you're the worst mom EVER, I love you

Some days I wake up and it feels like Monday, even when it isn't. But some days I wake up and think, "Today is a new day!" This feeling usually dissipates around the 73rd time I tell the children to brush their ever loving teeth, but that glimmer of hope, or possibly it's just insanity (doing the same thing, expecting different results) - it feels nice.

Same thing with evenings. Sometimes, after a rough day, I drive home dreading the drudgery of dinner and bath and bedtime before it even begins. It's like a really maddening and mundane version of Groundhog Day. But sometimes I walk in the door and I feel refreshed and energized. I think, "It's only 3 hours. I got this. How bad can it be?" (LOLOL.)

The point is, 82% of the time, even when I start with the best intentions, an hour in I'm pretty much ready to impale myself on any vaguely sharp object within a ten foot radius.

[15 minutes later]
*Darth Vader Voice*
GET IN THE GODFORSAKEN CAR OR I WILL PERSONALLY ESCORT YOU TO THE DARK SIDE!
Credit: @lurkathomemom

It's nice having a helpful partner, and I thank my non-denominational god-substitute basically every day that I am so lucky in that respect. Usually, for whatever reason, when one of us is at the end of their rope, the other has enough reserves in their tank to step in and take over in order to prevent imminent injury to life, limb, and sanity. Hats off to anyone who does this solo and doesn't lose their goddamn mind. I salute you.

This parenting gig is really freakin' hard, no matter which way you slice it. There's not enough grace, patience, hands, or hours in the day to do this job the way we imagined doing it in our minds, before we actually had kids. I don't know about you guys, but some days, it sucks the life right outta me. By the end of the night I feel like a tattered, drool-soaked chew toy that my dogs divested of its stuffing.

Then I think about where that life-blood is being siphoned off to - it's raising humans! And I feel a little bit better. Then I get back down to the actual nitty-gritty-shitty of raising said humans and I feel worse again. A friend posted a link the other day - Parenting Advice: Don't Kill Them. The author writes, "I JUST WANT TO LOVE YOU WHY ARE YOU TRYING TO DESTROY ME?!" The struggle is real.

A good friend of mine who doesn't have kids sometimes says, "I just don't understand why SO MANY PEOPLE do it?! Like, almost everyone! It seems kind of awful! Why do you people keep doing this to yourselves, on purpose?!" As I say, it's the biggest mistake you will never regret. :)

DM and I frequently stress about all the ways we're falling short as parents. He and I had different upbringings, experiences, and expectations. But we're generally in agreement on what an "ideal" lifestyle would look like for our family, and we're not quite there yet.

DM's dad worked long hours as a doctor while his mom stayed home and took care of the kids. He had a plethora of cousins and aunties. He was picked up after school every day, and though she certainly had her hands full, his mom was around to make sure the kids were fed and homework was done. But as first generation immigrants and "new money" in an old money world, there were certain cultural and community cues that went under the radar, e.g. playing on the "right" sports teams, going to the best sleepaway camps, wearing the "cool" clothes, etc. It's funny, the things that leave scars so many years later.

My mom and dad were divorced, my mom remarried(ish), and all three of my parents worked full time. Us kids were in daycare from 6am to 6pm daily, and attended terrible summer camps until I was 12 and they decided I was old enough to stay home with my little brother and sister. (And by "stay home" I mean I actually held summer school for my siblings. I made them journal and do homework and everything. LOL. Sorry guys.) This one camp (that billed itself as an equestrian camp but didn't have any horses?) basically used the older kids (including me) as free labor to take care of the younger kids. W.T.F. My parents were never around to be room parents or chaperone field trips or help us with our homework or build leprechaun traps or come to cross-country meets or soccer games. However they did manage to feed us home-cooked meals every night, and didn't have a TV to use as a babysitter, which kind of boggles my mind. Gold medals all around!

The life DM and I are giving our children, for better or for worse, is more like my childhood than his. Poor Colby and Jack are usually the last ones to get picked up every day. I'm currently wrangling the unruly beast that is the YMCA Summer Camp Matrix (it's a thing) because what in the hell else are you supposed to do for those ten weeks between June and August?

Seriously, what is going on here? Nobody told me I'd need advanced degrees in engineering and mathematics to plan my kids' summer schedules.

The rational side of me knows that I had a similar upbringing and I turned out pretty alright. Yeah, I hated summer camps and after school care. I wished my parents could have attended my games and class parties and field trips. But I never felt like "someone else was raising me," and I never, ever doubted their love. When my brain's in charge, I think to myself, my kids are pretty damn lucky and they are going to be just fine.

But when my heart's calling the shots, I feel like a dick. I spend five or six waking hours a day with my kids, max. And 73% of it is telling them to hurry the hell up. Yes, as I've said before, I would love to be super chill Zen mom, turning each argument into a teaching moment, stopping to smell the roses along the way. And I do what I can when I can. But there are only so many hours in the day. We can barely get the kids to school and ourselves to work on time in the mornings, and on the flip side, every single evening is a grind: rushing to pick them up on time, dinner (like an eating contest, except the slowest one "wins"), bath, show, stories, and the "royal coronation jubilee" that is bedtime. We have been spared much homework thus far and THANK GOD because I honestly have no clue how in the world we're going to fit that into the mix.

I'm so wrung out from this groundhog day grind that it takes some serious (mental and physical) acrobatics to be the best mom I can be, to gird my loins for the endless stream of BS from the fruit of my loins. I know that when I have the energy and the wherewithal to use "positive reinforcement" and "redirection" and "love languages," when I wake up an hour earlier so I have time to prevent breakfast and tooth-brushing battles from becoming flat-out wars, when I pack lunches and backpacks the night before instead of frantically running around the morning of, everyone ends up happier. But the chasm between knowing this, and doing this, is deep and wide. Sometimes, I'm able to make the leap. Sometimes, I'm not.

More than anything, I am blown away by the fact that most people go through these exact same machinations, or worse, day in, day out, and the entire population isn't just walking around sobbing or stabbing people with scissors or sleeping under their desks every single day.

And don't get me wrong. I want to work. I sort of cherish arriving on Monday mornings. Settling into my comfy chair in my quiet office to drink an entire cup of hot coffee uninterupted is a little like heaven. And DM and I both are pretty freakin' lucky on the work schedule front, for lawyers, anyway. Still, I'd like to work less. Or, get paid more, so I could afford to give someone else money to raise my kids (and cook and clean) for me ;)

I'm well aware these are #firstworld problems. See, e.g., The Scale of Suck. A blogger friend of mine put it really well in a great recent post: "In the Colosseum of troubles, I know that I face lions that some people pray for..." Understood. But still. Lions are scary.

I don't really have a point, I don't think. Just a little insight into the conflicted ramblings in my jumbly brain: "You're a pretty good mom, give yourself a break! You're blowing it, pull your shit together! Work harder, get promoted, make more money, so you can go more places and do more things! Work less, (find someone to pay your bills?) do less things, BE THERE more! You survived, they're going to be just fine! I hope you're saving for therapy, they're going to need it! They're such good kids, we must be doing something right! OMG, we broke them, where did we go wrong?!?"

The other day we were running late (okay we're running late every day, but this day we were running extra late). Jack said "What will happen if you're late for work?" I replied, "Well, if I'm late too many times I would probably lose my job." Colby said "I wish you WOULD lose your job. That way we could all stay home together all the time." Knife. in. the. heart. I said, "Well if I didn't have a job then we couldn't afford to have a home to stay home in!" She said, "Would we have no house? Or just a littow house?" I responded, "A little house, probably. Or maybe an apartment." Colby: "Could we still have a pool?" Me: "Definitely no pool." Colby: "Okay then maybe you can keep your job." ;) Thanks for the cosign, kid.

Anyway, as I imagine my mom would say, "You're overthinking this just a little." What I try to remind myself, at the end of the day, is that I'm doing the best that I can, I'm giving everything I have to give, and that has to be enough. That IS enough.

The other morning, Colby was possessed by the devil. She refused to dress herself or let herself be dressed or allow anyone to speak or breathe. She started screaming like a bloody banshee and pinwheeling her arms and legs and then melted into an angry puddle of preschooler on the floor. Again, maybe if we'd had the time and the energy to calmly reason with this vicious imp, we could have solved things more amicably. And/or called in an exorcist. But in real life, DM and I both had meetings, attendance mandatory, and we needed to GTFO of there. So we basically had to tag-team the child and dress her spastic noodly limbs against her will. This was maybe the maddest she's ever been. But not sixty seconds later she latches on to me like a koala, looks up at me with her big round brown eyes, and says, "Mama, I need a snuggle."

Same thing happens with Jack all the time. He is SO sensitive and emotional, depending on which way the wind blows, the littlest things can turn into World War III. I actually got "I HATE YOU!" for the first time the other day. It was jarring and heartbreaking and a tiny bit funny, too. But in the midst of that fury, I ask "Do you think you need a hug?" And his answer is, always, "Yeah, maybe." <3

Anyway, whatever else we're building here, the foundation is love. (Well, love, glitter glue, and goldfish crumbs.) And one thing I can be proud of is that my children know it and feel it too. (The love and the crumbs.)

OMG you guys. I am literally incapable of writing a short blog post. This was just supposed to be a "quick" one. Whoops. The other night I was complaining to DM that the book I was reading was "aggressively wordy" and he said "Sounds like it's right up your alley." ;)

update: i'm still a judgy B

I was late to pick up the kids yesterday. This hasn't happened in almost a year but it still makes me feel like nearly 5 years of motherhood is reduced to the 7 minutes late that I am. The kids seemed mostly unfazed though. I said, "I'm SO SORRY guys." And Colby replied, "Sowwy for what, Mama?" So it's not like they were locking this terrible memory away to be shared with therapists twenty years down the road. Or at least, Colby wasn't.

Jack: Mommy, I wish you and daddy didn't have to work on the other side of da fweeway. Den you wouldn't get stuck in twaffic jams. Wouldn't dat be so nice for you?

Me: Yes buddy. That would be amazing. Daddy and I would like nothing more than to live and work right here so we didn't have to get stuck in traffic jams. 

J: It would also be gweat if you guys could just have work but no meetings. Den you could finish your work faster and den me and Cowby could be da fuhst ones to get picked up instead of being da last ones all da time. :(((

And just to seal those gems into my Mother of the Year crown:

Text to DM: 6:07. It's gonna cost us some scarred psyches and $30 bucks. And now I am going to buy them In-N-Out and send them to bed bathed in french fry grease.
DM: Sounds like what I would do.
Me: Well, parental continuity is very important for children.

Anyway, this post is not really about that. It's about how I think I'm a nice person and a reformed judger but I'm not, I'll always be "in recovery."

So, as I pulled up to the school at 6:07pm, another car screeched into the spot next to me. She started running to the door but I was closer so I got there first. As I repeatedly tried to open the door with my fob, she angrily complained, "Oh my GOD, c'mon!" I told her she was welcome to try her hand at it, so she shoved herself in front of me and started jabbing her keys at the fob-reader thing, unsuccessfully. Apparently, it doesn't work after 6pm. One of the preschool teachers walks over and lets us in and this woman just brushes past everyone and grabs her daughter, saying (to whom?) "I have two other kids to pick up! We have to go!"

Apparently this was her first rodeo because she didn't realize that if you arrive even one second after 5:59:59, you start paying by the minute, and you have to sign the "consent to charge me for sucking at motherhood" form, in triplicate, before they will let you leave. (But, you get to keep the yellow copy to put in your Shitty Mom scrapbook!) This lady was huffing and puffing and getting seven sorts of pissy and I was having extremely unsympathetic thoughts toward her during this interlude. She was wearing riding pants and boots that had obviously just been used for their intended purpose, and I thought to myself, "Woman, you need to chill. Why are your jodhpurs in a bunch, anyway?! Because your riding lesson on your faithful steed at your fancy stable in Del Mar ran long? Puh-lease."

Then, this woman's face crumbled...  it just folded into itself, on no volition of its owner. And she began to cry. She scribbled her name on the charge slip, choked out "I just hate this!" and ran out the wrong door, dragging her daughter behind her, setting off the fire alarm in the process.

And I felt like a giant dick.

Why is my lateness any more righteous than hers? Who cares if she was getting a luxurious spa treatment and I was stuck in rush hour traffic after working all day? The truth of the matter is, I chose to be late. Or at least, I allowed that to be a possibility. Don't get me wrong, sometimes shit happens that is beyond our control and we're late and that sucks. But usually it's because we know good and damn well we're probably not going to make it in time, and we decide that whatever we're doing right now is worth the risk of tardiness. Yesterday, I looked at Google Maps. I saw that traffic was atrocious (because of the goddamn horses at Del Mar, incidentally). But two of my bosses came in to talk to me at 4:51 and 4:59, respectively, and I made the conscientious decision that the chance of disappointing my kids by being a few minutes late was a lesser evil than disappointing two senior partners in one fell swoop. Because I feel like as soon as I open my mouth to explain, 'Yes, I have been staying later but today I can't because my husband had a hearing in LA and my kids have to be picked up by 6 and traffic sucks balls because of the races and this CRAZY ASS weather and by the way WHY are So-Cal people fundamentally incapable of driving in the rain?! Even like, mist totally fucks them up..." I'm dead in the water. Just stamp "MOM" across my forehead, stuff some sticky used tissues and Hot Wheels in my purse and call it a day. And ultimately, it doesn't matter who/what/when/where/why. I let my kids down. So did she. We both lose.

But, the good news is, they'll probably survive. And, again, life is life and we have to make tough decisions and do our best to navigate these shark infested waters...

Wait. Dude. Sharks. Holy fuck.



Also this:

Sharkaphobia solution for our upcoming vacation to the Outer Banks.

Okay. Sorry. Got sidetracked for a minute there.

ANYWAY. My point is, I am a recovering a$$hole. And you and me and she and we are not so very different from one another. Do you ever blow it, as a parent, partner, employee, whatever? And you just feel so ridiculous and ashamed, and then that makes you feel defensive and angry, and all of these feelings are just fighting in your face and then it implodes and these dumb embarrassing tears and weird choking seal sounds come out of your head and everything is terrible? Ten times more so because everyone is LOOKING AT YOU like, "Uhhh, is everything alright?" And/or, "Do you need immediate medical attention?" Well, I at least know one other person with whom I share this unfortunate tendency. And I can tell you from experience she is judging herself harshly enough, she does not need that shit from me or anyone else.

Practice makes perfect :)

Most Positive Person

Sometimes I think my kids are assholes.

E.g., Glow-Stick-Gate 2014.

Or that time when the boy melted onto the airport food court floor because he wanted a hamburger but then he got a hamburger and the hamburger wasn't frozen yogurt.

Or every time she screams at me because I can't read her mind (which is usually the opposite of what her mouth is saying).

Or the fact that I have a mini panic attack every night when I'm pouring their milk because I feel like I'm on some terrible game show where choosing the wrong color cup causes you to be electrocuted.

Or when Jack lost his ever lovin mind because he didn't get a present on Colby's birthday (this was the fourth celebration of her birthday, and this was the first time Jack hadn't gotten a courtesy present). He also cried his face off because we said he could only have one candle in his cupcake when Colby got three. You know, because it was her third birthday.

Times like these, I'm convinced I'm DOING IT WRONG.

The other day I was texting with my two BFFs. My friend Claire (3 kids) and I were, well, whining to our friend B (no kids as of yet; penchant for moving to war-torn, poverty-stricken, disease-ravaged countries to make them better places) about how WHINY our kids are. All. The. Damn. Time. We came to the consensus that we should send them to Auntie B's Boot Camp in rural Haiti. That'll wipe the whine clean out of 'em, I bet. Kinda like how my dad kept a framed photo above the stove of two starving homeless kids sharing a cold can of beans during the Depression. (Granted, we were d*cks. I still feel terrible about this one time my dad came to pick me up at the babysitter and I said, "I don't want to go home. He's just going to make us eat frank-n-beans again." I only now appreciate the pleasure he would have taken at throttling my neck right then.)

Aaaanyway. In spite of allllll this. Grading on a curve - a curve that does not include Haiti or Afghanistan or Syria or Sierra Leone - I've got some darn good kids.

When we were home recently, my father in law said to me "You're too hard on them. They're just kids." And he's right. I do ride them hard. I feel like a broken record. I say the following phrases literally 100 times a day: "Yes please? No thank you? Chew with your mouth closed, please. Don't talk with your mouth full, please. Cover your mouth when you cough/sneeze/power-wash a five-foot radius with snot, please. Say excuse me when you _____. Do you need a tissue? (Code for: Get your goddamn finger out of your nose.)" It gets old. And I often wonder if a single word I say permeates that hermetically sealed membrane of their hard little bobble heads.

I may be a "mean mom," but it's important to me not to raise jerks. Granted, they'll inevitably turn out to be somewhat entitled dicks, an unfortunate by-product of growing up in a "yurfy" (you like that? i just made it up: yuppy + surfy) so-cal town with two lawyer parents. But I care about instilling some basic sense of how to be a pleasant co-habitant of this fast-shrinking planet we call home. And whatever we're doing, it seems to be working. Sort of. Sometimes. For example -

My kids are consistently good travelers. (The week after we travel, however? All bets are off. Holy hell.)

They are, apparently, a pleasure to have in the classroom. (Reminds me of the time when my third grade teacher called my mom and told her she should come to the end of the year awards ceremony because I was receiving "The Most Positive Person" award. My mom replied, "You must have the wrong kid." :))

My mother in law almost died when she saw Jack (attempting) to clean up (3%) of the pee off the toilet seat at her house.

They seem to actually enjoy their little chores, like feeding the dog (leaving a little Hansel and Gretel trail so she kind find her way to dinner), setting the table, putting their dirty dishes in the sink and "folding" the laundry, a.k.a. rolling it into a ball.

They regularly say things like "Fank you for dis dewicious meal," "You look beautiful today," "May pwease I be excused?" and "You're a gweat awtist!" They usually say "Excuse me" after emitting a stench of one sort or another, that is, after cackling maniacally about it.

Jack is thoughtful to a fault (which I think is probably more personality than parenting but whatever, I'm taking credit anyway since I made him). For example, if he gets a little trinket but there isn't one for his sister, or if someone has to drive or stay home by themselves, it literally brings him to tears, he's so concerned about their feelings.

Colby could snuggle the bad mood out of a hangry hibernating bear.

Last night we were reading this book called "Peace Through Our Eyes," with drawings and sayings from local elementary school kids. (A gift from Auntie Claire, actually ;)) Jack says, "To me, peace is being helpful. Peace is being respectful and responsible. Peace is... like when there are only two pieces of pizza left and you want both, but your sister wants one too, so you share with her." Then, a minute later, "Then, you use your words and your manners and you ask in your nicest big boy voice for your parents to buy another pizza." This kid cracks my shit up.

What I'm trying to say is, while it's easy to get down on yourself for the daily dinner drama or another Target meltdown or the nonstop sibling strife, it's worth reminding ourselves that we're not doing half bad, and the kids are alright.

(Full disclosure: After the kids basically rocked vacation, I was feeling SUPER proud of them, which spawned the idea for this post, and DM and I even talked about it on our school-board-meeting-turned-happy-hour date the day after we got back, brainstorming all the things we love about our kids. Then, life laughed in my face, as she is wont to do, and for the past week, the children, whether from jet lag or sickness or exhaustion or grandparent hangover or party overload or all of the above, have been intently trying to ruin my life. I'm gonna cut 'em a break though because I don't feel like I've really recovered either. But geez louise. Oh, and that reminds me. Jack: "Which is the one we're not supposed to say? 'Geez Louise' or 'Oh Jesus?'" Dear lord.)

The moral of the story is, I'm not perfect. Neither are my kids. Far from it. But I must be doing something right (some of the time ;)). I bet you are, too.

See? Happy little beach babies. Just remember to bring enough snacks to feed a small army (in sand- and waterproof receptacles), fourteen towels, seven DRY, pristine changes of clothes, and devise a method by which you can successfully remove every last grain of sand from every inch and orifice of their body upon departure from the beach
(baby powder, shop-vac). Follow these simple steps and you'll be good to go! ;) 

** If you liked this post, you'll love my essay in I Still Just Want to Pee Alone, Available Now! **

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morbid curiosity

in case you didn't hear, we got a puppy this weekend. on October 17, actually, the 16th anniversary of my parents' death. as I texted one of my friends, "best anniversary of my dead parents EVAR!" she replied, "not a sentence I ever expected to hear. and that's part of why I love you." seriously, though. this face. the 'rents wouldn't have been able to say no, either.

so, the pup has been dubbed Feta. she is adorable. i love her. also, much like my second-born child, my second-born fur baby is WAY easier than my first-born. phew. fingers crossed she stays that way.

the kids love her too even though they're a little scared of her because she's already twice the size blue was. and they do miss their best old blue. last night jack and i had this conversation -

Jack: I love Feta. But I miss Blue.
Me: I know. Me too, buddy.
Jack: I wish I could have two dogs that aren't dead.
Me: I think one dog [that isn't dead] is enough.
Jack: Well, someday, when Feta is older, can we get another dog that isn't dead?
Me: Probably not.
Jack: Why not?
Me: Because two kids and one dog sounds like a full house to me.
Jack: Why does my cousin Finn have two dogs?
Me: I guess Aunt Chelsea and Uncle Rocko have more time and patience than I do.
Jack: Why doesn't Finn have a sister?
Me: You'll have to ask Aunt Chelsea.
Jack: So either two kids and one dog, or one kid and two dogs?
Me: Well, not necessarily, it just depends on what works for each family.
Jack: If I didn't have a sister, could I have another dog that's not dead?
Me: Proooobably not. Plus, you would be so sad if you didn't have a sister! She is going to be your best bud forever and ever.
Jack: Dat's dubious!
[At this point I am cracking up because not only has he picked up my phrasing (much to DM's chagrin), he is reenacting a conversation I had with my mom when I was his age! This kid is a riot.]
Jack: [Literally the next sentence.] Am I gonna die?
Me: Um, eventually?
Jack: I don't want to die.
Me: Well don't worry, it won't be for a very, very long time.
Jack: Like how long?
Me: Well, you never know for sure, but probably when you're like, 99, or 103.
Jack: What do you look like when you're dead?
Me: I'm not sure.
Jack: Why aren't you sure?
Me: It's not something I like to spend a lot of time thinking about.
Jack: Can you look up a picture of a dead person on your phone?
Me: Um, no.
Jack: Do you know anyone who lived to be a souzand-hundwed yeaws owd?
Me: Nope.
Jack: Well I do. He's some wandom guy. He's invisible and he lives on Jupiter except on da weekends.

Seriously. Killing me.

Also, please tell me my kid is not the only freakishly morbid little focker out there. Like, wanting to talk about death and dead people, and describing various manners of death in disturbing detail. E.g., "Cowby, you bettah sit down on yo' buns o' you wiow fawl ovah on yo' head and cwack yo' skowl open." Or, "HaHA, Daddy! I killed you dead! You have no head! And all the bwood leaked out yo' bains [veins?] all ovah da flow!" And my personal favorite, "Cowby, you can nevah evah open da door when da car is moving o' ewse you might fawl out da car and get runned ovah and flattened out like a pancake and yo bwains wiow come out yo' eyebawlz." I have NO IDEA where he gets this shit. I mean, I do tend to be a bit alarmist about safety concerns but I swear to you, I have never said anything about brain matter and orbital cavities. Nor did he pick this up from Umi Zumi or Bubble Guppies or even the Lego Movie.

Oh, and what about inventing a complete alternate reality? (See above re: Jack's acquaintance with "Wandom Souzand-Hundwed Year-Owd Martian Who Weekends on Planet Erf.") The kid makes shit up ALL the time. He can tell some whoppers! Is this normal??? I mean. He's really very sweet. And I definitely hear all sorts of second-hand tall tales from his preschool buddies. So I'm just going to pretend you have a PhD in child psychology and you say, yes, he is totally fine, and not at all a sociopath-in-training. Thanks! Good talk!

ha! pretty sure this applies for all the ages.
photo credit: DP

that time a preschooler put me in my place

this weekend was probably not my best showing as a mother and a human being.

first of all, i have to let you in on a shameful secret. please don't tell anyone.... but... i have sworn off sugar, alcohol, and white things (bread, rice, my smug sense of entitlement, etc). of course i'm not doing this for fun. or to lose weight. because LOTS of things taste as good as skinny feels. i'm doing it because i have been having a host of health problems for some time and western medicine has failed to provide a remedy and i'm getting desperate. so i turned to eastern/holistic/"natural" medicine. also it's only for a short period of time. i'd rather wear Depends at mealtime than spend the rest of my life without bread. we'll see how it goes. so far i just feel hangry and shittier than usual so i'm not super hopeful about the outcome.

(also, i definitely drank a flask of whiskey and basically ate a baguette dipped in cheese fondue halfway through the diet. so, there's that.)

it's kind of crazy though, how quickly you can recalibrate your expectations re: food and happiness. for example, there's this restaurant here called tender greens. it's tre popular, but i usually refer to it as "terrible greens" because they don't really have a lot going on for vegetarians who don't like vegetables. people always try to make me go but i would basically have to be roofied before i would go there on my own recognizance. and if i am there, expect to see me eating a salad bowl filled with mashed potatoes (the only yummy thing on their menu). their desserts are the WORST. they look SO DELICIOUS, but it's like eating a picture of a delicious dessert. someone should really tell them to put the gluten back into their cookies. anyway, they have this "happy vegan" salad that everyone raves about. i hate it. did you ever see "how to lose a guy in 10 days?" that scene where kate hudson takes matthew mccaughnahey to this hippy dippy place and he's pouring salt on his meal and stabbing it with his fork and muttering "rabbit food" under his breath? that's me. "happy" vegan my ass. more like "vegan who has no f*cking clue what they're missing."

BUT. the other day, out of desperation, i went there for lunch, and had the happy vegan salad, and, dare i say, i .. almost... enjoyed it??? so yeah. you, too, can willingly eat rabbit food if you deprive your stomach of things that actually taste good for long enough, i.e., more than 12 hours.

all of this is background to the scene friday night. it had been a long week. i was hungry and tired and teetotaling, which is not an ideal mental state when you are about to host a family dinner - a dinner where there will be seven children ages 6 and under. normally, this would send me straight to the liquor cabinet and/or i'd start sport-eating cupcakes to ease my nerves. to be honest, i'm usally too busy buzzing around being a stress ball when i'm entertaining and i forget to drink anyway. but it's nice to know it's there. i had no such crutch on friday. but luckily the littles took it easy on us. and there is something so singularly sweet and right about a bunch of little kids playing together. a different level of connection with these people you love (siblings, cousins, friends that are like family) - visible, (audible!) threads stemming from your shared past and extending, intertwined, into the future. i love it, even if it hurts my ears :)

still. being hungry and restricted to beverages made from unsweetened hemp milk tends to bring the real me a little closer to the surface than she generally resides. i usually sweeten up a bit when we have company, but take bread and wine and high fructose corn syrup out of the equation and i just don't have the energy to be pretend i'm nicer than i really am. i was laughing/lamenting with my sister and cousin because, you know how growing up you always had a favorite aunt, a favorite friend's mom? the cool, laid-back aunt? the fun mom? that will just never be me. i'm the mom/aunt with lots of rules and very little patience.

and all of that is a lead in to this next story.

okay. i have to preface this by saying that, lately, when jack hurts himself (or, doesn't hurt himself at all), he has taken to HEAVING his body onto the ground (if he's not already there), writhing around, and SCREAMING bloody murder like he just got a compound fracture or a fatal gut wound. i guess he just wants attention but the thing is, when you get closer to try to alleviate the situation, he just screams louder. i mean, LOUD. like, you can hear him from down the block, the entire park stops and stares, etc. he's like a brazilian soccer player and an italian opera singer rolled into one.

so, anyway, the other evening at the park, J kept running up and "shooting" me in the face with his "laser bwasters." i told him it wasn't nice to shoot his mom but he did not heed my warnings. then, he promptly slipped on the sandy sidewalk, and proceeded to SCREAM and writhe around on his back like a dying beetle. so i said, "sorry dude, that's what you get for shooting your mom in the face." some little kid within earshot shouted at me, "THAT IS NOT NICE!" and gave me the best disapproving parent look i have ever seen. DM starts cracking up. i shrugged and said, "sorry, kid" but he must have sensed the inauthenticity of my apology because he kept yelling, "THAT IS NOT A NICE THING YOU SAID! YOU NEED TO SAY SORRY BECAUSE [blah blah blah - couldn't hear him]... NOT. NICE. [heard that part loud and clear]." so, yeah. in case there was any question, it is now official. no one will ever accuse me of being nice.

i'm happy to report he quickly forgave me. (jack. not dr. phil, jr.) he even sat in my lap for an extended period of time which happens like 4 times a year. so i don't think he suffered permanent emotional scarring.

later that night at dinner, out of the blue, jack says, "i'm fweakin' tiowed of sitting here." there is no question about which parent that particular turn of phrase came from. WHOOPS. could be worse, i guess.

then yesterday when i went to pick the kids up from school, one of the teachers informed me that jack said he and his sister "ride in the trunk" in mama's car. dear lord. i could just see this look in her eyes, scanning, like, "are we gonna laugh about this or am i calling CPS?" thankfully she seemed satisfied with my explanation that they call the way-way-back "da twunk."

oh, and, the kids now demand candlelit baths with the dulcet tones of Rodrigo y Gabriela playing in the background, to kick-start the royal coronation jubilee that is our nightly bedtime routine. apparently i am raising Spanish royalty. or assholes. unsure. could go either way.

so anyway. as i said. probably not winning any parenting awards this weekend. but hey, you can't win 'em all.

luckily, right before colby went to sleep last night, she said to me, "you're 'DORable, mama." me: "awww. thanks baby. i think you're adorable, too." c: "no i is nawt! i am cowby jean mccheesy."

and all is well with the world.

well except the part about the bread and booze.

BRING IT.
source

Dah Incredibow Huck

Our Jackaroo spent all weekend asserting that The Incredible Hulk is not, in fact, a superhero. (Or, as his sister refers to it, Dah Incredibow Huck.) DM tried to show him the error of his ways but at some point realized the futility of arguing with a 4 year old. On Monday morning, we come to find out that he was just laying the groundwork for "The Ask" - bringing his Incredible Hulk water bottle to the superhero Nazi preschool. The Incredible Hulk is not a superhero, ipso facto, no rules are violated by bringing the Hulk water bottle to school. Of course DM loves any excuse to "stick it to the man, " even in the form of a superhero lunchbox sortie. So he dutifully packed the not-so-jolly green giant. And, apparently, at school, Jack made an impassioned plea on Dah Huck's behalf, with a well-reasoned, multi-pronged argument that would've made his lawyer parents proud. Still, at pickup, Mom got a friendly reminder re: preschool paladin protocol. Jack was undeterred, though. On the way home from school he says, "Well, Mommy. Darf Vadah is definitely NOT a supah hewo."

Love this by GoGoBookart on Etsy

 

sh*t my kids say, part II

j: is da moon in outer 'pace?
me: yes.
j: is da Erf in outer 'pace?
me: um, i think the term "outer space" is relative to earth, so, no. but we should double check with daddy.
j: okay, wehw, send a text message to my wocket when you find out.

j: hey mom! why is da moon following us?
[look out the car window. holy crap. the moon is totally following us. how have i never noticed this before?]
me: um, that is an excellent question, dude. i will have to consult your father and/or the google and get back to you. [if you're curious, here's what we found out. try explaining this to a 3 year old.]

j: mom, is you putting on makeup cuz you does not has beeyootifoe eyewashes wike me?
me: basically, yeah! :)

j has taken to referring to colby by the names of various food products: "hey, sandwich bread!" "hey, lima bean!" "hey, marshmallow head!" "hey chicken finger!" could be worse, i guess!

C, when i pull into a parking spot: CRAAAAASH! (what does this say about my parking/driving abilities?!)

C has a tendency to pronounce "truck" with more of a "ph" sound. which is fine driving along in the car, not so great when we are in a public place. "phuuuuuck!" "BIG PHUCK" "what dat phuck?" "where da phuck go?" and most recently, "yook! dum phuck!" [dump truck... actually it was a cement mixer but who's counting ;)]

she has some other choice phrases, too, like "shit" [sit], "douche" [juice], and "crap" [clap]. she's ready for her debut :)

j: i made you a beeyootifoe neckwace. i made it extwa wong to fit yo' big head.

j: can i pwess da button [on the blender]?
me: not yet.
j: why not? because if i do i wiw make a smoovie outta yo arwm?
me: um, i was going to say because the lid is off... but... yeah... also that.

me, singing the chorus to Little Bunny Foo Foo.
j: mom? are dose da only woids you know? who would know da rest? you should call dem.

me: what's your favorite part of the day at school?
j: pwaying outside, and finding woly polys and wady bugs in da pwants.
me: what do you do with the roly polys and ladybugs when you find them?
j: we hide dem in our pockets so da teachers don't see dem.
sooo.... how many poor roly polys and ladybugs have suffered a watery death in our washing machine?? :( guess i need to start checking pockets more carefully!

me: let me grab the utensils.
j: is utensils 'Panish for forks and spoons?

j: co-by, da faster you eat yo dinner da faster you get howloween candy.
clearly we need to revisit the issue of healthy eating habits around here.

j: i'm full, but not too full for a miwkshake.
me: i completely understand.

both kids like to sing and dance and make up silly songs. the other night j's chorus was "macarena tickle dick, macareeeeeena tiiiiickle DIIIIICK!" i tried to keep a straight face and i was like, "where did you hear that one?" he said, "co-by." alrighty then. just gonna leave that one be and hope he forgets about it.

j just RIPS one in the other room.
me: what on earth was that?
j: wehw, it wasn't me tooting. i dunno. maaaaaaybe it was da house cweaking.
me: sure, bud!
a few minutes later he does it again and before i can say anything he says, "whoa, house!"

me: j, not now, please. i'm not in the mood for your shenanigans.
j: weeeeehhhw, SOMEone has to be in da mood for me!!!

me: OMIGOD you guys are KILLING me right now!
j: i'm not killing you. Co-by is!

j: you is setting a dangewous pwesent, co-by. [she was climbing the back of the chair].
me: i think you mean dangerous precedent.
j: NOPE!
you know that saying, "you can't argue with logic"? you know what else you can't argue with? three year olds.

j: fwee-year-owds don't like s'mores.
me: three year olds are missin' out!

me: you need to chill out. you are being really dramatic.
j: I AM NOT TRAUMATIC!
that's up for debate.

j: mom. wudolph the wed-nose waindeer is colored.
me: ummm, what was that?
j: he's colored. because he's bwown.
me: WHAT?
j: i colored him bwown? see?!
phew! omg. thought i was going to have to tell the cautionary tale of richie incognito for a minute there.

listening to "santa claus is comin' to town"
j: mom? do we live in "town?"
me: ha, yes, we do.
j: phew.

more holiday music...
j: is this a Hanukkah song?
dm: yes. did you learn about Hanukkah at school?
j: yes. some of my friends celebwate Hanukkah.
dm: cool. do you celebrate Hanukkah?
j: no. i celebwate Wudolph.

j: i think we should leave santa a pwesent.
me: santa likes cookies and milk. let's make him some.
j: i think santa wants cookies and Five Guys.
me: ha! you may be right ;)

she doesn't talk but she still cracks my sh*t up

weekender

"It is better to travel well than to arrive." - Buddha

Well, shit. I'm basically screwed then because these days I consider it a successful trip if we all manage to arrive at our destination in one piece without attracting the attention of TSA, FAA, CPS, SDPD, or any other acronym that could land my ass in jail.

Anyway.

Before DM and I started a family, we loved to travel, and we swore that (among many other things) we wouldn't let having kids slow us down. Not only did we want to continue to explore, we hoped to foster the same wanderlust and sense of adventure in our children. We wanted them to see and appreciate life beyond the bounds of their own backyard.

And that's all well and good. But. Holy Mary Mother of God. Have you tried traveling with children? There's no two ways about it. Traveling with kids slows you down. Like, a lot. I mean, take the amount of time and baggage you think you'll need, and multiply it times three. Or maybe five. I'm not saying we've changed our aspirations, or that we can't still achieve them, but like most things having to do with children, it's definitely going to look a little different than I originally intended.

We started our travel immersion progam early-on, and we take baby steps. This past weekend we went to visit our old besties (not that they aren't our besties anymore, but they moved 400 miles away, so they're on probation ;)) Because Jack had T-ball and DM is the coach, the plan was for Colby and me to fly out late Friday night, and Jack and DM to join us after T-ball on Saturday. Jack was aware of this plan, and was fine with it, until three minutes before Colby and I were about to leave, when he threw THE EVER LOVIN' MOTHER of all fits. He literally acted like I told him he was never going to see us ever again. He tends to the dramatic, but this was a whole new level of distress. It was such that I actually called the airline to see if it would be possible to switch his flight from Saturday to that night (like, 2 hours hence). Jack, sobbing, asked, "Arwe you weally calling da pilot to get me a ticket, Mom???" The ever-helpful Alaska Airlines representative was more than happy to switch J's ticket, for a change in fare AND a hefty fee. I was like, eff that.

So, we loaded Colby and our bags into the car. Jack continued to scream bloody murder, which got both Colby and the dog going, while DM and I were hollering at each other to be heard over the ruckus. I got in the car and started to back out of the driveway but for some reason the vision of DM physically restraining a sobbing, kicking, screaming, heartbroken Jack was just too much for me, so I stopped the car. I got out and told DM to put Jack in the car and drive us to the airport, so that I could fly, by myself with two kids, at 9:30pm on a Friday night (and DM could coach T-ball the next day even though his own kid wasn't present, ha!) I am ridiculous and insane. On the way to the airport, Colby starts losing her mind (I WANT MY SHOES ON AND OFF! I WANT TO HOLD YOUR HAND BUT ALSO I DO NOT!), and I busted out an emergency pacifier that we'd nixed two months ago. Oh well!

We got to the airport, got our boarding passes, got through security, and got to the gate with very little fuss. (Almost) everyone is so kind and helpful when you are a hot sweaty mess with two baby giants in tow. One guy about my dad's age who was traveling with his wife asked what he could do to help, and they were kind of my real-life guardian angels the entire trip. After hand-checking our stroller for explosives, the sweet TSA agent brought it over and said: "I tried to empty the sand out of it, but there was a lot." Ha. Story of my life. (Do you remember learning about asymptotes in geometry? And how they will never actually be zero no matter how close it looks? That is like sand in my life. And pee. And snot.) Then she gave the kids sticker-badges which was a big hit. God/Allah/Yahweh/Buddha bless their kind souls.

Things went so smoothly (relatively speaking) that we got to the gate with over an hour to spare, which, if you have kids you know is not ideal (though still preferable to being the last a-holes on the plane!) Luckily it was late enough that the place was pretty deserted, and they were tired enough that they'd lost some of their fight, but not so tired that they were in "the danger zone." For a while they were pretty content to stand at the window and watch the goings-on out on the runway.

This might be a good time to mention Colby's recent habit of calling out each and every vehicle she sees. She particularly loves trucks. Only, she pronounces it "phuck." Now, this hasn't yet been much of a problem, and I'll even go so far as to say we find it pretty darn hilarious in the comfort and privacy of our family sedan. But. I can now attest to the fact that it's more than a little embarrassing when it happens in a well-populated but nearly silent public place. "PHUCK! BIG PHUCK! BLACK PHUCK! WHITE PHUCK! WHERE DAT PHUCK GO?! C'MON, PHUCK!" O. M. G. What can you do?!? I was just like, "Ohhh, yes, truck. Yes, I see that truck!" I guess I should be thankful she didn't simultaneously want to "shit" [sit] and drink her "douche" [juice]. *Sigh.*

Meanwhile, Mr. J took his little die cast Southwest Airlines airplane out of his backpack and started to play with it. Then he began narrating, as he is wont to do. "Dis is not a Souf-west Aiowlines aiowplane. Dis is a Alaska Aiowlines aiowplane. It's bwoken because it doesn't has a tail wing. Dis bwoken Alaska Aiowlines aiowplane is gonna cwash and burin and all the peopow arwe gonna get dead." WTF?!?! "Ummm, that sounds really scary and awful, let's not talk like that, okay?" J: "I'm just pwe-tending, Mom." Me: "Okay." J: "I'm just pwetending dat dis Alaska Aiowlines aiowplane is gonna cwash and catch on fi-ow and die." Me: "Hey guys! Wanna read a book?" OMG. I have NO CLUE where he gets this shit?! And if I were to provide closed-captioning for the thought bubbles of the people around me, I imagine it'd go something like "May I please sit in a row that does not contain a mini sociopath? Super, thanks!"

When we got on the plane, the guy in front of us, who had apparently just changed his seat, looked back at me and my baby/luggage juggling act and said loudly to his travel partner: "Ugh. Maybe I should switch back to my other seat." Hey, twat-waffle! News flash! You were a kid once, too! And you were probably a dick even then! Why can't you be like the rest of civilized non-breeder society and just quietly give me the stink-eye?!

There was one other kid on the flight, probably about one-and-a-half, the same age as Colby Jean. I generally like it when there are other children on the flight because it decreases the odds that mine will be the a-holes, but this time it wasn't really working out for me. They were letting their kid run up and down the aisle, and in between, the dad alternated between tossing the kid up in the air and "flying" him around in a vigorous game of "airplane." Really it was a veritable circus act on a Bombardier Q400. I was like, Dude! Do you not realize that the only reason my children are sitting still is because I have told them that if they get up the pilot will come back here and arrest them put them on a time-out? You are completely destroying all suspension of disbelief here. Normally I subscribe to a live-and-let-live, "whatever you need to do to keep your child from screaming his face off and ruining everyone's day" mentality, but when your antics f*ck up my ability to blatantly lie to my children in order to get them to behave, we have a problem ;)

Anyway, we arrived in one piece (no fiery death or dismemberment, I am pleased to report), and I didn't even have to break out the electronics, so that ought to give you some indication as to how smoothly things went! I pray our cross-country flight to the east coast for Thanksgiving is as painless!!!

Even more importantly, we had as perfect a weekend as you can have with five rugrats under foot, cementing our conviction that traveling with children is worth it, even though the journey is infinitely more painful than the destination.

More travel quotes, if you're into that kind of thing:

"Not all who wander or lost." (My fave) - JRR Tolkien.

"He travels the fastest who travels alone." - Rudyard Kipling. You're tellin' me. God have mercy. Honestly. Somebody could cure cancer in the time it takes to get through security with toddlers in tow.

"Reminds me of my safari in Africa. Somebody forgot the corkscrew and we had to live on nothing but food and water." - W.C. Fields. That sounds almost as bad as parenting without alcohol.

"The World is a book, and those who do not travel read only a page." - Saint Augustine. Granted, if you're traveling with small children, the other pages might be laced with tears, ear-piercing screams, boogers, and mean mugs from your fellow travelers. But then you get to the really good parts ;)

"A journey is a person in itself; no two are alike. And all plans, safeguards, policing, and coercion are fruitless. We find that after years of struggle that we do not take a trip; a trip takes us." - John Steinbeck. Ain't that the truth! And a trip with kids takes you by the throat and nearly strangles you to death, but when you get through to the other side, you really appreciate being alive!

More Steinbeck: "A journey is like marriage. The certain way to be wrong is to think you control it." Wait. I can't control my marriage??? ;)

"The traveler sees what he sees, the tourist sees what he has come to see." - G.K. Chesterton. I'm learning that travelers with children see public bathrooms. Lots of bathrooms. Incidentally, G.K. Chesterton is my most favorite quotee ever, because it is he who said "Poets have been mysteriously silent on the subject of cheese."

And this -

Photo by Seattle Dredge of SeattlesTravels.com
This and several of the quotes found on Voyage Vixens

J: WE'RE ALL GONNA DIE!!!!!
C: PHUUUUUCK!
 

the biggest mistake you will never regret

for some reason Blogger's version of pacific standard time is ahead of reality so it's kind of like i'm talking to you from the FUTURE....

so. one of my brother's friends got a tubal ligation when she was 20. she was that certain she didn't want to have kids, ever. she recently spent some time with me and my kids which may have served to reaffirm the decision in her mind. still. i'm extremely curious about what kind of doctor would perform this sort of irreversible medical procedure on a 20 year old who, no offense, doesn't know shit. [i know this comes off as paternalistic and patronizing, but i'm only speaking from experience, as a person who once thought she knew all of the things, but recently discovered she does not know any of the things.... and i think this is a pretty common path to (dis)enlightenment.] anyway, that's a different issue altogether.

then, a single (or rather, serially dating) male friend of mine asked me whether i thought he would someday regret not having kids. i got to thinking about the decision whether or not to have kids in the context of this blog post/article/open letter that has been floating around online for years and keeps resurfacing. (it has been reposted eleventy billion times all over the interwebs as early as 2008 but i can't seem to find who actually wrote it.) a girlfriend of mine just posted it again. it's basically a mom and her grown daughter, and the daughter "half-jokingly" says she's taking a survey on whether she and her husband should have a baby. the mom says "it will change your life" and the daughter replies, "i know, no more sleeping in, no more spontaneous vacations..." but the mom is like, gurrrrrrl, that will be the LEAST of your concerns! just kidding :) she goes on to talk about all the ways that motherhood will change you - ways that you wouldn't have believed in a million years and ways that you won't understand until you realize that those changes have already occurred. the way it's written, the mom appears to keep the inner dialogue to herself - because, to be honest - it's not something you could ever adequately explain, even if you tried. so instead, she simply says, "you will never regret it."

and i think she's right. maybe my personal experience and sample pool are misleading, but i know a lot of people with kids. people who had "oops" babies at 18. people who had "oops" babies at 45. people who tried for years before finally having a baby (or three!) people who always wanted babies and got pregnant every time they tried. people who couldn't have babies and adopted. people who could have babies and adopted. of all of the baby-makers, baby-bakers and baby-caretakers i know, i have never met anyone who regretted having children, whether it was a well-thought-out decision or a total surprise. as i've said before, i may have momentary regrets, for a minute, an hour, or the duration of a cross country flight, but all in all, my kids (and their co-creator ;)) are, hands-down, the best parts of my world. i was never one of those girls who always dreamed of being a mommy, but when i thought about my future, there were two kid-shaped spots in it. (until i had one. then that double-wide spot shrank down to a single. but we ultimately braved baby #2 and i could not be happier or more thankful that we did.) plus, when i was in 5th grade that game MASH told me i was going to have two kids, so obviously, my fate was sealed ;)

though baby boy was a wee bit of a surprise, i'm assuming the infamous "biological clock" would have started ticking eventually. in any event, we would have started trying sooner rather than later, because we knew someday we wanted to be parents, and also because both my Ob-Gyn and my former employer had recently told me i better get on it because my eggs were rotting. anyway, the point is, if i could do it all again, i wouldn't change a thing. (well, i might change one tiny part - to wait until after (or during!) the month-long belated honeymoon trip to Costa Rica and Nicaragua - as opposed to finding out two days before we left! i'm still campaigning for a do-over. ;))

but the bottom line is, being a mom is the best thing, EVER. unfortunately, it is also the WORST thing ever. i read a quote once - "motherhood is the only way to experience heaven and hell at the same time." truer words were never spoken. it melts your heart and kicks your ever-lovin ass. anyone who says different is drunk, high, or LYING. but at the end of the day, you'll never regret it. i don't know if it's hormones or pheromones or Stockholm Syndrome or pregnancy-induced psychosis or all of the above, but once you drink that koolaid, there's just no turning back.

the question is.... what if you don't drink the koolaid? i've seen another quote (i love me some quotes) that says something along the lines of "people with kids and people without kids are always feeling sorry for the other.." but i think that's only half true. maybe child-free people don't know what they're missing, but i, for one, do know what i'm missing! lazy mornings. naps. a clean house. the luxury of deciding what i want to do today. spontaneity. rowdy sex during the daylight hours. vacations. (i'm talking about vacations, not a "family trips.") reading a book on the couch or having a cheesy movie marathon on a rainy day. peeing alone. self-indulgent sick days. deciding to have wine and popcorn for dinner (or breakfast! sub mimosas for wine, obv). sunbathing without being interrupted every 13 seconds to save one of my kids from drowning. i better stop before i go jump out my 18th floor window. oh wait. i don't have a window. phew, lol.

i saw an ad on TV recently - i think it was for expedia. they were walking up to strangers in a park and saying hey, i have this ticket to Fiji (or Australia or Japan or wherever it was), it leaves in 3 hours, wanna go? most people said no. but someone said yes (or at least, a paid actor made me believe he was "Joe 9-to-5" and he said "Hell yes!")... sigh.... that will never be me again. at least, not for the next 16 years, six months, and 5 days ;) i need at least 2 weeks' notice to schedule a happy hour. transcontinental vacation? fuhgeddaboutit. that's just not my life anymore. and while i wouldn't trade what i have for the world, i sure do miss parts of that old life! which is why, when friends ask me if i think they'll regret not having kids, i'm like, "Hell no!" now, i'm not necessarily advocating making that decision permanently at the age of 20. but if you're of "that age" and you're feeling the pressure from mom or grandma or your perfect happily married sister who's on her 4th angel baby and you're wondering whether you should have kids "before it's too late," then my answer to you is a resounding "NO!" one of my besto's has a rule = "No Shoulds." try it! it'll change your life! and of all the things in the entire universe, the decision whether or not to reproduce is probably the best possible place to employ this simple philosophy. if you want them, by all means, get busy! if not, or if you're just on the fence about it, or maybe you don't but feel like you "should," then don't do it! i think i can safely say that your life will be infused with plenty of passion, love and meaning, and hey, if for any reason you need a little kid fix, i will happily loan my tiny terrorists to you any day of the week. i also think i may have seen some for rent or sale in Tijuana. just kidding. sort of.

this same logic also applies to the "should we have a second child or just have the one and only?" decision, which, apparently, draws nearly as much BS as the decision to remain child-free. i don't really understand that at all. it's such a personal decision. i mean, i'm sorry, but, whose uterus are we talking about here?! you might as well be advising me which brand of tampons to use, for all the stake you have in the decision, only, in this case, the tampons cost at least $241,080 and are an 18+ year commitment.

seriously though. i can't even pretend to understand the stress and turmoil this societal/familial pressure causes, especially for a female of child-bearing age. i have some friends (men and women, single and couples) who have decided not to have kids. notably, nobody really gives the guys any flak. it's always the ones with the uteri that get it. you would not believe some of the shit people say! family members, and even complete strangers. it's appalling. i wish i could be there to give the speakers a violent shake and say, do you think that is helpful??? AT ALL??? but you can't let someone bully you into a decision like that. also, FYI, in case you can't tell by the rapid proliferation of wrinkles and gray hair and the mismatched flip flops and the magic marker cheek- and forehead-tattoos and the declining IQ and the eternal state of frazzle - this shit's freaking hard as f*ck. i would not recommend it if you're just looking for a new hobby. try pilates or get a gerbil instead.

or a hedgehog. omg. LOOK AT IT!

* i asked my brother to ask his friend if it was okay to write about some of our convos on the blog. he was like, "i'll ask her but i'm sure it's fine. you gotta use non-baby blog fodder where you can get it!" ha! don't be silly, brother. obviously i'll still find a way to make this about children ;)
[update: my brother just read this and informed me (out of some sense of obligation to his friend or to the maligned medical professional, i'm not sure ;)) that there was a pre-existing condition as well as psychological counsel that went into his friend's decision, she didn't just show up at a doc-in-the-box on tubes-tied-tuesday. sorry. i am not an investigative journalist ;)]
** update #2 - my "serially dating" (male) friend mentioned above just asked me "Can you get pregnant on birth control?" Me: "If you do not take it at the same time every day as directed, yes." Him: "Shit. I had unprotected sex with this girl I just started dating. But she showered afterwards so that helps, right?" ummmmmmmmm............ wait. what? it helps her SMELL BETTER. it does not WASH THE SPERM OUT OF HER VAGINA!!!!!
*** by the way, i hope no part of this post comes off as "oh people without kids just don't get it" (except this ^ guy. ya gotta love 'im, but he clearly does not get it, and by "it," i mean, basic anatomy, biology, and life). but, there are some wonderful and terrible things about parenthood that you can't know until you live through them, just as there are things i will never know again, e.g., what it is like to have expendable income, have uninterrupted conversations with grown-ups about grown-up things, get dressed without someone pointing out that my belly is "squishy," my butt "looks funny," or dumping the entire contents of my underwear drawer on the floor, and hey, maybe even use the bathroom without having to hear a play-by-play. in fact, i actually get some of my best parenting advice from people without kids. something about not being "in the shit" (literally and figuratively) gives them some useful perspective and insight. and/or the fact that they have access to 63% more brain cells than i do.


this is funny. from momlogic.com on the parents zone.
i like that it highlights my one major qualification for being a mom -
i <3 disneyland!!!

you guys would tell me if i was dead, right??

DM was Jack's favorite pretty much from birth, but until just recently, I was Colby's numero uno. however, over the past couple of weeks, she has latched onto daddy like a koala bear and she won't let go. Could be because he is powerless to say no when she asks him to pick her up, which happens approximately 97,000 times per day. C: PEEEESE?! [arms reached upward, curls bouncing, eyelashes batting, grinning that crazy dimpled grin.] DM: Okayyyyy.

 

Anyway, last night, she was looking at pictures on my phone and wherever there were pictures of all four of us she would say, "DADDY!" and point at DM, and then "BRUDDER!" and point out Jack, but made no mention of me. She did this four or five times. I finally looked over at DM and I was like, "Is this like that M. Night Shamalan movie where I'm dead but I don't know it?!" DM joked, "Oh kids, I sure do miss your mother. I really wish she was here with us today." Next thing I know, I look over and Colby is pointing to this and saying, "WHAS DIS ONE?"

OMG! The timing was impeccable. I will say that she wasn't browsing the internet for urns or anything, I actually had this in the photos on my phone because a friend had pointed out that they sell urns and coffins on Overstock.com and I had saved the picture because I knew there'd be a way to work it into a blog post someday. And here we are!

My favorite part is that it comes with a little "pocket urn", you know, in case you need your loved one's ashes in travel size [?] Or, maybe you'd prefer a necklace made from you loved one's cremains? I mean, who doesn't love diamonds?!


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]