Still Here

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.

Blah.

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.

I Don't Do Math Without A Net

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

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?

Thursday

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......

Time Out from Time Out

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?

Life 3.9

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.

Grievances

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.