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

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 Good So Good So Good

On Monday the girls and I had a simple and perfect day. The sun was shining and strong enough for the first playground-without-coats adventure of the season. Little A. made best best friends with a girl named Lillia somewhere between the swings and the slide. Her mom and I chatted while the kids swirled around our legs. The other woman's accent was lovely and hard to place - a very slight Eastern European inflection that is rare around these parts. We are a fairly homogenous bunch, we Mainiacs. Anyway, their little family had to leave in a hurry when their youngest member started tantruming in anticipation of leaving, and I wasn't able to get any contact information. I felt a little bad about it, but also excited that my big girl was proving -- so unlike me -- to make friends easily and casually.

We came home for lunch, both girls napped while I did a little work, and then because it was so lovely and spring-y and because Little A has 20/20 vision for anything ice cream related, we went up to our local soft-serve institution for the first cone of the season (on our way home, in the midst of a busy intersection made busier by a huge construction project, she noticed CARS in the parking lot of the ice cream place. WHY ARE THERE CARS AT LIBS? she demanded to know. Our afternoon was decided in that moment).

Some good friends joined us in a DOUBLE BONUS move and after we said our hellos and when Little A. was out of earshot a bit, Brian said someone blew up the Boston Marathon. My heart stopped and my brain went in several directions before I said, intelligently, Huh? What? Is there not a shitton of security there? And how do you blow up a marathon? It's...you know...long? No one knew much at that point.

And so we had our ice creams and then went home for more outside fun with bubbles and in moments when the girls were otherwise occupied I stole glances at Facebook and the Boston Globe online. No one knew much then either but I needed information, information, more information. The sun was shining, and people were dying, and no one knows why.

*********************

I can safely characterize my relationship with that little city as "complicated." It was the center of the universe to us during high school, where all the coolest bands played and where you could buy the best posters/shoes/t-shirts. Then, after a stint in the midwest, I went to college there and lived there for a few years post-graduation but never quite clicked in with the place. I didn't understand its people, who seemed (mostly) so cold and unwelcoming, in comparison to the friendly city of Chicago which had been my home just prior; its public transportation, that shut down just when you needed it most; its bars, which tried so hard to be cool but just...weren't. I made a very small group of friends in college who then proceeded to shun me for reasons just beyond my grasp. I found a nice boyfriend and we moved in together, but it never felt quite right. And then I made a bunch of stupid, reckless choices and lost my mind for a bit. And then I slowly pieced it together and found a new clan and spiritual home at a local dance studio. And then there was 9/11.

The sun was shining that day, too. I remember the head of the literary agency where I was working running into our end of the office, out of breath, saying Oh god, just turn on the TV, turn on the TV. And we all watched in horror for a few minutes or an hour and then they sent us all home. No one knew anything at that point; there was no twitterverse to spread news true or false. Just this loop of footage no one of our lifetime will ever forget. I decided to walk home because the idea of an underground train was too scary. I walked up Boylston Street from the Commons to Copley, with my face in the sun. The city is very pretty, in parts, the parts you see on TV: the swan boats and the shining skyline and the wide river with scullers zipping along like skimmer bugs. I noticed all of that beauty on my walk and suddenly knew with an awful clarity that someone could destroy it all in a second. That someone had tried to destroy my most favorite American city. I decided during that long walk home that I was going to move to New York City. The sun was shining, people were dying, and no one knew why.

*********************

A couple of months before I moved, I was running errands downtown. I turned a corner and almost literally stumbled onto the finish of the Boston Marathon. It was very late in the day; the finishers were the slow runners. Or the walkers. Where I would be in a marathon, surely. But there was still a small crowd of onlookers cheering folks across the finish line. The Marathon, while a Super Big Deal in Boston, had never crossed my consciousness before. Huh, I thought, look how nice these Bostonians are being. That's weird. The only other time I remember open shows of support and joy in the city was when the Pats won the Superbowl in 2001. I stood watching the cheers and the folks collecting their medals and blankets for a minute or two, then gathered up my backpack and started to cross. Then a Boston cop said hey miss, you can't cross here and I probably scowled at him and went to go eat a bagel.  We've all seen the photos now. The chaos, the smoke, broken people hauled away in policeman's arms or on gurneys. Why, we are all asking. Why?

*********************

Why? Because a small but very determined group of people hate. They hate not-them. That's why. They hide behind stone walls and religion and conspiracy theories and the internet. 

During a chat with a friend, a far-away friend who is very dear, I had another epiphany. We are connected, but not connected. Not really. And I am far from the first person who has realized this but, whatever, it was my epiphany. Because of the internet, I can stay "connected" with my friends all around the country. Because of the internet, I can see what my high school crush had for breakfast. I can also, if I so choose, find a group of people who strongly believe that our President is a Caucasian-hating Muslim bent on destroying our nation. Or who believe that gay marriage will destroy the moral fabric of our society. Or that single mothers are worse for the same than prostitutition. On the internet, the old cartoon goes, no one knows you're a dog. I am personally culpable for allowing some of my relationships erode because I can "connect" on the internet. You know me: you read my blog, you saw my Facebook post, or my Instagram snap, you know me. I read you, too, so I don't need to call or write you a long email or make the effort to see you. I know your life.

But I don't. I can't walk up to you at the playground and see your face light up when my kids run to give you a hug. I don't see the pained reaction of the blogger who I decided it would be clever to point out misused a punctuation mark in an otherwise fine post. I don't see the look of disappointment from my friend who is a public policy expert is when I toss off a knee-jerk political statement on my Facebook page.

We don't see each other anymore, and it is way easier to not see. There was a brief interim of connection, a respite from ironic meanness, post 9/11, and now immediately post-each tragedy, there is a boom of helping, of reaching-out, of oneness and all that jazz you hear in your yoga class. But it's temporary, and crisis-driven, and we so easily sink back into our complacency, our chairs inside of rooms lit but the glow of screens.

It's not that I think if the terrorists, whomever they are, could see our faces, and hear our voices, and watch us love our children, they would suddenly stop thinking we are the enemy. It's more that all of these terrible recent events are making me want to connect, really. And to parent differently. To limit my own internet time and not let it bleed into bathtime, bedtime, dinnertime. To travel and live in different places instead of doing a Google image search. To visit our neighbors instead of sending an e-card. To go to museums and farms and beaches and the woods. To walk the streets in our own little city instead of driving everywhere. To make efforts to nurture relationships and to let my kids understand that it's worth it. To make sure they don't fear saying hello to their neighbors, or chatting with the person next to them on the bus, or approaching someone who really needs help, or walking up to the othergirl on the playground around their own age and say Hi, wanna swing with me?

We can give them all the lessons in the world about how to be safe and cautious, but when it comes down to it, I think perhaps a bigger danger is being too safe, too cautious. Don't walk in a park at night has been replaced by never ever ever talk to anyone unless you know them. 

I want my kids to be different. I want their world to be different. A smaller world, a more connected world. Maybe, just maybe, if we could raise a generation of people who really see each other, so they feel connected to each other and the world immediately around them, it will make it harder, just a tiny bit, for them to destroy the beautiful places others might hold dear. To destroy each other.

We'll see.

And in the meantime, I am sending all my love to my far-flung friends, in Boston and beyond, and holding my daughters a little tighter.

And sending up a prayer: Please be well, please let me see you for a long, long time.

xoxo, A

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).

Now, FREEZE.

xoxo, A

Instant Karma

So yeah, I spoke too soon. I spoke waaaaaaaay too soon there.

Who was reading my little blog? Why did they have to karma little ol' me? What did I dooooo?

(Answer: everything I did romantically until my mid-30s, probably earned me enough negative karma that I'll be working that shite off for the rest of me life)

I posted that Pollyanna post over there, went for a quick run to celebrate a lazy boss-less day at work. Went contentedly home with my adorable girls singing in the car. Went to my grandmother's for dinner, all warm and fuzzy. Put the girls to bed, and watched some House of Cards. Contemplated the wonder that is Claire Underwood's hairdo. Went to bed myself. Life was good! Spring had sprung! Extra hour of sunlight! Etc.

HEY SHUT UP OR KNOCK ON WOOD YOU ASSHOLE.

At 5 am Baby G. woke up crusted in her own vomit and...other stuff. Suffice it to say, she got sick in the night, and then somehow fell back asleep. And woke up screaming, as is quite reasonable under the circumstances. A shower and some new jammies later she was tucked into bed next to me.

And then at 6 she threw up in my bed.

Fortunately Tim was planning to be home so I was able to go to work. Yay! Work! No one threw up on me at work!

So we had a sick baby on our hands and I stocked up on Pedialyte and the makings of the BRATY diet that would be her menu for the next week or so. Friday night was predictably low-key. Then Saturday morning I went off to my Zumba class only to drag my weak, dizzy, nauseated ass home 25 minutes later. And so help me I could not move from a horizontal position all day. Baby G and I took a couple of long naps and I fell asleep on Little A's floor for 3 hours after putting her to bed. I was sick as a dog, a prisoner of germs. Housebound.

And we had booked a babysitter. You parents out there know how precious and wonderful and amazing, the mere idea of BABYSITTER. It was going to be our first night out since Baby G's birth (sad but true, we are notsogood at that date night thing). Yes, there are worse things. But we burned a BABYSITTER night. Sigh.

And then it snowed. A lot.

All told I spent 4 days trapped inside with the entire family. How did the Ingalls family do it? Those long winters all spent indoors, looking at the same people, hearing the same whines, blowing the same noses? I would never have made it. As it was I was never so glad to wave bye-bye to my adorable progeny and head off the to blissful silence of my basement office. And then I found out my grandmother spent the beginning of the week in an advanced state of dehydration due to our stupid germs. Argh.

TL:DR takeaway: don't tempt the fates. Shut your fool mouth, and also buy whiskey. And Pedialyte.

xoxo, A 

Pie in the Face

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

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

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

NO ACID FIRE HAIL HATE YOU NO NO NO NOOOOOOOOO.

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

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

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

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

After the storm.

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

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

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

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

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

xoxo, A

Leaking Out My Ears

There is a moment every evening, after I have (finally) gotten both girls to sleep, after the chores (finally) are done, when the house is quiet. At that moment I think: now is when you can write. WRITE SOMETHING! C'MON JUST DO IT! I cast my ear up for sounds of wakeful babies. Nothing. The silence grows and grows and I find another pot to wash while ideas for posts and more posts and maybe even a little short story starts leaking out my ears and...

...And then I turn on the TV and watch for an hour or two until I decide to go to bed.

Why am I ignoring the internal prompts? I *almost* signed up for a poetry class. I *almost* signed up for a dance performance. But for each moment that presents as ripe for creative expression, something equally urgent insists that I turn my brain off and do nothing. It, frankly, does not feel great. I fear the house is growing stale and unmagical for the girls. I fear my soul has shriveled up into a dried pea. I fear...well...a lot. But mostly I fear that if I stop to examine all of my fears, confront them in writing, I will spontaneously combust. So, you know, no pressure.

Mother's little helper #21 -- matching jammies. 

I think I need more Vitamin D. February is so very...February-ish this year. January was too. We shall carry on, because we do. But goddamn wouldn't it be nice if it was a bit less of a slog. Ugh. My head is still up my butt. And it's dark up in this piece. Help!
 
AND ON THAT CHEERFUL NOTE.

xoxo, A