"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.
Sunday, July 12, 2009
Saturday, June 27, 2009
The Bare Facts (or "The Naked Truth)
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!"
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!"
Saturday, May 9, 2009
Mother's Day
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.
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.
Sunday, April 26, 2009
Tag Team 101
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.
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.
Sunday, April 5, 2009
Le Freak, Boutique
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.
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.
Saturday, March 14, 2009
Erin Go Blah
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.
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.
Sunday, March 8, 2009
Snakes, Ducks and How I Roll
"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.
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.
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