Holy Nights, or, ALL YOUR IBUPROFEN ARE BELONG TO US

It all started because I am dumb about technology. No, wait. It started before that. While I was gestating Little A., so many moons ago, I worked for a funny little nonprofit. My officemate, the super sweet Celeste, mentioned this funny little show one of her friends was performing in. My ears perked up, because, as I have mentioned before, performing dance is in my all-time top-ten favorite things to do. But I was pregnant and new in town and and and and...the timing was wrong. I couldn't even go SEE the show because the timing was wrong. And then my life got a little more complicated. And then I got pregnant again and my life got a lot more complicated. And I resigned myself to never doing a lot of things that I might have always wanted to do. And I missed myself, but not critically. And and and. 

Fast forward to this summer. This summer when everything went all to pieces but even the tiniest little pieces, stuck back together with scotch tape and sometimes just scotch, are so much better than the whole used to be. A dear friend mentioned the show again, somehow, in passing. Maybe while we were at the gym, or at the playground. Between diaper changes and tantrum management, the show stuck in my head this time. I am in pretty good shape, I thought. I should maybe just start taking dance classes again, I thought. And then one night, while scrolling around Facebook on my phone, I sorta-kinda accidentally pushed this check-mark icon next to an audition announcement (I thought it was to open the event page). And a couple of friends noticed and "liked" that I was going to go. And then other friends asked, "Are you really going to go?" What the hell, I'll go, I thought.

AND SO. I got cast, you guys. I am IN that funny little show. Except it's not little. Every weekend between now and Christmas I am in rehearsals. Usually both days of the weekend. Usually for at least two hours. And then there are SEVEN shows over two weekends and our family calendar looks INSANE. Of course I have the guilts for leaving the girls for all those hours, but in the grand scheme of things? Nearly all of that time, they will be with their dad. And that is really good. And it is just a few weekends out of an entire year and our lifetimes. Yes, I am crazy for even thinking of it, but AWAY WE GO.

Last weekend was the first weekend of rehearsals. This week, I bought an extra giant bottle of ibuprofen and only today, 4 days later, have I regained pain-free function of my neck (turns out burlesque involves a lot of hair-whipping. Who knew?). But leaving that rehearsal on Sunday afternoon was the best. I felt like...myself. The myself I ignored for years. The myself I hope someday my girls will tell each other old familiar stories about, with at least a small amount of pride and self-recognition. Because myself is kind of grabbing life by the balls right now. Myself: taking care of business and having fun. What a concept, huh? I'm not saying it's perfect: my house is smells funny and the girls' hair is always a mess and we are probably going to have grilled cheese sandwiches AGAIN tonight. But we are also having a lot of fun, and I am keeping an eagle eye on everyone's emotional well-being and who cares if the socks don't match. We are all sleeping, eating, and growing.

So, again, I bring you the profoundest-blogger life lesson: JUST DO THINGS. I mean, I am the first person in history to realize this, right? WHERE IS MY GODDAMN BOOK DEAL.

xoxo,
A

Lather Rinse Repeat

Last night I had an out-of-body experience. I floated up to the ceiling of Little A's room and saw myself grab and rip to shreds a magazine. Not just any magazine, no, but her most favorite magazine in the whole wide world. It was 8:02 pm. It was hot as fuck. She was tired. I was tired. She had just deliberately spit on the floor, after 45 minutes of outrageously wild behavior -- running away, crying, laughing hysterically while kicking her legs every which way including at my face, throwing books, and so very much SHRIEKING, in the tub and in the baby's room and in her room and right next to me, directly into my ear, as I sat at the top of the stairs frantically trying to collect myself and wondering what the fuck do I do now and can I maybe just go out onto the deck and come back in 30 minutes -- and it was my very last straw. We both heard the glob of spit hit the floor and she looked at me with mingled dread and defiance and I didn't say a word. I exited my body, which slowly got up from her bed where I had been trying to just talk to her or get her to breathe or somehow get things back under control and walked directly to the magazine and picked it up and ripped and ripped and ripped. And she wailed and tried to punch me and said I was the worst mother in the world and that I hated her and that she hated me. And I wanted to wail and I felt like the worst mother in the world and I hated myself. And I spiraled back down into myself and sat next to her and held her still-small fists and just said this is out of control, we have to get it under control. I love you and could never hate you. I should not have ripped your magazine. This is out of control. We have to get it under control. I love you and could never hate you. Over and over, a chanted prayer/wish/mantra. And we did get it under control. And I should not have ripped her magazine, and she should not have shrieked in my ear. And we talked about all the scary feelings we were both feeling in that moment. And we talked about how many changes we've been through in the past few weeks. She misses her dad being around, she misses her old teacher at school, and she doesn't like her new teacher, and her cousin doesn't want to hug her at school. Big hurts and little hurts and they all fucking hurt. And I should not have ripped her magazine. I absorbed all of her hurt sobs into my body and they have settled somewhere around my heart and there they sit, so heavy.

After 15 minutes of talking and crying we went back into her sister's room (where the AC unit is) and I made her a special nest next to where I was going to sleep and we laid down together and I rubbed her back until she fell asleep. And then, finally, lying on an improvised bed between her and her sister in the dark and cool room, I cried too. Silent, guilty, stinging tears.

My oldest girl. So much like me, and so mysterious in the way any other person is. I love her with every cell of my body and her very existence fills me with joy and we dance together and play and joke and most hours are delightful but also she makes me more angry than anyone I have ever known. Since our last breakdown/breakthrough her behavior has changed. She is still excellent at school but every other night or so is a struggle. Last night was extreme, really extreme, and just after she fell asleep the skies opened and a thunderstorm rolled through just to prove the point. Thanks, Universe. I get the message. She is not protecting me anymore, I think. She is just at one of those ages, I think. She is processing the separation, I think.

This is hard and weird, guys. I am 100% convinced things will be better because of the changes I affected to our family. And in so many ways, they already are. The knot of tension and uncertainty that lived in my chest for the past two years has disappeared for one. It has been replaced by other knots, but they are MY knots and I know how to work on that shit. We are eating better and dancing and singing and doing more fun stuff. There is less stress in the house, period. We just have to get past this hard part to get to really really good but I also have to get cozy with the notion that the hard part might last a little longer than I was expecting because there are more agendas at work than just mine. And my guiding philosophy of keep on movin, don't stop, might not work for everyone in our little family. I have to just stop and be with first baby, this tough cookie, this spitter, this cuddler, and singer and painter and dancer, right where she is. And I have to just stop and be with her sister, my last baby, our 5-second tantrum-er, and goofball, and toothbrush-obsessor, right where she is. And I also have to just stop and be with me, single mother, don't wanna to go to sleep because this is my time-er, story-teller, hugger, comfort-giver, magazine-ripper, right where I am. I just need to be nice to all of us, including me. I am not letting myself off the hook for that asshole move, but by god I am going to go out tonight and allow myself to recharge so that particular brand of assholery will not reoccur.

We are here: facing off and shouting threats and throwing our plates to the floor and pulling hair and in time out. We are here: going to the beach and having cupcakes and wearing princess dresses and painting toenails and having breakfast dance parties. We are here.

xoxo, A

Doogie Howser, Esq. (aka: Mama Got Lawyered by a Four-Year-Old)

I may have mentioned before that my elder daughter is one of those kids like you read about. Her diet consists of carbs, cheese, and fruit. And chicken nuggets. I swear, when she was a baby, she ate EVERYTHING. (So don't blame this shit on me, uppity foodie-mom bloggers.) Like her sister now, she would happily down whatever you put in front of her, and then ask for more: Parnips? Great! Saurbrauten? Delicious! Grilled salmon? YAY CAN I HAZ SECONDS???

Right around her 2nd birthday things started to change. She discovered that she had a measure of control, directly surrounding her plate. And she loved it. She gleefully wielded her veto power over everything green, non-vegetarian, non-cheese-based. And for the most part this has been OK. Annoying, but OK. She'll happily drink smoothies that contain spinach or kale or whatever - I don't have to add the greens under cover of night, even -- and is everso slowly, as we leave behind the reign of terror that was THREE, she is adding new things to her menu. Green beans, carrots, chicken burgers. So, yeah, it'll be fine, I tell myself. My brother ate nothing but chopped sirloin and spaghetti for about 3 years of his life and he is a strapping fellow with good teeth and a shiny coat and all that, I tell myself.

But one area over which *I* have very little control plagues me yet: the school lunch. The girls' daycare offers a kid-friendly, fairly nutrious meal every day. And we the parents are expected to provide snacks, which is also no problem, though I am spending a small fortune on Kashi bars and portable yogurts and such (entirely my own fault: I am lazy and don't clip coupons and can't abide going to more than one store to bargain shop). HOWEVER. My picky girl recently confessed that she is bringing her snack into the lunch room with her teacher's permission, and is eating her snack foods instead of lunch, most days. And then she gets something from the snack cabinet of the school, as many of the other kids do, and also a share of the cooperatively provided fruit, for her afternoon snack.

ARGH I SAY ARGH. Snacks all day long make me go ARGH. I am sure her caloric and vitamin-ic needs are being met. She's growing and her teeth are not rotting out of her head but here I must draw a line in the sand. I have a bee in my bonnet. Etc. So this morning Little A. and I had a little debate.

OK, says I. We are putting these things in your lunchbox for SNACK. They are SNACKS for SNACKTIME and only for SNACKS. You eat the lunch that daycare provides for LUNCH at LUNCHTIME, yes?

She replies, But Miss A. said it was ok for me to bring my lunchbox in and have this food anytime!

Then me: That might be what your teacher said, but Mama is saying what is in your lunchbox is for SNACK and the lunch food that daycare serves is for LUNCH. I will tell Miss A. this lunchbox is snack-only stuff.

But Mama! 

And then she delivers the death-blow of logic. This is called a LUNCHBOX. Why is it called a LUNCHBOX if I can't have the food for LUNCH?

Dudes. I was stumped. I stammered. Well, maybe we need to call this a snackbox yes let's call it a snackbox and then it's your snack...box. She just looked at me like, yeah, right. She spared me the eyeroll, but then ate her go-gurt on the way to school and carried her food-carrier into her classroom with an air of triumph.

(And here's the humblebrag conclusion you've been waiting for....)

Yes. This is going to haunt me, but I am so proud. She outwitted me! With a contextual definition! And I am so very screwed. Because I have gotten dumber with each year and each child. And they are going to keep getting smarter. There is not enough coffee in the world to catch me up to the fast-firing synapses of a shiny new brain. Help.

xoxo, A

Pie in the Face

So. I have typed the opening to this post 6 times. Type type type. Delete delete delete. Type type type something else. Delete all that. Times six. So this meta-opening will have to suffice and I will launch into my story in medias res as if Homer himself was guiding my pen.

So. You can think you know someone, but everyone -- everyone -- is full of secrets.

Two nights ago, Little A. had a very rough night. She's stormy these days; whether it's her age or household stresses or fatigue or illness (oh constant germiness of winter, you are tiresome and please fuck off) or likely a combination of all plus a dash of mommy's lack of patience, who knows. Stormy, she is. On this particular night, the storm gathered around a typically contentious subject: the washing of the hairs. This kid HATES to get her hair washed. HATES. As if it were pouring acid, or red-hot meteorites, onto her head. Most days, I just let it go. But this night, I got a bee in my bonnet. Her hair was already mostly wet from "swimming" in the tub. One quick cup of water over the head, some shampoo, and another quick mermaid dunk, and we'd have clean hair for the week! No problem! Let's do it!

NO ACID FIRE HAIL HATE YOU NO NO NO NOOOOOOOOO.

And instead of caving in, I just went ahead and washed her hair. I tried to be gentle and cajoling but at a certain point the shampoo just had to be rinsed out and water got on the face and Oh. The rage. The screaming. The tears. The splashing and kicking and rage. It was completely out of proportion, yes. The howling and hitting would have been more in line with someone, I dunno, running over your family pet, or stealing your beloved.

The tantrum lasted all the way through Skype'd good-nights to Daddy, pajamas on, tooth-brushing. Finally, as it always does, the Incredible Hulk left the room and in its place a tired little girl needed a hug from Mama. I was happy to oblige. Suddenly, the tears started up again, but with a softer, sadder quality. I asked what was the matter. And this kid. This kid who has been nothing but shockingly amazingly wonderful (because she was incredibly attached to me prior to baby's arrival) to her little sister for the 14 months she's been on our planet, reluctantly, painfully said I wish it could be just you and me, Mama, no Baby G. I miss you so much Mama. And she started crying again, probably thinking I would be horrified at this admission, and that she would get in trouble. Guilty sobs.

OHFUCK PARENTING MOMENT. I thought. These are happening more frequently as the girl gets older and more articulate and oh god I need to read more books about kids because I am surely going to mess her up for life. But also, I could just answer honestly and from my heart and maybe that will work?

So that's what I did. I told her that I missed those days, sometimes, too. That it was so nice to have a Baby G in our family and to love but that we sure could use more "just us" times too. That I appreciated her honesty and that I love her so much -- even more when I see what an awesome big sister she is and that my heart grows 10 sizes every day because I am so proud of her. And we had more tears and a big hug and I tucked her into my bed for a special JUST US Mama-and-Little-A sleepover and we all slept like champions and the next morning was the smoothest we've had in weeks.

After the storm.

 Oof. In my excitement over her "good" behavior with her little sister, and my smugness in thinking that *I* had somehow masterfully engineered the smooth transition into big-sisterhood for her, I never once thought she was behaving, well, how she intuited *I* wished she would behave. I am certain her loving behavior towards Baby G is genuine, but she has never once expressed jealousy or acted out, as would be expected and completely normal for the deposed. Not once! Seriously! But those feelings were lurking there under the surface, and burst out in a painful, guilt-ridden confession during a crisis about something else entirely. 

Oh. Ha ha. Um. Yeah. That kinda reminds me of somebody: me. Quick, someone write a book about how to successfully parent me. Here's your working title.

Hey Girl, You Sure Seem OK, but There Really is Something Wrong, Right?:

How to Crack that New-English Veneer and Get to the Healing Truth.

And in the meantime, pass the Pinot. There's a whole lotta winter left to go up in this piece.

xoxo, A