever they go. I'll still be here, in my hometown. The same place I've been for 38-years. And, with the exception of the Grinch and Laura, I'll be friendless. Again.

Has anyone told you how isolating parenthood can be? It can and it sucks.

This post sounds like a big pity fest and it is. I'm happy for my friends to have new opportunities and new adventures. I'm jealous. I'll miss my friends. I get ill at the thought of going through the playgroup/parent's group wringer again.

Why can't it be as easy as it was when we were five-years-old and we could walk up to someone on the playground and ask, "Will you be my friend?"

And we only have to worry in case our girl wears thin

2007-11-19T12:33:00.000-05:00

We got the word back in June that the Police were coming to our town. Tickets were purchased and the worrying began.

At that point the bug had never been with anyone other than Grinch or I, not even for a few minutes. How in the world were we supposed to go see a concert?! Without her! At night! Worry indeed.

We threw out ideas, we talked about emergency plans, we argued over who would go to the show and who would stay with the bug. "I'll stay." "No, I'LL stay." "Noooo, I'll stay." and so on.

The bug started preschool and everything went so well that our hopes for the concert were high. High enough that we pretty much forgot about it until the week before the show. Says a lot for our preparation skills, huh? We DO procrastinate well in this family. We're champions, in fact.

The day before the show, I dropped the Bug at a friend's house and she played happily for an hour before I couldn't take the suspense any more and came to "rescue" her. She was surprised to see me. Not in a "You came back!" kind of way, but in a "What are you doing back so soon? I'm not ready to go. I'm having fun." kind of way.

The day of the show, we talked and talked and talked with the bug about what was going to happen, who would take care of her, mommy and daddy with come back, yadda, yadda, yadda.

We dropped her off, armed with her favorite books, dolls, toys and pajamas. When she heard that ice cream was on the menu, Bug practically waved us out the door.

We watched our cell phones like hawks all night, probably checking the signal and message lights after every song. There was no "She's been screaming since you drove away, come get her!" call. There was no "come get your hellion." text message. We made it through the whole show. And we enjoyed it! We had fun! Like grown ups! Like real people! Amazing!

The Bug made it, too. She was sleeping soundly when we came to pick her up and went straight to bed when we got home. Our kid is awesome. She's stronger than we know and making us stronger every day.

The Second Time Around

2007-11-11T11:50:00.000-05:00

My first pregnancy was a surprise. I was on the pill and had missed a couple of days, but picked up where I left off and thought everything would be okie dokie. Surprise! That worked before, but not this time. I was shocked, excited, happy, terrified, elated and depressed all within the 20 minutes after I saw "pregnant" show up on the test stick.

Even while still in shock, I began working to ensure that I had as healthy a pregnancy as possible. I called my OB/GYN for an appointment and had a gigantic spinach salad. (Somehow, I got it in my head that spinach was exactly what a growing fetus needed.) I quit drinking caffeine and threw out anything with white flour or artificial sweeteners in it. I stood far away from microwaves. I canceled an appointment to get highlights in my hair. I checked out "What to Expect" and baby name books from the library. I did all this before I even told the Grinch that I was pregnant.

After the Bug came, happy, healthy and perfectly normal by all accounts, my zeal for getting it all "just right" didn't end. I was so scared that something I ate would get into the breast milk and make her sick or weird or allergic to something that I lived off of applesauce and graham crackers for the better part of a week. Eventually, the pediatrician told me to get a grip and eat some food. I did. The bug survived.

This time around, though, things have been a little more relaxed. In fact, it's not uncommon for me and Grinch to forget that I'm pregnant. At a recent party where there was an open bar I was just about to ask for my usual...then it occurred to me that, oh yeah, you're six months pregnant. The 7&7s are off limits, mama. Cranberry juice and ginger ale, please.

No dreaded white flour, alcohol or aspartame have crossed my lips (though I did sneak a tiny sip Grinch's Terrapin Ale last night. Yum.), but given that I'm working the overnight shift and getting about four hours of sleep a night: caffeine? It's just about a necessity. I try SO HARD to go without it. I've even found a dark, quiet, private corner at work to sneak a quick nap when I just can't keep my eyes open, but things are so busy lately that I can't even sneak away any more. I pay too much for the mini-Dr. Peppers to minimize any damage I might be doing and only drink them on the nights when I work.

Are you shaking your head and mentally tsk-tsk-tsking me? Tell you what: for a couple of weeks work the overnight shift, take care of a two-year-old all day, sleep four hours then get back to me. I'll be happy to hug it out over a Coke.

Do Not Taunt Happy Fun Ball

2007-11-08T13:16:00.000-05:00

In honor of all the toy recalls lately, specifically the potentially coma-inducing Aqua Dots:

Beware of Sudden Shifts

2007-10-30T15:20:00.000-04:00

I have stood on top of a Wyoming mountain, marveled at the crisp blue sky and noted not a cloud in sight, ducked into a chalet for a 10-minute pit stop and gone back outside to find the sky dark gray, wind howling and snow blowing sideways.

I have stood in a Georgia hayfield in a gentle rain, only to find myself cowering in a church basement, 20-minutes later, as a tornado rumbled overhead.

So yes, I know how quickly things can change. But nothing can compare to the quick change of a toddler's temperment.

One minute, you can be watching your rosy-cheeked, sparkle-eyed love bug giggling her head off on the playground. Seconds later, you're getting a good look at her tonsils as she screams at the top of her lungs, "NO. BOY. ON. SLIDE! NOOOOOOO! OFF! OFF! OFF!"

To say these mood swings happen in the blink of an eye doesn't capture exactly how quickly they happen. Trust me: I'm pregnant. I know mood swings.

One minute everything is funny. In a heartbeat, no, less than a heartbeat, nothing is funny. Nothing is worth leaving the park, or returning a toy to the shelf, or putting on pajamas. Not even ice cream.

I used to see these parent/child standoffs in stores and think, "That's horrible. What a brat/terrible parent." Now, I'm on the receiving end and fully aware of what childless people must think when they see me: lips pursed, brow furrowed, carting a screaming toddler to the car. I know people with children see me too and I pray they understand. I pray they are sympathetic. I pray that the non-pregnant, non-nursing mothers go home and raise a cocktail and toast my patience. 'Cause that's what I want to do when I get home: have a stiff drink and congratulate myself for not dropping the kid at her grandparent's house and hopping a one-way flight to Maui.

The screaming in the backseat has subsided to an occasional snuffle. Seconds later, a perky voice comes from the car seat, "Oh! Look! A doggie! Hi, doggie! Doggie has loooooong ears. Hahahaha!"

The weather shifts again.

Friends Indeed

2007-10-26T16:04:00.000-04:00

Almost exactly 26 years ago, I met someone who would change my life. She loves to tell people how we met and it goes something like this:

"It was the first day of school. I was the new kid. I sat down in homeroom, scared as hell and the girl sitting in front of me whipped around and said, "HI! Who are you? You're new here aren't you? What's your name? I'm Heather!"...and proceeded to ask her a bunch of questions.

That would be me. The girl I ambushed is Laura, my best friend....whether she likes it or not.

The way I remember it, I was just being friendly. I was a pretty obnoxious kid, though. Loud, in-your-face and .....well, loud. Laura's version of the story is probably pretty accurate. She likes to punctuate it by imitating her reaction to my "greeting". Her eyes grow wide and she tries desperately to push her desk far, far away from mine.

Truth is, we weren't very good friends until we both joined the rifle corps a few years later. Not point-and-shoot rifle corps, but spin, toss and (hopefully) catch rifle corps. We bonded at practices and band camp. We both had foul mouths, short tempers and were attracted to aloof soccer players.

It turned that as many differences as we had (she was very smart and studious, I was a cut up and barely kept a C average), we had as many or more similarities: we were awkward, middle-class Catholic girls in a sea of pretty, wealthy Methodists. We lived on the edge of the school district. While the other kids lived near the rolling green hills of a fine private college, Laura lived across the street from the state mental hospital and I lived across the street from a home for wayward youths. It wasn't uncommon for us to see police helicopters hovering over our backyards looking for escapees from either institution.

We grumbled about school, the popular kids, politics and parents. We worked at the same drug store and had crushes over many of the same boys. We pestered, teased and swooned over a boy older than us, a boy we came to call the Grinch. We drank wine coolers and drove recklessly down winding, dark roads, headlights off, heads out the window, howling at the moon. She tolerated my big mouth and defended me to no end. I'm not sure exactly what I did to reciprocate her friendship, other than get her out of the house and let her howl at the moon.

Like a lot of high school "best friends forever" we lost touch for a while once our college lives kicked into high gear. But there was always a letter, always an effort to keep in touch. Because that's what real friends do.

Now we grumble over our children's schools, supervisors at work and husbands. We work similar crazy schedules. We celebrate each other's triumphs and mourn each others losses with tears, laughter and long hugs. And she still defends me, though she's more likely now to tell me I'm being an idiot, too. I'm learning (I hope) to be a better friend to her so she'll stick around for another 26 years.

This post has already gotten too long and it doesn't really have a point, except to say: Thanks, Laura, for being my friend....whether you like it or not.

A Mystery Wrapped in an Enigma

2007-10-24T15:56:00.000-04:00

So, I suppose I should explain why this blog is named "Three Out of Seven". I could tell you outright, but what would be the fun in that?

Instead, in honor of my mystery loving Grandmother, I'll give you some clues in future posts to help you figure it out. The first person to figure out the name of the blog will win a $25 Amazon gift certificate. That goes for any currency! So Canadians could win $25 Canadian, Brits could win...well, I can't find the fancy pound sign on my keyboard, but you get the idea. If you live in Mexico or Japan, I'll make sure you get more than 25 pesos or yen. 'Cause that would buy you, what, not even a beer?

So, read the blog, enjoy, and e-mail me or comment when you think you've figured it out. Only the Grinch knows the story behind the blog name and he'll keep me honest. When the name is figured out, I'll post the reason and the winner.

Good luck and happy reading between the lines!

It's Not You...It's Not Her, Either

2007-10-21T19:51:00.000-04:00

Dear Family, Friends and Strangers,

You won't be the one to make my little girl smile. She won't shake your hand or give you a high five. She won't giggle at your silly faces or take a lollipop from you. She won't tell you her name or wave bye-bye. Please don't take it personally, that's just the way she is right now.

Yes, she smiles and talks. She sings, plays, laughs uproariously and even cracks jokes. She does all of this when she's with her daddy and me. She does all these things when she knows she's safe and she doesn't feel like she's on display. She's not a performer. She's a little kid. Just let her be the little kid she is. She's quite happy that way and so are we.

Back in the dark ages of child rearing (10-15 years ago), you probably would have called her "shy." You still can, but we don't. We say she's cautious. (The pediatrician suggested that term and we like it.) Our little girl isn't rejecting you, she's just getting to know you before she lets you get too close. Pretty smart, actually. Oh, and the getting to know you part? It can take a long time.

I know it's frustating for you, the grandparents who want to bond with their granddaughter, the strangers who protest, "But kids LOVE me!" It's been frustrating for us, too. I shed a lot of tears over this but I finally figured out that my frustration wasn't helping her, and that's what I really need to do. You can think my child is weird, you can think all you want about my parenting skills, that her "shyness" is all my fault. I don't really care. I know my daughter. I know what makes her feel safe, what makes her feel accepted, and what makes her feel comfortable. I'll take care of all that. Let my little girl be herself.

Here's a novel idea: you be yourself, too. Stop trying so hard to be an instant best friend or favorite grandparent to our little Bug. Relax. Let her figure out where she stands with you. Be yourself. If you're an ok person, she'll let you in and we'll all be happy.

Thanks,
The Mother of the Quiet Kid

Come again another day

2007-10-18T10:51:00.000-04:00

Can you see that? Those are raindrops on my car window. Lovely, wet, luscious raindrops. The kind the trees and flowers have been begging for for weeks now. They're there. Not nearly enough of them, but a welcome sight none the less.

Just last week, the governor announced that our state had, at best, water supplies to last until January. Now, even that looks dim. 90 days and the state resevoirs run dry, or so they've warned us. The Army Corps of Engineers is no help (big surprise!), and have basically told our state to sod off, they need the water to keep some mussels downstream fat and happy.

Don't get me wrong: I don't want a lush, green lawn to rival Augusta National. In fact, our lawn is mostly dandilions, violets and clover, so drought, schmout. It'll come back. I just want to wash my hands without feeling guilty, or worry that a double flush will drain the last bit of water out of the state forever.

We've been through a lot of droughts, over the years, so we've been told to "pray for rain" quite a bit. It seems strange to say, "Pray for a tropical depression or three" but that's exactly what it's going to take to get us back on the right track.

We're trying here, at Der Haufen, to do our best to conserve water, but we're new at this. Recycling, we know and we do quite well. Conserving water? Ok...shorter showers, turning off the water when we brush our teeth, scraping plates instead of rinsing, waiting until you have full loads to wash clothes or plates, using water from the dehumidifier to keep the flowers alive? Check, check, check, check and check. But joining the "if it's yellow let it mellow, if it's brown flush it down" club? Well, let's not take this too far. I mean, really.

What are your suggestions for conserving water? (And yes, we're quite familiar with the "shower with a friend" concept. Quite familiar, indeed. Eh-hem.)

There is a Season

2007-10-16T10:07:00.000-04:00

Fall comes late to the southeast. Up until two weeks ago, we were still experiencing afternoons with 90 degree weather and tank tops and flip flops still seemed perfectly reasonable. Last week, it didn't get above 80 and natives started breaking out the sweaters and turtlenecks. Transplanted Yankees are still wearing tank tops and boasting, "It gets WAY colder than this in Buffalo!" I'm sure it does, my friend. That's why you moved here.

Now, the leaves are changing in earnest and there's a chill in the morning air. Friday night, we ran the air conditioner for what will probably be the last time until April or so. Saturday, we ran the heat for the first time. Now, it's just cool enough to do without either for a few weeks.

I love fall. I love fall festivals, candy apples, caramel corn, marching bands and high school football games. I love hearing leaves crackle under my feet. I love the smell of fires in the fireplace. Hot soup and crunchy, cold, fresh apples. Thin sweaters with denim jackets and wearing my hair down. Halloween and Thanksgiving. I love all these things about fall and I want them to last as long as possible. Please, oh, please, 30 degree weather: you can wait 'til December, can't you?

These are the things I love about fall. And here's how we welcomed our first taste of it:

Here's hoping your autumn days are filled with homemade soup, crisp, beautiful days and cozy nights.

Quickly

2007-10-14T20:41:00.000-04:00

Some thoughts from the weekend:

I should not be allowed time off because it makes me think about quitting my job just to get a normal amount of sleep and spend time with my family without stifiling about a million yawns.

I have eaten far too many french fries in the past week.

Same goes for doughnuts.

If you can offset your carbon footprint, can you offset your junk food footprint? Because I tried very hard to eat a healthy dinner to counteract the fries and doughnuts.

If the "What to Expect When You're Expecting" ladies knew what I was eating whilst pregnant, they'd probably call child protective services on me.

I've hinted to my best girlfriend that I might tell her about my blog, and now I'm all nervous about it. We've been friends for 25 years. Reading my goofy thoughts here might make her reassess everything.

There is no greater sound than a child's laughter. Especially when they're laughing at a joke they've made up themselves.

10 Reasons Why I'm Weird (to most people)

2007-10-09T14:05:00.000-04:00

1. I like my pizza without cheese.
2. We don't have cable, the dish, or TIVO in my house. We haven't watched TV at home in months.
3. I work the overnight shift and take care of my child all day.
4. I hold my breath when I walk past people in the hallway.
5. I pick up my feet when driving over railroad crossings. It's an old superstition
6. I can't eat a handful of food. Like M&Ms: I have to eat them in twos.
7. I once co-hosted a reggae music show on the radio.
8. I love the smell of coffee but hate the taste of it.
9. I have never been to New York.
10. I firmly believe that white chocolate is an abomination.

I am the vampire that loves sunshine and garlic

2007-10-09T10:34:00.000-04:00

So here it is, the reason I work ungodly hours:

Back in 2004, I was happy working 9-to-5, Monday-through-Friday. I enjoyed eight hours of sleep every night, had weekends free to go anywhere and do anything with the Grinch. It was great. Then I found out that I was pregnant with the Bug and we had to come up with a childcare plan.

There were plenty of choices: hire a nanny, find a good daycare, one of us could quit our job and stay home with the bug OR I could go to an overnight shift, Grinch could stay with the Bug in the morning and I could stay home with her all day.

So, here's how it broke down:

NANNY, DAYCARE: Really fucking expensive for a good one. We have a good family income, but we didn't want to spend a lot of it paying a strangers to raise our child. We don't believe in outsourcing parenting. I know that'll make a lot of people man and yes, I fully understand that some people have no choice but to put their kids in daycare (my sisters did it, friends do it. I get it, really.). But we believe that a child's best place, especially for the first year, is at home with a parent. If we could have paid a grandparent to stay with the bug all day we would have done it, but the bug's grandparents are all crazy, so that wasn't really an option.

STAY AT HOME: At the time, becoming a Stay at Home Mom sounded horrible to me. I was a career woman, thank you very much. I'd worked long and hard to get where I was and didn't feel like I could afford to just drop everything and walk away from it to raise a child. People pat you on the back for making a decision like that but I know for a fact that many employers roll their eyes, shake their heads and wonder the hell you're thinking, walking away from the best gig you'll ever have. I wanted to keep working and was afraid of what would happen if I didn't

Grinch works with his Dad and there had been talk about passing on the family business to the Grinch so, at the time, it didn't make sense for him to walk away either. Plus, the Grinch's Dad is a very old school sort of fellow. He believes that women stay at home, knit, cook, clean house, keep their mouths shut and raise children. Explaining a new age career choice like "Stay at home Dad" to him would have been like trying to convert the Pope to Islam. Also, we realized that to live where we live, we NEED two incomes. We love our neighborhood and couldn't imagine moving out to the 'burbs.

So that leaves:
Working Overnights: I'd done it before and didn't mind it too much, really. It screws up your body clock and you're tired almost all the time, but the people on the shift are cool, the work is challenging, and when you're done you have all day to do whatever you want. Plus, I wanted to breastfeed for at least a year and working overnights seemed the best way to accomplish that, since I'd be gone while the bug was asleep and home all day so that she could get her milk straight from the source.

We thought about it, made spreadsheets (my dear orderly German Grinch and his dear spreadsheets), discussed, debated and made our decision. When we told people we were having a baby, that was the first question, "Are you going to stay home/Have you found a daycare/nanny?" We told people about the overnight plan. Jaws fell open. Heads shook in disbelief. Eyes rolled. There were inquiries about our sanity, our finances, our knowledge of infant care. We stuck to our plan and, much to every one's surprise, it's worked for two years.

It works like this: I work 2a-10a and come home around 10:30. Grinch is with the Bug all morning, feeding, changing and partying with her. He goes to work around 11a. At 1:30p, the Bug and I nap for two hours. We eat, play, read and run around until bedtime at (hopefully) 8:30p-9p. I crash until 1:30a then it's up and back at 'em for another day.

That's not to say it's been perfect. In fact, the first six months flat out sucked. Grinch and I fought a lot, I didn't know how to get the Bug on a regular nap schedule so she and I napped in 15 minute increments throughout the day, I got sick a lot, I was exhausted ALL the time, and I rarely got out of the house because I was terrified she would fall asleep in the car and if she was sleeping that was sleep that I was missing.

Slowly, but surely, things got better. The Bug went to one luxurious two-hour nap early on, I found a group of Mom friends to hang with, we found parks and playgrounds just right for us and came up with ways to pass the rainy days, too.

There are days I wish I could change everything: quit my job, stay at home and get eight hours of sleep every blessed night. Or go ahead, throw up my hands, hire a nanny and go back to the 9-to-5 life. But I can't. This whole schedule has been so great for the Bug. She's such a shy, cautious little kid that throwing her into daycare would have rocked her world right to the core. I've learned so much from being home with her and the Grinch's heart has grown 10 sizes since he started taking care of her in the mornings.

We're all better for it. We may be more tired and the Grinch and I don't see each other very much, but we do it knowing that it's best for the kid and that it won't be like this forever. We do it because we believe it's the right thing to do for us. For our family.

The Cast

2007-10-07T19:56:00.000-04:00

Perhaps I should give you a better idea of the cast of characters you'll be encountering if you continue reading this blog (and I hope you do. You will won't you? Good.).

First, there's me. I have yet to come up with an appropriate pseudonym. Yes, I need a pseudonym because if my family knew I was blogging (and likely blogging about them and how much they drive me crazy), I'd never hear the end of it ... and very likely would end up stricken from the will.

I'm 38-years-old. I still live in the town in which I was born and raised. That sounds quaint to some people and dreadfully dull to others. I'm somewhere in between on the matter. Right now, I'm 26.5 weeks pregnant with my second child. No, I don't know if it's a boy or a girl. I like the surprise. I work the overnight shift (I'll explain that later) in the media (which will likely be the last mention of work. I do not want to get Dooced.).

Then, there's my husband, The Grinch. He got that nickname many, many years ago when we worked retail together and he used to rattle on about how much he hated Christmas. Working retail will make anyone hate Christmas. The only time we saw him smile in December was when "How the Grinch Stole Christmas" came on tv. The name stuck. There are people who would be hard pressed to remember his real name, but are quick to ask me, "How's the Grinch?" He's fine, thank you very much.

The Bug joined our lives two years ago. When she first came along, we wondered what the hell we were thinking, bringing this screaming little creature into our lives. Now, we wonder how we lived without her for so long. She's the sweetest little kid I know, but she's no different from any other tempermental two-year-old. Some days, I can't wait to wake up and be with her. Other days, I wouldn't mind leaving her in suspended animation while I have a nice nap, a strong drink and a manicure. We make it through somehow. She forgives a lot of me: my distractablity, my exhaustion, my short temper, my bad singing and corny puns. I think she's ok with old Mom, though. At least, I hope she is because I plan to be around for a while.

Finally, there's Charlie the cat. He was a stray, picked up in the middle of an ice storm. You know, "Oh, we'll just take him in until the weather clears....until we find a good home for him...." That was five years ago. He used to be a real asshole of a cat, but he's mellowed out over time. He's very patient with the kid and spoons me while we nap. I guess he can stick around for a while longer.

There are supporting characters in this cast: my family, the in-laws, friends, neighbors and strangers...and you. Welcome to my world.

Grievances

2007-10-05T11:44:00.000-04:00

Yesterday, the Bug wasn't ready to take a nap.
"Ella. Book. One. More. Time?"
No.
"Bus. Book. One. More Time?"
No.
She went to her crib quietly, but when I climbed into bed across the hall, I heard a snuffle, then "Talk. To. Elmo. 'Bout. 'Dis."

Apparently, I have been reported. Elmo is putting this in my permanent file.

Well, You've Done it Now

2007-10-04T11:07:00.000-04:00

I've wanted to blog for more than a year now, but couldn't make myself do it. Last year, when I thought, "That's it. I'm going to start a blog." One of my favorite bloggers took her site down lock, stock, and archives. The pressure had gotten too intense. People were taking personal shots at her and her son. Stealing pictures of her family, claiming them as their own. Weird shit. I thought, "Nope. Not for me. I'll stick to lurking." Which I did.

Until now.

Now my favorite blogger is back and I've been e-mailing another blogger who keeps telling me to get off my ass and start a blog already. I'm running out of excuses so I'll give it a try.

I have about a bajillion things to rattling around in my head that all seem like good posts, but I'm not sure how much I'm willing to reveal. I can tell you that I won't be writing about my sex life past or present so, hopefully, that'll scare away the perverts right now. If not, well then hello to you, too.