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.

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.

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.

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.

Smile

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

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