Two years ago today I woke up in my bed alone and shell-shocked. The day before, I had discovered thousands of dollars of unauthorized charges on my Amex account, traced them back to my girls' dad, and unceremoniously kicked him out of the house. Yes, you read that right: the day before Mother's Day, when I was having my "break," aka an hour of paying bills online at the Starbucks down the street, I discovered my partner, my boyfriend of nearly 5 years, the father of my children, was stealing from me. This, a few days after he accused me of cheating on him, because I wouldn't have sex with him. A few weeks after I had received a letter at my office from his business landlord, stating that he owed thousands of dollars to HER and was facing eviction. A few months after he had spent the night of our second daughter's birthday in jail for stumbling to his parked car after a pub crawl and putting the key in the ignition. A few years after he had promised I would be able to stay at home with my babies and then promptly quit his job.
This is, of course, a one-sided picture: I know well my part in the dissolution. I took him for granted. Was passive-aggressive. Withheld affection. Withdrew into myself and became unable to speak to him in any sort of productive way. In the months before our separation, he was living 4 nights a week in a city 2 hours away, in an attempt to take advantage of big city prices (hence the big city eviction notice). On the nights he drove home, as soon as I heard his car pull in the driveway I would race to the bedroom, dive into the bed, and pretend to be asleep. I couldn't bear the reunion scene. It was hell for both of us, I know this.
But then. There was the theft, and the kicking-out, and the waking up in the bed alone in the light of day. On THAT Hallmark holiday: mothers are to be exalted, fed brunch in bed, given flowers, etc.
I never expected quite all that, but I never expected THAT day to be my first day as a single mom, either.
But I woke up, then the girls woke up. Daddy was gone, but that wasn't that unusual. I made some excuse about work or something, I can't even remember now. I made our usual Sunday morning pancakes. We all got ready and drove to my mother's house for lunch. In the afternoon I built a fort for us out of Adirondack chairs and sheets and blankets and we laid on the grass together and I told stories of princesses who saved themselves from dragons. And then we had a simple supper and I put the girls to bed and after they were well asleep I stood in the shower and cried. How the fuck am I going to do this? How am I going to do this alone?
(In a drafty-ass 1800s-era farmhouse on more than an acre with a fish a cat a dog six chickens and two girls under age 5.)
Here's how: Go to bed alone, wake up alone, make the breakfasts, make the lunches, get everyone ready, have a day. Play. A lot. Get a lawyer, get the papers. Get on OKCupid. Get a boyfriend. (For a while). Go to work. Dance. A lot. Play. A lot. Cuddle and tickle and fall asleep too late or too early. Shout. Shriek. Get overwhelmed. Find a therapist. Make doctor's appointments. Make teacher conference appointments. Make daycare arrangements. Get new shoes for everyone. Get groceries. Get a really good fish tank. Learn how to fix the toilet. Learn how to order fuel oil. Learn how to light the pellet stove. Learn how to make pancakes in the shape of a horse. Learn how to enjoy your rare precious time alone. Take your vitamins. Meditate. Cry in the shower. Cry in the car. Cry in the office. Cry to your friends on the phone. Make them come visit you. Go visit them. Learn how to pack for yourself and two kids. Take road trips. Take airplanes. Test your safety nets. Go to bed alone.
Well. Sometimes I don't wake up alone. Sometimes, like this morning. I wake up between two blonde girls. Who have stolen my pillows and covers. This morning these two, not-so-little blonde girls woke up as soon as I opened my eyes. I was given strict instructions to go back to sleep and "sleep in as long as I wanted!" Ten minutes later a very proud 6 year old appeared carrying a mug of coffee made just how I like it. Five minutes after that two very proud girls appeared carrying plates of strawberries and untoasted sunbutter and jelly toast. And then I got cards and presents. The girls did this ALL by themselves, unprompted and unassisted and six and three years old. And we spent a harmonious day and hosted our own supper.
(Lest we get too rosy a picture: ok. Bedtime was rocky but I blame that squarely on the chocolate pie I insisted we make. Sometimes we make our own beds.)
Single mom, sure. Alone? Not even close.
Just like that, we take back THIS day.
xoxo,
A
Showing posts with label Mama is so Proud. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Mama is so Proud. Show all posts
Sunday, May 10, 2015
Wednesday, January 22, 2014
Momentum
(Yep. It's been ages. But -- here, I shall just launch in and catch up and all those January things.)
One Saturday rehearsal, not so long ago, when things were not going so great -- the baby had kept me up for hours the night before, I was half-sick, everyone in the cast and everywhere was full-grumpy -- suddenly I was learning lifts. CRAZY lifts, ya'll. Like ok, he'll hold your left leg at waist-height, and you throw your other leg around his neck and swing the other down and around his torso then wrap it over his shoulder, hook your feet and drop your head toward the floor and he'll spin you and then you do a handstand out of it, ok? kind of lifts. Way out of my low-fast-and-alone sort of dance comfort zone. And it was hard. And I kept getting stuck and cranking my poor partner's neck with my leg, which suddenly felt like it was made of concrete. And this was only the first lift of the section which was made of lifts and I was going to break my partner's neck and oh-did-I-mention he's the lead and it would be really bad if I broke his neck?
My partner from Act 1, who happened to be great at lifts, noticed our struggles and said: It's a lot easier with momentum. Stop stopping.
And, lo, it was so. I stopped stopping. And though the lift never was perfect, even through the run of performances, it was better. It was OK. And it was the tiniest moment in a huge wonderful thing.
And thus I got through the insane rehearsal and performance schedule, in spite of three colds, strep throat, and rotovirus (and those were just the times I got sick. The girls got milder versions of everything). In spite of major baby-daddy drama, up to and including retention of an attorney to sort through custody and contact issues. In spite of a messy house, a bum knee, extreme fatigue, bad moods, ice storms, Christmas preparations. I just stopped stopping. From Thanksgiving to Christmas, I just didn't stop. I made lists, I made plans on the fly, I learned another piece the week before opening night, I paid a million dollars to a babysitter. I live like a waitress works: I never ever go anywhere without something in my hands. I never make a move unless I can accomplish two tasks along the way. Exhausting, yes.
But also: worth it. All seven performances sold out. I was terrified the first night, and I am sure it showed. But by night seven the stage manager had to mop my sweat and my heart off that stage floor, because I remembered how to leave it all out there. I remembered what it feels like to play off a crowd, to feel applause in your whole body, to lose yourself in a moment for two hours, the intense camaraderie of backstage life, and the adrenaline, adrenaline, adrenaline.
And I have been peer-pressured to audition for the next show. It'll be another extreme scheduling and physical endurance challenge. But screw it. I am 40, and if Louis C.K. is right and each year will be worse than the one before, I'd better take advantage of the now. I won't be able to wear gold lame leggings and bustiers forever. But I DID. Maybe my grandchildren will be APPALLED some day.
And maybe someday I'll be like this awesome lady.
And with that. A Happy New Year to you all. May you find just the right momentum for all the insane lifts in life.
xoxo, A
One Saturday rehearsal, not so long ago, when things were not going so great -- the baby had kept me up for hours the night before, I was half-sick, everyone in the cast and everywhere was full-grumpy -- suddenly I was learning lifts. CRAZY lifts, ya'll. Like ok, he'll hold your left leg at waist-height, and you throw your other leg around his neck and swing the other down and around his torso then wrap it over his shoulder, hook your feet and drop your head toward the floor and he'll spin you and then you do a handstand out of it, ok? kind of lifts. Way out of my low-fast-and-alone sort of dance comfort zone. And it was hard. And I kept getting stuck and cranking my poor partner's neck with my leg, which suddenly felt like it was made of concrete. And this was only the first lift of the section which was made of lifts and I was going to break my partner's neck and oh-did-I-mention he's the lead and it would be really bad if I broke his neck?
My partner from Act 1, who happened to be great at lifts, noticed our struggles and said: It's a lot easier with momentum. Stop stopping.
And, lo, it was so. I stopped stopping. And though the lift never was perfect, even through the run of performances, it was better. It was OK. And it was the tiniest moment in a huge wonderful thing.
And thus I got through the insane rehearsal and performance schedule, in spite of three colds, strep throat, and rotovirus (and those were just the times I got sick. The girls got milder versions of everything). In spite of major baby-daddy drama, up to and including retention of an attorney to sort through custody and contact issues. In spite of a messy house, a bum knee, extreme fatigue, bad moods, ice storms, Christmas preparations. I just stopped stopping. From Thanksgiving to Christmas, I just didn't stop. I made lists, I made plans on the fly, I learned another piece the week before opening night, I paid a million dollars to a babysitter. I live like a waitress works: I never ever go anywhere without something in my hands. I never make a move unless I can accomplish two tasks along the way. Exhausting, yes.
But also: worth it. All seven performances sold out. I was terrified the first night, and I am sure it showed. But by night seven the stage manager had to mop my sweat and my heart off that stage floor, because I remembered how to leave it all out there. I remembered what it feels like to play off a crowd, to feel applause in your whole body, to lose yourself in a moment for two hours, the intense camaraderie of backstage life, and the adrenaline, adrenaline, adrenaline.
And I have been peer-pressured to audition for the next show. It'll be another extreme scheduling and physical endurance challenge. But screw it. I am 40, and if Louis C.K. is right and each year will be worse than the one before, I'd better take advantage of the now. I won't be able to wear gold lame leggings and bustiers forever. But I DID. Maybe my grandchildren will be APPALLED some day. And maybe someday I'll be like this awesome lady.
And with that. A Happy New Year to you all. May you find just the right momentum for all the insane lifts in life.
xoxo, A
Thursday, September 19, 2013
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
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
Thursday, August 15, 2013
Every Little Thing
Over the past few weeks the girls and I have put on some major mileage and had so much fun and are basically squeezing all the adventure we possibly can out of these few precious weeks of summer our New England climate gives us. And summer is loving us back.
Brooklyn: We walked to three playgrounds in one day (!), I had too-much wine and wonderful catch-up time with my girlfriends (!!) and then we took a FERRY to HEAVEN (!!!) and it was so absurdly magical that I had a little lump in my throat for most of the weekend.
Parenting at the same time, in the same place, with old friends, is amazing. You see them in a best, new light. And you also see that you are the same to them, and they are the same to you, even though everything is different.
And. As with most things, once you are actually doing the thing, it just...unfolds. I was in a mild twist about having the girls in the car for so long and general traveling solo-parent-style. And, of course: There was a grating 45-minute stretch of whining (the mamuuuuh mamaaaaaah maaaamuuuh sob sob thing that makes one wish ears were never even invented) instigated by my darling eldest before she took her own trip to Nap-ville, at the beginning of the 3rd hour of driving on the way down. As per my "breaks every 2 hours" rule, we had just pulled back on the road from our Big Treat fast-food lunch when the whining began. I wanted to shove their new Minion toys (which Baby G. promptly christened "my pickle-bull" after "despicable") into my ears. But then my big girl gave in to her fatigue and slept the entire rest of the ride to the CT grandparents' house and proceeded to have the best times ever for the rest of the weekend. There was one night wherein we all couldn't fall asleep for shit, and then slept like crap. There was a terrifying thunderstorm on the way back during which I discovered 1., the wipers on the car are inadequate, 2., the defrost on the car is inadequate and 3., when you are on a busy highway and you can't see past the front of your car, and you just have to pull over praying that everyone will let you do so, your hands can shake so hard that it can take upwards of 15 minutes to calm them so they will not also be inadequate. I could have done without those parts, but then, we could have just not gone, and none of the good stuff would have happened either.
(BLOGGER LIFE PHILOSOPHY IN YOUR FACE.)
Portland, Maine (with beloved houseguests): Not one but TWO trips to the best ice cream shop/petting zoo ever. A golden afternoon at the beach. Magic-hour suppers on my back porch. Three adorable little girls playing together. Not one, not two, but THREE amazing good ol'fashioned late-night hangouts with my girlfriend who is, no contest, the best person in the world with whom to destroy your liver. Resultant hilarious hung-over parenting afternoons. And the aforementioned precious chance to share space with an old friend, who is also a (great) mom and a (great) wife.
I had a little Gretchen-Rubin-esque epiphany during that week. You know how some people just make you feel wonderful and like yourself? Your best self, in the most Oprah-manner of speech, but in an effortless way? These people are your "inflators" and you should cling to them always, and make them fly hundreds of miles to see you and your children. Guilt them into it, I don't care. Just get them into your space. And you should drive or fly hundreds of miles to see them, also. The other kind of people are "deflators" who make you feel bad and fuck them.That is what I learned that week.
Northport, Maine: For a few years now, my family has been heading up the coast of Maine for our family business's association retreat. This sounds like it should be boring, but it is not, not by a long shot. The first year, Little A. was just barely there: I had confirmed my pregnancy the very day before we drove 4 hours to Bar Harbor and I spent the whole weekend bobbing around in that heady mixture of joy and panic that is the beginning of pregnancy and also wondering if everyone would notice my avoidance of wine and blue cheese. This year, our fourth year, I finally got the whole weekend RIGHT. I hired one of Little A.'s beloved teachers, Miss Alicia, to babysit. My brother and his kids were also coming, and Miss Alicia knows them very well also. Alicia was fantastic all weekend - she required absolutely NO instruction, she was up for anything, and she can drive a golf cart. (I have a ridiculous inability to drive anything smaller than a car. So stupid! I need to get over it.) So, A+ childcare choice.
The drive up to the resort was rainy and sleepy, but the weather also meant very little traffic. I would only give myself an A- for transport because my car broke down that morning, all full of our stuff, but then I got to drive my dad's fancy Audi, so maybe I get just a regular A.
Friday evening there is always a lobster bake/ridiculous dance party. The girls were happy to learn the Macarena and hang in the bounce-house until bedtime (A- for much later than usual bedtime). My dad started drinking CC over ice at 6 pm and didn't stop until well after he had danced with my mother - TWICE - to "Blurred Lines." That was a scene, my friends, that I will never forget. I will never forget. I also might have taught my mother how to dance "Gangnam Style," but there was no video recording so let's just pretend it never happened. I might have been drinking rum. Weirdest-wedding-ever-dance-party: A+!
Poor Baby G. succumbed to a tummy bug overnight on Friday, so I spent the pre-dawn hours changing both of us out of multiple pairs of barfed-upon PJs. Friday-into-Saturday, I'm afraid, gets a D. But Saturday officially dawned bright and lovely and we all went to the beach (A) and with plenty of Tylenol and cuddles, by afternoon, the Baby was just fine (B+). And all the grownups went to a wine-tasting (A), which was fun except day-drinking should be followed either by more drinking or immediate napping and I did neither (C+) and by 9 pm that night I was DONE. My brother and his wife were DONE too, so they took me down the mountain in their golf cart, collected my nieces from my cabin, and we all went to bed early (A+). But that was OK too. We all slept like champions and drove home the next day without incident (A-).
Weekend cumulative average: A
And this weekend, well. For the first time ever, the Green Team is splitting up to have separate adventures. Little A. is spending the weekend with my parents, and has already told me that she is going to "take Nana on all the rides at Santa's Village because otherwise Nana might not have fun. And Grampa can take pictures." Baby G. is going to her first Red Sox game with her dad, CT grandparents, and uncle. And I am headed up the coast again for a little getaway of my own. This will be the first night I have spent away since Baby G was born. I am going to miss the dickens out of those girls but oh, oh, oh. SLEEPING IN and other adult-y things, how I have longed for thee.
I used to hate summer. Indoorsy, bookish nerds with an aversion to bare skin don't fare well with heat and sweat and tourists all around. But now I can see what all the hype is about: it's fun. FUN! Summer is a stupid and highly inappropriate Daft Punk song blasting out of your car window and all three of us girls singing along. Summer is ice cream dripping down your chin. Summer is the perfect light reflecting off the slick of low tide. Summer is a little black dress under fireworks. And I'm paraphrasing myself here, but around these parts, Summer 2013 is delivering fun, on all fronts.
So, what did you do on your summer vacation?
xoxo, A
Brooklyn: We walked to three playgrounds in one day (!), I had too-much wine and wonderful catch-up time with my girlfriends (!!) and then we took a FERRY to HEAVEN (!!!) and it was so absurdly magical that I had a little lump in my throat for most of the weekend.
Parenting at the same time, in the same place, with old friends, is amazing. You see them in a best, new light. And you also see that you are the same to them, and they are the same to you, even though everything is different.
And. As with most things, once you are actually doing the thing, it just...unfolds. I was in a mild twist about having the girls in the car for so long and general traveling solo-parent-style. And, of course: There was a grating 45-minute stretch of whining (the mamuuuuh mamaaaaaah maaaamuuuh sob sob thing that makes one wish ears were never even invented) instigated by my darling eldest before she took her own trip to Nap-ville, at the beginning of the 3rd hour of driving on the way down. As per my "breaks every 2 hours" rule, we had just pulled back on the road from our Big Treat fast-food lunch when the whining began. I wanted to shove their new Minion toys (which Baby G. promptly christened "my pickle-bull" after "despicable") into my ears. But then my big girl gave in to her fatigue and slept the entire rest of the ride to the CT grandparents' house and proceeded to have the best times ever for the rest of the weekend. There was one night wherein we all couldn't fall asleep for shit, and then slept like crap. There was a terrifying thunderstorm on the way back during which I discovered 1., the wipers on the car are inadequate, 2., the defrost on the car is inadequate and 3., when you are on a busy highway and you can't see past the front of your car, and you just have to pull over praying that everyone will let you do so, your hands can shake so hard that it can take upwards of 15 minutes to calm them so they will not also be inadequate. I could have done without those parts, but then, we could have just not gone, and none of the good stuff would have happened either.
(BLOGGER LIFE PHILOSOPHY IN YOUR FACE.)
Portland, Maine (with beloved houseguests): Not one but TWO trips to the best ice cream shop/petting zoo ever. A golden afternoon at the beach. Magic-hour suppers on my back porch. Three adorable little girls playing together. Not one, not two, but THREE amazing good ol'fashioned late-night hangouts with my girlfriend who is, no contest, the best person in the world with whom to destroy your liver. Resultant hilarious hung-over parenting afternoons. And the aforementioned precious chance to share space with an old friend, who is also a (great) mom and a (great) wife.
I had a little Gretchen-Rubin-esque epiphany during that week. You know how some people just make you feel wonderful and like yourself? Your best self, in the most Oprah-manner of speech, but in an effortless way? These people are your "inflators" and you should cling to them always, and make them fly hundreds of miles to see you and your children. Guilt them into it, I don't care. Just get them into your space. And you should drive or fly hundreds of miles to see them, also. The other kind of people are "deflators" who make you feel bad and fuck them.That is what I learned that week.
Northport, Maine: For a few years now, my family has been heading up the coast of Maine for our family business's association retreat. This sounds like it should be boring, but it is not, not by a long shot. The first year, Little A. was just barely there: I had confirmed my pregnancy the very day before we drove 4 hours to Bar Harbor and I spent the whole weekend bobbing around in that heady mixture of joy and panic that is the beginning of pregnancy and also wondering if everyone would notice my avoidance of wine and blue cheese. This year, our fourth year, I finally got the whole weekend RIGHT. I hired one of Little A.'s beloved teachers, Miss Alicia, to babysit. My brother and his kids were also coming, and Miss Alicia knows them very well also. Alicia was fantastic all weekend - she required absolutely NO instruction, she was up for anything, and she can drive a golf cart. (I have a ridiculous inability to drive anything smaller than a car. So stupid! I need to get over it.) So, A+ childcare choice.
The drive up to the resort was rainy and sleepy, but the weather also meant very little traffic. I would only give myself an A- for transport because my car broke down that morning, all full of our stuff, but then I got to drive my dad's fancy Audi, so maybe I get just a regular A.
Friday evening there is always a lobster bake/ridiculous dance party. The girls were happy to learn the Macarena and hang in the bounce-house until bedtime (A- for much later than usual bedtime). My dad started drinking CC over ice at 6 pm and didn't stop until well after he had danced with my mother - TWICE - to "Blurred Lines." That was a scene, my friends, that I will never forget. I will never forget. I also might have taught my mother how to dance "Gangnam Style," but there was no video recording so let's just pretend it never happened. I might have been drinking rum. Weirdest-wedding-ever-dance-party: A+!
Poor Baby G. succumbed to a tummy bug overnight on Friday, so I spent the pre-dawn hours changing both of us out of multiple pairs of barfed-upon PJs. Friday-into-Saturday, I'm afraid, gets a D. But Saturday officially dawned bright and lovely and we all went to the beach (A) and with plenty of Tylenol and cuddles, by afternoon, the Baby was just fine (B+). And all the grownups went to a wine-tasting (A), which was fun except day-drinking should be followed either by more drinking or immediate napping and I did neither (C+) and by 9 pm that night I was DONE. My brother and his wife were DONE too, so they took me down the mountain in their golf cart, collected my nieces from my cabin, and we all went to bed early (A+). But that was OK too. We all slept like champions and drove home the next day without incident (A-).
Weekend cumulative average: A
And this weekend, well. For the first time ever, the Green Team is splitting up to have separate adventures. Little A. is spending the weekend with my parents, and has already told me that she is going to "take Nana on all the rides at Santa's Village because otherwise Nana might not have fun. And Grampa can take pictures." Baby G. is going to her first Red Sox game with her dad, CT grandparents, and uncle. And I am headed up the coast again for a little getaway of my own. This will be the first night I have spent away since Baby G was born. I am going to miss the dickens out of those girls but oh, oh, oh. SLEEPING IN and other adult-y things, how I have longed for thee.
I used to hate summer. Indoorsy, bookish nerds with an aversion to bare skin don't fare well with heat and sweat and tourists all around. But now I can see what all the hype is about: it's fun. FUN! Summer is a stupid and highly inappropriate Daft Punk song blasting out of your car window and all three of us girls singing along. Summer is ice cream dripping down your chin. Summer is the perfect light reflecting off the slick of low tide. Summer is a little black dress under fireworks. And I'm paraphrasing myself here, but around these parts, Summer 2013 is delivering fun, on all fronts.
So, what did you do on your summer vacation?
xoxo, A
Thursday, June 27, 2013
Crouching Frog, Hidden Tiger Mom
So many milestones in this parenting gig: baby's first smile, the first steps, the first time she gets herself dressed. And then there's one milestone that isn't on most development charts but means so much to me: baby's first JAZZ HANDS!
I came to dancing too late to be any good. At best I am a "nice mover" who can fool people into thinking my performance is, like, real actual dancing. But dancing is my favorite thing. FAVORITE. There is something most amazing about this utterly non-verbal communication through movement, to me. My head is filled every second of every day with words. My work is mostly moving words in different directions. In my downtime I like to read other people's words. Dancing? NO WORDS. But you can still make someone laugh, or cry, get chills, or fall into awe.
(I am not similarly into mime. Just wanted to clear that up.)
Little A. had her very first dance recital this Saturday. It was a classy affair, with real costumes and real lights in a real big theater and all that. I was expecting to tear up, or flat-out sob, at the sight of my first born \onstage in her wee ballet slippers and tights and stay-put hair-do. I got all of the moisture out of the way at the dress rehearsal. And I am such a sap that I weep at the high-school aged kids dancing too, because they are SO GOOD and they work SO HARD and their parents must be SO PROUD and UGH SO MANY TEARS. That was not a surprise. Giving birth rewired my brain. I never used to cry, period. It was just not my thing. Now I am that person who can never wear mascara or if I do I have to spend a great deal of time looking at the ceiling so my ready tears won't turn me into Alice Cooper. So yeah, tears, no big shocker.
What WAS a surprise was during the week before the recital, I went all Tiger Mom on my poor kid. Let's try it one more time! I heard myself say, over protest and groans. It's so much MORE fun and beautiful if you do the choreography the way Miss Elizabeth taught you! I heard myself say, as she flung herself around in her pre-bedtime sillies. If you want to just dance around you can do that here at home, not at the classes that cost a lot of money! I heard myself say, as she and her sister started to booty-shake every time I turned the music on.
Geez! Chill the fuck out, lady! She is 4, no one is expecting perfection, you're going to take all the fun out of it!
Yes, you're right. But also? There is a part of me that wishes my parents had pushed me a bit more, who had not let me quit everything the moment it started getting hard. I was (am) willful and stubborn and might have made their lives miserable, but now I am sure I would appreciate mastery of...well...anything. (And as I remember it, I made their lives miserable anyway. I was not a delightful teen.) As I am a half-decent dancer, so am I half-decent at: painting, clarinet, Spanish, etc., etc. The "Dabbler" patch in Girl Scouts was my jam. But dabbling is ultimately dissatisfying. I don't want to teach my girls to dabble. But when do these lessons start? Is 4 too young? (Is almost 40 too old?)
Then the night before the recital, Little A. got sick. Really sick. She had a fever, couldn't eat her supper, and just laid there on the couch like a sad little lump. I was afraid it was strep throat and she would miss her recital and be even more sad and mad and we'd have a miserable weekend. But Saturday morning she woke up, stretched, and said I feel a LOT better! Is it recital day today? I said It sure is! and she said YAY FINALLY! and counted down the minutes until she could get on stage. She seemed a bit nervous before dress rehearsal. She didn't want to talk or hug, unusual for my little barnacle. But then when it was showtime, she did her little routine the best she'd ever done. She found her mark, sang along, hit most of the moves at the right time and didn't smile but claimed that she had fun. And her friends and fans brought her flowers and she was bursting with pride and when is my next recital mama? Can we put these flowers in vase in my room??
And I am tearing up writing about it. GODDAMN YOU HORMONES. So, anyway. I am not so worried that I will smother her enjoyment, not anymore. Because she is going to love what she loves. And I am going to love watching her do it. And I am going to love pushing her to be her very best, even if she doesn't always love it, until she is better than me at everything and I go broke getting her the best teachers. She can use the money she makes from winning the EGOT to put me in the finest nursing home.
CROWDSOURCE PARENTING TIME: What do you guys think? Do you push your kids or just let them be? Is it a personality thing? And, p.s., how on earth do you find the time to do the things YOU need to do to be a more chilled out parent, in general?
xoxo, A
p.p.s. Dress rehearsal video! Little A. is the little froggy closest to the camera.
 |
| Super serious jazz hands at that. |
(I am not similarly into mime. Just wanted to clear that up.)
Little A. had her very first dance recital this Saturday. It was a classy affair, with real costumes and real lights in a real big theater and all that. I was expecting to tear up, or flat-out sob, at the sight of my first born \onstage in her wee ballet slippers and tights and stay-put hair-do. I got all of the moisture out of the way at the dress rehearsal. And I am such a sap that I weep at the high-school aged kids dancing too, because they are SO GOOD and they work SO HARD and their parents must be SO PROUD and UGH SO MANY TEARS. That was not a surprise. Giving birth rewired my brain. I never used to cry, period. It was just not my thing. Now I am that person who can never wear mascara or if I do I have to spend a great deal of time looking at the ceiling so my ready tears won't turn me into Alice Cooper. So yeah, tears, no big shocker.
What WAS a surprise was during the week before the recital, I went all Tiger Mom on my poor kid. Let's try it one more time! I heard myself say, over protest and groans. It's so much MORE fun and beautiful if you do the choreography the way Miss Elizabeth taught you! I heard myself say, as she flung herself around in her pre-bedtime sillies. If you want to just dance around you can do that here at home, not at the classes that cost a lot of money! I heard myself say, as she and her sister started to booty-shake every time I turned the music on.
Geez! Chill the fuck out, lady! She is 4, no one is expecting perfection, you're going to take all the fun out of it!
Yes, you're right. But also? There is a part of me that wishes my parents had pushed me a bit more, who had not let me quit everything the moment it started getting hard. I was (am) willful and stubborn and might have made their lives miserable, but now I am sure I would appreciate mastery of...well...anything. (And as I remember it, I made their lives miserable anyway. I was not a delightful teen.) As I am a half-decent dancer, so am I half-decent at: painting, clarinet, Spanish, etc., etc. The "Dabbler" patch in Girl Scouts was my jam. But dabbling is ultimately dissatisfying. I don't want to teach my girls to dabble. But when do these lessons start? Is 4 too young? (Is almost 40 too old?)
Then the night before the recital, Little A. got sick. Really sick. She had a fever, couldn't eat her supper, and just laid there on the couch like a sad little lump. I was afraid it was strep throat and she would miss her recital and be even more sad and mad and we'd have a miserable weekend. But Saturday morning she woke up, stretched, and said I feel a LOT better! Is it recital day today? I said It sure is! and she said YAY FINALLY! and counted down the minutes until she could get on stage. She seemed a bit nervous before dress rehearsal. She didn't want to talk or hug, unusual for my little barnacle. But then when it was showtime, she did her little routine the best she'd ever done. She found her mark, sang along, hit most of the moves at the right time and didn't smile but claimed that she had fun. And her friends and fans brought her flowers and she was bursting with pride and when is my next recital mama? Can we put these flowers in vase in my room??
And I am tearing up writing about it. GODDAMN YOU HORMONES. So, anyway. I am not so worried that I will smother her enjoyment, not anymore. Because she is going to love what she loves. And I am going to love watching her do it. And I am going to love pushing her to be her very best, even if she doesn't always love it, until she is better than me at everything and I go broke getting her the best teachers. She can use the money she makes from winning the EGOT to put me in the finest nursing home.
CROWDSOURCE PARENTING TIME: What do you guys think? Do you push your kids or just let them be? Is it a personality thing? And, p.s., how on earth do you find the time to do the things YOU need to do to be a more chilled out parent, in general?
xoxo, A
p.p.s. Dress rehearsal video! Little A. is the little froggy closest to the camera.
Wednesday, June 12, 2013
Trix are for Kids
The baby has been waking up at 5:30 am this week. This is, indisputably, way too early. She stands up leans against the corner of her crib like a bored softball coach against a dugout and says "Maaaaaama. MaaaaaaaMAAAAaaaa-aa-aa. Maaaaaamuuuuuuuuh? MAAAAAAAMAAAAAAAAAAAA!" until her sister also wakes and rescues her from her cage and they both tumble onto my bed and we have nice cuddles while I attempt to shake off the cobwebs from the previous night's late-night* escapades.**
THIS morning was no different. The girls rolled on me and gently squabbled while I closed my eyes and pretended that this method of rest was just as refreshing as that actual hour of sleep that I was missing. I mean, at least we are all still horizontal. About 40 minutes of this and everyone's tummies sound a call to action and the getting-dressed hullabaloo begins. Little A. goes into her room to choose her latest fashion-forward stripes/prints/stripes leggings-under-shorts-under-dress combo. She's into layers, for realsies. She proudly shows me her outfit (halleluiah but it is nice when they can finally dress themselves) and asks if she can pick out MY outfit for the day while I am getting my contacts in and etc in the bathroom. I let her do this sometimes, and then work around the fact that she usually picks two exercise t-shirts, a push-up bra, and a fancy skirt. I said, sure thing, just make sure you get me some underpants and socks, ok? And she said yaaaay and brought the baby into my room. I continued brushing my teeth and washing my face.
Moments later, Little A. gleefully runs back to the bathroom, waving something purple in the air. MAMA LOOKIT WHAT I FOUND IT HAS A RABBIT ON IT LOOK HOW DO I TURN IT ON WHAT IS IT DO I TURN IT ON LIKE THIS?? My heart dropped and I made a sound like aaugguhhhgghherrfff. Of course. My lovely firstborn stood in front of me, waving around my lovely first vibrator. I squeaked out, hey that's mama's can we put it back where we found it actually no let me have it.
She gave it up easily but not without several dozen questions. Most of which I answered with mmmmmhmmm or by repeating, yeah it's for massaging but then she latched onto that idea and said but I love massages too can I try it pleeeease? Pleeease? Pleeeease??? So I just went straight for the power play and said, no it is only for Mama, when you get big you can maybe buy one with your own money. And so she asked how much it cost and maybe she had enough in her piggy bank and....
All of the above took place in the 15 seconds it took for us to get back to my bedroom. Where I discovered...even worse...
The baby. With my OTHER vibrator (both are from a long-ago time, when boyfriends gave me sex toys for Christmas. For my last two Christmases, my boyfriend got me nonstick pans. Oh, but how life changes.). She was waving the smaller, but also purple, device in the air shouting OPEH-IT! OPEH-IT! Which is her way of asking either to open or turn on or otherwise do the thing that whatever thing she is holding is supposed to do that she can't figure out how to do. I said as calmly as I could, no, Mama can't opeh-it right now. Let's put these right away in this super high drawer and never mention this to anyone especially not your teacher ok!
And predictably as soon as I wrested the toy away from the baby she opened her mouth and howled. I had to think of a way to distract her real quick. Fortunately there was a screwdriver up on the bureau as well, so I handed that to her. One of those small ones. Not too sharp.
How many more questionable parenting decisions can one make before 7 am, you would be completely justified in asking yourself, dear reader. I will say that at least THIS morning, there were none more. I quickly dressed myself and we went downstairs for a peaceful, healthy, and blessedly normal breakfast. But just to be safe, I checked everyone for rogue unmentionables. Lord knows I am not up for Pastor Brian seeing any more of my private collection.
And with that! I wish you a happy humpday.
xoxox, A
*11 pm
**watching Parks and Rec while avoiding weird guys' emails on OKCupid
THIS morning was no different. The girls rolled on me and gently squabbled while I closed my eyes and pretended that this method of rest was just as refreshing as that actual hour of sleep that I was missing. I mean, at least we are all still horizontal. About 40 minutes of this and everyone's tummies sound a call to action and the getting-dressed hullabaloo begins. Little A. goes into her room to choose her latest fashion-forward stripes/prints/stripes leggings-under-shorts-under-dress combo. She's into layers, for realsies. She proudly shows me her outfit (halleluiah but it is nice when they can finally dress themselves) and asks if she can pick out MY outfit for the day while I am getting my contacts in and etc in the bathroom. I let her do this sometimes, and then work around the fact that she usually picks two exercise t-shirts, a push-up bra, and a fancy skirt. I said, sure thing, just make sure you get me some underpants and socks, ok? And she said yaaaay and brought the baby into my room. I continued brushing my teeth and washing my face.
Moments later, Little A. gleefully runs back to the bathroom, waving something purple in the air. MAMA LOOKIT WHAT I FOUND IT HAS A RABBIT ON IT LOOK HOW DO I TURN IT ON WHAT IS IT DO I TURN IT ON LIKE THIS?? My heart dropped and I made a sound like aaugguhhhgghherrfff. Of course. My lovely firstborn stood in front of me, waving around my lovely first vibrator. I squeaked out, hey that's mama's can we put it back where we found it actually no let me have it.
She gave it up easily but not without several dozen questions. Most of which I answered with mmmmmhmmm or by repeating, yeah it's for massaging but then she latched onto that idea and said but I love massages too can I try it pleeeease? Pleeease? Pleeeease??? So I just went straight for the power play and said, no it is only for Mama, when you get big you can maybe buy one with your own money. And so she asked how much it cost and maybe she had enough in her piggy bank and....
All of the above took place in the 15 seconds it took for us to get back to my bedroom. Where I discovered...even worse...
The baby. With my OTHER vibrator (both are from a long-ago time, when boyfriends gave me sex toys for Christmas. For my last two Christmases, my boyfriend got me nonstick pans. Oh, but how life changes.). She was waving the smaller, but also purple, device in the air shouting OPEH-IT! OPEH-IT! Which is her way of asking either to open or turn on or otherwise do the thing that whatever thing she is holding is supposed to do that she can't figure out how to do. I said as calmly as I could, no, Mama can't opeh-it right now. Let's put these right away in this super high drawer and never mention this to anyone especially not your teacher ok!
And predictably as soon as I wrested the toy away from the baby she opened her mouth and howled. I had to think of a way to distract her real quick. Fortunately there was a screwdriver up on the bureau as well, so I handed that to her. One of those small ones. Not too sharp.
How many more questionable parenting decisions can one make before 7 am, you would be completely justified in asking yourself, dear reader. I will say that at least THIS morning, there were none more. I quickly dressed myself and we went downstairs for a peaceful, healthy, and blessedly normal breakfast. But just to be safe, I checked everyone for rogue unmentionables. Lord knows I am not up for Pastor Brian seeing any more of my private collection.
And with that! I wish you a happy humpday.
xoxox, A
*11 pm
**watching Parks and Rec while avoiding weird guys' emails on OKCupid
Tuesday, April 30, 2013
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
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
Wednesday, April 24, 2013
The Prodigal Panties
Or, I pretty much forgot how to exhale last week so writing something even remotely off-topic was impossible but this really did happen so you get to hear all about it now.
So I have mentioned before that the girls go to daycare in a church. This is fairly, but not terribly, weird for me: they come home with Bible study drawings in their backpacks and both adore saying their blessing in the car. Well, baby G gleefully chimes in on the AAAAAAH-men! but Little A. proudly recites the whole thing* while compelling her sister to hold her hand from across the bench seat. It's...mostly harmless, as far as I can tell. They are learning lessons in gratitude, courage, humility, and sharing, which is never bad so I am not so incredibly concerned with the larger context. Tim is a confirmed atheist and has a harder time with it than I do. If they start bringing home anti-choice or gay-bashing pamphlets, we'll change things up, is my opinion. But a just little bit of Jesus, applied correctly, never hurt anyone. Right?
Anyway, this post is not meant to discuss my kids' spiritual upbringing. This post is meant to discuss my rogue underpants.
One morning last week we all got up a little bit earlier than usual, got our act together a little faster than usual, and got on the road before schedule. Ya'll know a smooth morning is somewhat of a miracle and deserves notice. So notice it I did, and thanked both of the girls for such a nice morning before I dropped them and gave the good-bye kisses and hugs and then the extra good-bye kisses and hugs and then the very-last good-bye kisses and hugs (which are the ones I can't resist and why I am always late for work and why it is lucky my children's grandfather is my boss). And strolled out into the parking lot to get into my car to drive off to the office.
On my short walk to the car, I noticed a little scrap of fabric on the ground, halfway between my car and the front door. Right in the middle of the parking lot, basically. The fabric looked oddly familiar. It was a pretty little pattern. How odd, some kid must have lost her doll's dress or something, I thought. I got closer and realized:
Wait. Those are my underpants. Those are my underpants right in the middle of a church parking lot, the little blue stripes and flowers on the boy briefs** looking inappropriately jaunty in the glare of the sunlit pavement.
What. What? WHAT??!?! HOW???!!!??!?!
I glanced around quickly and assessed. There was no one dropping-off at that moment and only one car was headed into a parking spot. No one would know it was my underwear if I picked them up right quick. Who knows how many parents or OMG maybe the pastor*** saw my underpants!
Anyway. I stuffed them into my pocket and proceeded to my car in the strangest walk-of-shame ever. As far as I can guess, the underpants must have been static-clung to somebody or other's pants or coat and happened to fall off right at that inopportune moment. I am thankful that it was in the parking lot and not inside one of the girl's classrooms, where Little A. would have had no hesitation in offering them up for an impromptu show and tell.
SO. Lesson learned: Check ye for rogue undergarments or mortification shall be yours. I can't think of a corresponding Bible verse (maybe there is something in the Book of Mormon, I know they have weird undergarment ideas) but I am still going to cross-stitch it onto a pillow.
AMEN.
xoxo,
A
*Thank you, God, for our food, our family, our friends and our teachers. Amen!
**Little A. picked them out for me, on a Christmas shopping trip with Tim. This post just keeps getting better, right? Please don't call DHHS.
*** The pastor seems to be one of those cool-dude pastors. He drives a Jeep emblazoned with adventure-lifestyle stickers in the winter, and a Harley in the summer, and wears jeans. So maybe he is like a rock-star, totally cool with stray panties from heaven.
So I have mentioned before that the girls go to daycare in a church. This is fairly, but not terribly, weird for me: they come home with Bible study drawings in their backpacks and both adore saying their blessing in the car. Well, baby G gleefully chimes in on the AAAAAAH-men! but Little A. proudly recites the whole thing* while compelling her sister to hold her hand from across the bench seat. It's...mostly harmless, as far as I can tell. They are learning lessons in gratitude, courage, humility, and sharing, which is never bad so I am not so incredibly concerned with the larger context. Tim is a confirmed atheist and has a harder time with it than I do. If they start bringing home anti-choice or gay-bashing pamphlets, we'll change things up, is my opinion. But a just little bit of Jesus, applied correctly, never hurt anyone. Right?
Anyway, this post is not meant to discuss my kids' spiritual upbringing. This post is meant to discuss my rogue underpants.
One morning last week we all got up a little bit earlier than usual, got our act together a little faster than usual, and got on the road before schedule. Ya'll know a smooth morning is somewhat of a miracle and deserves notice. So notice it I did, and thanked both of the girls for such a nice morning before I dropped them and gave the good-bye kisses and hugs and then the extra good-bye kisses and hugs and then the very-last good-bye kisses and hugs (which are the ones I can't resist and why I am always late for work and why it is lucky my children's grandfather is my boss). And strolled out into the parking lot to get into my car to drive off to the office.
On my short walk to the car, I noticed a little scrap of fabric on the ground, halfway between my car and the front door. Right in the middle of the parking lot, basically. The fabric looked oddly familiar. It was a pretty little pattern. How odd, some kid must have lost her doll's dress or something, I thought. I got closer and realized:
Wait. Those are my underpants. Those are my underpants right in the middle of a church parking lot, the little blue stripes and flowers on the boy briefs** looking inappropriately jaunty in the glare of the sunlit pavement.
What. What? WHAT??!?! HOW???!!!??!?!
I glanced around quickly and assessed. There was no one dropping-off at that moment and only one car was headed into a parking spot. No one would know it was my underwear if I picked them up right quick. Who knows how many parents or OMG maybe the pastor*** saw my underpants!
Anyway. I stuffed them into my pocket and proceeded to my car in the strangest walk-of-shame ever. As far as I can guess, the underpants must have been static-clung to somebody or other's pants or coat and happened to fall off right at that inopportune moment. I am thankful that it was in the parking lot and not inside one of the girl's classrooms, where Little A. would have had no hesitation in offering them up for an impromptu show and tell.
SO. Lesson learned: Check ye for rogue undergarments or mortification shall be yours. I can't think of a corresponding Bible verse (maybe there is something in the Book of Mormon, I know they have weird undergarment ideas) but I am still going to cross-stitch it onto a pillow.
AMEN.
xoxo,
A
*Thank you, God, for our food, our family, our friends and our teachers. Amen!
**Little A. picked them out for me, on a Christmas shopping trip with Tim. This post just keeps getting better, right? Please don't call DHHS.
*** The pastor seems to be one of those cool-dude pastors. He drives a Jeep emblazoned with adventure-lifestyle stickers in the winter, and a Harley in the summer, and wears jeans. So maybe he is like a rock-star, totally cool with stray panties from heaven.
Thursday, April 4, 2013
FOUR
So, it was like, 3 months ago that this happened, right?
How could it be a whole year? I can feel in my bones and my body and my heart (which are all old) the long stretch of days between the first terrified months after bringing her home and now, but if each year is going to go progressively faster what is going to happen when she is 6? Or 10? Or tween? I am scared.
One of her favorite things is "Freeze Dance!" and I would like to Freeze her. Just lift the needle off the record for a long moment or a few months so I can absorb and appreciate and memorize her Four-ness. She is a pain in the ass and won't listen to a word I say. She is hilarious and thoughtful and creative and feels everything so intensely. She (still) loves purple. She can pack her own snack and take herself to the bathroom and oh oh oh she is not a baby anymore, not even a little bit. Except for in the middle of the night, when she is scared and comes into my room. She drags a blanket and a stuffed friend across the floor and after a quick cuddle to calm the fears she climbs herself into the (way-too-small) pack and play next to my side of the bed and sleeps there until morning. Tim is not so keen on this habit, but I can't bring myself to make her stop.
In the mornings the baby comes in for her milks and then leans over the side of the bed to call her sister's name and wake her up. We are all delighted to see each other.
And then 5 minutes later someone pulls someone else's hair or beeps someone's nose too hard and then there are tears and someone is sent to her room or loses her TV privileges and cries and then needs a hug and then we all get dressed and have breakfast.
This was the first year Little A. really seemed excited for her birthday and all that surrounded it. Every night before bed we counted down the days to her party, and the days to her REAL birfday (the day after the party), on our fingers. She was eager to help with the cleanup and the shopping for the party. And especially eager to get at the presents that kept appearing in our entryway. So we are making a week of it. Last Friday she opened a present from my mom, her Nana, who winters in Florida, while we Skyped with my mom. Saturday was the arrival of her Grammie and Pop and a big-girls ONLY! manicure. Sunday was the super fun Fairy-Princess party and egg hunt and then Easter dinner at our friends Jenny and Brian's house (Jenny is Little A's favorite person). Monday was waffles, dance class, and more presents from Mama. Tuesday, she celebrated at school with a friend whose birthday is the day after hers. Last night, we had tacos and a dance party. Tonight, Tim is taking her out for a very special Daddy-Daughter Dinner Date. And there is one more present from the far-away land of Chicago making its way to us as I write. We're living in celebration station and no one really wants to leave.
So. Happy new year to my most favorite person in the whole wide world (first baby category).
xoxo, A
How could it be a whole year? I can feel in my bones and my body and my heart (which are all old) the long stretch of days between the first terrified months after bringing her home and now, but if each year is going to go progressively faster what is going to happen when she is 6? Or 10? Or tween? I am scared.
One of her favorite things is "Freeze Dance!" and I would like to Freeze her. Just lift the needle off the record for a long moment or a few months so I can absorb and appreciate and memorize her Four-ness. She is a pain in the ass and won't listen to a word I say. She is hilarious and thoughtful and creative and feels everything so intensely. She (still) loves purple. She can pack her own snack and take herself to the bathroom and oh oh oh she is not a baby anymore, not even a little bit. Except for in the middle of the night, when she is scared and comes into my room. She drags a blanket and a stuffed friend across the floor and after a quick cuddle to calm the fears she climbs herself into the (way-too-small) pack and play next to my side of the bed and sleeps there until morning. Tim is not so keen on this habit, but I can't bring myself to make her stop.
In the mornings the baby comes in for her milks and then leans over the side of the bed to call her sister's name and wake her up. We are all delighted to see each other.
And then 5 minutes later someone pulls someone else's hair or beeps someone's nose too hard and then there are tears and someone is sent to her room or loses her TV privileges and cries and then needs a hug and then we all get dressed and have breakfast.
This was the first year Little A. really seemed excited for her birthday and all that surrounded it. Every night before bed we counted down the days to her party, and the days to her REAL birfday (the day after the party), on our fingers. She was eager to help with the cleanup and the shopping for the party. And especially eager to get at the presents that kept appearing in our entryway. So we are making a week of it. Last Friday she opened a present from my mom, her Nana, who winters in Florida, while we Skyped with my mom. Saturday was the arrival of her Grammie and Pop and a big-girls ONLY! manicure. Sunday was the super fun Fairy-Princess party and egg hunt and then Easter dinner at our friends Jenny and Brian's house (Jenny is Little A's favorite person). Monday was waffles, dance class, and more presents from Mama. Tuesday, she celebrated at school with a friend whose birthday is the day after hers. Last night, we had tacos and a dance party. Tonight, Tim is taking her out for a very special Daddy-Daughter Dinner Date. And there is one more present from the far-away land of Chicago making its way to us as I write. We're living in celebration station and no one really wants to leave.
So. Happy new year to my most favorite person in the whole wide world (first baby category).
 |
| Now, FREEZE. |
xoxo, A
Friday, September 21, 2012
Parenting Challenge #323
Curb your instinct to burst into guffaws when the adorable 3.5 year old girl serenades you with a mini-opera with a single lyric: shit.
Shit! Shitshit! Shit shit shit shit shit shiiiiiiiiiiiit!
MAMA! MAMA! SHIT! SHIT SHIIIIIIIIIIT!!!!
1 Million, Billion Bonus Points for accomplishing this before you have finished your morning coffee.
(Who else is glad it's Friday?)
xoxo, A
 |
| Foul-mouth'd cherub. |
Shit! Shitshit! Shit shit shit shit shit shiiiiiiiiiiiit!
MAMA! MAMA! SHIT! SHIT SHIIIIIIIIIIT!!!!
1 Million, Billion Bonus Points for accomplishing this before you have finished your morning coffee.
(Who else is glad it's Friday?)
xoxo, A
Wednesday, September 19, 2012
Nines
The baby has been out as long as she was in, 9 months old on Sunday the 2nd. The baby is trying very hard to not be a baby for much longer, what with all the pulling up and climbing stairs and trying to walk and babble-conversing and being almost a year old. The baby needs to STOP because she is my last baby and she is really just the sweetest, silliest, easiest baby ever.
I haven't yet told you her birth story, partly because it was so devoid of drama. The baby has been so agreeable from the moment she was conceived (excepting the 8 days she hung out past her due date, that was kind of a dick move) that I was able to deliver her without any pain medication whatsoever. So, we can do this real quick and move on:
The baby is so considerate that she waited until her big sister was breakfasted and whisked away by my parents for a weekend of ice cream and movies. The in-laws were put on alert to begin their drive up from Connecticut. Tim and I arrived at the hospital in time for a second breakfast*, around 10 am, and so began the long waiting time. Contractions were coming every five minutes or so, and for every one I closed my eyes and breathed slowly and deliberately and went hmmmmmm and was probably pretty weird-looking but it fucking worked. We walked the halls, we did the stupid slow-dance shuffle you see on every birthing video, I used the birthing ball, I draped my upper body over the edge of the bed and watched Food Network (that shit is soothing) while Tim rubbed my back. I had my Pandora station set to Super 70s Soul. It was awesome. We had a break for lunch*. I went to the bathroom several times. See how boring is this? It was kind of boring, except for the growing realization that we were ABOUT TO HAVE A (NOTHER) BABY HOLY SHIT. But I was trying to keep that voice quiet, because that panicked voice had served me ill at Little A's birth. So with the Giada and the Contessa and the Aretha and the hmmmmm I kept the panic at bay.
My lovely midwife, Jerri, popped in at intervals to check my stats and sit on the couch and just hang out. My even nicer nurse came by more frequently to chat about whatever, our kids, the current show on TV, oh and also monitor my contractions and give me the crazy strong antibiotics I needed for the Group B strep I somehow picked up between pregnancies. At one point the nurse gave me the best shoulder rub I have ever had in my entire life, seriously, I would have paid a hundred dollars for that outside of the hospital, and there I was getting it for free just because I was pushing a baby out. Lucky me! Also, oxytocin is for real. Because:
After said shoulder rub, all of a sudden I got really, really tired. I wanted to lie down on the bed, so I did. And then even more suddenly shit got super real. My contractions became much more intense and frequent. I felt something like a water balloon popping inside my ladyparts and OH IT WAS MY WATER BREAKING SHIT IS GETTING REAL. The thought hey! an epidural would be really nice right about now floated into my mind space, but it was way too late. I was fully dilated and stripped out of my civilian clothes (cause, duh, I never changed until my water broke and ew gross like nearly everything birth-related) and the nurse was put on hurry-up to set up the birthing tray because all of a sudden I wanted to push. I never got that overwhelming sensation with Little A., but here it was: I wanted to push and push and please don't make me stop pushing because I am gonna be a pushing machine. The nurse said I could do little tiny pushes until Jerri came back from another patient. That kind of made me laugh. *Tiny* pushes? Hee. Hee. See how tiny?
And then Jerri came back. Jerri said, do whatever you need to do. Apparently, what I needed to do was grab those bars on the top of the bed (the next day my arms were SO sore, like I did 100 pullups) and go RAAAWWWWRRRR like a crazy thing. And maybe 4 crazy Sheela-na-Gig pushes later, Baby G shot out. Seriously. My nurse said she'd never seen a baby come out that fast. This is not bragging; I literally couldn't have helped myself. Unlike the first birth, I just let my body do its thing. And my body, I guess, can be efficient when my head is not in the way.
And so, my last baby was born. And it was so amazing, and so banal. And so, we became a family of four.
The end.
I haven't yet told you her birth story, partly because it was so devoid of drama. The baby has been so agreeable from the moment she was conceived (excepting the 8 days she hung out past her due date, that was kind of a dick move) that I was able to deliver her without any pain medication whatsoever. So, we can do this real quick and move on:
 |
| Overdue. Boo. |
After trying sex and pineapple and long walks and yoga and spicy foods and pizza and swept membranes and everything that is supposed to get the damn baby out, one Thursday night, a full week past my due date, I felt a contraction. A real, true contraction that made me go oof. But it was only one. And so we put our big girl to bed and went to bed ourselves. I had decided that I would try laboring through a *very* unstudied version of the Bradley method, and somehow lulled myself into such a state of relaxation that I was able to sleep for a few hours at a time between the somewhat more intense contractions, until the next morning. Friday, December 2nd. We woke rested and ready to get the show on the road.
The baby is so considerate that she waited until her big sister was breakfasted and whisked away by my parents for a weekend of ice cream and movies. The in-laws were put on alert to begin their drive up from Connecticut. Tim and I arrived at the hospital in time for a second breakfast*, around 10 am, and so began the long waiting time. Contractions were coming every five minutes or so, and for every one I closed my eyes and breathed slowly and deliberately and went hmmmmmm and was probably pretty weird-looking but it fucking worked. We walked the halls, we did the stupid slow-dance shuffle you see on every birthing video, I used the birthing ball, I draped my upper body over the edge of the bed and watched Food Network (that shit is soothing) while Tim rubbed my back. I had my Pandora station set to Super 70s Soul. It was awesome. We had a break for lunch*. I went to the bathroom several times. See how boring is this? It was kind of boring, except for the growing realization that we were ABOUT TO HAVE A (NOTHER) BABY HOLY SHIT. But I was trying to keep that voice quiet, because that panicked voice had served me ill at Little A's birth. So with the Giada and the Contessa and the Aretha and the hmmmmm I kept the panic at bay.
My lovely midwife, Jerri, popped in at intervals to check my stats and sit on the couch and just hang out. My even nicer nurse came by more frequently to chat about whatever, our kids, the current show on TV, oh and also monitor my contractions and give me the crazy strong antibiotics I needed for the Group B strep I somehow picked up between pregnancies. At one point the nurse gave me the best shoulder rub I have ever had in my entire life, seriously, I would have paid a hundred dollars for that outside of the hospital, and there I was getting it for free just because I was pushing a baby out. Lucky me! Also, oxytocin is for real. Because:
After said shoulder rub, all of a sudden I got really, really tired. I wanted to lie down on the bed, so I did. And then even more suddenly shit got super real. My contractions became much more intense and frequent. I felt something like a water balloon popping inside my ladyparts and OH IT WAS MY WATER BREAKING SHIT IS GETTING REAL. The thought hey! an epidural would be really nice right about now floated into my mind space, but it was way too late. I was fully dilated and stripped out of my civilian clothes (cause, duh, I never changed until my water broke and ew gross like nearly everything birth-related) and the nurse was put on hurry-up to set up the birthing tray because all of a sudden I wanted to push. I never got that overwhelming sensation with Little A., but here it was: I wanted to push and push and please don't make me stop pushing because I am gonna be a pushing machine. The nurse said I could do little tiny pushes until Jerri came back from another patient. That kind of made me laugh. *Tiny* pushes? Hee. Hee. See how tiny?
And then Jerri came back. Jerri said, do whatever you need to do. Apparently, what I needed to do was grab those bars on the top of the bed (the next day my arms were SO sore, like I did 100 pullups) and go RAAAWWWWRRRR like a crazy thing. And maybe 4 crazy Sheela-na-Gig pushes later, Baby G shot out. Seriously. My nurse said she'd never seen a baby come out that fast. This is not bragging; I literally couldn't have helped myself. Unlike the first birth, I just let my body do its thing. And my body, I guess, can be efficient when my head is not in the way.
 |
| 9 minutes old. Total. Bliss. |
But then there was the problem. Baby G had the umbilical cord around her neck, and because my body wanted to shoot the baby out, Jerri didn't have time to gracefully unwrap the cord. So oh, oh, oh. The grey little baby they put on my chest that day at 3:40 pm. I cried and begged her to start crying, too. They took her away to give her oxygen and I cried and begged them to bring her back. Two of the longest minutes of my life passed and finally, finally, I heard her little cry and they brought her back to me and we looked into each other's eyes and good lord you guys. I fell in love so completely. We sat, happily cuddling and nursing and dreamily smelling her head and admiring her fingers and etc., for hours. The oxytocin and other feel-good chemicals didn't leave my system for two weeks.
 |
| 9 months old. Total. Goof. |
Natural childbirth, yo. Thumbs WAY up.
The beginning.
xoxo, A
*If you have a baby, do yourself a favor and find a midwife practice. So empowering! I got to decide things! I didn't get poked and prodded against my will every 15 minutes! I got to EAT! YAY MIDWIVES.
 |
| Gratutious babytoe photo serves no purpose. |
Thursday, August 2, 2012
I Was Born, 6-gun in My Hand
Hey, have we talked about 3.5-year-olds? They are mystifying, awesome, terrible creatures. One minute, cuddly, hilarious, helpful, and sweet. The next, swinging at you with fists of fury and SPITTING because of some unintended slight. Woe betide the mama who BUCKLES THE TOP BUCKLES!!! Unless, of course, she wants me to buckle her top buckle.
Two things have helped shore up my stores of patience: treating her like a slightly deranged person [ie: never rushing her, asking about preferences before doing (cf: "do you want to snap your top buckles?"), and never ever ever rushing her, again] and re-framing tantrums as "emotion storms," which makes me feel a bit like a hippy-woo-touchy-feely-parent but also forces me to remember that we are, in fact, dealing with a creature who knows not, not always, how to modulate her reactions and emotions. Who will make a mountain out of a you-didn't-get-me-the-kind-of-popsicle-I-wanted-molehill. Sort of like me before all of my years of therapy and yoga, but my emotion storms were all internal. Except for that one time in Boston I had to pull over my car and kick things. But that's a story for another time!
Ahem.
Last week was especially challenging on the toddler-care front; I am not sure why. Perhaps we are both tired. Perhaps she is having a growth spurt. Perhaps I am not eating enough or drinking enough water. Perhaps we are both just having a week where we are both assholes. There has been too much shouting and too many tears. Too much purposeful ignoring. Too much threatening and stomping and goddamnit-I-JUST-NEED-SOME-SPACE-ing.
It's both of us, but I guess it is really mostly me. I need to shift my attitude, I need to get more sleep, I need to remember that she is just small, and figuring everything out, and also? That she is my hilarious, sweet, goofball, first baby.
WHEREIN I GO STRAIGHT-UP MOMMY BLOGGER BECAUSE KIDS THEY SAY THE DARNDEST THINGS AND YES YOU WILL READ WHAT MINE SAYS AND LAUGH BECAUSE I SAID SO:
One afternoon, she told me, in the blandest conversational tone, I told Cooper, "Penis Company." I paused. You said what? I asked. I told Cooper, "Penis Company," she said again. I boggled for a moment, then asked, well what did you MEAN by that? Use those words in a sentence. She sighed, gave me the slightest hint of an eye-roll, and just said again, PENIS COMPANY. As if this was something everyone knew. Her friend Cooper knows now, I guess.
However, the adults in our house still haven't figured this one out, and since we haven't had a note from her preschool teacher, we're leaving it alone. Though. Sometimes I will nudge Tim in the middle of the night and say PENIS COMPANY and start laughing, because I am a big jerk.
THING SHE SAID THAT YOU MAKE YOU LAUGH UNLESS YOU HATE HAPPINESS AND ARE A COMMUNIST TAKE 2:
We have started Little A. in swim lessons, because she is hard-core loving the pool this year, and I am equal parts happy and terrified about that. Happy: I love to swim and it is one of the few sport-type things I feel like I do well, so we can share this. Terrified: Water. Toddlers. I need not say more.
So anyway, to the local pool/Red Cross Swim lessons she goes, and every week she is excited to show off what she has learned. This week, during our post-dinner post-lesson swim, she tucked her pool noodle under her arms, leaned slightly to the side, and did an enthusiastic scissor kick. And yelled BOOTY CHANT! BOOTY CHANCE! BOOTY SHANK!
Again I stopped agog. Did you learn that at your swim lesson? I asked. No, it is my own special swim, she said back. And then swam and shouted BOOTY CHAMP BOOTY SHANK over and over until I declared swim time was over and wrestled her out of the pool and into the shower and into bed whereupon she alternately shrieked and kicked and shouted she was not tired and snuggled and sighed and said I love you bigger than all the moons and stars Mama.
Because that is a 3.5 year old. I am so lucky to have one.
xoxo, A
Two things have helped shore up my stores of patience: treating her like a slightly deranged person [ie: never rushing her, asking about preferences before doing (cf: "do you want to snap your top buckles?"), and never ever ever rushing her, again] and re-framing tantrums as "emotion storms," which makes me feel a bit like a hippy-woo-touchy-feely-parent but also forces me to remember that we are, in fact, dealing with a creature who knows not, not always, how to modulate her reactions and emotions. Who will make a mountain out of a you-didn't-get-me-the-kind-of-popsicle-I-wanted-molehill. Sort of like me before all of my years of therapy and yoga, but my emotion storms were all internal. Except for that one time in Boston I had to pull over my car and kick things. But that's a story for another time!
Ahem.
Last week was especially challenging on the toddler-care front; I am not sure why. Perhaps we are both tired. Perhaps she is having a growth spurt. Perhaps I am not eating enough or drinking enough water. Perhaps we are both just having a week where we are both assholes. There has been too much shouting and too many tears. Too much purposeful ignoring. Too much threatening and stomping and goddamnit-I-JUST-NEED-SOME-SPACE-ing.
It's both of us, but I guess it is really mostly me. I need to shift my attitude, I need to get more sleep, I need to remember that she is just small, and figuring everything out, and also? That she is my hilarious, sweet, goofball, first baby.
WHEREIN I GO STRAIGHT-UP MOMMY BLOGGER BECAUSE KIDS THEY SAY THE DARNDEST THINGS AND YES YOU WILL READ WHAT MINE SAYS AND LAUGH BECAUSE I SAID SO:
One afternoon, she told me, in the blandest conversational tone, I told Cooper, "Penis Company." I paused. You said what? I asked. I told Cooper, "Penis Company," she said again. I boggled for a moment, then asked, well what did you MEAN by that? Use those words in a sentence. She sighed, gave me the slightest hint of an eye-roll, and just said again, PENIS COMPANY. As if this was something everyone knew. Her friend Cooper knows now, I guess.
However, the adults in our house still haven't figured this one out, and since we haven't had a note from her preschool teacher, we're leaving it alone. Though. Sometimes I will nudge Tim in the middle of the night and say PENIS COMPANY and start laughing, because I am a big jerk.
THING SHE SAID THAT YOU MAKE YOU LAUGH UNLESS YOU HATE HAPPINESS AND ARE A COMMUNIST TAKE 2:
We have started Little A. in swim lessons, because she is hard-core loving the pool this year, and I am equal parts happy and terrified about that. Happy: I love to swim and it is one of the few sport-type things I feel like I do well, so we can share this. Terrified: Water. Toddlers. I need not say more.
So anyway, to the local pool/Red Cross Swim lessons she goes, and every week she is excited to show off what she has learned. This week, during our post-dinner post-lesson swim, she tucked her pool noodle under her arms, leaned slightly to the side, and did an enthusiastic scissor kick. And yelled BOOTY CHANT! BOOTY CHANCE! BOOTY SHANK!
Again I stopped agog. Did you learn that at your swim lesson? I asked. No, it is my own special swim, she said back. And then swam and shouted BOOTY CHAMP BOOTY SHANK over and over until I declared swim time was over and wrestled her out of the pool and into the shower and into bed whereupon she alternately shrieked and kicked and shouted she was not tired and snuggled and sighed and said I love you bigger than all the moons and stars Mama.
Because that is a 3.5 year old. I am so lucky to have one.
xoxo, A
Friday, July 20, 2012
They Will Say It's Elementary
As I might have mentioned, Little A. is FULL of questions lately. Figuring out the world, she is. Most of the questions are easy to answer. Even things like "Why is Easter?" and "What is GAY?" can be broken down into toddler-ese, with relative ease. I don't want to shy away from telling her about life and all the complicated and amazing things people do.
(Por example -- Easter: A long time ago, there was a man named Jesus. A lot of people liked him a lot. He told people to be nice to each other and helped people. But some people didn't like him, and they got so mad at him, they decided to kill him. But lots of people think Jesus was magic (yep, thank you, Sarah Silverman) and came back to life on the Sunday after he was killed, and they made a holiday called Easter to celebrate that magic. And gay? Well, that's just like how Mommy and Daddy like each other a lot; we are a girl and a boy. But sometimes a girl likes another girl a lot, or a boy likes another boy a lot, and that is called being gay. These answers worked, people! Nary a why afterwards!)
But. The other morning, before we had even finished breakfast, as I was running around packing snacks and lunches and pump parts and extra clothes and diapers and does-everyone-have-pants-on? checks I heard her voice pipe up, asking Tim: Are you and Mommy married?
I continued out of the room. And said, under my breath: Good luck with that one, Tim!
Because, while the answer is simple: we just aren't. But. It is also adultly-complicated: Mommy is a serial monogamist who is terrified of commitment, and while she considers it a triumph of emotional maturity and years of therapy that she does not blame Nana and Grampa for her issues, she sure can point the finger squarely at their perpetually, obviously unhappy marriage for THAT one. Also, Daddy was married before and it was pretty terrible. And his parents got divorced and it was even worse than terrible. And marriage is forever and the thought of being legally bound to someone forever makes Mommy feel like someone put a plastic bag over her head. And also, Mommy likes to claim you guys as single head of household. Shall we get into tax code this early in the day?
No. No no no. So, I ran away. And waited to hear what he would say. It was this:
No, we are not married. But we love each other very much, and we love you and baby G very much, and together we make a family.
And that, my friends, was as much of an answer as she needed. And as much of an answer as *I* need. Here's hoping we'll get a few years of mileage out of that, so Mama can work out some of those commitment issues before her friends with married gay parents (c'mon, Maine!) start teasing her on the playground.
xoxo, A
(Por example -- Easter: A long time ago, there was a man named Jesus. A lot of people liked him a lot. He told people to be nice to each other and helped people. But some people didn't like him, and they got so mad at him, they decided to kill him. But lots of people think Jesus was magic (yep, thank you, Sarah Silverman) and came back to life on the Sunday after he was killed, and they made a holiday called Easter to celebrate that magic. And gay? Well, that's just like how Mommy and Daddy like each other a lot; we are a girl and a boy. But sometimes a girl likes another girl a lot, or a boy likes another boy a lot, and that is called being gay. These answers worked, people! Nary a why afterwards!)
But. The other morning, before we had even finished breakfast, as I was running around packing snacks and lunches and pump parts and extra clothes and diapers and does-everyone-have-pants-on? checks I heard her voice pipe up, asking Tim: Are you and Mommy married?
I continued out of the room. And said, under my breath: Good luck with that one, Tim!
Because, while the answer is simple: we just aren't. But. It is also adultly-complicated: Mommy is a serial monogamist who is terrified of commitment, and while she considers it a triumph of emotional maturity and years of therapy that she does not blame Nana and Grampa for her issues, she sure can point the finger squarely at their perpetually, obviously unhappy marriage for THAT one. Also, Daddy was married before and it was pretty terrible. And his parents got divorced and it was even worse than terrible. And marriage is forever and the thought of being legally bound to someone forever makes Mommy feel like someone put a plastic bag over her head. And also, Mommy likes to claim you guys as single head of household. Shall we get into tax code this early in the day?
No. No no no. So, I ran away. And waited to hear what he would say. It was this:
No, we are not married. But we love each other very much, and we love you and baby G very much, and together we make a family.
And that, my friends, was as much of an answer as she needed. And as much of an answer as *I* need. Here's hoping we'll get a few years of mileage out of that, so Mama can work out some of those commitment issues before her friends with married gay parents (c'mon, Maine!) start teasing her on the playground.
xoxo, A
Friday, April 20, 2012
Halfway
Or, the conclusion of the saga. TL;DR takeaway: DON'T BE LIKE ME, PLAN AHEAD.
When will I learn? I guess, never. Other mamas carefully, prenatally, research options, go for visits, send deposits. I must subconsciously ENJOY the extra pressure and stress that comes with my lack of preparation and forethought. Because now I have done it TWICE.
But also: Somehow, we've hit upon a happy ending. So, so fortunately.
After a week or so of hemming and hawing and bringing the baby to work with me and generally flipping my wig, I pulled on my big-girl panties and called a couple of centers. Begged, pleaded, for infant openings. Went on a couple of visits, dragging the girls with me. Endured awkward visits with weird ladies whose centers smelled of pee and sadness. But then. We walked into the appropriately named Sunny Days and lo, the clouds were chased away. Of course we would love to take both girls, the director said. You are an angel straight from heaven, I said back.
And so both of my girls are ensconced at the same daycare as their beloved cousins. Halfway between our house and my office. It's a Christian center, which gave us pause, but, in the end. Seriously. They are really little. We can just deprogram them later, if we need to. But that discussion is for another post.
And! I am seeing, already, positive changes in my big Little A. She is NAPPING during the day, and greeting me with a smile on her face and no wet pants in her bag. She has given me a couple of moments of drama about missing her friends at her old place, but otherwise seems to be handling the transition like a champ.
Baby G is not napping but that's because she is so excited! About other babies! Doing stuff! And looking at them! And growing two teeth! And there is a noise over there what is happening!!! But that is a 4 month old for you. And she greets me with a smile every day, opens her arms wide to grab my face and pull my hair.
I miss them both so much during the day, but this is how it has to be for now. Today I took them both out to a bagel shop for breakfast, to celebrate a great first week of our new routine. All of the regulars cooed over the girls. Then we drove off to the daycare and walked in to see the latest of Little A's witticisms* displayed right at the front of the center for all the grownups to see. My heart grew 3 sizes, and I cried happy tears on the way back to the car.
I mean, now I have to pump 4 times a day at the office, nothing new for any working BFin' mom. At least I can watch Food Network at the same time. My life. Is not terrible.
Con muchos besos,
A
*Her teacher asked her "Is it hard work, being so cute?" To which Little A. replied, very seriously, "Well, I don't have to do it on weekends at home, and I take Mondays off too. So it's not THAT hard." OUT OF THE MOUTHS OF BABES PEOPLE.
When will I learn? I guess, never. Other mamas carefully, prenatally, research options, go for visits, send deposits. I must subconsciously ENJOY the extra pressure and stress that comes with my lack of preparation and forethought. Because now I have done it TWICE.
But also: Somehow, we've hit upon a happy ending. So, so fortunately.
After a week or so of hemming and hawing and bringing the baby to work with me and generally flipping my wig, I pulled on my big-girl panties and called a couple of centers. Begged, pleaded, for infant openings. Went on a couple of visits, dragging the girls with me. Endured awkward visits with weird ladies whose centers smelled of pee and sadness. But then. We walked into the appropriately named Sunny Days and lo, the clouds were chased away. Of course we would love to take both girls, the director said. You are an angel straight from heaven, I said back.
And so both of my girls are ensconced at the same daycare as their beloved cousins. Halfway between our house and my office. It's a Christian center, which gave us pause, but, in the end. Seriously. They are really little. We can just deprogram them later, if we need to. But that discussion is for another post.
And! I am seeing, already, positive changes in my big Little A. She is NAPPING during the day, and greeting me with a smile on her face and no wet pants in her bag. She has given me a couple of moments of drama about missing her friends at her old place, but otherwise seems to be handling the transition like a champ.
Baby G is not napping but that's because she is so excited! About other babies! Doing stuff! And looking at them! And growing two teeth! And there is a noise over there what is happening!!! But that is a 4 month old for you. And she greets me with a smile every day, opens her arms wide to grab my face and pull my hair.
I miss them both so much during the day, but this is how it has to be for now. Today I took them both out to a bagel shop for breakfast, to celebrate a great first week of our new routine. All of the regulars cooed over the girls. Then we drove off to the daycare and walked in to see the latest of Little A's witticisms* displayed right at the front of the center for all the grownups to see. My heart grew 3 sizes, and I cried happy tears on the way back to the car.
I mean, now I have to pump 4 times a day at the office, nothing new for any working BFin' mom. At least I can watch Food Network at the same time. My life. Is not terrible.
Con muchos besos,
A
*Her teacher asked her "Is it hard work, being so cute?" To which Little A. replied, very seriously, "Well, I don't have to do it on weekends at home, and I take Mondays off too. So it's not THAT hard." OUT OF THE MOUTHS OF BABES PEOPLE.
Thursday, April 5, 2012
The Magic Number
 |
| Cinderella before her ball. |
It was a whirlwind week, filled with cleaning and cleaning and baking and cooking and cleaning and other sorts of prep (for two sets of houseguests and 3 guestdogs and a brunch party for 20) including talking up the party for Little A. (she was iffy on it until we got the balloons); by the time the party came around I was almost too tired to enjoy it.
Almost. But I would have had to be the stupidest, most oblivious mama in the world if I didn't catch some of the THRILL my first daughter had with every guest that walked through the door. All her favorite people in the world (well, minus a couple of too-far-away types), all in one spot, to celebrate! It was JUMPING UP AND DOWN TIME!!!
 |
| Milestone: first manicure |
This year has been been a lot: a new sister, a favorite teacher suddenly fired from her daycare, potty training, etc. etc. And this kid has handled it amazingly well. She got out of diapers just in time for baby to arrive. She is the most gentle and loving big sister (though clumsy, her hugs are often more like wrestling moves). She is a patient friend to both her cousin and her best friend who sometimes get overwhelmed and don't remember how to take turns and maybe grab her toys. Of course, she has moments where the devil himself grabs her and uses his voice to shriek NO NO NOOOOO but most of the time I can honestly say: she is effing amazing.
She was still a baby last year. And sometimes she asks to sit in my lap or for a 'baby carry' or for her crib to be put back together. But make no mistake, Little A. is a kid. She can dress herself. She will order for herself at restaurants and compliment the waitress on a good meal (chicken nuggets or mac n cheese, please, for sooth, she is that kid). She makes jokes, she notices everything, she loves and hates and enjoys and despises. She is...awesome. I look at her sometimes and can hardly believe she is mine.
THREE. How can it be? Days are long, years are short, indeed.
 |
| Birfday twirl! |
Con muchos besos, A
Wednesday, February 22, 2012
(Every Day is) Take Your Daughter to Work Day
Let's talk about this goddamn crappity crap WINTER. This winter, you may have heard once or twice OR EVERY GODDAMN DAY has seemed particularly bad on the germ front. Raging stomach bugs, colds that last for a million years, double ear infrackityfections, etc etc. In my own little circle, we have had the lingering snots and "too many coughs," as my eldest put it, for about a month running. Maybe more.
As such, I do not dare put my precious bundle Baby G into daycare. Her immune system will be exposed to enough creeping crud through her sister's adorable, persistent, and mildly overbearing affection, but I will not put her in the direct line of fire (plus, she is mah preshus baybeeee! Just a wee lil pickle baby! It would kill me to put her into daycare this small. And I need her close as much as she needs me, for my maternal sanity). But financial realities have forced me back to my desk early. As in, I have been bringing the baby to work with me for about 3 weeks now. The baby is 11 weeks old this Friday.
It has been....hard. Verging on really too hard. First, OK, let's acknowledge how grateful I am that I CAN bring the baby with me. Because, you see, my father is my boss. As in, Baby G's grandfather. So he is fairly pleased to have an excuse to get his hands on the baby almost every day. Plus, he doesn't mind when I disappear for nursing breaks, or napwalks, or let's play on the floor breaks. He has this enduring faith that I will get the job done, and cuts me a frickin' boat-load of slack.
Yesterday though. Oh, yesterday. After a 10 am meeting with our software consultant I had X Y and Z to get done and of course, the baby would not nap. It was one of those I am so exhausted and upset and the more upset I get the longer it will take to get me calmed down and IF I maybe even IF I get to sleep if there is a noise of any kind or if you jostle my stroller or think too loudly about whether or not I am sleeping my eyes are going to pop open and I will cry and maybe I am hungry? OMG I AM SO EXHAUSTED MAMA HAAAALP!!! kind of days for the baby.
By the end of it, I wanted my mama (aka a big glass of wine in a silent room, or maybe just an episode of Downton Abbey playing softly in the background). Because also? Not only was I not able to soothe the poor baby, I got the mama-guilt so hard. Because I just wanted to do my WORK, you know? I wanted to be able to do my work and also think of what to make for dinner and pick a craft with Little A. at home and book our trip to Florida in April and IM with my girlfriend and eat my goddamn LUNCH without a tiny tyrant yelling in my face.
And then when I left the office (late) the baby screamed in the car all the way home. And then did these heartbreaking sniffles when she realized I was not going to come rescue her from her carseat prison. I contemplated pulling the car into a 7-11 parking lot and running away fast. But then, I am out of shape and super slow and would get arrested and it would get in the paper and boy would that be embarrassing. So we just drove on. And had leftovers for dinner, and did no crafts, and everyone went to bed early.
And at about 1 am I found myself awake with Baby G.; she was hungry. So we got into the most comfortable cuddle for nursing and I stroked her perfect fuzzy head. And remembered how a million years ago, I had the exact same day with Little A. I went back to work when she was 5 weeks old. And that tiny needy (so, so needy) baby turned into an amazing chatterbox whirlwind toddler in a blink and she doesn't remember any of those hard early weeks and neither do I, really. Just a blur of how will I get through this. But we did. And we will. And I am so lucky to have these shitty days with these two girls, who will be big and gone from my lap before I even have the time to forget how their newborn fuzzy heads smelled.
And today, wouldn't you know, Baby G napped for almost 4 hours while I worked. And woke up smiling. And tonight during her bath with her big sister, she farted so loudly it made her laugh. Her first real laugh. Now THERE'S a memory for the scrapbook.You can forget all about yesterday.
Con muchos besos, A
As such, I do not dare put my precious bundle Baby G into daycare. Her immune system will be exposed to enough creeping crud through her sister's adorable, persistent, and mildly overbearing affection, but I will not put her in the direct line of fire (plus, she is mah preshus baybeeee! Just a wee lil pickle baby! It would kill me to put her into daycare this small. And I need her close as much as she needs me, for my maternal sanity). But financial realities have forced me back to my desk early. As in, I have been bringing the baby to work with me for about 3 weeks now. The baby is 11 weeks old this Friday.
It has been....hard. Verging on really too hard. First, OK, let's acknowledge how grateful I am that I CAN bring the baby with me. Because, you see, my father is my boss. As in, Baby G's grandfather. So he is fairly pleased to have an excuse to get his hands on the baby almost every day. Plus, he doesn't mind when I disappear for nursing breaks, or napwalks, or let's play on the floor breaks. He has this enduring faith that I will get the job done, and cuts me a frickin' boat-load of slack.
Yesterday though. Oh, yesterday. After a 10 am meeting with our software consultant I had X Y and Z to get done and of course, the baby would not nap. It was one of those I am so exhausted and upset and the more upset I get the longer it will take to get me calmed down and IF I maybe even IF I get to sleep if there is a noise of any kind or if you jostle my stroller or think too loudly about whether or not I am sleeping my eyes are going to pop open and I will cry and maybe I am hungry? OMG I AM SO EXHAUSTED MAMA HAAAALP!!! kind of days for the baby.
By the end of it, I wanted my mama (aka a big glass of wine in a silent room, or maybe just an episode of Downton Abbey playing softly in the background). Because also? Not only was I not able to soothe the poor baby, I got the mama-guilt so hard. Because I just wanted to do my WORK, you know? I wanted to be able to do my work and also think of what to make for dinner and pick a craft with Little A. at home and book our trip to Florida in April and IM with my girlfriend and eat my goddamn LUNCH without a tiny tyrant yelling in my face.
And then when I left the office (late) the baby screamed in the car all the way home. And then did these heartbreaking sniffles when she realized I was not going to come rescue her from her carseat prison. I contemplated pulling the car into a 7-11 parking lot and running away fast. But then, I am out of shape and super slow and would get arrested and it would get in the paper and boy would that be embarrassing. So we just drove on. And had leftovers for dinner, and did no crafts, and everyone went to bed early.
And at about 1 am I found myself awake with Baby G.; she was hungry. So we got into the most comfortable cuddle for nursing and I stroked her perfect fuzzy head. And remembered how a million years ago, I had the exact same day with Little A. I went back to work when she was 5 weeks old. And that tiny needy (so, so needy) baby turned into an amazing chatterbox whirlwind toddler in a blink and she doesn't remember any of those hard early weeks and neither do I, really. Just a blur of how will I get through this. But we did. And we will. And I am so lucky to have these shitty days with these two girls, who will be big and gone from my lap before I even have the time to forget how their newborn fuzzy heads smelled.
And today, wouldn't you know, Baby G napped for almost 4 hours while I worked. And woke up smiling. And tonight during her bath with her big sister, she farted so loudly it made her laugh. Her first real laugh. Now THERE'S a memory for the scrapbook.You can forget all about yesterday.
Con muchos besos, A
Thursday, February 2, 2012
Happy Barfday, Grampa
(Apologies in advance for the gross post. It's gonna get REAL up in this joint.)
My father is, in the fullest sense of the word, a DAD. He is incredibly hard working and self-sacrificing and while he has always been supportive, boy do you know when you have crossed the line. BOY DO YOU KNOW IT. He was probably the most strict of all my friends' parents in high school. Miss a curfew? Never. Drink or do drugs? Hell to the no. Boys? NO FUCKING WAY HE WOULD HAVE KILLED ME AND THE BOYS IN QUESTION. (I had two boyfriends in high school. And I waited until college to do all the other things, much to the detriment of my education). Seriously, I was scared to tell him when I got my first ever C, in college, but somehow I always knew it was because he loved me and thought I could handle the pressure. He says plenty of stupid shit that makes me mad and isn't particularly enamored of my boyfriend, because no one could ever be good enough for me. Cliche? Indeed: meet my DAD. You might as well put his picture next to the definition in the dictionary.
And now, he is a GRANDFATHER. He has a big round belly, which has magical nap-powers. He makes ridiculous goofy faces and noises and ridiculously dotes upon all four of his granddaughters (while not-so-secretly wishing one of them will turn out to be a tomboy, or that I might try to have another just on the off chance we might have a boy).
(Hell to the no, again.)
And so this week we gathered together to celebrate his birthday. All of us at a big ol' table in a cozy family-friendly Italian restaurant. All his progeny in one spot, all the granddaughters behaving beautifully.
AND THEN. My darling elder, without a word, coughed quietly, and threw up all over the table. She was so quiet about it that I had to confirm with Tim. Did she just...?? HOLY CRAP YES, he said. And threw his napkin at the mess, and then as she coughed again he tried to catch it with his hands. But it was not enough. More and more barf silently exited my beautiful kid's mouth and spread out over the table until I snatched her up and flung her into the bathroom, which was blessedly very near. Our sainted waitress appeared with a roll of paper towels, with an alacrity combined with lack of panic that made me think she must have at least three kids of her own.
Poor Little A. was a trooper. After a few tears over her dirty pants, which we changed, (pro tip: never leave home without extra pants, even if they are potty trained), she insisted she felt better! And proceeded to eat spaghetti and chicken nuggets and bread and apple juice and a big bowl of whipped cream with chocolate syrup that the kitchen served to the kids because they were out of ice cream.
And the rest of us enjoyed our dinners, too.Until my brother came back from the bathroom with his elder daughter and described her poo. Fortunately we were just about to get the check. Unfortunately I was in the midst of a losing battle to nurse the baby without showing my boobs.
Moral of the story: PARENTHOOD IS GROSS. GRANDPARENTHOOD, ONLY MARGINALLY LESS SO.
They were surely glad to see the back of us. As I am sure you are glad to be at the end of this post.
Con muchos besos, A
My father is, in the fullest sense of the word, a DAD. He is incredibly hard working and self-sacrificing and while he has always been supportive, boy do you know when you have crossed the line. BOY DO YOU KNOW IT. He was probably the most strict of all my friends' parents in high school. Miss a curfew? Never. Drink or do drugs? Hell to the no. Boys? NO FUCKING WAY HE WOULD HAVE KILLED ME AND THE BOYS IN QUESTION. (I had two boyfriends in high school. And I waited until college to do all the other things, much to the detriment of my education). Seriously, I was scared to tell him when I got my first ever C, in college, but somehow I always knew it was because he loved me and thought I could handle the pressure. He says plenty of stupid shit that makes me mad and isn't particularly enamored of my boyfriend, because no one could ever be good enough for me. Cliche? Indeed: meet my DAD. You might as well put his picture next to the definition in the dictionary.
And now, he is a GRANDFATHER. He has a big round belly, which has magical nap-powers. He makes ridiculous goofy faces and noises and ridiculously dotes upon all four of his granddaughters (while not-so-secretly wishing one of them will turn out to be a tomboy, or that I might try to have another just on the off chance we might have a boy).
(Hell to the no, again.)
And so this week we gathered together to celebrate his birthday. All of us at a big ol' table in a cozy family-friendly Italian restaurant. All his progeny in one spot, all the granddaughters behaving beautifully.
AND THEN. My darling elder, without a word, coughed quietly, and threw up all over the table. She was so quiet about it that I had to confirm with Tim. Did she just...?? HOLY CRAP YES, he said. And threw his napkin at the mess, and then as she coughed again he tried to catch it with his hands. But it was not enough. More and more barf silently exited my beautiful kid's mouth and spread out over the table until I snatched her up and flung her into the bathroom, which was blessedly very near. Our sainted waitress appeared with a roll of paper towels, with an alacrity combined with lack of panic that made me think she must have at least three kids of her own.
Poor Little A. was a trooper. After a few tears over her dirty pants, which we changed, (pro tip: never leave home without extra pants, even if they are potty trained), she insisted she felt better! And proceeded to eat spaghetti and chicken nuggets and bread and apple juice and a big bowl of whipped cream with chocolate syrup that the kitchen served to the kids because they were out of ice cream.
And the rest of us enjoyed our dinners, too.Until my brother came back from the bathroom with his elder daughter and described her poo. Fortunately we were just about to get the check. Unfortunately I was in the midst of a losing battle to nurse the baby without showing my boobs.
Moral of the story: PARENTHOOD IS GROSS. GRANDPARENTHOOD, ONLY MARGINALLY LESS SO.
They were surely glad to see the back of us. As I am sure you are glad to be at the end of this post.
Con muchos besos, A
Tuesday, January 24, 2012
Natural Woman
CAN YOU BELIEVE THIS EGG? I am scared to crack it open for fear it is a triple yolk or something crazy like that. Poor chicken. And you know there ain't no Nubain on tap up in the coop.
"Natural" births got nothing on, you know, Nature.
Con muchos besos, A
Wednesday, January 18, 2012
Days of the Week Days of the Week
Happy Humpday!* My elder daughter's pre-pre-school teacher (whom I credit for every ounce of knowledge the kid has, and most of her manners) taught the kids some song about the days of the week, which imaginatively begins: "Days of the Week! Days of the Week!" I can count on Little A. singing it approximately 1000 times each Day of the Week. And then we have to play "I am the TEACHER!" during which she commands me to point to a random spot on the wall while naming the Days of the Week. Sometimes this leads to a rousing recitation of Months of the Year, or the Alphabet.
Speaking of which, I have somehow reached a point in my life where I learn about new bands through Sesame Street. Like this:
Tilly and the Wall! So fun! Who knew? I'll have to have Little A. teach me how to use iTunes so I can buy an album. And maybe get a different song of theirs in my head, though we do look ultra cool walking through the grocery store parking lot shouting "1-2-3 APPLE!" while fake-tap-dancing.
Con muchos besos, A.
*Today I have my 6-week postpartum checkup. And while for the most part I am feeling surprisingly good, there will be NO SORT OF HUMPING today. Or in the near future. No effing way. Sorry, Tim.
Speaking of which, I have somehow reached a point in my life where I learn about new bands through Sesame Street. Like this:
Tilly and the Wall! So fun! Who knew? I'll have to have Little A. teach me how to use iTunes so I can buy an album. And maybe get a different song of theirs in my head, though we do look ultra cool walking through the grocery store parking lot shouting "1-2-3 APPLE!" while fake-tap-dancing.
Con muchos besos, A.
*Today I have my 6-week postpartum checkup. And while for the most part I am feeling surprisingly good, there will be NO SORT OF HUMPING today. Or in the near future. No effing way. Sorry, Tim.
Friday, January 13, 2012
She's Fresh
New year, new adventures, new baby, new new new. New virtual home.
After several years of sharing a space with my beloved co-bloggess E., it became clear (through utter dearth of content) that we had outgrown our beloved blog. Too many life changes, too much identity crisis. How could I write about breastfeeding on the same blog where I wrote about the first time I enjoyed...well...let's just leave it that it was something ADULT.
I loved my old life, my old self. My freedom, my tiny apartment in Brooklyn. My high heels and haircuts and boy-crazy complete self-indulgence. Now I am a certified suburban mom, with two daughters, a station wagon, a mortgage, and a babydaddy boyfriend* whose laundry I refuse to put away because I ALREADY HAVE TWO KIDS YOU ARE A GROWNUP GODDAMMIT TIM.
So, let's pile on to this mommyblogger thing, shall we? If I am not sponsored by Pampers before this quarter is over, THEIR LOSS. Cause you bet I am gonna get all up in your face with baby poop and other fascinating shit.
ARE YOU READEEEEEEEEE TO RUMBUUUUUUUUUUUUUULLLLL!!
You betcha.
Con Muchos Besos, A.
*can someone please invent a better term for a non-married coparent? Boyfriend sounds too frivilous. PARTNER sounds too business-y. Sometimes I just say "husband" and feel like I am getting away with something slightly naughty. So. Any suggestions?
After several years of sharing a space with my beloved co-bloggess E., it became clear (through utter dearth of content) that we had outgrown our beloved blog. Too many life changes, too much identity crisis. How could I write about breastfeeding on the same blog where I wrote about the first time I enjoyed...well...let's just leave it that it was something ADULT.
I loved my old life, my old self. My freedom, my tiny apartment in Brooklyn. My high heels and haircuts and boy-crazy complete self-indulgence. Now I am a certified suburban mom, with two daughters, a station wagon, a mortgage, and a babydaddy boyfriend* whose laundry I refuse to put away because I ALREADY HAVE TWO KIDS YOU ARE A GROWNUP GODDAMMIT TIM.
So, let's pile on to this mommyblogger thing, shall we? If I am not sponsored by Pampers before this quarter is over, THEIR LOSS. Cause you bet I am gonna get all up in your face with baby poop and other fascinating shit.
ARE YOU READEEEEEEEEE TO RUMBUUUUUUUUUUUUUULLLLL!!
You betcha.
Con Muchos Besos, A.
*can someone please invent a better term for a non-married coparent? Boyfriend sounds too frivilous. PARTNER sounds too business-y. Sometimes I just say "husband" and feel like I am getting away with something slightly naughty. So. Any suggestions?
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)