a confession, part II, or, that time they accused me of kidnapping my own child

... SO. yesterday. picked colby jean up from daycare, then headed over to the preschool to fetch jackson jay. the kids were on the playground out in the back, but i went through his classroom to grab his lunchbox, and check his cubby. then i walked out to the playground, holding C on my hip. as soon as J spotted me, he cracked a big grin, called out "Mama!" and walked over to hug my legs. then he stepped back and said, "Mama, look, I got an OWIE! LOOK!" it looked like he had gotten a little sliver. he said it was from a tree, and that he'd even gotten a bandaid (if you achieve bandaid status, that owie is LEGIT ;)) i made the proper fuss as we headed over to the sign-out sheet. his arm was tangled in my skirt the whole time, and he nattered on about his day, that they'd read the Three Little Pigs, he'd "POOPED AT 'KOOL," and get this, WIPED HIS OWN BUTT (allegedly. i never did investigate skid mark status. what happened next kind of derailed the rest of my evening).

as i was almost to the table with the sign-out sheets, a teacher or playground monitor or whoever she was steps in front of me and says, "excuse me. i don't know you. i'm going to need to see some I.D." for a few seconds i just stared at her, stupidly smiling. i thought she was joking or something, it was so strange and surreal. (keep in mind, you have to have a security fob to even enter the building, which i was holding in my hand. also keep in mind that, while we are only a week and a half into the new school year, i have been there to pick him up 6 of the last 8 days, same place, same time, same little orphan annie in tow). then i started to feel very very small. like an underage kid trying to sneak into a club and getting caught by the bouncer. why i felt like this, i do not know, because i was not doing a thing wrong.

i said to her, "oh no! i didn't bring my ID in. but i have my security fob right here? see?"

her: "mmmmhmmm. that's nice. i need to see ID."

what the??? "ummm, well, like i said, i don't have it on me... but... i was just speaking with his teacher Olivia in Room 103. she knows me. could we just go over and ask her to verify that i'm Jack's mom?"

"no. school policy. i need to see your identification. now."

"okay, well, it's in my purse in the car." (what if it hadn't been?! what if it had been lost or stolen, as DM's recently was??? would they have just kept him?! as a ward of the YMCA?! until i got a DMV appointment in, like, DECEMBER?????)

"well then i guess you better go get it."

okay. pause. listen you guys. i am a lawyer. i only mention that because it is probably the profession packed with the highest asshats per capita on the planet. (well except maybe politicians. but most of those are just lawyers who are seeking advanced degrees in dickery. literally and figuratively. anthony weiner, i'm lookin' at you.) as such, i will tell you, i have come across more than my fair share of TERRIBLE people in my life. and yet. this lady takes the cake. i cannot convey in words the level of derission and disrespect that dripped from the handful of words she spoke, but, for the record, this was the SMUGGEST BITCH i have encountered, ever.

anyway. i replied, "okay, i will go get it, but, what happens with J? do i have to just leave him here?"

her: "yes. he's not going anywhere until i see your ID. we'll wait." (she said this last in that tone that your seventh grade science teacher used when you came to class late and were making a commotion getting settled and she felt it necessary to drive home your tardiness with some age old public shaming tactics.)

needless to say, my sensitive son LOST HIS F*CKING SHIT. he was basically like, "i'm sorry, what? i have to stay locked outside this glass security door with this stranger while my mom carries my sister out of the building and i have no freaking clue what in the hell is going on? thanks but i'll PASS!" he starts screaming bloody murder while i am trying to keep my cool. even though my hands are shaking and my vision is blurred i do not want to make matters any worse than they already are. i crouch down and try to soothe him and say "i PROMISE i will be RIGHT BACK, lovey. i SWEAR to you, my sweet sweet boy, i will be back as quick as a bunny. i just have to hop-hop-hop to my car and grab my purse really fast because i forgot it and i need it so i can show this lady i am your mama." this has the effect of calming him -3%. he responds, wailing, BUT YOU ARE MY MAMA! MAMA! MAMAAAAA! PLEASE DON'T LEAVE ME!!!!!" UGH. SO heartwrenchingly awful i cannot even explain. but what choice do i have?

so. i stalk out to the car (there may have been actual steam coming out of my ears), grab my purse, and basically run back inside. at this point one of the administrators caught on to the fact that something was amiss so she follows me back out to the playground. i am shaking and i don't speak a word as i hand the girl my driver's license. i couldn't have spoken if i'd tried. she grabs my ID, looks at it for a second, and says, "Your names don't match." i take a breath and respond, "No. They don't. I did not take my husband's last name when we married." her: "Well. That's going to be an issue." me, exasperated, on the verge of tears: "Oh my God. Are you kidding me? Is this a joke? I don't have the same last name as my husband and kids. I'm sorry. It's two thousand and thirteen." Still trying to hold it together for the sake of the kids but the lid's about to come off.

at this point the administrator steps in and tries to unruffle some tailfeathers. she apologizes. THE FIRST TIME ANYONE HAS DONE SO. she says "I am so sorry for the inconvenience." she says, "I understand how frustating this must be, but this is the school-wide policy." she claims, "the teachers have been trained." the teachers have been trained to what?! Be A$$HOLES??? UGH!!! i tell her that i understand the policy and that i appreciate their concern for my son's safety, but that i hope they understand how upsetting it is for my son, and for me, to be handled so carelessly in what is obviously a delicate situation. she says yes, she completely understands, and apologizes again. i have no beef with this woman.

they proceed to bring out a ginormous three ring binder of registration papers and start flipping through it page by page. i ask again if we can talk to Olivia, J's teacher, to settle this mess, or Jane, the other administrator. they tell me both have gone home for the day. J is still crying, though more quietly at this point. he asks why i took Sister when i "left him all alone." i look the girl in the eyes and (snarkily) reply, "the school is only worried about the legal ramifications of me kidnapping you. they don't care if i kidnap your sister." more flipping of pages. i suggest that we go look at the scrapbook we provided per the school's request, the first two pages of which are pasted with family photos, including pictures of ME, the interloper. but no. they need to find the "official paperwork." after about twenty thousand minutes, or maybe three, they realize it's not in the first binder, so they haul out another one, equally thick, and start flipping through that at a glacial pace. finally, FINALLY, they find whatever piece of paper contains sufficient proof that i am not some crazy child-napper. the girl hands me back my ID and says, "There, see? Was that so hard?"

.....

i put that space there to delineate the pause that i took at this point. to breathe. to grasp desperately at the last shreds of my cool. because that is what i do in real life. so that I do not PUNCH HER IN HER EVER LOVIN' HEAD.

i think to myself, YES, you SMUGLY B, that WAS so hard. but i say nothing out loud. she continues, "Well, now we know who you are, so we won't have to do this again." All I can manage is, "No. This will not, ever, happen again."

as we walked out, my cheeks still burned. with rage. and with shame. why? because there were other parents and children around to witness this insanity? no. honestly, i was so upset i had tunnel vision and i could not say with any authority if there was a single other human being around. no. i felt shame because in a few short sentences, she had chopped my sense of self, my sense of worth as a mother, down at the knees. i mean, this lady sees tons of moms, day in, day out. obviously she ought to recognize a mom when she sees one, right? am i defective? am i not "mom material"? was my son's reaction to my arrival lacking the requisite joy reserved for "good moms"? can she tell that both of my kids prefer their daddy? that there was a genetic mutation in whatever chromosome makes some moms love their jobs 24/7? did i have "fraud" stamped across my forehead? maybe (probably) i'm being dramatic. maybe (probably) i'm overreacting. but i was shaking for an hour after this happened. my eyes are still tearing up and my heart is beating audibly in my ears as i write this, reliving that feeling of the instantaneous destruction of a little sliver of my soul. i cannot remember a time when someone has made me feel so small.

my first thought after i had time to process the situation was, there is no way that person has children, because no mother would treat another mother that way. someone with children of her own would know that essentially accusing someone of trying to kidnap her own child is a dangerous, painful accusation to make. okay, i get it, you have a hundred little people to keep track of and it's your job to keep them safe and you gotta do what you gotta do. this is your "policy," and it's probably an okay one given all the crazies in the world. but it is a very sticky situation that requires the utmost deference, tact, and respect. how about start with, "i am SO sorry, i know this is a huge inconvenience and i truly apologize, but, it's only the second week of school, and we are still learning everyone's names and faces, and i'm sorry but i don't recognize yours, so may I please just take a peek at your driver's license just to make extra sure? better safe than sorry!" how about that, instead of an agressive "i need to see some ID," which automatically tears someone down and puts them on the defensive.

maybe she does have kids, she just had a terrible day and i was the straw the broke the camel's back. (maybe i had a terrible day and this was just what pushed me over the edge.) or maybe she can't have kids and working with beautiful smiling/crazy crying children every day is driving her slowly out of her mind. maybe some poor child was abducted on her watch and she will never ever forgive herself, and is spending the rest of her life being hypervigilant, on edge, making sure it never ever happens again. maybe i wronged her in a past life. or maybe she's just a dick. i don't know. all i know is, sticks and stones my ass, her words cut me to the bone.

to bring it full circle. my second (not so) rational thought was, "i'm changing my last name tomorrow." but then, as i started to think about it some more, i was like, No. Because, F.U., YMCA. "Mack N. Cheese" does have a nice lil' ring to it. but. i've gotten this far. i am 33 years old. i have been married for over 5 years. i have been a mother for 3 years. we have been on a dozen plane flights with the kids. i have travelled with them alone. we have left the state. we have left the country. all with our mismatched names and no big hullabaloo. like i said, it's 2013, people! we live in the United States of America, and in California, to boot. thirty five percent of women in their 20s and 30s don't take their husband's name when they marry. it's not like i'm being joan of f*cking arc here. with the continued rise of gay marriage, second (and third and fourth) marriages, blended families, and revised notions of what the "marital union" entails, i believe at some point, sooner rather than later, we're going to have to start coming up with more creative approaches to "the name game." i don't believe i need to have the same last name as my son to be a bona fide mom. i already have my name. my son has his own. my husband and my daughter, too. and they don't always have to match.


**blood is thicker than water, but, not as thick as the name registered
with the county department of health and human services.
or the california department of motor vehicles.
and also the social security administration**

a confession, part I, or, what's in a name?

alright, listen, i have a confession to make. my last name is not, in fact, "Cheese." i know, i know. this is probably really hard for you to hear. i'll let you have a minute to process.

okay.

done?

so yeah. cheese is my husband's name. not mine. i've been operating under the monniker Mackenzie ("Mack") N. Cheese because it just seemed easier and less confusing, and honestly, i am too dead dog tired to come up with a witty maiden pseudo surname. but i'm taking submissions. hit me.

anyway. there ya go. my secret's out. i did not change my last name when i got married. why? i could spout a bunch of fem theory 101 at you, and say it was because i believe in equality (i do), that i don't want to perpetuate patriarchal, heteronormative, hegemonic masculinity (i don't), that i feel that my husband and i contribute equally to the partnership and therefore it makes no sense that he should get naming/branding rights (and ps, if marital contribution were the measurement, i would be the one entitled to naming rights, hands down. and also branding. seriously people. we have colors. and a font.)

but honestly, i didn't/don't even feel like i need(ed) a reason. it wasn't a decision i made. it was just a given. i never considered even for a second changing my name. okay shakespeare, yeah, yeah, "what's in a name?" blah blah. but it's my name. in my mind, it would have made as much (or as little) sense to change my first name upon marriage as it would to change my last. when i got married, i'd had this name for 28 years. i'd inherited it from my father, from his family, a family i love, a history i cherish. just as my parents told me the story of how they'd chosen my "given name," i remember my grandfather talking about our "family name," explaining to me the ways that we were, maybe-possibly, distantly related to marginally famous historical figures. sure, my mom's maiden name and my stepdad's surname were equally suffused with cool connections and history, but, the world being what it was in 1980, those names weren't mine. my mother had the same surname, and kept it even after she was divorced, even giving a version of it to my little brother, her son with my stepdad. while my little bro laments the 13 letters in his last name, i love that he and i still have that layer of connection. this name of mine was in the playbills for cheesy drama productions in junior high and high school. this name was silk-screened on the back of countless sports jerseys, stitched into my letterman jacket, etched into trophies, plaques, and awards. this name is caligraphied all pretty-like on my college diploma, as well as my fancy law degree. there is a group of people (albeit a very small one) who have commended my services as an attorney, saying i saved them, i saved their family, that i am doing "God's work." they know me by this name. my name. when people ask why i didn't change my name, i think, why would i?

i do have a couple of friends whose awesome radical progressive hippie parents melded their two last names to create a new one... Black + Smith = Blacksmith. Hill + Scott = Hillscott. i absolutely love that idea and everything that it represents about marriage and partnership in the world today, but it's not always practical, and again, it was really such a non-issue for us. i didn't think twice about keeping my name. i assumed people would call me mrs. cheese from time to time (my father in law still does :)) and i wouldn't bother correcting them, except maybe to say, "please, call me Mackenzie, or just plain Mack." ;) but like i said, i've never even considered changing my last name. it's just never been a thing. until today.

to be continued...

[source: http://feministryangosling.tumblr.com/post/36148664554/]

fostering your child's independence at the expense of your overpriced heath ceramics

more talk about preschool and poop. apparently my new metier.

the new preschool is all about the kids' independence, self-confidence, "emergent learning," positive discipline... blah blah blah. at orientation they had homemade play dough (and they were weirdly obsessed with the smell of it. they kept being like, "oooh, did you smell it? how good does it smell? what do you think it smells like? eh? eh?" ummmm... it smells like... play dough? for a minute i had a weird flashback to college and i thought, omigod, is there pot in the play dough?? there wasn't. i don't think. we didn't eat any. also? my hands keep writing douche not dough. is that bad that my fingers engage in rote name calling?)

anyway, they had scissors and knives out for cutting the play dough. because they "trust" that the children will "rise to the occasion." alright. good on ya. i hope your liability policy covers lefty scissor lacerations and getting shanked with a plastic shiv (shivved with a shank?) i tried to proactively manage the situation by explaining to J$ that he is in preschool because he is such a big boy and that is why at preschool, and only at preschool, he gets to play with things like scissors and knives. but that cup o' independence has already runneth over. last night he threw a holy terror of a tantrum because i told him he could not use a steak knife to spread butter. "I WAAAAANNNNIT!" "I'm sorry. You can't have it. Sharp knives are only for grown ups." "WAAAAAAAA. RAARRRRR. AAAAAAAH. *slam a door* *kick something* *throw something* I WOULD LIKE TO BE A GROWN UP! PLEEEEEEEAAAAASE!!! I SAID PLEEAAAAAASSSE!!!!!" [impressively, he usually manages to mind his manners, even amidst his psychotic breaks.] "I'm sorry. You'll have to wait 15-25 more years for that." "But they let me use  knives at 'cool..." and so it begins.

the teachers also explained that they were going to start out serving drinks in paper cups, but that soon they would work up to glass, "just like you use at home." HA! gurrrrrrl, that's just crazy talk. you obviously do not have children. the only person in our house who's allowed to use a glass-glass? is me. we do often use actual dinner plates, but there have been several (expensive) casualties (including the fancy freakin salt shaker) so i have recently been rethinking my strategy there. bring on the melamine!

in addition, the school encourages parents to let the kids "help" pack their own lunches, which is generally the opposite of helpful but can be fun or sometimes terrible depending on the day. the school director warned that they "would not engage in power struggles" over lunch, "so keep that in mind when choosing what to pack." obviously, she said, if you put cookies or goldfish along with healthy fruits and vegetables, the kid's going to eat the cookies first, and probably only the cookies. she said, "hey, if you want your kid to eat cookies and goldfish for lunch everyday, we're not going to judge you." [false.] "we're just telling you how it goes."

they also "strongly suggest" the kids pick out their own clothes and dress/undress themselves. J likes to pick out his own clothes. he also likes to decide that the outfit he picked out last night, or, thirty-seven seconds ago, is the worst decision he ever made in his entire life. dressing/undressing is another issue entirely. sometimes he insists on doing it himself, sometimes he views it as an insurmountable task. the level of difficulty may or may not have something to do with whether he's gotten enough sleep, whether he is suffering from low blood sugar, and/or whether mercury is in retrograde.

even on the best day, if i were to have J pick his own clothes and dress himself from head to toe... oh yeah, and also... eat breakfast (do you know how long it takes to choose which cereal to eat?), brush teeth (i think he has, like, twenty of them at this point... and did you know that, if given the proper incentive, a child's jaw can exert force equal to that of a crocodile?), get out of his pjs so he can get into clothes, apply sunscreen (you'd think it was agent orange the way they carry on), lug his own lunch box (SO HEAVY), walk to the car (SO FAR), get in the car (SO HIGH - but GOD SAVE THE SOUL of anyone who tries to help him), get in the car seat, face the direction in the car seat that does not guarantee a ticket and a visit from CPS, securely fasten 5-point safety harness (how long does that take? multiply infinity TIMES FIVE), drive (less than a mile now, thank you Jesus!), unbuckle (involves mind-reading re: whether or not he would like assistance this particular second), get out of the car (you'd think he was rappelling from El Capitan), and walk to preschool (farrrrr. lunchbox so heavy. arm might fall off. not to mention the fact that, meanwhile, i am hauling my overgrown baby chile, who weighs significantly more than J's lunch box.) fight over who gets to sign in (if you don't want my kid to write on the sign-in sheet then don't put it at his EYE LEVEL), pass the "health check," (still unsure re: acceptable levels/colors of snot), walk to classroom [dead man walking], hang up lunchbox (BY HIMSELF). pee (even though he decidedly DID NOT have to pee AT ALL 7 minutes ago, or maybe it was an hour ago, who knows). wash hands (total germ annihilation becomes supremely important at 8:29 a.m.) finally, finally, i think i'm going to make a clean exit but at the last minute, as per usual, i need professional assistance peeling the wailing child off my leg :( the moral of the story is, independence slows progress by a minimum of 73%.

so, yeah. that's how mornings go around here. i let the kids do things for themselves when and where i can, but if i completely handed over the reigns i'd literally have to wake them up at 3am so that we could all get to school/daycare/work on time. on the other hand, if i dress the kid the way i want to, it's a dead giveaway that i am not following proper preschool independence protocol. i suppose i could intentionally pick ridiculous and mismatched ensembles, or let him wear the same shirt every day for a week, but that really offends my particular sensibilities. instead, i just let daddy pick out his clothes, as his sartorial stylings are akin to that of a small child. nobody's the wiser ;)

another area of independence is wiping their own asses. as you may or may not know, J can't effectively wipe his own because, according to him, his butt is crooked. despite this physiological challenge, self-administered butt-hygiene is a life skill that they expect my 3 year old to master. when i asked about the logistics one of the teachers said, "we just show them how to do it themselves." i was like, "okay, well, can you maybe give me some pointers because my methods of instruction are clearly insufficient." then she and another mom (who apparently teaches kindergarten) laughed and said, "oh, yeah, it's not a squeaky clean operation or anything, there will be skid marks for another 2-3 years at least. hahaha." um, ew. as our family's chief-laundress and shit-stain supervisor, i object! not only on my own behalf but as the proxy for my poor kid who has to walk around with an itchy poopy butt all day! so sad! i guess ya gotta learn sometime, but man. welcome to "the real world," a.k.a. preschool!

when we I was pregnant with C-diggity, one of DM's mentors from work gave him his "parenting bible" - a book called "your self-confident baby." DM respects the guy a great deal and says his kids are super well behaved and totally entertain themselves and let him and his wife sleep in until 9 on the weekends and do not need a constant stream of eye contact, verbal validation, and rewards (unlike somebody else we know, *wink wink*), so i thought it would be worth a read. it had some good pointers, though, in my view, nothing totally earth-shattering. however, at the time i was reading this, J was almost a year and a half, and the book basically said if you haven't done all of this by the time the kid turns 2, you're f@#%^&. so we had 6 months to implement two years' worth of cognitive behavioral therapy. i more or less took that as "better luck next time!" i'm (mostly) kidding. i don't think J's a complete lost cause ;) (and in any event, to the extent there are any magical keys to his independence and sanity, i don't think i'm going to find them in a book.)

the thing is. i want to be a chill, free range mama. well, sort of. i want to be a free range parent whose little free range chickens clean up after their own damn selves as opposed to leaving a constant trail of detritus and destruction in their wake. and obviously i want to foster independence and self-confidence in my children. but i also don't want anyone to needlessly break a leg, lose an eye, or to have to buy a new dinner set every three months. i definitely used to be that A-hole who said, "i'm not going to let having children stop me from having nice things. i will just teach my children to respect and take good care of our nice things. it's as easy as that!" i should have heeded the warning signs, e.g., that i could not even teach my husband to respect and take care of our nice things. if nothing else, 3 years of parenthood has taught me that, for better and for worse, there is a limit on your powers as a parent in the face of kids' unerring tendency to be kids! as always, it all comes back to balance and finding what works for you. and also, not having people tell you - subtly or not-so-subtly - how to raise your children all the damn time.

that is all :)

honestly, my dog could probably get ready faster than these children.
[source: www.aliexpress.com]

worst stroller EVER IN THE WORLD (or not)

warning: this post may be insanely boring for non-parents or any other normal people who have not wasted hours of their life deciding which stroller to buy. crazy people, carry on. you are welcome here, and you're in good (or bad?) company :)

when we had baby #1 we got a stroller that i LOVED. that i still love. the bumbleride indie. (except for this one small incident where there was a recall with the front wheel and i got the email and i thought, oh, i'll just take care of it when i get home from work, it's not like anything is going to happen in the next 4 hours. and then one hour later the front wheel fell off while the nanny was walking J! wtf, universe?! at least it happened in our front yard, and not on the side of our crazy busy road! scary! ugh!)

ANYWAY. once #2 arrived, i figured we should invest in a stroller that could accommodate both kids (even though we barely ever use it). however, it is commonly known that i would rather pluck out each and every one of my eyelashes than get some ginormous double-wide thingy. i don't know why. double-wides just chap my hide. they don't fit in doorways. they don't fit in store aisles. they're like mini mom-powered urban assault vehicles. they just bug. i was vehemently and irrevocably opposed. so i did tons and tons of research* and even though many people said "just get the double BOB already" or at least get the double-wide bumbleride, it seemed that the most popular non-double-wide alternative that did not cost more than a mortgage payment was this pretty little lady right here - The Baby Jogger City Select Double Stroller.

[*by "research" i mean, locate reviews and ratings
that support the conclusion that i already came to in my mind.
confirmation bias, baby :)]

and let me tell ya, she wasn't cheap. with the second seat, the carseat adapter, the kickstand (or, "skateboard," as J calls it) and all the other assorted attachments and doodads, this baby rang in at about $750 (plus tax. should have at least bought it in Delaware! dangit!) but i had myself convinced that this, and only this, stroller would do. it was the best (well, not the best. but the best we could (not really) afford). and my babies deserved the best(ish). so i got it. i had pushed the kids around Buy Buy Baby in it but didn't get a chance to really try the thing out "for reals." our nanny "test drove" it the next day and when i asked what she thought she basically said "meh" but i was like, oh well, because i am not getting a freakin' doublewide. (she didn't want a double BOB either, but it was clear she was not a huge fan of this stroller.)

 

a couple of days later i actually had an opportunity to take the thing out for a ride myself and i was none too impressed. while it had moved reasonably well over the smooth, level linoleum floor of Buy Buy Baby, pushing it up a bumpy hill was really tough. especially because Big J insisted on being in the front so he could have an unobstructed view, which - i'm no engineer, but i'm pretty sure is not the most effective approach to weight distribution. it was also difficult to maneuver it around turns - even the slightest turns - and i mean really difficult. i felt like i was pushing a giant cardboard appliance box with a 30 lb weight at either end.

 

crap. this thing kinda sucked. we talked about returning it and getting something else, but again my stubborn ass would not succumb to the double-wide and there weren't any other front-n-back/sit-n-stand type strollers that appeared to be any better (or so i told myself). plus, despite its drawbacks, this one was super flexible in the ways that you could manipulate it - double, single, front facing, back facing, facing eachother, back to back, etc.. (however, you may not be able to tell from the photo, but in almost every combination, at least one of your children can kick the other). still. we (okay, I) ultimately decided to keep it. we did not encounter the full extent of the stroller's suckage until our trip to Disneyland last winter. trying to push a cardboard box-o-babies around a deserted neighborhood with wide turns is one thing. trying to maneuver said baby box around tens of thousands of enthusiastic Disney patrons with equally unweildy child-carrying apparati was damn near impossible. we ended up paying to rent a single stroller for J and I just carried Baby in the Bjorn. it was that bad.

 

after that day, i was filled with fury whenever i saw or thought of the baby jogger. city "select" my ass. i meant to write a scathing review on amazon but never got around to it. however, even a scathing amazon review probably would not have saved the likes of me, with my WASP-y "it is more expensive and therefore must be better" mentality. but. pity the poor couple who happened to be testing out the esteemed city select one day when i was walking through BBB. now look. i abhor unsolicited parenting advice. or unsolicited any advice. i try really really hard not to give it unless it is explicitly requested. (except for my family. i boss them all the time :)) but i felt it was my CIVIC DUTY to warn these people about the scourge on modern civilization that is the baby jogger city select. i just went off. i was like, "excuse me? i just feel like i should tell you. that right there is the ABSOLUTE WORST $700 i have ever spent in my entire life, and believe you me, i have spent money on a lot of stupid shit. seriously. do. not. buy. that. stroller. you will rue the day." they looked at me like i was 68% crazy, so i backtracked a tiny bit and was like, "i mean, i don't know, maybe you will like it, but definitely try it first, like really try it, and put your big kid in the front because that is where he is going to want to sit, and you will likely discover that it is like pushing a double milk crate around on crappy asphalt." anyway, they probably bought it as soon as i was out of sight. i would have - at least, before The Disneyland Debacle of 2012. but whatever.

 

then. i go home. i tell DM about this incident. no less than seven minutes later i am moving "The Beast," as i refer to it, from the living room to the garage, when for some reason i notice that there is a little pull knob by the front wheel. i was like, "huh. i've never noticed that before. i wonder what it does?" i pull it over to the other side. IT UNLOCKS THE FRONT WHEELS. do you understand what i am saying here? THE FRONT WHEELS OF THE STROLLER HAVE BEEN IN THE LOCKED POSITION FOR ELEVEN MONTHS. locked, as in, will not turn. in actuality, this baby turns on a dime. WHOOPSIE-DAISY. the fact that i made this discovery on the night of the Buy Buy Baby Incident was clearly God or The Universe's way of serving me a nice tall glass of shut the hell up, and reminding me that my general policy of not pushing unsolicited advice is a wise one.

 

so yeah. that happened. my apologies to that poor unsuspecting couple at Buy Buy Baby. and to Baby Jogger. even though i do stand by my pre-disney assessment that the stroller is just "meh" and if i could do it over again i would definitely not spend $700.

 

the moral of the story: i am an idiot. and i should have just gotten the double-wide. 

 

the end :)

 

oh wait. ps. DM also hated/hates The Beast and not-so-secretly blames me for its presence in our lives and in our garage, which is fair. however, a couple months ago we were at a street fair and he saw a front/back double stroller and he said, "whoa, look at that stroller! that's cool! why can't we have that?!" i looked over and then replied, "we HAVE that stroller, a.k.a. the worst stroller in the world!" so. i am not the only one who was lured by the siren song of the city select.

"sick day"

Deep thoughts...

Being sick with kids sucks. Being sick with sick kids sucks worse. On the totem pole of sickness, moms are at the bottom. I think it goes dads/grown men, then kids, then moms. Maybe kids then dads, I don't know. But either way, people are steppin' on mama's head. Honestly I'd rather be at work because then at least I could take a 20 minute cat nap in my car or just close my door and drink tea and be quiet. Baby and I must have the same bug, but she's handling it much better than I. Sadly, this is not the "snuggle and sleep on mama all day" kind of sickness. This is the "visibly contagious germ factory, but she must have missed the memo" kind of sickness. She looks and sounds like she has TB, but she still wants to run around cataloging every object on our property ("Wha's dat?" "A tree." "No!" "A plant?" "NO!" "Uhhhh.... bush?" "NOOOOOOO! ISS A BIWDY!!!" "Actually, no, it's not a birdie." "[*Ear-piercing scream*] ISS A BIWDIE!!!! WAAAAA!!!!" "Okay, okay, it's a birdie! Made of wood. Growing out of the ground. With leaves. A deciduous birdie.") Then read every book she owns at least two times (there is a method to her madness... YOU DO NOT GET TO CHOOSE THE BOOKS). And of course, continue with her calculated campaign designed to break Big Brother's balls. She pesters him constantly, with repeated full-body tackle-hugs that veer into violent territory if unrequited. (As we like to say, she doesn't start fights, but she ends them ;))

This sibling rivalry is so interesting to me, now, as a mother. I basically contemplated my little sister's untimely demise until the day I left for college (LOVE YA, SIS!), so I totally get where Jack's coming from. Baby is ALL UP in his business at all times and definitely terrorizes him on a regular basis, and he tries really hard to be sweet at least 75% 63% 51% of the time.... but then, she's my lovinest littlest sugarlump and sometimes I just cannot abide the way he treats her. Now I know how my parents felt. Right down to him throwing blunt objects at her head. (Better than sharp ones, I suppose!)

By the way, am I going to call her Baby for the rest of her life like in Dirty Dancing?

Speaking of Dirty Dancing - remember "the old days" when "sick day" meant lounging on the couch with a Thera Flu slushee and watching "the classics", a.k.a. Dirty Dancing, Almost Famous, GI Jane, Mean Girls, Legally Blonde, Bring It On, etc? I still haven't seen Pitch Perfect, people!!! Meanwhile, the DDs (diminutive dictators) have monopolized the remote, and while I appreciate the 26 minutes of relative peace, if I have to hear the "LITTOW EIN-TINES" song one more time I might commit hara-kiri with a spork. (To the tune of TCHAI-kovsky! Actually that reminds me of a cute story - J gets so proud of himself when he pronounces something correctly - he says, "Mama!! Watch this!!!" "Okay, I'm watching." "Overture." Hahaha. Well done, son. :))

On a happier note, I have forgiven the new preschool its trespasses against cupcakes because, instead of a 40 to 60 minute round trip with a shrieking banshee in the back seat, it is two minutes from home. SO GLORIOUS.

Anyway. That's all I got. I am so brain dead. I sorta feel like I got the stuffing knocked out of me. Do you know I don't really sleep? More about that later. But it pretty much sucks. Add two solid months of back-to-back-to-back weekend events and travel, looming work deadlines, a virulent strain of the bubonic plague, and I am just barely holding it together. Do you ever get that feeling that you are juggling so many balls and you are about to drop them ALL??? That's me right now. Too many balls ;)

One of these metaphorical balls is thank you notes. I used to be a thank you card super star. Personalized photo cards in 3-5 business days. Now, we're two weeks out from J$'s birthday, and I'm still only halfway done. Tonight, I'm trying to catch up, writing thank yous in the voice of my three year old. Yes. I am "That Mom."

"Dear Auntie -

Thank you for the awesome keyboard that I for some reason insist on playing with Ziploc baggies on my hands because apparently I am Phantom of the Freaking Opera.

Love you lots!

Jackson Jay"

Another metaphorical ball is this "blog." Hopefully I don't run out of funny!

Oh yeah, also, coughing fits with a postpartum pelvic floor? Goodbye Hanky Panky! Hellloooo Depends!

nectar of the gods



Wanted: Mom Friends Who Don't Suck

two years ago, our best couple-friends-with-kids moved away. TO FRESNO. wtf. :) this was one of those rare situations where all parties actually wanted to be friends (as opposed to the husbands or wives of the actual friends being foisted upon on one-another like grumpy toddlers at a play date). even the toddlers loved each other! anyway, they abandoned us and we've never quite forgiven them :) however, Big J had his preschool orientation this morning. he was pretty lukewarm on the whole thing but i was stoked because i found out that the woman i sat next to for three hours at the INSANE 4am preschool open registration day, who was super great, is the mom of a boy in J's class. and she remembered my name! yay! i mean, i'm not saying we're going to be BFFs or anything (although, FYI, i am already planning family bbq's... does september work for you? and i am just guessing by the way your kid is dressed that your husband (and you?) surf so we're already on the right track.) I AM KIDDING! but! i just feel like this might be a great opportunity to meet new people that live nearby and have children and aren't terrible to be around. and i am excited about that! let's hope this woman is not one of the 4 readers of this blog that i do not personally know otherwise she is probably going to be like, okay psycho stalker, i have notified the local law enforcement, please keep your distance. but anyway. all of this reminded me of the "wanted" ad i wrote 2 years ago. it basically still applies except now i have two wacky little pork chops running around which means any new friends must be able to withstand double the crazy.

WANTED: MOM FRIENDS WHO DON'T SUCK

(yes, i am aware that suckage is a subjective concept. my personal parameters are described in greater detail, below.)

looking for a new friend and neighbor in My Town, California. must be a mom, or a rare breed of woman who does not have her own children, but can hang out for an extended period of time with someone whose life is ruled by (two!) diminutive dictators, and not want to pluck out her own eyes. does any of this describe you?

* you like to drink. particularly during the day. (but hardly ever get to anymore because then all you want is a nap and MAMAS DON'T GET NAPS which is basically one of the greatest injustices in the universe.)
* you don’t cry when the kids get shots or have birthdays. (kindergarten graduation- maybe :))
* you may or may not use impending shots, birthdays, and santa claus as bargaining tools.
* you swore on your first-born child you would never EVER be “one of those people” who talks about baby poop. then, upon the arrival of said child, you engaged in detailed discussions of all bodily emissions, complete with photographic evidence.
* you swore you would never ever do a whole lotta things, and then, you did. [speaking of, have you read this from pregnantchicken.com on rantsfrommommyland.com? am i a blogomercial right now or what? anyway. hilarious. and there's more. here, and here, and here. i'm lol'ing.]
* you do in fact like to discuss issues other than children (and poop)… from time to time :)

* but, you understand that, at least when the kids are around (which is quite often), "conversation" is very loosely defined, and usually does not include many coherent thoughts or complete sentences.
* you spent at least a small (or large!) portion of the first six months of your child’s life wondering what in the hell you’d gotten yourself into. then you figured out it gets better. and then worse. and then better. and so on and so forth.
* you won't judge me for my epidurals, my stash of FD&C-enhanced gold fish and fruit snacks, or the state of my laundry hamper.
* you’re not a breast-is-best nazi (more power to you if it works for you. but guess what? turns out these babies are just for show! don't worry about those 8 IQ points, my kids have got 'em to spare ;))
* on that note, you would never seriously refer to your child as “gifted” (at least, not in public :))
* you think a 2-year-old birthday party sounds like some special version of hell. (now that i'm a toddler birthday "survivor," i will say, it's not actually as bad as i thought. okay i'm lying it's still pretty terrible. but maybe it's like, in the upper echelons of hell. not the ninth rung or anything. as long as there's beer. and cupcakes.** but if you are my friend and you do not have children of your own, please know, i am inviting you because i don't want you to feel left out, but you do not need to provide any sort of excuse along with your regrets to the party. just a simple "are you insane?" will do :) ps the answer is yes.)
* you would rather shave off an eyebrow than drive a minivan or a double-wide stroller*** (but understand that you may very well eat your words one day. okay, no. no, no, no. just not the minivan. please, god, no.)
* you don’t suck.
* you jump at the opportunity for a baby-free date night.
* you like going to work (well, sometimes :))
* you like beach days, picnics, hikes, and you’re not too old for sleepovers.

* you will tell me if i have snot of unknown origin on my shirt, "(not really) washable (at all)" marker on my cheek, or a calcified gummy bear stuck to my ass.
* you live within stroller distance of my house.
* you rely heavily on the five- (or ten-… or thirty-) second rule.
* you allow the occasional – gasp – inorganic, non-locally-grown and/or FD&C-red-#4-colored food-item to touch your child’s lips. you know... goldfish, dog kibble, what-have-you (just kidding, we would never feed our dog that sh!t ;))
* you enjoy a good burrito and do not treat gluten as the newest domestic terrorist threat.
* and don’t forget the parts about day drinking and not sucking! :)

** unless we are celebrating at the new cupcake-nazi preschool in which case there will be neither beer nor cupcakes, just "special sugar-free treats" which is an oxymoron in my book. still bitter about this. can you tell? my cousin just told me that she toured a preschool that suggested they bring "birthday napkins" in lieu of sweet treats. ha! ps the way my kid goes through napkins, cupcakes would definitely be cheaper.
*** remind me to tell you the story about "the worst stroller EVER."

bonus points if:

* you have a minor anxiety attack when a group of “stroller stride” mommies passes you by in the park, and you’d rather get a root canal than go to “gymboree” class, but you really can’t judge, because people who willingly attended “mommy and me” swim class shouldn’t throw stones.
* your partner believes your infant/toddler is showing signs of a promising career in professional sports.
* you have a rad husband/boyfriend/lesbian lover who will want to go see really terrible sci-fi/shoot-em-up movies and go paint balling with my husband so that i don’t have to.
* your fashion sense tends more towards target and tj maxx than nordstrom’s and neiman’s.
* you love cheese, bread, tequila, and champagne, and believe mayonnaise and ranch constitute their own food group.
* you got an epidural, and have no regrets! (Or you didn't, and you had your baby on your living room floor like someone I know from college. In which case, you are probably too bad ass to be my friend ;))

accepting applications now!

by the way. i was at the store yesterday and saw a mother we'd seen at the open house and i smiled hello. she had her kids with her. i didn't. one asked, "who's that mom?" (it definitely was not, "who's that, Mom?") they knew. just by looking at me. i've been branded for life. AND IT MADE ME SMILE. top off my koolaid, y'all ;) 



except for the moral fibre, principles, patient and sedate parts

** Like this post? Then you'll love my essay in I Still Just Want to Pee Alone. **

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who knew? hell is at 30,000 feet.

saw this post on dooce.com about traveling with children. really liked it. made the mistake of reading some of the comments. became enraged. felt the need to write a comment myself in which i wrote a (slightly) shorter version of the following paragraph:

once, on our first cross country flight with a baby, our 11-month-old was so out of control that the flight attendant kindly suggested we buy a round of drinks for the entire airplane. it was quite possibly the worst 5 hours of my life. (i say that a lot. that's probably not totally accurate. but top ten FOR SURE.) we seriously considered renting a car and driving ACROSS THE COUNTRY on the way back, if not to save ourselves, then to protect our fellow citizens from further pain. i GUARANTEE you nobody felt worse about the situation than i did. i spent every minute i was legally allowed to do so (which was like, THREE HUNDRED OF THEM) walking up and down the aisle, trying to be three inches less wide than i was (while holding a large, angry, and unruly baby), bouncing said baby up and down in attempts to soothe him without elbowing people in the head, passing out apologetic smiles to everyones' stink eyes, and being on the verge of tears myself from the combination of humiliation, exhaustion, and the physical and psychic torture that is being that mom to that baby in front of a captive audience. i guess that's my karmic retribution for the fact that i used to be the jerk whose response to baby-proximity on a plane was a mental "UGH." i totally get that it sucks for you lucky* "child free" people too and i get that you wouldn't know this until it happens to you, but TRUST ME, we are TRYING. at this age, it's not an issue of the kid having manners or being well bred or having terrible parents. it's not like i'm setting the little devils loose while i knock back airplane bottles of sutter's home chardonnay (as enticing as that sounds). trying to convince a hysterical baby/toddler to be quiet/behave is like negotiating with alien terrorists that do not understand a single word that is coming out of your mouth, or, if they do, they are of such supreme (or inferior) intelligence, it is beneath (or above) them to respond.

[yes. that is a really long comment. but c'mon. you know that's how i roll. :)]

most people hated us on this (and subsequent) flights, but there were a few, including the person stuck in the same row as us, who reinvigorated my belief that humans are generally good souls. the best possible thing you can hear when you are simultaneously ruining 168 people's days, is "hey, listen, we've all been there." (actually, the best possible thing you can hear is, "here, hand her over! let me give that little sugarlump some love while you take a nap." :)) but clearly, not everyone has been there, or else people wouldn't be such jute bags about it. still. it's nice to hear. now, i feel about traveling with children as i do about food service - every person in the world should have to wait tables and travel with kids at least once as a sort of boot camp in compassion for human suffering. now, when i fly and other babies are crying, i feel bad for the parents, but if i'm being honest (and selfish), i'm actually secretly thankful, because they're probably drowning out my kids' noise and therefore i'm not the biggest A-hole on the plane. (as the author says in her piece, her response to seeing babies on the plane has gone from "OH GOD, NO." to "YAY! IT ISN'T MINE!")

oh and the people who claim that it is our CHOICE to fly across the country whilst wrestling one or more angry octopi, and/or that families shouldn't be allowed to fly at all... well, i hope on your next flight you're seated in front of a couple of toddlers who just chugged Big Gulps of Coca Cola, scarfed down some Pop Rocks, and forgot their iPads at security. unfortunately for you (and us), you live in THE WORLD, and the reality is, there are loud, energetic, sticky little children in it. they're EVERYWHERE. even on airplanes. and let me let you in on a little secret. YOU WERE ONE OF THEM ONCE. maybe your mom made you ride in the trunk and that's why you're so effing bitter about life. listen. i'm not saying it doesn't suck. i'm just saying, put on your big kid pants and handle it. unlike most grown-ups, kids usually aren't being giant crooked d*cks on purpose. (< maybe.) and i promise you that mom (or dad) is doing his/her best. the last think she needs is for you to sh*t on her already craptastic day.

* p.s., someone responded to my comment on this article. s/he replied "How is it that child-free people are 'lucky?' Having a child in America is a choice, not a game of chance." wait, what? i don't get it. well. his/her "name" is "pickyvegan" and s/he apparently likes to correct strangers' grammar online so i can already tell s/he is probably super awesome and fun to be around. i didn't respond but if i had it probably would've gone something like this:

"lucky" was an (apparently unfunny and grammatically incorrect) tongue-in-cheek reference to the "childfree by choice" movement as discussed in the recent Time Magazine article, etc., who feel that they are fortunate (hmmm... fortunate also infers chance... dangit. blessed? no, that implies some sort of divine intervention. damn. foiled again. favored? smart? winning???) not to have ruined their lives via procreation, but seem to hold the general consensus that those with child-full lives were put on this earth solely to harsh their buzz. (and I can't say I entirely blame them. children do tend to have that effect, particularly on airplanes, at least if your buzz is derived from alcohol and peace and quiet.) thanks for pointing out my mistake though! good to know the grammar police aren't sleepin' on the job!

** p.p.s. don't even get me started about education and access to birth control, etc., and whether or not everyone in America actually has a real, informed choice to have, or not to have, a child.

*** p.p.p.s. i'm so not doing a good job of "choosing joy" today.

[also this article from jaunted.com about malaysia airlines banning children from the top deck of their fancy new planes. cue outkast's 'Rosa Parks' - "aah haa, hush that fuss, little kids move to the bottom of the airbus." can really smelly people and armrest hoggers and people who insist on talking to you the whole entire flight even though you're reading AND WEARING HEADPHONES and people who deal nuclear farts be sent to the basement, too?]

looks glorious.
do you guys offer like a part-time membership?




[source: http://www.jaunted.com/story/2012/6/4/142158/2069/travel/
Misbehaving+Child+on+a+Flight%3F+Alaska+Airlines+Ain't+Having+That -
which, FYI, refers to children as "crotch flowers." charming.]

 

things NOT to say in an interview

today is our nanny's last day. i have major anxiety about it. it's like a really awkward/terrible break up where the guy is super great and you love him, but you're not IN love - complete with him giving back a bunch of your crap in a box and returning your house key. eef. i am NOT looking forward to going home today. i really don't do well with crying. there have already been lots of "meaningful talks" and "getting choked up." and i'm pretty sure she loves J more than her own grandchildren (C too, but she's been with J since he was 6 months old and now he's 3 (three?!) so they've got more history) so it is not going to be pretty. she really is wonderful and our kids have benefitted immensely in her care. we will all be going through withdrawals, Jack especially. she's like a surrogate mom/grandma, preschool teacher, and also housekeeper, which is worth eleventy billion bonus points. most importantly, i trust her implicitly with the children, which is rare and priceless. of course, her services are rather pricey, so we won't miss that part! she's also left us totally stranded without childcare on multiple occasions, the effects of which contributed to me getting passed up for a promotion at work, but daycare and preschool are equally at fault, as are DM and I - who decided to have two children and who want to be there for at least a portion of their upbringing (and/or cannot afford around-the-clock child care :))

the other night she texted me and said she had gone on an interview with some strange family that lived in a tiny apartment-slash-zoo and that we we going to be impossible to replace (and obviously there's some stiff competition ;)) i wrote back "awww. that's nice. well, if you start missing us too much, just take comfort in thoughts of our messy house, dirty kitchen, living through two remodel projects, and that time you outsourced all of our laundry for three weeks." i was trying to be nice and i figured she'd write back something like, "oh you guys aren't that messy!" but instead she wrote, "You are worth all that!" lol. sigh. this is what we've become.

anyway. this got me thinking about the original, stressful search for nannies and babysitters and backups and replacements and daycares, etc. i have interviewed a LOT of child care providers over the past 3 years... and have come up with a list of things you do not want to say during your interview, particularly when the position involves caring for children:

"eventually you're going to accidentally slam the kid's head into a wall so it's best not to stress out about it too much." [this lady had dubbed herself an "infant expert" but was more like harvey karp on crack. i stayed home the first day to test the waters and i walked in on her shushing J at jet-engine decibels and nearly "jiggling" his head off. the poor kid looked like he had PTSD. needless to say she didn't last the day.]

"i have a lot of experience [though no children of my own] so i am not afraid to tell parents what they're doing wrong." don't call us, we'll call you.

why did you leave your last employer? "she was a total control freak." "the kids were nightmares." "all they ate were chicken nuggets and ketchup." um, yeah, this isn't going to work out.

"you really should make your own ranch dressing. that storebought stuff is terrible." b*tch, my kid is eating a carrot. leave it alone.

"i'm sure if you really wanted to breastfeed, you could do it." F. U.

"i don't like dogs." so you're saying you're a sociopath...? (just kidding. sort of ;))

"you can just call me Anna Banana." yeahhh, no.

"you seem to be a much better mother than my daughter-in-law." oh lord. poor girl.

"you hard-working, beer-drinking american women - i feel sorry for your husbands." that's nice, but i feel more sorry for myself.

"american girls don't understand, he must be treated like persian prince that he is. he will not lift a finger." trust me, the last thing this kid needs is further evidence that the entire world revolves around him.

"i usually work for 'trophy wives' who just sit around and watch me take care of their kids." sadly (for me), that is not the experience provided here.

"i don't like it when the parents are around while i'm trying to take care of their kids." okay, i admit, it is super awkward, but it happens sometimes, and the fact that you're making this disclaimer 60 seconds in makes me suspicious. also your sketchy wrist tattoos and mysteriously unreachable references.

"i don't feel like i should be expected to cook for or clean up after your child. i'm here to play and have fun!" well i don't feel like i should be expected to do that either but dems da breaks, sugar!

when she asked about my "parenting style," i mentioned my "go to" parenting book that explains my approach to naps, schedules, etc, and she replied "oh... i don't really read books." when i looked at her like, ????? she added, "i mean, like, grown-up ones." ummmm.... yeeeah.

"we will teach your children in the montessori style, which includes learning to sweep, fold, and put things away." actually, i'm kind of liking the sound of this...

"all of the children sleep from 1pm to 4pm [on tiny mats] in the same room." me: do they actually sleep? him: oh yes. the entire time. me: what drugs are you feeding them... and where can i get some???

why do you want to be a nanny? "well, i'm really an actress, i'm just trying to make some extra money until i get my big break." "i couldn't hack it in nursing school." "i couldn't get a 'real' job out of college." yeah, no.

"i'm 18, from Brazil, and missed my calling as a victoria's secret model." yeah, sorry, the position's been filled. this reminded my girlfriend of a funny, related story - she went on a babysitting job and when she walked in the woman said "the last nanny I interviewed was a tall gorgeous Brazilian girl and coming on the heels of that Jude Law scandal I was so glad to open the door and see you." thanks a lot! ha!

and last, but certainly not least - "oh, thank you, i just love balls on my face!" we actually love this lady - she still sits for us - and in her defense, J was putting (rubber, bouncy) balls on her face, and DM and I have the sense of humor of a 16 year old boy.

>>>>

okay, re: non-child-care positions.... all i really know is... the "interests" section in your resume? this is a big conspiracy between the career development office of your college/grad school and the employers of america, so that everyone can LAUGH AT YOU.

for example. the first time i sent my resume in to my current employer, i had in the interests section "beaches [like, the actual thing, not the bette midler movie], hot yoga, and cheese." this was listed right after i mentioned that i know "conversational spanish" (code for "i worked in a mexican restaurant for a long time so i know how to place very specific food orders and curse your mother in 17 different ways,") and that i had lived in both the Virgin Islands and Puerto Rico. taken together, i thought it made me sound worldy, casual, fit, and fun. turns out the interviewer initially rejected my resume out of hand because she said the juxtaposition of "hot yoga and cheese" conjured up images of a bad yeast infection. she still sometimes refers to me as "hot yoga", which i guess is better than some of the alternatives.

some other winners:

turtle rescue, butter tasting, amateur mixologist, three card monte, dusting, extreme housekeeping, auditioning for reality shows, creating iTunes playlists, charcoal grilling, entrepreneurialism, writing (working on a screenplay), viewing the Bodies exhibit at the Natural History Museum, walking around Old Town Sacramento, racquetball (nationally ranked junior player), and Rachael Ray. oh, and of course, Cross Fit and the Paleo Diet. eeee'rybody loves the Cross Fit and the Paleo.

also. once, during an interview, my (former) employer said this: "you minored in critical gender studies? what is that? some lesbian shit?" AND I STILL TOOK THE JOB.

the end.

 

my big fat persian reunion

DM once told me that he used to think he could only marry an Iranian girl, because no one else would understand the culture and values that he was brought up with. Lucky for me he changed his mind :)

I pointed out to him at the time, and was reminded again during the prodigious Persian powwow this weekend, that, perhaps counterintuitively, there are actually quite a few similarities between his large first- and second-generation immigrant Iranian family, and my large Midwestern family that can trace its roots back to the Mayflower, the Daughters of the American Revolution, and according to my grandma, the Bible ;)

Examples (a.k.a. blunt stereotypes) -

* Strange and delicious idiosyncratic foodstuffs (ground balogna, kashk-e bademjan).

* They say certain words funny (crick, pop, ehstarbucks, lentin). (Speaking of vernacular, have you seen these maps? So funny and so true!)

* They buy a new car every three years (buicks or beemers).

* "The Elders" start asking about grandchildren on your wedding day.

* Coffee/tea any time/all the time.

* Family gatherings revolve around food.

* You're either eating, or planning the next meal. (Seriously.)

* You can't escape without seconds and thirds at any meal, and there's no such thing as "just a little more", or "just a tiny slice."

* There's still a "kids table," and we refer to our parents and grandparents as "the adults" and/or "the grown ups" even though we're in our 30 (and 40s!)

* Vegetarian - what?

          - Our first visit back to Kalamazoo, Michigan (yes, there really is a Kalamazoo!) after I decided to become a vegetarian, we had a backyard BBQ, and my mom wondered aloud if there was anywhere in town you could get veggie burgers (keep in mind this was 1993). One of my uncles replied, "Veggie WHAT? If she were my kid, I'd tell her, 'You're eatin' a hamburger, or you're goin' hungry!'" And every time I'm back, the food conversation goes something like this "Well, you can just pick the meat out, right?"

          - Likewise, the first time I met my inlaws, we made our introductions, and then my future father-in-law announced that we had reservations at the Brazilian BBQ place - yes, one of those places where they have chunks of various varieties of charred animal flesh on human-sized skewers and they carve it off onto your plate two inches from your face. "You're not a vegetarian* or anything like that, are you?" Wellllll, about that... Ha! Luckily, they had a salad on the menu. And family gatherings are exactly like that scene in "My Big Fat Greek Wedding" where the aunt says, "Oh you're a vegetarian? That's okay. I make lamb!" Actually, this time, with the "kids" more or less running the show, many of whom are vegetarians themselves, there was more than enough for my carb-a-tarian self to eat :)

[*Imagine "vegetarian" spoken with the same disdain as "serial baby killer," or maybe, more accurately, like "fingernail-a-tarian" :)]

* Feminist - what?

          - Reportedly, when I was wee, one of my aunts and uncles came to visit while my aunt was pregnant. My uncle kept referring to the baby as "he" and "him". My dad asked my uncle, "What if it's a girl?" and my uncle said, "Then I'll put it back in till it's done!" (It was a boy, by the way. The first of two. I guess they cooked long enough. On that note, I am SO happy Colby came out three weeks early, before she could grow a penis. :))

          - After five years of marriage, my father-in-law still doesn't quite seem to grasp the fact that I kept my last name. :)

* Gay - Oh it's probably just a phase!

* They don't think they're racist (but they kind of are (referring generally to the elders again)).

* You are somehow related to almost everyone you meet there.

* Growing up, your cousins were some of your best friends, which made it extra weird when the elders suggested you marry them. [Editor's note - This is mostly just the hub's family. I don't actually think anyone in my family suggested marriage, though my mom did tell me a story once that brought new meaning to the term "kissin cousins."]

* You also have lots of "cousins" and "aunts" and "uncles" that don't strictly fit the geneological definition of the title. But someone (Grandma?) knows the entire family tree.

* It takes a whole entire park to host a family reunion.

* It takes an hour to say hello to everyone and two hours to say goodbye.

* Your family is it's own large, high speed communication/gossip network.

This last one is how the conversation came up again recently. DM told me that one of the reasons he decided he didn't necessarily want/need to marry a Persian girl is because nothing is private or secret, ever.

Oops. :)

But before you start feeling too sorry for the guy - please note - he isn't exactly a vault. In "real life," I'm actually way more private than he is. Or at least, I used to be. Something about pooping on the delivery table really brings down those walls. :)

Exhibit A: DM drops this into the conversation: "Oh, So-and-So and Whatshisnuts were totally surprised to find out you had fake boobs so I guess the doctor did a good job." Me: "Hmmm. And how did they "find out" that I have "fake boobs", as you so eloquently put it?" DM: "Uhh, I maybe might have sort of told them?" (Not that it's a secret. Obviously. But still.) Also. Ahem. You guess they did a good job? ;) (If you are just finding this out for the first time - Surprise! I did not, in fact, sprout C-cups at 18.)

Exhibit B: Years ago, when asked by a friend (who was a fairly new friend at the time) why we were late to a gathering, DM replied "Well, Mack was taking a pregnancy test. But it was negative. Phew! High five! Let's do shots!"

On a side note, DM said to me the other day, "If you don't want me to read your blog, I won't." I was like, "What? That's ridiculous. If you said you were going to have a secret blog I couldn't read I would divorce you. [Though, in the "old days," I guess, "secret blog your wife can't read" was called "male friends."] Anyway, no, that's dumb, of course you can read it. I'm not saying anything on there I that I don't already say to your face." Also, I can pretty much guarantee you that he does not read beyond the third paragraph of anything I write (kind of like me with voicemails) so I'll just save the good stuff until the end :)

Yum.

mayonnaise cupcakes

Want to know an awesome, relaxing way to wind down after a stressful day of traveling with Tasmanian devil babies??? Why, making and decorating baseball cupcakes for The Boy's preschool class, naturally!

Let me back track. We were in the Sea Ranch this weekend for a big ole family reunion with DM's family. It took us about 12 hours of travel to get there which sucked donkey balls but once we arrived it was really, really great. So nice to touch base with his fun, loving (and fun-loving!) family, and eat, and drink, and eat, and drink, and eat ;) And best of all, to watch all the little critter cousins play together. It's so fun to partake in that big family atmosphere without personally inflicting further trauma upon my vagina ;)

Anyway, as indicated in my last quickie post, I had the brilliant idea of throwing a little birthday shindig for The Boy during said reunion. What's more stressful fun than throwing a three year old birthday party? Throwing a three year old birthday party for 60 of your husband's relatives 600 miles away from home! But honestly, it was really relatively painless (3am Oreo pops notwithstanding). The cousins were super helpful and amazing and it was much easier (on me) than if I'd thrown it at home. All I really had to worry about were cupcakes and goodie bags, and, that being the case, I went a wee bit overboard on both counts. I definitely let a little (or maybe more than a little) of my crazy show, and they hardly even judged me at all. (E.g., I ordered "I Spy" bags and crayon rolls and travel tic-tac-toe games all in coordinated baseball fabric that matched baby sister's party dress. "Did you make those?!" "Oh God no! This party was sponsored by Etsy." ;))

Sadly, just as we started to settle in, it was time to hit the road again. Luckily, the trip home was quite a bit less painful than the one there (9 hours of travel instead of 12, and 38% less psychosis). I give J an A-. For Colby Jean, I'll have to divide her grades between the car ride and the plane ride. Car ride she gets a solid A (mostly because she slept for half of it). Plane ride she gets a C+. And that generosity is only because of the curls. Oh those curls. They friggin' slay me.

Any way you cut it, traveling with children sucks the life out of you faster than that machine in The Princess Bride. The last thing I wanted to do upon my return was to make 24 cupcakes and decorate them per the pervasive baseball theme. Correction. The LAST thing I wanted to do was make a batch of batter that was supposed to yield 24 cupcakes but really only made 19 so then I had to make a second batch of cupcakes except I only had two eggs left and the recipe called for three. But the show must go on! Did you know, according to The Google, you can substitute 3 tablespoons of mayo for an egg in cake batter? Allegedly. Ha! We shall see. Anyway, they look like cupcakes. I have a bunch of 3 year old guinea pigs taste-testing them today. I'll let you know how that goes. But I'm guessing that their palettes, carefully calibrated to chicken nuggets, goldfish, fruit snacks, and "apple" "juice," won't even know the difference :)

So, yeah. Mayonnaise cupcakes. Learn somethin' new every day. I also learned that, due to the mild palsy brought on by an acute case of motherhood, I suck at drawing frosting/candy lines meant to approximate baseball stitching. This causes me a keen sense of defeat, as it's a gut punch to my personal identity as a slightly-more-than-mediocre crafty martha mo-fo. But. Seeing as Big J can barely draw a "kirkle," I don't think he's really in a position to judge ;)

Anyway. Sap alert. Happy happy happy 3rd birthday to my BEST boy. You've expanded my heart, softened my soul, brightened my life, and taught me many, many lessons in your three years on this planet. (The longest and shortest three years of my life, by the way.) You've taught me that a full night's sleep, coherent thoughts, and complete sentences are not in fact necessary for survival. That giant eyelashes, dimples, and a devilish grin can dig you out of almost any hole you've gotten yourself into. That all you need to know about negotiation you can learn from children. That mastering (or rather, attempting to master) manipulation of a toddler is immensely useful in interactions with grown men. That sometimes sharing is overrated. That you have to look out for your little sister but that doesn't mean you don't sometimes need to accidentally-on-purpose push her off her chair (actually I already knew that one ;)) That time can stretch and shrink like a rubber band, and that every moment is precious (though admittedly, some more precious than others). That there's almost always time for "five more minutes" of books, bikes, or baseball. And that even though Daddy is currently the clear favorite, mamas and their boys have a bond like no other. To my sweet, handsome, hilarious, and slightly schizo love - I hope all of your biggest, best birthday wishes come true - up to and including the baseball player-pizza-school bus and baseball field. And, if Mama may be so presumptuous as to add a birthday wish of her own: may the cupcake-induced lunacy and attendant low blood sugar meltdown happen on Miss Laney's watch. Amen.

source: my freaking kitchen at 1am.

source: http://adoreprep.com/2013/03/07/adventure/