hurry up and wait

a couple different friends recently shared a link to a really thoughtful blog post titled "the day i stopped saying 'hurry up'" by 'hands free mama'. i liked it a lot. it's such a nice message. it's exactly the type of parent i always thought and hoped i would be - one who could slow down, go with the flow, and appreciate the small wonders of the world as seen through my children's eyes. (upon what empirical evidence i based these hopes i do not know, as i am probably one of the biggest stress balls you will ever meet.) but anyway. that is who i wanted to be. who i still want to be. someone who allows her children to just BE. to be children. to take their sweet time. to stop and smell the roses. to wonder over sno-cones and ladybugs and seashells. i want to foster independence and awe. i don't want to be a grump and a nag and i certainly don't want to rush a single precious moment of their childhood (okay, in the interest of full disclosure, i would not actually mind rushing the moments where there is screaming, crying, biting, and/or fighting.)

i've more been mindful of this message since i read the post. but then i started thinking, "wait a minute..." now, admittedly, this is probably just some weird effed up manifestation of my working mom guilt, and i mean no offense to the author of the post because it really is a poignant and inspiring piece, but, WTF, man? listen, as i said, most times, i would love to be this kind of parent. and on the weekends we are definitely closer to this ideal. "sure, baby. take 29 minutes to pick a shirt and another 43 to put the damn thing on. we ain't got no place to be. by the time you dress yourself we just might have time for dinner!" but, unfortunately, in my world, "sidewalk strolling" and "rose smelling" don't pay the bills. 5 days a week i actually do have somewhere to be - work. and "sorry boss, but i had to detour for sno-cones" (though one of the better excuses i could think of) ain't gonna cut it. i already feel like i am one sick-kid-day away from unemployment, and i'm not about to be the one to test my employer's feelings on the "free spirit" approach to parenting.

what about nighttime? oh i'm so glad you asked. well. if we operated on toddler time, they wouldn't be in bed until the sun came up. this has nothing to do with both of us working. or maybe it does. because i don't get home until 5 or 6 and therefore i can't start the bedtime routine at 3pm, which is what i would need to do if i wanted my children to go to sleep, ever, on their own time. maybe this lady's kids are just more creative or intelligent or refined than mine, but my kid isn't lolligagging at bedtime as the result of some deep metaphysical metamorphosis. he just doesn't want to go to bed. we're not having enlightening dinner conversation, lamenting the juxtaposition of world famine and childhood obesity. instead i am using every single tactic i learned in my law school negotiations course to get him to eat three more fecking peas. he's not taking an hour to disrobe because he wants to ponder the complex history of cotton. he's not quoting david foster wallace "this is water, this is water" in the bathtub. we're not strengthening our familial bonds, unless you subscribe to the "what doesn't kill you makes you stronger" mentality. if he had his druthers, he would just watch little einsteins on endless loop for 3 hours and eventually pass out on the couch. (who says he didn't inherit anything from his daddy? (i kid, i kid. i don't even let my grown man-child do that ;)) oh also, it doesn't even have to be new episodes. it can be the same exact one about dragon kites again. and again. and again.)

look. i'm not talking about those perfect summer-evening games of "baseball" (aka throwing bats and balls and oneself repeatedly onto the ground and cheering), or sweet moments sharing your favorite childhood books with your babies as they drift off into angelic sleep. i am talking about the 60-to-180 minute period between starting dinner and donning PJs that can only be characterized as a complex and ever-evolving battle of wills, fought on uncertain and dangerous terrain against two highly skilled guerrilla ninja babies. sometimes i'm outnumbered, sometimes it's one-on-one, but they always, always put forth a gallant effort that leaves their enemies in physical and mental ruin at the end of nearly each and every day. Sun Tzu would be proud. every once in a while i am able to rise above, like my latent mom-of-the-year spirit is a fly on the wall, and appreciate that even the shitty moments are moments that i'll never have with my littles again. even savor them. but most nights it's all i can do to make it to the finish line, and i want to be at peace with that.

as with anything - everything - i guess, it's all about finding balance. between what we want and what we have. between sanity and perfection. between sleep and effing pinterest. WHY PINTEREST? WHY?! WHY MUST I MAKE A DECOUPAGE GLITTER GIFT BOX AT 1 O'CLOCK IN THE GODFORSAKEN MORNING??? for my husband, no less, who does not even know, and could not possibly care less, what that is?!

well. at least there are a couple of good things about the internet. it can show you that (1) you're not alone (exhibit A - "Go the F**k to Sleep", exhibit B, Scary Mommy et al.), and (2) there's somebody sucking way worse at life than you are.

now THIS i would stop for
[source: http://weheartit.com/entry/5700932]




our camping trip was ... not at all terrible!

We went camping last weekend. It was our first camping trip as a family of four (and a (furry) half). When we got back, DM, always scheming, said, "maybe we should start writing off our trips as a business expense, since you're going to write about them anyway, and obviously you're going to become totally famous and get a book deal." Riiiiiiiiight. Aside from the fact that he is on crack (and crack is whack), the weekend was totally uneventful (in the best way) and I don't really even have anything to write about. But don't worry! I won't let that stop me! :)

As with all things involving my children, it was totally great, until it wasn't. Seriously, this exact same thought process happens to basically every time we take the kids anywhere (out to dinner, across the country, to another country, etc.):

Preparing to leave - For the love of God and everything holy. This is an enormous pain in the a$$. WHY does it take 3 pounds of stuff per pound of child to get out the freaking door?

Getting there - Where's the Valium (or the Cyanide, depending on the length of the trip)?

After arriving and getting settled - Okay, that wasn't so bad. Actually this is kind of great. Totally worth it. We should do this way more often.

One hour later - This is terrible. What were we thinking?

Thirteen minutes after that - Seriously, please, somebody murder me.

Twenty-seven minutes later (after getting the kids' blood sugar levels and mom and dad's blood alcohol content up to par) - Okay. Okay. We're going to be okay. This is going to be nice. We are going to have fun, dammit! Yo! Gonna need a top-off over here! (Side story. When DM and I lived in the Virgin Islands for a short while, our landlord (who, b.t.w., had three piercings in his junkular region) had a buddy named Greggo. Greggo was 63% creep and 100% drunk, neither of which was completely out of the ordinary for a male living in the Islands ("the odds are good, but the goods are odd"). He carried, at all times, an assortment of female thongs in his backpack - new and unused (I think?) in a rainbow of colors and sizes. He was nothing if not prepared. He would try to coax/bully women into going nude at the beach, and if that didn't work, topless with a thong. "No tan lines, Mon!" If your excuse was, "Gosh darnit, I left my thong at home this morning," Never fear! Greggo had a spare! Greggo had many thongs, but two jokes. One was to say, while sitting on some of the most breathtakingly beautiful beaches on the planet, "I hate this beach! This beach sucks!" again. And again. And again.... The other was to say, "I need a top-off! Get it? Get it? Top. Off? Because I need a refill on my drink, but also, I want you to take your top off?????" So anyway, now whenever DM and I need a refill we say we need a "top-off.")

Okay. So. Anyway. Our camping trip was not at all terrible, which is basically a ringing endorsement. I grew up camping and hiking and spending a lot of time outdoors, so it made me feel really good and brought back a flood of fond memories when the kids just ate it up. Obviously, too, car camping is barely camping and makes it 900 times easier, especially with the littles. And, two of our favorite restaurants were within walking distance (one of them is right on the campground!) Plus it's a 5 minute drive from our house, and right on the ocean. So it's not like we were roughing it. My parents would probably be ashamed (they were pretty hardcore) but I kind of liked it this way :) And it was this whole little community. They may or may not have been able to survive in the wild, but man, these people were pros! They could car-camp like royalty. We definitely looked like amateurs. Our neighbors even made jambalaya with fresh seafood one night! God knows how they did that on a camp stove but God bless 'em! And there were kids everywhere, biking and scootering and running amok. It was just a really neat scene.

Of course, we had our share of public psychopathy, but that's par for the course. And despite the fact that entire forests spontaneously combust and burn to ashes in a day, it took us an hour the first night to get a fire going, with fire starter sticks and matches. Also, I don't think my kids have ever been dirtier in the entirety of their short existence on this planet, but I actually sort of loved that part (I just didn't want them to touch me :)) Especially for Prince Jackson (I mean my prince, not Prince-brother-of-Blanket-Jackson), who normally loses his sh*t when a speck of dirt, sand or water sullies his hands, and shares his mother's obsession with Clorox wipes. The novelty wore off after approximately 24 hours for J and he started saying he missed "home" (a.k.a. "his" iPad and Little Einsteins), but all in all, it was a great weekend, and DM and I both agreed that we should do it again very soon :)

Note - It has been 5 days since our return and my children still smell vaguely of campfire. I'll leave it to you to draw your own conclusions about family hygiene and the care with which we bathe our children.

adult diapers

warning. contains bathroom humor. or, bathroom non-humor. or just bathrooms. let's just say TMI.

ate falafel two nights ago. felt almost instantly sick to my stomach. DM said, wait, didn't that happen last time you ate that as well? yes. also the time before that. DM: hmmm. of all the things you like to make lists of, it seems like that should be at the top: foods that make you violently ill. maybe he's right. spent the rest of the night whining and writhing in pain and warned him to listen for fainting. (i do that sometimes - faint when my stomach or my uterus reallyreallyreallyreally hurts. 91% of the time it happens while i am sitting on the toilet with my pants around my ankles. 22% of the time it happens in public. like, in the girls' locker room in high school (during the end-of-the-year basketball awards ceremony, i received a trophy for best fainter/projectile vomiter - yes, i multitask). or at the public library where they proceeded to call the ambulance, and from which i banned myself for the next nine months, and continue to wear sunglasses whenever i visit lest i be recognized as The Pants-Free Fainter. one time it happened on the floor of a cheap hotel in nicaragua that was covered, and i mean covered, in gnats (chayules). a chayule carpet if you will. i ended up with an enormous blue egg on my head, sprinkled with chayules. i think the proprietor of the little hotel thought DM was beating me when he asked for ice and she saw my giant gnat-peppered horn. i happened to be barely pregnant at the time and this experience landed me in a nicaraguan emergency room where there were no sheets on the (plastic) beds, no paper products, no sterilization measures that i could see, and they gave me this in which to collect a fecal sample...

pretty sure mine did not have
a shiny new "sterile" sticker on it.
it may have been "gently used."

just for scale, i will inform you, it was about the size of my thumb, and, all charming colloquialisms aside, that wasn't happening. i asked a nurse how exactly this was supposed to work and she said, "Un momento," and brought back a toothpick, which, unfortunately, failed to illuminate the situation. on the bright side, everyone was SO friendly! it was like the beginning of The Real World when people show up one by one and you play getting-to-know-you games with all of your new neighbors/roommates. (but sh*t starts to get real when you realize you are supposed to give a poop sample in an itsy bitsy little beaker in a pitch black bathroom that is lacking a toilet seat, toilet paper, electricity, running water, and, once my eyes adjusted, appeared to have been spray-painted in several layers of extremely loose stool). BUT, do you want to know what our hospital bill was? ZERO DOLLARS!!! who needs toilet paper?! BYOTP!

ANYWAY. still basically feel like sharp, angry, fire-breathing aliens are mutating and multiplying in my GI tract, violently in search of the nearest exit. texted DM as much the next morning.

DM: so... no more kebab shop?
me: never again.
me. until next time.
me: to be fair, i don't think it's just kebab shop. i think falafel doused in sriracha is a pretty lethal combination regardless of its origin.
DM: yes. it's fal-awful. sir-gotcha. [hilarious, that guy!]
me: so funny i peed myself. oh wait. that's not pee. [editor's note - i did not and have not (as of the time of this writing) actually soiled my pants.]
me: i'm starving but afraid to eat. though i was sort of considering a burrito from mexican fiesta for lunch. lol. ugh. that is NOT the kind of party in your pants that you want to have - the kind the requires adult diapers.
DM: salad.
me: ew no.
DM: you defy evolution.
awwww. thanks baby!

i was not getting the requisite support and encouragement from my significant other so i decided to try with a good friend from work:

me: so sick. dying one thousand intestinal deaths.
b: did you see the caramel oreo ice cream sandwich thingy i sent on pinterest?
me: yes, thank you, now i am sick AND starving for sweets. i want 14 of those, and 43 strawberry fig macarons from waters.
b: ha.
me: seriously though, i actually do want the macarons. i feel like they are the only thing that might make me feel better.
b: no.
me: why not??? they are basically just like giant, delicious Tums?

sadly, i got neither burritos nor macarons. i have been eating only things that are white for about 24 hours now. and i have sworn off of fried things and hot sauce for the forseeable future, which means, until the craving for said items overshadows the memory of the pain i am experiencing today. darwin-shmarwin!



Yes, I *have* had a Doner today.
The effects lasted more than 4 hours
and I was forced to seek immediate
medical attention (in the form of strawberry macarons).

^ Found this on the Kebab Shop's Facebook page,
while searching for the surprisingly elusive "have you had a doner today" logo...
Why do they have to fight? WHY? Can't they all just get along????
Also, isn't this just basically advertising
"Our food will make you ill, but it sure does taste delicious!"

allergic to life

Okay, so, basically, I have been suffering from searing headaches and ear pain off and on but more on than off for about 8 months (specifically, since I flew back from Delaware with a bad head cold after Thanksgiving 2012). I have had all sorts of tests done including allergy tests which is stupid because I have been allergic to everything my whole entire life and that problem is separate from the one where I feel like my head is filled with cement AND is being pumped full of air like a helium balloon full-to-bursting and I can't really hear that well except sometimes when I hear double which by the way is DOUBLE THE FUN when your kids are screaming/crying. It's like my own personal SYMPHONY OF HELL. Anyway. In the process of all of that, this conversation happened:

Dr: You are allergic to basically all of the 23 allergens tested [except, interestingly, cockroach dust/poop], but you are highly allergic to mold, dust mites, and dog dander.
Me: Oh, well that's super awesome because EVERYTHING IN MY LIFE is covered with a patina of those three things.
Dr: You can do yada yada yada for the mold and the dust mites. Now. About the dog. Would getting rid of "it" be an option?
Me: No. I've had her for 12 years. She's like my child. I often actually prefer her to my children.
Dr: Okay, well, no disrespect to your beloved pet-child but at least, if she's 12, she probably won't be around for that much longer....?
Me: She is not going to die anytime soon, I promise you that.
Dr: Okayyy. Well when she does, I strongly recommend you not get another dog. It would significantly alleviate your symptoms.
Me: Yeah that's not happening either.
Dr: Alright. Well. Where does the dog sleep?
Me: Ummmmmmmm...Weeeelllllll.... Sort of... in... my... bed?
Dr: *Sigh.*

[They did not test for rabbits, but, FYI, however allergic I am to dogs, I am 17 times more allergic to rabbits. Once my little sister was visiting me while I was in college and we thought it would be fun to get me a pet rabbit. (This was before Blue.) We got the cutest little grey  dwarf bunny and named her (him?) Sushi or Eggroll or something. She peed on my sister on the way home so she would've fit right in with my current family. However, approximately 53 minutes later, I was wheezing and sneezing and uncontrollably leaking tears from my eyes. We had to take her back and I thought there might be an issue re: the return policy but apparently the fact that my face was swollen shut brooked no argument.]

Anyway... Back to the 21st century...Later that day, the little Jackabee pees his pants IN THE BATHROOM [why do they do that?!? "do you have to pee?" "no." "how about now?" "no." 30 seconds later: "OH NOOOO I HAVE TO PEEEEEE AAAAAAH!"]. Blue immediately starts drinking and dancing in the puddle so I grab her and toss her in the bathtub so I can deal with her pee-feet and pee-face after I deal with the pee-kid and the pee-pants/underwear/socks/shoes and pee-puddle on the pee-floor, AND SHE FREAKING BITES ME!!!!! Like, HARD. Sh*t in my purse? Fine. Bite me? Oh hellllllll no! Good thing I have friends at the Humane Society de Tijuana! There's a cute new doggy up for adoption! She's a "senior citizen" but shhhhhhh! She doesn't know it. My next pet is going to be a cockroach.



sooooo weird. i do love bedazzles though.
source: www.sodahead.com



source: www.kootation.com



my NEXT dog
source: http://www.thesefriesaregood.com/page/9/

You know your parents are lawyers when...

DM and I weren't lawyers when our relationship began. We actually met working at a bar/restaurant/nightclub, and bonded over our shared love of tequila, inauthentic Mexican food, and sh*tty Kiss cover bands. He was my manager, and he "dipped his pen in the company ink," as he so crassly loves to say.

Then we went to law school, and along with property, torts, and criminal procedure, we had to learn not to "lawyer" each other. We're not perfect at it, but I think we deserve an award for Most Improved.

Along came two miniature humans, and we're having to learn again how to keep our careers as professional arguers from bleeding too much into our parenting styles.

Don't get me wrong. Sometimes my lawyer training comes in handy when trying to parent two manipulative little bastards sweet babies. For example, "Asked and answered" is a favorite retort and serves its purpose quite well when those little buggers start down the road of "Hey maybe if we ask her the same question 373 times, she'll change her mind." Where my professional training does not come in handy is in remembering that I do not have to attend every argument to which I'm invited - that I need to choose my battles wisely. I also forget, on occasion, that these are in fact my itty bitty children, and not opposing counsel. Finally, I often lose sight of the fact that "Because I Said So", while not a valid legal argument, is one of the basic tenets upon which successful parenting is based. This is not a democracy. It is a benevolent dictatorship. (It's just not always clear who's the dictator!)

Daddy Mack, on the other hand, has never really had the heart for arguing, and would prefer not to fight any battles with our little warriors. His legal training has affected his approach to parenting in a completely different way. After years spent fighting "The Man" on behalf of "The Little People*," DM identifies with our very own little people in their tireless fight for liberty and justice against the tyrannical regime of Chairman Mom, among many other oppressors (e.g., pants, shoes, bedtime routines, basic laws of survival).

(* Just to clarify. I am referring to "The Little People" in the socio-political sense, not the PC term for people with varying forms of dwarfism. While certainly a rewarding and perhaps burgeoning area of law given their reality television fame as of late, my husband does not in fact spend his time defending the rights of people of small stature.)

Some examples.

The other night, DM says "I feel like we need to get rid of the baby video monitors as soon as possible. I mean, it just feels wrong, invading their privacy like that." Me: "They're one and two years old." DM: "Well they still have rights." Me: "Um, no. They don't." (Okay maybe they do. But these rights do not include an expectation of privacy against the invasion of baby monitors. This is also reminding me of the "accidental" damage of Colby's baby monitor the other day. Hmmmm. Fishy.)

A little while back we were sitting outside a coffee shop and a police car drives slowly by. It was actually one of those RSVP (Retired Sheriff Volunteer Patrol or whatever it stands for) that I love (I have a grandpa collection). Jack started waving frantically at the car, and to our surprise, they stopped, and one of the sheriffs stepped out of the car and walked up and offered Jack an "Honorary Deputy" badge sticker. Of course by this point J was cowering behind my legs and refused to make eye contact with the nice old man, so he gave one sticker to little Colby, and another sticker to Dad to give to Jack. Once the sheriff left and J came out of hiding, DM says, "Buddy, you don't have to be afraid of the nice police man. The police are our friends. They're here to help us. Unless we're in [Wealthy Conservative California County known for police corruption]. Then there's a good chance they're corrupt as all getout and you should steer clear. But it's fine. You don't look ethnic, so you're probably alright."

When Jack is fussin' and fightin' about some nonsense or another that I've already said no to, and I tell him he needs to stop or else he's going to have to go to his room to cool out, DM says, "Well, let's hear him out. He's entitled to his 'day in court'." Um yeah. He had his day in court. It was a bench trial. The judge [ME] summarily denied his motion. Now go to your freakin' room until you're done caterwaulin', kid!

And let's say I ask Jack not to do something (stand up in the bath tub, put a ping pong ball in his mouth, climb the heavy wooden shelves like a monkey, RUN WITH A PENCIL IN HIS MOUTH) without providing a reasoned argument. Rather than present a united front, DM will say - "Well, why not?" He says it a little quietly, like that somehow makes it better, or like our kids can only hear certain frequencies of adult conversation. And he won't come to my side [a.k.a. THE GROWN UP SIDE] until I've provided an answer that satisfies both him and Jack.

Oh, and "innocent until proven guilty" is DM's JAM. "Yes, Colby is standing 6 inches from Jack's crying, swollen eye holding a large blunt object in a menacing manner, but did you see her whack him in the face with it? The evidence is circumstantial."

Sigh.

Let's hope they grow up to be doctors :)